“Perfect,” he whispers. “Mind over matter, kid.”
I strain to glance up at him. He’s flashing that same smile I see him wearing around campus. For the first time, I realize it doesn’t reach his eyes though. It’s just a pretty smile with no meaning.
“What makes you happy?” I blurt, trying to pull the taste of a Shipley’s bear claw out the Bubble Yum so my mouth won’t fold into another weird half-smile half-frown.
He sucks in a light breath and tugs me in closer by the hips, so it’s impossible for me to move without taking him with me.
“All the perfect girls Mom used to tell me about existing in one lil’ lady.”
Rich people don’t give you time to think about what they’re saying. They just keep going. That same white lady that keeps yelling about the step and repeat waves us down the red carpet where more people hang around, thrusting out microphones to every person who walks by.
“C’mon,” Ace mutters, pushing me forward and guiding us away from the flickering cameras.
I’ve never seen him battle with his body—not on the court, not with a basketball in his hands, not even when he’s calling me “kid.”
“Ace! D’you have a minute to talk with us? ”
But this random reporter makes him pause.
He doesn’t stumble or come to a full stop in front of the grinning, sweaty man, but I feel him take the tiniest tug of my hand like he wants to entertain the man’s question.
“We’re dying to know what’s up your sleeve—”
“Greatness is up his sleeve, that’s what,” Coach Williams’ booms from behind us.
When I turn my head around, Ace doesn’t smile like he normally would. It doesn’t even materialize when the reporter gets googly eyed over Coach Williams.
I don’t even know what he would have told the man, because no one knows what’s up his sleeve anymore. Ever since that girl did what she did to his reputation, basketball fans didn’t find pleasure in sitting around wondering whether Ason Williams’ son was gon' give boys hell in The Big Dance again or if he would do what everybody predicted and say, “fuck it,” to go dominate in the league.
None of that happens anymore because, like Ace said, it was possible the world hated him and now there’s something else wrong: I jumped headfirst into the Ace Kool-Aid and I can’t even swim.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
Ace
Blake Harvey isthirsty.
“What the fuck is tuna tartare?” Phat whispers, scooting her chair closer to mine at our table inside the ballroom.
“Exactly what it sounds like.” He moves his chair next to hers. “It’s literally fresh ahi tuna marinated with a blend of ginger, sesame oil—”
“I ain’t gon' hold you. I don’t even know what ahi tuna is. If it’s not the kind StarKist makes, I couldn’t tell you nothing about it.”
He cocks his head back, pushing his eyebrows up.
Phat’s being Phat and that makes me forget about the reporter’s question from the red carpet. Now I’m too focused on her only ever eating StarKist tuna.
“Oh.” He nods with a close-lipped smile. “Not a fan of Japanese cuisine?”
“I eat the sushi they sell at H-E-B sometimes.” She shrugs, eyeing the tiny plate of tuna tartare in front of her.
“H-E-B?”
“Yeah. You know—the grocery store.”
“Damn, they sell sushi at the grocery stores here in Texas?”
“Yeah... I like the spicy crab rolls.”
