Long Shot (Hoops 1)

“Grip.” A tall man with dark brown skin and eyes to match stops at our table. “I thought that was you.”

“What’s good, Skeet?” Grip stands, and they grasp hands, exchanging pats to the back. “Haven’t seen you in months. Congrats on the new album.”

“Man, thanks.” Skeet’s eyes flick to me. “Who’s the little shawty?”

The little shawty? Does he mean me?

Grip catches my eye, apparently finding it funny.

“This is Bristol,” he answers with a laugh. “Rhyson’s sister.”

“Rhyson, Rhyson. Who’s …” Skeet frowns for a second before he remembers. “Oh. That white dude who plays the piano?”

Not exactly how I would describe one of the greatest living classical pianists, but we can go with that.

“Yeah, that’s him.” Grip’s smile appreciates the irony of Skeet’s description. “Bristol’s visiting for the week.”

“Nice.” Skeet smiles politely before turning his attention back to Grip. “What’d you think of the album?”

Grip screws his face up, a rueful turn to his mouth.

“That bad?” Skeet demands.

“It was a’ight,” Grip concedes. “Honestly, I just know you have something better in you than that.”

“Well, damn, Grip,” Skeet mumbles. “Why don’t you tell me what you really think?”

“Oh, okay. Well, that shit was whack,” Grip says.

“Um, I was being sarcastic,” Skeet says. “But since we being honest …”

“We’ve known each other too long to be anything but honest. It just felt kind of tired.” Grip sits, gestures for Skeet to join us. “Who’d you work with?”

“You know that guy Paul?” Skeet sits and steals one of Grip’s fries. “They call him Low.”

“That dude?” Grip sips his beer and grimaces. “Figures.”

“Well you ain’t been around,” Skeet says defensively. “I didn’t know if you was still down or whatever.”

“Am I still down?” Irritation pinches Grip’s face into a frown. “I’m the same dude I’ve always been. I’m working with anybody who can pay, so don’t use that as an excuse.”

“Right, right, but you know how some of these niggas go off and get all new on you.”

My eyes stretch before I have time to disguise my surprise when he uses the N-word so freely in front of me. I squirm in my seat, sip my water, and try to look invisible. That is one of the worst words in the English language, and I would never use it. I’ve never said it, and I never will. It’s hard for me to understand how people of color use it for themselves even casually.

“Well, I ain’t new.” Grip pulls out his phone. “Let’s get some dates down to hit the studio. See if we can write some stuff for your next one.”

While they set up studio time, I happily consider the dessert menu. I was totally serious. It feels like I haven’t eaten in days, and I have room for more.

“Sorry about that,” Grips says once Skeet is gone. “But the struggle is real. Don’t work, don’t eat, so I work whenever the opportunity presents itse

lf.”

“Do you really think his album is weak, or did you just say that to drum up business for yourself?”

“Oh, no. The shit’s weak as hell.” Grip’s deep laugh rolls over me and coaxes a smile to my lips. “I don’t lie, especially about music. It’s the most important thing in my life. It’s my gift, so to me it’s almost sacred.”

“Now I understand how you and Rhyson became so close,” I say wryly. “Music always came first with him. Or at least it used to be. I don’t pretend to know him anymore. Not that we’ve ever been that close.”