Page 1 of The Friend Zone
1
“Throw it to me, Daddy!” Prince screamed, jumping up and down.
Omar pretended to search among the group of screaming little boys for the right receiver, stepped back, and then tossed the Nerf football underhand to his four-year-old son. Prince caught it against his chest and took off running with five boys and girls around the same age racing after him. When he crossed into the end zone, he spiked the ball in the cutest way and did his rendition of the Falcons’ Dirty Bird dance.
“That’s my boy!” Omar hollered. He raced over and swept up Prince in his arms, spinning them in a circle.
Giggling, Prince flung his little arms around his father’s neck. Patting him on the butt, Omar placed him on the ground.
“Good job. All right, guys, I gotta get some work done. Miss Julianne is going to take over.”
A series of disappointed moans went up from the group.
“I’ll catch you all another day,” Omar promised.
“See you later, Daddy!” Green eyes gazed up at him in adoration.
“Later, big man.”
After a quick fist bump, Omar strolled across the playground, past the basketball court, toward the front where landscapers were cutting and edging the grass surrounding the white brick, one-story building he purchased four years ago. He hadn’t been inside since he pulled up earlier, going straight out to the playground because his son wanted to see his friends.
Bradford Enterprises, only five minutes away, was located in a multiple-story building with a sleek glass exterior and was the headquarters for his business ventures, which included real estate development and investing in new and upcoming companies. But this place, the Omar Bradford Foundation, was his baby. The passion project provided all types of assistance but was best known for focusing on kids through mentorship programs, holiday gift-giving, and funding college scholarships.
Inside the building, two eight-year-olds dashed through the lobby, giggling and laughing.
“Hey, hey!” Omar’s arm shot out and grabbed the boy in front. “No running in the building. You know better.”
“Sorry, Mr. Bradford,” they sang.
Typical kids, they continued laughing and jostling each other as they speed-walked down the hall toward the back, probably headed to the playground.
Shaking his head, Omar walked up to the front desk. “Afternoon, Jay. What’s good?”
Tall and lanky, with close-cropped hair and a narrow face, Jay had been among the first group of teens when Omar initially set up the mentoring sessions at his foundation. Back then, he’d been a scruffy-looking fifteen-year-old whose mother was at her wits end because he’d been fighting at school, and his grades plummeted as a result.
When Omar hadn’t been at practice or playing a game, he spent as much time as he could with him. During those hours, he learned about Jay’s insecurities and the anger he experienced after his parents divorced and his father moved to another state.
Now in his mid-twenties and wearing a crisp white shirt and tie, Jay was the face of the Omar Bradford Foundation, the person who greeted people who entered the building looking for help. Because he went from being one of the attendees to working at the foundation, his unique perspective made him empathetic to the parents and young people who walked through the door seeking help.
“I’m all right on this beautiful Monday afternoon. How you doing?” Jay asked.
“All right. You watch the playoffs this weekend?”
“Of course. I think the Hawks can go all the way this year, man.”
“You dreaming, bruh. I’m pretty sure my Knicks are going, though.” Omar had lived in Atlanta since he started for the Falcons, but after eleven years he still rooted for his hometown team.
“Youdreaming, bruh,” Jay said with a laugh.
“Need I remind you who has two NBA championships?”
“From a long time ago, though, and no worries, we’re coming up. Watch, you’ll see.”
“Uh-huh, keep dreaming.”
Omar went toward the back offices and knocked on the door of the executive director.
“Come in,” she called.
