by Luis, Maria
Terrified is putting it mildly.
I’d clung to my mother’s leg and refused to let go, like a monkey hanging from a tree limb.
Hand shielding my eyes from the setting sun, I peer up at the Ferris wheel. “You guys really haven’t changed the name in twenty years?”
“Now why would we do that? It’s a tourist attraction. You can see it clear across the bay.”
Growing up, The Monster and I developed a mutual hate-hate relationship. You know the worst time to discover a fear of heights? When you’re strapped to a mechanical wheel, nicknamed “The Monster,” with nowhere to hide.
I shiver at the memories.
Switching my focus back to Arthur, I paste an I’ve-got-this smile on my face. “So, I was thinking—”
“A dangerous activity,” he says with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. No wonder he hasn’t sought out a different job. The Monster is a perfect fit for him. I swear he takes an almost sadistic pleasure in watching little children shout for their parents at the top of that damn wheel. “Go on, Miss Levi.”
“Before we wrap up the photo shoot, would it be possible for us to run a round for whoever wants to go for a ride?” I think of the determined set to Dominic’s mouth. “I think it could do everyone some good to cut loose for twenty minutes.”
Arthur flips his magazine closed. “And how fast would you like The Monster to go?”
My stomach threatens to upheave my breakfast. There is no way I’m stepping foot on that thing. Already the cinnamon bun I grabbed an hour ago for a snack is shimmying in my belly, ready to show up for the cause if needed. “Slow. Really slow.”
“Kids prefer the thrill.”
“I’m not sure—”
“C’mon, Miss Levi. Do you want to be the reason they smile for the rest of the day or not? Also, how are you going to let them up on The Monster without being a good coach and leading the fun brigade yourself?”
I’ve been strong-armed by a seventy-five-year-old hustler and he knows it.
With a pep to his step, Arthur McKerron ushers me along to the group and tells everyone to pair off into twos. I find myself heading for Topher, but then he catches my eye, twiddles his fingers at me, and whirls around to go find one of his buddies.
I’ve been ditched by my own son.
Feeling like the last kid picked in freshman-year gym class, I stand in the shadow of The Monster and watch everyone find their other half. Mina loops her arm with Nick, staring up at him with an adoring expression on her face. They’re ridiculously cute together. Harry chooses Tim, while Topher bumps fists with Bobby. Matthew Wilde looks miserable when his mother, Belinda, tucks her hand into her fourteen-year-old’s grip and keeps him rooted by her side. Even Timmy’s mom, who surprised me by helping out all day, since she requested off from both jobs, hurries to claim Meredith before another parent steals her away.
I’m an island floating in the middle of the ocean.
Then again, this is ideal. What’s the fun in tackling The Monster when you have to do it alone? Not fun at all. Clearly, I’ll need to pass on the ride and hang out with Arthur instead. Perfect.
“Waiting for me, Coach?”
Oh, boy.
My heart pounds a mile a minute at hearing that dark, smoky voice. Dominic doesn’t hold my hand, not in front of the team and all the parents, but I feel his heat at my back as his hand folds over my shoulder.
“I’ve missed you,” he husks out, bowing his head so he speaks directly into my ear. “You know, I haven’t been on one of these things in at least twenty-five years. And the last time I did, it certainly wasn’t with a girl as pretty as you.”
Flattery means nothing in the face of The Monster.
I open my mouth, fully prepared to let Dominic down gently and, oh, I don’t know, suggest we sneak away to the unicorn carousel instead, when Arthur ruins everything. “You!” he shouts, pointing two fingers at me and Dominic. “You two go up together.”
I dig my heels into the cement as Mr. Super Bowl Champion himself swoops forward like he’s ready to tackle another team for the ring. Dominic is all in and I am so, so out. When he realizes I’m not at his side, he turns on his heel and plants his hands on his hips.
“You gonna let me go up there alone?” he asks, serving me with a daring onceover.
Coward, that one looks reads. Find the bite of the thrill.
It’s one thing to have sex on top of a mountain when I’m more than thirty feet away from the edge of a cliff. Another thing entirely to put my fate in a monstrosity nicknamed The Monster.
Arthur skirts past me, ducking his head to whisper, “Don’t make me tell all your players what happened when you were seven.”
My jaw drops. “That’s blackmail!”
“No, Miss Levi, it’s called telling you to have a little bit of fun. Now get up there. I can’t put anyone else on board until I strap the both of you in.”
Like I’m being led like a lamb to the slaughter, the soles of my sneakers drag across the concrete. I would face down a million clowns before one round on this thing. Dramatic, maybe, but what isn’t dramatic at all is the way my temples pound and my head feels all sorts of woozy. I don’t want to do this. I really don’t want to do this, but then I hear Topher call out, “Be brave, Mom!” and any option of fleeing goes right out the window.
I can be brave—right?
Show the team and my son and crazy, sadistic Arthur McKerron that I can do this.
Except, as I sit beside Dominic and fold my hands in my lap, my split-second bolt of bravery has apparently taken off for greener pastures. I’m going to be sick. Sweat dampens my palms as Arthur clicks the seat belt across our laps, then folds down the metal bar that is meant, I guess, to provide the illusion of safety. He waves good-naturedly, wishes us luck, and practically skips away to rope some other sucker into taking a ride on The Monster.
Tall as Dominic is, he has no choice but to sprawl out his legs before us. Actually, there might be such a thing as too tall for this ride. He drapes an arm over my shoulder, his body positioned for maximum room, while his right thigh presses into my left. Never mind the fact that his massive, six-foot-six frame is cramped beside me, he still manages to look insanely comfortable and delicious while I’m on the verge of a meltdown. Suddenly, this moment feels not unlike our first one at the Golden Fleece. Face-into-crotch falling, notwithstanding, of course.
“The pictures are comin’ out well,” he says. Nothing about his expression signifies that he’s as freaked out as I am about the sudden jerk of the Ferris wheel as we inch up, up, up so the next seat can be filled.
“Mhmm.”
My hands clutch the metal bar in a death grip.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
“You’re the reason this is even happening, you know. I’m not talking about the dick-in-a-sock thing either. I mean, honest to God, Asp, I’ve never had the courage or even the interest to show my pictures to anyone before I met you.”
“Uh-huh.”
Clang. Clang. CLANG.
The Monster jolts to a stop. I don’t know how high up we are. My eyes are closed and, oh, God, why do our seats have to swing like that? Back and forth and back and forth, and there’s no doubt about it: I’m going to vomit that cinnamon bun everywhere. That’s just if I’m lucky, too. More likely than not, I’m going to die up here. Heart attack. Definitely a heart attack.
“Maybe we should have everyone over tonight for a pizza party. Not like I haven’t given Pizzeria Athena enough business already. But, you know, I really want the team to feel like we’re all a family, like how we took care of Harry. Did you see his aunt joined us earlier at Cookies and Joe Diner? Anyway, swimming at a private beach never hurt anyone. Could be good for morale—Aspen, you okay?”
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
We’re chugging our way up again. Higher, higher.
“I need to get off of here.”
“Here?” Dominic echoes.
; “The Monster.” Clang! Clang! Clang! “I need to get off The Monster.”
“You mean the Ferris wheel?”
I nod. At least, I think I’m nodding. With my eyes closed and The Monster rotating around, gathering its victims from the loading zone, it feels like I’m floating.
“Aspen, baby, don’t tell me . . . Are you afraid of heights?”
My hands fist the metal bar. “Are you laughing at me?”
And then . . . and then I feel it. The arm that’s wrapped around me is shaking. His big body is shaking. The friggin’ seat is shaking.
I’m going to kill him.
“Dominic,” I mutter, my mouth completely dry as anxiety spikes, “stop. Stop laughing. We’re going to fall. The bolts are going to come loose and—oh, my God.”
The seat swings. Back and forth.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
More swinging, and suddenly I know it’s him. He’s doing this. Teasing me. Playing with my emotions.
“I hate you,” I whisper out from between gritted teeth. “I hate you so much.”
I feel his lips on my exposed shoulder, and then hear his velvety voice by my ear. “You don’t, Asp. You don’t hate me at all. But you’re gonna hate yourself if you have to suffer the wrath of The Monster and can’t even enjoy the view.”
“I’ve lived in London most of my life. I’ve seen the view.”
“Not like this.” His hand rounds the back of my head, smoothing down the flyaway strands. “How are you gonna tell me you’re such a badass if you can’t handle opening your eyes on a Ferris wheel? How are we going to go skydiving together?”
My heart pitter-patters at the thought of us making plans for a life outside of the Wildcats. Then, it picks up speed at the mere thought of skydiving. Never going to happen. Weakly, I utter, “Topher will go with you.”
“Topher’s a great sidekick but you, Coach—you can’t be my partner-in-crime if you don’t go for the gold when it’s right in front of you.” His hot breath coasts over my cheek as he kisses my temple. “Take the risk, earn the reward.”
“What’s the reward?” I ask, but already my eyes are peeling open. I’m close to hyperventilating and there’s nothing I want more than to be back on solid ground. And then I see there’s a hand in front of my face, blocking the promised view.
“Breathe for me, baby,” comes his soft command.
I suck in air sharply, filling my lungs.
“Now breathe it out.”
Out it goes, my chest deflating with the exhalation.
“You good?”
I hear the clanging of The Monster’s metal gears. Hear the boys—Topher, too—below us hollering about something off in the distance. A yacht, I think. Seeking the strength from Dominic’s arm wrapped around me, I nod.
He pulls his hand away, dropping it to my thigh. “Check out your reward.”
We’re at the tippity-top of the Ferris wheel, some hundred feet off the ground. Maybe less. Maybe more. I can’t bring myself to swing my gaze down and take in all the tourists mingling around on the pier and looking like ant-people.
But the horizon, that I can see.
And it is . . . breathtaking.
Sailboats coast along the deep blue waters, their crisp, white sails flapping in the wind. Farther out, the yacht Topher was shouting about heads east toward Bar Harbor. It’s long and sleek and glistens under the setting sun. I swallow, hard, then glance west. The islands across from London appear like green jewels, enticing me to stare a little harder and make out the houses nestled between the trees.
I count them all: one, two, four . . . seven.
“Not so bad, is it?” Dominic drawls, the dratted jerk sounding all too satisfied with himself.
“It could be worse.”
“Yeah? How?”
I meet his dark gaze. “I didn’t pee my pants this time.”
Slowly, his mouth curves up in a delicious grin. “I’m sorry”—he puts one hand to his ear, leaning in—“I could have sworn you said this time.”
And so under a sky painted pink and purple and yellow, with my heart in my throat and my panties wet but for an entirely different reason than fear, I regale Dominic DaSilva, Super Bowl ring champion, sports news anchor, about the one time I rode The Monster and peed on myself. When I get to the part that includes the riders below me hollering about it starting to rain, I try to uphold whatever pride I have left: “I was only seven. It was a shock to us all.”
He loses it.
Head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, sexy laughter tumbling out of him.
Life has never been so good.
33
Celebrity Tea Presents:
Wildcat Logic: When Desperate Ex-NFL Players Become Amateur Photographers
Dear Reader, I’m sure this is not an article you ever anticipated reading. Between us, it’s not one I anticipated writing either, but here we are. (No, really, here we are).
As you may have guessed from the headline, retired NFL player Dominic DaSilva has traded in his football jersey for a cell phone camera app. Now, before you start thinking, “WOW! Harsh,” let me just say . . . don’t you find it a little odd that Sports 24/7 created an entire TV segment about high school football of all things, of which fifteen minutes of the half-hour episode were dedicated to Maine’s London High School? After all, it’s not every day that a sports network goes out of their way to highlight a small town in the middle of nowhere that also happens to be the place where their former employee now works.
I’m spilling the T-E-A, sister.
Here. We. Go.
For the sake of getting right to it, I won’t mince words: I think DaSilva is so keen to be in the limelight, he’ll do anything to get his name and face in front of people. Let us look at the facts, shall we?
After retiring from the NFL, DaSilva promptly was hired by ESPN’s top competitor, Sports 24/7, in which he hosted his own show for roughly four years. I don’t watch sports—unless the athletes are swimmers and wearing speedos, of course—so I can’t say whether or not DaSilva was any good. For the purpose of playing nice, let’s say he did an ahhhmazing job and deserves a daytime Emmy. Moving on.
Hot or not, the man went from living in Los Angeles, where he had his pick of women, to going on ANOTHER TV show, all in the hope of keeping his name lit up in neon letters, as well as locked and loaded in everyone’s mouths. Since Put A Ring On It began airing a little more than a month ago, Dominic DaSilva’s name has remained in the top five trending hashtags on Twitter. No easy feat, that. I tip my hat off to you, Mr. DaSilva; you sure know how to make the right moves, boo.
As has been mentioned in earlier installments of Celebrity Tea Presents, it’s been reported—though never confirmed—that America’s favorite tight end went on Put A Ring On It for all the wrong reasons. In the land of romantic dating shows, “the wrong reasons” might as well be the equivalent of Satan breathing on the back of your neck. It’s also synonymous with “money-grabbing jerkoff.” You heard it here first.
Heartbroken, single and recently unemployed, DaSilva moved across the country to a small, Podunk town in Maine, only to come crawling back to his old employer for some extra attention in the form of a segment practically dedicated to London High School, where he now coaches football. I firmly believe that this move, more than any other, showcases DaSilva’s true intent. Is he any good at photography? Honestly, who cares. (I don’t). Does this calendar, however, display an underhandedness to stay relevant within Hollywood? These are the facts as I look at them, Dear Reader.
Just in case we’ve forgotten: Aspen Clarke. The girl is married. Enough said.
Truly, I don’t need any more examples to prove what we already know: Savannah Rose made the right choice in sending this social climber home. She can do better. So much better.
Will I still be tuning in to tonight’s episode of Put A Ring On It, however? You bet I will. Reporting on the insanity of Hollywood is a job, honey, and Daddy needs to pay his electric bill.
Consider the tea piping hot and poured, Dear Reader.
I’ll see you tomorrow for more juicy celebrity gossip.
34
Aspen
“There we go, boys!” Clapping my hands, I run along the edge of the field as Bobby breaks through the linemen. “Yes, Bobby! Perfect! Go, go, go!”
Across the field, Dominic shouts at his players to pull themselves together.
We’re at odds.
Total enemies.
Well, at least until the whistle blows for our next water break.
We’ve been scrimmaging all morning, and after nearly four weeks of working the kids day in and day out, Monday through Friday, the magic is starting to happen.
It. Is. Glorious.
The sounds of pads colliding might as well be music to my ears as Bobby fakes a left, then skirts to the right. Matthew and Kevin, two incoming freshmen, who will probably find themselves on JV at the end of the summer, sprint toward Bobby and the football. Like I drilled into them over and over again in the last month, both boys explode from the hips and lift Bobby straight off the ground.
“Hell fucking yeah!” Dominic calls from the other side of the play, pumping a fist in the air. “Now that’s what I’m talking about, boys! There we go!” He claps his hands, completely missing the fact that he just dropped an F-bomb, then cups his hands around his mouth and hollers my name.
“Yo, Aspen!”
Aspen, not Levi.
He’s been doing that more often than not lately.
Although he’s too far away for me to make out his expression, there’s no denying the utter glee in his voice when he bellows, “How do you like them apples?!”
Only a man like Dominic DaSilva would dare quote Matt Damon on sacred football ground.
I snatch the whistle from where it hangs on my lanyard and tuck it between my lips. Tweet! Tweet!
