Miriam texted two nights ago, after my first PSN interview aired. I was on cloud fucking nine after a practice that could have made me a leading man in an Icy Hot commercial. I picturedthose dimples denting her cheeks. Then I pictured my mama sobbing in front of a courthouse in the blue suit she only wears for special occasions before my televised hearing for killing a man.
In no universe did I expect a “What are you doing?” text would lead to her responding, “On a date with Dickhead.” She didn’t write “Dickhead,” but what’s understood requires no explanation.
I sucked on her pussy like it was a special dietary need, only for her to run to Kieran? They’re not coworkers, or friends that I know of. Why are they enjoying shared meals? Her happiness is all that matters. I want what’s best for her. If that means supporting her with a suit-by-the-pack-wearing asshole who probably took her to an expensive place with complimentary bread imported from France and fine linens, I’ll support her. I won’t like the shit, but I’ll do it.
Miriam altered my life the second she drove her stubborn ass up here in that moving truck. I’m not acting how I used to, and it hasn’t bothered me. Much to my surprise.
I’ve never been with only one woman in my life and wouldn’t know the first thing about relationships. But I can’t shake what I feel for her. A friendship isn’t enough, and I sure as fuck don’t like her entertaining dickheads who will break her heart.
Shit, maybe she’s right. I don’t commit, and I’m not about to fail trying with her. I’m already losing her, and messing up what we have isn’t an option.
So we’re standing by while Dickhead swoops in?
“Fuck all that.”
Usher’s falsetto whines float over from the sidelines. Cho holds his phone in the air with his other arm around Kendrick. The two idiots sway to “U Got It Bad.” Bread hits a dolphin dive, humping the ground without a lick of sense.
“What the hell is this, a match orDancing with the Stars? Get your asses in the huddle!”
Steel jerseys scramble at Coach Titan’s glower. Our assistant coach never found anAmerican Ninja Warriorchallenge he won’t use as punishment. His Rick Fox curls and puppy dog eyes are for show. He will knock your head off of your shoulders and do it wearing a sweater vest.
He’s still popping blood vessels shouting at Bread and Cho. Serves them right.
“Bring your ass too, Lover Boy!” he snaps at me.
“What did I do?”
We win by fourteen.
Cameras were on the pitch right after the ref blew the final whistle. My energy was somewhere on the ground next to the bodies I laid out, but I did my best to hold a smile with the flashing lights spotting my vision. The Steel stay in weekly highlight reels across sports networks. It keeps us relevant and keeps the reporters chomping at the bit for interviews.
I’m tired, hungry, and could really use a blunt.
“Great game, son.” Coach Washington pats my shoulder and motions for me to follow him out of the empty locker room. Anyone who wasn’t part of the Steel got the boot, and I swear a little “Hallelujah” slipped out of me.
The stadium corridor is a quiet pathway of overhead lights that lead to the parking lot. The team is on the bus. Some already hit the streets to celebrate.
“PSN wants live coverage of our matches,” Coach says. “Your interview was a hit. With today’s win, we’ll have the airtime to increase our fan base.”
I nod. “That’s what’s up. Any news from upstairs?”
“It’s been quiet.” He strokes his brow. “Keep up what you’re doing. Back-to-back wins is a great start to the season.”
“I can handle that.”
“I know you can. See you on the plane tomorrow.”
Coach shuffles off in the team’s track suit to catch up with one of the analysts.
The team bus shakes from the bass of “Turn Down for What” and hollering like we won the championship. I pull out my phone to respond to the texts from my parents and Julian congratulating me on the win. A few DMs from women I’ve linked up with in Seattle trickle in, which I delete.
There’s only one person I want to call.
It’s ten thirty back in Buffalo, too late to call Miriam. She’s probably asleep on her couch while a baking show plays in the background. I want to hear her voice, that giggle when she gets excited. I want her frustration when she asks if I remembered to take my vitamins and I say no.
I want…her.
My fingers glide across the screen as I type out a quick message.
