Chapter 8 #2
My pulse did something inconvenient as I placed my clutch beside my plate. Dre had not seen me yet. At least, I didn’t think he had. For all I knew, he was somewhere being congratulated, photographed, or held hostage by a donor with a building proposal and no sense of timing.
Still, sitting next to his place card felt like crossing some invisible line. Not because I was doing anything wrong. Because if Dre walked in and saw me beside his mother with my name nowhere near the seating chart, he would know.
His mother had chosen this.
And I had let her.
The thought made heat move slowly through my stomach.
What would he think?
Mrs. Jones leaned toward me as though she could hear the question. “He won’t mind.”
I looked at her.
She smiled into her water glass. “My son has many flaws. Being foolish enough to object to you sitting beside him is not one of them.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
Mr. Jones chuckled. “Leave the girl alone, Ro.”
“I am being hospitable.”
“You are meddling.”
“I can do both.”
Danielle laughed from across the table. “Efficiently.”
Before I could recover, the energy near the ballroom entrance shifted.
I felt it before I saw him.
That had started to annoy me.
People turned. Smiles widened. A few hands lifted. Someone said his name with that particular blend of affection and ownership people used when they had watched a man become famous and still remembered him before the world did.
Then Dre appeared.
Black Tom Ford tuxedo, cut perfectly through his shoulders. Crisp white shirt. Black bow tie. Deep-purple pocket square. Deep-brown skin warm beneath the chandelier light. His beard was freshly lined, haircut low, diamond earring catching every third step.
A diamond chain rested at his throat, subtle until the light found it, and a ring flashed on his pinky when he reached to clasp someone’s hand.
Dre looked good in jeans. He looked good in a T-shirt. He looked good on the Yard with sunlight on his face and his jacket over one shoulder.
In a tuxedo, he looked like a woman could lose an argument with herself before he even spoke.
He stopped twice on the way to the table. Once for an older alum who hugged him hard. Once for a man who shook his hand with both of his and leaned close to say something that made Dre’s expression sober briefly before he nodded.
Then he saw me.
His attention skipped the table, the place cards, and even his mother for one unguarded second.
It came straight to me.
His steps slowed for half a breath. It was small. Maybe no one else noticed.
I did.
His gaze moved over me before he could stop it. My face. My mouth. The bare line of my shoulders. The silk across my breasts. Down, not far enough to be disrespectful but far enough for my body to understand the difference. Then back to my eyes.
Heat moved beneath my skin.
Mrs. Jones, unfortunately, missed nothing.
Dre recovered first, reaching the table with a smile for his family before his eyes returned to me. “You sitting with us?”
“Your mother kidnapped me.”
“I figured.”
“She didn’t even let me finish the objection.”
“You wasted your breath trying.”
Mrs. Jones looked at her son. “I can hear you.”
“I know.”
He leaned down to kiss her cheek, then clasped his father’s hand and pulled him into a brief hug. Something inside me softened watching him. Dre had always loved his parents openly. Fame had not changed that. Money hadn’t either.
When he took the chair beside me, his shoulder brushed mine.
The contact was brief.
My body still took it personally.
“You look beautiful,” he said quietly.
Beautiful carried more charge than good ever could.
I looked down at the place setting because apparently I needed assistance acting normal. “Thank you.”
“You welcome.”
I glanced at him.
He smiled.
“Don’t start,” I said.
“I ain’t do nothing.”
“You look very pleased with yourself.”
“I’m sitting beside a beautiful woman in a tux. Life decent.”
I laughed despite myself, and dinner started before he could make it worse.
For a while, the table moved easily around us. Mrs. Jones asked how I was settling into Pittsburgh, and Mr. Jones listened closely while I explained Saint Aurelia, his questions practical in a way that told me he understood business from the ground up.
Danielle told me her daughter had developed opinions about lip gloss, then asked if I remembered all those afternoons she used to sit between my knees while I braided her hair, talking about how she wanted to wear makeup but Mrs. Jones wasn’t having it.
Across the room, Camille had somehow ended up at the bar with Malcolm, her face angled toward his while she looked annoyed enough for old history to be sitting nearby with a drink of its own.
Beside me, Dre leaned closer. “You saw that too?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Liar.”
I smiled into my water.
The program began before either of us could make more trouble.
AWU’s president welcomed everyone first, followed by a prayer from one of the older alumni ministers, then dinner, then a short video about the scholarship fund.
The room clapped in all the right places, laughed when the MC teased the alumni board about fundraising with holy persistence, and went quiet when a student recipient spoke about being the first in her family to attend college.
Through all of it, I remained aware of Dre beside me.
His knee shifted under the table. His cuff brushed mine. Once, when a server reached across too quickly, his hand settled lightly behind my chair, not touching my back but close enough for my skin to know exactly where he was.
The air between us had become thick.
I had spent years being an adult woman with sense, discernment, bills, excellent skincare, and a decent grasp of emotional consequences.
Apparently all it took was Andre Jones in a tuxedo sitting beside me, smelling good and occasionally leaning close enough for his voice to brush my ear, for my body to start making alternative plans.
Then the lights lowered.
A woman from the alumni association stepped onto the stage in a gold gown, smiling like she knew she was about to make the room proud.
“Before we open the dance floor tonight, we have one final honor.”
The screen behind her changed, and a photograph of Dre filled it.
He could not have been more than seven or eight, standing on a football field in shoulder pads too big for him and a helmet tucked against one hip.
Even then, he was tall for his age, all knees, elbows, and serious eyes, with the expression of a child already trying to understand where everybody needed him to stand.
The room softened immediately.
Beside me, Dre went still.
The next picture was high school. Andre at quarterback, tall and lean with the ball cocked near his ear, defenders closing in while his eyes stayed downfield.
Then AWU: number twenty-two, freshman year, lined up at wide receiver with his hands loose at his sides and his body angled like he was already reading the defender’s fear.
My throat tightened.
The MC smiled out over the ballroom.
“Andre Malik Jones has been making people adjust their expectations since he was old enough to put on shoulder pads.”
Laughter moved through the room.
“He started playing pee-wee football at the community center that many of you know he still supports today. Back then, his coaches say he was usually the tallest child on the field, sometimes the fastest, and almost always the one asking why a play worked instead of simply being satisfied that it did.”
Dre lowered his head for a second, smiling faintly.
“At Westinghouse Prep, Andre played quarterback, leading his team with the kind of poise that made recruiters take notice early. When he arrived at August Wilson University, our coaching staff already had a starting quarterback and a crowded quarterback room. What they did not have was a freshman willing to say, ‘Put me wherever I can get on the field.’”
Applause broke out.
I looked at Dre.
He kept his eyes on the stage, but his mouth curved slightly.
“So they did. Andre started his AWU career at wide receiver, where his height, hands, and ability to break open after the catch made him a problem for defensive backs across the conference. But during his sophomore year, when injuries thinned the running back room and the offense needed someone who could handle motion, catch out of the backfield, pass protect, and still run through contact, Coach Ellison gave number twenty-two a few carries.”
The MC paused.
“Apparently, that was enough.”
The ballroom laughed and clapped.
“By midseason, Andre Jones was the starting running back. Taller and bigger than what some people expected at the position, but too fast for linebackers and too powerful for most defensive backs who made the mistake of meeting him upright. He could run around you, run past you, or, if he was in a certain mood, run directly through you.”
Someone yelled, “I know that’s right!”
Dre shook his head, but his smile stayed.
The screen shifted through highlights. Dre cutting through a gap.
Dre stiff-arming a defender into poor life choices.
Dre lowering his shoulder at the goal line.
Dre in a Forge uniform, black and gold bright beneath stadium lights.
Dre holding up a championship trophy. Dre signing autographs for children wearing number twenty-two.
“From AWU record holder to first-round draft pick, from Pittsburgh Forge standout to All-Pro and champion, Andre’s football résumé speaks loudly enough on its own.
But tonight, we are not only honoring what he did with a football in his hands.
We are honoring what he has done with the platform football gave him. ”
The applause changed.
Deepened.
“Through scholarships, youth programs, quiet donations, emergency family support, and continued investment in the community center where he first played pee-wee football, Andre Jones has given back to this city in ways that often happen without cameras present. He has given to AWU as well.”
The MC looked toward our table.
“Generously.”