“So, who’s the woman that has you out here looking like a simp?”
I laughed my ass off because I had used that exact same word to describe my behavior in my own mind. I lowered my voice. “You know Wyndi Castle? She makes those . . . bedazzled footballs the front office gives players when they join the team?—”
He cut me off. “Wyndi that Wilcox was fucking around with?”
I shrugged.
“Dawg.” Kew stopped walking, and other players moved around us.
“Fuck him. That wasn’t nothing,” I assured him.
“Dude already hates your guts, big homie. What? You want him to start plotting your death? What the fuck?”
“Fuck him,” I repeated. “He wasn’t on shit with her. They were playin’ around. They stopped kickin’ it because she wouldn’t give his ass a threesome. You saw the post, the one about what one won’t do another will.” He was right, because how his bitch ass wouldn’t be the man she deserved, I would.
“Yeah, but sometimes niggas move real funny behind their exes.”
I shook my head. “This ain’t that. And if he wants it with me behind her, he can get it.”
Kew twisted his face. “Oh, okay. You’re locked in.”
“I’m locked in.”
He nodded his head. “Got it.” He gave me a quick handshake. “That’s what’s up. She’s a good look.”
People watched football on television and thought that was the bulk of it. They were wrong. The bulk of what we did on the field was preparation. And preparation happened during the week, not on Sundays. So, I left the team meeting and headed into a different conference room for my positional meeting. In the River Room, I met up with the coaches, Cal LaStanza—the punter, and Stuart Robinski—the long snapper.
The positional meeting was followed by a weight-lifting session and conditioning. That morphed into on-field practice. That was where I had strategy sessions, skills training, and did a walk-through of different plays.
“Lunchtime!” one of the coaches called through a megaphone. We all broke and headed to the cafeteria to eat.
I stopped to take a piss, and by the time I made it to the cafeteria, most of the team was already there. I walked past a small commotion in a corner by the window. A group of dudes were filming what was probably a reel or a TikTok video. When I noticed that Wilcox was in the middle of the crowd, I turned away. But not before I heard somebody behind me mutter, “Such a fucking clown.”
I chuckled to myself, glad to know that I wasn’t the only person he annoyed.
The afternoon was filled with film study, more meetings, and extended recovery sessions that included ice baths, massages, and physical therapy. Nine and a half hours after I’d arrived at Hickory Hall, I was finally headed out for the day. Some players would be there for an additional hour or so, as they took advantage of the opportunity to eat dinner at the facility. I had other plans.
After a stop by the crib for a shower and a change of clothes, I showed up at Wyndi’s spot.
She answered the door dressed like we were going out.
“Oh shit, look at you. Are we going out?”
She looked good as hell in a leather skirt that hit her mid-thigh and a turtleneck that hugged her breasts. But it was the suede boots that went up her thigh, while still showing me the pink paint on her toes, that went straight to my dick.
She moved aside so that I could step into her home. “We’re staying in, but I figured I would look nice while I can still fit into these clothes.”
I pulled her into a hug, letting my hand slightly skirt her stomach as I released her. Her eyes flew to mine in surprise.
“Sorry,” I said quickly, feeling like I had unintentionally overstepped.
She blinked a few times. “No, you’re fine. I just wasn’t expecting you to do that.”
“You’re growing a whole life in there. It’s crazy. Right now, it’s probably no bigger than, I don’t know, a seed. But in a matter of months, it’ll be a little person. It’s . . . wild. It’s beautiful. Women’s bodies are fucking amazing.” I grinned at her.
She grinned back at me, although hesitantly. “Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
