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tvchi · 2 months ago

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The Challenge: About A Challenge

Disclaimers: DO NOT COPY OR REPOST MY WORK. DO NOT TRAIN AI WITH MY WORK.

Warnings: Mature Audiences ONLY: 18+, Minors DNI- Nudity, Sexual Intercourse, Profanity.

Pairing: Jalen Hurts, Trevante Rhodes x black female Word Count: 3079

A/N: This is PART 3 of the series and we are back to the long form content of it all. The plot does thicken here. As always, your feedback is greatly appreciated because I'm really trying to get better. So Like, Comment, and Reblog as the spirit moves you. It helps me immensely!!!! ❤️❤️🥰!

If you haven't already read Part 1 and Part 2, I suggest you stop what you're doing and read those before going any further.

Summary: As things start heating up with Devon, you start noticing that things are a little off. Once things start coming together, you are in for a BIG surprise. Meanwhile, in the present, you are trying to find out how to peace things up with James for the sake of the project and your grade.

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Two days later, I found myself wandering the halls of the library, looking for the required reading for Professor Martinez’s class. After finding them, I decided to head to the Tech Center and see if I could start the assignment. I hadn’t seen James around campus at all after that day. I had never really looked out for him before, either. With the challenge I agreed to, still lingering in the back of my mind, I had decided to briefly apologize and have some hightled text that we could use in the project ready to go. In the meantime, I would start writing about grief and what I understood of it. I arrived at the tech center and went to the far left in the middle corner, my favorite spot. I sat all the books down, took my computer out of my bag, and opened it to a blank Google document. Most of the pain in my life happened before I could even formulate the words to express and process them. Some of the pain had been buried so deep that it would hurt to unearth them now. After all, this was a class assignment and not a therapy session. Some of the feelings that I had couldn’t be described because they were no longer there. I felt a little numb to it. There was no pain I remembered more vividly than the day I found out that my entire relationship with Devon had been a lie.

I know that sounds crazy coming from someone who had to bury her mother, but as I said, I haven’t really processed and uncovered the magnitude of that day. We were made to busy ourselves with schoolwork and to make sure we got into the best colleges. My sister and I were made to join multiple extracurricular activities to be “well-rounded” candidates for college and beyond. We were made to be perfect. I don’t think there was any time for grief and mourning. Before I came to college, I asked my sister to tell me about what happened at the funeral and beyond. I couldn’t seem to remember, and I wanted to add it to my valedictorian speech. She told me that right before the funeral, I had sat for hours in front of my mother’s vanity in her walk-in closet, combing my hair. She said I was in a trance and wouldn’t answer when my dad called. He finally found me at the vanity. I still wouldn’t respond to him. I just kept combing my hair until I started to pull strands out. In an attempt to pull the comb out of my hand, he broke the comb, and I started screaming. She said I screamed for what seemed like hours, and my dad had to call some of my aunts to calm me down. I remember her vanity and the closet but not much about the broken comb. The day I do remember is the day I found out about Devon’s girlfriend.

We had been in a “fuck-a-thon” for weeks since we met at the gallery opening. I wanted to be around him. Smell him. Crawl into his skin. I hung onto his every word. I would only leave his apartment to go to class. Even in class, I barely paid attention. I was on my phone looking at pictures of him or reading through old text messages, re-imaging scenes from the night before. Although, I really didn’t need to re-imagine. We recorded ourselves for our viewing pleasure almost every week. I was in heaven. I only visited my apartment to get a change of clothes, do most of my grooming, pick up packages with new lingerie in them (since mine were getting torn every night), and pick up mail. Weeks turned to months. My friends were teasing me, saying that I turned into the girl who left her friends for her boyfriend. Even Reneé slipped in a slick comment or two about my escapades.

“Not y'all being jealous!!! I thought you all would be happy for me,” I exclaimed jokingly.

“We are, girl! Trust! I like that you're not all up our asses. But, you know, come up for air more frequently,” said Reneé.

“If you all miss me, just say that. There's no need to come for me! I’m here now,” I replied.

“We miss you, and we are glad you’re here. So, are you guys official yet? Should I invite him to the monthly game night?” Amber asked.

“Ummm, we don't. Ummm, we. We don't really talk much,” I laughed.

The girls exchanged glances at each other. So this is what this meetup was all about. They wanted to know whether I had vetted this guy and whether I was getting played.

“Before y'all start going crazy, I’m serious. We haven’t talked much about things. We’ve been eating, going to shows, hanging out, doing…things. If it makes y'all feel better, I’ll have a conversation with him tomorrow night when I see him.

“Mmmhm,” said Reneé as she looked at Sara.

The next day, I had repacked my weekly “weekend” bag. I will see Devon tonight and ask him about our relationship status. What the girls were insinuating at lunch yesterday was getting to me. I’m usually the one who has all her ducks in a row, and I’m very big on knowing where I stand with people. I had let all my inhibitions go with Devon. I had finally gathered my laptop and my folders containing the assignments that I was going to do while at Devon’s when I got a text.

“Hey, babe, I’m running a little late, and now I’m headed to the restaurant to get some dinner for us. Just use your key.”

I smiled. I had a key. There’s no way that he wasn’t going to make me his girlfriend if I wasn’t already. There are girls still waiting to find out where their “man” lives, and I have an address and a key! He also let me drive his car to close-by appointments or to go to the store. His boys always teased him about how smitten he looked now that he was with me. I overheard some of his classmates asking him why he hadn’t attended certain shows in a while. He would just smile and nod in my direction when I was around. People on campus saw us together and often. I wasn’t worried. I had no reason to be.

I arrived at his loft around 6:30 pm. I remember the time when I took my phone out to text him that I was there and I’d be waiting for him. I opened the front door and went up the stairs. As I went to insert the key into the inner door, I noticed that it was already open. My body tensed. I thought that we were being robbed or that someone was waiting to harm him. I considered dialing 9-1-1 but thought that I should crack the door just wide enough to see what was going on inside. I wanted to be able to give the police an accurate description of the assailant. When I cracked the door open, I saw a girl standing over the stove. She seemed to be cooking something. Whatever it was wafting over me the more I cracked the door open. It smelled…good. I looked around to see if I saw anyone else inside the apartment, but there wasn’t anyone else that I could see from my view. I sized her up. Deciding that I could take her if it came to blows, I decided to walk in and ask her what she was doing in the apartment. She looked up at me, startled. It was then I noticed that she wasn’t wearing any clothing under her apron.

“Who are you, and what are you doing in my man’s apartment?” I spat, trying to remain calm.

“Oh shit! You scared me! For a minute there, I thought you were the police,” she said.

“I’m about 10 seconds away from calling them. Who are you?!” I asked again, this time raising my voice.

“Relax,” she giggled “Devon, didn’t tell you?”

“Devon didn’t tell me what, bitch?” I retorted.

She shook her head and sighed. She turned down the stove and took off her apron. She walked towards me stark naked. She was a redhead with light freckles on her cheeks. Her lips were full, fuller than I have seen on a white girl since Angelina. She was very slim, but her breasts rivaled mine as they hung and bounced as she walked. Her abs were toned. Her mound was freshly waxed with a small tuft of hair cropped and cut in the shape of the letter “D.” Her legs were perfectly sculpted and toned.

“Devon isn’t your anything. We have an arrangement where when I’m off modeling overseas, he gets to stay in my loft and screw whoever until I get back. And I am very much back,” she scoffed as she leaned into my face.

I felt my face drained of all color. My stomach started forming knots. There was a sharp pain in my chest. I wondered if this is how one felt when they were dying. My ears began to ring. My breaths started getting deeper.

“What?” I managed.

“Yeah, it seems like you’re already too attached and hard of hearing, so I’ll give you the cliff notes. Devon is my man. He’s been my man since we were freshmen in high school. Our parents are business partners in the electric industry,” she started as she walked around the apartment, fingering furniture. “I’m supposed to marry Devon after he finishes college, lets go of the stupid art thing, and goes into the family business. I model and have a skincare brand, so I’m not in the country a lot. As I’m sure you’re aware, Devon has an insatiable appetite. So do I, quite frankly, so we made a deal. While I'm away, he can choose one girl of his liking to be with. While I’m overseas, I can have a guy. Between you and me, I have two or three, but let's not tell him that. Then when I come home, he’s all mine, and I am all his,” she continued, looking at me tauntingly. “I can see why she chose you. You’re cute. Your body is incredible. I’d be jealous if he weren’t already mine. She walked back to me. She got so close that we were chest to chest. Then she leaned over and whispered, “It’s too bad you came all this way with your trash bag full of things just to get back on the school bus to whatever dorm you came from. I hope it’s not too late for you to catch dinner alone in the café.”

I don’t remember much after she said that. My memory throws glimpses of Devon calling out to me and picking me up from the floor from time to time. There were other flashes of me looking down at my hands and noticing some blood and some strands of red hair. I don’t remember how I got home that night. But for three weeks, I didn’t leave my dorm. I didn’t answer any calls. I don’t think I spoke. How could I? My air was gone.

About A Challenge

Remembering the events of that sent an uneasiness through my spine. I opened another tab on my web browser and did what I always did when I felt uneasy…: I shopped. I looked at some designs from some of my favorite fashion houses. Some I could afford, and others I added to my wishlist in hopes of one day owning them. I got lost in deep thought about color schemes and pairings.

“So this is how you write a straight-A paper?” I heard.

I turned around, and there he stood with a bright smile. Today, he donned a white cotton muscle tee tucked into well-tailored black slacks. Silver chains hung from one belt loop to the other, complementing the silver-linked chain he wore around his neck and the three silver rings he wore on his left hand. His black leather loafers still smelled brand new. I looked back up at him into his brown eyes.

“Sometimes. It helps me streamline my thinking,” I replied.

“Mmm. Right. Seems like you needed a distraction from writer's block, Miss,” he said as he pointed to the blank Google doc. He pulled up a chair next to me and sat. He placed his leather satchel down on the table and turned to me.

“So what were you going to write about?” he asked. I paused for a minute and turned my body fully to him.

“Look, I may have been a little harsh to you the other day after class. I wanted to say that I’m…” I started.

“Yea. Cool. But what were you going to write about that made you so sad that you started looking at Marni designs?” he interrupted. I looked at him, impressed that he recognized a Marni design, and filed that information in a section of my brain that would remember to ask him about this fact a little later.

“I'm not sure I’m ready to talk about it, let alone write it down for other people to read. I was trying to have something written before I got up to look for you, and I guess I failed,” I said, looking back at the Google Doc.

“I get that. What if I talked about my shit, and maybe after you hear some of my story, then you could think of something you’re comfortable with talking about” he offered.

“Okay,” I said with a slight smile, appreciating the undeserving olive branch he extended.

He started by telling me how he met his best friend, DJ, in middle school. James was fresh from Mississippi and knew no one in New York. His mom moved them both up there for new opportunities. While she was out working all day, he stayed home bored. In order to keep him out of trouble, his mom signed him up for football, and that's where he met DJ. He found they had a lot in common down to their moms. DJ’s mom moved from Kentucky to New York, too, but they had a little more money than James’ family did. They became inseparable. Joined at the hip, the two did everything together. They went to the same schools and the same summer camps. They even wore similar clothing. People started thinking that they were brothers, and they never bothered to correct them.

The summer before their senior year of high school, they cut football camp early after their 2nd practice to play video games at DJ’s house. They had been doing two-a-days getting ready for their championship game. Their coach decided to let them ditch film because they had been working so hard all summer. Before they reached the house, James spotted his mother arguing with some strange man. This was odd to James because his mom was supposed to be at work. He started to go over to her to make sure she was okay when he heard shots fired. He froze. It was like his feet were cemented to the floor. His body was strict with fear and horror as he watched the man step over her body and into a black Cadillac within seconds. He wanted to cry out, but no sound came out of his throat. DJ reached him and helped him move. When they got to her body, she was still warm, but the light she used to carry in her pretty green eyes was gone.

James continued to tell me about how it was hard to let her go or even play football after that. He said that he wouldn’t be here today if it weren't for DJ and his family helping him get his football scholarship, even though he sat out of the championship game that summer. They helped him pay for his mom’s funeral cost, and they even offered to be his legal guardian while he finished his senior year. He moved in with his aunt after graduation. He also told me that he got a work-study job because he wanted to start a foundation in his mom’s honor. She always wanted to give back to her community but always felt like she couldn't afford to show up like she wanted to. She always volunteered at homeless shelters and soup kitchens. She always read to kindergarten students and even sometimes enlisted his help at toy drives during Christmas. It always amazed him how she gave back to so many people even though no one ever gave back to her. So, after classes and football practice, he would work a campus security job on one of the northern campuses. He was tired but determined which made him sleepy during class. He said that while his story was tragic and he still felt a huge void in his life now that his mom was gone, he wanted a nice ending to the story by highlighting how strong his friendship with DJ became.

I completely misjudged him. He was so different from what I thought he’d be. I was waiting for the hood kid with ball dreams trope to come to the forefront of his story. Either that or the “wannabe thug” that some of these athletes try to be. Here he stood, missing a piece of his heart, just like I was. I wanted to know more about him. From how he handled his day-to-day stresses to how he felt being the center of attention at a big university where the majority of students didn’t look like him. I wanted to know how he got that scar on his right arm or what made him smile. After the way I treated him after class, I was lucky he was talking to him at all. Feeling a twinge of guilt, I moved to apologize profusely and share that we had a similar commonality with both of our mothers being gone when he motioned for someone to come to him.

“That’s crazy, here his doofy ass come now. DJ, this is my classmate Adaobi. Adaobi, this is my best friend, DJ,” he said. I looked up, getting ready to shake the hand of James’ savior, when my heart dropped to the floor.

“Hello, beautiful,” Devon said.

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Quick aside: I usually write in bulk (lol). Meaning I write the entire short story or the part I've fleshed out all together and break it into parts. This means I'm not sure when I'll get back to Devon, James, and Adaobi and their journey's. It may be next week, it may be June 2025. However, if you have some suggestions on what you would like to see in their stories, NEVER hesitate to comment below.

Click here for Part 1 Click here for Part 2

As always if you would like to join the tag list, message me which fandom you would like to be added to.

Tags: @thecapodomme @writers-of-tmblr @melaninpov @spaceslutsworld @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @mymusicbias @the-black-label @master-builder42 @miraculously-dumb-bitch @megamindsecretlair @hopefulromantic1 @tranquilfandomer @thadelightfulone @vivalaorgasm @hotgrlcece @planetblaque @blackgurlnhermoods @sweettea-and-honeybutter @andriaharris @kumkaniudaku @theblacklewinsky @nun0ir @iloveorangesworld @cocogoddess0g

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tvchi · 2 months ago

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The Challenge: About Loss

Disclaimers: DO NOT COPY OR REPOST MY WORK. DO NOT TRAIN AI WITH MY WORK.

Warnings: Mature Audiences ONLY: 18+, SMUT, Minors DNI- Nudity, Sexual Intercourse, Spitting, Gagging, Profanity.

Pairing: Jalen Hurts x black female Word Count: 2010

A/N: I wrote this because my book club is LIT (waaay better than yours) and we write our own short stories and present it to the group to read and rate. I thought I would just upload it on here for everyone to read. It's more romance than smut but I hope that yall like it! Your feedback is greatly appreciated because I'm really trying to get better. So Like, Comment, and Reblog as the spirit moves you. ❤️❤️🥰!

Summary: You're in class and are forced to do a group assignment. The absolute worse thing happens, you are paired with the most popular jock in the university. You can't risk failing this assignment. Will things heat up in the classroom? Stay tuned.

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“Good Afternoon, class! Today we are going to talk about loss!” she exclaimed as she slapped two large textbooks onto her desk.

Only Professor Martinez could be chipper about an otherwise dismal topic. This meant that a possible term paper was coming in the very near future. As her words still lingered in the air and the rest of the class began settling down, I went back to doodling on my page. I peered periodically through my curtain bangs at the board to see if she had written anything down, but the board remained blank. Some kids were texting and scrolling on social media, while others took this time to find the comfiest position for the best fifty-minute nap they were about to take today. The thing about Introduction to Medical Anthropology is it is kind of a bore. I mean, we are all required to take a “General Education” course at the College of Liberal Arts. My first choice was the class where they listened to vinyls all day and debated which was the greatest musical genre of all time, but I overslept on registration day, and it filled up. So, for the past couple of months, I’ve been here prying my eyes open through the medical corporate structure and its inner workings. I thought anthropology courses were supposed to be about the people, how they work, and all the stuff that tugged at heartstrings. You know, mushy shit. Instead, I’ve learned the quickest way to make a lot of money. It was giving “Who wants to be a Millionaire,” not Cumbaya.

I peered up once more at the board, and the word “loss” was written up in large capital letters. The room was now completely silent as if it held its finger up to its lips. I turned to get another pen and, as if right on cue, there he was. Eyes closed and head slowly falling forward, James Evans was never awake long enough for him to use any of those pens he was always borrowing from any one of the four girls he was always sitting next to. The college’s star athlete made sure he got his fifty-minute nap in, not wasting a minute. It must be nice not having people expect much of you academically. It must be nice having people offer you grades in exchange for physical labor. Or maybe not. I quickly grabbed my other pen, pushing thoughts of student-athletes aside, and started to take a couple of notes. Sometimes, I wrote notes not to remember key facts but because writing things down helped me stay awake.

“What’s the most gut-wrenching thing about suffering a loss?” Professor Martinez asked a now-settled down class.

“I was wondering when we were gonna talk about Palliative care! Ok, when my aunt chose to be placed in hospice after getting chemo for 2 years, it was really hard for us. It was like she was giving up on herself. I was so confused, “ Kelly Gardner, the resident overachiever, replied.

I rolled my eyes. I mean, no offense to her aunt, but her niece is really annoying. Once she starts on one of her personal anecdotes, she never lets up. The class turns into this historical account of the Gardner family and all the shit Kelly doesn’t like. I mean with what I know about her family tree and her dog, she should invite me over for Christmas dinner.

“Thank you for sharing, Kelly. That must have been really hard. However, my line of questioning was more of a general question about loss, not hospice care. What about loss hurts the most?” said Professor Martinez. This time, her eyes scanned the room as if looking for someone whose face would betray them into sharing their familiarity with the subject. The room was quiet for what felt like ages.

“I think it’s the part where you remember something. Something really funny and you go to call them up. Then you remember that they aren't here anymore,” volunteered a small voice.

I turned to face where the sound was coming from. A tiny girl that I never noticed before emerged from the sea of faces. She had a baby face that was smooth and had flush skin. Her hair was straight and jet black, arranged in two low, neat buns. Her clothes were dark colored but neatly pressed. She wore a broach and other pendants around the breast pockets of her sweater. On her feet were leather combat boots with silver buckles, which I noticed because they almost swallowed her tiny legs that dangled in her chair, hovering over the floor.

“Nah, I think it's when you see pictures of them up, and everyone starts talking about them like they ain't here,” said another voice.

“It’s the crying. Sometimes, you see or hear something, and you just start crying out of nowhere,” yet another voice said.

“Holidays and birthdays”

“Seeing the date of the last thing they posted on IG. Every time you go back to it, you start seeing how much time has passed. Like their last digital footprint”

“How tight you get when you see the world going about its business like nothing ever happened. You start to do the same, and you find that you can’t move—not like everyone else,” said a deep, rich voice vibrating across the room.

I recognized that voice, but I couldn’t be sure. I turned my head to see who Loss had wrung a confession out of this time, and the voice came from James. He was looking intently at his hands, visibly frustrated. A silence spread across the room after that, each person presumably contemplating their own brush with Loss.

“Good!” Professor Martinez said, “Very Good! This week’s assignment will be to write about a time when you suffered a great loss. You will write about how you reacted, how everyone around you reacted, and whether or not any of those reactions coincided with any of the stages of grief listed in Kaufman & Morgan’s ‘The Anthropology of the Beginnings and Ends of Life’. You know, the required reading for this class.

Groans were heard throughout the classroom. My attention turned from James to the front of the class, confused.

“Yes, yes, yes, but what would life be without a graded assignment?” Professor Martinez sarcastically retorted. “What’s even better is that you don’t have to go through this alone. I will be assigning you all a partner! Please listen for your name and who you will be working with,” she finished as more groans were heard throughout the classroom.

And there it was. The dreaded group project. Something I’ve been avoiding all semester. Apart from the fact that I don’t like democracy, where my grades are involved, I’m not particularly fond of the talent in this classroom.

“Sarah and Sam,” Professor Martinez called.

God, what do I have to do? I already call my grandmother four times a year and pretend to care about her prayer meeting gossip.

“Celeste and Patrick”

Fine, God! I’ll raise you another hour on the phone and pretend to care about the hymns for the Christmas choir selections.

“Hunter and Malachi”

Please, God, just don’t let her place me with someone dumb or worse…. Can’t read!

“Adaobi and Jasper!”

I stopped praying long enough to catch Jasper’s eye. We nodded at each other. Jasper wasn’t bad. I peer-reviewed a prose piece he wrote in another class, and it wasn’t that bad, actually. I can work with this. Thank you, God!

“Oh, I’m sorry. It was my mistake. I misread the names on the page for a minute. It’s been a long day. I meant to say Adaobi and James,” said Professor Martinez.

My heart slowed to a halt. I peered over at James and then back down to my sheet of paper. This is when I started to question whether or not God actually loved me. I steadied my breathing and tried not to think about the cards I had been dealt. Instead, I would focus on how to make lemonade. I needed to get him comfortable with the idea that he had no input on this assignment and it would be a good idea for him to let me handle everything. Then, I would catch him up to speed when it’s done. I took a minute to draft and rehearse a speech, keeping in mind what I was going to say and when I would start working on the project. I pulled out my planner to look at upcoming deadlines.

“Hi. I’m James. I guess we’re paired up,” he said, offering his hand and a quick smile.

I quickly understood. What is it I understood? I understood how all people drooled and hung onto his every word. His waist, directly in my seated line of sight, was slim and fitted under his gray sweatpants. He stood tall, easily over 6 feet. He had a solid build, the kind all of the guys wanted and avid sports players had. Broad shoulders that looked like they could a pair of legs up and down stairs with ease. His Nike tracksuit remained open, revealing a white beater that hung onto his sculpted pecs and chiseled abs. His skin was a rich, dark chocolate hue and burnished. I’d never been this close to him before, and a part of me didn’t think it was safe to.

“Hi,” I said.

“So, how did you want to do this?” he asked.

“I don’t, but we have to. So this is how it’s going to go: I’ll write the paper and turn it in with both of our names on it. I’ll send it to you before I turn it in so you can read it and at least know what it’s about. Just try reading a page or two out of the required reading if she asks any questions. Outside of that, you can do whatever it is you do, “ I said matter of factly as I gathered my things to leave the classroom.

“Nah. I kinda fuck with this assignment. I wanna write on it too,” he said. I glared at him.

“Interesting, especially since I haven’t heard you offer up an original thought about any assignment in this class all semester. But how could you? You’re never awake. Look, some of us have to think about our GPAs for our future.” I retorted.

“So you’ve been watching me?” he asked, looking intently at me with the corners of his mouth threatening to curl upwards.

“No one has to watch you. You do this thing called snoring, and it interrupts the conversations happening in the class. The class we paid to have.” I spat, avoiding eye contact, hoping he couldn’t tell that I may have over-exaggerated some details to prove a point. There was a pause for a moment.

“Look, yeah, I sleep in class, but Professor Martinez could put a TV to sleep, and you know it!” he said.

“I know that everyone around you hypes you and lets you do whatever you want because you’re supposed to save University sports and finally lead the football team to their first Sugarbowl ever,” I started. “But you can’t fall asleep in every class, not read anything, and expect to write a world-class paper just because you have a ‘dead homie.’”

He glared at me. His eyes were fiery with rage enough to singe my face. His eyebrows furrowed, creating canyons of skin on his forehead. He gritted his teeth, tightening his jawline. I stared back, trying not to betray my pounding heart or sweaty palms. After an eternity, he dropped his gaze and headed for the door. I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I had been holding. Turned back to my desk to gather the rest of my things.

“I’ll be at the tech center at 6 pm for the next two weeks if you wanna work on this together. If not, I guess Professor Martinez will be getting two separate papers”, I heard. Then the door closed shut. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ Click here for Part 2 Click here for Part 3

Tags:

@thecapodomme @writers-of-tmblr @melaninpov @spaceslutsworld @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @mymusicbias @the-black-label @master-builder42 @miraculously-dumb-bitch @megamindsecretlair @hopefulromantic1 @tranquilfandomer @thadelightfulone @vivalaorgasm @hotgrlcece @planetblaque @blackgurlnhermoods @sweettea-and-honeybutter @andriaharris @kumkaniudaku @theblacklewinsky @nun0ir @iloveorangesworld @cocogoddess0g

#black tumblr #tvchi #writers on tumblr #black fanfic writer #black fanfiction #black fandom #trevante rhodes #jalen hurts #jalen hurts x fem reader #football fanfic #x fem!reader #x fem oc #TVCHIVERSE #TheChallenge

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