“Yes, but don’t be late.” She’s smiling, not stressed.
I scoot down the hallway where Kayla brings guests, and yup, there they all are.
“Hiiiiiii,” I say as they scoop me up in a group hug.
“Aunt Avewee, I lost my first tooth,” Hazel declares from within the embrace.
“Definitely the priority conversation topic right now,” my brother whispers to me, laughing. As I said, only his daughter gets his cheerful side.
“That’s amazing, Hazel.”
I take a closer look at the two “boys” as we break apart. Dylan has our black hair, and at twenty-four, his six-foot-eight frame has fully filled out. None of the scrawniness from our teenage years left.
Wells, on the other hand, is still a ginger, though his hair has darkened a tad from childhood. That red comes from hisdad’s side. At nineteen, he’s slightly shorter and thinner than my brother.
“I’m so”—Wells looks to Hazel—“frickingexcited we get to be at your first start, Aves.”
“Me too, me too.” I turn to my niece. “And here’s a present for your birthday, Hazel. Sorry it’s a couple of weeks late.”
“Awwww, yay!”
Dylan takes the wrapped gift off my hands.
“I’ll talk to you guys more after the game, but I should probably get back to the locker room.”
Dylan nods, and Kayla speaks to them next. “I’ll take you all to your seats.”
We part, and twenty minutes later, when I and the rest of the team come out on the floor, they’re courtside.
My big brother wears a slightly protective expression now that they’re seated publicly. It’s a reflection of not just his natural demeanor, but also his reality. He’s been famous for much longer than me, and cameras everywhere are honed in on him.
He’s placed headphones on Hazel to protect her ears from all the noise in the arena, and she’s playing with the toy I gave her in her arms.
Wells, predictably, is talking to a beautiful woman in a seat above them. She looks around his age and has a Tolliver University shirt on—potentially a student there.
My cousin may have been the one who told me about Topher four years ago, but he’s an unapologetic player himself, especially these days. He’s not a liar about it, mind you,unlikemy ex. He’s transparently out for a good time.
I notice that he takes the woman’s phone and seems to type something in it. Presumably his number. Sheesh, that was fast.
I don’t begrudge Wells for being this way, as long as he’s honest about it and doesn’t hurt anyone. But it’s exactly the typeof behavior that turned me off from athletes for good. Why I have the rule in place.
It’s all tooeasyfor them.
Pulling my sight from my family, I concentrate on our warmups, grabbing a ball to take as many shots as I can get in the remaining time.
When we go back to the bench, Sarah whispers in my ear, “You ready for the best part?”
I don’t know what she means until the lights dim a split second later and spotlights start racing across the floor, instrumental music with heavy beats blasting.
NOW LET’S MEET THE STARTERS FOR YOURRRRR ORLANDO SURGE, the announcer blares across the arena.
Oh yes, THIS.
At guard, please give a round of applause for number twelve, Amari Whitleyyyyyyy.
Amari runs up on the floor, waving to the fans, spotlights following her.
I start getting goose bumps as the announcer introduces Marisa, Wendy, and Sarah next. I guess she’s saving me for last.
