unwinded, Devonte moved the ball in the classic “V” once more. “Too old to take it?”
“Something like that.” Troy Lee straightened and grabbed his discarded T-shirt to wipe his face. He looped it around his neck. “Heard FSU’s assistant coach was at your last game.”
“Yeah, dawg. Cool, huh?”
“Very.” Damn, his abs hurt now—not that it had anything to do with Devonte’s elbow slamming into them as Troy Lee had gone up for a shot. Off the high school court, with no refs around, the kid played ball by the rules of the hood. College though…college would be good for him, good for Miss Francie, would give him an opportunity a lot of the local kids never got. “What did I tell you about calling me ‘dawg’?”
Devonte’s only answer was a shrug and another wide smirk. Troy Lee shook his head and rubbed a hand over his chest. The heartburn was acting up again, and while he’d like to blame it on that elbow to the gut, he knew it had more to do with worrying over where he stood with Angel.
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I gotta go clean up and get ready to play tonight. Say hey to your grandma for me.”
Devonte performed a flawless hook shot. “Man, when you gonna learn to play some real music?”
Funny, his high school music teacher, the one who’d pushed so hard for him to apply to Julliard had often asked the same thing. With a wave, Troy Lee ambled back to the long, low brick building that made up one leg of the aging low-income housing project. The heavy smell of frying chicken and simmering greens wafted from Miss Francie’s open window. In his own apartment, after popping a couple of Tums, he dropped the sweat-damp shirt in the hamper and eyed his torso in the mirror over the tiny vanity. He ran a hand across the mark at the top of his belly, centered between his ribs. Yep, that was gonna bruise.
After a shower, he donned jeans and a T-shirt, grabbed his guitar and headed for the Jeep. He paused while stowing the instrument case and frowned at the sight that greeted him. On the side street, Devonte climbed into the rear passenger seat of a late-model, still-bearing-the-dealer-tags Ford F-150.
A new Ford F-150 with a hopped-up performance package engine and Paul Bostick behind the wheel. The truck rumbled off in a blast of loud music. Shaking his head, Troy Lee settled in the driver’s seat. He didn’t get some parents. Reward the kid for causing what could have easily been a fatal wreck by buying him a forty-thousand-dollar pickup.
He backed out of his parking space and headed in the direction of the Cue Club, trying to quell the anxiety jumping in his stomach and making the acid burn into his chest all over again. Somehow, he had to find a way to convince Angel he had what it took to be something more than her “just a good time”.
A cramp stabbed at Angel’s left arch and she leaned on the bar, lifting that foot behind her. Patrons packed the club and she’d been hustling all night, trying to help Julie stay caught up at the bar. Julie had hollered out last call ten minutes before and the band was winding down with their traditional final number, but no one seemed willing to straggle out yet.
A regular ambled up and passed over his credit card to settle his tab. Angel took it with a smile and returned the aching foot to the floor with ginger caution.
“Thank you. Good night!” Troy Lee’s voice, amplified by the sound system, rumbled over her. He grinned, mouth close to the mike, and lifted a hand. “Y’all go home.”
How many times had she heard him close a set with those words? Tonight she wasn’t sure if she was glad to hear them or not. Her feet hurt and she was tired, so going home sounded good on that accord. However, closing down probably meant seeing him for a few minutes, something that made her inexplicably nervous. The morning had gone well, even with that weirdness at the beginning of breakfast, so no reason existed why she should be anxious
“Something like that.” Troy Lee straightened and grabbed his discarded T-shirt to wipe his face. He looped it around his neck. “Heard FSU’s assistant coach was at your last game.”
“Yeah, dawg. Cool, huh?”
“Very.” Damn, his abs hurt now—not that it had anything to do with Devonte’s elbow slamming into them as Troy Lee had gone up for a shot. Off the high school court, with no refs around, the kid played ball by the rules of the hood. College though…college would be good for him, good for Miss Francie, would give him an opportunity a lot of the local kids never got. “What did I tell you about calling me ‘dawg’?”
Devonte’s only answer was a shrug and another wide smirk. Troy Lee shook his head and rubbed a hand over his chest. The heartburn was acting up again, and while he’d like to blame it on that elbow to the gut, he knew it had more to do with worrying over where he stood with Angel.
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I gotta go clean up and get ready to play tonight. Say hey to your grandma for me.”
Devonte performed a flawless hook shot. “Man, when you gonna learn to play some real music?”
Funny, his high school music teacher, the one who’d pushed so hard for him to apply to Julliard had often asked the same thing. With a wave, Troy Lee ambled back to the long, low brick building that made up one leg of the aging low-income housing project. The heavy smell of frying chicken and simmering greens wafted from Miss Francie’s open window. In his own apartment, after popping a couple of Tums, he dropped the sweat-damp shirt in the hamper and eyed his torso in the mirror over the tiny vanity. He ran a hand across the mark at the top of his belly, centered between his ribs. Yep, that was gonna bruise.
After a shower, he donned jeans and a T-shirt, grabbed his guitar and headed for the Jeep. He paused while stowing the instrument case and frowned at the sight that greeted him. On the side street, Devonte climbed into the rear passenger seat of a late-model, still-bearing-the-dealer-tags Ford F-150.
A new Ford F-150 with a hopped-up performance package engine and Paul Bostick behind the wheel. The truck rumbled off in a blast of loud music. Shaking his head, Troy Lee settled in the driver’s seat. He didn’t get some parents. Reward the kid for causing what could have easily been a fatal wreck by buying him a forty-thousand-dollar pickup.
He backed out of his parking space and headed in the direction of the Cue Club, trying to quell the anxiety jumping in his stomach and making the acid burn into his chest all over again. Somehow, he had to find a way to convince Angel he had what it took to be something more than her “just a good time”.
A cramp stabbed at Angel’s left arch and she leaned on the bar, lifting that foot behind her. Patrons packed the club and she’d been hustling all night, trying to help Julie stay caught up at the bar. Julie had hollered out last call ten minutes before and the band was winding down with their traditional final number, but no one seemed willing to straggle out yet.
A regular ambled up and passed over his credit card to settle his tab. Angel took it with a smile and returned the aching foot to the floor with ginger caution.
“Thank you. Good night!” Troy Lee’s voice, amplified by the sound system, rumbled over her. He grinned, mouth close to the mike, and lifted a hand. “Y’all go home.”
How many times had she heard him close a set with those words? Tonight she wasn’t sure if she was glad to hear them or not. Her feet hurt and she was tired, so going home sounded good on that accord. However, closing down probably meant seeing him for a few minutes, something that made her inexplicably nervous. The morning had gone well, even with that weirdness at the beginning of breakfast, so no reason existed why she should be anxious
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