“I need to go, baby. I gotta get to practice.”
“No, you need to stay with me.” I reached up to my neck, breaking her grip. She finally opened both eyes and pouted. “Pretty please?” she said in her damn cute accent.
Pinning her arms above her head, I leaned in and nipped at her bottom lip. “If you keep begging me, I will fuck you, Mol, okay? I’ll tie you to the damn bed and fuck you… hard. I’m trying to be a gentleman and wait until you’re ready, but you’re making it damn difficult.” Her breath caught, and she arched up to lick the bottom of my throat, causing me to growl in response.
“I’m thinking that sounds pretty good, Rome. I’m starting to wonder what the hell we’re waiting for anyway? I’m ready.”
That stilled me, and when a teasing friggin’ smile spread on her lips, telling me she was joking, I backed off the bed, saying, “Careful, little girl…”
Tucking herself back under the covers, she closed her eyes. “Have fun at practice. I’m going back to sleep to dream naughty dreams about you… and me… and what would’ve happened if you’d stayed right here instead of going to football to grunt and play with other men.” And damn but she did; within seconds she was out, the little temptress, leaving me with a hard-on from hell.
By midday, I was pretty much done. Coach had pushed us all to breaking point, getting us prepped for the game this weekend. Going back to my locker, I grabbed my cell and headphones, needing music for my weights, when a caller flashed on the screen: Momma. I tried to think what the hell she could want. She never talked to me; hell, months could go by and we wouldn’t even have said two words to one another.
The call went off, but when she started to call again, I groaned and answered, “Momma?”
“Rome, I need a favor.” Straight to the point. But at least there was no pretense when it came to her and me. She had no problem with how she treated me, didn’t hide her complete disregard for me as her son.
“Yeah?”
“I need a signed jersey for a charity luncheon I’m hosting tomorrow. I assume you can arrange that?”
“Yeah, I can get it for you. When do you need it by?”
There was a pause, and then she said, “I’m actually going to be at lunch this afternoon. Could you arrange it within the next couple of hours and drop it by?”
“I’m doing weights in the gym now, so that should be okay. Where will you be?”
“Lorenzo’s downtown. Let’s say one thirty?”
“Fine.”
And with that, she cut the line, no good-bye or thanks.
I poured out all the tension in my body through my weights. It was always this way when I spoke to my momma. It was like I had some fucked-up Stockholm syndrome or something. I had a drive within me that always did what she asked without argument, always striving for her praise. I literally had no memories of her being attentive, of being loving, no memory I could recall where I’d made her proud. All I had were memories of pain, not physical—no, my daddy was the one who used his fists—but the pain of her hostility toward me, her utter disdain that she had me as her son.
Moving to the free weights to do my set of squats, I couldn’t help but remember all the times I’d tried and failed to gain her approval. The earliest memory was Mother’s Day when I was about six. My teacher’d had the class creating cards to give to our mommas after school.
I remember going home, excited, hopeful that what I’d done would make her happy. I searched the house from top to bottom and eventually found her in the parlor at the back of our huge house, drinking again. At the time I didn’t realize my momma was a drunk.
I ran in, proudly showing the red card, a picture of a heart on the front, the message inside reading “I love you so much, Momma.”
I remember her rolling her eyes as I entered the room, asking, “What the hell do you want? I’m busy.”
Walking over, smiling wide, convinced that this would be the day she told me she loved me, I presented her the card—I wanted her to know that I loved her too.
Putting her scotch on the tabletop, she took the card and read the message in silence. I held my breath, my heart beating fast with nerves. But then she lifted her head and began laughing and laughing, and I began to cry as she tore the red card in two, throwing the destroyed message to the floor at my feet. At my tears, she just laughed even harder.
Picking up her drink, she stared out of the window, refusing to meet my eyes, and said, “Don’t ever make me something like that ever again. It’s insulting.”
And I never have. I never cried in front of her again after that day either.
Christ. I was six.
Coach suddenly stood before me and pulled my Beats headphones from my ears. “Enough, Rome. You’re pushing too hard. You don’t want to pick up an injury.”
Throwing the heavy weighted barbell on the floor, I picked up my towel and hit the showers. The team signed the crimson home jersey and I made my way across town.