Charitable Contributions

20: It's Personal

Damn those thick walls.

With a dip into my shallow pool of patience, I closed my eyes and drew a breath from my last row spot. I almost tasted Mia's presence in the air. Musky perspiration dotted her natural scent, both a whole lot more pleasant than mine. It coated my skin along with the smooth, warm feeling of her skin, a buttery contrast to the callouses I never got rid of.

My first coach told me they were symbols of strength, evidence of football toughening me up. Bullshit now, but back then I believed it.

In an era where players shared their daily dietary restrictions, chest beating war chants and celebration dances, and groin cup size, fans and reporters assumed they knew every detail of our lives. They overlooked the bleeding knees, bruised shins and ribs, and the sweat-soaked smell that never left my uniform and jock strap because they were the uninteresting side. They ignored the hours of pain and recovery. Hard work wasn't glamorous, but it was necessary.

Where football owned its own religion, I wasn't a god. My body had as many miles as the bus that drove our high school team all over the state. An offseason freak accident jarred me into the reality that I wasn't untouchable or unbreakable. But, with smarter workouts, I molded myself to be better and stronger. With yoga, I increased my flexibility and longevity of my joints and muscles. I was all in, but I needed Mia to continue my progress.

Unfortunately, she disappeared into nonexistence.

With Mia not teaching at the studio and the media shitstorm about my foundation scam, the female attention on me tripled. Bold girls tucked phone numbers under my windshield wipers or in my curled-up mat. Open flirtations soaked the air thicker than Shanti's incense. She taught Mia's Tuesday and Thursday classes. I approached her after meditation, where my brain swam with more Mia-related thoughts than a school of minnows.

She offered a flash of white teeth. "Mister Pearson."

"Is Mia alright?" I rubbed my hand over the throbbing between my eyes.

Her round eyes contrasted with the nod of her head. "She's feeling under the weather, but I expect she'll be back next week. She'll be thrilled with your progress. I see such an improvement in your practice."

She was right. Smaller muscle groups, like my calves and ankles, no longer vibrated in static balance positions. Both shoulders rolled in fluid, wavelike motions through Shanti's vinyasas, a polar opposite sensation from Mia's first class. Balance developed steadier and my distracted thoughts were easier to ground... until they circled around Mia.

And, for the first time since I walked into this studio, my shoulder recovery wasn't my priority. The sincerity in Shanti's voice didn't convince me that Mia would return. "Thanks."

Brainless motions were all I accomplished for the next three days. I was useless, distracted by the addictive details I attempted to forget but didn't want to. She was so wet, slicked with arousal, pulsing and clenching around me. My mind went where my body couldn't. The softness of her warm skin. The heat burning in her eyes. The echoes of her breathless, desperate voice humming in my ears.

Fuck, and I'm hard again.

Wet dreams haunted me into sleep deprivation. I woke up, soaked in sweat, my thighs locked up, and my boxer briefs stretched with a mammoth-sized erection. I spent every night after being with Mia with my hand fisting myself back to flaccid, only to wake up in the same miserable position or tangled up in a sticky mess of sheets. Every time, I achieved only relief, not satisfaction.

After a week and prodding Michael for Mia's favorite flower, I sent her white lilies daily until she responded. Leaving no room for interpretation, the messages were short and direct: I wanted her presence back. Her response was a thank you via a Michael text, along with him requesting I remain patient.