Chapter One
Nola
No matter how old I’ll be, I could never imagine not coming home and staying with my family for the holidays.
Even if “home” wasn’t in the state I was born in, raised in, nor went to college in.
Home was a state of mind primarily comprised of the people I absolutely loved and adored. People I fought with. People who weren’t genetically related to me. And there was always a recipe to being at home.
My step-dad, Clay, would always offer to pick me up from the airport. It didn’t matter that he got road rage at the most minor convenience and he would describe all airports in the world as the ninth circle in Hell. The man would always do pick-ups and drop-offs without a question.
In the back seat would sit my little half-sister, Olive. But she’d actually be sprawled across the back row, in deep sleep, and yet will somehow instinctively wake up when we’re five minutes from home.
My mom will be nowhere in sight—see Clay’s road rage—but would be the first to greet me with open arms even if her German Shepard, Flavor Flav, wanted to beat her to it.
And so it went for this trip.
For the last eight years home has been the DMV, where my mom, the superstar as Clay called her, Olivia Young, has been the head coach for women’s basketball at Virgil University.
It’d be an understatement to say the Historically Black College was struggling before she came to save the program.
My mom was a five time gold medal winning Olympic athlete.
She’d won three league championships and her work at Virgil had gone from an abysmal program to turning out consistent wins and play-off runs.
And that didn’t even count the hours of private coaching she did with current players in the league.
But I wasn’t entirely looking forward to this trip home. Normal people would call the Violets loss in the championship our loss, but I knew the weight of that final game was on my shoulders.
I was the one who missed a buzzer beater shot that could’ve tied us and sent the final game into overtime.
I was the one who had my highest turnover count in my whole career.
It’d be easy to put the blame solely on her, but I knew that excuse wouldn’t fly in my house. I could already imagine my mom watching the game again before bed, notepad in hand, ready to tell me how to do better for next season.
Unfortunately, the Venn diagram of basketball and my family was just one big circle.
“Hey, kiddo!” Clay greeted me at the back of the car as if I needed help loading my suitcases into the truck. He stood a mere five inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier than me, but he was the type to rescue a spider from the clutches of my foot and back to the great outdoors.
“Hey, Clay.” We hugged before airport traffic officers started yelling at us to keep it moving.
On my way to the front of the car I peeped in the backseat to see Olive asleep, her kinky coils bigger and longer than the last time I saw her.
In true teen fashion, her daily uniform—when she wasn’t in her private school uniform—was baggy jeans, and either a tiny crop top, or an oversized sweatshirt she stole from me.
Today might be both if that was my sweatshirt she was using as a pillow.
“She knocked out as soon as I pulled out the driveway.”
“Of course she did.”
Even if Clay wasn’t my biological dad, I would always say I have three parents.
Two superstars and one normal dad who could actually walk around in public without someone recognizing him.
If I wanted to do anything with a parent in public, in the most normal and sane way possible, Clay was my go-to.
If Olivia Young was a legend in the W, my dad Nolan Williams was a literal NBA Hall of Famer and is her perfect foil.
Where my mom’s on court presence was all grace, silent strength and lethal perception, Nolan was a publicist’s worst nightmare.
He was notorious for fights on the court and getting fined for critiquing refs, yet he’d founded the biggest youth center in his home city.
I might get my looks from Olivia, like her heart shaped face, strong cheekbones, and upturned eyes, but Nolan was the reason I’m a cocky motherfucker.
“How was your flight?” My step-dad asked after mumbling, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“The usual: pretty fast and painless.” I shrugged. “Kind of dreading mom’s critique though.”
“Olive tried to tell her to go easy on you but…”
“Olivia Young will do what she wants,” we said in unison.
I shrugged it off though, “It’s whatever. I know I can deliver next season…just waiting on the org to get back to Daya about a bigger check.”
The four year contract I signed with the Violets was officially up—making me a free agent, and leaving me available to go to any team I choose—because, yes, they were all inquiring. But I’d rather give up a kidney than leave the Chicago Violets.
In the past four years, the Windy City had become home too.
“Did someone say money?” A voice chirped from the back row and up popped my sister’s head.
“Olive, you’re such a bill collector, my God.”
“Hello to you too, sister. I also have missed you so much.” Olive rolled her eyes, and I wet my finger to give her a wet willy, but she was too fast and leaned back to her seat.
“Nolly, you’re too old to be giving wet willies.”
“Olly, you’re too young to be in grown folks’ business.”
“Only child syndrome.” My sister shrugged.
“Not a thing for you, next.”
“I’m practically being raised as an only child considering our mother decided to wait thirteen years.”
“Oh you asshole…” Clay mumbled. “Ahem, yes, children are a blessing indeed.”
Olive nodded her head. “I am God’s gift to this family.”
“And I was the first.” I corrected.
“But they tried again, so obviously they wanted a better one.” Olive patted my shoulder like she was giving me bad news, and I couldn’t help but laugh at our bit.
I wouldn’t say I was eager to have a little sister more than a decade younger than me, but once she turned five we were suddenly best friends.
“Keep it up and I’ll drop your key lime pie.” I threatened and that made her eyes go wide.
“You wouldn’t dare.” In the last two years, Olive’s new hobby had been baking, and my god she was really good at it.
In the short time she’s become a baking star, we’ve let her take the lead on desserts for holidays and birthdays.
The gene could have only come from Clay—he was a beast in the kitchen—and our mom couldn’t tell you where the measuring cups were if her life depended on it.
Before I continued, the SUV glided into the driveway, putting my family’s mansion into full view.
“Fighting’s over. Welcome home, Nola.” Clay smiled before parking and jumping out of the truck.
“Time for my reckoning,” I mumbled to myself.
My reckoning ended up coming in the shape of my militant sister who chose to berate me like we were on an episode of a high stakes baking show.
At first I thought she was doing a bit, but when she made me call myself an idiot sandwich because I almost mixed up the baking soda and baking powder, I knew she meant business.
Our mom had been locked in her office since the three of us stepped through the door, with Flavor Flav winning the battle of greeting me first. Now he’s glued to my hip, hoping I dropped some butter cream frosting for him to lick up.
I felt the need to intrude during the holiday break but through the door it sounded like my mom had been on non-stop calls and I wasn’t exactly looking to get belittled so soon after my mixup in the kitchen.
Ever since I was born, Thanksgiving Day always consisted of going to football games to watch my dad’s brother play in the league.
Thus, celebrating the day after had become our own family tradition.
And with that tradition is a rotating guest list, that, to the outside view looks nuts as hell, but to me made the holiday even more special.
Long before Clay came into the picture, holidays always consisted of me, my mom, and Nolan.
During Olivia and Nolan’s prime it was clear the two were never going to last long.
She was water, and he was oil. Olivia couldn’t keep her mouth shut, and Nolan was constantly sticking his foot in his.
I think they would’ve ended sooner if I hadn’t come along.
Somewhere between me being named after my dad yet taking my mom’s last name, their relationship quickly fizzled.
But damn they were good co-parents.
My first steps were on hardwood. I did my homework under the bright glow of arena lights.
I was raised going to their games and sitting on their laps during media interviews.
I was observing assistant coaches create plays and give instructions from behind the bench.
Even if my genes weren’t meant to be a professional athlete, I might have gotten here anyway by osmosis.
Without being in a relationship, my parents still wanted me to have a stereotypical upbringing.
Which of course meant holidays expanding to include new significant others because we were a cool family.
But the girlfriends my dad had never stuck around.
When my mom had Olive, my baby sister’s name possibly being revenge for my own, Nolan became her god-dad.
Next on the guest lists were my aunts. Depending on the year, Rashida, her wife Allison, and my own god-mom, Evie, would come through. Something about a room crowded with people six feet and taller just felt like home.
“You’re not whipping the cream fast enough, Nolly,” Olive complained.
“Sorry, chef,” I mocked, “my mind’s on other things.”
“Like getting your ass beat by your nemesis,” Olive said as she removed pies from the oven.
“I don’t have a nemesis.” I countered.
“Then what would you call someone you always have beef with?”
For once my sister had me speechless, because how would I describe my relationship with Brittney Lee?