Page 169 of Last First Kiss
It sounded like a hint. He didn’t clarify further, though. Tevin’s a fun dad. Thebestdad. But he’s also a man that’s half deep, hidden wisdom and half Internet meme comedian.
Jordan’s never sure which one will show up. Either way, he’s grateful to have them—both of them—in his life.
Right up until Cheryl said, “So,isthere a certain someone already in your life?”
Jordan paid the bill and got the hell out.
Which is how he finds himself walking through Skye’s the Limit an hour late for the tournament.
He expects mayhem. Pure, unsupervised chaos. Also, a rightfully enraged Nic ready to practice her wicked left jab all over his face. What he’s met by is a thunderous noise. War cries and happy cheers and the distinct bass of good dance music.
Outside, on the basketball court, a three-on-three is in full swing. It seems everyone’s chosen a different favorite. Competing chants of “Team Gold” and “Team Pink” ring out from the packed bleachers.
It’s a better turnout than Jordan could’ve predicted.
Near the far end, Nora Bridger, the founder and CEO of Skye’s the Limit and a handful of staff work the tables set up with vendor donations. The DJ spins classic hip-hop and current pop hits, along with songs from a Pride playlist the teens curated. Inside, furniture’s been shifted out of the way for a raffle. The prizes are courtside Atlanta Hawks tickets and autographed jerseys.
A whistle blows. “Foul!”
Whit is dressed in referee stripes. She looks more like a club bouncer than a basketball official, but at least she’s maintaining order. Jordan slips covertly along the sidelines, avoiding her death glare.
“Look who finally decided to show up,” Nic says when he reaches her. She’s wearing a lightweight rose-print jacket over a vintage Michael Jordan Bulls jersey and track shorts. Jordan opted for a Steph Curry T-shirt and designer joggers.
He holds up apologetic hands. “Sorry. It’s been… a week.”
“I heard.”
Jordan should be surprised, but he’s not. “Family group chat?”
“No,” she says with an eye roll. “Shockingly, I have an older sister that calls me on occasion.”
“That means Denz was busy.”
She lets out a longing sigh. “Braylon surprised him with a Palm Springs getaway. Their relationship is so goals.”
“Sorry, did you saygross?”
“Anyway.” Nic hands an armful of water bottles to a passing teen volunteer. She turns back to Jordan with sympathetic eyes. “Sorry about everything that’s going on. If it’s any consolation, Kami’s torn up about it.”
It is. A little.
Jordan’s not here to talk about work though. “I’m glad my lateness didn’t disrupt any plans. Looks like everything’s under control.”
“You didn’t think I was capable?”
“No, no,” he says. “I believed in you.”
She casts a doubtful glare in his direction.
“I mean, youarea Carter after all.”
That earns Jordan the punch in the bicep he was forecasting.
“Don’t,” she warns. “You’re not recruiting me into the family cult. Besides, I can’t take full credit for how good things are going. Eighty percent is me. The other twenty is him.”
She gestures to a corner of the court where a small mob ofteens squeals at a group Jordan’s just now realizing are members of the Atlanta Dream, the local WNBA team. He’s confused as to how they found out about the tournament. Until he sees who’s standing in the center of the gathering.
The morning sun looks good on Javi. He’s in pink and navy casual wear. His hair is artfully messy for once. He laughs at something one of the players says. There’s not a single thing about his appearance that screams his job is in jeopardy.
