"I’m just saying," Jordan said from the kitchen, "Some collard greens would bust right now."
"Where are you getting soul food in West Lafayette? Good soul food," Mel argued back.
“There’s that place on Chauncey."
“That’s a barbecue spot.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“It is not the same thing,” she sat up and pulled the blanket around her shoulders.
The apartment was cold. Jordan kept the thermostat at sixty-five, which she’d already told him was insane.
“Barbecue is barbecue. Soul food is soul food. There is no soul food in West Lafayette. There are no Black people in West Lafayette.”
“Nigga, we’re in West Lafayette," he came around the corner with a glass of water. He was wearing the same sweatpants from last night and so was she. He set the water on the coffee table in front of her and dropped onto the couch next to her, close enough that his thigh pressed against hers through the blanket.
"We don’t count. I know your ass ain’t never cooked no fucking collard greens."
“Okay,” he said. “Chinese.”
“Now you’re talking.”
“Some General Tso chicken. A little egg roll action. Some lo mein.”
“See, that’s the problem.” She set the glass down. “You just named the three whitest things on a Chinese menu.”
“Those are the three best things on a Chinese menu.”
“Because you’ve never had real Chinese food.”
"If we ain’t got no fucking Black people here, you think we got Chinese?"
She laughed. She tried to catch it pressing her hand against her mouth but it came anyway which made him laugh. She shoved his shoulder. He shoved her back. She took the blanket and threw it over his head.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table.
“Oh shit,” she said. She sat up straight, the blanket falling off her shoulders. “The draft is starting. Put on ESPN.”
Jordan reached for the remote on the arm of the couch and held it up without pressing anything.
“I thought you thought sports were dumb.”
“I do think sports are dumb.”
He shrugged as he turned the TV on and then navigated to ESPN.
“One of my friends might get drafted tonight,” she said.
Jordan looked at her. Then at the TV. Then back at her.
“From Purdue?”
She nodded.
“The quarterback?”
She nodded again.
“Oh shit,” he sat up. “You can get us some tickets then if he goes to the Colts?”
…
The answer was either Lisbon or Porto and Connie wrote down Lisbon then crossed it out and wrote Porto, then crossed that out too and left it blank.
"Which of these countries does not have a coastline on the Mediterranean Sea?”
“Jordan,” Reese said to the group without looking up.
“Jordan has the Dead Sea,” Maya responded quickly.
“Does it count?”
“It’s not the Mediterranean.”
“Then Jordan.”
Connie wrote it down. The trivia host was up at the front with the microphone, a guy in a Notre Dame sweatshirt who kept making jokes nobody laughed at. The table next to theirs had a pitcher of beer and they’d been loud since round one.
Maya’s sorority friend, the one whose name Connie kept forgetting, was on her phone, her thumb moving across the screen, not really helping. She’d gotten the capital of Burkina Faso earlier, which seemed like about the only contribution they were going to get from her.
“What is the largest island in the world?”
“Greenland,” Reese said.
“Greenland is not a country.”
“It’s still an island.”
“Is it?”
“Greenland,” Connie said. She wrote it down.
The groan came from the bar first. Then the boos. A ripple of noise that moved through the cluster of people standing near the television mounted above the liquor shelf. Someone said something Connie couldn’t make out. Someone else laughed.
She looked up.
The camera had found him. Sitting in a chair, his suit jacket open, the St. Joe’s jersey underneath catching the studio light. His hair was a bit longer. He was looking at something off-camera, his finger tapping against his knee in that way he used to do during exams.
She was beside him. Her hand on his shoulder. Her posture straight, her chin lifted just slightly.
Something moved across Connie’s face. She felt it before she could stop it.
She looked back at the trivia sheet.
The answer to number eight was still Greenland. She picked up her drink and took a sip.
…
The green room was louder than he expected. The lights were brighter too. Brice sat with his back straight, his hands on his knees, and tried to keep his breathing even.
His finger tapped against his knee. He didn’t notice it until Serena’s hand came down on his shoulder. He turned to face her. He smiled. Leaned in. Her lips were soft and quick against his, and then he was looking at the stage again.
The commissioner had just finished. The Cardinals had taken Jeremiah Levy with the second pick. The crowd was still cheering, the noise washing through the arena and spilling into the green room through the speakers.
Rowan’s phone buzzed on the table.
Brice watched him look down. Watched him read whatever was on the screen. Watched him nod.
The breath came out of him before he knew he’d been holding it. His chest loosened and his shoulders dropped and he could feel his heartbeat in his throat, in his wrists, in the tips of his fingers.
Everyone at the table looked at each other.
“They kept their pick?” Tom asked. He was looking up at the stage, squinting through the bright lights, trying to make out the logo on the podium. His hand was flat on the table, his wedding ring catching the light.
Brice’s phone rang.
He stood up. His legs felt wobbly. He grabbed onto the back of the chair for balance. He pulled the phone from his inside pocket and looked down at the screen.
A single tear came. He didn’t wipe it. It rolled down his cheek and he could feel it hit the corner of his mouth.
He answered the call.
“Hey Brice, this is Darren Mougey.”
…
“With the third pick in the 2029 NFL Draft, the New York Jets select Brice Colton, quarterback, Purdue.”
Tom grabbed him first, both arms around his shoulders, pulling him in tight, and Brice could feel his father’s body shaking against his. Liz was next, her arms around his neck, her face pressed against his cheek, and he could feel her tears mixing with his. Sophie came in from the side, her arms around his waist, and he pulled her in with one arm and held her there.
Serena was last. She handed James to Liz and she stepped into him and he wrapped both arms around her and lifted her off the ground, just for a second, and she laughed into his neck and he laughed too, the sound coming out wet and broken.
Barry Odom was at the next table, already on his feet, clapping, his face split open in a grin. Ilyssa was typing something on her phone. Rowan was already on his, talking fast, his hand cupped around the mouthpiece.
Brice pulled back from Serena and looked towards James, grabbing him from Liz. The next breath came out shaky and he let it as James settled against his chest.
Someone from the league was at his elbow, a woman in a headset, guiding him toward the hallway. She looked at James, then at Brice, and smiled. Brice nodded without hearing what she said. He shifted James higher against his chest and started walking.
The first person he passed was a security guard who clapped him on the shoulder and said something he didn’t catch. Then a producer with a clipboard who held out a hand and Brice shook it and kept walking. A man in a suit he didn’t recognize said congratulations and Brice nodded and said thanks and his voice cracked on the word.
The hallway narrowed. The noise from the green room faded behind him, replaced by the hum of the arena, the crowd somewhere above and ahead, the bass of the music vibrating through the floor. The lights were dimmer here, the walls bare, the carpet dark. He could see his own shadow stretching out in front of him, long and thin, moving with each step. James shifted against his chest, and Brice tightened his arm around him.
He was alone now. Just him and James. And Jimmy.
The station was halfway down. A small table with a single lamp, the hat sitting in the center under the light. Green and white. The Jets logo stitched across the front. He picked it up and turned it in his hands. The brim was stiff.
He held it up and looked at it. Then he set it on top of James’ head, practically covering the entirety of it. Brice laughed. James laughed too.
He could see the end of the tunnel now. The light was pouring in from the stage, white and blinding, and at the far end he could make out the shape of Roger Goodell standing at the podium, the jersey held up in front of him, the crowd beyond him a wall of noise and movement.
They stood there for a second.
“Thank you,” he said. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
He took a breath. He let it out. He stepped forward, carrying his son into the light.
