Page 46 of ClickBack

Then I shower, change, and call Von. He is busy, so I leave it at a message telling him I have arrived. I don’t need him to stop preparing for the game to reassure me that showing up was the right decision.

Mom is waiting inside the VIP entrance with Aunt Pat and my father. Her white jeans are spotless. The orange Storm shirt has enough sparkle for me to find her from the other end of the concourse.

She sees me and opens her arms.

I bend to hug her. She puts a hand behind my head and holds me there longer than she usually does in public. I close my eyes. I hadn’t realized how much I wanted to be with somebody who knew me before this week had become a subject for discussion.

“Hi, baby,” she says quietly.

“Hey, Mom.”

She releases me and turns to Graves. “Wendell.”

He bends, too. No polite little lean in. He hugs her properly, and she pats his back with the same familiarity she used on mine.

We met through a youth league, back when the foster family across the street took in him and his sister Kim. At first he came over because we had somewhere to play. Soon Mom was calling both of them to come inside, whether I was outside with them or not. He has been Graves to most people for years. To my mother, he is still Wendell, and she still expects him to answer when she calls.

“You see Kim before you left?” she asks.

“Talked to her.”

“Tell her I want to hear from her myself.”

“I’ll tell her.”

My father steps forward while they are talking. “Son.”

We shake hands, then he pulls me into a brief hug. I return it. There is nothing outwardly difficult about any of it, which is part of why I dislike how much attention it takes.

“Good flight?” he asks.

“Fine. You?”

“Been here a couple days.”

I already know. I nod anyway.

Aunt Pat hugs me next and complains that the walk from the entrance was not advertised when she chose her shoes. Mom points out that nobody chose her shoes for her. They have clearly begun this discussion elsewhere and brought it along.

“Beauty costs,” Aunt Pat says.

“Apparently in installments,” Graves replies, looking at how she is standing.

She swats his arm. Mom laughs hard enough to stop checking the ticket on her phone.

An usher takes us down to our seats. We are low enough to hear the players during warm-ups. Javon spots us while moving through the layup line. He points toward Mom, then taps his chest when she raises both hands at him. She sits only after he turns away.

“He looks ready,” she says.

“He is.”

She looks at me to see whether I mean it. I do. Whatever else I’m carrying into this building, I believe in my brother.

The opening minutes test that belief in the usual ways. Seattle hits shots with defenders close enough to read the stitching on their jerseys. San Antonio misses free throws. Von throws one pass too late and takes a jumper too early. After the turnover, he claps at himself and gets back, but I know what he is saying in his head.

I lean forward. Graves puts two fingers against my shoulder and presses me back into the seat.

“They’ve got a coach,” he says.