Angel:How was the game?
I stared at the message. We’d won by twelve. I’d played thirty-two minutes, scored twenty-three points, and grabbed seven assists. On paper, it was a good night. But my body was telling a different story.
Me:We won.
Angel:I know I watched the whole game. You played your ass off, but something was wrong. Don’t lie to me.
Heat crawled up my neck. She could probably tell you my shooting percentage and assist-to-turnover ratio without looking it up. I loved that shit. She knew my game better than I did.
Me:I’m good, baby. Just tired.
Angel:DaVinci. I saw you grimace after that layup in the third. Are we lying to each other now?
I stared at my phone. She’d clocked me from her couch hundreds of miles away while I was trying to hide it from twenty thousand people in the arena.
Me:I’m fine, fr. I’m just old as fuck, girl.
I set the phone down and closed my eyes.
My phone rang.
I looked at the screen. Halo’s face smiled back at me, the picture I’d taken at the matinee when she wasn’t looking. I almost didn’t answer. Because I knew she wasn’t letting up. I loved that she cared, but I didn’t want her to worry. But something in me needed to hear her voice.
“What’s up, Angel?” I tried to sound normal. Awake. Not like I was sprawled on my couch, unable to move.
“Don’t‘what’s up?’me. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“DaVinci,” she said firmly, “I’m coming over.”
“Halo, it’s two in the morning. Driving over here is not an option. You got work in a few hours.”
“I’m off tomorrow. Well, today. Whatever.” I heard movement on her end, keys jingling. “And don’t do that, send Langston if that's the case.”
She said, calling my bluff.
“You don’t have to—”
“Are you going to call Langston, or do I have to drive myself? Brixxi and I can be there in thirty minutes, twenty with all green lights.”
“Hold on.” I gave in to her and let Langston know to go pick her up because arguing with Halima Grant when she’d made up her mind was a waste of breath. Thirty minutes later, my security called to let me know she was on her way through the door.
She came in with a green leggings set clinging to her curves, thick socks, and Crocs on her feet, hair in a messy bun. Barefaced and still gorgeous. I could see the concern in her eyes and irritation in her jaw. I wanted to laugh at her mad face, but she was here, so she wasn’t that mad. It was cute. I was touched.
“Why are you on the couch?” she asked, setting her purse down and maybe a spend-the-night bag. I was overly intrigued now.
“Hey, to you too, beautiful.”
“Hey, but uh-huh.” She walked over and stood in front of me, hands on her hips. “Where does it hurt?”
“Halo—”
“Where. Does. It. Hurt?”
I sighed. “My knee. My back. My shoulder. Shit, take your pick.”
Her face softened immediately. She sat down next to me, careful not to jostle the couch. “What happened?”
