Page 68 of Raising Love
“Marcelo wrapped up the game with an impressive 30 points, 10 assists, and five rebounds. But it’s not just the stats that tell the story—it’s this clutch play in the final quarter that really turned heads.”
Unlike her polished, professional look from her on-court days with Free-Throw Nation, Ivy recorded her videos stripped-down. Hair in a bun or loose, her face makeup-free, and her outfits simple—usually a tee and leggings. Even without all the glam, she was stunning.
Watching her eyes light up as she spoke about one of her favorite topics, I couldn’t stop myself from smiling. My attention kept drifting to her lips—their natural pink hue—and every time she smiled at the camera, my heart did something I didn’t quite know how to handle.
The clip ended with her logo and a link to the full video, but I replayed it. Then I replayed it again. And again.
It was funny. Ivy was usually so particular, so detail oriented, a serial perfectionist. But when it came to sports? She was relaxed. Easygoing. Fun. Personable. You just wanted to grab a drink and pick her brain about any team in the NBA.
She was great at what she did because she loved it.
The video was cleanly edited, interspersed with clips of players on the court and highlight reels, thanks to her former cameraman, Jim, who was still helping her out on the side.
I hearted her post and tapped into the comments. Most people praised her for her sports knowledge, but there were a couple that made me pause.
“Not only does Ivy know her stuff better than most commentators out there, but she’s also stunning. A natural beauty. Can’t believe someone so beautiful can also break down a game like that! #BeautyAndBrains”
I twisted my lips to one side.
Then I scrolled to another one, and this one? It made my blood pressure rise.
“Damn, baby, I ain’t hear a thing you said . You are just too fine!”
I bit back a reaction, but it wasn’t easy.
The comments praising Marcelo Jordan or Ivy’s insight didn’t faze me. But the ones from sleazy guys? Yeah, those got under my skin.
I rolled my tongue around my mouth, feeling a surge of something I didn’t want to name—annoyance, jealousy?
“Nah,” I muttered aloud.
Because I’d never felt anything like this for any woman in my natural Black life.
But what was that feeling? Why did those comments about Ivy bother me so much?
I clicked into Ivy’s profile a second later, scanning her social media feed. Her wall was filled with pictures: her at work, her random selfies looking fine as hell whether she was all dolled up or barefaced, and more recently, pictures of her with Baby Love.
I hearted a photo of her sitting at her desk working. Then another, and another.
When I reached the pictures of Ivy capturing Baby Love’s milestones, something twisted in my chest. There was one of him lifting his head for the first time, and the one I vividly remembered—the day he rolled over.
“Did you see that?!” she’d shouted, hopping off the couch.
We were all chilling in the living room during one of the rare times I was home.
“He just rolled over,” she said, her face lighting up as she turned to me. She jumped up and down, clapping like she’d won the lottery. “Good job, Baby Love! You did it!”
At first, I didn’t see what the big deal was. But she explained that Baby Love rolling over at three months was way ahead of schedule. Seeing her light up over something like that, though? It was so damn cute.
I put my phone down on the bed. I had to because sitting here alone in my loft, looking at pictures of Ivy and the baby, brought on a wave of emotions I wasn’t prepared for.
Greene Gardens never felt like home. But Ivy and the baby? They kind of did.
The house itself was isolated, far from the city, with barely any infrastructure in the village. I used to feel like I had to leave to find life outside of it. But in that house? The vibe was different. Even though it was hard at times and often made me want to escape, being there had started to mean something.
And now, all I could think about was Ivy.
Seeing her in that video, talking sports with her usual passion, made me miss our late-night conversations. The ones in the kitchen, when her eyes burned with exhaustion but she’d still find something funny to say. It reminded me that life didn’t feel so bad when I wasn’t doing it alone.
