by Love Belvin
The next day, I was on the old track and field ground at six in the evening finishing up on my final strut around. I felt like an idiot, but it was solid advice to follow. I didn’t fall, but I did twist my ankle a couple of times and stumbled more than that. And I didn’t break the shoes. Thankfully, I didn’t hurt myself. Once done, I sat on a bleacher to switch out the heels for my sneakers. I felt unbalanced standing on my feet again.
The campus was quiet this time of the day unless the football team was practicing. The sun had set less than an hour ago and the farther I moved off the athletic grounds, the more populated the campus became. I mostly kept my head down, not wanting to be seen by anyone. The sight of my sneakers was more appealing than mean ass humans.
“Tori!”
My head shot up as my feet stopped, and I looked around. It was Samantha, cutting across the courtyard, heading toward me.
“Hey,” I acknowledged her.
“Where’ve you been? I was waiting around for you until I got hungry. I’m grabbing dinner at the cafe. You wanna come?”
“No thanks. I’m not ready to eat yet.”
My nerves are fucking raging from my fake date tomorrow night.
“Okay.” She began to back away. “Well, I missed lunch, and my belly’s reminding me of it now. Oh!” She stopped, snapping her fingers then tapping her head. “You got another package. Security called up for you to come claim it.”
My armpits began to itch and my knees trembled. Another delivery? Before I could push my brain to speak, Samantha had taken off. I continued toward my dorm, almost running. Knowing the reason of my destination made me nervous and excited at the same time. Was this delivery like the one before, or something random?
The worst thing happened when I made it to the lobby of my dorm. Andrea and a friend of hers were coming out. Maybe it was something written on my face, but Andrea didn’t ignore me today—again—the way she would before the night Ashton dropped me off in that truck. Her eyes lit with more interest than I was used to getting from…anyone, other than creepy men or horny boys—and old ass women.
I saw when Andrea tapped the girl to bring her attention to me. But I didn’t stop or hesitate passing them and stepping into the lobby.
“I have a package?” I told the security guard. “Tori McNabb.”
He stood from his chair and searched the small closet at the back of his desk. My stomach did somersaults when he turned to me with individually wrapped boxes stacked according to size and bonded together with one black silk ribbon. He sat them on the rounded desk. Impatient, I pulled the card at the top, just beneath the bow, out.
Sorry for all the snark yesterday. Heavy family issues have been getting the best of me.
P.S. Be in the lobby at 7 pm tomorrow.
Ashton?
I didn’t care what was in the boxes or what time to be down here for a fake date. There was only one concern. Family issues. Ashton spoke to his mother on the phone when we rode to the mall yesterday, and mentioned solitary confinement and expedited court date, but that’s all I’d really paid attention to. My nerves were beyond fried at being so close to him, and in his luxury space, going to some unnamed destination at the time.
“Shit. You arguing already?” I leaped around to find Andrea must have been reading over my shoulder. “And he apologized?” She gasped. “How old is he? Damn! That was sexy,” she breathed out.
Pissed the hell off, I grabbed the boxes and the bag with the shoes I carried from the field and marched to the elevator.
“Mind your damn business, girl.”
I was happy the doors opened not too long after.
Andrea didn’t seem fazed at all when she smirked, swinging her braids over her shoulder. “Yeah. Whatever. You better bring that work tomorrow at seven.”
I rolled my eyes before the doors closed.
“Closing in,” Darron Williams, a sports-talk personality and ESPN correspondent, brushed his chin with an index finger. He began counting down on his fingers as the heated bright spotlights glared over us. The large, round reflective fill kept grabbing my attention, no matter how many of these shits I’d filmed over the years. The cameras rolled silently as the director and producers circled motionlessly behind him.
“You’ve maintained a 3.8 grade point average, are the first string QB on your D1 team—a team belonging to the most popular HBCU in the country—and you decided to finish your degree before going to the Combine, you volunteer tutoring services, your mother believes you’re a model son, and you’ve earned the number one spot on the Who You Should Know in Black America list—again.” He chuckled good-heartedly. “On paper, you’re perfection. I mean, Coach Green has said if he could replicate your skill set and mannerisms, he’d do it every two years.” I did my obligatory co-laughing with him. “What is it you aren’t good at?”
Wack ass question, Williams…
The problem with these fluff pieces, even for ESPN, was there’s no true reveal or challenge in the questions. Had Williams really provided investigative work into learning who I am? Hell no. He did the least and usual with touching bases with my athletic team here at Blakewood as well as my mother. Nothing in depth or requiring a think piece. So in response, I gave him fluff.
Scratching my brow-line to appear as thinking, I began, “Well, you know…I receive two whole academic credits for tutoring. Those services aren’t exactly ‘volunteered.’”
Williams howled in laughter as I smiled charmingly. His producers around him cackled silently as well. In the world of journalism, if you gave a reclusive or nervous or disengaged interviewee the narrative to their answers, they’d run with it. Then, at the end of the day, the piece would lack substance, meat, individuality, and discovery.
“All jokes aside,” I circled back before his high humor died. “I’m not good at spontaneity.”
Williams’ upward expressions of humor gained gravity and weight, falling to the floor. He straightened on his stool and his lips parted, but he stumbled on his words so severely, I had to feed him his question. “You—can you…”
My brows peaked. “Expound on it?”
“Yeah. Please.”
I’m only feeding your mediocre ass this because I can’t see another Black man on a white platform behave with such goddamn incompetence.
I flashed my palms, posture relaxed, and expression the same to communicate sincerity. “What I mean is, I was taught by my very first Pee Wee coach that the best athletes are the ones who can obey and mimic.”
“Obey and mimic,” he repeated for dramatic play.
“I was taught to obey authority and mimic what they tell you to do in sports. I applied it at home as well. My mother asked me to do something once, and that’s all it took. Similar to having the options to attend three Ivy League schools. The opportunity was there for me. I gave one look to my mother for guidance and her three-worded response was Black Ivy League.” I shrugged. “BSU was my only option at that point. Even now, Blakewood has armed me with a team to assist in and encourage my goals in this sport. Nutrition, fitness training, field education, mentoring—it’s all provided. My only job is to obey and mimic. Once I master the game of football, I’ll gain autonomy and begin exploring spontaneity—doing what I want to do, when I want to do it.”
For a flash second, Williams’ pupils appeared dilated before he regained himself. This time, his chortle was simulated. “Well, I don’t think Ms. Cooper appreciates that aspect of you, in the romance department!” He belted in laughter, the kind I was expected to join in on.
Why, oh why are you referencing a young girl’s romantic experience at your ripe age of fifty-six, Darron? Don’t be a perv…
And even more than that, I couldn’t give a shit about Aivery romantically in that instance. When I didn’t react in the manner he’d anticipated, Williams wisely moved on. He knew that awkward moment between the two of us would somehow be edited out.
Clearing his throat while adjusting his collar and tie, he continued
, “You’re headed to the Combine in February. Some believe you’ll be the top quarterback prospect in this year’s draft.” His inflection dropped. “Some believe you’re still behind Billy Vanderbilt out of UPenn. He’s expressed wanting to be an Eagle over the years. Before we end this, my last question is, in your wildest dreams, where would you land?”
This one was easy. Lazy, but lightheartedness I’d allow.
A proud smile opened on my face. “I’ve made no secret, my admiration for Tariq Evans, talented wide-receiver for the Kings. It would be an honor to wear the official crown.”
Williams’ regard went to one of the two cameras. “You caught that, Eli Richardson. We need to make this happen!” he joshed. “For ESPN’s Off to a League Start, I’m Darron Williams.”
“And cut!” one of the producers shouted while slamming the clapperboard.
I stood to shake Williams’ hand and expressed my gratitude for his time. After a few compulsory final words and jokes by Williams and his crew, I was thankfully whisked off to a meeting. Downstairs in the large conference room of the athletic compound was my team. They’d been waiting on me, individual presentations in tow. In the lowly lit room, I checked my TAG for the time.
“Spencer,” A.D. Jones began. “How did the ESPN interview go?” He beamed.
“He killed it as usual. You know this kid is the master of interviewing,” Dana, one of the staffers in the athletic department, added while taking a seat.
“That and charming the shit out of men, women, and children,” another at the table amended.
I chuckled dryly, recalling the dance I’d just completed with Williams. The table laughed at related matters.
“You’re representing this institution well, son,” Jones reeled the room in. “You’ve certainly made me proud over these four years, and I won’t speak for Coach Green here, but you’ve been a stellar pupil at the sport of football.” He nodded Coach Green’s way. “Well, let’s not take up too much time. You’ve got kickoff at eight o’clock sharp. This is an early semester check engine meeting. Let’s start with the books, academically. How are you adjusting to the new semester?”
“Well.” I nodded. “I’m up to date with most of my assignments. This weekend will be when I clean up on the rest.”
“And what classes are you taking? What’s the course load again?”
The department’s Academic Liaison answered while glancing down at his clipboard, “Leadership, Innovation, and Change, Economic Analysis for Managers, Innovation, Strategy and Corporate Sustainability, Marketing Management, Academic Aide, and an independent study course. A total of fifteen hours.”
Scribbling in his writing portfolio, A.D. Jones asked, “And this is the last semester of courses, correct?”
Firmly, I sustained, “Correct.” My tenure of undergraduate studies was coming to a glorious end, which meant my life in the pros was soon to begin.
“Great. Moving along…” Jones’ head lifted, eyes swinging around the oval table. “Nutrition. Where are we with weight goals and maintenance? I know Spencer declined the vegan attempt.” He regarded the department’s top nutritionist.
“Yes.” I sat up in my chair. “I opted for the pescatarian,” I mumbled while glancing down at my wrist again for the time. It was 4:51 in the evening.
McNabb, you better not fuck this up…
8
-Then-
The elevator dinged and I couldn’t feel my lungs. The doors opened to the lobby of my dorm and a dizzying wave had me almost horizontal before I could step out. But it didn’t. I pushed through and carefully stepped off the elevator in the heels, focusing on the rhythm of my steps. A loud hush showered over the area and all eyes were on me. There had to be close to ten people present. All of them weren’t for me, though. Several appeared curious about the sudden silence.
“Holy fucking shit…” someone whispered.
“That’s really her?” another random asked.
“Can’t be!”
Ignoring them and avoiding obsessing over the meaning of their words, I maintained a pace forward, keeping them in my peripheral. Twenty feet from the door, I heard a click of a camera. Finally, I turned my attention from straight ahead. Karmen had a camera out and was clicking away. Stunned, I couldn’t find the words to tell her to fuck off. That’s when I saw them all. Aivery stood with blank eyes, but parted lips. Andrea’s eyes were wild as they raced back and forth from my head to my feet. Her hand was clenched to Aivery’s arm as though she needed help standing straight.
What did surprise me was the encouraging smirk of pride on ShawnNicole’s face as she stood with her arms folded to her chest. She winked, messaging her approval. ShawnNicole had styled my hair earlier. When I showed to my appointment, the salon manager asked what I wanted done. When I told her I didn’t know beyond taking out the old tracks my cousin installed, she called to the reception area her available stylists. I’d never heard of a college campus having its own hair and nail salons, filled with Black practitioners, so I kept silent when ShawnNicole aggressively insisted she’d be the one to do my hair.
Her “boss” agreed and although I was hesitant, knowing she was Aivery’s friend, and all of Aivery’s friends hated me, I went along. I guessed she was happy I did. ShawnNicole didn’t say a nasty word as she worked on my hair. As a matter of fact, she talked a lot about the quality of my hair, complimenting me for not having a relaxer. She believed, with my texture, I could do so many natural styles with little product. At first, I didn’t understand, but ShawnNicole’s natural rough and gruffy tone wouldn’t stop yapping away. In no time, I was able to lower my guard and let her go. She decided on a simple ponytail, adding a few tracks of hair for a puffy finishing. She didn’t use heavy gel to do it either. ShawnNicole believed my style should match my diva: simple. Whatever that meant, I was okay with how my hair came out.
ShawnNicole’s approving presence superseded everyone else’s and was what I needed to make it out of the door without tripping or stumbling. The night air was mild, but just what I needed before my next point of panic happened. In the note with the delivery, Ashton told me to be in the lobby at seven. He didn’t say for what. My dumb ass hadn’t thought of transportation until I was able to take my first relieving breath of fresh air. After that, the stress had returned.
“Ms. McNabb?”
I looked ahead, and down the stairs to a short white man at the back seat of a limo. My mouth opened to ask who he was when he tapped his hat to nod, then shut at the sounds behind me. The girls had come outside and were reacting to the limo. That snapped me into gear and I took down the stairs on shaky legs. He opened the door and I slid in, trying not to expose my panties.
Inside smelled good—like fresh leather and cologne. After he closed the door, the light dimmed, but didn’t go completely dark. I was still able to see the girls outside of the door, all gaping at the limo. As we pulled off, I couldn’t miss Aivery’s tense posture as she watched on. What was she even doing here? Her dorm was a ways away from mine. Did she hate me that much to come all the way over here to confirm I was lying about my fake boyfriend?
Instead of dwelling on that, I had another problem. Where was I going in this limo? Ashton obviously thought a step ahead of me, even paying for my ego trip, but that was the extent of his instructions. I thought to call him, but remembered I no longer had a phone. I was stuck at BSU with no means of calling for help. That was a problem I planned on remedying soon enough.
I watched the outside scenery and traffic, trying to figure out what looked familiar once we were finally off campus. It was a twenty minute or more drive before I recognized our destination. It was in town where Trisha had taken me to Applebee’s with her trifling friend. Not only did I not like the food there, I didn’t have money to pay for it. We pulled into a temporary park across the street, and within seconds, the driver was opening the door for me.
With a warm smile, he tapped his hat. “Ms. McNabb, Mr. Spencer would like for you to enjoy t
he fine cuisine of Mario.” He helped me out of the limo. When I was steady on the base of my feet, he waved ahead toward the restaurant where the door was being held open by another man in a different color uniform. “The host, Benny, will have you seated.” He strode back to the driver’s side and slid inside.
Hesitant and with tight hands clutching the purse Ashton had delivered along with the jewelry on my ears, neck, and wrist, I turned for the waiting man.
“Good evening, Ms. Tori.” His head dipped as he smiled once directing me inside. I liked Tori better than McNabb. It lessened the lie. “We’ve been looking forward to you dining with us tonight. The chef has prepared several exciting courses for you. This way.”
I followed him toward the back of the fancy ass restaurant. I didn’t see a lot of people, and most I did were in the front. They were all dressed in suits and shoes, too, just not in anything showing cleavage and thighs like my dress had. I had to remind myself I was on a date, and I supposed on dates, the girl had to look sexy for the guy.
Humans are so extra with this shit…
Sexy was work. Sexy was something I had no interest in doing ever again. These were my strong thoughts as I was led to a table in the back. White cloth, three candles, flowers, glasses, plates, and silver utensils topped it. If the decoration and vibe of the place on the way in hadn’t told me, this place was uppity…like Ashton and his “Beverly Hills 90210” friends.
The seat was pulled out for me and a cloth napkin placed in my lap, thankfully quickly. I didn’t like people so close, and definitely not at my lap.
“Ms. McNabb.” A short Black man with the brightest smile walked up to the table, his palms pressed into one another. “I’m delighted to have you with us tonight. I do believe it’s your first experience at Mario.” I knew he was waiting for an answer, but my brain was stuck on the McNabb part. Hearing it this time reminded me of my grandma. I wasn’t worthy of sharing the name. His lashes smacked together a few times, smile held as he continued, “I was fortunate enough to have a contact at the BSU athletic program to find out your diet. When Mr. Spencer told me you were an athlete, but he didn’t know what you ate, I thought to reach out to Tamara, your nutritionist, to clear you. We’re both BSU alumni. Class of ninety-eight.”
