“How could that even be appetiz—”
“A’ight, kid.” I smile, yanking her chair as close to mine as it can get. “Put up or shut up.”
I take a cracker from the plate and scoop up a hunk of tuna before biting into it. It melts against my tongue, but it doesn’t taste like anything. Thirsty sports agents like Blake Harvey always make good shit bland—even if he is the only sports agent in the world still interested in me.
I shove the rest of my cracker toward Phat’s lips because she’s version one again—my little lady. She doesn’t know what tuna tartare is, the addiction I have for reporter’s voices, or that Blake Harvey isn’t sitting next to her by chance.
“Ace…” she hisses. “Hakeem Olajuwon just walked by. I can’t have him seeing me spit out tuna tartare.”
“You won’t spit it out,” I garble out between chews. “You never spit out anything I feed you. You know better.”
That makes her sink into my side and Blake watches how much I obsess over her obsessing over my taste no matter how I give it to her.
She opens her mouth without me asking—even if Hakeem Olajuwon might walk by and see how good she acts for me while I push the cracker inside her mouth. Her round nose scrunches and she chews slow enough for me to count each one. We swallow at the same time.
“How was it?” Blake asks.
I roll my eyes away from him, clearing my throat. Phat’s eyes bounce from me and then to him as a waitress walks up with a glass of water I didn’t ask for.
“It was good,” she replies, nudging her elbow into my side like Mom used to when she thought I was acting standoffish.
“Better than H-E-B grocery store sushi and StarKist?”
“Hell yeah.”
“More appetizing?”
“Yeah.” She shrugs. “It was a’ight.”
“So compliments to the chef are in order?” He smirks, picking up his flute of champagne. “He’s from Atlanta. That’s where that southern flare comes from. We’ll never have tuna tartare like this in our lives.”
“Oh, nah.” She frowns, shaking her head. “Nothing against the chef or anything. Compliments toThe Kidare in order. Everything always tastes better at home.”
I laugh around the rim of my glass at the confusion on Blake’s face.
He nods his head my way, acknowledging me for the first time since he slithered into the seat next to her.
“Drinking water tonight, I see. Water’s a good choice.”
“It’s the best choice,” I reply, draping an arm around the back of Phat’s chair as the lights dim in the ballroom.
My head’s not floating from that last shot of 1942 I guzzled before Gus pulled up because Visine, Bubble Yum, water, and outrageous ass expectations could steal the drunkest man’s buzz.
“Oh.” Phat gasps. “Is that Janet Jackson? Mama ain’t gon' believe this shit.”
Now I’m just buzzing from the sparkle in Phat’s eyes because Janet’s supposed to sing a couple of Mom’s favorite songs as a favor to Pops.
“Do you think Lockwood was the best choice?”
Questions like that are always how thirsty sports agents get their fix. Back before that “random ass Monday in September” Mom made them jump through impossible hoops to get to me, but now I’m wide open for them.
As soon as Janet whispers into the mic, Blake scavenges because everyone’s focused on her—even Phat. Pops stands by the side of the stage watching our table even though he said he’d let me go about this alone.
“It was the only choice,” I reply.
Nobodywanted me after what happened—not even a fucking junior college. If it were up to the NCAA, I’d never touch a basketball again, but they didn’t understand how deep shit was. Pops said I was born with a basketball in my hands and Mom was always worried I’d die that way—the same way Pops said Marshall did.
“Is that facts or is that what AW hammered in your head?”
