Love and Football – Intro

I woke up to the sound of my screen opening in my room and knew it was Geneva.

“Wake your ass up Ramesses,” she said quietly, as she smacked my literal ass.

She was a morning person. I was not. I checked my phone to see the time. 4:46 AM.

“Ramesses, let’s gooo,” Geneva said urgently, shaking me.

I rolled out of bed, threw some shorts on, grabbed my football and followed Geneva back out of my window, down the fire escape, and through the streets of Harlem to her dad’s garage about a half-mile away. We arrived at 4:52, which was “on time” since it was at least 5 minutes before 5 AM.

Geneva’s dad was a tall, brolic, bald-headed light-skinned dude. He used to box pro, and had Geneva following in his footsteps. Even though I was a football guy, the strengthening, conditioning, and discipline of boxing translated well to the football field.

For as long as I can remember, every morning started off like that. Geneva would climb through my window, we’d run over to her garage, Gerald, her dad, would work us out for about an hour, I’d run home, shower, then head to school.

Me and Geneva had been friends since a young age. Like true ghetto kids with nothing better to do, a bunch of friends and I were playing a game called Kill the Carrier on the concrete with no regard for our safety. The way the game works is like a combination of tag and football; one person gets the ball and has to run around for as long as possible while everybody else tries to tackle them. Once you are tackled, you toss the ball up for the next person to grab and run around with. No pads, no grass, no crying. If you couldn’t handle it, the basketball court was on the other side of the fence.

While we were playing, a skinny light-skinned girl with curly brown hair came up to us.

“Can I play?” she asked.

We all kinda looked around at each other, wondering who was gonna break it to her that football wasn’t for girls. But my friend Eric wasn’t phased by it.

“Yeah, you can play,” he said. ”But don’t start cryin’ when you get hit.”

And with that, she played. She didn’t cry; in fact, she actually did well. She made hits like the rest of us, evaded defenders, and even took hits and got up like it was nothing. I admired the grit in her even back then, and we’d become best friends since her time playing with us. Evidently, as we got older, she couldn’t play organized football with us, but she did take up boxing with her dad.

In Little League football, I always played quarterback, just like my older brother, Hermes. Growing up, we’d take turns in the street launching the ball to each other, seeing who could throw it the furthest. Obviously, Hermes, who was two years older, would always win. But that gave us uncanny arm strength that allowed us to throw the ball further and harder than anybody else on our teams, and land us the quarterback spot every year.

As a result of her boxing, Geneva developed beautifully toned and thick thighs, a flat stomach, and a firm butt behind her by the time we entered high school. Her astonishing figure matched with her skin the color of cocoa butter, curly brown hair, and light brown eyes made her drop-dead gorgeous.

Geneva was my first kiss when we were younger, but growing up we never officially dated each other or got involved romantically at all. She was just my friend, and she would date other guys just like I would date other girls. But like I mentioned before, the attraction was definitely there, at least for me.

So it was nothing new for me on a summer morning going into my freshman year of high school to wake up before she got there, pull my raging morning wood out of my underwear, and start visualizing myself pushing apart her sexy thick thighs as I stroked my dick. I Envisioned what her pussy looked like. Did she shave? Were her lips thick? I tried to imagine what she smelled like. I imagined what she tasted like. I wanted to hear her moan for the first time while I teased her clit with my tongue.

What was new was hearing the screen for a split second, then a foreign gasp, snapping me out of my fantasy. By the time I opened my eyes and looked, her head whirled around and she was facing away.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “It–it’s time to go.”

A feeling of dread and embarrassment engulfed me.

She really just caught me beating my dick. She is never gonna be able to look at me again, I thought to myself.

Not a word was spoken to each other on the run to her garage, during, or after the workout as expected. However, she did text me that night.

“Hey Ramesses, I’m sorry about what happened this morning” she sent.

“It’s all good. I shouldntve been doing that anyway -_-”

“Loll. tbh, i usually masturbate in the morning before i come there. So i get it”

Just reading that text started to get me horny. I desperately wanted to see what she looked like fingering her pussy in the morning.

“I don’t believe you”, I texted back.