Love Delayed

by Love Belvin

  My complexion was less than a shade darker than hers. Some referred to me as light skinned and others brown. I was thin, never being more than a size five, if I was lucky. I’d wished for that surprise fifteen pounds myself, but wasn’t so lucky. Most of my weight came from my wild hair. Angela’s hair was far more manageable than my own. She was lucky there.

  The common thread for Angela and me was that we both struggled to break the mold of the traditional religious restrictions our family put on us. I didn’t want to live mundane; go to school, marry right away, have babies, and perpetuate the perception that there was nothing to explore outside the walls of the sanctuary. I wanted to live, to travel and discover what else was out there. I didn’t want tradition; I wanted to paint the path I created. The one never toured. My first start was school. I would get my degree, secure my family and take off somewhere—anywhere. But I wouldn’t be held back by condemnation for wanting more.

  Angela endeavored to break away from the same outmoded lifestyle, but her approach was more rebellious. She was a bright student, always having maintained at least a 3.0 grade point average. I always argued that she could do better if she applied herself and went beyond just getting by. However, Angela would always counter that I could work for my 3.8 average alone; her efforts would be made finding a millionaire to seduce. I never understood the long-term accomplishment in that, but admired her boldness and veracity.

  I liked a bit of rock and roll; she lived for hip-hop. I appreciated understated beauty; Ang was the cleavage and camel-toe revealer. I studied to improve; she studied to pass. I liked art, appreciated variety; my cousin enjoyed attempting sensual art with her body. We girls had different agendas, but our goals were the same. We wanted to chart our own paths, ones very different from those our parents traveled.

  The only thing that could have had Angela up and live at this hour was a man. Although I was enrolled at Princeton University and she was at Rutgers University, the New Brunswick campus, we both applied for the Working Toward the Stars program. It was a unique opportunity for participating universities in New Jersey. The program selected top performing students to take on non-paying jobs that put them in the room with top professionals. Our options were theater, music, engineering, baseball, football, basketball, opera, NASCAR, culinary arts and several more. Angela talked me into applying because she had the biggest crush on Stenton Rogers.

  Stenton Rogers: NBA shooting guard for the Philadelphia 76’ers, from Newark, NJ, was the number two overall Draft Pick, three-time MVP Awardee, and four-time Champion. Oh, and his jersey was number seven. I knew things about this man that were of no consequence to me. I knew nothing about sports, much less basketball. I was simply happy to be spending much of the summer with my closest cousin.

  Secretly, I had no idea what she wanted with a man like Stenton Rogers. He stayed in the headlines for his reckless behavior. Either fighting with paparazzi, or losing his cool on the courts, or taking nude pictures with models; Stenton Rogers was a topic at every dinner table in America at some point. Two years earlier, the news, blogs and all things Internet were buzzing with the leaked pictures of Stenton and an unknown woman doing things my untainted mind couldn’t conceive. It was the time in American culture when the world finally discovered how far down his tattoos reached.

  Again, I didn’t follow basketball, but my father and every other man I knew were fanatics of the sport, and almost invariably during each man-talk exchange there would be mention of Stenton Rogers. Mainly, the discussion would be led by his dominance on the courts, but more often than not, his wild and lewd behavior with random women would be the subtopic.

  And then there was the two minute clip of a sex tape that was released. Now, that one was stripped from every blogger’s site within two days of being leaked. Stenton was under fire by the league and almost let go. According to my dad, he was suspended for the remainder of the season behind that one. My dad also said if Stenton wasn’t the premiere player of not just the Philadelphia 76’ers, but also the league, he would have been fired without a second thought.

  That incident, mixed with the bar fight he’d engaged in just the night before that video was leaked, had women everywhere in a lustful frenzy over Stenton Rogers. Fawning over him became vogue. I didn’t get it. What dignified woman would want a man whose body so many women across the world were acquainted with?

  My cousin, Angela.

  “Holy mother of Joseph! I’m gonna have his dribbling babies!” Angela’s screaming roused me from my daze. “I gave Timmy a parting screw yesterday. All I kept thinking about was how the next man between my legs will be Stenton Rogers! I’ve been so excited these last few weeks that my cycle has been knocked off.” She slapped the steering wheel.

  Ahhhh… Timmy. I had mixed feelings about Timmy’s mention. He’d recently cheated on Angela with a coworker, Regina. Angela turned volatile at that discovery; showed up to his job physically threatening the both of them, egg-bombed his car and slashed two of his tires. I was surprised there was a recovery period for those two that included sex.

  “Oh, my god…my first question for him will be how many tattoos he has. Ooh, Zoey, they’re from his neck, all the way down to his waist…even on his knuckles! I can’t wait to see each and every one of them.” She giggled in delight. “And I’ve been told he has a potty mouth. Mmmmmm! I can’t wait to put mine on him,” she mused aloud. “Umph…here we go!” she sang as we pulled into the circular driveway of Moorestown Creek private country club.

  A white gloved valet jogged to the driver’s side and courteously asked our reason for being there. Angela airily explained our enrollment in the Working Toward the Stars program. Her lengthy words and perfect enunciations were entirely unnecessary, and was all for him to explain that we needed to park our own car in the back lot where all employees did. That didn’t pump the brakes on her enthusiasm, though. Ang was ready to lay eyes on her future husband. I, on the other hand, was ready to get through my first day so I could crawl back in the bed to catch a few Zs before my night class.

  We checked in with the program coordinator, Jeffery, an employee of the facility. He offered us options for the role we’d play for the summer. We could either be courtside bartenders and serve non-alcoholic beverages or collect the balls the players would use to practice their shots. I didn’t want to be in too close proximity to them, so I was relieved when Angela enthusiastically opted for the ball fetcher role.

  We took off for the gym. Along the way, I noticed the prestige of the place. Plush carpeting, stark white walls with built-in frames, real greenery on gold stands against the walls, and the all-white gloved staff.

  After a brief orientation of the beverage stand, I was left alone in the corner of a massive gym. There were no bleachers, just a massive court with seats dispersed around the center floor. By 7:00 a.m. tall figures with tight faces had begun strolling in. I’d guessed although this was their normal training time, it was still their vacation period and they weren’t so inspired.

  From the second lanky figure that walked through one set of doors, I wondered where was Angela’s Stenton Rogers. I’d seen him on television over the years here and there, but again, I didn’t follow sports and his lewd behavior had calmed over the last couple of years, so I hadn’t caught a glimpse of him on the newsstands at my local grocery store in a while. And from the considerable distance, he could be the man at the other end of the colossal room, holding the industrial mop.

  I spied Angela from across the court and her eyes were already on me, beaming with anxious enthusiasm. I’d wished there was a way I could ask her where was her guy. I thought to send a text, but quickly retracted that idea, as we weren’t allowed to use our phones in the gym. By ten minutes after seven, there were nearly fifteen people in the gym; perhaps four women, but mostly men.

  It eventually became clear to me who was who. Most of the basketball players were amazons with the exception of this one spirited and loquacious short man. He was short, and
I don’t mean NBA short, but even layman short. He could be no more than 5’ 7”, but he was fast! I mean, he moved with extreme speed when passing and shooting. Those giants moved like zombies compared to him. And between each successful play he’d have a loud and often brash comment to follow it up.

  One of the things I kept hearing him call out was the word stentro. I didn’t know what that was, but when he stood still, he’d hold his crotch in some form and often say, stentro. It wasn’t until nearly two hours after their arrival that I’d caught on. A ball went out of bounds and this time Angela went to fetch it.

  “Steeeenton,” she purred rather loudly, I’m sure to gain his attention.

  One of the giants stopped and turned to her. Angela tossed the ball with a girlie flicking of the wrist. The basketball barely made it over to him, but he picked it up and graciously thanked her.

  “You’re welcome, Stent,” Angela shouted sexily again, curving her body into an “S” shape.

  Hmmmm…so that’s Stenton Rogers?

  Things from that point on were pretty eventless. By Tuesday, I regretted taking on this quest with Angela. When Wednesday rolled around, Angela asked to stay until after the guys were through changing in the locker rooms. I didn’t want to; I was tired and preferred catching my daily nap. Nonetheless, I’d agreed.

  “Oop-oop!” Angela jumped in place while we stood in the hall right outside of the men’s locker room. “Here he comes! C’mon,” she whispered rapidly with the least amount of conspicuity as she could, then pulled me by the arm and sashayed over to where the men were exiting.

  “Oh, look at this,” the short guy with almond skin similar to mine tapped Stenton Rogers on the arm. “It’s the two caddies.” He did his usual groping of himself as he laughed at his own joke.

  I looked up to the tree-towering man, Stenton Rogers, and my eyes quickly averted from his glower. I know I must’ve looked all of eleven years old with that move, but my eyes couldn’t stand to look at him for long now that he was in my face. It was like looking directly at the sun on the brightest day.

  “Heeeeeey, guys!” Angela sang. “We just came by on our way out to say good day training earlier. I see your passing technique has improved.”

  I glanced over at her with the look of death. I didn’t know anything about basketball, but had sense enough to know you didn’t critique professionals when you didn’t play.

  I watched the flirtatious grin that played at her lips as she pouted them mischievously.

  “We ‘bout to get into some business thangs, but later we gonna have a few drinks with some buddies of ours. You ladies are more than welcome to join us,” the short one offered greasily then swiped his tongue over his lips.

  I saw the way he sized up my breasts and Angela’s thighs respectively. It made me incredibly uncomfortable. What was more disconcerting was Angela jumping at the opportunity. She literally jumped to face me, begging me to agree. I couldn’t believe she bought that as an appropriate invitation.

  “I have class tonight,” I reminded her.

  Within a beat, Angela squinted her eyes at me, clearly seething at my response. This was for her. I enrolled in this stupid program for her. She was up close and in Stenton Rogers’ face. Here was her opportunity and if this weak and disingenuous invitation was it, she’d be taking the rest of the journey alone.

  “What time and where?” Angela whipped her head back to them and eagerly asked.

  The short dude looked up to the tatted tree, Stenton Rogers. “You’ll be done with your interview by seven?” Before the lanky guy could reply, the midget answered. “Yeah, seven would be good. We’re meeting at a small spot in Philly. Write me your number and I’ll have my people text you the address.”

  Write down her number? Really? I watched as Angela scrambled for her purse, in search of a writing utensil. It’s 2006; who still writes down phone numbers when they could easily be plugged into cell phones?

  Someone’s phone rang. Everyone went searching for theirs except for Angela who was scribbling her information on the back of a receipt.

  “I’ll meet you outside. I gotta take this,” the tall guy mumbled. His voice was nasal, yet husky, forcing me to steal a glance at him for the second time. He didn’t pay us a parting regard before walking off.

  “Here you go,” Angela shoved the paper to shorty. “Stent is going to be there, right?” No one could miss the zeal in her voice.

  “Oh, yeah,” he returned, not even looking at her when he answered. He slickly pushed the paper in his pocket and took off in the wake of his giant friend. “It’s been real, ladies. Looking forward to seeing you later,” he tossed over his shoulder.

  Angela turned to me and silently jumped up and down in anticipation once he was no longer in sight.

  “You’re so going to cut class for this, right? For me,” she begged, out of breath.

  I pulled her by the hand in the opposite direction to the back parking lot. “Absolutely not. I can’t skip class, Ang.”

  On the ride back to my campus, I listened to Angela give me all the reasons she believed I should go down to Philly with her, even guaranteeing me as the godmother of her and Stenton Rogers’ first baby. And all the while I told her no.

  The next day at the country club was completely uneventful. On the way back to campus, Angela told me how the short guy, whose name I learned was Alton Alston, asked why we didn’t join them. She said she gave him some bogus excuse about having to go to class as a means of not appearing too desperate. She was desperate! Angela said she’d come up with a plan for getting into Stenton Rogers’ bed soon enough. We only had a few weeks of their pre-training season to make her dreams come true.

  That Thursday, I was still at my assigned post, bored out of my mind. It was only 9:30 and my stomach was already growling. I’d only had time to grab an apple and water on my way out that morning because I’d overslept and had to rush out of the door to meet Angela. I was up the night before, writing a paper that made up a good portion of my summer grade. I made sure to knock out a class in the summer since my scholarship generously covered the expense.

  I wanted to complete my undergrad career as quickly as possible; I had responsibilities awaiting me. My family. Angela didn’t take summer classes at Rutgers. She was fortunate enough to not have to even work. Her parents thought this Working Toward the Stars was actually a significant course. The one credit that it provided wasn’t worth the five or so hours a day I dedicated to it. I would have much rather been somewhere sleeping or reading.

  That morning, as my thoughts ran amok, wishing I was anywhere but at a country club serving millionaire jocks, I recalled Bernard, the choir director at our church, saying he was going to post a video of the regional choir he belonged to, practicing for their submission to the next McDonald’s Gospelfest.

  I was squatting behind the bar, perusing my Facebook timeline for it when I heard, “Are you supposed to be doing that or serving drinks?” The tone was brusque, his silky chords poured, not just in my ears, but over my entire body causing my pulse to race.

  I didn’t think, I only felt the echoing of his vocal chords in my core, then panicked. I jumped from the floor, nearly crashing into the small cart. The last time I’d looked up, they were practicing some type of fake-out passes with some guy named Olajuwon. I only knew this because that’s what they called him on the court and he wore a t-shirt with that name printed on the back.

  “Can I help you?” I finally glanced up…and I mean up.

  My eyes traveled his all black jersey. I idly realized no one ever wore official league jerseys to the country club, he was no different. But what jolted my attention was the ink. It was an entirely different experience than that from afar. This man’s arms and neck were covered in red, black, and yellow tattoos; from the portion of his chest that I could see, all the way up to his neck, and down to his knuckle.

  I don’t think I’d ever seen so much graffiti on a body before in my life. There were so many shapes, colo
rs, words, and expressions. There was an embossed star on his neck, just below his earlobe, a meticulously jagged barbwire that was etched around his neck and came around to his chest, expanding into a larger image that his jersey concealed. On his left shoulder was a pair of skulls with red eyes and other fiery ornaments, and just below that was a tribal sun. And surprisingly to my dismay, that was all I could observe considering his stance in front of me.

  I could easily get lost in isolating each one and discovering the totality of them individually. I found it strange that those markings made his presence extremely…masculine. What was more eerie about this ink encounter was the fact that I was surprisingly drawn to them. Me! Drawn to marks that marred the beauty of natural skin!

  My eyes trailed up to his orbs and that was my undoing. Stenton’s eyes were a rich combination of brown and gold hues, some even sparkling, snatching the breath from my hyperactive lungs. They reflected like marbles. The cinnamon skin on his face was free of inked patterns. His eyebrows were thick and handsomely bushy. His nose was moderately wide and long reaching just above his neatly trimmed mustache. And his lips were full with the top spread wider than the bottom, making them resemble the shape of a heart. I found myself biting my bottom one, embarrassed by my assessment of this man’s assets.

  Wow! Angela is going to have some tall and handsome babies!

  “I did want something to drink, but Facebook seems to be the service of the day,” he said pointedly glancing at my phone.

  I pushed it into my pocket, straightened my shoulders and asked, “What can I get for you, Mr. Rogers?”