Thomas jogged up beside me, eyes wide. “Yo… you wild as hell.”
I took a long pull from my water, not even looking at him. “He knew better.”
Thomas glanced back at Jamal, then back at me
“Yeah. He did.”
I stayed there for a second, staring out at the turf, jaw tight.
Because it wasn’t about practice. It wasn’t about talking. It was about a nigga getting told—twice—and still thinking shit was sweet.
And I don’t repeat myself.
Practice wrapped up, and my knuckles were still throbbing when I pushed through the locker room doors and stepped out into the cool evening air. The adrenaline from the fight was starting to wear off, leaving behind a dull ache in my right hand and a sharper one in my chest—the kind that had nothing to do with physical pain.
I’d fucked up. Not by beating Jamal's ass. That muthafucka had it coming. But by losing control like that in front of the whole team, in front of Coach. That wasn't me. I didn't let people get under my skin like that. I didn't let emotions dictate my moves. But when he'd stood there, talking about Sianni like she was just another piece of ass he was trying to get at, something in me had snapped.
The parking lot was mostly empty now. Most of the guys had cleared out while I was still in Coach’s office, getting my ass chewed. Fifteen-minute lecture about professionalism, about being a leader, and about how I was better than this.
He wasn’t wrong, but he also hadn’t heard what Jamal said.
I pulled my phone out of my gym bag as I walked toward my car, my eyes dropping to the screen.
Three missed calls, all from Sianni.
And a text.
Call me when you get this.
My jaw tightened a little. That was unusual. Not enough to have me tripping, but enough to catch my attention. She knew I had practice. Knew I wouldn’t answer my phone while I was on the field, so for her to call back-to-back like that?
Yeah. It stood out. I saw her name and lifted the phone to my ear as I reached my car.
It rang three times.
“Pick up,” I muttered under my breath, leaning against the driver’s door.
It went to voicemail. I pulled the phone away, staring at the screen for a second before ending the call.
“Damn.”
Maybe her phone died. Maybe she got caught up doing something. Maybe she just wanted to tell me something and figured it could wait.
Still… something about it felt off. Not panic, just that quiet irritation that comes when I can’t get a read on things.
I unlocked my car and tossed my bag onto the passenger seat before sliding behind the wheel. My hand throbbed when I flexed my fingers, the skin across my knuckles already starting to swell, but it was worth it.
The look on Jamal’s face when I connected that third hit? Yeah. That alone was worth it.
I started the engine and pulled out, my mind still half on that phone call and half on the road.
I tried calling her again, but there was still no answer.
“Fuck,” I muttered, dropping the phone into the cup holder.
The drive home usually took about twenty minutes, but I found myself pushing it, sliding through traffic a little more aggressively than usual. Not rushing for any reason I could name, just moving. Trying to shake that feeling sitting low in my chest.
The streets started looking more familiar as I got closer to my neighborhood. Quiet and clean. The kind of place where nothing really happened.
