“Hey, pal!”
I opened my mouth to speak, but words didn’t follow. I was standing face-to-face with him.
“Look at you!” he said, smiling proud. He stepped toward me with his arms out.
I backed away.
“Look at you,” he said again. He placed his hands on his head. “You must’ve grown half a foot since last time I saw you.”
“What are you doing here?” I said. I was trembling. He had to see that I was.
“I can’t get over you,” he said. “Last time I saw you, you were up to here.” He held the side of his hand to his chest and reached out with the other. “Check out those dreads.”
“Dag.” I ducked away.
“Respect.” He held up his hand. “They look great on you, pal.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked again.
“Lesley told you I was coming. You knew I—”
“Here,” I interrupted. “What are you doing here? At the hotel?”
“I figured I’d come by and introduce myself. Maybe grab some grub.”
I dug my hands into my pouch pocket and hid my shaking fists.
He looked exactly as I remembered. Exactly. He was wearing jeans again, but this time he had on a zipped-up brown bomber jacket and white sneakers.
“I can’t get over how tall you’ve gotten.” He gripped the back of his neck and looked to my left. “You must be one of … Red? No way!”
I was so focused on my father I’d forgotten Red was beside me. His neck was turtled deep into his hoodie. Both his hands pinky-thumb-tapped his legs. I didn’t know if it was because of my father, because of the elevator, or both.
“Good to see you, Red.” My father held out his hand.
Red’s hands didn’t leave his legs. “Hi, Rip’s Dad.”
“He doesn’t bite,” Diego said.
Diego was on the other side of me. I’d forgotten he was here, too.
“And who might you be?”
“I’m Diego Vasquez.” He held out his hand.
My father shook it. “David Irving. Nice to meet you, Diego Vasquez.”
“Thanks for helping out Clifton United,” Diego said, resting his arm on my shoulder. “We really appreciate it.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
“Rip’s a beast on the court, Mr. Irving.” Diego tapped my chin with his elbow. “Wait till you see him play. Lives up to his Rip Hamilton nickname.”
“Rip Hamilton nickname?” He eyed me.
“Rip Hamilton,” Diego said. “Old-school Detroit Pistons player.”
“Interesting.”
I tightened my shaking fists and pressed my knuckles together.
“No offense, Mr. Irving,” Diego said, bobbing his head, “but you weren’t what I was … You and Rip look nothing alike.”
He smiled. “We get that a lot.”
“We do?” I snapped.
“We used to.” He reached for my shoulder.
I dodged it.
My father was white with light hair. I’m black with dark hair.
“I can’t wait to see you run ball, pal,” he said, smiling proud again.
“Okay.”
“I’m looking forward to spending the day with the team.”
“Yeah.”
He gripped the back of his neck and glanced over his shoulder. “I tell you what,” he said, “I think it might be easier if I meet everyone over at Hoops Haven. Sound good?”
“Whatever.”
“I’ll see you over there.” He held out his fist.
I left him hanging.