Myron didn’t like that.

Myron stared at the chief until finally Taylor felt his eyes, turned, and looked Myron’s way. The two men glared at each other another second or two.

If you got a problem, you glare at me, Myron tried to say with his eyes, not my nephew.

Dad said, “Ignore him. Eddie has always been what the kids today call an ‘ass waffle.’”

Myron laughed out loud. “Ass waffle?”

“Yep.”

“Who taught you that?”

“Ema,” Dad said. “I like her, don’t you?”

“Very much,” Myron agreed.

“Is it true?” Dad asked.

“What?”

“That Ema’s mother is Angelica Wyatt?”

It was supposed to be a secret. Angelica Wyatt was one of the most popular actresses in the world. To protect her only child and her own privacy, they had moved to a large estate on a hill here in New Jersey.

“It’s true.”

“And you know her?”

Myron nodded. “A bit.”

“Who’s her father?”

“I don’t know.”

Dad started craning his neck. “I’m surprised Ema’s not here.”

They settled back as the game began. Myron loved every second of it. Sitting with his dad in a gym, watching his nephew dominate the game Myron so loved—it was simple and primitive and blissful. There were no pangs anymore. He missed it, sure, but it was way past his time, and man oh man, did he love watching his young nephew reveling in the experience.

It made Myron a little teary.

At one point, after Mickey made a turnaround jumper, Dad shook his head and said, “He’s really good.”

“He is.”

“He plays like you.”

“He’s better.”

Dad considered that. “Different eras. He may not go as far as you.”

“Hmm,” Myron said. “What makes you say that?”

“How to put this . . . ?” Dad began. “For you, basketball was everything.”

“Mickey is pretty dedicated too.”

“No question. But it’s not everything. There’s a difference. Let me ask you a question.”

“Okay.”

“When you look back at how competitive you were, what do you think?”

Mickey made a steal. A cheer rose from the crowd. Myron couldn’t help but smile. “I guess I was a little crazy.”

“It was important to you.”

“Ridiculously important,” Myron agreed.

Dad arched an eyebrow. “Too important?”

“Probably, yeah.”

“But that’s one of the things that separated you from the other talented players. That . . . ‘desire’ is almost too tame a word. That need to win. That single-minded focus. That’s what made you the best.”

Win had often said something similar of Myron’s playing days at Duke: “When you’re competing, you’re barely sane . . .”

“But now,” Dad continued, “you have perspective. You’ve experienced tragedies and joys that have taught you that there are more important things in life than basketball. And Mickey—don’t take this the wrong way—Mickey had to grow up young. He’s already suffered more than his share of tragedy.”

Myron nodded. “He already has perspective.”

“Exactly.”

The horn blew, ending the first quarter. Mickey’s team was up by six.