Always Fighting // Kyrie Irving

Shaken

Kyrie-

I look over at LeBron, his back curled against the back of a locker. He is crushed. This is the only thing that can make my injury even more painful. Knowing I let down the King.

I've seen him looking at the headlines. You can't help but hear the talk. 'LeBron does everything but win,' 'The Warriors crush the King,' 'The King's Reign is Over,' 'Could this be the end of LeBron?.'

"How do I do it?" I hear him mumble under his breath and I find myself wanting to say something. "Get so close just to have it slip away.'

"Hold up, youngblood," I finally say. "You took this to six games. Six competitive games. Without me, without Kev. Don't you dare sit here and think 'it's over, that's one too many losses.' Because it's not. You are The King. Our King. We gonna deliver that title to Cleveland, 'Bron. And we gonna do it next year. Let the haters talk, it's what they do. But don't talk back. Show 'em. Show all those people who mock you that you never left your throne. Cuz we gonna be back next year, man. And we gonna give the world one hell of a show."

He looks up at me, his jersey still soaked with the sweat of everything he poured into this game. I don't get angry at much. But to see people treat LeBron the way they do... Every loss is important, every loss takes him down one notch. No one did that to Michael. No one counts those years he didn't make it to the finals. The losses never matter for anyone, unless you're LeBron.

People envy him, people hate him, people worship him. From one extreme to the next. But everyone watches. Watches to see him slip up, waiting to shut the door to his hopes of catching the greatest.

And I know, just for that, I'm going to do everything in my power to prove them wrong.

I half walk half limp over to LeBron. Other people slump around, heads lowered, muttered expletives rolling off their tongue. I wait till he acknowledges me before I proceed.

"For today, you mope, you swear, you punch a hole in every wall in this building, I don't care. Tomorrow, the next day, fine, be frustrated and plain tired and take a friggin' nap. But then? Get off your butt. The longer you sit on it and the longer you let those thoughts run through your mind, the harder it will be to come back. So let it settle down, then right back to work. We push harder, faster, becoming stronger every day. That's the only way you tear the haters down, 'Bron. Show them it doesn't faze you, because every time you'll bounce back stronger."

Silence. Then, "When did you become so motivational? Thought that was my job."

I give a small laugh. "It is, but when Cleveland drafted me, they expected a leader. That role isn't gone just because you're back." A slow, tiny smile forms on his lips, his head held a little higher.

"You didn't actually call me youngblood... did you?"

______________________________

"This girl, can you bring her here, please. Get her a badge, a reporters pass, I don't really care, but she bypasses security." I say, my voice tired and my words clipped as I offer up a photo of Sabrina. 

The security guard looks at me doubtfully. "I'll do my best, Ky, but I'm not sure." 

"Look, I know her, I talk to her, I went on a date with her. I don't really feel like going into the arena Neil. Just... please?" I rub my temples, tears threatening to fall down my face. In the locker room, I was the one guy who couldn't play, so I had to be the one guy who could pick us off the ground. Now, sitting in the nearly abandoned hallway, the sadness threatens to overcome me. 

Neil leaves to go find Sabrina, so it's just me and the few remaining staff members and security that wander around.

And my mind, my terrible, terrible mind that struggles to stay afloat in the torrent of sadness that washes over me. The only thing I know for sure is that I want her hug. 

Sabrina-

"Yes, sir, may I ask why?" I question the security officer that approaches me. "Did I do something?" Really. Now? Now I'm going to have a security guard approach me? Can I please just take in this moment quietly? 

"No, nothing like that. Kyrie asked to see you," He says quietly.

My shocked heart feels the tiniest tinge of happiness, but it is dulled by the enormity of what just happened, by the screams of the Golden State Warriors fans that still fill the Q 

I follow the guard down the bleachers and through the tunnel, as he flashes his badge to person after person, muttering words like 'she's with me' or 'on request.' It's not a very long walk, perhaps only three minutes all in all, and when I see Kyrie, slouched on a hallway bench, I break into a run. 

He looks up, the faintest of smiles on his face. "Thank you, Neil." He whispers and motions for him to leave, which he does. The instant he starts walking away, Kyrie pulls me onto his lap and into a tight hug, his face buried in my neck, my arms clutched desperately around his. We stay like this for a long time, silently saying the things we don't dare mention out loud. 

"I'm sorry," I finally murmur into his ear, my hands resting against his hair. 

"I know. Me too," he pulls away from our embrace and places a kiss on my cheek. I have tears that threaten to fall down my face, but I try to blink them away. I tried too hard not to cry for me to give in now. My heart breaks for how Kyrie and LeBron and the whole team must feel. For how all of Cleveland feels. For how I feel. 

I pull him into another hug, trying in some small way to give him a little bit of happiness in this sad, sad moment. After a few seconds, I change my position so I'm sitting next to him. He tentatively slips his hand into mine and lays his head on my shoulder. Together, hand-in-hand,  we sit on this cold metal bench.

There are no real words to be spoken. Our silence screams it all.