Chapter 3 #2
Nan’s grin went wide. Her eyes widened like she witnessed a miracle. “Well, praise the Lord and pass the remote! You gon’ be out of the house? Doing something fun? With your uptight behind? What got into you?”
“Not my granny calling me uptight,” I said, clutching my imaginary pearls.
“Well, hell, if the girdle fits,” she said, and Mel hollered.
I laughed so hard I nearly messed up my eyeliner. “Wow. Betrayal in my own home.”
NanNan softened, tapping my cheek with one warm finger. “I’m playing. You look beautiful. I’m proud of you for going. Have fun. Laugh loud. Let your shoulders down.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, swallowing the lump her words put in my throat. “Don’t let no man steal your peace, but don’t you block your blessings neither, ya’ hear me?” she commanded, her eyes twinkling.
“Yes, ma’am. I hear you,” I responded, shaking my head at her. She was off the hinges, but I loved her immensely.
She kissed my forehead and shuffled back toward the living room. “Text me when y’all get there. And don’t drink nothing you didn’t see poured.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mel saluted, and NanNan snorted.
When she was gone, I turned to my closet and pulled out my outfit of choice—jeans, a soft tee, and some sandals.
“Unh uh. Put that down and behold—game-day glory.” Mel clicked her tongue as she reached behind my hanging dresses like she knew a secret.
She pulled out a black and red jersey bodycon dress I forgot I owned with the number 1 splashed across the front. It was cute, bold, a lot.
“Absolutely not,” I said immediately.
“Absolutely yes, with the Chicago 1s,” she said just as fast.
“No sandals? It’s cute weather.”
“It’s game time weather. Trust me,” she shot back, already unzipping the dress.
I zipped my dress, laced my J’s, and put on my lip gloss, kind of feeling myself.
The dress hugged me snugly, showing off my shape.
The sneakers said I wasn’t here to wobble.
I looked at the mirror and had to admit—the girl was fine.
Not for the world, but for myself. Maybe for one innocent spin too.
“Okay, okay. I see it,” I murmured, half-blushing.
“Mmhmm. Don’t act new when the world stares,” Mel sang, snapping a picture on her phone.
“Girl, please. Ain’t nobody checking for lil’ old me. Let me check on Nan right quick, and we can roll out.” I grabbed my small black crossbody and rolled my eyes to keep from rolling my hips.
In the living room, NanNan had on her favorite show and a blanket over her lap. She looked me up and down again and clapped once. “Go on now, child.”
“You sure you’re good?”
“I’m grown and blessed. I’m gon’ lock that door and set the alarm like always. I’ll call you if the house disrespects me.”
“You’re so extra,” I said, grinning.
“And you’re gonna be late. Leave, ’fore you piss me off now and raise my pressure up.”
“Bye, Nan!” I laughed, blowing her a kiss.
The drive to the arena felt like a pregame with the music up, windows cracked, and city lights stretching out like another kind of front row. We talked through lanes and stoplights about our future tutorial center: funding, flyers, branding colors.
“Lavender and slate?” Mel offered.
“With a pop of red. Something warm.”
“And a slogan. ‘Where effort meets elevation.’”
I snapped. “Okay, Ms. Marketing.”
We parked, straightened our clothes, and did a last mirror check half vanity and half pep talk. Then we joined the line scanning our tickets. The stadium swallowed us in a rush of voices, bass, and the smell of popcorn and possibility.
I felt eyes. Not in a creepy way, just a shift in the field. Heads turned. Mel grinned like she predicted it, and I pretended not to notice as my cheeks warmed, because even at twenty-nine, being looked at felt like an assignment.
Mel whispered, elbowing me. “Girl, you fine as hell. Don’t argue with me. Accept the ministry.”
Biting back a smile, I said, “Stop. You’re gonna make my clumsy ass trip.”
“As long as you fall into a rich man’s lap, I’ll catch your purse.”
“Please.” I giggled, guiding us toward the lower-level concourse.
That’s when I saw him, not a rich man but a headache—one of my students’ fathers who always found a reason to be at pickup with a compliment that didn’t understand what boundaries meant.
He clocked me before I could pivot around him. Here he came, arm wrapped around a woman with a bob and a cute dress.
“Ms. Stevens!” he said with a smile full of audacity. “How you doin’, pretty lady? This is my cousin from Chicago.”
I put on my teacher’s face—polite, firm, noncommittal. “Good evening. I hope y’all enjoy the game.”
I didn’t stop walking. He did.
“Hold up. You ain’t gon’ introduce yourself? Don’t be rude,” he said, stepping in front of me like an interception.
Mel intervened. “We’re just trying to get to our seats.”
His cousin sized me up and smirked. “He’s obviously trying to hook up with the girl. You should mind your business,” she told Mel.
Mel leaned forward so fast I put a hand on her shoulder. “Baby girl, my business is this girl, and trust, if it wasn’t, security would be,” she said sweetly in a tone I knew all too well.
Seeing things getting ready to turn into a whole thing, I looked at Dad of the Year. “It’s okay. I’m truly flattered. I think you’re a handsome man, but I don’t mix work life with my personal life. I really wish you well.”
He sucked his teeth like I’d messed up his fantasy. “Man, whatever.”
We kept it pushing, and Mel muttered, “Thank you, Lord, because I was two seconds from losing my vendor privileges in here.”
I had to hide my laugh behind my hand.
Pointing toward the concessions, I summoned her. “Let’s grab something to eat.”
We grabbed hot dogs, nachos drowning in cheese, and two beers.
The line stretched long enough for us to debate the merits of jalapenos and for me to admit I was excited, not for men paying attention and gawking at me, but for a night that wasn’t a lesson plan or me sitting at home in my room by myself while reading the latest KOLD book.
My favorite male author had me in a chokehold with his series ‘Still in the Streets.’ It read just like a movie, too—fast paced, drama, and street shit, just like my innocent ass liked.
Tickets in one hand, tray in the other, I checked the section number on the printout as we stepped back into the moving stream of bodies. The lower-level tunnel opened, and light spilled in from the court.
“Section 116,” I murmured, eyes on the tiny print, walking and bouncing off a wall that was breathing.
Everything bucked—my tray tilted, beer leaped, my mouth formed a late “Oh!” Cold drink splashed across a chest that felt like someone had carved it out with the idea of Bitch, don’t try me.
My heart did a drumroll in my throat. My eyes snapped up, ready to apologize, ready to disappear, and slammed into a gaze that made my knees consider folding.
He was tall, his dark skin glistening. Waves rolled across his head like the ocean got jealous and tried to imitate him.
His beard was trimmed to perfection, and his broad shoulders carried I got you energy without saying a word .
. . Whew. His mouth tilted at the corner, amused and annoyed at the same time.
I realized I was staring and snatched my eyes away as if they were witnessing someone committing a crime.
I started to speak as heat shot up my neck. “Da—I’m so—”
He shifted, and the scent of clean skin along with something woodsy, curled around my nose. He looked down at his shirt, then back at me, and the air between us charged. Mel said something. The crowd was loud, and the arena pulsed, but all I could hear was my pulse in my ears.
I grabbed for napkins. My words tumbled over each other. “I’m so sorry. It was an acc—”
His chest slowly lifted once. He still hadn’t said a word.
My hand shook on the napkins. “Let me—let me clean it. Or pay to get it cleaned. I—”
Mel stepped in, already at a simmer. “Girl, we can buy him a new shirt. It’s a splash. Why is his mean mug turned up anyway?”
I finally made myself look at him fully. His eyes were steady. This was man was fine enough to make me blink twice and forget what I walked in the room for.
“Excuse me,” I said, feeling small and embarrassed, already trying to sidestep.
And that’s when a warm palm caught my waist—not rough, not lingering, but firm—and I forgot how courage worked.
“Hold up,” he said.
The word didn’t snap. It settled—quiet authority, no theater.
My chin dipped out of instinct, and his fingers were there. They were light, tipping my face up by the curve, lifting it slightly. He looked at me gently, and Lord help me. I looked back.
“Don’t you ever cower in front of no nigga,” he said, his voice low and intentional, soft like a lullaby, firm like a principle. “Not even your future husband,” he added, gentler now, his thumb grazing my jaw.
Heat detonated behind my cheeks like somebody lit a match under my freckles. I stepped back on instinct, my heart sprinting. Mel made a sound between a gasp and a giggle.
“I—excuse me,” I squeaked, dignity collecting itself like spilled change. I pivoted, and my legs remembered their job. Walk, Sol. Just . . . walk.
“Girl! He was rude as hell, fine as hell-er, and he done claimed you in the first quarter. Lawd, I see what Ya doin’ for others. Amen.” Mel hissed, trotting to keep up.
I couldn’t answer. My blood was busy telling my brain to sit down. We turned into our section, still laughing and shocked. Behind me, the arena roared for a dunk I didn’t see.
We finally found our row halfway down the lower section. The court looked close enough to touch. The sound system thumped bass through the sneakers. I was still trying to slow my pulse when Mel nudged me hard enough to spill a few jalapenos.
“Breathe, girl. He ain’t God. He just fine as hell.”
“Just fine? He barked orders at me like he was Moses speaking to the Israelites about the Ten Commandments,” I muttered.
“And your knees still shaking,” she shot back, grinning.