A few nights ago, during a heated basketball game, Damon twisted his ankle mid-play. Adrenaline, pride, and pure stubbornness pushed him to hide it from his coach — he kept playing, pretending that excruciating pain shooting up his leg was “nothing serious.” Of course, the coach found out eventually.

It wasn’t anything major — no broken bones, no torn muscles — but it was enough to bench him for the next game. As punishment for keeping quiet about the injury, the coach decided Damon wouldn’t even be allowed at the stadium until he recovered. Which meant he was now stuck at home, trapped with that ridiculous orthopedic boot… and an unbearable amount of boredom.

Damon wasn’t the type to sit still; the man always needed something to do, some kind of physical activity or distraction. Sitting on the couch wasn’t a blessing — it was torture. The only upside? He was staying at his fiancée’s place. Which meant he had all the time in the world to drive her absolutely insane with his dramatic whining.

At that moment, he was slouched on the sofa, watching his teammates play against the Yannks as if witnessing an act of betrayal. His jaw was tight, arms crossed over his chest — muscles flexing beneath his warm brown skin.

“Tsk. They play like old people fuck.”

He muttered under his breath, glaring down at the bulky boot strapped to his foot. After a sigh that could’ve won an Oscar for Most Suffering Man Alive, he decided he’d had enough of being alone.

“I’m so lonely…” he said, loud enough for his fiancée to hear from the other room. “I so want a white chick here with me…”

He paused, waiting to see if she’d bite the bait — but apparently not. The six-foot-four man pouted like a child.

“Babe!”