by Shandi Boyes
Mercifully, it also snaps me out of my idiocy.
“I bought a ticket… so the details could be on it?”
Shrugging, I pull my cell phone out of the pocket of my skirt. While ignoring how warm it is from being squashed between Shortie J and me, I log into my emails and search for the confirmation I received this morning. I always planned to watch Willow’s performance, I just couldn’t afford a ticket until today.
“Here you go. Both an email and a phone number.” I swivel my phone around to face Elvis and Danny, who are peering at me with wide, hopeful eyes.
When Elvis attempts to remove the phone from my hand, I yank it out of his reach—figurately. Battle of the giants is one competition I’ll never win. “Don’t you have a game to win? You can’t lose tonight’s match. If you’re defeated, the 69ers are out of the finals.”
Most women would swoon when Elvis replies, “Some things are more important than winning.” I’m not an ordinary woman. I whack him in the gut before telling him how utterly ridiculous he’s being.
Once my hand has recovered from colliding with a stomach harder than a brick wall, I march his ass back on the field like I’m Coach James, and he’s the player I’m seconds from benching.
“I fucked up calling her dancing stupid, Skylar. I can’t do it again. Dance means as much to Willow as football does to me. She won’t be her if she doesn’t do what she loves.”
His confession slows both my feet and my heart. “Fine.” After removing my hands from his sweaty back, I spread them across my splayed hips. “Danny and I will find a way to secure Willow a place in the recital.”
“We will?” Danny sounds shocked. It’s understandable. Usually, I’d choose to donate a kidney to a stranger than miss a 69ers’ regularly scheduled game, much less the playoffs.
“We will,” Danny corrects when I glare at him with an arched brow and a death stare. “Leave it up to us, E. We’ve got your back.”
Elvis pivots around to face us. “All right. Only if you’re sure?”
“We’re sure!” Danny and I shout in stereo.
“But you need to get out there before we have a riot on our hands.”
The crowd either has supersonic hearing, or they’re as desperate for the league’s best quarterback to rejoin the game as me. They’re chanting his name so loud, I’m confident three states over can hear it.
I almost faint when Elvis grins a blistering smile before bobbing down to smooch my cheek. It isn’t the warm wet patch he leaves on my skin that has my head growing woozy, it’s the deliciously angry growl of the Shortie J. He’s standing at the end of the corridor, glaring at Elvis like his narrowed gaze can burn him at the stake.
I’ve heard Italian men are jealous, possessive lovers. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t witnessed the farce firsthand.
With a wink telling Shortie J he has no idea about the game he’s attempting to field, I shift my focus to Danny. “We should take this elsewhere.”
The heat of Shortie J’s gaze doubles when I loop my arm around Danny’s and skip into the first room I see. I’m not well-rehearsed on this side of football, but even a novice would know why this room smells like pure, unbridled determination. It’s the locker-room the 69ers use between quarters.
“Dear God, did I die and go to heaven?”
My eyes bulge out of my head when Danny picks up a jockstrap left tossed over a bench. It’s clearly unwashed and has a very impressive extra-large size protective cup insert.
When he raises the soiled material to his nose, I snatch it out of his hand. “Don’t be disturbing.”
I take back every derogative thing I said when I notice the initials on the waistband—PC. Only two players I know have the initials PC—Presley Carlton and Pablo Cross. Since Pablo is the punter, I doubt he’d use a protective cup, much less get it sweaty enough to dampen the material.
With that in mind, and under the watchful eye of Danny, I stuff the jockstrap into my skirt pocket. It’s a tight fit, but I work it like a stripper works a pole.
“What?” I ask when the heat of Danny’s gaze becomes too much to handle. “Have you seen how much one of Elvis’s used water bottles go for? This will make a killing on eBay… even more so since it hasn’t been washed.”
His head slant is mocking, but there’s a hint of humor in his eyes. “Do you really think Elvis would brand his underwear with a laundry marker?”
Vomit creeps up my esophagus as worry makes itself known with my gut. “It has to be him. Who else has the initials PC in the 69ers’ team?”
Danny looks like I just asked him if he’s featured on GQ while saying, “Pacey Clemet.”
“The water boy?” I heave violently while yanking the soiled jockstrap out of my pocket. “Why would he need a protective cup?”
My mood goes from slightly aggravated to a full-blown meltdown when my dumping of the jockstrap on the floor exposes more than an ill-guided misconception that sports stars leave their personal belongings flung over benches for all to see. There are marks in the underwear—natural ones no one over the age of three should have.
Danny’s laughter rumbles through my chest when I squeal, “Now I know why everyone calls him Poopy Pace.”
“After that effort, they should change it to Crusty Clemet.”
I whack Danny—hard. “This isn’t funny. I’m five seconds from barfing.”
Danny offers me a water bottle when I slump onto the bench to clutch my twisting stomach.
I slap it out of his hand. “I don’t want to touch anything Skid-Mark Sully handled.” My words are produced with violent, gut-crunching heaves. “If he can’t wipe his own backside properly, I doubt his hand-cleaning skills are up to par.”
When Danny’s laughter picks up, I shoot him a wry look. “Should you really be laughing? You almost sniffed them. Those marks aren’t chocolate. They only got there one way.”
“Almost being the focal point of your reply.” He joins me on the bench with a dramatic huff. “If it makes you feel any better, I’ll be forever grateful you saved me from Tootie and the chocolate starfish.”
His jest makes me smile, but it doesn’t shelf my reply. “I want more than gratitude. Gratitude can’t buy me the extensive therapy I need after this debacle.” My eyes drift to the article responsible for my aching stomach. “Can you at least remove the offending product from sight?”
“You want me to touch it?” The highness of Danny’s voice would convince you I asked him to lick my vagina. “That’s above my level of friendship. I complimented your boobs, isn’t that enough?”
“You complimented my boobs while pretending they were the globes of flesh you like playing with.”
He doesn’t deny my claim. He simply pretends he’s a kitty clawing a ball of wool, purring meows and all.
“Please, Danny. I can’t keep my pledge to Elvis with an unsettled stomach.”
I don’t know his closeness to Elvis—I don’t even know him—but my comment switches the playfulness on his face to concerning. “All right, but if I get cooties—”
“I’ll have Elvis kiss them away.” He looks more sickened by the idea than pleased. “How can you be a true gay man if you don’t fantasize about bedding Snap-Them-Like-A-Stick Carlton? He’s a god!”
“Believe me, I know… I’ve seen him naked.” I don’t know if he’s bringing up Elvis naked to distract us while he uses a snapped visor to flick the jockstrap to the other side of the room. “But we’ve been friends for so long, I’m becoming immune to his cock-hardening capabilities.”
While clutching my chest dramatically, I gasp. “There’s a possibility I can be cured of my neurosis, say it isn’t so?”
After one final flick, the stained jockstrap is hidden from view, and Danny returns his eyes to mine. “Unfortunately, it is. E only gave me the idea of taking care of business myself after meeting Willow. That kinda killed my mojo. Even while stroking one out, I’m a monogamous type of man.” He returns his backside to the bench,
then leans in super close for someone I’ve only just met. “Besides, did you see the hottie eyeing me in the corridor? He was about to rip Elvis a new asshole for the gaga faces he gave me when you offered up my help.” I act stupid. “Guy in the corridor?”
“You missed the Italian Stallion I’m certain will have me walking bowlegged for a week after taking me for a ride?” He slaps my chest as his mouth forms an ‘O.’ “Say it isn’t so?”
His impersonation of me is super cute and somewhat accurate to my thoughts about Shortie J, but I’ve perfected my ignorant ruse the past year. “Nope. Didn’t notice him.”
Danny gasps, but the removal of my cell from my pocket holds back his reply. We’re supposed to be helping Elvis keep Willow’s dream alive, not talking about the Italian god who made more mess to my panties than Pacey Clemet’s inability to wipe his backside stained his jockstrap with.
Twenty minutes later, we achieved the seemingly impossible. Willow has been slotted into the final spot of the dance recital, Danny found an unstained jockstrap for each of us, and the 69ers are so close to victory, I can taste it on the tip of my tongue—or perhaps it’s Shortie J’s mouth? Both a victory for my beloved team and his mouth are as scrumptious as the other.
My thoughts jump from wicked to sweet when our arrival at the bleacher occurs with Elvis sprinting down the sideline. “Run, Carlton, run!” I scream at the top of my lungs, damaging anyone’s hearing within a five-mile radius.
When he reaches the end zone, I hug anyone and everyone I can. His touchdown just forced the game into sudden-death overtime.
I’m going in for my sixth hug when the cutie-patootie face in front of me registers as familiar. “You found her!” Willow hugs me before almost squeezing Danny to death.
Danny pretends he’s flicking tickets off himself while saying, “Yep, and I didn’t even need to ask what her farts smell like.” He clicks three times. Snap, crackle, pop, motherfucker!
Spotting my confusion, Willow bumps me with her hip. “I’ll explain it to you later. For now—”
“We have a game to win!”
I’m confident I have her assumption in the bag, but Willow proves me wrong when she arches her dark brow high into her curly hair.
“What?” I check my face in the aviator glasses of the guy next to me, not the least bit affronted I’m getting all up in his business. He likes believing his breath doesn’t smell like a raccoon’s ass. “Do I have something on my face?”
“Besides duck-face lips? No.”
My eyes whizz back to Willow, where I try to play it cool. “I had collagen fillers earlier this week.”
She doesn’t buy my lie.
She never does.
“Uh-huh, and where was that collagen two hours ago?”
“In my… oh, look, a drink attendant.” I wiggle my fingers, striving to get the attendant’s attention. I’ll most likely cry while handing over the twelve dollars he wants for a can of beer, but since I didn’t have time to stuff a cooler down my shirt, and I’m desperate to get Willow’s snooping eyes off me, I’ll swallow the injustice.
Well, I would if the drink attendant weren’t such an ignorant ass. He glides straight past our row of seats, instead, choosing to serve the more well-to-do clients in the box seats above us—the ones housing Shortie J and a group of men in business suits just as fiercely tailored as his.
Chapter Four
Lorenzo
“Jonah?”
Jonah’s head pops up from the one hundred and fifty-page document he’s reading to me, surprised by my interruption. His shock is warranted. I did explicitly state for him to have my contract read and dot-pointed without delay since my mind is far from contractual obligations. It’s on an unnamed blonde and the game of cat and mouse she instigated.
I don’t play any game I don’t intend to win, and she’s about to learn that.
“Do you still have that contact in the FBI? The one who has access to facial recognition software?”
“Yeah,” Jonah jerks up his chin. “Why?”
I snap a picture of the ravishing beauty pretending to watch America’s version of a ‘sport’ with my cell phone camera before pivoting around to face him. “Because I want her.”
My jaw quivers when he mocks, “I’ll take on the prowl tonight. Blonde-haired, blue-eyed bombshells are a dime a dozen in this town.”
“I don’t want a dime. I want her… specifically.”
Jonah slouches low into his chair before hooking his right ankle onto his left knee. “You’ve only just arrived in the country, Enzo. Don’t you think it’s a little early to claim undying love?”
“Would you rather I claim your life?”
He laughs. Coglione.
With Jonah being more friend than foe, I say, “We met earlier. I like the taste of her lip gloss.”
A sprinkling of dark hair falls into Jonah’s eyes when he slants his head to the side. “You don’t leave anything to chance, do you?”
“No. I wasn’t raised that way. If you want something bad enough, you fight for it.” As much as it kills me, I move away from the glass separating the Bellissima blonde and me. “She challenged me.” My lips curve into a cunning grin. “You know how much I hate losing.”
“Almost as much as I hate you for negotiating that I only receive a ten-percent cut of your earnings.”
Jonah’s reply makes me laugh. Even with his cut meager compared to what I’m getting, he’ll still end up a very wealthy man if I agree to the terms presented to me. Starlet Holdings didn’t leave a stone unturned in their bid to have me sign with them. First-class airfares, a top-of-the-line Maserati waiting for me at the airport, and keys to a two-bedroom suite at a five-star hotel I had planned to put to good use before I stumbled upon an even more lucrative contractual agreement.
The blonde may have said her comment in jest, but a verbal agreement is as binding as the one I’m perusing. Believe me, I’ve been caught out many times the past twenty-eight years.
After taking a seat in a plush leather seat next to Jonah, I drop my eyes to the contract. “What’s the amount cited?” I’m eager to move things along, then I can transfer my attention to more pressing issues—such as my cock’s inability to deflate.
A wolf-whistle vibrates Jonah’s lips. “One hundred and one million dollars.”
He sounds impressed. I’m anything but. “This was supposed to be a record-breaking deal. I left my family for this. A measly one hundred and one million dollars.”
“Measly…” He coughs and splatters out the word as if it’s a brick in his throat. “This is for one season, Enzo. One!” He holds his finger in the air to amplify his reply.
Like all Italian men, I speak more with my hands than facial expressions. “It’s US dollars! That’s barely ninety million euros. I could have gotten more in endorsements.”
“Then you wouldn’t have met her.” Jonah thrusts his hand at the tinted glass barely concealing the roar of the crowd. I’ve heard similar rumbles many times. There’s just one difference—the shouts of my name penetrate the thickest glass. “Furthermore, a pay cut won’t kill you if it gives you the revival you’re desperately seeking.”
I’d call him a testicle, a beloved scorn in my hometown if he weren’t right. Milan will always be my home, but things grew boring there for me a long time ago. This deal is the mix-up I crave while allowing me to continue doing the job I love. I’m not here forever, so my capital can endure a slight dip in profits.
Dollar signs flash through Jonah’s eyes when I drag the contract to my side of the glossy desk. While signing my name across the document that will hold me captive in the United States for the next six months, my thoughts shift to the blonde who captivated me in under a second. Six months isn’t long for a standard man to reach the summit of love.
Fortunately for all involved, I’m Italian.
We are the masters of romance and seduction.
“Have half deposited into Mamma’s account by close of business,
ten percent is to be deposited into my checking account, and the remaining balance forwarded to Luna. Tell her to invest heavily in stocks. I want my input doubled before I land back in Milan.” After dumping the pen onto the signed contract, I push it back to Jonah’s side table. “Also, I want her details forwarded to me by the end of the day.” As I stand from my chair, my phone whooshes, wordlessly advising Jonah I’ve forwarded him the picture of the blonde from my phone.
My eyes float up from my phone when Jonah says, “And if it proves difficult?”
I adjust the cuffs of my jacket before saying, “Find a way for it not to be difficult.”
Confident he won’t let me down, I leave the conference room.
I barely make it three steps out when a shudder rolls up my spine.
She’s coming. I can feel it.
A blur of legs is closely followed by thunderous steps. The man I saw kissing the blonde’s cheek earlier races past me. I know who he is, even with wishing I didn’t.
I watch in silence as star quarterback, Presley Carlton, drags an ashen-faced brunette to the parking lot at the back of the stadium still dressed in his jersey and muddy cleats. The brunette has her hand curled around the blonde’s. Her bright smile is hiding the hue her cheeks got from our kiss, but her footing is still unsteady.
She pretends not to notice my gawk. I hope she has no interest in acting as her skills are horrendous. The instant she spotted my gawking stare, her tongue delved out to replenish her lips of the gloss I stole from her mouth.
I’m about to approach her, but before I can, a pricy-looking car comes to a shrieking halt in front of them. It’s obviously leased. I’m not surprised. Sports stars in this country as majorly underpaid compared to regions in Europe.
After tossing the brunette into the back seat, Presley commands the reins from a man wearing a satiny shirt my grandfathers would fistfight over if it were to come on sale.
I have every intention of waiting for Jonah to supply me with the beauty’s details, but my plan goes to shit when she peers at me for the quickest second before she slides into the backseat on the heel of her friend.
