21. The RedZone
The RedZone
Q uentin’s hand pressed light at the small of my back as we stepped onto Daddy’s porch days later. To anyone else it was nothing, but I knew better. He always needed that point of contact. And maybe, even if I’d never admit it, so did I.
Nerves ran through me like live current. Him here. On Steelers Sunday. Daddy in his apron. Darren with his towel. Uncle Leon with his beer and too-loud mouth.
“You good?” Quentin asked, his mouth close enough to graze my ear and made me shiver from the needed contact.
“You sure you ready for this? Steelers fans don’t play.”
That grin of his curved slow and dangerous. “I was born ready. Question is—you?”
I wanted to say yes. My chest told me no.
The door swung wide before I had to answer. Darren, beer in hand, eyebrow cocked. “Bout damn time. You letting the food get cold.”
“Boy, hush!” Daddy called from the kitchen. “Game just started.”
Darren’s gaze cut to Quentin. “Teacher man, right?”
Quentin extended a hand. “Yeah, man.”
Their grips locked, Darren’s mouth twitching at the corners. He finally cracked a grin. “Alright then. Steelers up three.”
Daddy’s house smelled like ribs slow-baking in the oven before we even stepped in. Luther crooned low from the record player, the bass humming under the sharp shouts for The Steelers.
The living room was a shrine in black and gold. Terrible Towels over the armchairs, Troy Polamalu’s framed jersey above the mantle, Big Ben’s signed photo near the door. The game blasted—Rodgers in the pocket, Friermuth wide open, Jaylen Warren pounding through the line.
Uncle Leon, who always came over during the football season because of Daddy’s 100-inch screen, hollered at the TV. “That’s pass interference! Stevie Wonder could’ve seen that! ”
“Sit down before you bust a vein,” Darren shot back, twirling his towel like a weapon.
I rolled my eyes, but the sound—their voices layered over Luther, the clink of bottles, the game noise—felt like home.
“Where’s Keisha and the boys?” I asked my big head brother.
“They’re over her parents. You know they’re Raven’s fans.” He looked like he wanted to gag.
“No one told you to marry someone from Baltimore!”
He grunted over my laughter as Quentin’s eyes bugged out.
And then I stepped into the kitchen—and froze.
Denise Whitaker. My mother.
Cute bob framing her face, gold hoops catching the light, sweater hugging curves softer now but familiar. Light brown skin and a mouth shaped like mine.
“Ma?” My voice cracked.
She smiled, warm but tentative. “Hey, baby.”
I hadn’t seen her in a long time, it felt like but the distance wasn’t about miles. It was about the divorce, and the silence that lived between us.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” I managed.
Daddy cleared his throat at the stove, spatula in hand. “I invited her.”
My chest tightened. But my mom set her glass down, walked to me, and wrapped me in a hug that smelled like cocoa butter and her Chanel perfume I knew from childhood. My throat ached.
“You look so good,” she whispered, looking at me closely .
“So do you,” I managed. My mother was the prettiest woman I knew. Glowing skin, big bright smile, eyes wide and tilted. Her body stayed trim even after life pulled on it.
Mama’s gaze slid past me to Quentin, standing with his fine ass shoulders squared.
“And this must be Quentin,” she said, voice smoothing out.
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, stepping forward. He took her hand like it mattered.
For a minute, I couldn’t breathe. Quentin here. My mom here. All of us under the same roof. And somehow, it wasn’t awkward. It was warm.
By halftime, the Steelers were down three and the whole house was loud. Darren flung his towel when Justin Jefferson hit the Griddy in the end zone.
“Man, y’all act like you ain’t never seen JJ cook before,” he hollered.
Uncle Leon stomped the floor. “That’s on the secondary! McCarthy throwing ducks and still hittin’ Jefferson wide open. Cam and T.J. better start eating.”
Daddy barked from the kitchen, apron still on. “Celebrate too early and Rodgers gon’ make you pay. Watch.”
Sure enough, Rodgers hit DK Metcalf streaking down the sideline, and the living room erupted.
Quentin was on his feet, fist pumping, yelling “Let’s go!
” like he’d been black and gold all his life.
When Jaylen Warren broke free and Friermuth sealed it in the end zone, Uncle Leon slapped his knee, Darren waved his towel like he hadn’t just cursed the whole team, and Daddy clapped so hard his ring rattled against his palm.
And Quentin was right there with them. Laughing, trading jokes, clinking his bottle against Darren’s like they’d been boys for years.
I sat back, towel folded in my lap, half smiling, half unsettled. Because he looked too natural here. Like he belonged.
Dinner was ribs, mac and cheese, collards, and cornbread—the spread that meant Sunday was more than a game.
Daddy was the kind of cook you didn’t play with.
He hadn’t started out that way. After the divorce, when it was his week to have Darren and me, he refused to let us live off TV dinners or takeout.
He taught himself to cook—burnt a few pans, swore at a few recipes—but kept at it until Sunday meals turned into something we craved.
He never said it outright, but I knew he wanted us to feel at home with him, too. He wanted us fed. Wanted us balanced.
Mama set her fork down, licking sauce from her fingers as Daddy looked on intently. “I’ve been thinking about taking a cruise,” she said lightly, like she was testing the air. “Maybe the Caribbean. I deserve some sun.”
Darren snorted. “You can’t even sit still long enough to watch a full game and you talking about a cruise.”
But Daddy didn’t laugh. He leaned back, considering her with those serious brown eyes. “If you don’t mind,” he said slowly, “I’d like to go with you.”
The whole table went still.
Mama blinked, lips parting, then closed them again. For a moment, it was just them—almost 40 years of history and silence stretching out in the space between. Something electric passed between them. Their eyes connected—hers softening when his gaze didn’t waver.
Then Mama cleared her throat, reaching for her water like it was no big thing. Daddy turned back to his plate, ribs in hand, shoulders loose. Darren muttered something about “ain’t no way” and Uncle Leon coughed into his beer, but the room had already shifted.
Quentin’s hand slid over mine under the table, his fingers threading tight. When I glanced at him, his eyes said you saw it too.
By dessert, my stomach flipped. I blamed the nerves. The way Quentin’s hand kept finding me. But halfway through the pie, I bolted, barely making it to the bathroom before I was sick.
“Rayna?” Daddy called through the door. “I know I don’t cook every Sunday, but it wasn’t that bad!”
Quentin’s palm rubbed circles between my shoulders, quiet but firm. “You okay?”
Mom appeared in the doorway, her bob swinging, her eyes softer than I ever remembered. “You sure, baby?”
“I’m fine,” I lied, my voice cracking.
But when I looked at her, she was watching me with something I couldn’t name. Not suspicion. Not judgment. Something keener under the softness—like she saw past my words, past even me. The look clung, unsettling, as if she already knew more than I did.
We left soon after. Daddy clapped Quentin’s back like he’d earned his place. Darren smirked but kept his mouth shut. Mom hugged me longer than usual. Her eyes lingered, heavy with that same unreadable knowing, as if she wanted to speak and swallowed it instead.
In the car, Quentin laced our fingers. His thumb stroked once, slow. He didn’t ask. Didn’t push. Just held.
And I realized, sitting there with the city sliding by, that I wasn’t just letting him into my family. I was letting him into me.