Four
“Get on out there man. Show these rookies how it’s done.”
Despite the fact that I was practically aching to do just that, I shook my head at Jordan’s words as he approached me on the sidelines. “Right after you, bruh. Those new receivers are out there looking a little weak around the elbows.”
Jordan sucked his teeth. “Nigga, my old lady will wreck shop on both of us if she sees me on that field.”
“You gonna be ready for training camp?” I asked, squinting against the sun to look out at the field, where newly drafted rookies, undrafted rookies, and free agents were all moving about at the annual mini-camp trying to prove their value and secure a place with the Connecticut Kings.
I was wondering why I wasn’t out there myself.
I should have signed up. Could have signed up. When I left, I was at the end of my contract with New York anyway, so I was an unrestricted free agent with an excellent record. I just wasn’t… sure.
“God willing,” Jordan said, answering my question. He was out of the sling he’d had to wear for weeks following surgery on a broken collarbone, but I knew he was still taking it easy. He wasn’t officially cleared yet, which I knew was killing him, but I also knew that as soon as he could, he’d be beasting through workouts and drills to get ready for the season.
Looking at the newest additions to the team… the Kings were going to need him and Trent Bailey to make a Super Bowl worthy team again, just like last season. From what I was seeing, the new recruits weren’t adding much. The Kings’ draft picks had been late, so they weren’t picking up any superstars for their other positions, which was what they needed. Or hell – not even superstars, just solid players.
This minicamp was lacking.
“That fucked up look on your face,” Jordan started, shaking his head. “You must be seeing the same thing I’m seeing.”
I nodded. “Yeah. A bunch of guys giving mediocre effort, because they think that’s all that’s needed.”
“Right. So… I’m saying, you’re already in shorts, nigga. Throw on some cleats and embarrass these dudes. Give them some goddamn motivation.”
“JJ, I don’t know about that shit, man. You know how long it’s been since I ran drills for scrutiny?”
He rolled his eyes. “You work out every damn day. You could do these drills with your eyes closed. In your sleep. What, you scared or something?”
“Nigga, you know goddamn well, I ain’t scared of sh—” I broke off when Jordan’s face spread into a laugh, over how I’d walked into that obvious ass trap.
But I got the cleats.
Jordan led me out to the exhausted-looking running back coach, who honestly seemed relieved at the interruption. We sold it as a motivational thing – before I left the NFL, I was well-known, a star player. The faces of some though – guys I’d played against, and kids fresh out of college alike – let me know there wasn’t much respect for me there, not as a player.
Twenty minutes on the field changed that.
I put every single one of them to shame – speed, form, power, and honestly… heart. I hadn’t been on a field with other people like this in two, almost three years, but now that I was here, it felt like I’d never left.
By the time we’d run through a round of drills, a little crowd had gathered, and one of the coaches motioned me over. “What kind of forty can you run?” he asked, and I shrugged.
“It’s been a long time since I had an official number, but when I was in the league, a 4.3 was nothing.”
His eyes narrowed at me for a second before he nodded. “Okay. You feel up to testing that out? Seeing what you can do now?”
I gave him another shrug. “I’m here, so… hey, why the hell not?” I was trying my best to appear nonchalant, but truthfully, I was loving this. Jordan hung close, smirking his ass off about the attention I was getting, which was probably his goal in the first place. He knew I wanted to be back on the field, so he wanted me back on the field. Problem was, this was something where I had to be not physically, but mentally ready.
That was where the uncertainty was.
A little shred of anxiety tried to take over as we got set up. It was just going to be a hand time, nothing official, but still… this felt like all those years ago, back when I was going through the combine.
“You ready?” the coach from earlier asked, and I nodded. I moved into position, and focused on the finish line, forty yards ahead. And then I took off.
It was exhilarating.
The other coach who did the actual timing didn’t say anything to me once I’d finished the quick sprint and was walking back. He took the stopwatch to the first coach, where they conferred about it quietly until Jordan spoke up.
“Hey, are y’all gonna tell us how slow this nigga is, or nah?” he asked, a question that was met with laughter from the gathered crowd.
The coach smirked as he looked up, shaking his head as he looked right at me. “4.28,” he said, and it felt like all the air rushed from my lungs. At my fastest, fresh from college, a 4.26 had been my quickest time. Obviously I knew there was a big margin of error with a hand-timed sprint, but just the fact that at 30, I was anywhere near a time like that was… shit.
Jordan clapped me on the shoulder, as outwardly hype as I internally felt, but was still frozen. “See, bruh?” he asked, leaning in. “This is what I mean. Your ass belongs on this field.”
“4.28? Are you kidding me?! You’ve been holding out! – The Champ”
I grinned at that text, the first thing I saw when I picked up my phone after my shower. I’d been at the mini-camp the rest of the day, just observing like I’d actually come to do, but my mind was reeling.
The coaches were talking.
And apparently, I’d gone viral. I was getting a little sick of people and their damn camera phones. While my own phone was in my hand, it buzzed again with another message, and I shook my head as I read it. It was like she’d read my mind.
“At least you’re going viral for a GOOD reason though. Why didn’t you tell me you were going to do that??? – The Champ”
In typical Wil fashion, both texts were punctuated with emojis intended to help get her point across. The “angry” faces at the end of this particular text didn’t accomplish anything but making me laugh though, as I imagined her in front of me, trying her best to hold that same expression.
She was too damned cute for it.
“I was just out there to watch. Wasn’t planned. JJ talked me into it.” I texted back.
“SMH. Nobody is immune to the Flash’s charm. I’m proud of you though. You looked sooooo good out there, OMG. – The Champ”
I had to mentally check myself for my internal reaction to her words. Not that it was out of character for her to be encouraging like this – it was very, very her – but somewhere along the way, something had shifted, and sometimes… only sometimes… I had to remind myself that we were friends. Now that The Clown was out of the picture… sometimes were happening a little more often.
“Appreciate it, Champ.”
I kept my response simple, almost hoping she’d only texted me as a passing thought this time, and wouldn’t respond, but of course that wasn’t what happened.
“Anytime. Hey, you should let me treat you to dinner. I owe you one anyway, after the other night. – The Champ.”
I read that, then shook my head. I still didn’t really get why she thought she owed me anything, when she’d done me as much of a favor as I’d done for her. Not that she knew it, but she wasn’t the only one who’d needed, as she phrased it, a human connection that night. As far as I was concerned, it had been equal exchange.
Well… almost.
Keeping my hands on just her feet had been a little bit of a struggle.
“And I don’t want to hear that “you don’t owe me anything” stuff either, okay? You and me + the soul food bar at Jacob’s. SOON. – The Champ”
“Seriously?”
“Still on my comfort food kick, let me live LOL. – The Champ”
“Aiight, if you say so. Tomorrow?”
“It’s a date! – The Champ”
“Thank you for hanging out with me so much lately, btw. I only need like… another week or five of being the needy friend, promise. – The Champ”
I plopped down on my bed and stretched out, holding the phone over me as I typed my response.
“You make it sound like kicking it with you is a chore – it’s not. Don’t forget, the wedding is next weekend… unless you changed your mind.”
“Nope. I’ll be there with my tissues. – The Champ”
I was interrupted from responding by a loud, booming sound that I quickly identified as somebody knocking on my door.
Knocking like they’d lost their damn minds.
I tossed on some sweats and a tee shirt to head to the door as the knocking continued, mentally preparing myself to throw hands with whoever was on the other side. There wasn’t a goddamn thing important enough to be beating on my door like the police. My agitation went even higher as the knocks grew even more insistent the closer I got. I put my eye up to the peephole to see who the hell it could possibly be… and smiled.
This motherfucker.
“What the hell is your problem, fool?” I asked as soon as I opened the door, scowling at the man on the other side. He squinted at me like he was confused, then looked at the plaque beside the door like he was making sure he had the right condo.
“My bad sir. I used to have a homeboy that lived around here, but you look like the dude I saw in this viral video today trying out for a football team. And my homie didn’t say shit to me about that, so you can’t be him, nah.”
I shook my head. “Here you go with this dramatic shit,” I chuckled. “Get in here before one of my neighbors calls the police on your Black ass, man.” I extended a hand to him, pulling him into a half-handshake, half-hug before he stepped in and I closed the door behind him.
“So when do you sign the contract?” he asked, making himself comfortable on my couch and reaching for the remote. Clayton Reed was one of very, very few people in this world with the privilege of treating my home like it was his.
Hell, he was the one who’d facilitated the purchase in the first place.
“Nobody is signing a damn contract,” I explained, dropping into one of the chairs that flanked the sofa. “I was just out there to observe the camp, got talked into hitting the field.”
His face bunched into a scowl, skepticism written clearly in his features. “Got talked into? Man, please. You know damn well it didn’t take much talking. You were dying to get out there.”
I shrugged. “Maybe a little bit.”
He laughed at that. “Maybe a little bit my ass. It was all over your damn face, you were back at home out there. So… seriously, when are you signing the contract? Cause I know damn well the Kings are trying to snatch you up, or at least need to be. The only decent running back they have is Sanchez, and that dude can’t stay out of drama enough to keep his head in the game. What did they say to you?”
“They didn’t say anything. I wasn’t there to try out, wasn’t on any official roster.”
“And?”
I chuckled. “Fuck you mean? It doesn’t really work like that, where I just sign with a team because I want to.”
“So you want to?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?” he challenged, not for the first time. “You keep putting the shit off, and you’re gonna fuck around and watch the season go by without you.”
“It’s not that simple.”
He scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re making excuses and you know it. You can’t even use the show as an excuse anymore, cause those three years you agreed to are about to be up. You didn’t sign another contract did you?”
“Not yet,” I answered, leaning into the cushion behind me. “They haven’t even offered new ones yet, but the show has good ratings, so I’m expecting it.”
“When does the current contract end?”
“Mid-June.”
“Nigga,” Clayton exclaimed, sitting forward. “That’s perfect timing for you. Time for you to talk to the Kings, get an answer before your contract is up. But we both know what their answer is going to be.”
I shook my head. “I’m not a twenty-something anymore. Haven’t touched NFL turf in three years. We don’t know what the answer will be.”
“Fuck that. What’s the next excuse?”
I chuckled. “They aren’t excuses man, it’s just real. And everything else aside, I have to consider how it might affect Wil.”
Shit.
As soon as I said her name, Clayton’s eyes glazed over, and I didn’t have to ask to guess the visual that had come to his mind. I distinctly remembered the 2012 Olympics, where Clayton had been insistent on stopping everything just to watch the women’s track segments.
“Nigga,” he’d explained, with his voice filled with the kind of wonder and excitement you’d expect from somebody waiting to get keys to a brand-new luxury car. “You ain’t seen ass until you’ve seen these asses, I promise you. And the thighs—Nigga, the ass and thigh combo – nah, the waist to ass ratio… Just wait, you’ll see. Goddamn works of art.”
He hadn’t been lying either.
I loved sports, but the Olympics had never been my thing. When they started introducing the women who were about do those sprints though, in those little ass shorts and sports bras… damn. Those were definitely the kinds of asses that could make a man a little emotional.
That was actually the first time I saw her. Wilhelmina Cunningham, daughter of Carla Ann Cunningham – Olympic track royalty. While the announcer was going on about the legacy she had to live up to, speculating on if she’d be faster than her mother, earn as many career gold medals, etc, she was waving at the camera and the crowd with this sweet smile on her face, as if she didn’t know she was fine as hell.
Actually, Team USA was fine as hell, period, and the island women too, in every shade of black we came in. Clayton had two in particular he was all about – Wil, and one of the Bahamian competitors, a woman named Soriyah.
Five years later, he still wanted both of them.
“Speaking of your fine co-host… I might have to pop up and visit you on set tomorrow. Use that as my excuse to give her my condolences on the end of her relationship… and help her transition into a new one.”
“It’s barely been three weeks, man. Don’t come at her with that.”
He waved a hand, brushing off my words. “Three weeks is plenty of time, old boy was a clown anyway. You saw who he was fucking, right? On what planet do you trade a perfectly cooked ribeye for a Big Mac?”
“Women aren’t food, so… you lost me.”
“Aiight Mr. Elevated Thinking,” Clayton laughed. “I forgot to put my realtor voice on, my bad. Gotta talk to you like I talk to these white folks – why on earth would that young man ruin what he had with a beautiful, successful woman like Wil in the pursuit of a shallow affair? Perish the thought.”
“Nigga, I’m about to kick your stupid ass outta here,” I chuckled. “And I don’t know why that clown did what he did. I mean, Wil is…”
Shit.
Several not-exactly-“friendly”- descriptors ran through my head as I thought of all the reasons why she didn’t deserve what he’d done. Many of the qualities that made a person a good friend – positive energy, willing to listen, willing to push you when you needed, being a supporter, a comforter, somebody that could make you laugh, could tell your problems, understood you, etc – were the same things that made them a good romantic partner.
The fact that she was beautiful, had an amazing body, and a warm, vivacious, comfortable sort of sex appeal that I had – mostly – mastered the art of ignoring on a day to day basis were not among those qualities.
“I mean, the ass alone would have been enough to keep me loyal, if we’re keeping it all the way one hundred. Baby girl picked up a lil extra thickness since those Olympic days, but it went to the right places like a muhfucka. I saw those pictures a couple months ago, her and that fine ass Soriyah down in The Bahamas talking about some “hashtag, reunited”.” He bit his fist, being full on dramatic. “There was this video, bruh. They’re out in the ocean, Soriyah in a thong, ass looking like two scoops of chocolate in a dish just for me. I know you saw that!”
I stopped cracking up long enough to nod. “Yeah, I saw it.”
“So you feel me then! Hell, you see Wil damn near every day, and I don’t see how you do it.”
My eyebrow lifted. “How I do what?”
“Go day to day without putting your face in her pussy, that’s what.”
“Bruh!” I laughed. “She just broke up with somebody she’s been with since before I even knew who she was.”
“Which makes her a single woman, fuck all that other stuff. I’m serious about coming up there tomorrow. If you aren’t going to handle that, I will.”
“Hell nah,” I shook my head. “You aren’t going to be handling a goddamn thing. Not with that one. No sir.”
Clayton put a hand to his chest like he was offended. “Damn, it’s like that? Blocking ain’t even your position.”
“Ruling on the field stands, nigga,” I warned. “She’s still heartbroken over the clown, and you think I’m about to let you line up a shot?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again and he slumped back, sighing. “I want to act like I don’t know why you wouldn’t want me around her, but shit, it’s been a long day. I’m too tired for the Oscar-worthy stuff today.”
Clayton was my homie – one of two people I consider damn near my brothers, the other being my cousin Reggie Jr., who was my Aunt Phylicia’s son. As such, we had a policy of telling each other the truth, and the damn truth about Clayton was that son was a hoe. I couldn’t front like I hadn’t had my fun too over the years, but Clayton was very much still living that life, and that wasn’t an assumption. I heard the stories, saw the pictures, had made a habit of never trying to guess their names if I ran into him while he was out with somebody. I said the wrong name once, which got Clayton socked in the eye, and I hadn’t made that mistake since.
“Long day? You double book your lunch dates or something? Keisha saw you out with Shawna while you were waiting for Monique?”
His eyes popped open. “Damn, did I already tell you about this?”
“You’re gonna get your ass popped in the eye again,” I laughed, pushing myself up from my chair. “You kicking it or not? I was about to order some wings and turn this game on.”
“You already know my order,” he called after me. “But uhhh… why aren’t you at the game? Y’all aren’t covering the preliminaries or something?”
“Nah, they’re just giving us a break since we’ll be out in Oakland Sunday for the next two in the series. Don’t get back until Wednesday, and then we’re in the studio every day after that, live-tweeting the other games. We get a break Saturday since we’ll be at the Bailey wedding, and then right back to the grind.”
Clayton snorted. “Live-tweeting? You actually get paid for that shit?”
“Part of the show. They’re filming our play-by-play reactions in the studio, but even tonight, I’m supposed to be talking preliminary finals on social media. Not that it’s a chore, but… still work. Builds the audience of our show.”
“Builds the audience of somebody else’s show, cause you’ll be on the Kings’ starting lineup for pre-season. Mark my words.”
“Chill.”
“Nope. I told Ms. Debbie I wasn’t going to let you off the hook about that promise, so ain’t no chill, nigga.”
I stopped my perusal of the wing flavor options to look up. “What?”
Clayton’s head turned to meet my gaze. “You heard what I said, and you know what I’m talking about.”
“Yeah, I heard you, but what the fuck are you talking about?” I asked, rounding the counter to approach where he was sitting.
“You told her – promised her – that you would go back. She never liked that you left in the first damn place, but she accepted it because you said – “once you kick this thing, I’ll go back, I promise.” Those were your words, bruh. I listened to you say it.”
I scoffed. “But she didn’t kick it. It kicked us. I’m supposed to act like the shit didn’t happen?”
“Nah, you’re supposed to keep your damn promise,” he shot back, shrugging as if it were really that simple. “You’re making all these excuses for why not, and I was going to let you cook since I get it, man. I know it’s still fresh, but bottom damned line – your ass promised. And if you’re pissed, wanna kick me out, that’s cool, but I’m gonna see you get your swole ass back on the goddamn field because I promised. You aren’t the only one that lost her.”
“I know that shit Clayton,” I growled, shaking my head. I stalked back to the kitchen and snatched up my phone, trying to distract myself, but I couldn’t even get my eyes to focus on the damn screen anymore. “When did you talk to her?”
The answer didn’t matter. He hadn’t said anything that wasn’t the truth. I just wanted to… gauge the timing. I didn’t have to wonder if she knew it was coming, if she’d felt that something had shifted. I’d sat at her bedside while she gave me an early goodbye I didn’t want to hear, that filled me with a kind of rage I’d never, ever felt,
Her current round of treatment wasn’t even finished, and she was fucking giving up. I tried to understand it, but all I could – selfishly – think about was the fact that I was losing the person who had been, from inception, my everything.
I made the promise because I would have promised her anything. Three years ago, I’d left the game because she was sick – because the doctors said she was dying. I’d been on the field too many times with my head only halfway in the game because my heart was across the country with her, in a quiet room receiving chemo treatments. I played through the end of my contract and gave them nothing more – height of my career be damned.
My presence was needed somewhere exponentially more important.
She found out on TV. I was barely out of the meeting with my pissed-off agent and pissed-off coaches and pissed-off GM and pissed-off lawyers before it was all over TV, with the team releasing some fake ass statement of support. I hadn’t even had a chance to breathe, let alone call anybody to say anything, but I knew what that was – getting ahead of the story, being “nice”, making it seem as if they allowed me to do anything. That way, if I said anything negative, I would look like the bad guy.
But it was pointless – for one, my mother raised me to understand the value of silence, and secondly, I didn’t have shit to say to the media about their damned club anyway. They were the ones who’d written the contract. Shame on them for giving me an unrestricted out in the first place.
It seemed like I was the only one who was happy though.
My mother was furious that I’d put her health before my passion for the field, but I meant it when I told her football could wait. That was when – as Clayton had reminded me – I’d made the promise to get back on the field, when she was healthy again. Maybe she already knew, or suspected back then, but I was optimistic. I honestly believed we would see that day.
But it never came.
“About a week before,” Clay finally answered, and I nodded, understanding that he was referring to what was easily the worst week of my life. Lots of family, and flowers, and phone calls, none of which could distract me from what was inevitably happening. “Lena had stopped by. You were outside talking to her and Ms. Debbie was pissed,” he chuckled. “Whew, shit, your mama couldn’t stand that girl.”
I couldn’t help the grin that came to my face. “She was perky as hell for a good two months when I told her I’d broken off the engagement.”
“Can’t say I blame her. Lena was… a lot, bruh. Still don’t understand your thought process on that one, but she is still bad as fuck. Aiight… so maybe I do understand your thought process.”
I shook my head. “It definitely wasn’t because of that.”
“I know, I know. Head of the fine and bougie committee shows some interest in a dude from the hood, had you thinking she was the one. She got her hooks in you early,” Clayton laughed. “She was fine and smart.”
“Cold and calculated is more like it,” I quipped back, then shook my head. “What am I putting in this wing order man?” I asked, completely changing the subject. I didn’t want to talk about any of it right now, if I could help it.
Because Clay was who he was, he twisted his mouth into a smirk to make it clear he knew what I was doing, then nodded. “Spicy lemon pepper. It’s been that long, you forgot?”
“Just double-checking. You know your tastes change with the weather – weather being whoever your flavor of the week is.”
He laughed. “I can’t even argue that.”
I put the phone to my ear to place the order, and a few minutes later I was opening the fridge for beers. I hadn’t yet arrived to a place where talking about my mother didn’t leave me exhausted, so I was glad for the distraction of my responsibility to talk about this game.
It was much-needed.
“I see you’ve still got that speed, boy!”
I grinned at the welcome I received from Wil’s father as soon as he opened the door. His words were accompanied by a hug and handshake, with a grip strong enough to intimidate a lesser man – a lesser man being the clown Wil was going to marry. He had gleefully told me the story of leaving ol’ boy with watery eyes every time they crossed paths, which had been often.
Obviously, he wasn’t a fan.
But Wil was his one and only, his baby girl, and for the most part, if she was happy then so was he. This was my first time seeing him in the month since the cancelled wedding, so I wasn’t surprised at all when the subject immediately changed from my viral, impromptu mini-camp video to an explanation of the violence he wanted to enact on his daughter’s former fiancé. When he wanted to, Jackie Cunningham was a man that held a certain sense of… don’t fuck with me or mine that people tended to abide by.
He hadn’t earned the nickname “Jackhammer” as a professional boxer for no reason. Jackie Cunningham was known for the lightning fast speed and persuasive power of his fists – not a man you wanted to be on the wrong side of.
Hurting his baby girl couldn’t get you any more wrong.
“You know he had the nerve to call my damn house?” Jack asked, speaking in a low tone. According to her last text, Wil was still upstairs with her mother, getting ready. “Talking about he wanted to apologize to us. I told him if he called here again, I was kicking that apology up his ass. You think he got the picture?”
I snickered. “Yes sir, I’m sure he probably did.”
“Fucking knucklehead,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I welcomed that sonofabitch into my house for eight years. You think he appreciated it? Hell no. Because he was stupid. I mean… look at my little girl,” he said, motioning to the wall by the stairs. The Cunninghams were unquestionably proud of their daughter. The opposite wall prominently featured her accomplishments – diplomas, Olympic golds, NCAA track, and other regional medals. But the wall he was pointing to was a gallery of framed pictures in varying sizes, with one subject in common – Wil.
He pointed to one in particular, a recent, obviously professional shot of Wil and her mother that fulfilled that whole cliché of “looking more like sisters than mother and daughter”. “That is a beautiful girl,” Jack continued. “Talented, smart, good head on her shoulders, not no damn pushover.” He waved a finger at me. “But that right there, that was likely the problem. Weak man like that? Can’t handle a woman like the one we raised.”
I gave a noncommittal nod in response, to avoid getting him fired up, but… I strongly agreed with that. As genuinely warm and sweet-natured as Wil was, she was nobody’s punk. She couldn’t be, not in our business, where she regularly dealt with men who would pat her cute little head and ignore her if she let them. She wasn’t the type to sit back and take bullshit, and the clown seemed like the type who wanted a woman who would.
The shit just didn’t match.
“Ramsey! Baby you sure can wear the hell out of a suit!”
I was smiling before I even turned around in time to see Wil’s mother heading down the stairs. Well, just her feet at first because of the spiral staircase, but a few seconds later, I was able to see the woman herself.
“I peeked at you from the landing,” she told me as she pulled me into a hug. “What is my husband down here fussing about?”
“I ain’t fussing, I’m telling.”
“He didn’t come here for that, he came to get Wil,” she scolded, shaking her head.
Me? I was just trying not to laugh at them, especially when Jack not-at-all inconspicuously pinched Carla’s ass, making her yelp.
“Will you stop it?!” She half-whispered half-laughed, clearly pleased as she stepped closer to me – probably not realizing I knew what had just happened. “This gray suit is sharp on you, sweetheart, and these dusty rose accents in the pattern of your tie are a perfect match to Wil’s dress.”
I frowned. “Match? Is that why she asked for a picture of what I was wearing a few days ago?”
I really meant to ask that question in my head, but Carla nodded. “She’s your date, you’re supposed to coordinate a little. You two are going to look so good together. Wil!” she shouted, stretching out toward the stairs as if that made her louder. “Are you coming down or not?”
“Yes! Trying to buckle the shoes you said you were going to help with!” Wil yelled, and Carla’s eyes went big.
“Sorry baby, Ramsey distracted me. I’m coming!”
I shook my head as Carla rushed back up the stairs, and Jack moved to stand beside me.
“You know,” he started, and just those words let me know something awkward was about to happen. “I really did always think you were a better man than that Darius, especially after I met your mother when y’all did that parent’s day segment on your show. Fine woman, with a beautiful spirit, and she raised you right,” he said, leaning in like he was telling me a secret.
I didn’t know what else to do, so I nodded. “Thank you sir.”
“You’re very welcome,” Jack grinned. “Between you and me – I’d love to have you as a son-in-law. Think about it – Jackhammer and Sledgehammer. Wouldn’t that be something? They’d probably write an article about us.”
He cracked up at his own words, and before I had to figure out who “they” were, or come up with a response, I was saved by the sound of Wil and her mother coming down the stairs.
Damn.
I wasn’t expecting her to look that good.
I mean, I’d always thought she was a beautiful woman, but… damn.
That dress was… damn.
It was the same pale rose color as the accents in my tie, and she was wearing these nude, strappy heels that made her legs look… damn.
The folded, off-shoulder style of the dress was sexy as hell on her, leaving her collarbone and plenty of golden brown skin in full view. The length – just past her knees – gave it an air of sophistication, and the fit… again, damn. That dress was hugging curves I’d never quite seen hugged that way.
A really, really good way.
Her hair was straightened, but pinned up, with loose tendrils framing her face. For some reason, she looked nervous, and her looking nervous made me feel nervous, something I couldn’t recall ever experiencing around her.
“Do I look okay?” she asked, smoothing the fabric over her hips, and I’m pretty sure I looked at her like she was crazy.
“You look amazing,” I told her, which immediately eased the tension between her eyebrows, and a little smile spread over her face.
“So do you. But I mean, we already knew that would be the case,” she teased as she walked toward me, coming in for a quick hug before she turned to her parents to say goodbye.
Thank God for quick hugs.
Because looking like that, and smelling like that… damn.
This was going to be a long night.
I knew this wasn’t a good idea.
Wil had been either in tears, or on the edge of them, all night.
Not like she was sobbing, or even audibly crying, but throughout the vows, through the special performance as Trent and Jade entered the reception, and now as the groom performed his signature dancing for the bride, errant tears had been creating streams down her face.
This was tough for her – it had to be.
Only a month had passed since what was supposed to be her special day, that never ending up coming. Here at LaChateau, in midtown Manhattan, the Baileys had created an ultra-romantic vibe. Tiny white lights, flowers, music, the whole shebang, in an event obviously filled with love. Everybody was laughing, dancing, having a good time celebrating the newlyweds. Everybody – including Wil – seemed thrilled for them, which created a great energy.
But Wil’s tears were messing me up.
On the drive from Stamford to Manhattan, she’d explained why her parents were so giddy, seeing us off like we were teenagers going to a homecoming dance.
“They’re just glad I’m getting dressed up to get out of the house,” she’d said. “All I do really is go to work, and kick it with you or Naima. They think being out with celebrities tonight is going to make me feel… renewed, or something. Make me forget about Darius.”
Looking at her now… they hadn’t quite predicted that right.
It wasn’t as if she seemed out of place. Anybody watching her would assume that she was simply overcome with the beauty and emotion of the wedding and reception, which wasn’t entirely untrue. But I knew – because I’d asked - she had her own failed engagement on her mind, and was trying her best to hold it together.
That’s what prompted me to reach for her hand under the table, squeezing it to get her attention before I leaned in to speak into her ear. “Are you sure you’re good? We don’t have to stay if you’re not really feeling it.”
“We can’t leave yet,” she whispered back, turning to face me. “We haven’t even said congratulations to them.”
I nodded. “Okay. After they finish up with these, I’m sure we’ll get an opportunity. But after that…?”
“Yes.” Her answer was too immediate for it to not have already been on her mind. “All this love in the air has me feeling sorry for myself.”
She said that with a faint smile, but I didn’t get the impression it was because she was kidding. When she turned away again, she picked up the glass of champagne – her second since the reception started – and knocked it back in one swig.
Guess she wasn’t lying about coping through alcohol.
Once that performance section was over, we left our table to make our way through the crowd to where the bride and groom were posted at the front of the room. I grinned at the smiles on their faces. The way Trent looked at his brand new wife… that was how it was supposed to be.
One glance at Wil told me she was thinking the same thing, but it was obviously hitting her differently. There was a little quiver in her lip that gave it away.
Instead of saying anything about that, I chose distraction. We were waiting in a pretty slow-moving line to greet the couple anyway, so I pulled out my phone and turned to the camera, telling her to say cheese. Whatever makeup she was wearing must have been some sort of sorcery, because despite the numerous tears she’d shed throughout the wedding, she looked just as good as she had when we left her parents.
She didn’t protest the appearance of the camera – in fact, she seemed relieved by it, immediately making duck lips at my screen. For the next several minutes, we played around, until we were closer to the front of the line, where I put it away. After that, it didn’t take long for it to be our turn.
“Look at you bruh,” I exclaimed, extending a hand to shake Trent’s. “I see wifey already has you branching out, with the burgundy,” I teased him, motioning at his suit jacket – which was pretty damned fly.
He shook his head as he accepted my greeting. “Nigga, I thought you were the fashionable one? This isn’t basic ass burgundy – this is wine, and I look damn good,” he laughed, then supplemented the handshake with a quick fist bump.
“Can’t argue with it,” I agreed. “Congratulations man.”
His gaze slid to the side of me and landed on Wil, and his eyes widened a bit, like he was surprised to see her there. He stiffened a little, which Wil didn’t even notice as she ignored the hand he offered to give him a hug.
“Congratulations,” she gushed. “This is such a beautiful wedding, and your bride, oh my goodness.” She skirted past me to get to Jade, who I hadn’t spoken to yet. “You’re just glowing, and your bump is adorable, and it’s so… beautiful,” she finished, her voice cracking with emotion as she hugged the bride too. Jade and Trent exchanged a look that I didn’t think was just about Wil’s emotional, possibly tipsy greeting.
I should have thought about it before I invited her, but when Trent was re-signed to the Kings, Wil had been a little… critical. Nothing mean-spirited, or over the top, but she’d definitely gone in, naming him in the “Out of Bounds” segment we did sometimes, for athletes who’d been into shit they shouldn’t.
In fairness, Wil was a huge Bailey fan, had even admitted having the same harmless crush that millions of other female fans had on him. It was exactly that fandom that left her disappointed when he’d had to leave the field to serve jail time, even though that had been years ago. In the segment, she’d talked about being glad to see him back, but she was still salty about him “turning himself into a cliché”.
Something I admired about her though, was her objectivity when it came to these athletes. Maybe because she’d been one herself, she was never callous with her critiques, just sharp. And when it was time for praises, she piled those on too, and had certainly had plenty for Trent as he proved himself again on the field.
But… people tended to remember it when you said things that cut and bled – fair or not.
Still, they were absolutely gracious.
“Ramsey, Wil, let me formally introduce you to my bride, Jade Bailey,” Trent said, putting a hand at Jade’s back. She was tiny, especially compared to Trent, who towered over her, and just as Wil had put it – glowing and beautiful in her pregnancy.
I gave her a short hug, and we exchanged a few more pleasantries before we moved along, giving the people behind us their chance to speak to the newlyweds. We’d only walked a few steps before I heard my name, and turned to see JJ and Cole Richardson, approaching.
Cole immediately went to Wil, exclaiming, “This dress? Are you kidding me? Could you possibly look more amazing?” before she hugged her, staying close to speak about something in her ear. I couldn’t be too nosy though, because one second I was exchanging greetings with Jordan, and the next he was leading me off, saying someone wanted to speak to me.
I stopped moving to look at Wil, who’d found yet another glass of champagne. She waved me off, telling me to go, and Cole gave me a reassuring smile.
“I’ve got her,” she said, looping an arm through Wil’s before she led her away, giving me no real reason to protest wherever the hell Jordan was taking me – though I had an idea.
Which proved to be correct.
The group of men he led me to had a whole lot of money and a whole lot of power to go with it. Jackson Hunter, the Drake brothers, Azmir Jacobs, Kingston Whitfield, and the person Jordan was undoubtedly bringing me to speak to – Eli Richardson.
“Ramsey Bishop,” he declared, stepping toward me as soon as I walked up. After quick introductions to the rest of the circle, he pulled me away and spoke again. “You created quite the stir at my mini-camp last week,” he said, extending his hand.
“Not intentionally sir,” I answered, firmly returning his handshake. “Got talked into it by my friend here.” I motioned to Jordan, who grinned, then clapped me on the shoulder.
“Somebody had to get you on that field. Why not me? Besides – you belong out there anyway.”
In front of me, Eli nodded. “After seeing that video from last week, and taking a look at your tape… I would tend to agree.”
He looked at my highlights?
“Why’d you leave the game?” Azmir asked, stepping in. “Your contract was up, yes, but you were young, healthy, top of your game. Were you unhappy with the league? Dissatisfied with your team?”
Something told me they already knew the answer to that – probably knew the answers to every question I was sure they were about to ask me. I swallowed hard, taking a second before I answered. “My mother was very sick. The way I was traveling for the team, I didn’t feel that I was able to care for her the way I needed to. When my contract was up, I declined to re-sign. Exercised my option to leave the team, and leave the league.”
Azmir nodded, and then Eli spoke up again. “And since then, you’ve been using the journalism degree you earned at BSU. Hosting your show with Jack and Carla Cunningham’s daughter,” he stated, rather than asked me. “But you haven’t signed a new contract there either, have you?”
I didn’t have to wonder how he knew. This group’s money was long enough to know… everything.
“No,” I said. “I haven’t.”
“Instead of just talking about football… how would you feel about playing it again?” Eli asked, his gaze piercing as he waited for me to answer.
Again, I paused, carefully considering my words before I responded. “It’s what I promised her I would do,” I said, remembering my conversation with Clayton last week. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be on the field again, because I did. But at this point… keeping my promise was the thing that would make me take action, so I clung to it.
Azmir spoke next. “You’re from Connecticut, right? Bridgeport.”
“Born and raised.”
Eli grinned. “See there? This is your destiny, Bishop. Think about it – playing for the home team.”
I nodded. “It would be an amazing opportunity.”
He and Azmir exchanged a look, and a light chuckle.
“We have your contact information,” Eli said. “We’ll be in touch to schedule an official workout so we can see what you can do.”
My eyebrows shot up. “I…wow,” I stammered, as what had just happened really hit me. “I… I look forward to hearing from you. Again, thank you for the opportunity.”
“No.” Eli stepped forward, putting a hand on my shoulder. “If all goes smoothly, it’s not just an opportunity,” he corrected. “It’s your future.”
The next few minutes were a blur.
I know goodbyes were exchanged and all of that, but I damn near felt like I was floating as Jordan led me to find Wil and Cole. Barely, I registered Jordan telling me congratulations before he and Cole moved away, leaving me with Wil, who had a cocktail glass of something that looked fruity in her hands.
“I wanna dance,” she said, after she’d gulped it down and handed the glass to a passing server, and I absently nodded my agreement.
As soon as we were out on the floor, the music switched from up-tempo to something slower, with the DJ declaring he wanted to see all the couples out on the floor. Wil stepped close to me – closer than I expected her to – and I put my hands respectfully at her waist. Even in my haze, I noted that with heels on, Wil was actually a little taller than me – perfect height for my hands to fall naturally at her ass, which was looking perfectly grab-able in that goddamn dress.
“Ramsey,” she whispered, leaning in to catch my gaze. “What’s up with you? You seem distracted.”
Not so distracted I didn’t hear the subtle slur in her words as she spoke, but I shook my head. “It’s nothing, not really. Just… I think I got offered a job.”
She frowned a little, processing my words. “Offered a job? By who?”
“Eli Richardson.”
For a second, she stopped the slow sway we’d been doing to the music, and then her eyes went wide. “Eli Richardson, as in owner of the Kings?!” she whisper-yelled, and I pulled her in closer just to calm her.
“Yes,” I said into her ear. “But… not quite an offer yet, not really. They want me to come to a workout.”
“That’s basically an offer,” she whispered back, and I grinned.
“Yeah… it is.”
She pulled back enough to look me in the eyes. Hers were glossy again, but not for the previous reasons. “That is amazing. And it’s happening because you are amazing,” she said, then wrapped her arms around my neck in a way that pushed my face right into her breasts, surrounding me in warmth and softness and goddamn why does she smell so good?
I knew I should pull back, but I didn’t immediately, taking a second for a deep breath in before I disconnected us.
“Thanks, Champ,” I told her, and her response was to give me a silly grin.
“Thanks for what?” she asked, then giggled and I bit the inside of my jaw to keep from laughing.
That was our cue to leave.
She slept for most of the drive back to Stamford, waking up just as we were pulling into the city.
“My throat is dry,” she complained, and I chuckled as I handed her the container of gum I kept in the console.
“That’s all I have for you right now, Champ.”
She gave me a mumbled “thank you” and accepted a few pieces. By the time I keyed in the code to get us through the gate for her parent’s neighborhood, she was upright, which was a good sign. I considered that maybe she hadn’t drunk as much as I thought, but that notion was killed as soon as I pulled around to the driveway of the attached apartment she was staying in, and opened the door for her to get out.
I had to catch her to keep her from falling on her ass, which she thought was funny as hell. Shaking my head, I helped her inside, then helped her to her bedroom, with her laughing and keeping up a steady stream of conversation the whole time. Any hope that she’d slept a bit of it off was just that – hope. Leave it to Wil to wake up still tipsy, just energized.
“Everybody looked sooo good tonight,” she gushed, falling backwards across her bed. I wasn’t “just a friend” enough to undress her or help her change, but I took the opportunity to at least get the strappy heels off of her, so she could sleep for real.
Or at least, I intended to.
Her tipsy, silly ass wouldn’t keep still, giggling and declaring that it tickled every time I tried to touch her. I’d seen Wil under the influence before, so it didn’t surprise me at all, but this was different. This time, she was in a sexy ass dress that was climbing higher up her legs and lower down her chest with every motion, and I was trying my best to be a gentleman.
And a friend.
A friend.
I needed to get my ass out of there.
I sat down on the bed and grabbed her legs – yet another move she found completely hilarious. I managed to keep her foot still with one hand and unstrap with the other, but as soon as I had the first one off, her goddamn wiggles took over again, and next thing I knew, she was straddling my lap.
Why the hell is she straddling my lap?!
“Ramsey,” she stated, very seriously, as she grabbed my face in her hands.
“What’s up Champ?” I asked, trying not to notice that her dress was up around her hips now, and her nipples were hard, showing plainly through the fabric.
She stared at me for a second, like she’d lost her train of thought, and then… her tongue was in my mouth. Minty and cool and very, very insistent, and for a couple of seconds… I didn’t do anything to stop her. And then for a couple of seconds after that, I maybe, possibly, definitely kissed her back. Massaged my tongue against hers, tasted her lips, let my hands drift down to her ass and squeeze, enjoyed the sound and vibration of her moaning into my mouth.
But then, her hands weren’t at my face anymore, they were between us, trying to reach for my pants, and…
What the fuck are you doing, bruh?
Shit.
I pulled away from the kiss, ignoring the confused look on her face to ease her back onto the bed. Her response was to put her legs in the air, opening wide. I quickly grabbed her ankles to close them, then unbuckled that other shoe in record time. By the time I dropped it to the ground, she was already barely keeping her eyes open, and mumbling something that sounded strangely like, “don’t judge me, it’s been a long ass time.”
I shook my head as I tucked her under the covers, and glanced at the nightstand. There was a hair bonnet there, and I thought about it for a second before I carefully maneuvered it over her head, then did what I’d originally intended – got my ass out of there.
I took her key to lock the door behind me. I was staying up at my Aunt’s tonight, and I doubted Wil would be in any shape to leave home before I came back through the next morning. Still, I sent a text to her phone to tell her I had her key, then climbed into my truck.
Damn.
I could still taste that kiss.
Instead of lingering on it, I turned the truck on and cranked my music, trying to clear it from my mind. She was drunk, and emotional, and… horny, if I’d interpreted her mumbled words right. It was nothing to place stock in, especially knowing her mental state.
But… still.
I couldn’t shake it.
Something about liquor not creating urges, only amplifying existing ones, kept coming to mind.