Once the kitchen lights are on, I move around on autopilot. Meal prepped chicken, potatoes, and broccoli thrown in the microwave. Energy drink that I probably shouldn’t be drinking this late, already in my hand and cracked open.
It’s only nine pm. I plan on spending the rest of this Friday evening sprawled out on my bed watching reruns of Dexter. I don’t think one energy drink will hurt.
I lean back against the counter, wincing at the burn of the carbonation trailing down my throat, when my phone rings from where I sat it on the counter.
A picture of Mom and Dad light up my screen. I don’t hesitate to answer.
When I do, I’m greeted with both my parents sitting on the couch, gently pushing each other out of the frame.
“What are you guys doing?” I chuckle.
They look away from each other and turn their heads, smiles wide. Mom is wearing the Kingswell colors. Gold, white, and black. Along with my number—eight. Her dark brown skin is streaked with gold glitter across her cheekbones. Dad is in similar attire, glitter and all.
In the reflection of Mom’s glasses, I can make out the replay of tonight’s game on the TV screen. My chest tightens at the sight of them. Even after five kids, my parents have never told any of us what we could and couldn’t be.
They simply just listened and cheered us on.
So it wasn’t surprising that they encouraged me when I told them I wanted to leave San Diego and move out to New York for college.
They only made sure that I knew I’d have to work for a scholarship, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to go to one of the top universities in the country. Best place to go for hockey, especially. It’s even where one of the greatest of all time African American hockey players attended.
Frederick “Mastermind” Hollis.
His picture from his prime days are still hanging out on the walls of my childhood room.
He paved the way for so many Black kids in the hockey world and I want nothing more than to meet the man one day. Tell him that when I was told I was too rowdy for my own good, smaller than most players in my league, and as thick as a brick, those things didn’t stop me.
They were simply trivial.
I dream of being one of the greats.
Just like the Mastermind.
“We’re so proud of you, sweetheart!” Mom’s smile widens. “You did amazing out there.”
Dad takes the phone from Mom like they both can’t possibly be in the frame. “That last pass? That was all you, Lucas. Where’d you learn to move like that?”
I affectionately roll my eyes as I lean my phone against the stove to reach into the microwave to stir my food.
“It’s called practice, you guys, but thanks.” I lean my elbows on the counter, food back in the microwave.
“Oh!” Mom takes the phone. “Mel, baby, your brother is on the phone.”
Mom flips the entire phone around instead of just the screen, but I smile nonetheless when I spot Melody walking into the living room. She’s wearing the same exact navy blue pajamas with stars that she’s been wearing religiously for the past year.
It’s only six their time but her black curls are already pulled into a silk bonnet and her glasses are perched on her nose. Even through the screen, I can see that the watch she “stole” from Preston this past spring break is clutched in her hand.
All she had to do was straight up ask Preston if she could have it and the blond took it off his wrist and placed it in her palm without a stutter.
She never wears the watches she collects, though. Just chooses which to take apart and which ones to carry around.
“Hey, Mel.” I wave as she steps closer to the screen but doesn’t reach for the phone. “Did you see my game?”
“No.” She doesn’t even bother to sugarcoat it. “I don’t like watching you get hit for no reason.”
I shrug. “You love me or something, Mel?”
“Yes, you’re my brother. I think it’s biological.”