Seeing things getting ready to turn into a whole thing, I looked at Dad of the Year. “It’s okay. I’m truly flattered. I think you’re a handsome man, but I don’t mix work life with my personal life. I really wish you well.”
He sucked his teeth like I’d messed up his fantasy. “Man, whatever.”
We kept it pushing, and Mel muttered, “Thank you, Lord, because I was two seconds from losing my vendor privileges in here.”
I had to hide my laugh behind my hand.
Pointing toward the concessions, I summoned her. “Let’s grab something to eat.”
We grabbed hot dogs, nachos drowning in cheese, and two beers. The line stretched long enough for us to debate the merits of jalapenos and for me to admit I was excited, not for men paying attention and gawking at me, but for a night that wasn’t a lesson plan or me sitting at home in my room by myself while reading the latest KOLD book. My favorite male author had me in a chokehold with his series ‘Still in the Streets.’ It read just like a movie, too—fast paced, drama, and street shit, just like my innocent ass liked.
Tickets in one hand, tray in the other, I checked the section number on the printout as we stepped back into the moving stream of bodies. The lower-level tunnel opened, and light spilled in from the court.
“Section 116,” I murmured, eyes on the tiny print, walking and bouncing off a wall that was breathing.
Everything bucked—my tray tilted, beer leaped, my mouth formed a late “Oh!” Cold drink splashed across a chest that felt like someone had carved it out with the idea ofBitch, don’t try me.
My heart did a drumroll in my throat. My eyes snapped up, ready to apologize, ready to disappear, and slammed into a gaze that made my knees consider folding. He was tall, his dark skin glistening. Waves rolled across his head like the ocean got jealous and tried to imitate him. His beard was trimmed to perfection, and his broad shoulders carriedI got youenergy without saying a word . . . Whew. His mouth tilted at the corner, amused and annoyed at the same time. I realized I was staringand snatched my eyes away as if they were witnessing someone committing a crime.
I started to speak as heat shot up my neck. “Da—I’m so?—”
He shifted, and the scent of clean skin along with something woodsy, curled around my nose. He looked down at his shirt, then back at me, and the air between us charged. Mel said something. The crowd was loud, and the arena pulsed, but all I could hear was my pulse in my ears.
I grabbed for napkins. My words tumbled over each other. “I’m so sorry. It was an acc?—”
His chest slowly lifted once. He still hadn’t said a word.
My hand shook on the napkins. “Let me—let me clean it. Or pay to get it cleaned. I?—”
Mel stepped in, already at a simmer. “Girl, we can buy him a new shirt. It’s a splash. Why is his mean mug turned up anyway?”
I finally made myself look at him fully. His eyes were steady. This was man was fine enough to make me blink twice and forget what I walked in the room for.
“Excuse me,” I said, feeling small and embarrassed, already trying to sidestep.
And that’s when a warm palm caught my waist—not rough, not lingering, but firm—and I forgot how courage worked.
“Hold up,” he said.
The word didn’t snap. It settled—quiet authority, no theater.
My chin dipped out of instinct, and his fingers were there. They were light, tipping my face up by the curve, lifting it slightly. He looked at me gently, and Lord help me. I looked back.
“Don’t you ever cower in front of no nigga,” he said, his voice low and intentional, soft like a lullaby, firm like a principle. “Not even your future husband,” he added, gentler now, his thumb grazing my jaw.
Heat detonated behind my cheeks like somebody lit a match under my freckles. I stepped back on instinct, my heart sprinting. Mel made a sound between a gasp and a giggle.
“I—excuse me,” I squeaked, dignity collecting itself like spilled change. I pivoted, and my legs remembered their job.Walk, Sol. Just . . . walk.
“Girl! He was rude as hell, fine as hell-er, and he done claimed you in the first quarter. Lawd, I see what Ya doin’ for others. Amen.” Mel hissed, trotting to keep up.
I couldn’t answer. My blood was busy telling my brain to sit down. We turned into our section, still laughing and shocked. Behind me, the arena roared for a dunk I didn’t see.
We finally found our row halfway down the lower section. The court looked close enough to touch. The sound system thumped bass through the sneakers. I was still trying to slow my pulse when Mel nudged me hard enough to spill a few jalapenos.
“Breathe, girl. He ain’t God. He just fine as hell.”
“Justfine? He barked orders at me like he was Moses speaking to the Israelites about the Ten Commandments,” I muttered.
