Chapter 1 #3
I bought controlling interest in my first dealership, then a second and third.
My name got people through the doors; good operations kept them buying cars.
North & Vine came next. I put up capital, partnered with people who knew restaurants better than I did, learned the numbers, and stayed out of the kitchen unless Chef invited me past the line.
Pops was hardest.
“You ain’t buying your way into something I built,” he told me when I wanted to invest in his company.
So I worked my way in instead.
Eventually Jones Landscaping became Jones Outdoor, expanding into commercial grounds management, municipal contracts, and larger development work.
All three businesses made money.
A lot of it.
Popularity opened doors. I still had to know what the fuck to do once I walked through them.
Over the past year, I had gotten good at that.
Maybe too good.
Football had once demanded almost every part of me, and somehow I had responded to losing it by building three things capable of doing the same.
Tina came through the cabin again.
“Anything before we land?”
I lifted the cranberry tonic. “I’m good.”
“You sure?”
Her smile made it clear she wasn’t asking about the drink this time.
I smiled back because she was pretty and harmless and I wasn’t rude.
“I’m sure.”
She finally gave up.
The engines changed pitch a few minutes later, and Pittsburgh began appearing beneath the clouds, river first, then bridges, downtown rising beyond them until the city settled into view.
Home.
My phone vibrated again.
Malcolm.
Former AWU slot receiver, current professional pain in my ass, and one of the few people alive who could look at every version of Andre Jones and remain thoroughly unimpressed.
Malcolm: Important intelligence.
I already knew I should ignore him.
Me: No.
Malcolm: You ain’t even heard it nigga.
Me: Don’t need to.
His next message came through.
Malcolm: Heard Bennett might be at Crown.
My thumb stopped.
I read it again.
Me: From who?
The reply was immediate.
Malcolm:
I closed my eyes.
Shouldn’t have asked that fast.
Me: Nigga.
Malcolm: Thought you ain’t care.
Me: I asked where you heard it.
Malcolm: From a reputable source with excellent cheekbones and a bad attitude,
Camille.
I leaned back in the seat and looked out at the clouds.
That made more sense than I wanted it to.
Malcolm and Camille had been whatever they were back in college, which meant neither one of them could hear the other’s name without pretending indifference too hard.
As grown as they both claimed to be, they still found reasons to know things about each other.
Professional overlap. Alumni events. Mutual friends.
Petty little comments passed through people who enjoyed mess too much to be trusted with proximity.
If Malcolm had heard Imani might be at Crown, he probably heard it from Camille directly, pulled it out of her while she was pretending not to tell him, or read it off her face because those two had always been irritating like that.
Me: Since when you and Camille sharing information?
Malcolm: Don’t worry about my sources.
Me: Your source know you talking too much?
Malcolm: My source knows I’m gifted.
Me: Your source regrets you.
Malcolm: Often. Anyway. You gon be real calm if Bennett walk into Royal House tomorrow?
I didn’t answer.
Another message came.
Malcolm: LMAOOOOOO
Nigga got on my nerves.
Pittsburgh grew larger beneath us.
For years, I had imagined seeing Imani again. A restaurant. The airport. An AWU game. Somebody’s wedding.
In every version, I was cool.
Of course.
Calm when it mattered. Hard to read when people wanted a reaction. Football had trained that into me early. Defenders talked. Fans screamed. Reporters asked sideways questions. Coaches tested patience. Giving people too much of my face meant giving them something to use.
With Imani, staying cool was supposed to save my heart.
She saw me. I saw her. Maybe she smiled. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe she noticed I was doing just fine without her.
My imagination had never bothered asking what my chest might do.
Now there was a real chance I could see her tomorrow, then again Friday night when my parents were there and AWU put an award in my hand for becoming some version of a man everybody thought deserved honoring.
The idea almost made me laugh.
Imani had known me before there was anything to honor.
Before eighty-eight million dollars.
Before the Forge.
Before scars.
Three days ago, I had ended things with a woman I cared about. A national sports network wanted to put me back in front of millions of people, and three profitable businesses were waiting when I landed.
None of it moved through me the way Malcolm’s text did.
I rubbed my hand over my jaw as the wheels dropped beneath us.
Eight years was enough time to understand why Imani had chosen herself. I was about to find out if it had been enough time to forgive how much that choice hurt me.
And maybe, if she actually showed up, whether I had the nerve to ask her to forgive me too.