Halo appeared with Angel on her hip; the twins were a little over a year now, but Angel was her twin and shadow. Not to mention, it was way too much going on for the little introvert.
Their son, JaVinci, JJ, was the social butterfly and the center of attention.
“Summer, you gotta share, baby,” Malik said, walking up, knowing his bossy daughter wasn’t for the games or sharing. She loved her cousins, but sharing was still hard to do.
“Daddy, he’s eating them. Eeee-Yuck.”
Malik looked over at DaVinci, who was wrestling a red crayon out of JaVinci's mouth. “Aye, man, your son is over here eating art supplies and you letting him.”
DaVinci sighed, pulling the crayon free. “This boy will put anything in his mouth. I turned around for two seconds. Aye, kid, keep it playa, we don’t eat crayons.”
“He gets that from you,” Halo called from across the room.
“Lies and slander,” DaVinci said, but he was grinning.
Malik scooped Summer up and kissed her forehead. “JJ didn't mean it, baby girl. He's still learning.”
She giggled as he tickled her, distracting her from JJ, who was trying to grab another crayon.
The room continued filling in. Stacia and Stetson had claimed a table near the front, already deep in conversation. Stetson had taken Samaj on as a client to help him manage his money and make good investments. Omni was posted up near the bar with her phone, ready to document every moment. Tessa pushed through the door still in her firehouse shirt, and Halo immediately shifted Angel to one arm so she could hug her best friend.
“Girl, I was scared I wouldn’t make it in time,” Tessa said.
“I’m glad you made it. You know Samaj would have a fit.”
Tessa had fit right into this found family, and Samaj looked at her like an aunt, too. It was probably because she loved video games just as much as he did.
“Y'all better save room for dessert. I didn’t make all this for nothing.” Lorana said, emerging from the kitchen with yet another tray—this time loaded with her famous peach cobbler. And she hadn’t, but she had cooked all day to keep from crying at the occasion. That was her secret.
“Ms. Lorana, you’re trying to send us all into food comas,” DaVinci said, but he was already eyeing the cobbler.
“Good. Then y’all will sit still and stop running around my restaurant,” she said, but her smile was warm.
The pre-draft show started playing on the screens, analysts breaking down prospects, showing highlight reels, speculating on who would go where. Every time Samaj's face appeared on screen, the room erupted in cheers.
Samaj had stopped pacing and was now leaning against the bar, Amari tucked under his arm. She said something quiet that made him smile, and some of the tension left his shoulders.
Sametra watched them from across the room, her throat tightening. Her baby. Her son. About to have his name called on national television. She remembered the hospital, the fear, the uncertainty of whether he'd ever play again. And now look at him.
Malik appeared beside her, sliding an arm around her waist. “What's on your mind?”
Just... taking it in.”
“He's ready. You made sure of that.”
“We made sure of that,” she corrected, leaning into him.
He kissed her temple. “Dr. Holloway, always gotta share the credit.”
And he appreciated it, but he didn’t want the credit. This was her hard work. He’d come in at the tail end, but he understood. It was his encouragement and honesty during physical therapy that made this day happen, too. Still, Malik was humble and still in awe of what his wife had done all alone. His story wasn’t a rarity, but it didn’t take away from the moment orthe fact that a single black woman had kept her son out of jail, out of trouble, ensuring he understood greatness was upon him.
“Dr. Holloway,” she repeated, smiling. “Still sounds fake.”
“It’s real. You earned it. Just like he's about to earn this.”
The energy shifted as the commissioner stepped up to the podium for the first pick. The room went quiet. Samaj straightened, his hand going to the chain around his neck.
John-Dale came out from behind the bar and stood beside Samaj, his hand heavy on his grandson's shoulder. No words. Just presence. Just pride.
