The Hall of Famer

The interior of the Uber smelled faintly of pine air freshener masking the stale ghost of someone else’s cigarette smoke—a sharp, synthetic pine that scratched at the back of Nia’s throat. It was a stark, almost offensive contrast to the cloud of warm cocoa butter, vanilla, and expensive amber perfume she had painstakingly enveloped herself in before leaving the house. She shifted in the backseat, the smooth silk of her dress riding up slightly on her thighs, the fabric cool against her skin as she watched the city blur past the window. The red and white streaks of taillights smeared against the glass, mimicking the frantic, disjointed thoughts racing through her mind.

Leaving the apartment had been the hardest obstacle of the evening, a psychological hurdle she had to clear before she could even think about romance. It wasn't because she was nervous about Ford—Ford was safe, Ford was easy—but because walking past the living room felt like navigating a freshly laid minefield. Her ex, a man she had once thought was her forever, was now purely a roommate by financial necessity and stubbornness. He had been sprawled on the couch, the blue light of the TV illuminating the sheer stagnation of their arrangement, casting him in a ghostly, unflattering pallor. They had broken up a year ago, yet their lives were still entangled by a lease that wouldn't end and the heavy inertia of habit.

Strutting past him in a crimson silk dress that clung to her curves like a second skin, her heels clicking a sharp rhythm on the hardwood, felt like a declaration of war. Or perhaps, more accurately, a declaration of independence. He hadn’t even looked up, but she felt his presence like a weight, a reminder of the dead weight she was finally shedding.

She took a deep breath, inhaling her own scent to ground herself. It had been a chaotic, messy year of trying to untangle herself from that couch, from that life.

The unraveling had started in the summer, back home in Arizona. The dry, relentless heat had felt like a purification ritual, sweating out the toxins of her failed relationship as she watched her sister get married. Standing there in a pastel bridesmaid dress that she hated but wore with a smile, watching vows being exchanged under a floral arch, Nia had felt a sharp, hollow pang of longing. It wasn't for her ex—god no—but for the feeling of being chosen. For the look the groom gave her sister, as if she were the only source of gravity in the room. That trip had been the catalyst. She returned to Baltimore with a fire in her belly, determined to date, to put herself back on the market, to be the protagonist of her own life again.

But the market, she quickly realized, was trash.

For months, she entertained men who were barely placeholders, cardboard cutouts of potential partners. There were dinner dates where she found herself checking her watch under the table, conversations that dried up before the appetizers arrived, and men who talked at her rather than to her. She had established a strict rule to protect herself: nothing past first base. She let them kiss her, maybe let a hand wander to the curve of her waist or the dip of her lower back to see if there was a spark, but that was it. She was guarding her energy, hoarding her intimacy for something real.

Then came the birthday trip to Europe. But before she crossed the Atlantic, she had made a detour—a fateful, impulsive stopover.

New York City.

He was an old crush, a man from her past who had lingered in the "what if" folder of her mind for years. He had courted her with the city itself, treating New York like his wingman. He took her to rooftop bars where the skyline glittered like diamonds, and hidden jazz clubs that felt like secrets shared between lovers. The chemistry felt palpable, thick enough to chew on, a tension that hummed in the air between them. Swept up in the romance of the skyline and the gin, she had decided, right then and there, to break her drought. She wanted to embrace the feelings she had suppressed for so long.

It was a mistake. A colossal, awkward mistake.

The memory made her cringe physically, looking out at the passing streetlights. The sex had been… tragedy in slow motion. Usually, Nia was responsive; her body knew what it wanted and didn't take long to get there. She was built for pleasure, sensitive and eager. But with him, it was like trying to start a fire with wet wood. He was clumsy, his rhythm erratic and selfish, fumbling over her body as if he hadn’t read the manual and refused to ask for directions. There was no flow, no connection. When it was over—far too quickly and without a finish line for her—he simply rolled over. No cuddling. No pillow talk. No tracing of her skin. Just the cold shoulder of a man who had conquered a peak and immediately lost interest in the view. She had flown to Europe the next day feeling heavier than her luggage, the rejection stinging more than the mediocre sex.

Europe had been beautiful, a temporary balm, but the sting of New York lingered until the ski trip.

Colorado. The annual alumni trip.

It was supposed to be just a getaway—four days of high altitude, fresh powder, and nostalgia with people from her alma mater. But when you mix a cabin full of successful, attractive people with an endless supply of top-shelf liquor and thumping bass, boundaries dissolve and inhibitions evaporate.

It was a blur of debauchery. Drinking games that lasted until sunrise, dancing where bodies were pressed so close that sweat became a shared currency, the air thick with pheromones and laughter. And in the center of that haze was the Doctor.

He was cute, with a smile that promised trouble and hands that looked like they knew exactly what they were doing—confident, steady, capable. And god, did they.

Nia closed her eyes, a flush rising to her cheeks in the dark backseat as the memory hit her viscerally, heating her blood even now.

It happened on the second night. The air in the cabin was thick with heat and music, but they had found their own rhythm in a guest room that smelled of cedar and sex.

He hadn't been tentative like the New York crush. He had been starving.

Nia remembered the way he had gripped her hips that first night, his broad hands spanning the width of them, fingers digging into the plush flesh she usually felt self-conscious about. He didn't just tolerate her curves; he used them as anchors, grounding himself in her softness. He had pushed her back onto the mattress, worshipping the thickness of her thighs by spreading them wide, settling his weight between them like he had finally come home. The initial entry had been a gasp—a feeling of fullness that bordered on overwhelming, stretching her in the most delicious way. The sex was a marathon, a frantic, sweaty collision of bodies where he matched her pace perfectly. He knew exactly how to grind his pelvis against hers, hitting that perfect internal spot with a rhythm that made her toes curl and her vision blur into static. He was vocal, groaning his appreciation against her neck, telling her exactly how good she felt, how incredible her body was.

For three days, they were inseparable, their connection playing out in a series of vivid vignettes that played on a loop in her mind.

The mornings were a race against the sun and their housemates. She remembered being pressed up against the rough, wooden dresser, half-dressed in thermal leggings that were pulled down just enough to grant him access. The wood dug into her stomach, a sharp contrast to the pleasure blooming behind her. It was quick and desperate, the cold mountain air nipping at her exposed skin while he provided a searing heat from behind. His thrusts were shallow but hard, a rapid-fire claiming before they had to zip up, fix their hair, and pretend to be civilized for breakfast.

Then there were the showers after the slopes—steam so thick it fogged the glass instantly, turning the bathroom into a tropical rainforest. He would lift her up, her back slick against the wet tiles, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist to keep from slipping. The water beat down on them, hot and relentless, but it did nothing to cool the friction between their bodies. It was slippery and chaotic, filled with the scent of hotel soap and the sounds of wet skin slapping against wet skin. His mouth devoured hers under the spray, drinking her in as he drove into her with a primal intensity that left her knees shaking long after the water was turned off.

But it was the late nights that ruined her. Those sessions were slow and deep, stripped of the frantic energy of the day. In the dark, he took his time. He would have her on her stomach, his hands mapping the deep arch of her spine—her lordosis—and tracing the heavy, heart-shaped swell of her ass with a reverence that made her head spin. He moved with a deliberate, rolling rhythm, hitting deep and staying there, grinding slow circles that made her whimper his name into the pillow. He made her feel powerful, desirable, seen in a way she hadn't felt in years.

She thought she had found something. She thought the connection was real.

But then they came down from the mountain.

The reality check was brutal. The text messages became sparse, then one-word answers. The calls went unanswered. The "Doctor" who had spent seventy-two hours inside her, whispering things that made her heart race, suddenly acted like she was a stranger. He fronted on her, treating the intimacy they shared as nothing more than a vacation amenity, discarded once the buzz wore off.

It had hurt. It stung her ego and her heart, reinforcing the walls she had started to build, adding another layer of bricks to the fortress around her emotions.

The Uber slowed to a halt, the sudden deceleration pulling her violently out of the past.

"We're here, miss," the driver said, his voice cutting through the haze.

Nia opened her eyes, blinking away the memories. She saw the restaurant awning, the warm glow of the entrance spilling onto the sidewalk. She took a deep breath, pushing the memory of the cold New York bed and the ghosting Doctor out of her mind. That was last year. Those were just detours on the way to tonight.

She checked her reflection in her compact mirror one last time, touching up her lipstick. Ford was inside. He wasn't a flashback or a mistake. He was consistent. He was kind. And he was waiting.

She stepped out of the car, the cool night air hitting her skin, her heels clicking on the pavement with renewed purpose. She was ready to see if this road finally led somewhere good.