by Luis, Maria
Mission accomplished.
Only, Willow failed on obstacle number one because of sex. There are about a gazillion things wrong with this picture—the first being the fact that she forgot my son at his buddy’s house—but I’m woman enough to admit that I’m also a little jealous too.
I miss sex.
Not necessarily sex with Rick because, well, he was something of a one-pump master—two for special occasions—but I do miss the intimacy of it all. The intimacy and the orgasms. Although it’s been a heck of a long time (read: years) since I had one of the latter that didn’t come from a little solo-play action.
Ugh.
I drop my phone in my purse and focus on the fifty or so people who have come out tonight to talk football, their kids, and their hopes for a successful season ahead of us. Not that every kid attending camp will make JV or varsity. Morale needs encouragement, though, and I’ve always been of the mindset that confidence begins in the home.
Get the parents excited and involved in their children’s dreams—step one. Foster unity and a sense of belonging—step two. Run drills and scrimmages until either your feet fall off or you become the next Tom Brady—step three.
I sidestep a couple heading back into the pub. Crane my neck and bounce up onto my toes to look for my assistant coach.
There. Standing beneath the pergola and looking like Lucifer himself. Dressed in all black—from his slacks to his leather shoes to the dress shirt molded to his bulky torso—Dominic casually reclines against the wooden railing while holding a beer bottle down by his hip. I wouldn’t be surprised if his dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar to reveal the sign of a . . . pentagram? Hexagram?
Doesn’t matter.
The point is, he’s rocking a nonchalant vibe like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
Over the last week, I’ve realized that it’s his M.O. How much would it take to crack his concrete resolve? It’s a question I’ve wondered every night as I toss and turn in bed. Other than that moment outside his truck when he was blatantly messing with me, along with those tense few minutes in my kitchen, he’s always kept his emotions in check.
Does he ever just relax?
God forbid he smiles for real or kicks that cynical twist of his lips to the curb. The world would probably end immediately if he did. And if not the world, then at the very least London would crumble right into Frenchman Bay like a modern-day Atlantis.
“You think Coach Levi was trying to save face up there? Belinda told me Coach is totally willing to let DaSilva strip naked for a high school calendar,” says someone over to my right.
No.
The answer is definitely no, something I reiterated to the group at large, once I finally caught my breath, after Dominic swept me up in a tight, not-so-welcoming hug. Friendly it wasn’t, but that didn’t stop my breath from hitching as he closed the distance between us. Even now, my heart gives an extra thud, and I silence it with a palm to my chest. No extra beats are allowed for a man like Dominic DaSilva.
Wishing I had a cool glass of water to press to my heated cheeks, I move toward the pergola. I need to talk to Dominic. Smooth the turbulent waters before we’re forced to swim through the murkiness all next week during camp. There’s also a good possibility I’ll need to give a closing statement tonight, just to make sure we’re all on the same page here: there is no calendar, PG-13 or not, starring Dominic as the centerfold model.
I’m maybe five feet away from ground zero when I’m pulled to a stop with a hand around my arm and an enthusiastic, “Levi!” ringing in my ear.
Dammit. So, so close.
Swinging one last glance at the pergola, and at Dominic, I paste a smile on my face and turn to greet whoever stopped me. “How can I help—oh, Meredith!”
Her grin hitches wide at my greeting, and she doesn’t miss a beat before leaning in for a quick kiss-kiss to my cheeks. “Listen, I don’t want to take up too much of your time or anything,” she says, one hand clutching the thick strap of her purse, “so I promise to be quick.”
I wave her off. “No time limit.” I’ll find Dominic at some point tonight . . . or at home. Bad, bad neighborly thoughts. Immediately, I lead my brain in a safer direction, one that doesn’t include ex-NFL players living conveniently next door to me. “We’re here to answer any questions you might have. It’s the point of tonight’s meeting.”
“I thought the point was to talk about Coach DaSilva’s sacred parts in a calendar?”
Wouldn’t Dominic just love to know his dick has been likened to something sacred. In his book, it probably is.
Struggling to hold back an unprofessional groan, I knead my temples. “For the record, that calendar is seriously never going to happen. Please tell me no one is still thinking about it.”
“Depends on who you’re talking to, I think. Belinda—Matthew’s mom—is hopeful.”
No high school in the history of high schools would ever allow a grown-ass man to strip naked for a calendar. It’s called instantly landing oneself in jail, and I don’t know about Dominic, but I’m just not a good fit for prison.
There’s no good food, for one, and I rather like my nightly mug of hot tea to polish off the day’s efforts and successes.
That’s a luxury that jail will never afford me. Same with bath bombs, regularly scheduled appointments with a hairstylist to cover up my graying roots, and BBQs every Sunday in the fall to celebrate my favorite kind of ball. Football. I know my place, and it’s existing without shackles on my limbs.
At my strangled silence, Meredith shrugs. “I think they’re hoping if they push for it, you’ll buckle.”
“They’re out of luck. There will be no buckling—not today, tomorrow, or five years from now.”
Although I keep my voice even-keeled, I swear the remark earns me a few death glares from the people in close proximity. A man I’ve never seen before cracks a grin, destroying the whole death-glare theory, and then promptly whispers something to the woman standing next to him. She, in turn, giggles fiercely.
Her shoulders shake like a set of Mexican jumping beans.
What in the world is so funny?
Although it’s been years since I schmoozed and cruised on Rick’s arm for any number of his high-end functions—he preferred to leave his “small-town wife” at home—I’m no stranger to high school events with parents. These meetings, which I always try to host in a non-intimidating venue like a bar or a restaurant, are how I create personal connections with the parents. For me, coaching football isn’t just about drills and plays—it’s about the off-the-field victories too. I’m no therapist, and I would never claim to be one, but I’ve never felt more successful than when I’ve managed to help a mom or dad re-engage with their child, for whatever reason.
These initial meetings are my launching point—where I’m most in my zone.
And yet something is so, so off tonight.
I glance down at my shirt, immediately searching for something amiss. I haven’t even had a single cocktail tonight, so the likelihood of a stain is close to nil. My zipper. Subtly, I sweep a hand over my pelvis, doing a little drive-by check to ensure I’m not showing the world my pink panties with little pineapples on them.
I’m a sucker for fun underwear—as opposed to sexy lingerie—and have a wide assortment in my drawer at home. Ones with funny sayings, ones with hilarious designs printed on them. It’s a joke Rick never understood, which no doubt culminated in another check mark in the column titled Reasons Why I Should Have Never Married Aspen Levi. He tallied up many check marks over the years, starting with how I failed to lose the baby weight after Topher was born, and not even coming close to ending with how I never managed to fit in with his fancy acquaintances. Better to leave me at home than risk me getting in his way.
“Meredith,” I start, when I catch another woman covering her mouth to hide a grin when she looks over at me. “I know we don’t really know each other, but I have to ask . . . Do I have a sign on my forehead that
I don’t know about? Maybe a piece of paper taped to my back?”
The way I’m getting looks tonight, it’s as though I’m a walking disaster.
Which, though often true, shouldn’t be the case tonight. While I didn’t have time to tame my hair into a sleek blowout the way I’d hoped to before the Willow fiasco, I still hit up the makeup I rarely use and also dressed in a flirty, lace top that gives the girls a nice boost. For the first time in a very, very long while, I feel feminine. Pretty. Someone to be desired, despite spending years with Rick, who made me feel like the ratty shirt in the back of your closet, forgotten and unwanted. More importantly, I feel like a woman, too, and not just a mom and a football coach who lives in workout gear like I was born in spandex.
Hello, my name is Aspen Levi and I’m the queen of leggings and oversized T-shirts. It doesn’t have a memorable ring to it.
Faced with Meredith’s silence, I glance over at her. Only, she’s currently licking the pad of her thumb and rubbing her forehead with it over and over again.
Huh.
Maybe all those people aren’t laughing at me but at her.
Jerks—all of them.
Don’t they know how cruelty can damage a person’s self-esteem?
Looking left, then right, I step close and lower my voice. “You okay?” I ask gently. “You seem a little . . . squirrely right now.”
“Your eye . . .” Meredith rubs her forehead again a little more forcefully.
Is it code? Is she trying to communicate that someone around us has made her feel uncomfortable? Though she’s only a few years younger than I am, I’m ready to go all mama bear and get to the bottom of it.
“She’s trying to tell you that you have makeup all over your face.”
13
Aspen
The latter doesn’t come from Bobby’s mom.
No, I could never be so lucky.
Dominic Fucking DaSilva.
Is there a humiliation of mine that this man has not witnessed since we met? No, I don’t think so. It’s incredibly unfair. You’d think the universe would be tired of giving him everything: good hair, great muscles, a gorgeous face.
Okay, maybe “gorgeous” is taking it a bit too far.
Dominic’s features are rugged, like the terrain of Cadillac Mountain southwest of London. But like the landscape of Maine, pieced together with the expansive sky, and the thick copse of trees, and the beautiful creeks and rivers, Dominic is a showstopper.
Handsome in a way most men will never be.
Heat effuses my cheeks, warming me despite the bite in the air tonight. I refuse to turn around and give him the satisfaction of seeing me blush. And, boy, am I blushing. Fingers twitching with the need to press them into the hollows of my cheeks and hide any redness, I look to Meredith, meeting her kind gaze. “I’m sorry, would you mind if I took off for a second to go and . . .” I wave at my face. “You know?”
“Oh, of course.” In camaraderie or maybe in womanly support, she squeezes my arm just above the wrist. “I’ll see you later?”
Unless I somehow find myself on the run after murdering the arrogant man standing next to me? “I’ll be here. Thank you so much for coming tonight. We really appreciate it.”
I shoulder Dominic out of the way with very little grace, heading straight for safety.
If there’s anyone in the bathroom, I’m going to haul them out. Okay, no hauling will commence, mainly because I stopped doing push-ups right after I caught Rick cheating the first time—about four years ago—and opted for spoon-digging as my preferred method of exercise instead.
My biceps might not thank me for all the extra chocolate ice cream I’ve eaten over the years, but my emotional welfare says otherwise.
Speaking of emotional welfare, I’m highly aware of Dominic tracking me like a shadow clinging to a tiny seed of light. He even has the balls—literally, too, I suppose—to settle a hand on my lower spine, as if I actually need his guidance or support.
I don’t need either.
I try to lose him around a group of parents, but then he’s right back in my lane again with his palm kissing my back and his pace in step with mine.
Stubborn, infuriating man.
When I reach the restrooms, I cut my stride abruptly short. Send a quick thank-you up to the universe for keeping the crowd outside and away from this narrow hallway. The space is quiet, locked between the pub and the courtyard, and when I wheel around to confront the broody man hovering at my back, he nearly mows me over.
My arms fly out to catch something to hold onto, and damn me if I’m not hand-delivered a severe case of déjà vu.
Only last time, it wasn’t Dominic’s arms I latched onto but his thighs, and my nose was buried in a place a lot more R-rated than the broad expanse of his chest.
I take a subtle sniff.
Yup. Sandalwood, aftershave, and ticked-off male.
Just my luck.
Yanking out of his arms, I feel my eyes narrow as I glare up at his face. “If you even think about pulling a tactic out of a romance novel and try cornering me in the bathroom, think again.” I jab his hard chest with two fingers. Step back toward the women’s restroom. “Don’t follow me.”
His only answer? A smirk.
Or maybe it’s a sneer.
It’s tough to tell with the pub’s dim lighting. There aren’t any candles back here, which means it’s moonlight or bust.
Keeping my eyes trained on his face, in case he gets swept away by a bad idea, I reach behind me for the doorknob. My palm fondles a vertical handle. Freedom, here I come. I give the door a little push, and it’s that two-second diversion of my attention that proves to be my downfall.
Dominic swoops in front of me, one arm wrapping around my shoulders as he spins us around. He backs me up. One foot then the other.
“Hey, hold on now—”
My heel catches on an uplifted step.
He draws his free arm up and over my head to plant it against something behind me.
The door.
It creaks open, swinging on its hinges as Dominic leads me in a tango of demise.
And then my poor nostrils are being assaulted by an odor so foul I nearly gag.
It takes only a second for my surroundings to register. Urinals line one wall, and two stalls grace the other. The walls are painted a muted gray, the floors are a dull black tile, and there’s a guy tucking himself into his pants as he ambles over to the row of sinks.
Oh, God.
No more games. Time to go.
I attempt to sidestep Dominic, but he thwarts me off and I end up nose-to-nose with a full-body mirror.
Oh. God.
I’m not incompetent when it comes to makeup. I know all about proper blending and which setting sprays to use to lock the powders all in, but knowing any of that doesn’t take into account the fact that I decided to get ready at the new vanity I purchased. The lights in my bedroom aren’t nearly as illuminating as those in the bathroom, but I hadn’t thought anything of it. I put on some fun music, wearing nothing but a bra and underwear, and dolled myself up. Doing so made me feel like a pampered princess, and after years of feeling undesirable by my own husband, I wanted the chance to get ready in style.
And I had—only, I’d unknowingly applied my bronzer with a heavy hand. The woman staring back at me from the mirror looks like a Kardashian sister, circa the 2000s.
“I’m a raccoon,” I breathe out, staring at my reflection and wishing it was as easy to erase as mist on glass after a steamy shower. “A drunk raccoon that’s done Spring Break in Miami, Mardi Gras in New Orleans, and St. Patrick’s Day in Boston.”
“I’m surprised the raccoon is still alive after all that partying.”
Dominic’s big body brushes past me. I barely register him.
I’m not sure what to do first: wet a paper towel and do my best to scrub off the atrocity on my face or deliberate the probability of a scientist discovering a time-travel machine soon enough that I can res
tart this entire night.
As though the universe is peering down at me and asking, What? You aren’t having fun yet? It’s at that moment when the guy at the sink notices there’s a woman in the house. The mirror gives me the full, HD experience of watching his face pale as his hands dart to his crotch, fingers fumbling with the zipper. Once satisfied that he’s all put away, he scurries past us, mutters something beneath his breath, and lets the door slam shut behind him.
Only the sound of the door clanging closed joggles my brain enough to register his parting words: “Good to have you back in town, Levi.”
I drop my head on the mirror, ignoring the sting of my forehead meeting glass. “Please tell me he’s not one of the team dads.”
Dominic’s footfalls cue me into the fact that he’s moving around. There’s the soft electronic whir of the paper-towel machine, then water splashing from a faucet. Then more of those heavy footfalls coming closer and closer until a hand is nudging mine.
“He’s one of the team dads.”
Unwanted laughter unfurls in my chest before making a break for it. “You’re supposed to make me feel better.”
“I’m going to, once you stop feeling sorry for yourself.”
I snort, but begrudgingly roll my body so my back is flush with the mirror and my arms are down by my sides. “Good to know that pep talks are not your forte. You’re hereafter banned from giving them. The kids will thank me.”
“They gonna thank you for lying about that calendar too?”
Guilt slays me, even though the calendar was certainly not my idea. Opening my mouth, prepared to give it to him straight, I’m struck silent when big hands come into view. The one carrying a damp paper towel presses softly to my forehead while the other makes itself at home at the back of my skull, keeping me in place for his ministrations.
My heart, already on the fritz after a night of stress and embarrassment, loops into a fast rhythm. “What are you doing?” I whisper, almost fearful to speak too loudly and destroy whatever this is.
Not that there is a this.
Dominic’s expression doesn’t show a hint of softness as he works diligently. “Cleaning you up.”
