The laugh Kage let off had a little extra baritone to it that made me blush in a way that was unexpected, forcing me to pull myself back together so that I could acknowledge, “If Stevie was your go-to, it’s clear you must have at least a little taste in music. But what artists have you had on repeat lately?”
“The answer might surprise you, actually,” he insisted, a claim I was quick to shut down when I responded, “Nothing surprises me at this point.”
“Oh word? We gotta change that,” Kage responded slickly, the side eye I gave him in response enough for him to come correct with a real answer. “But nah, I’ve been listening to a lot of the relatively-new women in R&B. Ari Lennox, H.E.R., Snoh Aalegra…”
“Yessss. “Situationship” is my jam,” I interjected, getting ready to dish out some free promo by mentioning how I’d had the album on repeat during the flight here until I saw the flirtatious look in Kage’s eyes.
“Situationship, huh? I guess I could get with that.”
Shaking my head, I couldn’t even pretend to hide my amusement when I asked, “You really don’t let up, do you?”
“I don’t,” he answered, moving to hover me where he breathed, “Ever.”
For whatever reason, his closeness threw me off balance. The smell of him was dizzying. And when I considered the fact that the cameras were still rolling…
Holding my hand up, I asked, “Natalie, can you give us five, please?”
From the captivated look on her face when she finally peeked up from behind the camera, I could tell she was all in with whatever it was she saw happening through the lens. And while it probably pained her to step away meaning she wouldn’t be a part of the more interesting conversation that was getting ready to happen, she still granted us the bit of privacy I’d requested, Kage giving her a little parting treat once he grinned and gushed, “Thank you, Natalie.”
Of course she blushed because Kage just had it like that with women. But at this point, I could only frown when I told him, “I thought I made myself clear with you, Mr. Steele.”
“Made yourself clear when you told me you don’t date athletes just to turn around and date an athlete?” he challenged. “All that clarity you claiming is lookin’ real cloudy to me, baby.”
His point wasn’t exactly invalid. But I still felt like I had a strong defense, crossing my arms over my chest as I replied, “First of all, Todd is a former athlete who is very much retired. And second of all, if you know I’m in a relationship now, then why are you still pressing me like this?”
“You know why.”
“Cause you think you’re hot shit and entitled to my attention?”
“No. Because I haven’t been able to get that night in Vegas out of my head, Bleu.”
Oh.
That.
Truthfully, I wasn’t sure if that night in Las Vegas a few months back during WNBA All-Star Weekend had ever even fully registered in my mind since the amount of alcohol I’d consumed within that short window of time was well beyond my usual limits. But with a working weekend perfectly coinciding with one of my closest friend’s birthday, it was a no-brainer to make a celebration out of the trip. And somehow, that ended with us being invited to some random ass, NDA-required, no phones allowed celebrity penthouse party.
Kage was there.
We’d only formally met earlier that day, so I played it cordial when I noticed him. But he was pressed, and I was tipsy, and we… might’ve ended up making out a little bit in a dark corner before I used the excuse of needing to go find my friends so that I wouldn’t further break my own rules around not fraternizing with active athletes.
He was an excellent kisser, though.
Perfect lip pressure, right amount of tongue, hands in all the right… whew.
Up until this moment, it was a drunken memory that I’d managed to suppress under the whole, “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” guise. But now that he’d brought it back up, I found myself caught up in a flashback, forced to shake it off so that I could casually remind him, “It was just a kiss, Kage.”
At that, he huffed a laugh. “Just a kiss? Yeah aight, Bleu. Tell yourself anything.”
He started walking away, but I caught up to him to defend, “Nothing else happened between us. I know that for a fact.”
“Actual actions? Nah, nothing happened. But you sure had a lot to say...” he trailed with a smirk, knowing I would be quick to probe, “Wait, what? What did I say?”
Instead of answering my question, he changed the subject. “Can we get on with this interview, please? I’m on a tight schedule.”
“Not until you tell me what was said that night.”
“Apparently nothin’ worth talking about since it was just a kiss,” he fired back, softening his tone as he brushed a hand against my chin when he added, “But don’t worry. Those NDAs are in place for a reason, baby.”
Instinctively, I snatched my face away, completely annoyed with his arrogant energy. But the reality was, I only had myself to blame.
I knew better than to get caught up in these types of situations, knew better than to let any man get the upper hand. But I’d let Vegas - and Kage Steele - get the best of me anyway. And now I could only hope that he was serious about honoring the contract we’d both signed that night.
The segment turned out great.
In fact, it might’ve been a little too great if the response I was getting online was any indication.
My Twitter mentions were filled with the usual praise from my colleagues, the annoying trolls either claiming I was fucking yet another athlete or insisting that people only watched it because I was eye candy, and then there was what I would consider my “fan base” complimenting me on another dose of quality content. But there was also something unusual; a bunch of women commenting on some supposed “obvious” chemistry between Kage and I.
“Is it just me, or are they kinda hot together?”
“Are they fuckin’? Cause if they aren’t, they should be.”
“Wow. Do y’all see the way he is looking at this woman? I wanna be her so bad.”
Honestly, I didn’t understand the hype. But because there was hype, people started to run with it to the point that even Kage decided to chime in with a cryptic tweet of his own.
@KageBeSteele: “We all want the same thing.”
“The hell is that supposed to mean?” I wondered, scrolling through more comments of people rooting for us to become a thing. But I was quick to close out of the app completely once I heard my boyfriend, Todd, returning from the bathroom, the frown on his face confusing me until he plopped down on the bed and asked, “So you’re really not going to address this shit they’re saying about you and Kage online?”
Considering we’d watched the segment together and he hadn’t had anything negative to say then, I could only assume his morning dump had included a deep Twitter dive that now had him seeing the entire thing differently. Still, regardless of what he’d seen online, that didn’t stop me from defending, “What am I supposed to say, babe? I was just doing my job.”
In fact, I’d intentionally edited out all of the moments I thought came off ambiguous in hopes of not causing a stir. But apparently, I hadn’t done enough since not only was the internet talking, but Todd also still felt the need to ask, “Since when do you have to flirt your ass off to interview somebody?”
“You can’t be serious right now,” I groaned, laughing a bit before I repeated his words back to him. “Flirt my ass off?”
“Yes, Bleu,” he sighed, the age lines in his face tensing when he continued, “All that blushing, and giggling, and dancing and shit. You tellin’ me all that was necessary?”
So he was jealous.
I wish he would’ve just admitted that instead of accusing me of being less than professional. But instead of holding it against him, I crawled into his lap to answer, “I’m telling you that, regardless of what the internet is saying, I don’t wanna fuck Kage Steele since I know for a fact that’s th
e only reason why you’re so upset.”
He didn’t exactly agree. But he didn’t deny it either, still frowning when he played hypotheticals by asking, “How would you feel if I’d interviewed a fine ass woman and did all that?”
My eyes squinted. “Are you saying you find Kage Steele... attractive?”
“Fuck outta here with that shit,” he groaned, making me giggle as I wrapped my arms around his neck to tease, “I mean, he is kinda fine.”
“Bleu, I swear to God if you don’t cut that shit out…” he warned, only making me laugh harder when he tried to physically - unsuccessfully - remove me from his lap.
“Nah, I’m not moving. Not until you admit you’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous,” he insisted, a smirk of disbelief on my lips until he added, “I just thought you cared a little more about your reputation in this industry.”
Just like that, I was flat out scowling.
I mean, it was one thing for random people on the internet to gossip. But to hear that shit from my own man?
Climbing from his lap, I huffed, “Wow. And now you officially got me fucked up.”
Of course, he was quick to try and cover with a weak, “Bleu, I didn’t mean it like that.” But quite frankly, I didn’t play that shit, easily slipping back into the dress I’d worn over the night before as I muttered more to myself than him, “Well you sure said it like that.”
Since he knew trying to slow me down would only piss me off more, he waited until I got all the way to his front door to try and stop me with a seemingly sincere, “I’m sorry, B.”
“You should be,” I snapped, my eyes tight and my arms crossed over my chest as he gently tried to unfold them while asking, “Can you come back to bed, please?”
“Why? So you can tell me more about how I should handle my reputation in the industry I’ve been working in for many years longer than you?”
It wasn’t a jab, but a fact that I had no problem reminding him of; especially since I’d put in the effort, gotten the education, and spent years perfecting my craft to get to where I was while Todd just had to submit his official retirement papers to the league and then show up to the studio.
Honestly, I hated that shit.
But popularity often allowed you to break the hierarchy. And not only had Todd been popular on the field, but the viewers also seemed to love his “hot takes” a lot more than those of the regular football analysts solely because he’d won a few championships.
Allegedly, that made him an expert in all things broadcasting.
Now don’t get me wrong, as far as the intricacies of the game went, he knew his shit. But as for telling me how to do my job? How to handle my reputation like I hadn’t been doing so for years, including when we first met while he was still an active player and I immediately turned down his advances because of it?
Yeah, he had me fucked up.
According to the pitiful look on his face, he knew it too, trying to be all soft and buttery about it when he doubled down, “I said I was sorry, babe. Now you gonna let me show you how sorry I am, or you gonna stay mad at me forever?”
Before I could respond, his lips were already at my neck, pecking my spot ever-so-gently as he whispered, “Don’t be mad at me, Bleu-Boo. I was just jealous.”
“Oh, so now he admits it,” I thought, rolling my eyes as I let him keep kissing while I pondered my next move. But the longer his lips went, the more I forgot about the options I was supposed to be weighing. Once he added his oversized, former wide receiver hands to the mix, the scale only tipped further in his favor. And to seal the deal, he used his still game-ready biceps to lift me from the ground, carrying me back to his bedroom where he greedily made me a forgiver.
Two
“You that obsessed with yourself?”
The question would’ve made me laugh if it was coming from anyone else. But from the person who’d sort of gotten me into this shit in the first place?
Yeah, I wasn’t even a little bit amused, frowning when I peeked up from my phone to tell Dre, “You know this is your fault, right?”
It was the last practice before our first preseason game, but my head wasn’t in it at all, too caught up in both the interview I’d done with Bleu Taylor a few weeks back and the public’s response to it after it finally aired this past weekend.
They mostly saw it my way; that we should definitely be a thing. But without her showing even a little bit of interest in ya boy outside of what I did “beyond the bench”, it was nothing but internet talk that had me frustrated as Dre asked, “My fault? How is you watching a video of yourself for no reason other than being conceited as hell my fault?” shaking his head as he muttered, “You new niggas, I swear.”
Sucking my teeth, I explained, “I’m not watching it for me. I’m watching it for her. And if y’all two weren’t already acquainted, I probably would’ve never met her fine ass that weekend in Vegas.”
For whatever reason, that made Dre smirk. “Ahhh, the customary crush on Bleu Taylor. You’re really in the league now, kid.”
I immediately shook my head. “Nah, it ain’t no customer crush or whatever you called that shit. This is different.”
“To you,” he insisted, laughing to himself about it until I blurted, “We kissed.”
“What?”
Lowering my tone, I continued, “You can’t tell anybody, but yeah. We ended up at the same party during WNBA All-Star Weekend, and we kissed.”
“And now she has a boyfriend who could literally strangle your ass with one hand, so you probably shouldn’t tell that story again,” he urged, legitimately concerned like I wouldn’t be able to hold my own.
Really, this wasn’t even about her little boyfriend though, his existence a non-factor as I explained to Dre, “I’m only tellin’ you cause I need your help. I mean, you know her pretty well, right?”
“I wouldn’t say all that,” he answered. “We were cool when she was covering the team, but that was years ago.”
“An assistant coach who can’t assist with shit. Ain’t that a bitch,” I groaned, once again shaking my head as Dre started to laugh.
“Man, listen. A kiss is the most I’ve ever heard her going for with anybody. So if that really happened, just be happy about it.”
Something about his wording made me frown. “What you mean, if that really happened? You think I’d lie about it?”
“I’m not sayin’ you’re lying. But I do know Bleu ain’t never been one to go for athletes, so I have a hard time believing her only pick out of all these years was you.”
On one hand, it sounded like he was on some hater shit. But really, he’d pointed out an important fact, one that brought a grin to my face as I sighed, “Damn. When you put it like that, it sounds kinda romantic.”
“Kissed you at a party and went public with ol’ boy less than a month later? That romance sounds one-sided as hell to me,” Dre replied, chuckling to himself again in a way that had me right back annoyed.
This time, I couldn’t let him get away with it, taking a jab at his situation when I groaned, “Nigga got all the jokes now like I don’t make his girl blush every time she sees me.”
In the blink of an eye, Dre snatched me up by the front of my jersey and snarled, “Nigga, I’ll strangle you myself.” Then he gave me a little toss towards the locker room doors with an aggravated, “Get your stupid ass out to practice.”
The whole thing had me cracking up laughing as I made my way out to the court to join my team just as Coach Kirkwood called for us to gather for his pre-practice announcements.
“Alright, fellas. Tomorrow night’s game may only be a preseason matchup, but we still need to take it seriously. That means moving through this practice as professionals, spending the evening responsibly, and showing up ready to go tomorrow. Is that understood?”
For some reason, all eyes shot my way like his message was specifically for me, a frown on my face when I asked, “Why is everybody lookin’ at me? I’m always r
eady.”
There were some immediate murmurs of disagreement until Niko silenced the noise with a firm, “He’s right. If nothing else, we can always count on Kage to show up with some fire.”
He wasn’t lying.
Off the court, I may have been a wild card. But on the court, I was always locked in, always ready for war, and never shy about calling out the niggas who weren’t keeping that same energy.
It meant a lot for Niko, the leader of our squad, to see that in me last season. And it meant even more for him to start this season off setting the record straight as I moved to dap him up while responding, “See. That’s why I fucks wit’ you, Nik.”
Throwing the one-liner I’d used on him last season back at me, he joked, “Aight, save your little Sister, Sister bonding moment for another time, fam. We got a championship to get after.” Then he called the team in to gather for a hands-in moment before peeking over to give me the go ahead to set it off.
“Trojans on Three!”
I wasn’t expecting her to be here.
I mean, it made sense with her job considered. But I wasn’t prepared to see her in person again so soon, wasn’t ready to be blindsided by all the fine she’d brought to town with her for the second time in a month's span.
From the soft, womanly curves of her otherwise slender body that was always dressed to perfection, to her cinnamon-toned face that looked just as flawless in person as it did on television, to the straight dark brown hair that never seemed to have a strand out of place and landed a little past her shoulders...
Putting it lightly, Bleu was that fuckin’ girl.
And once you added in her brilliance when it came to broadcasting, her overall knowledge of the game, and the sound of her warm, slightly raspy voice, it was clear why I had to have her. It was also clear why I was completely ignoring the side eye Dre was giving me in favor of approaching her before tonight’s preseason game.
On The Rebound Page 2