He smirked, sweat towel slung over his shoulder. “Thinking or spiraling, simp-ass nigga?”
“Neither.”
“So, you ain’t thinking about the firefighter fine ass?”
I shot the ball to ignore him, but it bounced off the rim hard.
“Man, get off my dick,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m working through it.”
Chance laughed, not buying it. “You still looking up those videos?”
“Nah,” I lied again.
“Sure.” He scoffed, slapped my shoulder, and walked off. “Don’t forget we have that PR meeting at four. Try not to look like you’ve been losing sleep over the videos you ain’t been watching.”
“I’m good, bruh. I’ll be there. I gotta stop by the crib first and really get a look at the damages.”
“Do that shit later, bruh. Don’t get caught up and distracted.”
“Shit, I already am.”
“Nigga, I can tell. But check it, you know if you breathe wrong in her direction, that shit’ll be on the blogs before noon. She may not be into that.”
“Exactly why I’m not moving rashly with her.”
“So youaremoving, though?”
“Yeah. At some point, I’m stepping to her. I know I got to. Shit, I don’t know.”
He just grinned, knowing I’d said more than I meant to.
I downed the water, wiped my face, then sat on the sideline scrolling through my phone. I opened Instagram, typed the hashtag, then locked the screen before it could load. I wasn’t about to be that guy—some thirsty-ass nigga creeping on a woman who clearly wasn’t pressed. But ten minutes later, I was back scrolling from the locker room.
I told myself I wasn’t checking for her. I was checking for leaks. The video was circulating, but not like it usually would, and I was happy about that because if one video of me at that fire blew up, the world would start digging. The team, the sponsors, the media, they’d find her name, her station, dissect her life, and turn it into a circus she didn’t ask for.
I couldn’t do that to her.
The part of me that knew boundaries said…leave her the fuck alone.
The part that remembered her smell and voice said…learn her quietly and lock her ass down.
I tried to get off her shit, but I ended up right back on my burner account, thumb dragging slowly across the screen.
Her personal page wasn’t hard to find once I knew where to look. She had a small following, and you could tell she cared about privacy. The internet had other plans. Her posts were casual, nothing over the top—just her beauty and that dope-ass body on display. Heat flared in my eyes, thinking about the comments I’d read yesterday. Still, nothing screamedInstagram baddie looking for a come-up.Just her being… her.
I loved that shit.
The newest post stopped me cold. It was a short video from what she called her “self-care day.” She was sitting in her car, sunlight hitting the side of her face, laughing at something off-camera. Bagel in hand, nails done, beautiful smile on display, “Hoes Be Mad” by Cash Cobain featuring Bunna B playing in the background.
They wanna compare, but can’t compete /Can put the biggest baller on his knees / And make him eat (And make ‘em eat).
Was she pushing me?
Nah.
I watched it once. Twice. Three times.
I was studying her mannerisms, trying to figure out what kind of woman she was. I clocked the softness in her laugh, the ease in her shoulders, the fact that she was on bullshit too. The steadiness I hadn’t felt in myself for months was creeping up.
