The Hot Shot

by Kristen Callihan

  “Hey,” I say, when she doesn’t speak.

  She blinks and then shakes her head as if coming out of a fog. “Please tell me you’re a stripper.”

  “Stripper?” I repeat, half-amused and a little confused. Behind her, the house is full of people in dresses or suits, and I wonder if I have the wrong address.

  “We’ve never had a stripper at a C&C before,” she explains in an excited rush. “But I am totally on board with this development.”

  C&C?

  “I’m looking for Chess Copper.”

  Purple Dress frowns as if she’s never heard of Chess, and I’m about to drop the whole thing and leave when James suddenly appears, all but tumbling into Purple. “Manny,” he exclaims with a happy smile. “You’re here.”

  Relief eases my stance. “Hey, James.”

  He grabs my arm and tries to tug me in. I could have told him I’m too big to be randomly pulled, but I just step inside. Purple Dress makes a disappointed sound. “So, not a stripper?”

  “Stripper?” James sounds appalled. “This here is The King. Show some respect.”

  “He needs a crown then,” a woman with poufy hair and wearing a green dress says as we walk past her.

  Inside, it’s crowded and close with people. The furniture is nineteenth century, with gilded framed portraits hanging on the walls. Cigarette smoke hovers overhead, several people smoking in groups and holding cocktails. And I swear, I feel a moment’s trepidation, as if I actually did fall into some freaky time warp.

  “Why is everyone dressed like they’re auditioning for a Mad Men reunion?” I ask James.

  “It’s standard attire for Cocks and Cocktails,” he says, as we stop at side table set up with a bar. “Want a beer?”

  “Sure, but… Cocks and Cocktails?”

  James hands me a bottle of beer before fixing himself a gin and tonic. “It’s a cocktail party. Only you wear your best vintage duds.” He sweeps a hand over his black and white pinstripe suit, topped with a hot pink bow that clashes with his red beard. “Point is to be the sharpest dressed cock of the walk, so to speak.”

  Given that I’m in jeans and a plain, gray long sleeve shirt, I’m grossly underdressed. Since I’m also about a foot taller than everyone here, I stick out like a sore thumb.

  “Don’t sweat it,” James says, clearly reading me well. “When someone looks as good as you, no one gives a damn how the window is dressed.”

  I eye his suit again. “Somehow I think this will go over your head, but sometimes it’s nice to get lost in the crowd.”

  James smirks, taking a sip of his drink. “Maybe. Then again, if that were true, you wouldn’t have someone looking at you the way that particular lady is right now.”

  I turn toward the direction of his gaze, and there she is. Any response I can give James is gone; I’m at a loss for words. Up until now, I’ve seen Chess in jeans and casual tops. This version of Chess is like a present.

  She makes her way to me, and my heart knocks against my chest like it’s trying to break free. Her usually stern expression is lighter, green eyes smiling. “Trish was babbling about some GQ model looking for me,” she says in greeting. “I assumed it was either you, or it was my lucky night.”

  “It was both,” I finally answer, too aware that my voice is thick.

  She’s wearing a dress, a black velvet bodice that hugs her slim torso and hangs off the curves of her shoulders. The skirt is a white cloud that reaches her knees.

  “You’re staring, Finn.”

  “Rear Window,” I blurt out, making her blink. “That dress. Grace Kelly wore a dress like that in Rear Window.”

  James laughs. “Holy shit, I can’t believe you picked that up.”

  I take a sip of beer to wet my dry throat. “It’s my mother’s favorite movie.”

  I don’t add that I might have had a small crush on Grace Kelly when I was a preteen.

  A soft flush of pink colors Chess’s cheeks. “Most people haven’t figured it out. They expect the ice blonde hair too.”

  Her ink black hair is swept up in one of those twisty buns pinned to the back of her head that exposes the long line of her neck. She is fucking beautiful, and I tell her so.

  The pink in her cheek deepens but she shrugs my compliment off. “You find the place all right?”

  She seems flustered, her gaze darting around to the people staring at us. At me. The attention prickles on the back of my neck. I ignore everyone but her.

  “Yep.” I dip my head, and the light scent of her perfume tickles my nose. “I could have dressed up too, you know.”

  Her cherry red lips pinch. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think about it when we were texting.”

  I can’t resist teasing her. “Hmm… And here I thought maybe you were afraid I’d back off once I heard, ‘Cocks and Cocktails’.”

  The corner of her mouth quirks. “Well, maybe not the cocktails.”

  “It’s okay, Chester.” The urge to touch the soft curve of her cheek has me gripping my beer. “Thanks for inviting me.”

  Chess fiddles with the strand of pearls around her neck. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to Malcolm, our host. He’s an antiques dealer.”

  “That explains a lot.”

  Her eyes gleam. “Wait ’til you meet him. The man talks as though he was born here five decades ago, when I know he grew up in Cleveland.”

  Malcolm turns out to be a middle-aged man sporting a thin, black mustache. He’s wearing a white suit with a black bowtie, and tells me he’s going for a Clark Gable Gone with the Wind look, but the image that comes to mind is Colonel Sanders. I keep that to myself as I shake his hand.

  “You look familiar, Mr. Mannus,” he says, peering at my face. “Are you a model, perchance?”

  The Colonel image gets stronger, and I have the sudden urge to eat fried chicken. “No, sir, I’m a quarterback.”

  He gives me a blank look. “I could have sworn you were one of Chess’s boys.”

  Chess’s boys? I glance at her, and she makes a face. “I don’t have boys, Mal.”

  He waves a hand. “You know what I mean. Your model friends. ” He stares at me again. “A quarterback, you say?”

  James cuts in. “Christ on a cracker. He’s a pro football player. And the reason he looks familiar to you is because there is a massive billboard of his smiling face on Canal Street.”

  I cringe. That freaking ad. I hate driving by it. I see myself in the mirror every time I shave; I don’t need a fifty-foot reminder of what I look like.

  Recognition dawns over Malcolm, and it’s clear that billboard has haunted him too. “Football. Ugh.” His mustache twitches. “I loathe football. All that grunting and sweating. And no actual sex involved.”

  “Hits a little too close to home, does it?” a man at his side quips.

  “You should know, Robert.” Malcolm rolls his eyes then zeroes in on me again. “Please tell me you have other interests, Mr. Mannus.”

  Chess gives me a quick, worried look. But I don’t mind. I’m around sycophants enough as it is, and there’s no malice in his tone.

  “Oh, sure,” I say lightly. “I like baseball and basketball too.”

  He stares back at me, and I return his look with a bland smile. His lip twitches. “You’re cute.”

  “I try.”

  Purple Dress joins us. “I thought he was a stripper.”

  I’m beginning to think this chick has a one-track mind.

  “Strippers wear a costume, Trish,” Robert says with an exasperated drawl. “If he’d shown up in a football uniform, I’d give you that. Otherwise, it’s just wishful thinking on your part.”

  Trish glares, but then gives a lazy shrug. “I wasn’t too far off, though. If he’s a football player, then he has been stripping for Chess.”

  “Jesus, Trish,” Chess mutters.

  Malcolm and Robert both perk up.

  “We’re doing a charity calendar,” she explains, not at all flustered but clearly annoyed at Trish.<
br />
  “I saw the photo on the news of that big guy with all the arm ink,” Trish says. “Too bad he didn’t show up. So freaking hot.”

  Dex wouldn’t have made it through the front door of this place before turning tail and running.

  Chess shots me a hesitant look. “Did you see the photos?”

  I take a sip of beer. It’s getting warm and flat. “No. But I heard about them.”

  Why didn’t I hear about them from you? It shouldn’t bother me that Chess didn’t say anything. But it does. It seems like a something a friend would definitely tell a friend.

  But you aren’t friends, are you? One lunch and a couple of conversations makes you little more than brief acquaintances.

  “They came out well, I think.” Chess is babbling now. “Meghan wants to use Dexter’s photo for December.”

  “You gonna put a Santa hat on him?” I quip.

  Her body jerks, and instantly, I feel like a shit. But she doesn’t reply. A woman bumps into her and they start chatting. I’m left to my beer and the curious stares of people circulating the room.

  I’m starving. Smoke stings my eyes and fills my mouth. My feet hurt from standing, and I’m starting to feel like an old man because all I want to do is sit down where it’s quiet and comfortable. When yet another person bumps into me, giving me a double take, I excuse myself and head to the bathroom.

  “Use the one upstairs, darling,” a pretty, older woman tells me when I discover the downstairs one is occupied. “Malcolm won’t mind.”

  I find the bathroom with ease, but I don’t really need to use it. It had been an excuse to get away.

  At the end of the hall, a set of French doors lead out to the upstairs gallery—a wide porch that runs the width of the back of the house. I step outside, closing the door behind me, and draw in a deep breath. Light from two wall scones illuminate the space. It’s quiet here, the sounds of the party dim. I take a seat on a wooden porch swing and let it slowly rock.

  I shouldn’t be up here. I should find Chess and…go? Stick it out? I don’t know if I’m just feeling off tonight or if I imagined things about her that we’re never there.

  The door opens, and I stiffen. But it’s Chess. And it isn’t a fluke, the way my pulse kicks up whenever I see her. Because it does it again, and all my senses attune themselves to her as if she’s my True North.

  “There you are,” she says, stepping onto the gallery. “I was wondering if you’d run away screaming.”

  Almost did. I stand. “Just getting some fresh air.”

  “I don’t blame you. Sometimes I forget how much people smoke at these things.” Chess comes close, and I see that she’s holding a plate covered with a napkin. “Makes my throat hurt.”

  Her skirt rustles and froths as she sits on the swing. I sit next to her.

  “Here,” she says, handing me the plate. “I brought you some food.”

  Surprise makes my movements shaky as I take it from her. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  But I am so fucking grateful she did, I’ll eat every damn bite, no matter what it is.

  “Of course I did,” she says, as I lift up the napkin. “I dragged you out here. I’m not going to let you starve.” She leans in. “It’s a sandwich.”

  My lips quirk. “I see that.” Actually, it’s several sections of what looks to be muffuletta. I eat one section in two bites. Yep, definitely a muffuletta.

  A small groan of appreciation escapes me.

  Chess smiles. “Oh, wait.” She stands, and plunges her hands into the folds of her wide skirt, which obviously has hidden pockets because she pulls out a can of soda and something wrapped in another napkin. “A coke, and a brownie for dessert,” she says proudly.

  I nearly propose right there.

  She sits quietly as I eat, and shakes her head when I offer her a sandwich section. Because I’m hungry, and because I don’t like the idea of her having to wait for me to eat, I wolf down my food. The brownie follows with a few, quick bites.

  Wiping my hands on a napkin, I set the plate and empty can on a side table, and then let out a contented sigh. “Thanks. I needed that.”

  Her smile is small and quick. “I should have fed you as soon as you got here.”

  “I’m good now.”

  Chess braces her hands on the seat and leans forward to watch her feet as we slowly rock the swing. Silence descends, thick and awkward, and for the first time in her presence, I’m at a loss for words.

  I don’t know this girl. Not really, and yet I’ve inserted myself into her life with a determination I usually reserve for winning games. Except I have no endgame here. I told her I want to be friends. But how does that work for us?

  Our friends and lives couldn’t be any more different. Parties for me are self-congratulatory events, filled with people whose one focus seems to be bolstering my ego, followed by me searching for a quick hookup. And my friends are all part of football in some way. We talk football or sports. It’s a narrow focus life, but it’s my comfort zone. That chafes too, knowing I live a life that seems wild and free to outsiders but is actually small and structured on the inside.

  The silence has stretched too long. I should go. But I don’t move. If I go, I know it will be the end of whatever this is. Embarrassment will have me avoiding seeking her out again. Likely, she’ll do the same. And that will be that.

  The knowledge sits like a stone on my chest.

  “I’m sorry about my friends,” Chess says. “They can be uncomfortably brazen.”

  “So can mine.” I shrug. “Your friends are…fun.”

  Her lips pull tight. “They can be. But they were definitely giving me—and by extension—you shit tonight.” She bites her bottom lip. “I don’t think they know what to make of you.”

  “So I wasn’t imagining things.”

  “’Fraid not.”

  The novel sensation of being a fish tossed into the wrong pond grows. I’ve taken away Chess’s fun by coming here, and I’m sorry for it.

  “I shouldn’t have asked you to come here,” Chess says in a low voice.

  She’s only echoing my thoughts but the stone sitting on my chest pushes harder against my ribs.

  Chess makes a small sound, as if she’s trying to laugh but can’t. “Parties suck when you arrive halfway through and don’t know anyone.”

  “I know you,” I point out, quietly.

  She turns and the porch light illuminates her face. Green eyes met mine and hold, as a slow, true smile curls over her cherry lips. Something inside of me shifts and slides. I want to kiss Chester Copper. Haul her onto my lap and make out with her like we’re teenagers hiding out at our parents’ party. But that’s not what she invited me here for.

  “I wanted to see you,” she confesses in that husky morning voice that goes straight to my cock. She turns away and stares out into the darkness. “It’s weird, you know? But hanging out with you was so unexpected it kind of felt like I imagined the whole thing.”

  I know exactly what she means. My hand settles next to hers, close enough that our pinkies touch. That small point of contact sparks along my skin, makes me want to move closer. I hold steady because I don’t trust myself not to act. “I wanted to see you too,” I tell her. “It’s been a long, fucking day.”

  I hadn’t planned to admit that, but it feels good to tell her.

  Chess eases back against the seat and then curls her fingers over mine with a light squeeze. The unexpected touch holds all my attention. It’s nothing more than a simple offer of comfort, and here I am twitching in my seat as if she’d cupped my dick instead. I’m in so much trouble here because this woman is getting to me in ways I don’t know how to navigate. But I don’t pull away. Not one fucking chance of that.

  Chess speaks, pulling me attention back to our conversation. “So tell me about it.”

  I can’t remember the last time anyone asked me to tell them about my day. Likely, no one ever has.

  So I do. And with every word that lea
ves my mouth, a little bit more of my stress eases. No, I don’t yet truly know Chess. And yes, our lives are different. But there’s no way I’m ending this. Because when it’s just her and me, everything else falls away. I’m not going to let myself forget that again.

  Chapter Seven

  Chess

  * * *

  True to Finn’s prediction, we do hang out. As much as possible, to be precise. Which isn’t a lot. When people say they’re busy, they usually mean they have a lot of work that piles up while they spend a few hours watching TV and lamenting how busy they are.

  Hell, I’ve been there, done that, have the couch divot.

  When Finn says he’s busy, he means it. Workouts, team meetings, practices, games, press conferences, television tapings, sponsor obligations, charity meetings and visits… I can’t keep up.

  I hear from him in random spurts. Texts between his travels from one obligation to the next. Phone calls when he finally gets home, his voice soft with exhaustion.

  Sometimes, I have to order him to get off the phone and go to bed. Because I can practically feel him fading.

  “I’d rather fall asleep talking to you,” he always responds.

  And I won’t pretend that it doesn’t make me all warm and fuzzy inside. Days pass into weeks. Before I know it, Finn has become a fixture in my life.

  One rare free Saturday afternoon, he takes me to the aquarium.

  “I’ve never been here before,” I tell him as he collects our tickets.

  “Let me guess,” he says. “You haven’t been to the zoo either.”

  “I haven’t been to a zoo since grade school.”

  “Where you from, Chess? You’ve never said.”

  “Neither have you.”

  “La Jolla, California,” Finn says with pride.

  “Wow. Surfer boy, eh?”

  “How do you think I developed my awe inspiring balance and sense of timing?”

  “That ego of yours inspires something. But I believe it’s heartburn.”

  He slings an arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. “We’ll get you an antacid inside. Now tell me where you grew up.”