Chapter 35
Antonio
Irush into an opposing player with the speed of a freight train. The impact lifts him into the air before I drive us both into the grass, landing with a hard thud. The player under me groans, and I smile as the ball rolls out of his arms.
Cho grabs it and sprints off to our try zone in a race against time and the three Seattle players who are on his tail. He breaches the try line and taps the ball in the middle, earning us five points.
“Tee!” Kendrick shouts, catching one thrown from the sideline.
He lines up the seam of the ball with the posts and takes six steps back to the left. The opposing team charges, but Kendrick sends the ball over the crossbar between the posts. Weight transfer and the ability to control his speed is why he’s the best kicker in the league.
Flags raise to confirm the two-point conversion kick. The loud peal of the ref’s whistle slices through the air. Halftime.
“Nice one.” I slap hands with Kendrick.
“That was all you and this one.” He tips his chin at Cho, who’s jogging back to us.
Jiwon Cho, or “Cho,” is the resident pretty boy on the team. We’re still getting his head checked for delusions. He’s a fort when it comes to ball carry and one of the slipperiest motherfuckers you’ll meet charging through a gap.
“You on that juice, Cap?” Cho grins, scratching the jersey gripping his chest.
I flip him off. “Your headband is too tight.”
Cho grew out his loose waves to his ears last season and added “cinnamon” highlights for sex appeal. He has his own fan club, the “Cho-Hards,” who travel to different games for a glimpse of his muscles and the stupid-ass wink he does for attention.
“He’s working through some shit,” Kendrick offers. I graze the top of his braided ponytail with a slap.
“With Maid Miriam?” Cho’s eyes light up. He’s far too excited to talk about my business.
“The only thing being worked is my last fucking nerve.” I cut my eyes at them. Kendrick motions that his lips are zipped, and Cho backs away.
Anyone can get it today, nosy teammates included.
I’ve been on ten since the first whistle, and I haven’t let up.
My stats in this game alone might break league records the way I’ve been bulldozing through the Seattle team.
A few ran away to steer clear of my path of destruction.
At one point, Bread shouted, “Get ’em, CT!
” when I was carrying defenders on my back.
I high-stepped my way to a try like it was an elimination battle on The Challenge.
On the outside, I’m having the best game of my career. On the inside, I’m barely holding it together.
Miriam texted two nights ago, after my first PSN interview aired.
I was on cloud fucking nine after a practice that could have made me a leading man in an Icy Hot commercial.
I pictured those dimples denting her cheeks.
Then I pictured my mama sobbing in front of a courthouse in the blue suit she only wears for special occasions before my televised hearing for killing a man.
In no universe did I expect a “What are you doing?” text would lead to her responding, “On a date with Dickhead.” She didn’t write “Dickhead,” but what’s understood requires no explanation.
I sucked on her pussy like it was a special dietary need, only for her to run to Kieran?
They’re not coworkers, or friends that I know of.
Why are they enjoying shared meals? Her happiness is all that matters.
I want what’s best for her. If that means supporting her with a suit-by-the-pack-wearing asshole who probably took her to an expensive place with complimentary bread imported from France and fine linens, I’ll support her. I won’t like the shit, but I’ll do it.
Miriam altered my life the second she drove her stubborn ass up here in that moving truck. I’m not acting how I used to, and it hasn’t bothered me. Much to my surprise.
I’ve never been with only one woman in my life and wouldn’t know the first thing about relationships. But I can’t shake what I feel for her. A friendship isn’t enough, and I sure as fuck don’t like her entertaining dickheads who will break her heart.
Shit, maybe she’s right. I don’t commit, and I’m not about to fail trying with her. I’m already losing her, and messing up what we have isn’t an option.
So we’re standing by while Dickhead swoops in?
“Fuck all that.”
Usher’s falsetto whines float over from the sidelines. Cho holds his phone in the air with his other arm around Kendrick. The two idiots sway to “U Got It Bad.” Bread hits a dolphin dive, humping the ground without a lick of sense.
“What the hell is this, a match or Dancing with the Stars? Get your asses in the huddle!”
Steel jerseys scramble at Coach Titan’s glower. Our assistant coach never found an American Ninja Warrior challenge he won’t use as punishment. His Rick Fox curls and puppy dog eyes are for show. He will knock your head off of your shoulders and do it wearing a sweater vest.
He’s still popping blood vessels shouting at Bread and Cho. Serves them right.
“Bring your ass too, Lover Boy!” he snaps at me.
“What did I do?”
We win by fourteen.
Cameras were on the pitch right after the ref blew the final whistle.
My energy was somewhere on the ground next to the bodies I laid out, but I did my best to hold a smile with the flashing lights spotting my vision.
The Steel stay in weekly highlight reels across sports networks.
It keeps us relevant and keeps the reporters chomping at the bit for interviews.
I’m tired, hungry, and could really use a blunt.
“Great game, son.” Coach Washington pats my shoulder and motions for me to follow him out of the empty locker room. Anyone who wasn’t part of the Steel got the boot, and I swear a little “Hallelujah” slipped out of me.
The stadium corridor is a quiet pathway of overhead lights that lead to the parking lot. The team is on the bus. Some already hit the streets to celebrate.
“PSN wants live coverage of our matches,” Coach says. “Your interview was a hit. With today’s win, we’ll have the airtime to increase our fan base.”
I nod. “That’s what’s up. Any news from upstairs?”
“It’s been quiet.” He strokes his brow. “Keep up what you’re doing. Back-to-back wins is a great start to the season.”
“I can handle that.”
“I know you can. See you on the plane tomorrow.”
Coach shuffles off in the team’s track suit to catch up with one of the analysts.
The team bus shakes from the bass of “Turn Down for What” and hollering like we won the championship. I pull out my phone to respond to the texts from my parents and Julian congratulating me on the win. A few DMs from women I’ve linked up with in Seattle trickle in, which I delete.
There’s only one person I want to call.
It’s ten thirty back in Buffalo, too late to call Miriam. She’s probably asleep on her couch while a baking show plays in the background. I want to hear her voice, that giggle when she gets excited. I want her frustration when she asks if I remembered to take my vitamins and I say no.
I want…her.
My fingers glide across the screen as I type out a quick message.
Hey! We won our game. Press was hectic, but it’s fun. How’s your night?
“Yo, Cap! You coming?” Kendrick leans out the door to the bus.
Between travel and trying to keep the Steel alive, maybe it’s foolish to think about what I want. There’s so little time for anything else.
A grin spreads at my buzzing phone. She’s up.
Kenya
Are you still in the stadium? I’d love to get an interview before you leave.
She’s here?
Dumb question. Kenya’s new role at PSN covers the RLA. If she flew up from Cali, she’s with the Seattle team.
Tuesday’s interview was a whirlwind of cameras and a crew hovering mics and lights above my face. We didn’t get a chance to catch up after, but maybe we can tonight.
“I’ll get up with you later,” I call over to Kendrick. I don’t miss his frown, and Bread damn near pushes him down the steps to lean over the front seat.
“Don’t make me snitch to Maid Miriam!”
“Chill,” I chuckle. “Another interview came up.” I’m single. I can be outside, deep in pussy if I want to. I’m not on that kind of time, though.
Bread nods. “Be safe, and look both ways before crossing the street.”
“Why aren’t you going out?” Kendrick mushes Bread’s face as he squeezes up the stairs.
His smirk says it all. “Got a shorty coming to my room.”
There’s a collective groan on the bus.
“Not again!” Shins cries.
“I got you. See you, Cap.” Kendrick waves.
I can shower in the locker room. I wasn’t planning on going out, but I can take one more interview.