“What are you doing busting in my home?”

“You haven’t answered any of my calls,” her mom continued, crossing her arms. “You haven’t been by the house to visit. If you would have let somebody know you were okay, I wouldn’t have to use my key.”

“I texted you, Mom.”

“So what? That could be anybody. I need to hear your voice.”

“I—Mom… I’ve been busy. That’s all.”

Phileigh was clearly flustered. I glanced around the room, trying to figure out how to deescalate the situation.

“Hi, Mrs. Read.”

I stood from the bed and made my way over to Phileigh’s mom.

“I’m Kellon, Phileigh’s friend. Nice to meet you.” I extended my hand in a friendly gesture.

“Kellon?” Her mom shook my hand. “You didn’t tell me you were dating anybody.”

“I’m n⁠—”

Just then, a tall, light-skinned man I assumed to be Phileigh’s dad walked in behind her mom, cutting her off. Shit, this is not how I planned on meeting her folks. They probably thought I’d spent all night blowing her back out.

“What the—Phileigh?” He looked between us. “Who this nigga?”

“Dad!” Phileigh was practically in a panic, shooting a glare at her mom. “You dragged him here too?”

Her dad took a step into the room, and a grin spread across his face.

“I told you she was fine, Bea.” He chuckled, making his way over to me. “Sorry, baby girl.”

“This is so embarrassing!”

“Hey, Mr. Read. I’m Kellon Barnes, a friend of Phileigh’s.”

I took a deep breath. I was always in the public eye. Hell, just yesterday I’d given a speech in front of thousands, but a nigga was nervous to meet Phileigh’s pops. I wanted to make a good impression on my future in-laws.

“Nice to meet you, young man. I hope we weren’t interrupting y’all time. My wife here gets—” His head cocked to the side, and he stopped talking. He recognized me.

“You’re Kellon Barnes! You play for the Warhawks. Shit! I’ll be damned.”

“Yeah,” I responded, trying to stay casual. I wasn’t a type of nigga to gloat, but if it would get me in good with her pops, I’d milk it. “You a football fan?”

“Hell yeah!” He shook my hand, cheesing hard as fuck.

“Bea, our daughter’s dating the Super Bowl MVP!” he boasted, turning to her mom.

“I’m not dating him,” Phileigh tried to clarify.

“Oh, great. You’re not dating him. What? You some kind of football groupie whore?” her mom spat.

I looked over at Phileigh. She was clearly mortified, and I was pissed. What type of mother called their daughter a whore, and what kind of father just stood there and let her do it?

“Seriously, Mom?”