Chapter 33
Antonio
“Right there! Don’t stop!”
“Shit!”
“Oh!”
“Yes! Yes!”
“Give me that pussy juice!”
“Ahh!”
“Give me that pussy JUICE!”
The art hanging feet above shakes at the force of the headboard colliding with the wall. It clangs three times before a high-pitched squeal threatens to rupture my eardrums.
Fucking should be an Olympic sport, but not the night before a game.
“He better not pull a damn thing,” I mumble from under my forearm.
I warned Bread countless times to save it for after we play. If he wants to drizzle chocolate syrup all over his body and bedazzle his dick hole in sequins, I’ll support him. After the game.
“Who are you calling?” I ask Kendrick.
“The front desk.” He sucks his teeth and rubs the sleep out of his eyes with the hotel phone pressed against his ear. “I’m no snitch, but I’ve had enough of him and the hyena. Ain’t no way that’s the same woman from earlier, hollering like she got shot.”
I toss a pillow over my face to keep from cracking up. He’s dead serious.
“Aye. The team paid for the room. No noise violations,” I say through a shaky laugh.
“Yes.” He cuts his eyes at me and answers the person on the other end of the line. “If you could send someone up to tell his Black a—to keep it down. Thank you.” He hangs up, tightens the string on his flannel pajama pants, and mumbles to himself on the way to the bathroom.
Kendrick and I agreed to share a room during away games. Shins must be on a couch in the hotel lobby, the way Bread is murdering that woman. I can’t complain, given my own track record with disturbing the peace. But I’d usually stay in a separate hotel room, or her house if the vibe was there.
Except this year.
My sex drive is never satisfied, but the urge to get a nut off with someone whose name I won’t remember in the morning just isn’t there.
Many of Houston’s finest women were out last night.
A few caught my eye, but none held my attention enough to take it farther than a nod or a dance.
I haven’t been out in a minute, and I came back to the room with Kendrick.
Between the early flight, team meetings, practice, and dinner at the bar, I passed out the minute my face hit the pillow after a quick shower.
I didn’t read Miriam’s texts until I woke up. My phone was on airplane mode, and I missed wishing her a happy Valentine’s Day. Not that I celebrate. This time every year, I’m hundreds of miles away from anyone I’ve been inside of who expects flowers, candy, and an invitation to give love a try.
I bought Miriam a few gifts from the Space Center, which I visited today before our final practice.
A 3D-model kit, astronaut kitchen mitts, and freeze-dried ice cream aren’t much, but they’re things I figured she’d like.
A “thinking of you” gift in a miss-your-friend kind of way, because I do miss her.
Not talking to her is eating at me. It didn’t bother me in the past, when she lived in a different state, but it does now.
Valentine’s Day falling on the exact date I happened to be near the Space Center is just a coincidence. Dessert and some trinkets aren’t a declaration of love. I don’t make those, and I won’t start on this holiday, of all days.
Kendrick pads across the room in his house slippers. He has a newspaper tucked underneath his armpit, his signal for me to not go into the bathroom he blew up. Our hotel room isn’t the biggest. The mattress barely accommodates my height, but the sheets are soft.
“Maybe he fell asleep,” he says about the welcome silence.
“Let’s hope so. We need to be at the field by nine.” I roll over to the shared nightstand and grab my phone.
DMs I ignore and a text from my mom.
Nothing from Miriam.
“Does that tight lip mean she hasn’t hit you back?” A hint of humor laces Kendrick’s tone. “Maybe she’s out.”
Miriam did text that she was spending time with Marcela before she went silent.
I’m just checking to see if she made it back home safely.
It’s midnight in Buffalo, an hour ahead.
There’s black ice on the road and pool-size potholes she’ll hit if she’s not careful.
What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t verify proof of life?
I scroll through the photos of tonight’s fundraiser Marcela posted on her social media.
The only reason I follow her is because her sister refuses to get online.
The event was packed with people laughing and dancing.
My brows narrow at an image of Miriam at the bar.
She’s in a black dress that curls up her thighs, sitting next to the guy from the workplace she turned down.
Dickhead.
Heat flares inside my chest. My jaw clicks, and I resist the compulsion to fly home. They’re not touching, but his big-ass knees are disrespecting her personal space, if you ask me. He’s staring at her. Hard. Her smile lifts her dimples, and I don’t like that shit.
I have no right to be this tight over a photo, but seeing all of her teeth on display for him fucks with me.
Maybe Dickhead was a guest, but he’s one more eye-fuck away from visiting somebody’s hospital.
Something about him is off.
Or you have an issue with anyone pressing up on her.
I scoff and type a quick message.
Did you make it home?
Alone.
“Can’t ask that,” I mutter to myself.
You looked beautiful.
Respectful and within the boundaries of our friendship. If she asks, I’ll tell her I was online and saw the fundraiser photos. Harmless. She doesn’t need to know I’ve checked my phone all night in case she wanted to talk.
“You good?” Kendrick asks my profile.
“Smooth.”
What is she doing here?
Kenya Thomas is in the second-to-last photo. I haven’t seen her since she retired from professional cheerleading and left Buffalo. That was, what, two years ago?
We met during the Steel’s first press conference.
Players from Buffalo came out to support, and she was there.
You can’t miss her in any room she enters.
We kicked it and quickly learned how much we have in common.
Both of us come from families that own financial businesses.
She was busy with her career and finishing up grad school.
I had no interest in anything beyond linking up.
The only flaw Kenya had was cheering for Buffalo.
I don’t care how long I play for the Steel, it’s Baltimore football all day.
An explosion of knocks hits the door.
“What now?” I rip off the sheets and adjust my boxer briefs. “Did you order room service?”
Kendrick sucks his teeth. “This late, the night before a game?”
Another knock.
I damn near snatch the handle off and squint at Shins. He’s in an undershirt and sweats, gripping a pillow to his chest.
“Can I sleep in here?”
“What’s wrong with your bed?”
A loud moan cuts through the wall that separates our rooms. The headboard sends another tremor through the art, which Shins points at and says, “That.”
“Didn’t you call downstairs?” I frown at Kendrick, who’s on his knees praying.
He rubs his temple. “I did.”
“Ahh!”
“Did they not send someone up?” I ask Shins.
“Yes! Right there!”
“Oh, they did.” He pushes his way inside. “Kendrick, can I share with you?”
“Ride my shit, then!” Bread shouts from the other side of the wall.
“Why can’t you sleep with Cap?” Kendrick huffs.
Shins and I shrug. “You’re smaller,” I say, like it’s not obvious.
Kendrick’s glare bounces between us before he sighs. “You owe me—both of you. Keep your ass on the edge.”
Shins moves to the open side of the bed and tosses a pillow between them. “Thanks, man. The noise-canceling headphones don’t work. Do you think we could find a bigger room this season for the three of us to share?”
“To hell with his.” I hop into a pair of basketball shorts and slides. I didn’t sign up for a threesome, and I’ll be damned if I sit my ass on a toilet seat I’m sharing with two other people.
It takes four hard knocks for Bread to answer. I smack his big ass in the forehead and tell Front Desk Brenda to go back to the job that pays her. I know good and damn well her job description does not include riding dick.
There is no reason for the room to smell like pennies and coriander.
Kendrick and Shins are holding each other while summoning the dead with their snores once I get back.
“Come on,” I mumble.
I consider suffocating them with my pillow, but I choose a safer option, one that won’t end in fifteen to life. Reaching for my phone, I glare at the screen.
No new messages.
Things are about to change around here.
Snore.
Starting with my room.