I found the courage to try something new tonight because of the space he gave me so I wouldn’t feel overwhelmed. An entire VIP suite with wine and snacks is excessive, but it’s thoughtful nonetheless.
Antonio is a good friend. My best friend.
I spin, allowing my hips to move on their own. One song becomes another and another.
By two a.m., I’m done.
I sweat my curls out, am seconds from crashing on this couch, and I’ve lost feeling in my feet, which are still shackled to these shoes. My buzz wore off, along with some of my deodorant. But it was a good night.
“Come on, Doe. Let’s go back.” Antonio rubs my knee.
“How do you still smell good?” I grumble.
“You smell good too.” He leans in to take a whiff and coughs. “On second thought.”
I pop an eye open and slap his vest. “Turd.”
He laughs and pulls me to my feet. “It got you up, didn’t it? You good in those?”
I shrug. “Might fall. But if it gets me down the steps and into my bed faster, I won’t complain.”
Antonio’s hand runs over his beard. “Take them off.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your heels. It’s faster to walk back to the hotel. We’ll switch shoes.”
“You’re joking,” I huff, ready to use our construction vests as a blanket and sleep right here.
He’s already out of his Timbs and waiting for me in basketball socks. “Need help with yours?”
Guess we’re doing this.
He squats in front of me and smacks my hand away when I sit back to unzip my heels. His touch is soft as he guides the zipper down and removes each one. I groan at the hard press of his palm to my foot.
“Don’t tell me you give good foot rubs.” I moan at the pressure to my arch as he kneads away years’ worth of knots.
His laugh is a low rumble. “I can be good with my hands.”
I clench my thighs and ignore the voice that’s daring me to ask him what else those hands can do. I’m so caught up in sleep and sex deprivation that I miss him slipping his boots onto my feet. My feet are swimming in his Timbs, but they’re no match for his situation.
Thick tears gather through soundless laughter that activates a snort. By some miracle, Antonio managed to squeeze his feet into my stilettos. His toes stretch over the lip, and his socks are poking through the elastic.
A rugby player in hoochie shorts and heels is a look he pulls off with his toned calves and sculpted hamstrings.
He tosses my purse over his arm and extends a hand. “Come on.”
“You might want to hold on to the railing,” I giggle.
He scoffs. “I could run fifty yards in these.” To prove it, he does some type of football fake-out—or rugby fake-out, I guess. I still struggle to follow the game.
Whoever said pride comes before the fall did not lie. Antonio takes one step down the staircase and slides the rest of the waydown on his knees. Everything happens in slow motion to Celine Dion’s “My Heart Will Go On,” which is in my head courtesy of the alcohol in my system.
The good news is the private staircase is away from the dance floor. The bad news is the whole team is at the bottom of the steps he slid down. They’re all laughing.
He rights himself, flicks hair he doesn’t have over his shoulders, and sashays away with his chin high.
Tonight is a night I’ll never forget.
