I swipe at my head as sweat pools against my lower back. “I don’t know what you talking about, homie.”
“I’m talking about LA,homie. I’m talking about AW’s legacy those white folks tarnished.”
His voice sounds like all the reporter’s voices I obsess over. They know how to dress up ugly ass words for public consumption—tarnish and legacy. It’s all just a fancy way to say I’m a failure.
“Or didyoutarnish his legacy?”
I shift in my seat and glance at the back of Phat’s braids that I twirled before they served our tuna tartare, and he pulled us off our planet.
“I mean, everyone knows this is his desperate attempt to keep your hand on a ball while the world moves on and the rest of your peers sign million dollar NBA contracts—you know, they say Javier got close to eleven mil, right? It’s hard for any of us to say what’s going on with you for sure though because AW’s trained you up so well—to show instead of tell, not to speak even when we all know you have so much to say.”
I swallow, searching for that last swig of 1942 I left on the counter back at home.
“I’m just saying—the world missesThe Kid. Seems like they still call you that.” He looks at Phat. “They miss the swag, the cockiness, and all the talk that a legend’s son is finally living up to his father’s legacy. A lot of ‘em wondering if what happened ... even happened.”
Those last few words pull Phat from Earth and back to our world. She shifts in her seat and pulls Mom’s clutch toward her middle.
“Shit... didit?” he adds.
“I—”
“You sure asking a lot of questions for somebody that ain’t even in they assigned seat,” Phat replies, scrunching her nose as soon as Janet starts “All For You.”
A swarm of flutters tickles the insides of my stomach and I slide my hand against that welt on the back of her neck.
Blake holds his hands up. “I’m not trying to step on anyone’s toes.”
“Well, you are.”
“Okay, I hear you.” He nods. “Look, Coach Williams knows me well—”
“Ace obviously don’t.”
Laughter spills out of his mouth, but Phat’s lips don’t budge.
“With all due respect, babygir—”
“I ain’t your babygirl.”
“Okay...ma’am. I’m talking business with our boy here.”
“Nah, you’re talking bullshit—not like a dude that’s supposed to stand on business and everybody knows the first rule of business is respect. You coming at folks sideways on some lame ass shit.”
Her words fire out in short, rapid, spurts and her neck’s hot beneath my fingers like she’s always had to defend my name in heated battles against people who thought it was okay to play on my head—even people that claimed to know Pops so well. Now, she’s version two.
She flips between the two so easily that I think I lose our rhythm until she swings her head to look at me with wild, wide eyes and I know she heard it all—tarnish and legacy. All the fancy ways a sports agent can confirm what I told her earlier—the world didn’t want me anymore.
I grip her nose between my fingers and whisper, “Shhh...”
“But—”
“But watch Janet.”
“Let me,” I add, leaving the rest of my words to hang between us because Blake’s staring at the way I make her settle down.
Her eyes dip and Blake’s head bobs behind hers as he takes another chug of his champagne.
“Okay,” she mutters.
