“Gimme your damn feet, girl.”
“No, seriously, it’s—”
Before I could get the “fine” out of my mouth, he’d hooked his arm around my ankles, and pulled my feet into his lap.
“You good now?” he asked, and even though I felt completely ridiculous, I nodded. “Good. Consider yourself lucky these things are cute,” he teased, peering down at my toes, which I reflexively wiggled under the scrutiny. They were only in such a state because my mother had insisted on taking me to the spa a few days before.
Thank God.
His attention returned to the TV, and after a few moments, mine did too, and I was able to do what he’d initially insisted – relax.
For the first episode, at least.
Somehow, his hand landed on one of my feet, with his thumb absently stroking back and forth. I closed my eyes as the pressure increased – purposeful now – and tried not to moan as sensation traveled to somewhere much more personal than my feet.
“You look like you’re enjoying this.”
When my eyes popped open, my gaze went straight to Ramsey, zeroing in on his smirk. He brought his other hand to my foot too, kneading a spot that made me glad I had my arm draped over my breasts, conveniently hiding the fact that my nipples were hard as rocks.
“Y-you don’t have to do that,” I breathed, then bit down on the inside of my lip.
“You want me to stop?” I shook my head, and he shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.”
Oh, but it was.
My intimate touch levels had been sorely lacking, even before the wedding that never was. All of the coordinating and planning while trying to work had zapped my energy, and Darius had been shooting overtime for special episodes of his show. Between the two of us, we never seemed to have the energy for more than a quickie, and I wasn’t… a quickie kind of girl. So that was one-sided anyway.
All of that resulted in this moment, in my friend’s condo, with him rubbing my feet, in an attempt to help me relax. Only, instead of relaxing, I was trying not to notice the fact that my panties were suddenly wet, and fantasizing about him deciding my “cute” feet were “cute” enough to put my toes in his mouth.
Down girl. This ain’t that type of party.
Mercifully, he moved his hands to a spot that still felt good, but was much less… orgasmic. I could actually feel the tension and stress melting out of me, and closed my eyes, listening to the show instead of watching.
“Damnit.”
That was the first thing I heard after my eyes popped open, and I narrowed them, willing myself to adjust to unexpected darkness. The TV was off, and so where most of the lights. The one from the hall provided just enough illumination to see Ramsey kneeling in front of me.
“I was trying not to wake you,” he said in a low voice. “You were twisted though. I was trying to fix your neck before it turned into a problem.”
I tried to raise my hand to brush my hair out of my eyes, and realized then that I had a lightweight blanket draped over me, that hadn’t been on the couch before. I groaned as I pushed myself up. Now that my eyes were adjusting, I noticed that Ramsey was shirtless, and a little damp, like he’d just showered. All he was wearing was basketball shorts.
“What time is it?” I asked, keeping my eyes on his face.
“Uhhh.” He peeked around me, probably seeking out the glowing numbers on the stove. “One twenty-eight.”
“Shit.” I moved to get up, but Ramsey caught me by the arms, urging me back down.
“I know you’re not trying to get back to Connecticut by yourself, at this time of night?”
I frowned. “What else am I supposed to do? I need to get home.”
“What? Nah, man. Just crash here for the night, get a few hours of sleep. We have to be on set early tomorrow anyway. It’s too late to make that drive.”
Damn it.
He was right. I was barely keeping my eyes open now honestly, and Naima and my parents both lived in Stamford – at best, a forty minute drive away. And going to a hotel for just a few hours would be silly – especially when I was about to have to start paying exorbitant rent.
“Thank you,” I said, quietly. I was more than a little embarrassed at my level of imposition, even though Ramsey and I were friends.
But, in typical Ramsey fashion, he shook his head. “It’s not a problem. You need anything?”
“No, you’ve done enough,” I answered. “But… do you mind if I turn on the TV? I need the noise, to fall asleep.”
His eyebrow went up. “Really? You know that’s not really healthy for you, right?”
“I know,” I nodded. “And I never used to, but lately… I need it.”
His expression softened, and a moment later, he was pressing the remote into my hands. “Do what you have to do to be okay. I’m right down that hall, the door on the left,” he explained, pointing. “If you need anything… holler.”
“Thank you,” I said again, smiling at him as he stood. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to my temple before he walked off, leaving me alone in his living room. I waited until I heard his door close to switch the TV on.
I flipped through channels until I found Bernie Mac Show reruns, then snuggled in under the blanket again. Even though he was in the other room, just knowing Ramsey’s presence was close by made me feel… less alone.
I focused in on the TV so I wouldn’t have to review the events of earlier in the day, or the last few weeks, in my head. I didn’t want to give it space, didn’t want to give it power. Instead, I just wanted… to sleep.
So that’s what I did.
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 so
mething?”
“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.”
Determining Possession (Connecticut Kings Book 3) Page 7
