Daddy chuckled, eyes warming. “Put it on the calendar. Rae’s teaching it with me. Safety, tools, and how math shows up when you don’t think it will.”
That tugged somewhere low in me—legacy sweet as current. The thought of some ninth grader in Malik’s program holding a tester pen steady while I saidtrust your linemade my chest go soft.
“Couples on Two!” Tino bellowed. “Whitaker-Hale versus Duke n’ Santi. Baby on Board advantage goes to the belly!”
Laughter rippled. People love a running joke; tonight I was the whole punchline and the show. I patted my bump like we had our own team sponsor. “Tell ’em, Nugget,” I whispered. “Mommy’s still got angles.”
Quentin’s hand slid to my belly without thinking—always without thinking. A reflex. A claim.
Weeks ago, outside his school, he’d pulled the same move right as Ms. Big-Head Coleman sat in her cherry-red coupe, watching like she was parked in the wrong soap opera. She drove off tight. I gave her a big ol’ wave, like shewas the crossing guard and I was thanking her for keeping him safe.
Quentin chuckled, low and steady, shaking his head like he was half in awe and half exasperated. “You really don’t know how to let a thing go, do you?”
Quentin had already told me months ago that he threatened to march to the administration if she didn’t quit popping up unannounced, laying hands on him like he was a Costco sample. These days, she barely mumbled a hello. But I still had a few points to drive home.
“Why would I?” I shot back, smirking. “Some souvenirs are too funny to throw away.”
He kissed the side of my head, still smiling, but his palm stayed firm on my stomach. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you love it,” I said, leaning back into him.
“Rayna Whitaker,” Uncle Leon called, pretending to wipe the counter while watching me like a hawk. “You breathing alright?”
I gave him a look. “You babysitting my lungs now?”
He dipped his chin at my belly. “I see who’s babysitting your everything.”
Daddy chuckled, then slanted me that look only a father earns. “If you feel funny, you sit. You hear?”
“Sir, yes, sir,” I said, and he grunted, satisfied but listening. Mama slid over with a patient smile and murmured, “Bend your knees when you lean, baby. Save your back,” then kissed my cheek quick before I could pretend not to need it. Daddy’s fingers brushed her wrist on his way past, like a habit his body remembered. They didn’t make a show of it; they didn’t have to.
Truth was, I’d been feeling… tugs. Little squeezes that made me pause. Not pain. Just pressure. Braxton Hicks, I told myself. I wasn’t about to say that out loud with this many eyes on me.
Duke and Santi swaggered up, matching hoodies, the kind of couple that finished trash talk for each other.
“Congratulations,” Santi said sincerely.
“Thanks,” I said, meaning it. Her eyeliner was lethal; her vibe, softer than her jaw.
Duke winked at Quentin. “You about to carry, my guy. No way she bending properly.”
Quentin’s mouth curved. “You say that like she ever needed proper.”
Game one and we were on Two, the table with a slight lean you had to respect. I’d always loved her for that—honesty built right into the slate.
I chalked. Tried a practice bend. Okay, so the belly did announce itself. I couldn’t live in that flat, predatory lean I used to; I had to widen my stance, drop the back knee, let the bump be part of my geometry. Nugget thumped like they were in on the math.
Quentin hovered at my shoulder. “You good?”
“Back up off me, professor. You make me nervous.”
“You don’t get nervous,” he said, but he shuffled half a step away and slid his glasses up—his tell, not mine. Watchful, careful, letting me lead.
I tapped the rail twice. Breathing stayed even. The break went like I asked it: crack, scatter, two balls down early. The room thrummed. My people thrummed louder.
Pregnancy changed your center of gravity, yeah—but it also sharpened your focus when you had something to prove. My shot selection got surgical and rude. I took theseven off a soft kiss, used the nine as a brake, turned a cluster into a promise. When the lean tried to tease the cue ball into a bad neighborhood, I fed a hair of right English and watched it heel like a good dog.
“Okay, Mama,” Shawna hollered. “Show out then!”
