Chapter 47: Under the Radar

Kobe woke one minute before the alarm.

His eyes opened to the gray ceiling above him, the fan turning slowly enough that he could follow each blade as it passed through the red blink of the smoke detector.

He turned his head toward the clock.

6:14.

He stayed there for a few seconds, waiting for the alarm to finish a job his body had apparently decided to handle on its own.

A preseason game.

Kobe almost laughed.

He had spent enough of his first life learning how to sleep before games that mattered.

None of that seemed particularly useful now.

His heart was already working harder than it had any reason to, and the tightness beneath his ribs had apparently gotten an earlier start than he had.

He let the fan make another two rotations, then reached over and shut off the alarm before it could sound.

There was no point pretending he was going back to sleep.

Kobe sat up, planted his feet on the floor, and rubbed both hands over his face.

The house was still dark when he came downstairs.

He left the lights off until he reached the kitchen, then flicked on the one above the stove.

The rest of the house remained quiet.

No television downstairs, no footsteps overhead, no water moving through the pipes.

Everyone else was still asleep.

Kobe opened the refrigerator.

He could have grabbed something quick and left.

Instead, he pulled out the eggs and bacon, found the bread, and set a pan on the stove.

He was awake, he had time, and cooking gave him something to do besides keep checking the clock.

He kept the heat low and moved quietly, catching cabinet doors before they closed and setting utensils down instead of dropping them onto the counter.

Bacon went into the pan first.

While it cooked, he cracked eggs into a bowl and whisked them with a fork.

He glanced at the clock on the microwave, saw how little time had passed, and immediately went back to the eggs.

By the time the bacon was draining on paper towels, the kitchen smelled like breakfast.

Kobe scrambled the eggs in the same pan, dropped bread into the toaster, then opened the cabinet for a plate.

He took out one, reached back for another, then paused and pulled out two more.

There was no reason to wake everybody just because he couldn’t sleep.

He divided the eggs between the plates, added bacon and toast, then covered three of them and left them on the counter.

They would find breakfast when they came downstairs.

Kobe made his own plate last and sat at the table.

For the first time since waking up, he had nothing to do.

He cut into the eggs and took a bite.

They were fine.

The bacon was good.

The toast was exactly what toast was supposed to be.

His stomach wanted none of it.

Kobe chewed anyway, swallowed, and took another bite before reaching for the orange juice.

When he set the glass down, most of the food was still sitting in front of him.

Kobe looked at the plate.

He had just spent twenty minutes making breakfast for four people and apparently forgotten to bring an appetite downstairs with him.

A quiet laugh escaped through his nose.

He forced down another forkful, finished one piece of bacon and most of the toast, then gave up.

He carried his plate to the sink and rinsed it, careful not to let it knock against the basin.

As he put the orange juice back in the refrigerator, the vitamin bottle caught his eye.

Kobe stared at it for a second.

He could practically hear his mother reminding him.

He reached over, shook two into his palm, and swallowed them with the last of his juice.

There.

One less thing for her to remind him about.

Kobe washed the pan, wiped down the counter, and left the three covered plates where they would be impossible to miss.

For a moment, he considered leaving a note, but there wasn’t much to say.

They knew where he was going.

They knew when the game was.

They would see him there later.

His duffel waited beside the front door.

Kobe walked over and crouched beside it.

He had packed everything the night before and remembered exactly where he’d put it.

Shoes and socks in the main compartment.

Warmups underneath.

Pre-wrap and tape in the side pocket.

There was no reason to check any of it.

He opened the bag anyway.

Everything was where it belonged.

Kobe checked the smaller pocket and found his gum and credential, then zipped the bag shut and stood.

He made it two steps toward the door before his eyes drifted back to it.

Kobe grabbed his keys from the bowl beside the door and reached for the handle.

He slung the duffel over his shoulder and looked back toward the kitchen.

The light above the stove fell across the breakfast waiting on the counter, while everything beyond it remained dark.

He could leave without turning the morning into another conversation about basketball, minutes, expectations, or whether he was ready.

There would be plenty of that once he reached the Forum.

Kobe turned off the kitchen light, slipped his house key into his pocket, and eased the front door closed behind him.

The morning air was colder than he expected.

Kobe adjusted the duffel on his shoulder and crossed the driveway toward the car.

He reached for the driver’s-side handle.

He stopped and looked down at his hand.

His palm was damp.

Kobe rubbed it against his jeans, then reached for the handle again.

A quiet laugh escaped him as he opened the door.

All this over a preseason game.

He tossed the duffel onto the passenger seat and climbed in.

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The freeway ran straight toward Inglewood, the haze already thick enough to soften the buildings in the distance.

Kobe merged with traffic and watched Los Angeles move around him: buses pulling away from curbs, delivery trucks double-parked outside storefronts, sunlight flashing across windshields as lanes filled and emptied around him.

He tried the radio first.

The dial was already set to 570, where the morning hosts were arguing about the same thing everyone else in Los Angeles seemed to be arguing about.

Shaquille O’Neal.

One host thought the signing made the Lakers contenders immediately.

The other wanted to see what happened once the season started.

Callers bounced between championship predictions and complaints about how much money the Lakers had given him, each one sounding more certain than the last.

Kobe switched to 710.

Same topic.

O’Neal this, O’Neal that.

The hosts worked their way through the rest of the roster somewhere between a traffic update and another caller predicting fifty wins.

Van Exel got a minute.

Eddie got one.

The rookies came up briefly, Kobe included, before the conversation found its way back to Shaq.

Kobe listened for another minute, then reached over and turned the volume down.

He left it low enough to fill the car without having to pay attention.

The traffic grew heavier as he got closer to the Forum.

Lakers flags hung from a few car windows, snapping whenever traffic picked up enough speed to give them air.

Purple and gold appeared more often along the streets near the arena, on shirts, hats, storefront signs, and merchandise tables being set up for later.

A father crossed ahead of Kobe’s car with one hand on his son’s shoulder, the boy wearing a Van Exel jersey that hung almost to his knees.

Kobe slowed and let them pass.

Closer to the arena, he spotted another Van Exel jersey, a handful of Jones 25s, and enough brand-new O’Neal 34s that he stopped counting.

That made him smile.

For now, he could still drive past all of them without anyone looking twice.

He followed the signs toward the player entrance and pulled into the designated area.

Security had two men stationed near the checkpoint, both wearing blue jackets.

The older guard watched Kobe park, then waited as he climbed out with the duffel over his shoulder.

The air outside was cooler than the car.

Kobe shut the door and started toward the entrance.

The older guard stepped forward.

“Can I see your pass?” “Yeah.” Kobe reached into his pocket and pulled out the plastic credential.

The guard took it, checked the front, flipped it over, and then looked from the photograph to Kobe.

Kobe waited.

The guard handed it back.

“All right.

You’re good.” “Thanks.” Kobe slipped the credential into his pocket.

Footsteps came up behind him.

Nick Van Exel walked toward the checkpoint with a bag hanging from one shoulder.

The same guard recognized him immediately.

“Morning, Nick.” “What’s up?” Nick kept walking.

He disappeared through the entrance without ever reaching for a credential.

Kobe looked at the guard.

The guard had already turned toward the next car.

Kobe smiled to himself and kept moving.

Beyond the checkpoint, the area around the staff entrance was busier.

Arena employees pushed rolling cases toward the building.

A few media members stood off to one side talking over coffee while camera equipment was unloaded nearby.

Two young assistants with clipboards moved between groups, trying to look like they knew exactly where everyone was supposed to be.

Kobe adjusted the duffel on his shoulder and headed for the door.

“Kobe!” He stopped.

A boy stood behind the barricade near the corner, maybe twelve, leaning forward far enough that one of the adults beside him had a hand hooked through the back of his shirt.

Kobe looked over.

The kid’s face lit up the moment he realized he’d been heard.

Kobe gave him a quick two-fingered wave.

The boy immediately turned toward whoever was standing beside him, talking too fast for Kobe to make out any of it.

Kobe smiled and continued toward the entrance.

He made it another few steps before the noise behind him changed.

It started near the outer barricade.

One voice became several, then dozens.

People shifted toward the street.

Cameras that had been resting against shoulders came up all at once.

Kobe turned.

A dark car had pulled into the player area.

The rear door opened.

Shaq climbed out.

The reaction was immediate.

Fans pressed closer to the barricade.

Photographers moved toward the opening.

One of the guards who had checked Kobe’s credential less than a minute earlier stepped away from his post to help clear a path.

Someone shouted Shaq’s name, then somebody else did, and within seconds the sound had spread across the entire entrance.

Shaq straightened beside the car, adjusted the team warmup hanging from his shoulders, and looked toward the crowd.

His smile appeared.

The volume climbed again.

Kobe stayed where he was and watched.

Shaq didn’t have to do much.

He signed something, handed over the barricade, pointed toward somebody farther back, and then continued toward the entrance while cameras moved with him.

People adjusted around his path before he ever reached them.

A young arena employee standing a few feet from Kobe stared.

“He’s even bigger in person.” The guy beside him shook his head.

“Imagine trying to guard that.” Kobe’s mouth twitched.

He could.

Shaq was almost to the door when he spotted him.

“Morning, Kobe.” “Sup.” Shaq kept moving.

A photographer called his name from behind, and Shaq turned without stopping, walking backward for a few steps while the camera fired.

Then he faced forward again and disappeared through the entrance.

Kobe waited a moment.

Outside the barricade, people were still calling after him.

Kobe opened the staff door and stepped inside.

The door swung shut behind him, and the noise dropped away almost immediately.

What had been shouting and camera shutters became a muffled vibration through concrete and metal.

Kobe adjusted the duffel on his shoulder and started down the corridor.

For the first few steps, all he could hear were his own shoes against the floor.