Always Fighting // Kyrie Irving

Our Blood Keeps Pumping

Sabrina-

6:30  in the morning, I slip on a pair of light wash ripped jeans and a Nike's shirt, pulling my lanyard over my head. Sluggishly moving into my bathroom, the messy bun is removed, replaced by a messy ponytail. I'm tired. I don't want to go to work. 

Being the assistant manager has its perks, but it also manages to create a lot of stress. I took a lot of consecutive days off for the finals, and I don't think I can afford any more right now. 

It's been two days since the Cleveland Cavaliers lost the NBA finals. Danielle texted me an apology and I texted her a congrats, oh our strange, strange friendship. I haven't talked to Kyrie much in that time, just a scattered message here and there. 

We're all kind of in a recovery stage, trying to move on. Trying to keep going. But not just to move on, everyone does that. Champions use their failures to drive them to success. I guess that's what we are trying to do. 

Which is a whole lot harder than it may seem. 

_______________________________________

"See you tomorrow, Danielle." I wave and pull the main door of the Nike store shut, locking it with a set of keys that I hold in my hand. My Apple watch buzzes with a phone call and I glance down: pops. I walk a little bit faster to my car, dumping my keys and catalogs in the passenger seat so I can answer the call. 

"Hey dad." I say, trying to sound perky.

"Sab? Hey! I was wondering if you wanted to come have dinner with me tonight?" Nothing unusual about that, we usually eat at his house at least once a week, yet something in his voice sound hesitating. 

"Sure? Just the two of us or..." I pause to let him fill in what I assume will be in the blank. 

"Well, er, Steph and Klay'll be there too." 

I shake my head in exasperation, even  though he can't see me. "Okay," I finally say, despite the fact this isn't okay at all. Truthfully, I was about to decline but realized, considering my father is their coach, I should congratulate at least congratulate them. Something I didn't do after they won because I was with Kyrie. 

I don't bother to change before I head to his house, I'm not trying to look nice for them. In all honesty, though, I don't mind that Steph's going to be there. He's cool... sometimes. It's more so Klay and all that he represents. Anyway, I pull into my dad's driveway, shaking my head ruefully. I'm not entirely sure what my fellow Clevelanders would think of a Cavs fan socializing with the enemy. Then again, they don't have Steve Kerr for a father. 

"Congratulations, baby face!" I say to Steph, as I walk in the front door. Out of all the guys, he is the only one I honestly get along with. He and Ayesha are beautiful together and he's surprisingly enjoyable to be around. If I ever decided to go to practice or something of that sort, Steph is always the one I talk to the most. 

"Thanks, short stack. You guys put up a heck of a fight, you should be proud of what your team did out there." See? That's what I mean. Nice. And how am I supposed to dislike him as much as I dislike the others?

"Congratulation to you, too, Klay." I say somewhat curtly as he gives me a sudden and unwanted hug. The smell of champagne still clings to his skin, nearly choking me with the aroma. "I told you you didn't have your legacy to worry about." I retract myself from his arms and make my way to the kitchen where my dad is. 

"Hey Steve?" I ask, watching as he slides a pan out of the oven. Yes, in case you were wondering, he can cook. And he's wonderful at it. 

"Mhm?"

"Why are Steph and Klay the only two here?" This was something that bothered me immensely on the drive over. 

He laughs softly. "Well, A, the others couldn't come. And B, if I invited the whole team over just after we won the Finals, I'd be scared for my house

Shortly after dinner, I excuse myself from the room, saying a quiet goodnight and explaining I have paperwork to finish tonight. I hear more than see Klay get up to follow me out. Right before I reach the front door, he grabs my arm, pulling me closer to him. 

"I want to say one thing and one thing only, okay?" He asks, breathing loudly in my ear. Without waiting for my response he continues. "I've seen you with Kyrie. A lot. I'm assuming that's the dude you're 'seeing.' I just wanna ask you one thing. Does he know who your dad is?" I wriggle out of his grasp. 

"What?" I say, stunned. "Look, Klay. You have no right to meddle in any part of my life. I talk to Kyrie, okay? Who. Cares. No, he doesn't know who my fricken' dad is. I'm sure it'll disappoint you to know we haven't mentioned that yet." Taking a deep breath, I proceed, slower. "Klay, what we had, wasn't really a thing. Physical attraction. That was the basis for our actions. Not love, not desire, not passion." With that, I open the front door and walk out, but I swear I hear him say, not to me.

Kyrie- 

I thought that looking at the slumped up figure of 'Bron would be the most painful thing of this long journey. I was wrong. It hurt a thousand times more to walk down the streets of Ohio, looking into the eyes of the people who placed all their trust in you. 

There isn't judgement, at least not for most of them, but it's sorrow. It's sadness. It's hopelessness. And that stings even more. Maybe it's the burning of my soul, a fire in my eyes, the desperation in my heart, but as of this moment there is nothing I want more than a championship for Cleveland. 

I walk a little bit better into the training facility, meeting my rehab workers. They set me up on upper body and very light lower body flexibility. Kevin across the room from me, working on shoulder flexibility. No one else is here yet, they don't have to workout today. But for us, we need to use every day, every moment, every chance to make ourselves whole again.

Plugging in my speaker, I put my workout playlist on shuffle and first up is Wing$ by Macklemore and Ryan Lewis. 

I was seven years old when I got my first pair 

And I stepped outside and I was like, momma, this air bubble right here, it's gonna make me fly

I hit back-court, and when I jumped, I jumped, I swear I got so high

I touched the net, Mom I touched the net, this is the best day of my life

I love this song, it has so much nostalgia for me. Taking me back to when I got my first pair of Jordans, the only thing I thought I could ever want. I thought they would make me great. They didn't. 

My dad took me out to court, watched me lace up my Jordans, and then knelt down to my level, placing his hands on my shoulders. 

"Son," He said. "Greatness isn't defined by a pair of shoes. Greatness is defined by the hours and hours of practice and drills. It's defined by knowing how to pick yourself up when you fail, it's bouncing back stronger when you fall short. Only you have the power to make yourself great, Kyrie. Only. You." Then he stood up, handing me a basketball and we worked on the left hand layups for the next two hours. 

To this day I carry his advice with me. Greatness is persistence. It isn't in the shoes, or the clothes, or the logo you wear. It's you. Your drive, your motivation, your determination. 

Nobody else can make you great, but nobody else can stop you from being great either. 

A/N: 

What? Guys, we are almost at 800 reads. That's crazy. Thanks to all of you who vote, and comment, and take time out of your day to read my story. It makes my day! 

Also, sorry if this chapter was really bad, I don't know why but it was just hard to write, I'll probably come back and edit this later. 

I'm trying to update more often, but I have dance competitions every weekend in April besides school, dance practice, and other activities I have going on. Thanks for being patient with me!