For The Hope Of It All

Ilyes

 It was my fourth recovery session since I had arrived in New York two weeks ago. My dad had organized a membership at some luxury gym in midtown so that I was able to train and ensure there was no muscle atrophy now that I wasn't working out and playing a few 90 minute games a week. I didn't realize how hard it would've been, how much I relied on my left ankle. It was far from easy and some days it felt like there was no hope that I'd be returning to the team fully recovered. Walking was one thing but actually trying to get it to function like it did before was a challenge I wasn't ready for. Any discomfort I felt plunged fear further into my stomach even with the words of encouragement from my trainers and physical therapists. I didn't realize how important support was and while my family checked on me every day, part of me kind of regret deciding to stay in a luxury apartment for the next few months instead of my usual guest room at my khala's house. I knew there was no such this as overstepping and that if I decided to move in permanently, she wouldn't object but I wanted my privacy if ever I needed to bring someone home. And that couldn't happen when she barged into my room without so much as a knock whether it was to offer freshly cut fruits or to wash my laundry. I need some privacy. God forbid I needed a break or a distraction some days. That was what I needed maybe. Some way to relieve the pressure I was putting on myself. I thought about Kiyara and that night, the Friday after I had arrived. I thought about what she offered and the look on her face when I first touched her, the sounds she made. I thought of her at night when I was bored out of my mind, unable to sleep, my hand finding its way into my boxers. But it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough the first three times I did. A tight ball of need still settled in my gut. Sure it took the edge off but there was just something about the feel of her around me. I didn't see her last Friday for poker night. I had dinner with my old Newcastle City teammate Jonathan Sanchez who had join the soccer league here in the U.S, playing for New York City. By the time I had gotten home at 10pm, she had already gone. I regret not getting her number. It'd be a shame for it to be a one time thing and as far as I was concerned, there was still four weeks until her regular fuck was to return. The same person who gave her that mark on her collarbone. I'm not sure why a surge of jealousy came over me in that moment. Kiyara was drop dead gorgeous, of course she'd pull. I'm sure she wasn't worrying herself over who I spent my time with. I thought about following her on Instagram. She was all over Sinclair and Benny's profiles. But I didn't want to seem too desperate. Maybe I'd ask Sinclair for her number.

When I arrived home from training, Sinclair was in my kitchen making yet another mess. I had given him the key for emergencies but found that he was often here after his shifts even though his new apartment was much closer to his work place. Whenever I'd come home from training or recovery or sometimes when I woke up, he'd be there as if he didn't have his own place to stay. I didn't mind. The honest truth was that I hated being alone. I hated silence. And also because it was nice seeing him in person instead of through FaceTime.

"What's wrong with your kitchen?" I question the tall man as I approach the kitchen island, setting my gym bag on one of the stools. He has a few ingredients scattered over the countertop and helped himself to whatever I had in the pantry.

"Too small" Sinclair grins as he shifts the pan back and forth to toast his spices. The house smelled amazing and my stomach ached in response even though I had a hearty chicken salad earlier.

"And your girlfriends apartment?"

"Too far"

"Not as far as mine?"

"You have a cleaner."

"I'm sure Benny has a cleaner too. Isn't she like incredibly rich." I glance up from my phone. I had spent the entire elevator ride up on Instagram, trying my hardest not to follow Kiyara and even harder not to check Safiyah's Instagram story. There was a purple ring around her profile picture every single day since we broke up. If I was patient enough, I could wait to check the few update pages to see what she posted. I thumbed into the tab of my verified DMS instead and searched for an Instagram model attractive enough and down to fuck mid day.