We pulled off the highway and drove through a small town I’d never been to before. It was cute and quiet. You could tell it had potential to be something, or maybe it was back in the day. He turned down a road that led to the water, and I saw a sign: Captain Joe’s Seafood Shack.
“This is it,” he said, parking the car.
“A seafood shack?”
“Best seafood in and outside the city. Fresh catches every day.”
We got out, and he took my hand as we walked inside. It was small, casual, with wooden tables and a chalkboard menu on the wall. The smell hit me immediately: Old Bay, butter, lemon, the ocean, I was in heaven.
“Oh my God,” I said. “It smells amazing in here.”
“Told you.”
We ordered at the counter—crab legs for me, shrimp boil for him, fries, and hush puppies to share. They gave us a number, and we sat at a table by the window overlooking the water.
“So what are you going to do with your grant money?”
“Ouu, thank you so much for that. But the shelters. What happens after a fire is what people seem to forget about. People still need support. They need everything. Books, socks, undershirts, pads, all the things we take for granted until we no longer have them.”
“You got a beautiful soul, woman. Imma match what you donate.”
“What, really? You already gave me a check for that.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Everyone’s not fortunate. I had it easy, but that discomfort was there. I can only imagine how it is for everyone else and those with no places to go. I can write more checks, baby.”
“What am I going to do with you?” I asked, shaking my head.
“Fall in love with me.”
Our food came, and I thanked God for the distraction because I was about two seconds from dropping to my knees in this crab shack and swallowing his dick whole. Wild, yes, but that’s what loving a good man will do to you. He had already done enough, more than enough. But his heart was just as beautiful as mine. The kindness he held in his eyes came from the kindness in his heart. This was a good damn man, Savannah.
We ate while he told me about his away games; they’d won both, he’d played well, but he was tired. He was also closing a business deal while playing. The travel was getting to him. He had some balm with him that I’d made special for him, and it was helping, but he was counting down the days until he could make his retirement official. When it was my turn, I told him about work, about a particularly rough call we’d had, about derby practice. Just life.
“I want to come watch you and shit,” he said.
“Derby?”
“Yeah. You said you do it twice a month, right? When’s the next one?”
“End of the month.”
“I’ll be there.”
“DaVinci, you don’t have to. You are a professional athlete. I don’t want you off your game, fooling with me.”
“I want to. You came to my gala. Eventually, you’ll be at my games. I’m coming to your shit. That’s how this works.”
“Okay… yeah. I’d like that. I’d love for you to see me throw dem bows,”
“Ludacris?” he asked, holding back a laugh. “Lo, you act so fuckin old sometimes. I love that shit. Just cute and vibing.”
“Anyyywayy.”
He pushed his plate aside and leaned forward. “So, I got something to ask you.”
“What greedy?”
“I got a home game soon. I want you there. Courtside.”
