“Fuck!” I cursed myself on the elevator. I wasn’t going to make any phone calls until I got the hell out of there. If someone saw me with all that blood on my clothes, they might report me to security for an assault. I even had to wipe the blood from my hands onto my suit to stop from smearing it over everything else I touched.

I got off the elevator at the garage level below the hotel and felt safe and sound as I made it to my car without notice. Had I gotten off at the lobby floor, I surely would have been busted by a crowd of hotel guests and workers.

I climbed into my car and started stripping down my bloodied clothes, beginning with my tie.

“Now what the hell do I tell the cleaners?” I asked myself.

It was an Yves Saint Laurent suit that needed delicate care. But I guess I would have to wash it myself or throw it away. I was too ashamed to even have to lie about the events of the night. I just wanted to forget about it. How hard would that be?

I drove out of the parking garage, hit the street, and headed back toward home still stunned and confused.

I looked down to start making urgent phone calls to L.A. and Chicago, but the phone rang right as I began to dial. It was my sister.

She rushed onto the line and said, “Terrance, that asshole just tried to choke me to death to kill me and the baby!”

I asked her, “Who are you talking about?”

“The asshole who got me pregnant. He hates me, Terrance! He hates me!” Juanita screamed hysterically into the phone.

“‘Where are you?” I asked her.

“I’m just driving away from his house.”

“You know where he lives?” For the life of me, I assumed that Juanita was one of this guy’s playthings that never made it to his home. A lot of players didn’t allow women to know where they lived. I know I didn’t. You did your business at their house or at the hotel, and you left it there.

Juanita shouted, “Of course I know where he lives! What kind of question is that? I’m not some hotel whore!”

I didn’t know what else to say to my sister. I had just escaped a life crisis of my own. How ironic. Juanita had me thinking what my mother was up to. She hadn’t spoken to me since I left the house with my little note for her. Could we all have been involved in crises at the same time? I don’t know why I was thinking that, but it was on my mind.

Juanita said, “He had another woman at his house, and he told me he didn’t ever want to see me again, and that I should leave him the fuck alone and forget where he lives.”

I took a deep breath while I drove. Nothing I had to say to my sister was going to make her feel any better. This basketball guy had already told her to get an abortion. We all did. But she was still trying to force the guy into caring for her and this unborn baby. That was what the situation was to me. Whether I was her brother or not, I was still a man who sided with the other man. He didn’t want a kid out of their relationship. He only wanted some pussy.