Chapter 41
Miriam
When Antonio said he wanted to take me out, rugby practice wasn’t on my list. It wasn’t anywhere near the vicinity of what I imagined our first date would be.
He said his penis wouldn’t be involved, but he failed to mention the rest of his body being on full display—or the testosterone soaking into the atmosphere.
My hands clench, and my nails dig into my palms at the heavy hit.
A player falls to the ground, cradling the ball.
He extends his arms to two approaching teammates who have red mesh jerseys over their compression shirts.
Both are tall, loaded with muscles, and surely dedicated to counting macros and bench-pressing twice my weight in the gym.
Antonio sprints from the other side of the artificial turf and rams into both men like they’re crash test dummies. His shoulders are low, and every back and leg muscle is teasing my thighs to start a fire by rubbing them together.
Arson is a stretch, but splitting holes in my control-top tights is imminent.
“Jinkies,” I mutter, out of breath from witnessing the force of his body disrupt motion.
Antonio peels out the ball with his cleats, and another player grabs it and speeds off to the try zone.
The man is a tank, forcing turnovers and knocking people down like bowling pins.
How he maintains the stamina to pop up after tackles and run into players again defies logic.
No amount of money or love of the game would possess my body to plow into a grown human at full force—with a smile.
A whistle blows. Antonio skips to the sideline through a procession of back pats.
His eyes land on me in the corner, where I put myself to stay out of the way.
I don’t need the attention, and I certainly don’t need anyone questioning if I’m having hot flashes because of the tiny shorts littering the AstroTurf.
My God.
He winks before walking off with a man holding a clipboard. To his credit, he’s kept our date casual, with minimal chances to reexamine the strength of my kitchen table.
Our first date.
It still takes a minute to process that we’re doing this, investigating an “us” outside of our friendship.
I was nervous getting ready, but reality told my assumptions to have several seats once his car rolled up my driveway.
Some nerves were still fluttering in my stomach, but most had subsided due to the safety already embedded between us.
I know him.
I’ve known him.
We met on my front porch, at Antonio’s request, where I got a firm handshake and a pack of Twizzlers in lieu of flowers.
I fell out laughing once I realized he was serious and taking no chances.
But all cackling ceased when his hug wrapped me in his tobacco and cedar cologne.
My toes curled, and my body vibrated from his nearness after so much time apart.
I got a kiss on the nose and have been in this foldable chair next to the equipment locker ever since.
Only God’s strongest soldiers are immune to thick thighs and good intentions. I’m not ashamed to admit the dizzy spells I get from his grunts and the way his teeth sink into his lip when he pistons into another player.
The Steel have a reduced practice schedule to reflect their bye week.
Where we’ll go after this remains a mystery.
A few of his teammates are hinting at, and I quote, “an evening of charity and questions.” The black turtleneck and gray skirt I dug up were the best I could do with little to no information about tonight.
If it involves an auction of any kind, I’ll personally tackle Antonio myself or end up in somebody’s hospital bed trying.
My phone beeps.
Antonio
Hopping in the shower. Will be ready in ten. You look really pretty BTW.
Thank you. Do I get a hint about where we’re going?
Antonio
Nope.
I snort at his response and shake my head with a promise to kill him later.
The fact that I’m still calm and not hyperventilating over the fear of the unknown is a testament to my level of comfort with him.
I trust him to keep me safe. But there better not be any snow or nudity involved. I do have limits.
I startle at a long sigh that belongs to a woman in a cream slip dress and chocolate thigh-high boots.
“They should be out by now,” she mutters from under a canopy of layered brunette hair and pursed lips.
I’m unsure if the comment is for me or the empty indoor field, but then she aims a glare at me like it’s my responsibility to supply an answer.
I state the obvious. “They went to the locker room.”
“Who are you?” Her polished tone doesn’t match the growing scowl that deepens as she examines my outfit.
I thought black ankle boots and tights were a sensible pairing. Clothing is functional for me. I don’t want to look like I jump in dumpsters for fun, but I’m not letting fashion runways dictate how I accessorize my life. Not that sample sizes would ever cover these hips.
I won’t judge someone’s decision-making process, but I do question wearing thin silk in thirteen-degree weather.
“I’m Miriam. I’m with Antonio.” I crane my head to reach her eyes.
She laughs. “One of those.”
“Excuse me?”
“Antonio,” she emphasizes, like I didn’t hear the disrespect the first time. “He has lots of women who show up to his practices. I’ll tell him you said goodbye.”
Is Lea Michele dismissing me?
I adjust my skirt when I stand. It’s a few inches shorter than what I’m used to wearing. With my ankle boots, I’m still half a foot shorter than the woman who huffed and puffed two minutes after she arrived.
“What’s your name?” I adjust my glasses.
“Rachel,” she says flatly.
“Well, Rachel. I’ve known Antonio for years. Our relationship is still new, but our friendship isn’t. I don’t need to leave, because he’s my ride. Should I repeat?”
Comprehension looks different on different people. For Rachel, it’s walking off in a trail of entitlement and high-end perfume.
Guess she understood.
Antonio’s laughter rounds the corner before he does.
My heart jolts at the anticipation of him and thuds when he steps out with a toothpaste-model smile crinkling his eyes.
A teammate is next to him. He’s handsome, around the same height, and has an aristocratic widow’s peak like the Black duke in Bridgerton.
My eyes drift back to Antonio. Where the duke looks like he raided Carlton’s closet, Antonio is Taye Diggs in Brown Sugar coded, wearing a cream cable-knit sweater, a matching beanie, Timbs, and jeans.
I roll my lips. “Nice outfit.”
“This old thing?” His twirl flares his full-length peacoat. “Winter cream is a look.”
Now I’m laughing in his face. “I’m pretty sure you saw that in a movie.” My favorite, second to Aliens and Alien vs. Predator, an honorable mention. We watched Brown Sugar at his place the night he got tired of losing to me in Mortal Kombat.
“Hi, I’m Shayne.” His teammate extends a hand that I shake.
“Miriam. They call you Shoulders?”
Antonio snickers.
“Shins,” Shayne clarifies over a chuckle.
Bread.
Shins.
Kendrick.
What’s next, Irish Spring?
Antonio bends to wrap an arm around me. “Ready for tonight?” We’re taking things slow, though I have a feeling he’d speed to the moon if I let him. I want us to pace ourselves before we defy gravity.
“That depends on what we’re doing.” I raise a brow.
A grin spreads. “ questions.”
Ay, Dios.
“Welcome to The Newlywed Game!”
Applause erupts.
“I’m your host, Melvin Jones,” the announcer with the Steve Harvey veneers says. The size of his teeth doesn’t match his small frame. Neither does his brown suit. He looks like he’s going to represent himself in court or sell you a vacuum cleaner.
When Antonio said tonight would be an evening of charity and questions, I was not expecting a game show in a South Buffalo bar. No wonder he insisted on driving.
“Stop eyeing the exits,” my date says next to my ear. He reaches around me for his water bottle on the counter.
“I’m starting to rethink this whole trust thing,” I grumble. “What made you assume I wanted to do this?”
“You said you wanted to go out more.”
I gawk. “To the movies or something. Not”—I wave my hands around—“a game for married people.”
He drags my barstool to the side as a man with no sense of courtesy or spatial awareness squeezes himself between us. My back is now against Antonio’s chest. His arms cage me in to shield me from the people clamoring to get the bartender’s attention.
“My family’s investment firm co-sponsors this event every year,” he tells me, his voice soft and low.
One inhale of his cologne sends my senses into a frenzy.
“It raises money for families around the city who are experiencing financial hardship, and it’s a good boost in visibility for the Steel.
We played Family Feud last year and Jeopardy the year before that. ”
“Your philanthropy is commendable, but we aren’t married,” I say over my shoulder. I shiver at his mouth inches from mine.
The kiss he plants is soft. “I know,” he whispers. “Shins is playing with his fiancée, Rachel—”
“The one who’s hard of hearing?”
“What?” Antonio laughs.
“Nothing.”
“Bread and Kendrick are on a team. Then you and me. The winners get a trophy and a steak-and-lobster dinner at Amato’s.”
“Why didn’t you lead with that?” Antonio will be on the receiving end of my wrath for this at some point, but Amato’s is famous famous. The waitlist is a year out, and I heard every dish is based on the recipes of the owner’s grandmother.
“Why am I not surprised?” He shakes his head with a grin.
“The same way I’m not after dealing with your antics all these years.” I down the rest of my mule in one go.