“Mmmm-hmmm,” Paul breathed as he went back to his iPad. “That’s what I said, giant.”
What the fuck type of game is she playing? She fucks me and then changes her number? I hadn’t done that move in years. I couldn’t believe when I realized my heart started racing. Something didn’t feel right. As much as the word GAME had been chanting in my fucking head, a small—very minuscule—piece within my chest was whispering trouble. Why would bubbly and witty Zoey not call me all this time and then change her number? Shit didn’t make sense.
As my teammates and I were preparing to board the bus for D.C., I pulled Paul to the side. “I have something I need you to do while I’m away.” I rattled off a few things to him before getting on the bus and taking off.
The night before we left for D.C., I’d gone out to a private party in Moorestown, NJ. Al and the other dudes were all there drunk off their asses, and while I was just a few drinks behind them, I couldn’t exactly relax. I had Zoey running through my mind. She still hadn’t reached out and I still hadn’t been able to figure out why.
“Shit!” Alton barked. “I can’t have a fucking life!” he cringed. “It’s always a text complaining about what I didn’t do or an order telling me what the fuck I should do. You’s a lucky ass fuck,” he noted before taking a sip of his Corona.
“How do you mean?” I asked, following suit.
There were women all over the house, some partially clothed, and few even naked. These were the only parties some of us could do during the season, or a few like me, ninety-nine percent of the time to guarantee privacy. The host, Jeremy Booker, was a defensive linebacker for the Eagles and a native of Atlanta where the strippers are bred differently. So, many of us were appreciative of his hosting to protect our privacy.
“You ain’t got no lady, no wife, no fucking fiancée, and no goddamn baby-mother keeping track of all your offenses,” Al counted off on his fingers. “You ain’t got no fucking leash, Stent. Be happy for that shit, bro.”
I chuckled. No matter how many years I’ve known him, his usage of bro versus mine of bruh was a stark contrast. We’re from the same tiny ass state and still have different lingo. With as much of my vocabulary that has worn off on him, bruh wasn’t one of them.
“I hear you, Al,” I clinked my glass with his without warning. “I feel you, bruh.”
That was bullshit. At that very second, I wanted someone texting me something—about calculus, literature…fucking psychosexual development—anything!
Oh, fuck. I missed my Ni?a.
“Yo, what’s up with Zoey? You hit I see. Y’all still going strong?” Alton asked out of pure innocence. He probably thought since a couple of weeks had past, it was safe to, but to the contrary, it was still a private topic, and as of late, a sensitive topic.
“She good. I’m good,” I replied succinctly before taking a swig.
“Here you go with that secretive bullshit. Was she a virgin or what, man?” He pushed on. “I don’t believe shit her cousin, Angela, has to say. I know you hit, so spit it.”
I looked at him from the corner of my eye. He knew I didn’t run my mouth about sex, and I damn sure wasn’t about to start with Zoey. If I was honest, I’d admit to it being difficult not being able to have someone to talk this shit out with. It was too fucking complicated. She was so young. I knew the best thing to do with her was let her go. That, however, was easier said than done at this point.
“Okay, well what about Erika Erceg?” Al wasn’t giving up. “Man, she been running your ass down for almost a year now. If you don’t want that ass, please pass your dick over here so I can use it to handle her. God knows if and when my dick touches any *, Tynisha can detect that shit,” he snorted almost painfully.