Page 19 of Played
Solomon shrugs, picking up his fork and finishing off his roast.
“Yeah, and when you do get hit, the ref blows the whistle, calling an end to the play. For us, you get hit, you don’t get time to regroup and recuperate. You get up and play without stopping. That’s staminaandtoughness. Besides”—he arches an eyebrow and smirks at my brother—“we fight.”
“You know what—” Malik leans forward, jabbing a finger.
“Hey, Ma, what about dessert?” I blurt out, leaning against Solomon, half blocking him from my brother’s view. “Ma!” I grind out when she doesn’t reply.
She blinks, straightening in her chair.
“What? Oh yes, dessert. I got it. Who’s in the mood for pound cake and coffee?”
Dad glowers in her direction as she smiles at Solomon again. If I wasn’t busy being a human shield for “my man,” I’d find the shit funny. Dad knows as well as I do how exciting Mom finds a debate.
“Viviane, don’t get snatched up in here,” Dad growls.
“Please, Nolan.” She flicks a hand toward him, then rises and picks up her plate. She rounds the table and lifts his as well. Bending down, she kisses his bearded cheek and whispers loud enough for everyone at the damn table to hear, “Hem me up, daddy.”
“Oh God.”
“You so nasty.”
“I just ate!”
My and my brothers’ shouts fill the room. Beside me, Solomon snickers. I shoot him a hot glare, and he looks at me, shrugging a shoulder.
Mom rolls her eyes and heads toward the kitchen.
But not before Dad smacks her on the ass.
I can’t. I’m out. Don’t get me wrong. I love that, after thirty-one years, my parents are still as affectionate and in love as ever. But they on one today. And between them and the death stare Malik is still shooting Solomon, I’m calling it quits.
“Okay, well, sorry, Mom, Dad. But I’m going to have to take a rain check on dessert. I promised Solomon I’d show him around Mount Hope. Ready, babe?”
He picks up his napkin and wipes his mouth.
“Sure.” And if everyone else hears the dry note in the word, well, thank God for small favors that they don’t comment on it. He’s probably mad he can’t eat more. “Thank you for a wonderful dinner, Dr. Wright. Nice meeting you, too, Mr. Wright.” My father nods but with a flinty stare. Solomon turns to my brothers. And smiles. It figures the first time I see this man smile it’s a wicked taunt. “You too. I’ll be in prayer for the Patriots’ season.”
They both growl, and goddammit, I shove Solomon in the back with both hands.
“All right, see you guys later,” I say loudly, injecting false cheer in my voice.
I’ll be lucky if Dad allows me to cross the threshold ever again.
“You just couldn’t resist, could you?” I mutter at him, my fingers locked around his wrist.
I drag him out of the dining room and into the hall.
“Your brothers started it,” he calmly says, as if that isn’t the most five-year-old shit ever.
Grumbling under my breath about knuckleheaded athletes with the emotional maturity of a spoon, I stop by the living room and snatch upthe bag with the jersey. I can’t leave that behind, because I’m 88.5 percent sure my father and brothers will have a barbecue in the backyard using the jersey as kindling.
And fuck that.
I’mdefinitelyselling this bitch on eBay.
Chapter Five
SOLOMON
