“You sure you ready for this? Steelers fans don’t play.”
That grin of his curved slow and dangerous. “I was born ready. Question is—you?”
I wanted to say yes. My chest told me no.
The door swung wide before I had to answer. Darren, beer in hand, eyebrow cocked. “Bout damn time. You letting the food get cold.”
“Boy, hush!” Daddy called from the kitchen. “Game just started.”
Darren’s gaze cut to Quentin. “Teacher man, right?”
Quentin extended a hand. “Yeah, man.”
Their grips locked, Darren’s mouth twitching at the corners. He finally cracked a grin. “Alright then. Steelers up three.”
Daddy’s house smelled like ribs slow-baking in the oven before we even stepped in. Luther crooned low from the record player, the bass humming under the sharp shouts for The Steelers.
The living room was a shrine in black and gold. Terrible Towels over the armchairs, Troy Polamalu’s framed jersey above the mantle, Big Ben’s signed photo near the door. The game blasted—Rodgers in the pocket, Friermuth wide open, Jaylen Warren pounding through the line.
Uncle Leon, who always came over during the football season because of Daddy’s 100-inch screen, hollered at the TV. “That’s pass interference! Stevie Wonder could’ve seen that!”
“Sit down before you bust a vein,” Darren shot back, twirling his towel like a weapon.
I rolled my eyes, but the sound—their voices layered over Luther, the clink of bottles, the game noise—felt like home.
“Where’s Keisha and the boys?” I asked my big head brother.
“They’re over her parents. You know they’re Raven’s fans.” He looked like he wanted to gag.
“No one told you to marry someone from Baltimore!”
He grunted over my laughter as Quentin’s eyes bugged out.
And then I stepped into the kitchen—and froze.
Denise Whitaker. My mother.
Cute bob framing her face, gold hoops catching the light, sweater hugging curves softer now but familiar. Light brown skin and a mouth shaped like mine.
“Ma?” My voice cracked.
She smiled, warm but tentative. “Hey, baby.”
I hadn’t seen her in a long time, it felt like but the distance wasn’t about miles. It was about the divorce, and the silence that lived between us.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” I managed.
Daddy cleared his throat at the stove, spatula in hand. “I invited her.”
My chest tightened. But my mom set her glass down, walked to me, and wrapped me in a hug that smelled like cocoa butter and her Chanel perfume I knew from childhood. My throat ached.
“You look so good,” she whispered, looking at me closely.
“So do you,” I managed. My mother was the prettiest woman I knew. Glowing skin, big bright smile, eyes wide and tilted. Her body stayed trim even after life pulled on it.
Mama’s gaze slid past me to Quentin, standing with his fine ass shoulders squared.
“And this must be Quentin,” she said, voice smoothing out.
