She pulls a face like she’s seconds from vomiting before it’s replaced with suspicion. “How do you know that? I thought our game was the one andonlygame you’ve attended.”
“It is.”
I hate lying to her, but her level of craziness has grown tenfold the past six weeks. She’s not just obsessed with all things 69ers; she’s crushing hard on one of their star players—the star player I get driven home by every day. I want to tell her what’s going on with Elvis and me, but I feel like I’d crush her dreams even more than a knee reconstruction squashed mine. Furthermore, my internship came with a confidentiality clause. I can’t discuss the players, coaches or staff in any way without prior consent. I’m confident Elvis would give me consent, but who wants to have that conversation?
“Hey, Elvis, I know things are new between us, and I don’t even know if we are an ‘us,’ but would you mind me telling my roommate all about our escapades—monster dick and all? She only falls asleep after kissing your picture every night, and she’s pledged to name her firstborn son after you. That’s cool though, isn’t it?”
Ugh!No thanks.
It’s better this way. Elvis kept quiet about what he did for a living because he wanted me to see the real him, and I’m keeping quiet because, away from the hoopla, that’s precisely who I see. Off the field, he’s goofy, a little jealous, and as sweet as the pie he scarfed down last night. On the field. . . he’s cocky, arrogant, and so fucking sexy I can’t get annoyed at the number of women flashing their tits at him.
Well, I can, I just fake that I’m not annoyed.
When Skylar ribs me with her elbow, prompting me to fess up on the lie she sees in my eyes, I murmur, “The lady I aided in the YouTube video is a wife of one of the players. He was so grateful for my help, he threw some perks my way.” Because my reply isn’t a total lie, Skylar buys it. “I could have sold the tickets, but I figured this would make up for the way I ran out on you that day.”
“Oh, it does.” She waggles her platinum blond brows. “But it doesn’t explain how you know Mr. Magoo has been cooling his balls in the drinks cooler.” Like a perfectly planned skit, the drink vendor pivots around to face us. Skylar’s nose screws up when she spots the sleazy look on his face. It answers all her questions and then some.
I stand from my seat and set down my jacket and backpack like they’ll guard my seat better than the security personnel at the end of our row. “What do you want to drink?”
“No, it’s fine. I’ll grab something later.”
Skylar stops shooing away my offer like a fly when I say, “You either tell me what you want to drink, or I’ll waterboard you with Cherry Coke.”
She gags loud enough that people three rows over hear her. “I’ll have a Diet Pepsi, two pretzels, and a hotdog.” She freezes, purses her lips, then starts again, “Actually make it two hotdogs, one pretzel and a bag of chips. I’m super hungry today.”
I act like it’s unusual for her to order for an army. “Alright. I’ll be back in a minute.”
When I exit our row, I’m tempted to climb the stairs to the pavilion I know serves cheaper food, but I veer to the right instead, deciding not having to climb stairs is worth a few dollars. There should be less queue as well since most people can’t access this part of the stadium without the bank balance to support personal assistants and bodyguards to fetch their grub.
Just as I’m about to gallop down the six stairs separating me and the delicious-smelling canteen, a roaring voice captures my attention. There are many shouted words surrounding me, so that isn’t what gained my notice; it is recognizing the deep timbre shuddering through my core. Elvis is pissed, and he’s more than happy for the person he is shouting at to know it.
Keeping my snoop on the downlow, I pad closer to the railing. I can’t see the person Elvis is shouting at, but I have no trouble figuring out it’s a woman. If his constant mention of the name “Lillian” isn’t enough of an indication, the low slant of his head is a surefire sign.
“I didn’t not answer your calls because I was playing hard to get. I didn’t want to talk to you! My silence isn’t an invitation for you to come and visit me, Lillian; it was a request for you to back the fuck off.”
I see the quickest flash of a blonde head, but I can’t hear a word she is whispering.
Whatever she is saying irritates the shit out of Elvis. “That’s not true! This wasn’t a temporary thing.” I would laugh at his air quote of the word “temporary” if his face wasn’t etched with so much pain. “You don’t get to fuck whoever you want then say you’re sorry and expect it to be done and dusted. That’s not the way things work.”
The blonde steps closer to Elvis. She’s clearly slim; she barely casts a shadow in the late-hanging sun, and she’s well put-together. Designer pants hug her tiny bottom; she’s wearing killer high heel shoes, and every strand of her dead-straight locks are in perfect placement on her head. I don’t need to see her face to know she is a knockout. The appreciative rake of her body by the men surrounding her reveals she is stunning. They’re so busy ogling her, they failed to hear Elvis’s accusation that her insides are nowhere near as sparkly as her outsides.
“For fuck’s sake, give me a break. You’re here for one thing and one thing only: money. A year ago, I would have fallen for your tricks, but not anymore. I’m smarter than I was back then.”
After giving her a final sneer, Elvis thrusts his helmet under his arm then jogs onto the field to join the players already warming up. The crowd spots him in an instant. They jump to their feet, their roars of excitement enticing him to spin around and thank them for their support with a wave. That’s when he notices me spying on him. He slants his head as his squinted eyes dart between me and the blonde frozen where he left her.
I try and play it cool with a wiggle of my fingers. He doesn’t buy my act. The anger barely receding from his face returns stronger than ever. It’s so blistering, I dash down the corridor, needing something more than an icy-cold drink to settle my skyrocketing temps.
MY ASSUMPTIONon the queue being smaller at the pricier canteen was right. It also cost me less money. Not because Skylar went easier on me, but because the pass that grants me backstage access to the stadium every day also gives me a staff discount. It wasn’t mammoth, but enough to convince me I could fluff up Skylar’s order with the grilled sandwich she missed out on last time. It takes twenty-five minutes for them to fill my order, but plenty of time for me to put on my game face before returning to my seat. I don’t think Coach James will be pleased knowing he forked out premium seats only to have me piss off his star player minutes before the game.
“Hey, what’s going on?”
I hand Skylar her order, minus my hotdog and coke, before shifting my eyes to the field. The last time the crowd was this boisterous was when the opposing team recognized Elvis’s play before his receiver did. It’s just lucky his misread occurred at the same time the defense awarded the offense an automatic first down penalty or who knows how many yards they would have lost.
I freeze as a disturbance makes itself known in my gut.What the hell was that? I don’t do football talk.
Hoping it will remove the disdain on my tongue, I chug down half my bottle of Coca-Cola. It sits heavy in my stomach when Skylar launches to her feet and yells, “Come on, Carlton! Where’s the magic you had last week?”
I grimace. “Things not good?”
