Eyeful
A Gladiators of the Gridiron Romance
C.R. Grissom
Eyeful
Copyright © 2021 C.R. Grissom
Kindle Edition
The Tule Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
First Publication by Tule Publishing 2021
Cover design by Erin Dameron-Hill
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-953647-04-7
Keep Up with your Favorite Authors and their New Releases
For the latest news from Tule Publishing authors, sign up for our newsletter here or check out our website at TulePublishing.com
Stay social! For new release updates, behind-the-scenes sneak peeks, and reader giveaways:
Like us on
Follow us on
Follow us on
See you online!
For Mom, dementia is merciless. I miss you every day.
For my sister Judy, thanks for your endless support.
To the Portuguese Community—Queens and Side Maids of every generation—I
hope you all fondly remember walking in extreme heat,
rhinestones flashing, while marching bands
provided the musical soundtrack.
I certainly do.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Dear Reader
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
The Gladiators of the Gridiron series
About the Author
Dear Reader
In Eyeful, I share a bit of my Portuguese community with you. My dad was born in New Bedford, MA. His parents both immigrated from Madeira Island but met and married in the States. Most of his family then moved to Santa Clara, CA, where Dad met Mom, who had immigrated from Madeira, as well.
I’m first-generation Portuguese on Mom’s side and second-generation on Dad’s side. I understand the language, but speaking it properly eludes me. Mom spoke to us in whatever language got her point across fastest. People in my community are kind and let me get away with my broken and poor attempts at communicating in my non-native language. All mistakes in this novel are my own.
The scenes about the festa are based on memories of being a side maid, myself. Both of my sisters were side maids, too. Festas are a time-honored tradition in our culture. I had fun fictionalizing people like Senhora Lopes. I pinkie-swear promise the “mamas” aren’t based on actual members of our community. The people of the Portuguese community are generous and hard-working. And let’s be honest—who doesn’t love a little spilled tea from time to time?
Parades and society rituals vary from community to community, although the heart of the celebration remains the same everywhere: open your doors and feed people. Check your area. If you have a large Portuguese community, most likely you’ll have festas. Go. Eat. Have fun!
Seana Kelly read every scene twice. She helped me revise scenes on the fly, especially in the last week before my deadline. Seana, I owe you, and I’m forever grateful. Thank you so much for helping me craft a book that makes sense.
My deepest thanks to so many people: L.A. Mitchell, for your help and story guidance; Sinclair Sawney, editor, for your support and willingness to talk me through the neurotic panic stage of submission; Helena Newton, copy editor, who went above and beyond by checking both languages for errors; and Marlene Engel, expert proofreading editor. Also, buckets of gratitude for the entire Tule team. Thanks, also, to Theresa Nunes, part of my extended family, who did a last-minute check of the Portuguese phrases I used throughout the book, and found a capitalization error. Patricia Dane, A.Y. Chao, and Christina Hovland, thank you for being early readers. Also, a big thank you to Sarah Morgenthaler for your meaningful feedback on characters.
Lastly, I must thank the people in my life who are my cheerleaders: Jen Motta, my sister-in-law, who cheers me on the loudest; Jenice McGaha, Isabel Ramirez, and Athena Moguel, for allowing me to text you with questions about scenes and age-appropriate behavior; Athena, thank you for the awesome blanket fort idea; Maria Moguel, and Nancy Chambers, friends and honorary sisters who provide encouragement and cocktails; and Judy Coelho, who deserves two mentions—I’m blessed we’re sisters.
Dave, Ryan, and Connor, thanks for supporting my writing life. I love you guys more than I can say.
I’d also like to take this opportunity to thank my readers. It still knocks me off my feet to think someone beyond my family has read my books. Warm, virtual hugs to you all.
~Christine
CHAPTER ONE
Phoebe Makenna Sharpe
There are some things in life you can’t unsee.
My grandmother’s new smartphone dings with her first text. I stare down at an ancient and rather large, erect penis nested in gray on the six-inch screen in my hand and nearly bobble the phone. Gross. I blink to clear the image, but it remains burned on my retinas.
Grams asked me to transfer the contacts from her museum-worthy flip phone, and I’m entering them one at a time. It’s the sole reason I’m staring down at a wrinkled ball sac. Geriatric dick pics. FML.
I must have made a sound because Grams joins me at her dining room table. “What’s wrong, love?”
Words fail me, so instead I tilt the phone her way.
“What on earth?” Grams coughs into her hand. “The name is too tiny for me to read. Who does it belong to?”
I make a mental note to increase text font size for Grams and say, “Gavin MacKinnon.”
“I’d heard the rumors of course, but I didn’t believe it.” She clears her throat. “Phoebe, I’m sorry you saw…”
Me too. Penises shouldn’t be used like emojis. Ever.
“I’m going to call Gavin right now and give him a piece of my mind. Be a dear and show me how on my new toy.”
I initiate a voice call and pass the device to Grams, who steps into the galley-style kitchen, a mere three feet away. We’re both brunettes, though at the age of seventy-two, a hair stylist helps Grams maintain hers. We both have violet-blue eyes, but hers glow with intelligence and humor. Mine don’t. Cameras shoved in your face for months on end dull the sparkle. But that’s what happens when your uneventful life becomes newsworthy.
Grams has trouble hearing. As a result, she speaks loudly. I can’t help but overhear.
“My granddaughter got an eyeful of that picture.” A pause. “Yes, it’s impressive,” she huffs. “Oh. You mean right now? This isn’t something you saved and sent?”
Grams! She can’t be discussing… Oh, no. No. No.
She giggles. “Fine. I’m on my way but keep it up.”
I’m certain Grams doesn’t reali
ze I can hear.
“That’s not an attractive thing to say, Gavin. If you lose it, it won’t be my fault. Of course, I’m hurrying. Unlock your door.” She tsk-tsks in apparent exasperation. “Use your left, God gave you two hands, didn’t he?”
Now I know exactly what they plan to do about his stiffy.
Grams grabs her purse and keys off the counter. “Sweetie, I have to go. Lock up when you leave for the university. Don’t you have an afternoon class?”
“Not today.”
She looks elegant in her dark blue pantsuit paired with two-inch heels in candy apple red. Grams rushes out the door before I blink, all without the benefit of a calf check, which means she either doesn’t care or Grams manages leg stubble better than me. The fact I’m tabulating her pre-coitus habits proves how screwed up my life is right now.
Mother in jail? Check. Grams left me for a booty call? Check. And the third check that completes my pathetic triumvirate—I live with Grams at Shades of Willow Glen, a community complex for retired people. I’m surrounded by the technology-challenged senior set in Silicon Valley. Except for Gavin, who grasps the concept of sexting but missed the manscaping memo.
I won’t complain about living with Grams in her stylish, if small, apartment. She welcomed me into her home when my life fell apart. I’m wait-listed for student housing, but Mom’s earnings—regardless of whether she scammed them—are too high for me to qualify for assistance. The odds of student services contacting me with an opening is probably worse than me hitting all six numbers in the lottery.
Framed family photos taken in kitchens and various restaurants over the years cover the wall in the dining room. In her living room, a photo of Grams, Mom and me on the couch at our Las Vegas house taken three summers ago hangs on the wall behind the sofa. Grams says she wants to be surrounded by her family even if it’s only two-dimensional.
I avoid looking at the pictures of Mom. Too many mixed feelings. Too much hurt. I’m at the brutal end of a long list of people she betrayed.
A loud knock at the door makes me jump. I glance through the peephole to see two security guards. They aren’t cops, but the memory of Mom’s arrest makes me lose the ability to see anything beyond the badge and uniform. I breathe deeply.
The last time security showed up, they complained Grams parked over the line and took two spaces in the lot. This transgression earned a ten-dollar fine. Grams and her friends—in protest of the outrageous fee issued for a simple mistake—declared all-out war on the guards.
I plaster a smile on my face and open the door. “Hello,” I manage. “Can I help you?” My voice wavers on the last vowel.
“We need to speak to Mrs. Makenna,” the taller, thinner guard says enunciating each word like a complete sentence. We. Need. To. Speak. To. Mrs. Makenna. But he infused menace in his tone like an angry robot bent on eradicating all humanity.
“I’m afraid you just missed her, but I’ll tell Grams to call down to the gatehouse when she gets home.”
The shorter, rounder guard straightens his spine, waving a piece of paper clutched in his hand. “Command Center,” he corrects, through clenched teeth.
“Of course. My bad.”
I start to close the door, but Skinny wedges his foot into the space. “See that she gets this warrant of code violation.”
Perspiration pops along my spine like a glass of iced tea exposed to desert heat. Warrant. Will Grams get arrested, too? Then the short dude shoves the paper at me, and I realize it’s not a warrant for her arrest, but an official notice Grams violated her lease by harboring a visitor for over ten days.
“Young lady, you need to leave or you both can find a new place to live. Section B, Article Thirteen states guests aren’t allowed to stay beyond the designated time period.”
It takes a special kind of mean to kick someone out of their home. This is the second time in forty days I’ve been told to pack up and go. It’s numbing.
The guards sneer at me. They’ve found a land mine to detonate under Grams by evicting her granddaughter. Yes, it’s a rule, but none of the tenants adhere to it because many have long-term guests stay without issue, until now.
“If you stay, we’ll submit the paperwork to the governing board. Your grandmother will be fined the maximum amount for each additional day you sleep here and she’ll face eviction,” says Skinny.
The other guard chimes in, “But if you leave tonight, we’ll forget you stayed past the ten-day limit, as a favor to your grandmother.”
The guard moves his foot, I close the door, and twist the lock. Sliding to the hardwood floor, I rest my head between my knees while regulating my breathing to avoid passing out. I’m so screwed. Dad died before I was born. Mom and Grams are my only family. I have nowhere to turn. I refuse to ask Mom’s boyfriend for anything.
He dragged her into this mess.
There’s no way I can afford to rent a place in this area. Studios cost four figures to rent per month and I don’t have that kind of money. I pull my phone from my pocket to search the internet for the nearest youth hostel, but the only one near me is booked solid until mid-January. Crap.
I type cheap places to stay in San Jose in my browser. I scan the links, ignoring the clickbait to hotel booking sites I can’t afford. The ReVu site looks like a promising source to search for places, so I land there and check out the website. A few posts mention Pump It Fit as a cheap place to work out and shower. They’re always open, even during holidays.
One contributor suggests loitering there to skip out on the expensive motel rates rampant in the area, which must be the reason it popped up in my search. Monthly memberships start at ten dollars. No registration fees either. But, another ten gets you an assigned locker for thirty days.
The reviewer suggests crashing on a massage table fed with quarters. A shudder rolls through me. In Las Vegas, my hometown, even slot machines no longer accept change. At least at the better casinos they don’t. Anything you drop coins into belongs in the part of town you want to avoid.
The gym’s location appears to be within walking distance to Fortis University. I have a scholarship there, courtesy of the Theo Celles Foundation and Mom—before her arrest.
The landline rings. I move to answer the call. Picking up the receiver I hear an automated voice: You have a prepaid call from Helen Sharpe, an inmate at the Henderson Detention Center. To accept this call press five. To decline this call push seven. To block this caller press nine. I hit seven and hang up. While I’m tempted to hit nine, Grams hasn’t given up on her daughter.
I check my mobile. It’s two o’clock. I have to clear out of here tonight. I want to check out my options before telling Grams about the guards’ latest attempt at payback. Grabbing my backpack and helmet, I lock up. I climb on my bike for the three-mile trek to the gym. When I pass the gatehouse, I’m tempted to stick my tongue out at the guards, but I don’t want to cause more trouble for Grams.
I have no other choice but to make it work. Between the gym and the school library, I should be able to sleep, study, and shower until I find a job and save enough money to rent a room. It sucks, but there are plenty of people who are homeless.
The thought of all the people Mom forced out of their homes makes my stomach cramp. If I could go back in time and stop her, I would. In a heartbeat. It’s a useless wish when reality arrives in the form of two overeager security guards with a grudge against Grams and a real threat to her home. I won’t let anyone hurt Grams.
I lock up my bike and step through the doors of the gym. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. When they do, I’m struck speechless by the guy manning the desk. His dark mane of hair is not long or short, but somewhere in between with a slight wave and a lot of shine. How does he pull off such perfect hair?
Wide shoulders taper to a smaller waist. He’s wearing a black sleeveless T-shirt screen-printed with the Pump It Fit logo snug against his ripped chest. He has tanned, sculpted arms, roped with muscle, without the overd
eveloped appearance of a dedicated gym rat. Lion eyes, bold and gold, stare back at me.
I’m hit with the inexplicable urge to wrap my arms around him and press my mouth against his lips. Odd. I never have strong sexual reactions when I meet a man. It’s been my experience they aren’t worth the hassle and never match the hype.
His lips quirk, but he doesn’t smirk outright. “What can I do for you?”
His deep voice is perfect for podcast commercials promoting adults-only resorts with clothing-optional beaches. I clamp down hard on my rampant hormones and scold myself for objectifying a stranger. I’m pragmatic about not getting involved in relationships. I squash my own bugs, and I’ve learned not to delegate my pleasure to someone else. High expectations lead to sexual frustration. Who needs that? Besides, a guy this pretty will usually know it. He’ll break the spell by doing something completely conceited.
He waves his hand in front of me to get my attention. “Are you a member?”
Focus. “Not yet. Is there someone who can show me around? I’d like to see the place before I join.”
His smile goes wide. “Gotta make sure the gym’s worth the ten dollars it takes to commit?”
Hmm. His smile reveals a slightly crooked canine tooth. The tiny imperfection only adds to its charm, while the overall bundle devastates. If I were up for a bit of destruction, he’d be my conqueror of choice, but my life can’t survive more demolition.
“I won’t dig into my wallet without inspecting the goods.” Shit. I did not just say that. It sounds dirty. Like I’m propositioning him.
His eyes light, and he barks out a laugh. “Fair enough. Let me get my colleague to cover the desk.” He speaks into a two-way: “Hey, can I borrow you out front? I’m going to do a quick walk-through.”
The voice on the other ends says, “Copy.”
Before I can blink, a blonde wearing a charcoal-gray shirt with the gym logo embroidered in fancy script arrives. “Hi,” she says with a smile. “Enjoy your tour.”
Eyeful (Gladiators of the Gridiron Book 2) Page 1
