21
Care to tell us what better thing you have to do?
Malachi—Friday, July 30—6:18 p.m.
The days fell into a blurry routine. We were up between 5:30 and 6:30 every weekday morning. I usually got up forty-five minutes earlier to lift. Then we met to eat as a group in the common area. Sometimes we cooked; often it was easier to just create smoothies. Most of the time, they provided pre-prepped meal options for us.
From there we spent a half hour acting like we were a group of people who hung out regularly discussing weight loss. These on-camera conversations frequently devolved into revelations about who was getting on whose nerves and what if anything could be done about it. We talked about the things we missed from our “real lives” and how much longer until we could get back to them. Then we trained for at least two hours. We had a short break for personal time (which was not at all personal and always filmed). We ate lunch or what they were serving that passed for lunch. Then we had meetings either with the production staff, the trainers, the nutritionists, the special guests that were brought in, or I met with Pierre and other members of my business team.
To date, Carissa had lost over forty-five pounds. I was close to that same total. Niecy and Jordy were down about thirty pounds each. As expected, XJ and Suzette lagged behind, but even they had lost a little over twenty pounds each.
Then came the competitive workout activity. It was almost always some crazy obstacle course or rock wall or three-mile hike through the swamp. Yesterday was at least a swimming challenge that got us out of the heat of the damn day. Grudgingly, I had to hand it to them: they kept coming up with new and camera-friendly ways to make us sweat . . . literally and figuratively.
The competitive workout challenge was followed by the on-camera wrap–up. Then came the showers in the tiny bathrooms, where the hot water always ran out no matter how quick you tried to be. There was an option for whoever came in last to opt in for the blind challenge. The blind challenges always involved some tomfoolery where they tried to pit us against each other on some sort of personal level. If we were blessed, no one felt like taking the challenge and we were free to go to dinner. Not that dinner was anything to write in to the Food Channel about. After dinner came the day-in-review confessionals. On a good day, we were free to retire for the day at around ten p.m. On a bad day: midnight or later.
It made for short tempers and long-suffering tests of patience. We needed a break, badly.
For today, we had one more competitive activity to complete before we wrapped for a long weekend. I needed that long weekend like a starving man needed steak. I was tired. No, scratch that: I was exhausted. Mentally and physically spent. I needed at least a twenty-four-hour stretch without a camera following me, without a workout to finish, without a playbook to study. In the past few weeks, some sports reporters had started showing up in Belle Haven and on set. While on the one hand it was gratifying to know they were still interested, on the other hand I felt like the pressure was coming at me from all sides. All eyes were on me. Normally, I enjoyed the spotlight. I worked best under pressure when everyone was counting on me. But right now I wanted to grab my girl, turn off the phones, and forget about the world for a minute.
There were only so many ways we could get freaky in the tiny bathroom in the dormitory. Neither of us were eighteen anymore. Quickies while trying not to slip and fall on that cold white tile? I was way the hell over it. I wanted a bed. A king-size bed with a pillow-top mattress with bedsprings that didn’t creak with the slightest movement. I wanted a room larger than a cubicle, with climate control that worked not just when it felt like it. Call me spoiled, but damn, I missed sheets that actually had a thread count. I missed my steam shower big enough for two with the never-ending hot water supply.
“Malachi, are you listening?” Jim Swindle asked in a condescending tone.
I was too tired to lie. “No, Jim. I am not. I was daydreaming about a steam shower. What’d I miss?” I grinned with a shrug.
“I said that you and Carissa are exempt from this activity because you have won three in a row. So unless you want to participate, you both are free to go.”
I turned toward Carissa and raised a brow. She put a hand on her hip and squinted at Jim. She wondered aloud, “What’s the catch?”
Jim shrugged with one of those used-car salesman grins we’d come to mistrust. “No catch, though if you decide to stay and you win the competitive activity, you’re exempt from the next three competitive activities.”
I’d learned to ask for the fine print. “And if we should happen to lose?”
“You’d have to take the blind challenge to maintain your current standing.”
“What’s today’s super-fun activity?” Carissa asked.
Jim pointed at the track. “Five-mile run. First team with the best combined time to finish—whether it’s run, walk, or crawl—wins.”
One look at Carissa’s face and I already knew. She was not a runner. She would dance, do stairs, bicycle, swim, walk, lift, and stretch, but she was not about running. I was a good runner, but I liked sprints, not long distance. Jordan had become a pretty good runner and Niecy would probably speed walk to a decent finish. XJ and Suzette would give their normal half-assed effort. Yes, I liked to win, but enough was enough for now. It was not worth it to chance having to face some crazy-assed “what can we dream up to get in your business” challenge when we could just walk away now. Plus, I had plans for the weekend, none of which involved shin splints. Not too much more discussion was needed. “We’re out. Y’all have fun.”
“You act like you have something better to do?” Jim called out in a teasing voice.
“I most definitely do.” I grabbed Carissa’s hand without thinking and started to walk toward the parking lot. I’d completely forgotten that we weren’t showing any overt affection on camera. She paused a second, looked down at our clasped hands, and met my eyes. It was too late now. The cameras were rolling. With a roll of her eyes and a shrug, Carissa laughed and we kept right on walking, picking up the pace to a light jog.
“Care to tell us what better thing you have to do?” Ren asked as he, Jerry, and the microphone guy who were my constant shadows ran along beside us.
The hell with it. As my grandfather used to say, in for a penny, in for a pound. With the grin that won me the cover of ESPN magazine twice, I looked straight at Carissa. “What better thing do I have to do?” Carissa shrieked as I scooped her up and threw her over my shoulder. “Her. She’s the better thing I have to do!” I ran the last few feet and unlocked the car door.
“Mal, where are y’all headed?” Ignoring the reporters hustling our direction, I dropped her in the passenger seat and sprinted around to the other side.
“Does this mean you’re back together?” another reporter called out as I hopped in the driver’s seat and shut the door.
I flashed the grin, hit the horn twice, and backed out of the space. “Wait! Do you have time for a quick interview?” Someone called out another request. I held up the peace sign and pushed harder on the accelerator.
“You are CRAZY!” Carissa announced as we barreled out of the parking lot.
“I may just be, but you’ve got a bag packed in the trunk, your purse is under the seat, and we are out of Belle Haven for the weekend,” I announced proudly. I couldn’t wait to see her reaction to my surprise.
“What? Where are we going?” she asked excitedly.
The fact that she didn’t argue and didn’t get mad that I hadn’t asked her first, told me just how far we had come. I reached out and squeezed her thigh. “How do you feel about the Big Easy for a few days?”
“Yes! I love New Orleans. But of course, you know this.” She pumped her arms over her head. “No cameras, no hard-ass twin bed . . .”
“No Meshach tipping in and out in the middle of the night,” I tacked on.
“No Suzette, no Bliss, no Marcy.” She sat back with a contented sigh.
“A real bed,” I added. “With room service.”
“Room service,” she echoed reverently.
“Room damn service, baby!”
“I’m going to cheat on my diet,” she whispered giddily.
“I’m not going to tell,” I reassured her. As much weight as she’d lost, she could afford to take a few days off. Personally, I liked her with a little extra cushion and most of that was gone. I was no fool: I kept those thoughts to myself. We were going to have a pleasant, drama-free weekend for the first time in years and I planned to enjoy every minute of it. If she was happy, I was happy.
“No Mom, no Ruby, no Sugar!” she crowed triumphantly.
“No Ren, no Jerry, no Jordy . . . ma’am.” I shot her a look.
She shook her head. “I don’t care what you say. Nothing can spoil this. I’m so happy to be outta here for a minute!”
We flew down Main Street and took the left toward the interstate. Waiting for the light to turn, she opened up the sunroof and stood up on the seat. “Carissa, what are you doing?” I asked in alarm.
“Woo-hoo!” she yelled with a wave before sitting back down and looking at me. “I started to scream ”Bye, bitches!’ and flash a peace sign, but then I noticed a camera crew out in front of Ruby’s. You know they would open the show with that shot. Damn hot mess–loving cameras.” She fastened her seat belt with a sigh.
I smirked at her. “Ya good?”
“Oh yeah. Very good and getting better by the minute.”
“All right, then, we’re outta here.” With a quick turn onto the service road, I accelerated onto the highway. We’d be on Canal Street in less than two hours.
She bounced on the seat. “I can NOT wait. Oh, and Mal?”
“Yeah, babe?”
“In case I don’t tell you later, I had a great weekend.” She leaned forward and brushed a soft lingering kiss on my cheek.
It was just a short, sweet kiss on the cheek, but my heart leaped in my chest. Aw, dammit, I’d fallen back in love with her. Not sure if I’d ever fallen out. Seeing Carissa Wayne happy made my entire life fall into place. My father, my mother, Pierre, and everyone else who’d offered an unsolicited opinion were right. Getting back in the NFL or not, whatever came next, it would only mean something to me if I had her with me. I was in it now. With a deep sigh, I smiled at her. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”
“Really?” She considered my words seriously.
“Indeed, it’s your weekend. Whatever you want, you get.”
“Spa services?”
“Done.”
“Dancing at Tipitina’s?” she queried.
“All night if you want,” I promised.
“Hmm, who are you and what have you done with Malachi Henry?”
“Oh, come on, I’ve pampered you before.” I shot her a quick look in my defense.
She leaned against the door and crossed her arms. “It’s been more than a minute, player.”
“Let’s just say I’m making up for lost time.”
“Is that what you’re doing? Making up for lost time?”
I didn’t want her to turn skittish on me. It was better not to let her know that I was more than making up for lost time, I was setting up a foundation for our future. I wanted the whole package. Her and me forever. Till death did us part, the whole nine. But she was nowhere near ready to hear it. Instead, I kept it light. “I’m having a nice weekend with my best friend. Can I do that? Is that okay?”
She tilted her head to the side and studied me as though she was trying to figure out what I was up to. After a long silence, she nodded. “Okay, let’s have ourselves our weekend.”
I turned on the satellite radio. Smooth R&B poured out. Her station, not mine. I tended to listen to more hip-hip classics. She started singing along, a little off-key but very enthusiastically. Something she only did when she was happy. My girl was happy. We were on our way.