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“You’re missing the point,” Camilla’s expression is tight. She’s on the edge of her seat and the game hasn’t even started yet.
“Am I? These dudes are brave. And not because of the hits they’re about to take.” I watch a couple of the players warming up while I suck down my diet soda. “Those pants are white. Number fifty-four looks like he’s packing some serious heat. Can you introduce me?”
“No. He’s married.”
“Lucky bitch.”
Feminine laughter gets my attention. I glance over my shoulder, to find Fancy is talking to an elegant Asian woman dressed in designer clothes. She pushes a dark drape of hair over her shoulder and bats her lashes, her face in jeopardy of cracking in two from the force of her smile.
“Who’s that?”
Camilla looks over at the two of them.
“Dr. Lucy Davis. That’s Davis as in her parents own the team. She’s a pediatric surgeon and just got back from Syria where she was working with Doctors Without Borders.”
Whatever. I organize a canned food drive for the homeless shelter in the Bowery every Thanksgiving. Do I go around bragging about it? No.
We watch them for a while. Fancy says something. She laughs again. They exchange smiles. Hands stuffed in his pants pocket, he rocks back and forth on his expensive Italian loafers. That’s when I catch it––a glimpse that tells me it’s all an act. I can’t name it. I can’t describe what it is, but I know it when I see it. The smile he’s giving her is a fraud. What a little actor. Takes one to know one I guess.
“Well, she laughs like a hyena, so there.”
Camilla tears her eyes away from the tall figure on the field warming up and smirks at me. “She does not laugh like a hyena.”
The fabulous Dr. Davis throws her head back and laughs at something Fancy said for the umpteenth time. Brows up my forehead, I’m ready to gloat.
Camilla takes one look at my expression and says, “She’s a very nice person.”
Irritation crawls over my skin as I watch the two of them for a beat longer. “Christ, does he ever take a day off?” I mutter under my breath.
“Who?”
“Your friend––the pied piper of pussy. They show up at the house, at his office. They probably stalk him on his morning run. I’d really like to know what he does to these women. Does he shoot thunderbolts out of his dick?”
Camilla’s brow furrows as she continues to stare at the man in question. Fancy’s attention steers in our direction. He looks at Cam and smiles. Then his gaze jumps to me and the same smile dies a sudden death.
The hell is his damage? He’s been hostile all day, acting as if I’ve offended him somehow. Which is impossible because we barely said two words on the ride over. I mirror back a frown of my own.
Four hours later the jubilation that was permeating the room is nowhere to be found, the mood that of a funeral. Fitting since it was a massacre. The Titans offense ran into a buzz saw called the Bengals defense. Camilla spent the better part of the game facing the wall because she couldn’t stand to see Calvin being pile driven into the ground one more time while muttering, “I fucking hate this game,” over and over. It’s a miracle he wasn’t split in two. Even I had a hard time watching.
Walking gingerly, Calvin is one of the first players to hobble into the room. We all say our goodbyes and clan Shaw departs for home. Fancy pulls himself away from Dr. Davis’ side, where he’s been all afternoon, and makes his way to me.
“Ready to leave?”
“In a little while. Harper’s going to need me to hug it out and kiss his boo-boos.”
Hands on hips, he exhales loudly. “Is something going on between you two?”
“What do you mean?” I look up and find yet again, a frown. “Ever hear the expression turn that frown upside down.”
This does not amuse him. On the contrary he’s starting to look a touch annoyed. What’s he got to be annoyed about? Is his designer underwear riding up?
“You’re wearing his jersey.”
“So?”
“And you want to wait for him?”
“Breaking news: Harper and I are friends.”
A very tall and very fit guy with dirty blonde hair and a tan that looks like it was earned the hard way, by working outdoors, walks up to us. He’s appallingly handsome in a way that does not appeal to me whatsoever. He’s a life size version of a Ken doll––the XXL version. He’s also wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, and for a moment I wonder who let this guy into the Coach’s box. He slaps Vaughn on the shoulder like they’re bros.
“‘Sup, brotha,” he says. As suspected.
“Hey, man. I thought you were on the farm,” Fancy retorts. Also as suspected; those muscles did not grow themselves.
