Blitzed

by Alexa Martin

  “That was a really good game. I feel like my heart rate still hasn’t returned to normal. I don’t know how you stay so composed out there. I was just sitting down and I was a nervous wreck. And what was with some of those calls the ref made? I don’t even know football that well, and I knew the call at the end of the second quarter was complete bull—” The elevator doors sliding open and the rush of bass-filled voices calling out Maxwell’s name like preteens at a Backstreet Boys concert cuts me off.

  Men draped in Mustangs jerseys wave team merchandise they either hoard in their basements or sell for an unreasonably high amount on eBay over the barricade set up to keep them from rushing the players.

  Sorry about this, Maxwell mouths before grabbing a Sharpie from the older gentleman in a blue vest and walking over to sign autographs.

  I don’t want to get too close, but considering there’s only about ten feet between the rows of yelling fans, I don’t really have much of a choice.

  His hand flies across the items shoved in his face as he makes his way down the line, nodding and smiling as he goes. He does stop, lowering himself on a suited knee to take special care and time to talk to a small girl in a pink Mustangs Jersey. Her dad stands behind her, and even from where I am, I see his eyes glaze over.

  Friend, Brynn. He is just a friend.

  It takes about ten minutes before we reach the street and Maxwell is able to pull himself away from the still-unsatisfied fans.

  “Gotta go, you guys,” Maxwell says ruefully. “I’ll stay longer next week.”

  He reaches me in three long strides and places his hand on the small of my back, guiding me to the players’ lot that is being manned by four uniformed police officers.

  “Great game out there today,” one of the officers says to Maxwell.

  “A little too close for my liking, but I appreciate that.”

  We navigate our way through the maze of luxury cars and SUVS until we reach Maxwell’s Tesla, which is sandwiched between a BMW and an Aston Martin.

  “Damn,” I say over the roof of the Tesla. “You guys are serious about your cars.”

  “Them more so than me, so try not to throw your purse at any of these ones.” He winks before folding himself into the driver’s door.

  “Smart-ass.” I punch him in the shoulder once I’m in the seat. “You know I still feel so bad about that.”

  “I’m just messing with you.” He smirks, throwing the Tesla into drive—and then reverse and then drive again—maneuvering around the cars that are packed in tight. “I looked for it and could barely notice it.”

  “You’re a shit liar, but I appreciate the effort.”

  We reach the entrance of the players’ lot and one of the officers jumps onto his motorcycle, turns on his lights, and proceeds to give us an escort.

  I stare wide-eyed at the scene in front of us as lingering fans disperse and cars that have probably been stuck forever in the postgame traffic struggle to get out of the way. “I can honestly say this was one perk I was not anticipating.”

  I feel like this might be a misuse of authority, but I’m not sure I care. Traffic is the bane of my existence.

  “It’s nice, but I’m always afraid I’m going to accidentally rear-end them or something,” he says.

  I start to laugh until I look at him and see how tight his grip is on his steering wheel and how tense his shoulders are. “Wait . . . you’re serious?”

  “Yes, so don’t distract me.”

  Not laughing at him is no easy feat.

  The officer escorts us all the way to the highway entrance. Maxwell rolls down his window, giving the officer a slight salute before releasing one hand from his steering wheel and relaxing back into his seat.

  “You’re a psycho,” I say.

  “I’ve managed to stay out of the headlines my entire career, the last thing I need is to get there for taking out a police officer.” He laughs, but there’s a bitter undertone to it that I decide to ignore.

  I change the topic. “Are we going to my place? Season two has been calling my name.”

  “Have you gone grocery shopping yet?”

  I bite my bottom lip and look at him out of the corners of my eyes. “Uh . . . no.”

  “Then we’re going to my place. I need food.” I start to protest, but he talks over me. “And no, those nasty-ass protein bars you keep pushing on me don’t count.”

  “They aren’t gross!” I protest, even though he’s right and the only reason I still have them is because I can’t manage to convince myself to eat them. “Anyways, I thought you wanted to be an astronaut, shouldn’t you start getting used to nasty dry food?”

  “I want to work at NASA, I don’t want to be an astronaut.”

  “NASA, astronaut? Potato, potahto.”

  “I can’t do this with you.” He reaches for his computer screen and pushes a few buttons, swipes the screen once, pushes another button, then turns up the volume.

  The unmistakable “dun da dun da dundun” right before Leslie Odom Jr. sings the opening lines to “Alexander Hamilton.”

  “Oh my god!” I slap Maxwell’s thigh with more enthusiasm than I had meant to. “You got the Hamilton soundtrack? Don’t you love it? Isn’t it the best?!”

  All rhetorical questions since I turn up the volume even louder and sing along with the cast, only slightly butchering the lyrics.

  After the awkward ending at the art museum, I avoided any meaningful conversation by rambling about my current obsession with the musical Hamilton. It’s not something most people know about me, but I am a huge theater freak. In high school, I always helped design sets for our musicals, and now I sneak off to the Denver Center for the Performing Arts whenever I get the opportunity. I actually love to sing, but I have a massive case of stage fright. It’s why HERS will never have karaoke. The thought of someone putting a mic in my hands and shoving me onto a stage makes me literally sick to my stomach.

  I bounce and dance to the informative lyrics Lin-Manuel Miranda skillfully crafted to the catchy hip-hop beats, song to song flowing with such ease that I never want the car ride to end.

  However, when we turn into a neighborhood with a guarded gate that—unlike most gated neighborhoods these days—is manned with an actual, living guard, my interest in the music fades a bit.

  The houses are enormous.

  And I don’t mean like the mini mansions that are sprinkled all over the city now.

  No, I mean actual mansions with lots to match. Each house is located on what has to easily be at least an acre. Not one house is like another, and even the driveways are different. Some are short, some are long and paved with cobblestones, others loop into a circle complete with fountains. It’s an extravagance I only thought possible in HGTV specials.

  “Home sweet home.” Maxwell repeats the words I said to him when he came to my house as he turns into the drive of one of the more modest homes in the neighborhood. It’s a ranch-style home, with different textures of wood, stucco, and stone framing the huge windows covered in fabric that conceals the inside of the house. The deceptively long driveway, shaped like a reverse C, curves uphill to a two-car garage with the nicest doors I’ve ever seen. Dark wood with frosted glass windows, they look more like an artistic feature than a functional one.

  “Wow.” I climb out of the car. Even the garage is impressive. Built-in cabinets and cubbies line the walls, a hanging storage rack lingers over our heads, and the floor isn’t oil-stained concrete like most garages, no, his floors are granite. I could barely afford it on my tiny kitchen counters and he used it as his floor. I’ve never felt more out of place, and we haven’t even entered his living space. “Your car’s room is nicer than my bedroom.”

  Maxwell chuckles. “It came like this. Trust me, I had nothing to do with the design.”

  That makes me feel marginally better . . . by like ha
lf a centimeter.

  I follow him to the door leading into his house, fighting the urge to ask him to take me home.

  Then all thoughts are forgotten as I stand, staring in wonder at the nicest house I have ever stepped foot in.

  Sure, Vonnie’s house is freaking gorgeous, but she also has three small children who have taken crayons to the walls and have suctioned Nerf gun bullets to unreachable parts of the ceiling where they are waiting for their inevitable fall back to the ground.

  Maxwell’s house is all the lavishness without any of the mess.

  “Holy shit.” I freeze, taking in the beauty around me as Maxwell moves deeper into the house. “I might never leave.”

  Though I am an admitted fan of things that shine and are pretty girly—hence my bar—that doesn’t mean I can’t admire the more masculine design of Maxwell’s house.

  Gray paint covers all the walls that aren’t already decorated in shiplap or intricate stonework. The nearly black wide-plank floors sparkle so much they have to be waxed on a regular basis. But it’s the back wall that truly takes my breath away. A wall of glass with a door seamlessly worked in leads to a deck that mimics the nature around it. There are no houses to be seen, only an iron fence about a hundred yards back and a perfect view of Pikes Peak.

  “That’s why I bought this house.” He hands me a cold glass, following my gaze out of his back window. I take it from him, grateful to have something to keep my hands occupied.

  “I can’t say I blame you, I’ve lived here my entire life and sometimes the sight of the mountains still takes my breath away.” I take a sip of whatever he gave me, not bothering to ask what it is. My attention flies to him as the sweet and bitter notes of the blackberry saison from Barley Remix register.

  He shrugs, a shy smile on his face. “I asked them to send some to me. This house came with a beer tap in the kitchen and I never used it.” He nudges me with his hip. “You inspired me to fill it, I guess.”

  Warmth flows through me knowing Maxwell made any decisions in his home while thinking of me. “So.” I turn to his U-shaped couch, hoping he doesn’t see my flushed face. “You ready for some Leslie?”

  “And Tom. That guy is a trip.” He follows me to his couch, unlatching the top of his coffee table, revealing a surprisingly messy interior of loose papers, Sports Illustrated magazines, and about five remotes. “I’m still waiting for this Ginuwine thing you were talking about.”

  “Oh, just you wait, Mr. Lewis, the oh no-no list is worth the wait.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it, but since you were right about the beer, the Hamilton soundtrack, and Leslie, I believe you.” He turns on his TV, switching screens and devices until he’s made it to the right episode.

  Holding my glass tight in my hand, not wanting to ruin his couch like I did his car, I struggle to get comfortable, which is impressive since his couch is the most comfortable thing that has ever graced my backside. My stiffness doesn’t go unnoticed by Maxwell. Before I can register what’s happening, he tugs the glass out of my hand and puts it on his coffee table without a coaster—which gives me minor anxiety.

  But the soon-to-be-water-stained table flees from my brain the second he reaches for my ankles, flicking off my sneakers, tossing them behind the couch, and draping my legs over the tops of his thighs.

  His eyes are focused on the massive flat-screen mounted above his mantel, and a laugh rips from his throat when Leslie says something to someone that I don’t see or hear because all of my attention is focused on his hands massaging my feet like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

  His strong hands kneading at the arches of my feet feels so good, I struggle to keep my eyes open. The only thing going through my mind is how thankful I am that I decided not to wear my stinky, old Converses to the game.

  “You were right, Retta is the shit,” he says through laughter, catching me staring at his hands on my feet.

  “Told you so,” I say, pretending he didn’t catch me staring.

  One of his hands pulls away and I suppress the urge to groan in disappointment and beg him to keep going. But then, he leans over, his finger gently grazing the side of my face as he tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear. All of the air inside my lungs evaporates and my chest burns with the need to breathe, but I can’t. My body has suddenly forgotten how to do anything except stare at this gorgeous man and accept any attention he’s willing to show me.

  We hold eye contact for a moment—or an eternity, who really knows, because it’s a proven fact that time ceases to exist in the monumental moments in life. The air around us thickens and my hands begin to tingle with the need to reach for him. My lips part, preparing for his mouth, and my eyes flutter shut as the space between us slowly becomes smaller and smaller.

  “Maxwell!” booms a familiar voice before the doorbell starts chiming and a fist connects with his door. “I brought pizza and wings, and if you don’t let us in soon, Poppy’s going to decorate your rosebushes from being stuck in the car with the food.”

  “Hurry!” Ace’s small voice calls out. “You gotta see how green she turns!”

  Ace’s voice lacks any indication that he is concerned for his mother. Instead, the glee in his tone holds the fascination that is possible only in a tween boy when it comes to bodily fluids.

  “Fuck,” Maxwell mutters, rubbing a frustrated hand over his short hair. “Here I come.” He jogs to the front door and makes quick work of the locks.

  “I’m so sorry,” Poppy says, pushing past him and taking off down the hallway, the bathroom door slamming behind her, but her gagging and retching still notable from my spot on the couch.

  If I ever wondered before, I now know for sure that the sound of your friend vomiting is an extremely effective mood killer.

  “Crap, Ace, cover your eyes!” TK runs in front of Ace when he sees me. “Did we interrupt something here?” He wiggles his eyebrows, and Ace starts giggling uncontrollably behind him.

  And your friend’s obnoxious husband can ruin what was left of it.

  Fifteen

  I fucking hate high heels.

  I have fancy tennis shoes.

  But when I told Vonnie that, she threatened to find me and beat the term out of me.

  I told her that I’m working the auction, not actually participating in it, and I needed to be comfortable.

  She told me if I showed up in bedazzled tennis shoes, she’d pull all business from HERS.

  So here I am, looking like a newborn giraffe, tripping all over my restaurant and spilling copious amounts of alcohol all because of the torture devices some masochist decided to call fashion that are strapped to my feet.

  And the event hasn’t even started yet.

  “Damn, maybe you should’ve worn the tennis shoes,” Vonnie says, eyeing me with both concern and embarrassment.

  “I know where you live and I will hurt you while you sleep, Lavonne Lamar.”

  “Touchy, touchy.” She tsks.

  I’d go after her with my bare hands right now, but there’s no way I could catch her.

  The crashing and subsequent sound of shattering glass gives Vonnie the distraction she needs to escape my wrath.

  “Shit, sorry!” Vince yells, swiping his unruly hair underneath his baseball cap and lifting up the now-ineffective stage light.

  I close my eyes and count to ten. Despite all of my planning for this night, I conveniently forgot this would be filmed for Love the Player. I’ve gotten to know the crew over the past few months they’ve been in and out for filming. I love them, and most of the time they don’t have mountains of equipment, but for an event like tonight’s, they brought enough to film a Hollywood movie. And these lights are going to give me a heatstroke.

  “Fuck it,” I mutter beneath my breath, yanking off my heels and marching to my office, where I have a pair of UGG slippers tucked away.
“Okay, what do you need me to do?” I ask when I return.

  “Oh hell no,” Vonnie yells, eyes laser focused on my sheepskin-covered feet. “I forbid you to wear those monstrosities!”

  “It’s my bar! You can’t forbid me to do anything in here. I can’t wear the heels during setup, I’m fucking useless. When we’re done, I’ll change.” I swing a broom at her to prevent her from physically removing the slippers from my feet. “Now go do whatever you were doing and let me sweep up the glass before one of the players comes in, slices their feet, is out for the season, and you’re blacklisted.”

  She narrows her false-lash-adorned eyes at me. “I don’t trust you,” she says, turning back to the step and repeat she’s been perfecting.

  Eh. I can deal with that.

  “All right, Vinny-boy. Let’s get this glass cleaned up before you get us all sued.”

  * * *

  —

  IF I WASN’T part of the setup, I’m not sure I’d be convinced I was still in HERS.

  My usually laid-back and welcoming bar is being manned by giant security guards the Mustangs organization provided. There is a booth with five young men in khakis and crisp white polos providing valet parking for the throngs of luxury cars starting to arrive.

  The entryway looks as if the outside has been brought inside. The wall is covered in greenery with the Mustangs logo made out of orange flowers Vonnie had shipped in from California. A group of about ten photographers chat while snapping pictures of guests as they begin to filter in.

  The ceiling can barely be seen behind the white lanterns strung over our heads and the twinkling lights dancing like stars. The TVs are running a slideshow with the names of all of the sponsors who helped make tonight possible. Everything turned out better than I could’ve imagined, which is saying a lot considering it’s all I’ve thought about since I signed the contract.

  “Are you going to put these drinks on the menu, or is this a onetime thing?” Aviana drains the last drops of her Dreamsicle—an orange Creamsicle-inspired cocktail—from the bottom of her Mustangs-etched martini glass. “Because I’ve been trying really hard not to get drunk on camera, but I’ll make an exception if I have to stock up on these.”