Sample Sunday - courtside

As much as I hated the level of constant scrutiny my friend was under, I’d be lying if I claimed it didn’t feel good to relax because I was nowhere near the biggest “celebrity” in the vicinity, which meant all eyes would not be on me this time.

I settled back, ordering a drink when the opportunity came and eased into watching the game and talking with Sierra and the occasional person who came up to us instead of worrying about anything else that was going on.

Until… the courtside became what was going on.

It was a normal thing for the camera crew to come around, focusing on who was seated courtside - those shots got attention. Still, I had to plaster pleasantry instead of annoyance on my face as the camera person settled right in front of me and Sierra, and suddenly our faces were broadcast on the massive court screens.

“Stellar Stadium, let’s give it up for the first lady of Brawler Basketball, Mrs. Sierraaaaa Waaaaard!”

Consummate professional, Sierra was quick with the perfectly balanced smile, waving to the cheering crowd before she threw up the Double B hand sign, which really sent everybody into a frenzy.

They rested on her for another moment, and I expected them to move on to another actual celebrity, but then the focus moved to… me.

“Our first lady is joined by—”

My stomach lurched.

“Everybody’s favorite Black girl in STEM, Roriiiii Mitcheeeell!”

Oh thank God.

No mention of Monty.

I blushed over the title the chyron was giving me to the whole arena.

For Sierra, it had said FLOBB – First Lady of Brawler Basketball, perfectly sensible as the star player’s wife.

For me, it said tech mogul.

Which was something I’d never considered myself, but of all things I could be considered to the general public?

It was among the most flattering.

I took a page from Sierra’s book, throwing up the double B’s myself and smiling at the crowd.

As I watched myself on the screen though, the guys beside me — the ones who had been too embroiled in conversation to pay me any attention — looked up, realizing they were on the screen too.

And it was apparently not the only thing they realized.

Specifically, the one who was seated closest to me, on the other side of two empty chairs.

He did a full blown double take, looking at the screen, then me right beside him, then the screen, then back at me.

“Damn you fine.”

 The crowd was so loud that I couldn’t actually hear him, but could see the words on his lips plain as day.

The whole arena could.

So the whole arena reacted, setting off a chain of whistling and cheers that I couldn’t do anything but blush about, trying mightily not to give into the urge to physically hide my face with my hands.

Sierra laughed as the camera person finally moved on, putting him fully on the screen. “You know who that is, right?”

“No, I do not,” I snapped, purposely not looking at the screen, hoping the camera would find Vanity Kirkland or Elodie Perry or somebody, so we could just move past and pretend that hadn’t just happened.

But Mr. “Damn You Fine” was keen on correcting my lack of knowledge of him. Next thing I did know, he was in the seat next to me, leaning in closer than Sierra was.

Fine.

A little more distance than Sierra was giving me, but still. 

“Excuse me,” he said, with…not quite an accent, but I could tell he was from somewhere far from Blackwood.

Ughhhhhhhhhh.

I couldn’t be rude.

“Yes?” I said, inclining my body juuust enough to meet his gaze.

Shit.

I was not expecting him to lock eyes with me the way he did, just immediately looking down to the bottom of my damn soul.

“You said your name was Rori?”

“I didn’t say anything,” I corrected with a smile. “But yes, Rori.”

Because I could guess pretty well what was coming out of his mouth next, I took a chance, offering him my hand before he could get his name out of his mouth.

My left hand.

Awkwardly.

“You are?”

“Tatum Wilder,” he said, looking a little confused over my offer of my left hand.

He took it though, and immediately I realized that I may have miscalculated.

See, I wanted to make sure he saw the ring on my finger, so we could dead that line of conversation before it got off the ground.

What I didn’t anticipate, was him keeping ahold of my hand anyway, as he let me know, “All my friends call me Tate. Country Boy Tate for the fans.”

“Oh, nice,” I told him, with the slightest pull of my hand to get it away from his. “Congratulations on having fans?”

With that, I turned away — no intention at all of being rude, I just needed there to be some finality to the interaction that was undoubtedly already being spread across the internet, with some invented salacious twist.

When I looked back at Sierra, she was barely containing her amusement.

“He plays for the Kings,” she said. “One of Kevion’s favorite players.”

“Oh,” I replied. “A professional athlete. Definitely nothing for me there.”

“Really? I’ve heard a lot of good things. Everybody loves him.”

“And what does that have to do with me?” I asked, giving her a look. “What are you trying to do right now?”

“You know exactly what I’m doing,” she countered, and I sucked my teeth.

“I’m engaged.”

“Are you?” she replied. “You sure?”

“The ring is literally on my finger.”

“So take that shit off.”