Experience the intense world of the Women's Professional Basketball Association with Naaliq Goldhawk, a standout player whose name gets mentioned among legends. Over six years, the Miami Kelpies' forward has built a reputation as a future Hall-of-Fa...
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AZIYA
"Ain't no way you beatin' me in air hockey, playgirl," Naaliq says. Her smoky voice slices through the steady hum of Highlands Arcadia. Neon lights bathe her in a colorful glow, reflecting off her smooth brown skin. Players, staff, and their families drift through the sea of games surrounding us. But none of them have the competitive drive that burns inside Serena Naaliq Goldhawk.
Naaliq's killer smile is in full swing as she sways her beer bottle in rhythm with her drawl. "Ain't nobody ever beat me in air hockey."
The star power forward is a tad bit tipsy but nowhere near drunk. Every time I defeat her in a game, she downs another drink to soothe her bruised ego. So far, I've taken her down in skeeball and foosball. She championed me in Mortal Kombat, but that's only because her fingers are slicker on a joystick than mine.
I wonder what else those long, agile fingers could do.
"Ask Kyla," Naaliq continues, smirking at her childhood friend. "Her l'il ass could never beat me, even when she cheated."
"First of all," Kyla begins, jabbing a finger at Naaliq, her dimples deepening playfully, "I never cheated! How the hell do you cheat at air hockey?!"
"Bruh, you used to lean halfway over the table, tryna score on me and shit!"
"That's not cheating, nigga!" Kyla says, adding some spunk to her tone. "It's called 'strategy!'"
"Epi dassit!" I say, copying Kyla's strict, crossed-arms stature. "But Fraud Liq wouldn't know anything about strategy."
Naaliq's upper lip arches into a snarl. Three names that aggravate her to no end: "Fraud Liq," "Weak Liq," and "Serena." I intentionally use them sparingly, purely to behold her sexy mean mugs.
"Mane, why are you in our business?" Naaliq asks, jutting her sculpted chin upwards. "This conversation is between me and Kyla. She could never beat me back then, and she can't beat me now."
"Why don't ya'll settle it now?" I suggest, glancing between the two.
Kam and Eli trade glances, their smirks stretching wider with each second. Neither bothers to speak—there's no need. The gleam in their eyes says it all: they're itching to see these two square off. Years of injustice kept Naaliq and Kyla apart, so they slip back into their younger selves when they're together. I find it wholesome and adorable, while Kam and Eli consider it entertaining.
I can count how many times I've played air hockey in one breath, but Kyla and Naaliq? They were practically pros growing up. Their rough Houston neighborhood didn't offer much for kids except trouble—or the occasional pickup game. But there was this janky little arcade, tucked between a liquor store and a rundown laundromat, that they'd sneak into whenever they could: Johnson's Arcade.
Naaliq would kick things off with her infamous impression of Mr. Johnson, mimicking his crabby disposition and gruff voice. "Look at me. I'm Mr. Johnson. I own an arcade, but I hate you bad ass kids," she would mimic, according to Kyla. Naaliq's act would attract chuckles from the other kids and Old Man Johnson's full, irritated attention. While all eyes were on Naaliq, as gracile as a kitten, Kyla would slide behind the counter, nicking tokens like a seasoned pickpocket.
