Andre whistled; Jada covered her grin like she wasn’t screaming on the inside, and Keisha whispered something to Darren that made him clap once and look proud in a way big brothers never fully hide. Behind them, Mama lifted her chin at me—‘that’s my girl’—without saying a word.
Quentin cleaned what I left with that quiet four-count under his breath—glasses off, shoulders easy, pace that never begged. It wasn’t just calm. It was deliberate. He played like an answer key he’d written himself.
Between games, Malik drifted by. “You sure you ain’t tryin’ to have a Juneteenth baby on purpose?”
“Shut up,” I laughed, then… paused. A tug took me by surprise, low and tight. I breathed through it easy, in on four, out on six. Quentin noticed. He always did.
“Squeeze?” he asked, voice soft enough to not wake a bird.
“Nothing,” I lied. “Don’t start.”
His eyes said he’d started two weeks ago and hadn’t stopped—counting intervals without a watch, cataloging my winces, building a map to the hospital in his head he’d never need to unfold.
Game two ran hotter—Duke found rhythm, Santi jawed me into a long bank I took out of spite. We traded saints and sins. My back ached once, then forgot. I moved when I could, rested when I had to, and any time I bentover the table, Quentin’s palm grazed the top edge of my bump like he was scanning a barcode only he could read.
Between racks, Daddy came up, handed me his water without a word. I drank because I’m no fool. “This kid better love you,” I told him.
Daddy softened at the eyes. “They already do.”
On the other side of the room, Tino worked the crowd like a DJ of arguments. “Reds on Five! Don’t be shy now—Juneteenth only comes once a year; your jump shot don’t.”
“Say a history fact then,” somebody yelled.
Tino spread his arms. “Here’s a fact: Black joy stays undefeated in this bar. Rack ’em.”
We surfed that joy all the way to the semis. The babies in Steelers hoodies fell asleep against Keisha’s chest, sugar-crashed on cinnamon buns. Cierra, who I grew to like a lot, filmed me on her phone like she was archiving evidence. Jada whispered with Shawna, eyes cutting between me and Quentin like she was low-key collecting vows. Behind them, Mama and Daddy traded a look that said they’d already picked a balcony cabin and weren’t telling nobody which deck.
Santi hugged me after we sent them home. “Bring that baby back and let us hold it,” she demanded.
“After the ring,” Duke added with a grin.
“Mind your business,” Quentin said.
By finals, my belly had ideas. Not pain, just—presence. A rolling tension that made me go quiet and breathe on purpose. Malik noticed. He always had a mouth for noticing. “Uh-oh.”
Keisha smacked him with a napkin. “Hush.”
Uncle Leon sidled close and pretended to polish a glass that didn’t need it. “You at ten minutes yet?”
I let out a slow breath. “We are not counting right now.”
“Mm-hmm,” he said to the glass.
Our opponents were Deja and Coop—sweet assassins from Wilkinsburg who smiled like they were going to church and then robbed you in the parking lot. Deja, locs wrapped in a scarf patterned like joy, winked at me. “You sure, sis? We can reschedule this family reunion.”
“Nah,” I said, chalking. “We finish what we start.”
Quentin touched my shoulder. Not to stop me. To say I’m listening. To say I’m with you.
I broke and the table sang—three down clean. The room stood up with me. I talked myself through the next shots: breathe, lock the wrist, trust the math. Nugget rolled and settled. I swear I felt them listening too.
I got funky with a two-rail bank I had no business loving. It kissed home like it belonged there. Somebody yelled, “My God!” like I’d parted the Monongahela with a cue.
Then the belly cinched tight, longer than before. Not a sip—more like a swallow. I closed my eyes. Counted. Quentin’s hand found the small of my back and pressed warmth into it like an offering. Mama edged close enough that I could hear her bracelets whisper. “Long exhale,” she said, low. I gave it to her, the air leaving like a ribbon.
“You good?” he asked, barely sound.
“Yup.” I cut my eyes at him. “Shoot before I change my mind.”
