That was over forty-five minutes ago.
I feel like we’ve hardly had any time together and I guess that’s something I need to get used to if I’m going to date a professional athlete. He was in DC last Saturday night for a game—the night we affectionately refer to as the “boob incident” game—only to come back for a day, before he headed out for games in Atlanta and then Nashville. The day he was back he had practice and I had to work that night, and thus our time together was him sitting in The Grind listening to me play my music. Well, that’s not true…he stayed at my apartment that night and it’s safe to say neither of us got much sleep, but then he was off traveling again.
He got back into town today and doesn’t have a game for two days. His plan was to pick me up here and then we were going to go on a real date: dinner and a movie. Well, and then there would be sex, because…hello, this is Roman and I may be addicted to his body.
Even though we haven’t seen each other but for a few snatches of time over the last several days, we’ve stayed in constant contact. Calls, texts, emails, and even FaceTime, which may have involved one very late-night sex show I put on for him after his repeated whining that he missed my body. Of course, I couldn’t deny him, and we both had a mutually satisfactory ending with that call.
But I am worried that he’s forty-five minutes late with no call or text, nor is he returning my calls or texts. My first worry is that something bad has happened to him and I imagine the worst, like a car accident or something. A secondary worry, which I try to tell myself is ridiculous, is that Roman’s through with me.
It’s ridiculous.
I know it.
But still…it’s a worry. While we’ve been getting closer and closer to each other, there are still gaps that can’t seem to get filled. That would namely be the antagonism between him and Gray, which has not gotten any better, but it hasn’t escalated either. It’s basically turned into grumbling about each other to me. Both of them have come to feel comfortable enough with me that they can complain about the other.
Last Saturday, Gray did as Roman thought she might, and she called me to tell me about him signing that jersey. Well, in her words, he was signing her breast. Roman’s story was a little different, and that it was her jersey over her breast. Semantics, I know, but both of them felt affronted by the actions of the other and I got a double earful.
On the one night I had with Roman this week, I was a little irritated that some of our precious time together was marred when he felt the need to rant about Gray fining him for that Schultz hit. Apparently, she told him she was fining him five thousand dollars, but when she reviewed the film, she felt it was more egregious than she originally thought, and upped it to ten thousand dollars. Roman was convinced she was punishing him for dating her sister, being pissed he won’t jump at her beck and call, and that there were probably hormones involved.
My part in all of this?
I listen and remain silent. I don’t engage and I don’t offer opinions. The most I do is give each of them my empathy and pray to God that they both grow up at some point and put this crap behind them, because it’s really starting to wear on me.
This is the reason I have a little doubt about Roman.
Maybe he just doesn’t think I’m worth the effort because of my personal connection to the owner and management. Maybe he’s not here right now picking me up because he’s just not happy with the baggage that comes with my family ties.
Or maybe he’s realized that life was better when he could be free to sign autographs on women’s breasts and not have to commit to just one woman.
That’s probably it.
A flush of anger courses through me, and I know it’s irrational. But I reason that it’s rude he didn’t show up, didn’t call me, and has left me hanging with these worries. Outside of him being seriously hurt—and let’s face it, the chances of that are really slim—there’s really no excuse for him to be this late and not to have filled me in on his agenda.
“I’m going home,” I snap to Georgia, and she jerks in surprise, then quickly stands from her desk.
“Honey,” she says with her arms held out to me. “Want me to cancel dinner with Brian and you and I can go out? Drink some wine, bash on men or something?”
I snort. “You would have nothing to contribute to that conversation. You and my dad are so google-eyed over each other it makes me nauseated.”
Georgia gives a tinkling laugh, but her eyes remain filled with concern, and she doesn’t banter with me. “Seriously…you and I can hang tonight. It’s been awhile since we drank some wine and just enjoyed each other’s company.”