Chapter 5 #2
Steel House is a ten-unit building I purchased after my first year on the team. It was a real estate investment at the time, to generate revenue. Now it’s a childcare facility for toddlers with muscles.
Unlike international teams, rugby players in the US aren’t busting it wide open dripped in diamonds with seven-figure deals.
The salary cap for our league compared to other sports is low, and that seven figures is more like five—as in, $50,000 on the high end.
My investment portfolio earns more in my sleep, and that lets me focus on the game I’ve played since I was a kid.
I can afford not to squeeze in a job between daylong practices and training.
Thus, Steel House was born to pay it forward, and I’ve been risking premature gray hairs ever since.
At twenty-nine, I’m the oldest in a house of five starters and four reserves, which says a lot about the maturity level.
It wasn’t long ago that I was tasting my way through Chocolate City. Every serving size in every position. I was young with an MBA, making money hand over fist with no responsibilities. Days were for business, Saturdays for rugby, and nights for my pleasure.
The old Antonio would run circles around my teammates’ nonstop parties and revolving door of jump-offs who scream their orgasms like they’re trying to hit high notes at a Mariah Carey tribute.
The older Antonio gets handed his ass recovering from preseason training five days a week.
My version of foreplay these days is face-planting into my pillow every night.
It turns out I like more than four hours of sleep and my personal space.
Sex is still a stress reliever, but not when I have to lock up my apartment to keep out people on a mission to sample the team.
The last woman I found was hiding behind my trash can, like I couldn’t see her.
That led to stricter rules for hygiene and public safety.
How Professor X dealt with mutants running around his school while keeping his mind intact in that headpiece is beyond my comprehension.
There are fully-formed adults sharing my address who need a superpower to take out the trash and not stink up the house with dirty clothes, used condoms, and unwashed ass.
Julian told me life changes once you have kids. Mo swears he’s Mr. Miyagi now that he has a wife and kids, but he isn’t wrong. I’m ready to claim one of these Frosted-Flakes-eating thorns in my ass on my taxes.
“Aye! Get your own!” Bread jogs away from a horde of kids on his tail. A stack of pancakes is in one hand, and a plate of enough eggs to feed four is in the other.
Exhibit A.
I keep Steel House stocked for him so that he doesn’t act like he hasn’t eaten in eighty-two days.
“You promised me a piggyback ride. Get him!” A little girl in a pink hoodie with Afro puffs leads the charge.
Bread’s brows shoot up to the chipped ceiling. “Dr. King didn’t die for this!” A stampede of tiny shoes sprint after him down a hallway of taped-up art. He’s running for his life.
“Oh good, you’re jumping right in,” a shoulder-height woman in jeans, sneakers, and a bright orange sweater says next to Kendrick.
“Hi. I’m Antonio.” I extend a hand. “I see you’ve met Kenneth. That’s Bailey down there.”
“Amber. Very nice to meet you both.” She gestures for Kendrick and me to follow her down another hall with fluorescent lighting and dull linoleum floors.
“I admit, I never watched rugby until the Steel. Thank you for the tickets to the home opener. They’re part of our raffle to expand our programming. ”
“It’s our pleasure,” I say, flicking Kendrick over Ms. Amber’s head for mouthing, Captain, my Captain.
“We hope today’s MLK Day celebration gets good press. Our after-school and senior programs are in high demand,” she says. “We also have career development classes, workshops, and a limited summer camp.”
“Sounds like you do a lot.” Kendrick stuffs his hands in his jeans and catalogs the unaddressed building renovations.
Worn classrooms with outdated technology don’t take away from the Jefferson Moselle Community Center. The wild grins on these kids’ faces, painted with comic book characters and unicorns, are evidence of its impact.
Growing up on 16th Street in DC’s historic Gold Coast didn’t stop my dad from taking me to pickup games at the center in his old Northeast neighborhood. I’ve seen places like this stretch their last meal and use a few loaves to feed thousands.
Kendrick and I stop in front of the gym. One look inside, and we’re cracking up at Bread’s big, scary ass. He’s in front of a bouncy house and some activity tables, carrying the girl with Afro puffs on his shoulders. The matching daisies on their cheeks prove they settled their beef.
“You two are this way.” Ms. Amber directs us away from the door that frames the hula-hooping two-hundred-sixty-five-pound rugby player.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
Jalisa
Did I leave my glasses at your place? If you’re home, I can swing by.
A chuckle rattles my throat at her excuse to get back into my bed. That’s the fourth attempt this month. She came over Friday, so she’s had a whole two days of roaming the earth with no sight.
This is why I don’t do sleepovers. Morning sex isn’t worth the expectation of commitment with a side of bacon.
I can’t cook, and I sure as hell don’t have plans to settle down with one person.
The best I can do is steady dick, speak in tongues if I’m feeling you, and a car service with a forehead kiss.
The last woman who kept leaving body wash and panties behind required a locksmith and Julian as my legal witness to get her out of my house. Who handcuffs themselves to the bed in a headstand naked?
No need. I put them in the top pocket of your backpack.
I love fucking and sucking as much as the next freak, but I’ve slowed down since becoming Papa Smurf at Steel House.
I still get it in, but I’m too tired during the week for the Cirque du Soleil performance that women expect from a rugby player because of our thighs and forearm veins.
I’ve had a lifetime of parties, flings, and situationships.
The names quickly fade before it’s on to the next.
The thrill is losing its luster. I want something else. What that is, I don’t know.
A subtle hint of rose oil startles my steps.
“You good?” Kendrick whispers at my frown.
“Yeah,” I lie.
Only one person I know wears that scent, and she doesn’t move here until next week.
“We want to increase our STEM programs,” Ms. Amber mentions.
“Engineering,” I blurt out for no reason, lacking a smooth enough recovery to dodge two sets of matching stares. “It’s a good field. A friend of mine is a mechanical engineer,” I clarify and cut my eyes at Kendrick’s smirk.
Does Miriam pop into my thoughts at random? I’ll own it.
I tuck away my physical reactions to her to keep from ruining our friendship. It took weekly ice baths at first, but now it’s under control. She’s worth more than any one-night stand. Always will be.
We arrive at a blue and white room scented with broken crayons and sweat from the crowd of kids gathered around a table in the center of the carpet. Some are standing on metal chairs. Others are rushing to get a better look at whatever is triggering their screams.
Either Ms. Amber is running drugs, or they’re high on life.
The maybe-dealer smiles at the chants. “This is a very popular room today. Kids, guess who we have with us? The Buffalo Steel!”
“Shake it harder!” a boy shouts from behind the curtain of ’fros, curls, and fades.
Sweaters and hoodies part to reveal the source of the contained chaos.
It’s not the tower of toothpicks and gumdrops wedged into a foundation of brownies that’s hurling my pulse over a cliff. It’s the woman in a pink sweater, librarian glasses, and jeans, wearing a grin I’ve only seen on a screen since she patted my chest and went back to Baltimore three years ago.
She’s here.