Love's Ineligible Receiver (Connecticut Kings Book 5)

by Love Belvin

  Because you going broke, buying stupid shit with ya money while getting injured every damn season! Fuck outta here!

  But of course, those thoughts stayed in my head. I never paid dude no mind with his corny ass. My mind was on calling Dinky about the water bottle plug for the lunch program back at home in Trenton. That and rescheduling with that fucking therapist for this week.

  “Not you, Rut!” A familiar bark ripped across the field from the speakers.

  The fuck?

  Slowly, I dropped the bottle from my sweaty face and turned toward the green. Underwood, the Offensive Coordinator, held the bullhorn inches from his mouth. His eyes were hidden under the tent of his baseball cap, but I could sketch an image of his scowl, knowing it by heart after all the times I’d seen it since getting drafted. A few snickers could be heard as the team passed me on their way to the locker room.

  “You got an extra hour on the field. Run your ass now!”

  What? We’d just finished a grueling plyometrics drill. Hours of it! More giggling could be heard behind me as bodies practically slogged off the field. Jordan “The Flash’s” sleek ass smile drew closer to me. My upturned palm automatically rose in the air, silently questioning.

  “The fuck is this? High school?” I grumbled as he neared. “Grant and Thomas came late,” I began as he slapped my shoulders heavily with that same smirk. “I get why they have to stay after. But I was here early. Fuck I do?”

  Smoothly, and on the low, Jordan tossed his chin, telling me to meet him off to the side of the line filing into the tunnel.

  Once out of the way, I turned to him curious as hell. But before uttering a word, Jordan spit a laugh from his belly.

  Huhn?

  “Yo, Underwood is old school as hell!” He laughed. I lifted one brow to hurry this shit along. Jordan caught on and tried to calm himself. “They all tight, man. Underwood, Henderson, Craig, Eli—Wright.”

  Henderson and Craig were two of the wide receiver trainers, but—

  “What this gotta do with them?”

  Jordan shook his head. “You had a plus one when you left Eli’s shindig the other night.” I cocked my head to the side. “You fucked the wrong one.”

  “So?” My hand flew in the air. “I fucked a jawn; it’s what the fuck I do! What that got to do with me having to stay late at practice to run more drills?”

  Mentioning her reminded me of the note she left. Fats showed it to me, confused by it. But when I read what it said, “Sorry for Uber’ing it out. Thanks for keeping up with my phone.” I knew exactly who had written it.

  Jordan’s face sobered. “Your plus one is linked to the old-school crew.”

  “Who?”

  “Wright.”

  “Who the fuck is Wright?”

  “James ‘The Boulder’ Wright.’” His forehead lifted for recognition from me. Nothing. “Class of ‘93, franchise wide receiver.” He nodded as my face fell when I finally recalled the name. I hadn’t heard about Jimmy Wright in years. Before Jordan and Trent’s days as franchise Kings, it was Tariq Evans and friends’ time. They got the ring and made the Kings loads of cash. And before Evans’ class was Wright’s. He brought the Kings more than one Super Bowl win in the late eighties/early nineties. I knew Eli, Underwood, Craig, Henderson, and Wright were old as fuck, but I didn’t know they rolled together. Besides, I hadn’t heard Wright’s name in years. My pops used to go hard for him back in his day. “That plus one you retreated with the other night…” His chin dipped.

  “…is Wright’s daughter?”

  He snorted, face toward the ground. “Go lateral.”

  Latera—

  “I fucked a bitch who cheated on her man?” I yelled, mad as hell over the bullshit. That wasn’t my fault. Here we go… I came up here for everybody to doubt me. I did the damn required therapy, made sure I didn’t give the coaches too much flack, stayed low so I didn’t hear Divine’s shit, and now, because I bumped dicks with a damn old fuck I’m the problem? I felt my jaw tighten. “That’s the big fuckin’ deal, bruh? So I smashed her. You know how many bitches I run through?”

  Jordan’s eyes rolled over my shoulder to something behind me, his jaw dropping and face going lax. I turned to see what caught his attention and my damn eyes rolled away as soon as they hit their target.

  Fucking. Eli. Richardson.

  I let out an aggravated breath. The last person I wanted to see was my boss when I was copping to banging out his homie’s piece of ass. Eli stood with three other stiffs in tailored suits; one a female. They all looked horrified, as though I pulled out my gat and asked for the goods.

  He cleared his throat and motioned for the small group to continue down the tunnel. A part of me—a real tiny part—wondered who his company was, hoping it was no one he was trying to impress. He was Eli Richardson after all, the only black owner in the league. Who did he have to impress?

  Low key snickering had me turning back to Jordan. Half his face was covered by his hand and he coughed into it, clearing his throat.

  “Not a good look at all,” I muttered, mad as hell. “I know.”

  I didn’t need a warning. Each day since I signed my shitty deal, it was understood Eli didn’t fuck with me. He wasn’t the type to have personal relationships with many of the players, but everybody knew he rocked hard with Trent Bailey and Jordan Johnson—before Jordan got with his daughter, Cole. That nipped at my ego too. He and Divine were boys. Divine was my people but that still didn’t get me face time with Eli. It was another reminder that I wasn’t exactly welcomed here.

  “Glad you do.” Jordan’s face straightened. “Look, playa, you gotta hit that field before Underwood blasts ya ass for real. But I’ll tell you this: you leaving with that chick the other night ain’t under the big homie’s radar.”

  “Because his boy’s fuckin’ her?” I asked, mad about that recent discovery all over again. “Okay, I won’t touch his groupie again. Shit.” I snorted. “I ‘on’t even remember her name!” My head was still fucked up over her leaving a note.

  Jordan shook his head. “She ain’t his groupie. Try again.”

  My eyes blew up. “His main bitch?”

  Shaking his head even more, Jordan’s humor began to feel like pity. “Stop calling that girl a bitch. Get that outta ya system. I don’t know the details of their relationship, but I do know they’re legit. So legit she works in the front office. She keeps on the low…don’t bother nobody.” He began to walk off, amusement playing on his face again. “Matter of fact, she may be known now because she left the party with the new asshole draftee. This may be something you wanna consult Divine on, lil’ homie. That’s all I got for you.” Jordan took off for the locker room and I could swear to hearing him laugh even more.

  Oh, so now I’m that asshole?

  “Rut, get yo ass out here, boy!” I heard from the bullhorn.

  “Fuck!” I turned for the field wondering how in the hell did I get myself into this shit.

  I started my jog for the center of the field, grunting underneath my breath. One of many rules I lived by was no pussy was worth trouble. There was too much out here for a man like me.

  Too much. But I damn sure wouldn’t turn down another opportunity…

  “How long are we going to do this?”

  My head rolled over to the left where she sat with a device over her crossed legs. Her head was to the side and nose in the damn air.

  “Do what?”

  “Ineffectively use the time allotted to us.”

  I straightened my head to face the ceiling as I lay on my back. “Just an hour a few times a week. Right?” I shrugged. “I actually like the quiet time. It’s therapeutic.”

  “And a waste of my time.”

  “Hey, I didn’t request this. I ain’t even paying for it.”

  “But your employer is. An employer who’s expecting my feedback about your participation and progress. It’s been almost a month.”

  “Don’t remind me,” I groaned, brushing m
y hands over my face. “A month of wasted fuckin’ time. Time I could’ve devoted to what I’m actually getting paid for.” Measly pay. “But instead, I’m here taking advantage of ya plush ass, white sofa.”

  “I’m not giving you a pass.”

  That had my neck whipping back over to face her.

  She sat forward, brows lifting on her big ass forehead. “No.” She shook her head, eyes hard on me but voice calm. “I don’t ask many questions when I’m asked to take on a client from the Kings. In fact, I don’t look at the intake paperwork until I’ve discerned somethings on my own. It’s a game I like to play with myself. I like to see how accurate I am.”

  “So I’m a game to you?”

  “No more than what you do on the field.”

  That went over my head, but I wouldn’t let her know that. I wanted to know more.

  “So what have you—” I used my fingers in the air. “—‘discerned’ about me?”

  She lay the device on the coffee table and stood. I watched as she strolled to one of the black wooden shelves on her wall and straightened an Urban Grind coffee mug. I was familiar with the brand. It was a black coffee company. But why in the hell did she have the mug on display like it was significant? Then she walked over to her bookcase in the corner. She pushed back a big dawg bottle of Mauve. There were two smaller bottles on either side of it.

  She’s fucking weird.

  “One of many things I’ve observed about you is your total disregard to your presentation. What I mean by that is, your behavior demonstrates little etiquette. That could be because it was never required of you growing up in the environment you did. And even when you were in college, your crudeness was dismissed and attributed to your age.”

  I laughed. My head tossed back on the arm of the sofa and I hollered. “And what about now?”

  “Now?” She turned to me. Her face was still blank but her head fell to the side again. “Now you’re in the big leagues. You’re a brand. A product. And products should be set aside from the rest. You need polishing. A conscience of etiquette helps with that. Clean up your delivery for when it matters.”

  I was bored with it already. “And why is delivery and presentation so damn important?”

  “It speaks to your humility and level of class.”

  I couldn’t help it. Hard air pushed through my lips and I found myself laughing again.

  Is this what Coach Lou and them had in mind?

  The Kings added therapy as a stipulation to my contract. I had to start immediately at a few times a week until the therapist “successfully discharged” me. The stupid ass contract read something like that. They could all suck my balls if they thought this would get in the way of my dreams.

  “What about your mother?”

  “Ha!” I croaked. “She good.”

  “But has she mentioned about any of the traits I’ve named.”

  “Nah. ‘Cause she so good.”

  “Good how?”

  “Taken care of. She wants for nothing, so she don’t have nothing to complain about.”

  “Hmmm…”

  “Hmmm…” I mocked, stretched out on the couch.

  “What about your grandmother?”

  “Same boat. I take care of her, she good.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Don’t have one.” Try again.

  “Kids’ mother?”

  My eyes rolled over to her. “I’m a twenty-four-year-old, black, educated, pro football player. Out of all those bomb ass character facts, being a father ain’t one.” My face went tight as I thought about that. “Kind of insulting, too.”

  “Please accept my apologies. I’m trying to see your full portrait here.”

  “You’d see a better one if you left broads out.” My laugh was dry.

  “What’s wrong with calling us women?”

  I refused to look at her when I answered. “First, we ain’t talking about you or every female on earth. We talking about the ones I run into. They broads—most females are. No matter how old they are, most of them come with the shits.” I was using “etiquette” by excluding her, but I was willing to bet she was no different from the rest.

  I’ve seen some quality women in my day. Shit. Divine’s wife was one. A fucking unicorn. That woman had her own job and education before he scooped her, but that was rare. Even Stenton Rogers’ wife came up on him. She got fancy degrees and shit, but StentRo sponsored them. For each example I could think of, of a woman having her own and not in a man’s damn pocket, I could call out ten more that was nothing more than a damn humping bag.

  Sorry…

  “Pussy’s good, but good pussy don’t make a female a real woman.” The therapist’s neck whipped my way. The minute I realized those words fell from my mouth, my eyes closed and squeezed in frustration. “I didn’t mean to be rude. I—”

  “Was giving it to me how you see it. Your perceived truth.” Her hands clapped and she shrugged. “I’m big on honesty. You laying in here putting up guards is far more challenging than you giving me your ugly truth.”

  “What truth?”

  “The fact that you have a skewed view of women. Your perception of them is poor but in my line of work I know it’s because of a series of experiences you’ve had with them.”

  I laughed again. “Man, I ain’t got no issue with women. I actually see them in a positive light. I’ve seen some bangers, doc. Ain’t nothing like a beautiful, bangin’ female.”

  “Again.” She gave a slight nod. “You referenced female.”

  “So y’all ain’t females no more?” I scoffed. “This new aged bullshit got me confused.”

  “We’re females by distinction of human sex. We’re women in the scheme of social humanity. I’m personally not offended by the term female, but your manner of reference implies there’s a categorical ranking system behind your wordplay.”

  “Hell yeah. Y’all all ain’t created equal but in general…”

  “In general, what?”

  Fuck it…

  “Females are takers. There’s always an ulterior motive for what they do. Most of the times it’s money. Sometimes it’s for social status.”

  “Just those two reasons?”

  “Nah, there are a few more. Like this one chick in college… She was the president of a female club—all black chicks. They were ‘bout it, too. Active on campus, holding fundraisers, having big name activists speak at their events, hosting parties, working with the provost’s office and shit.” I found myself smiling toward the ceiling. “Julia was her name. She was a banger…Malian heritage, too. She would come at me all the time with the shits. She said I was sexist, misogynistic, and a gang of other shit. I told her I wasn’t and would prove it.

  “One day I decided to sit in on her meeting. I listened through the whole hour and some change about their agenda. Afterward, I was hungry and invited her to grab a bite. The next day I saw her in the student center and chilled with her between classes, kicking it about the comparison of Kendrick Lamar and ‘Pac. Two nights later, she was knocking at my door at one in the morning, wearing a robe and slippers. I fucked her that night and a few more after before she asked could we go without protection.”

  I sat up, finding the whole situation funny all over again. “This the same girl who had vocal views on women’s right to choose and all that bullshit. She wanted me to nut up in her and risk getting her pregnant, all for her to abort the baby? Females be trippin’.”

  “I can see how perplexing that could be.”

  “But I ain’t finished, though.” I laughed again, memories flooding in. “When I told her no, she got mad and that turned me off. I decided not to fuck with her no more. This girl got depressed. Within weeks, she stopped going to class, half ate, didn’t do her little all black girl meetings. Then the whole fuckin’ campus wanted to blame me for putting her light out. She left school, and the next semester, finished online. It was crazy!”

  “Did you speak to her?”

  “Nah.
Coach told me to leave it alone. The whole campus was buzzed behind it. Her little girl group rallied to get me expelled. I had to sit out two games that we ended up losing behind that bullshit.”

  “Did you want to speak to her?”

  “Nah. Not really. She sounded crazy to me. And please don’t try to say it was my fault.” I shook my head while looking her dead in the eyes. “I may do my shit, but that girl had issues long before ol’ Rut came along. But of course, people wanna blame me when I’m only guilty of not turning down ass.”

  “Would you do anything differently, in retrospect, if you could?”

  I thought about it. “I ‘on’t know.”

  “You have to have some position on it now: new or old. You’re in the league now. Conduct is second only to skill set.” She tossed her hand in the air. “You’re here because of conduct. To reinforce the importance of it. Surely, you have a position on that experience today.”

  I shrugged. “I really don’t know. Now I’m fighting to prove I’m the shit. I worked hard to get here, got here, and was offered a shitty contract. Everything about it is contingent. Hell, I ain’t never heard of that type of deal until the Kings gave it to Trent Bailey two years ago. I could’ve given up there, but I accepted it and showed up to work on the first day. I’m never late for practice, always working out, study old footage the coaches recommend, eat the prescribed diet—I lay low. I got a lot of shit on my shoulders. Even doing all of that, my name gets mixed up in shit.”

  “Like what?”

  I didn’t want to go there. I damn sure didn’t come here to talk and definitely not about some real shit. I checked the time and saw I had less than ten minutes to go.

  “A couple of nights ago, the big man on campus hosted a party at his crib. I came through…not to party, but to be professional and show my face. The last thing I was thinking about was ass.” I made sure I caught her eyes. “I mean the last thing. My mind was so far from it and to prove it, I’ll tell you I had ass waiting for me back at my place.”

  “Okay…”

  “Okay. So I get there and see this chick that kept catching my eye. Obviously, she couldn’t keep her eyes off me either. One thing led to another, and we left together. We banged out. She left. Boom. It’s over. Then I show up to work today and one of the coaches got a beef with me. Come to find out, ol’ girl from the party belongs to his boy. Not only is he bangin’ her, but they’re engaged. One thing leads to another today, and everybody, including Eli Richardson, knows I fucked her. I found out her ol’ man is Eli’s boy.”