BWWM Interracial Romance 5: Love After Halftime

Love

After

Halftime

Elena Brown

Copyright © 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Copyright © 2015

Marlene Rhodes sat at her desk, grading exams for her Feminism in Chick Lit class and sighed, reaching for her cup of coffee. Finding it empty, she glanced up from her desk to find the sky outside the high windows had changed from gracious mid-afternoon light to the hard orange-blue warning of evening falling.

She chuckled and peered at the stack beneath her current exam: only eight more to go. She stood and stretched, debating whether or not to walk down the hall to the faculty break room and get a refill or use the lack of caffeine as a challenge to finish grading her exams before she “rewarded” herself with a fresh cup.

Marlene was always challenging herself like that. Her life was one of discipline, order, and routine. Well, it had to be. After her father’s scandalous affair, her mother’s bitter divorce, her father’s messy remarriage and subsequent filing for bankruptcy, Marlene had learned that giving in to impulses could only lead to ruin – hence her rigidly structured life.

Gritting her teeth, she sat back down and promptly attacked the term papers. She was halfway through the rest of the stack when the clattering of high heels in the empty hallway announced one of three things: a wayward co-ed wanting to learn after hours, a very well-dressed janitor… or her best friend and recent divorcee Tina Hinkson.

“You forgot, didn’t you?” Tina scolded from the doorway, waving a fresh cup of coffee in her hand.

“Forgot what?” Marlene asked, even as she suddenly remembered. “Oh honey,” she said, standing from the desk. “I… I’m so sorry.”

She wrapped Tina up in a warm embrace, always worrying she’d smother the poor white girl. Tina was so tiny and, well, as a size-16, Marlene wasn’t.

“I just can’t go for Girls Night this week.”

Tina slumped into one of the student desks and frowned. “This makes three weeks in a row, Merl,” she said, using her nickname for Marlene. “And before I bullied you into it last time, we’d gone almost a month!”

“It’s mid-terms,” Marlene argued, waving her hand at the stack of papers on her desk. “And besides, I still have to log all these when I get back and I haven’t done laundry and…” Marlene’s voice trailed off, watching Tina’s face. She felt bad lying to her friend, but how could she tell Tina the real reason she couldn’t go out with her.

Marlene sighed and bit the bullet. The poor woman had just been through a divorce and, having gone through that with her own mother years earlier, Marlene knew how much Tina needed a friend right. “All right, girl,” she teased, waving her ebony hand toward the coffee cup and earning a squeal in reply. “Hand it over and I’ll let you bribe me for a night out at Sullivan’s.”

“Only if you commit to three drinks,” Tina negotiated playfully.

“Two,” she said, snatching the coffee cup. “And no conga lines this time!”

Tina clapped with newly empty hands and stood, twirling around the room in a black mini skirt and bling tank top, already decked out for the night.

In comparison, Marlene felt dowdy in her gray slacks and matching blazer.

“Come on, come on then,” Tina teased from the doorway. “Happy hour’s starting any minute.”

“I just have to drop these off at my office first,” Marlene said. “Meet me down in the car?”

“It’ll be out front and running,” Tina promised, leaning in for a sisterly kiss on Marlene’s chubby cheek before drifting away in a cloud of perfume and anticipation.

Marlene gathered her things and did put them in her office, but that was where the truth ended. Glancing down the hall to make sure Tina was gone, Marlene dialed a familiar number and bit her lip, nervously, as she waited for a reply.

“Please go to voicemail,” she murmured, “please go to voicemail, please… Oh, Joe!” she said pleasantly when he answered, despite shaking her fists at the missed opportunity. Why she hadn’t texted him, Marlene had no idea. Perhaps because she didn’t want to let him down that way.

“Hey,” he said, half-growl, half-low murmur, as always. “You’re early. Thought we were meeting at Dino’s Steakhouse at seven?”

“Yeah, about that…”

“Not again, Merl,” he groaned as, nervous and anxious, Marlene winced at the nickname.

“This is the second time this month we’ve tried to set something up,” he said.

She sighed, unwilling to tell another fib that night. “Joe, I could lie and tell you it was mid-terms, but… Tina just showed up and I’ve blown her off for Girls Night three weeks running and…”

His lazy chuckle accentuated the irony of their predicament. “So, let me get this straight: you’re standing me up for… my ex-wife?”

She was about to dispute his argument but, in point of fact, it was the truth! “Listen—don’t make me feel bad. If you hadn’t divorced her, Joe, I could go out with both of you at the same time. Like the old days, remember?”

“Yeah, well,” he growled impatiently, “I did divorce her, and it’s not like the old days, and I need you, too, you know? How you gonna do me like this?”

“I can’t do this right now, Joe,” Marlene grunted with frustration, knowing Tina was growing impatient downstairs in the parking lot of Emerson College. “I can’t. Tina’s waiting and, you know… I feel weird being in the middle of you guys like this. I’ve known you longer, it’s true, but you introduced me to Tina before your wedding and now I’ve been friends with her for years. How can I just—”

“What’s that sound?” he asked as she approached the main lobby.

“That would be your ex-wife honking for my ass!” Marlene said before quickly hanging up.

* * * * *

Joe Hinkson groaned as he peeled his eyelids open, one by one. The late Tuesday morning sun filtered harshly through the blinds of his penthouse apartment, making him growl and roll over. He hugged his pillow, wishing it was the curvy redhead he’d met at the bar last night after the game, wondering what had happened to chase her away.

A crooked smile curled across his lips as he reached down to scratch himself. Suddenly he remembered who stole the curvy ginger away: his teammate and professional poon hound, Brad Steltzer!

He rolled onto his back, chuckling, and wishing it didn’t sound so loud in his hung-over brain. Although the events of the night grew a little… blurry… after that, Joe could pointedly remember Brad doing a body shot off the bodacious redhead’s breasts and then, well… somehow he got home, alone, and that’s all that really mattered.

He sat up, groaning, covering his eyes as he peered at the digital clock on the nightstand. With no practice that day the numbers on the clock meant little to him other than it was almost noon.

Then he realized he was supposed to meet his family at the Brick House Bistro on Sullivan Street! “Shit,” he growled, sore and stiff after last night’s game.

He showered, dressed and raced downstairs to literally launch himself into his trademark black Porsche, all without an ounce of coffee. He raced the restaurant, grateful it was only a few blocks away, and quickly valeted it before popping into the bar.

“Hey, man,” cheered the bartender, “great game last night, Joe. Man, that pass in the third quarter, sometimes… I don’t know how you do it.”

“Me either,” he said, lowering his voice and wishing the bartender wasn’t quite so exuberant.

Joe smirked and ordered a shot and a beer.

“Coming right up!”

“Thanks,” Joe whispered.

“What’s with the cloak and dagger?” asked the bartender as Joe quickly downed the shot and guzzled the beer.

“I’m meeting my folks for lunch and… Sis!”

“There you are,” said Joe’s sister, Cara, wagging a playful finger and winking at the bartender as she leaned up to give Joe a sisterly kiss.

“A little hair of the dog?” she asked as Joe tossed a twenty on the bar and let Cara drag her back into the dining room.

“Don’t tell Dad,” he said and she smirked. “I won’t have to,” she said, waving a hand in front of her nose. “You smell like a brewery.”

“Mom, Dad,” he grinned, head slightly less achy, body vaguely less sore, Joe feeling slightly more human as he hugged his parents and sat at their favorite corner table. The Brick House Bistro had been a family favorite for years, their go-to celebration spot for everything from birthdays to graduations to engagement announcements and, during football season, after every one of Joe’s wins.

“There he is,” crowed their favorite waitress, Angel, in her mid-50s and crotchety to just about everybody but Joe and his family. “Great game last night!”

He blushed and chuckled, nodding and waving to several other tables as they murmured and chuckled and cheered him on. As ever, his family waited until the hoo-ha had died down to congratulate him.

“It really was a great game, son,” said his father, beaming proudly. “That pass in the third quarter, my God… I don’t know how you do it.”

“Me either,” Joe chuckled as his mother squeezed his hand.

“Honey, you know I love you,” she teased, pinching his cheek playfully. “But how many times I have asked you to quite licking your fingers before the center snaps the ball? You know how many germs there are on that field?”

“To say nothing of the center’s butt!” Cara teased, looking youthful and radiant in her black turtleneck and gray pleated skirt. She had straight black hair, a youthful face and an athletic frame, which befit her status as captain of her college volleyball team. His parents were in their sixties, pleasantly plump and enjoying their retirement ever since Joe had paid off their house and allowed them to quit their jobs as high school teachers in the Chicago suburbs.

It was a small price to pay for the sacrifices they’d made for Joe while he was growing up: endless football camps and going to every game, no matter how far away, the gear and the trophies and the camps and the two-a-days and the anxiety of which college he might go to, the draft and then worrying about that injury he’d had his first year playing for the Chicago Hawks football team.

Now he wanted his parents to sit back, relax, and enjoy the good life. After all, you don’t grow up to sign a $22 million contract and not take care of the Dad who first taught you how to throw a ball – and the mom who stitched you up every time you fell down trying to catch one!

The lunch went well, as always, a few more beers helping Joe to get over his hangover as, at last, he helped his folks into their new SUV and watched them drive away. After they’d turned the corner and the coast was clear, Cara slugged him playfully on the shoulder and dragged him back into the bar.

“First round’s on me,” Cara said, waving down the bartender. “The rest are on you!”

“As always,” he said, hunkering down next to his favorite drinking partner. They sipped their beers as the afternoon stretched out before them, slow and lazy. Tuesdays were always his favorite days: another game over, no practice, time to heal his wounds and retreat from the crazy world that was professional football. Did he enjoy the fame and recognition, the money and the trappings, the sports recaps and interviews and signing autographs for a dozen folks in his favorite bistro every Tuesday? Sure, yes, of course, but at the end of the day, he just wanted to play ball, hang out and enjoy his family and friends.

Once upon a time, that had included his wife, Tina, but as the pressures of fame wore on them both, he and his ex-wife grew farther and farther apart until, to keep from hurting – and hating – each other anymore, they’d simply chosen to leave the marriage.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Cara said, watching him muse about what had brought him to this funky, upscale bistro on a Tuesday afternoon.

“Show me first,” he teased her.

She whipped out a shiny nickel and said, “Now you owe me
five
thoughts.”

“You know me, sis,” he chuckled. “I can’t think that much.”

She smirked and said, “Talked to Tina lately?”

“Come on,” he groaned, signaling the bartender for another round. “Not this again.”

“I’m just saying,” Cara chuckled playfully. “I mean, it’s only been a few months. Don’t you miss her?”

“Not the ‘her’ she became,” he said, a little too quickly.

Cara arched one raven eyebrow. “How about the ‘you’ you became, Joe? I mean, you met in college, at a fraternity party for Pete’s sake. How did you guys think you wouldn’t change?”

He shrugged. “I guess I just thought we’d change together,” he said. “Not… apart.”

She sighed and sipped her new beer. “So, how you holding up?”

“Fine,” he insisted but, as always, Cara saw right through him.

“You’re not hanging out with Brad again, are you?”
              “Cara…”

“I just… you’re vulnerable right now.”

“I’m the quarterback for a top-ranked NFL team, Cara, how vulnerable do you think I am?”

“In here,” she said, tapping his chest. “You’re thirty, Joe, and were married to Tina for over five years. Tell me you didn’t get used to that companionship just a little bit?”

He shrugged. “Okay, okay, but… when you drift away from someone like that, it’s almost better being alone.”

“Yeah, but you’re not used to it, Joe. I know deep down you’re lonely, and that makes you vulnerable.”