“To write something you have to risk making a fool of yourself.”
-Anne Rice
As part of building the new and improved me, and in an effort to get out and get “inspired” for writing, along with offering my services more, I decided to join a volleyball league. I figured the physical activity couldn’t hurt either. I’d played in high school and wasn’t too bad at it, taking into account I was only 5’1 and the top of my head barely reached the bottom of the net—I’d played defensive specialist. Joining this adult league was brazen of me, considering I was mostly an introvert; granted, I had some extrovert tendencies, but as a whole, it was still bold as hell.
The gym smelled like most gyms…sweatyish.
That’s a word.
I’m a writer.
I knew these things.
The orange-brown floor was shiny, reflecting the fluorescent lighting. There were several courts, and the echoes of shoes squeaking and grunts of players lunging for the ball filled the room. I neared Court 7, where I was to meet my group. I’d joined one of the less experienced groups, fearing my athletic abilities were not as on point as they were in high school. Baby steps. Several people were sprawled out, stretching, chatting with one another, none of them really noticing me. This was the part I hated—meeting new people. I figured most of these people joined with a friend or partner, unlike me. I’d asked Courtney and Kate if they wanted to try it with me, but Kate had noted she didn’t like sweating, and Courtney had laughed in my face.
Both of them.
Assholes.
Sitting on the floor, I started stretching. Spreading my legs wide, I leaned forward making sure to bring my chest toward the floor to stretch my hamstrings.
I was holding the stretch, counting in my head, when someone shouted, “Look out!”
In my peripheral vision, I could see a volleyball hurtling toward me, but it was too late. With the position I was in, I didn’t have enough time to react to catch it, so I tensed, preparing to get hit.
But I didn’t.
“Always lost in thought, aren’t ya?” a deep voice asked, causing me to lift my line of sight. The first features I noticed about the man who had caught the ball meant to hit me were his crazy-blue eyes, sparkling-white smile, and his salt-and-pepper hair against a young-looking face.
I recognized him.
The silver fox.
The best man at Britney’s wedding.
Sitting upright, I continued staring up at the man standing beside me while he threw the ball back to the players. Then his gaze honed in on me, his lip curled on one side, giving the impression he might be imagining me naked. “You look different in workout clothes,” he observed.
“So do you,” I noted. Geez, what was his name? I don’t think he’d ever told me.
“You’re pretty flexible.”
I tilted my head. What an odd thing to say. “Are you an authority on flexibility?”
His icy blue eyes flickered as he grinned, then he sat on the floor beside me. “As a matter of fact, when it comes to women, I most certainly am.”
“Is that so?” I asked with disinterest as I bent one leg into me and reached for my foot on the extended one.
“I’m not hitting on you, ya know. If I’d wanted to hit on you, I would’ve at the wedding. Wouldn’t have been too hard, either. You were three sheets to the wind.”
I scowled. “I was not.” I might’ve had a buzz, but I certainly wasn’t drunk.
He held a hand up. “I’m not judging. Just saying I’m not hitting on you.”
I looked back at him. “Then what are you doing?”
His lips perked up in thought as he let his gaze scan the folks surrounding us. “Just being friendly.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re alone here, like me.” Something about the statement hit me. Alone. That word was not a favorite. His eyes met mine and he furrowed his brow. “I’m always in pursuit of new friends.”
I snorted. “Is this some kind of fake-out? You pretend to want to,” I made air quotes with my fingers, “make new friends, and really you want to sleep with me?”
Reaching a hand out, ignoring my question, he laughed. “I’m Brigham. I don’t think we ever properly introduced ourselves that night.”
As I took his hand to shake, Wren crossed my mind. I made a point to make my grip firm. Perhaps a firm handshake would tell this man I was no pushover. If Brigham noticed the intent in my grip, he didn’t show it. “Hannah,” I told him.
“Nice to meet you, Hannah,” he said politely. Little did I realize this would be one of the last polite moments I would share with this man. “And to answer your question,” he went on, “no. I don’t want to sleep with you. I don’t sleep with white women.”
My head reared back. I would have never imagined that would be the next thing out of his mouth. “Then I guess I’m safe,” I said awkwardly, unsure of how to respond.
Brigham leaned back, the muscles in his arms flexing, showcasing his lean, but firm build. “I like exotic women.” Then casting an apologetic look my way, he said, “No offense.”
I laughed, loudly, earning a few glances from others. Was this guy serious? “None taken,” I assured him.
“Most white women I tell that to don’t like me much after that.”
Switching legs, I took a few seconds to digest what he was saying to me. Or rather, asking myself why was he telling this to me? “Is this usually your conversation opener with them?”
When he smiled, his dimples popped out, and I have to admit, he was attractive. “Different strokes for different folks. I figure it’s best to get it out of the way in the beginning. No use in wasting anyone’s time trying to be friends if they’re just going to get offended.”
“Hmm,” I muttered, ignoring his question and asking my own. “What kind of success rate you got with that?”
He looked up to the ceiling as if he were counting, then met my stare again. “So far…” he shrugged, “there’s been you.”
We both laughed. I didn’t know much about this Brigham, but I couldn’t deny I enjoyed his candidness. There was a realness to him that attracted me, and I didn’t mean in any kind of physical or romantic way. It was refreshing to meet someone not afraid to admit things about themselves most would keep secret in fear of offending or going against the status quo. He wasn’t fake…at least he didn’t seem to be.
Just then, a tall woman with ebony skin called out to everyone, asking us to gather around her. “Now, that’s the kind of woman I like,” Brigham noted. The woman was gorgeous, for sure.
“Well, good luck,” I offered as I stood and brushed off my tights then pulled up my knee pads.
“Luck is for suckers, Hannah. There is no such thing.”
I raised my brows, again thrown by him. The statement had been bold in response. “Noted. And thanks,” I added. “For stopping the ball.”
His mouth tilted up. “What are friends for?”
As we walked over to join everyone, my mind turned over the oddness of our introduction. Who was this man? And what might have made him this way? Ideas started swirling in my head, images of a man like Brigham and the path that led him here. He was staring at our long-legged ebony princess of a coach, when I glanced at him. Jerking my eyes away, I shook my head. I was here to play volleyball. I’d create a character modeled after Brigham later. I smiled. Inspiration. I’d come here hoping for it…and there it was.