Heal

Chapter 5

Y/n's POV

The conference room inside the Brooklyn Nets' facility was buzzing with energy. Staff members, executives, and players filled the space, their conversations overlapping as they prepared for the start of a new season. The air carried the scent of fresh leather from the newly printed playbooks, mixed with the faint aroma of coffee.

I sat at the head of the table, my hands casually resting on the armrests of my chair. Unlike my usual boardroom attire, today I had opted for something more comfortable—an oversized hoodie, distressed jeans, and a pair of classic Jordans. This wasn't some corporate event where I had to impress investors with my wardrobe. This was my team. My franchise. And if I wanted to meet with them looking like I just stepped out of the streets of Brooklyn, then that's exactly what I was going to do.

The players were gathered around, some relaxed, some attentive, others half-listening as they scrolled through their phones. I didn't blame them. It was early in the morning, and these kinds of meetings usually meant a bunch of executives droning on about financials and expectations. But I wasn't here to bore them with business talk.

I leaned forward, tapping my fingers on the table. "Listen, I know y'all are used to hearing the same corporate nonsense from people who don't actually care about the game. But I'm different. I'm not here to micromanage y'all or tell you how to play. I'm here to win, just like you. And if there's one thing I don't tolerate, it's losing."

A couple of the players smirked. Some nodded in agreement. Others still looked like they were waiting to see what else I had to say.

"That means resources, training, whatever y'all need to bring that championship home—you got it. But in return, I expect effort. No half-assing. No drama. Just ball."

Before I could continue, the doors to the conference room swung open. And just like that, my morning was ruined.

In walked Shawn.

And right beside him? Beyoncé.

I gritted my teeth, forcing myself not to roll my eyes as this big-lipped bastard strolled in like he owned the place. The players and staff immediately took notice, their postures straightening as if royalty had just entered the room. And technically, that's exactly how people viewed them.

Jay-Z was dressed in his usual laid-back billionaire aesthetic—black tee, gold chain, subtle flex. Beyoncé, on the other hand, looked effortlessly flawless. A fitted blazer, wide-leg pants, and diamond earrings that probably cost more than some people's salaries.

I hated how much of a presence they commanded. Especially him.

"Hope we're not interrupting," Jay-Z said, flashing that smug smile of his.

I leaned back in my chair, exhaling through my nose before I spoke. "Just getting to know the team. You know, actual owners do that."

A few players exchanged glances, sensing the tension already creeping into the room. Shawn let out a small chuckle, as if he was amused by my response.

Beyoncé, however, said nothing. She simply took a seat a few chairs down, her expression unreadable.

"Figured it was a good time to stop by," Jay continued, ignoring my jab. "Season's starting soon. Gotta make sure everything's running smoothly."

I crossed my arms, my gaze never leaving his. "Everything's already running smoothly. Unless you got some concerns?"

He shook his head, still smirking. "Nah. Just making sure we're on the same page."

We weren't. We never would be.

The room felt stiffer now. Players and staff watched, probably wondering if they were about to witness a full-blown argument between the two co-owners of the franchise. But I wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of seeing me lose my cool.