Eyeful (Gladiators of the Gridiron Book 2)

by C. R. Grissom

  “Thanks.”

  The gorgeous dude before me says, “I’ll be your tour guide. I’m Tiago, but people call me TJ.” He extends his hand toward me. “What’s your name?”

  “Phoebe.” Makenna, I finish in my head. I won’t use Sharpe. I stopped using my legal surname after Mom’s arrest, and had it legally changed. Back in Las Vegas, our name was synonymous with callous greed. I had to distance myself from Mom’s notoriety.

  The warmth of his hand surrounds mine. The zing from the contact travels up my arm, across my chest and down to tingle somewhere beneath my ribs. I release his hand.

  His pupils dilate a fraction. “All right, Phoebe, we’ll start upstairs. The basic membership provides twenty-four seven access to all the equipment and free weights.”

  We walk side by side, and I can’t help noticing he’s nearly two inches taller than my own five-ten. Tiago—I can’t think of him as TJ, because he’s too exceptional for a simple nickname—leads me to the second floor. While the equipment isn’t state of the art, it’s in good condition. The place smells like sweat, rubber mats, and disinfectant. Paper towel dispensers mounted to the walls provide a convenient way for members to wipe down machines after use. And if the Neanderthal before you didn’t clean up, you can do it yourself.

  It’s busier in the machine section. Treadmills and elliptical equipment spread out in three rows. Huge ceiling fans mounted in each corner of the room blow cool air over the gym’s occupants. Five flat screens provide news without sound. Closed-captioning scrolls across the televisions for those paying attention. The TV is tuned to national weather and the temp for Las Vegas flashes across the screen. It’s projected to hit one hundred and one degrees today.

  I glance away and notice four girls my age tracking Tiago’s progress as we walk around the space.

  “Anything besides the basic machinery costs more.” He points to a spin class in session in another room.

  I’m mesmerized by the flex of his biceps. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. My face flares with heat. I’m embarrassed by my reaction to him.

  “If it isn’t a machine or a barbell, it’s not included.”

  He talks with his hands. I follow and read the movement of his arms like I’m reading closed-captioning.

  “You’ll find prices on the sign next to the front desk, plus registration sheets if you’re interested in classes. They fill up fast.”

  We use the opposite staircase to return to the first floor. “Women’s locker room is on the left side of the building. Take a look inside. I’ll wait for you here.”

  I step into the locker room. The fact it’s clean and smells like a lemon-scented product is a welcome perk. The walls are painted a lilac color, with snowy-white granite countertops marbled with black. Restrooms at the university aren’t even as well kept. The membership fee is cheap. I don’t get it. They could charge more. I expected a dump, convenient but seedy.

  When I exit the locker room, Tiago leans against the mirrored wall, grinning at his phone. I’m pierced by envy. I wish life could be simple for me, too. Texting a friend or posting on social media without a care. Not having to worry about finding a place to crash.

  He hasn’t once ogled any of the women working out or glanced at his reflection. So much for vanity.

  His gaze meets mine, and the golden warmth of his eyes makes my belly clutch. He slips the phone into his pocket then darts to the left where an older woman struggles to lift a kettlebell.

  “Careful, Mrs. Paulson.” He gently takes the heavier weight from her grasp. “Use yellow. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

  “Thank you, TJ.” She beams. “You’re so considerate, just like my nephew, Austin. He’s about your age.”

  “My pleasure, Mrs. P.”

  Courteous. I assumed he’d be self-involved. I’m embarrassed by that judgment now.

  “Thanks for waiting,” Tiago says to me. “We don’t have a pool or sauna, but we do have token-operated massage tables.”

  Lordy. He leads me to an area behind the front desk. Four tables along with another three treadmills are located in this small section. Anyone using the equipment can watch the check-in counter. I have a feeling these must be popular when Tiago’s manning the desk.

  “Have you ever tried HydroMassage?”

  Not unless a flexible, pulsing showerhead counts. “Not yet.”

  He leads me to a padded table with a touchscreen mounted on the wall within reach. It appears innocuous.

  “Climb on. I’ll pay for your first time.”

  Huh? Oh. The massage. Geez. He’s not my first drop-dead gorgeous guy. I grew up in a city where male strip shows rival the number of Starbucks locations. This is the first time I’ve reacted to any dude this way. It must have something to do with the fact I’m hours from being homeless. Clearly, he’s a distraction from the overwhelming anxiety flooding my brain.

  “It’ll feel good, I promise.”

  Tiago’s voice makes me cave. Dangerous. I might be inclined to do anything while under its thrall. He plunks two tokens into the machine and walks me through the setup. When he first mentioned HydroMassage, I imagined you’d have to wear a bathing suit, but the jets work under the padding and clothes stay on. Perfect. My eyes drift closed as the jets work their way up my body. I may never move off this thing. I moan. I can’t help myself—this feels so good. Tiago snickers at my reaction. But I’m too comfy to care.

  When the machine stops, I groan, but I know I’ll be back. I smile for the first time all day.

  “Uh, first time for you?” he asks.

  “Yes, but it won’t be my last.”

  One side of his mouth lifts. “We aim to please.”

  I force myself off the glorious massage apparatus and say, “Talk to me about long-term locker rentals.”

  “You can’t use them to store drugs.” He grins.

  “Goes without saying, but I meant price, privacy, and security.”

  “The gym keeps a master for all lockers but will only use it if drugs are suspected or if you default in rental fees. Second rule: you can’t use them to store everything you own. The gym’s not a hotel, despite what people suggest on ReVu. Anyone caught using the gym like their home away from home risks membership cancellation.”

  Shit. There’s no reason why I can’t leave the bulk of my things with Grams. Besides, one locker won’t fit all my stuff anyway. This means I’ll be going back to pick up fresh clothes often. “What’s with the warning? I’m a student at Fortis, not a transient.”

  If I say it often enough, maybe someday it’ll be true.

  He nods. “No particular reason, but I have to explain the rules to anyone considering the rental. We’re both Gladiators. First year for you?”

  He’s at my school. How did I miss him? “Yes, but it’s my second year of college. I transferred from University of the Desert Oasis.”

  “We’re both sophomores.” He grins. “You went to Holy Roller U?”

  I wrinkle my nose at the nickname. Years ago, the university’s basketball team went to the NCAA finals, a Cinderella team with Final Four dreams. During an interview, the head coach told the reporter, “Each game we roll the dice and play for paradise.” But people misquoted the line and chanted pray for paradise instead. Fans of opposing teams called us the Holy Rollers, because Las Vegas is synonymous with dice and games of chance. The nickname stuck.

  I ignore his dig at my old school. “This is a decent gym. Spotlessly clean with reasonable rates. What’s the catch?”

  “Huge ghost population.”

  “What?”

  “We get a lot of people who sign up, create the auto-payment and never step foot inside the gym again. We have a couple thousand members on the books, but a small fraction of them actually use it.”

  He’s doing it again. Talking with his hands. But he’s aware of his surroundings. If I tried talking with my hands, I’d take someone’s eye out. “Don’t you feel guilty about taking their money when they don�
��t use their membership?”

  “Nope. People want to be able to say they’re a member of a gym, but work or whatever keeps them away. They feel better for making the commitment, and people who actually use the gym profit from the low fees. Everyone’s happy.”

  “How do I sign up?”

  “Follow me.”

  The four girls from upstairs slink toward the treadmills behind the desk. With only three machines, the redhead gets left in the dust when the blonde beats her to the last open spot. The redhead is forced to jump on a vacant HydroMassage table. They openly stare at Tiago in the mirror.

  When we arrive at the front desk, his colleague leaves and takes the stairs two at a time to get to the second floor.

  I hand him my debit card to run through the monthly auto payment for membership and long-term locker lease. This gym might be the only place preventing me from sleeping on sidewalks, despite what Tiago said about treating the place like a hotel. I’ll be careful. I won’t get caught.

  Glancing at my phone to check the time, I note that I’ll have to be out of the apartment soon. I’ll need to pack a bag for tomorrow, grab my books, and my laptop.

  While Tiago prints a receipt for me, my gaze meets one of the girls walking the treadmill. She levels a death stare at me like I’ve wandered onto her private Serengeti and swished my tail at the alpha lion. Her message is clear: this pride is full, go find another watering hole.

  Tough. I’m not here for the guy with the lion eyes. I need a safe place to stay at night.

  Tiago passes me the agreement, and I stuff the copy into my backpack.

  There’s a fingerprint sensor instead of a membership card. A four-digit PIN combined with the index finger on my right hand will get me access to the gym.

  “You’re clear to start using the gym right away. Do you need password help for your locker?”

  All three girls behind the counter glare at me in the mirror while maintaining a pace guaranteed not to make their makeup run.

  “No thanks, your pride might rip my head off if I take up more of your time.”

  I almost called him Simba, but my filter kicked in. His expression turns puzzled. “What?”

  I lean over the counter. “The treadmill trio behind you have been staring holes into me. If I take you away from the den, it might provoke an attack.”

  He glances over his shoulder, triggering a round of smiles from the girls. He looks back at me and their smiles disappear.

  I can’t stop the snicker at their territorial behavior. “The females hunt, and I have zero interest being their next meal. Thanks for your help.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Tiago Joaquim Trindade

  I’m mesmerized by the view of Phoebe’s spectacular butt as she walks out the door. Her shiny dark brown hair hits just above her waist. I shouldn’t stare, but life hasn’t gifted me with many perks lately. And there’s something about the newest member of Pump It Fit that tugs at my memory. I’m almost positive I haven’t seen her around campus. I would have remembered.

  She looks familiar, and I can’t stop gnawing on the idea I know her somehow. Between work, football practice, and school, my brain is fried. Maybe sleep deprivation botched my memories and one day I’ll get Alzheimer’s like Avó. Not the least bit funny. It’s heartbreaking watching my grandmother struggle to remember things.

  I won’t examine why I introduced myself with my real name. Everyone calls me TJ, but when she stepped up to the desk, it never occurred to me to use my nickname. Phoebe impaled me with a single glance out of her gorgeous blue eyes and I spilled all. The shade isn’t truly blue; they’re almost purple. Unusual.

  Then out of nowhere, she starts talking about prides and dens. What the hell? But remembering her smile as she lay on the table while the jets worked their magic makes my blood hum.

  One of the girls behind me—Caity, with a C—interrupts. “TJ, how do I make my machine tilt for an uphill jog again?”

  Phoebe nailed it; these three do spend a lot of time on the treadmills behind the desk. I show Caity how to program the machine to incline and go back to the counter. I open my notebook, but Maura calls me over for help.

  Before I waste my time going back to the desk, I check on Bethany. She wants a run-through of the options again. I’ve explained them to her about ten times. It’s getting old.

  I aim a polite expression at the girls and return to the desk. When our personal trainer, Leslie, joins me, I say, “Hey, I need to run upstairs for a few. Back soon.”

  “You bet.” Leslie nods. “I’ve got the desk.”

  Escaping to check the equipment on the second floor is an excuse. I can’t say no to the girls because they’re members, and I’m barred from studying on the job until there’s nothing left to do. My essay is due tomorrow, but I can’t focus with a crap-ton of interruptions.

  My full ride to Fortis depends on my maintaining a three-point GPA. I’m skirting way too close to the line. Between Dad’s accident and Mom quitting her job to care for him, they’re both out of work. Even though it’s not much, my paychecks help feed our family.

  Moving out of the dorms and back in with my parents when Dad got released from the hospital made sense. Mom can’t lift him on her own. It almost killed her when we moved into her mother’s house, but the rental income from our place is essential to paying Dad’s medical bills, now that our insurance is maxed out. Once the medical bills exceeded one million dollars, the insurance company stopped cutting checks. The things you learn too late.

  I finish wiping the mirrored wall clean, grab the bottle of glass cleaner from the floor, turn, and collide with Caity. “Whoa.” Her arms wrap around me on impact, and I step back and out of her hold. “Are you okay?”

  She giggles. “You were a million miles away. I tried to get your attention, but you wouldn’t answer me.”

  “Sorry, I have a lot on my mind. What can I do for you?”

  Caity sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and captures it between her teeth. It should have been sexy, but liars bang my hard-limit drum.

  “I can’t get the HydroMassage table to work. Will you help me?”

  She knows I have to do whatever she asks or I could lose my job. “Of course. Let me put the cleaning supplies away and I’ll meet you at the tables.”

  “I can help you.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but the supply room is restricted to employees. Go ahead. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  She smiles at me. “I won’t tell.”

  I point to the corner of the room where the camera records everything. “That’s sweet of you, but there are no secrets at the gym.”

  Her smile turns sly. “Do you have cameras in the locker rooms, too?”

  What the hell? “No, that’s illegal. You don’t have to worry about your privacy.”

  “You’re such a rule follower.” Caity’s nostrils flare.

  I remain silent while I wait for her next move.

  A dimple appears in her right cheek when her smile pops. “I’ll be downstairs. Don’t dawdle.”

  For real? I’m surprised she didn’t snap her fingers at me. I’m pretty sure she disabled the machine by using regular quarters again instead of gym tokens. If I’m right, this will be the third time she’s sabotaged the table to get my attention. Either she forgets or she believes I do.

  Damn it. I need to write an essay for Lit or Professor Shelby will have my ass in a sling. I need time to focus without interruption to finish the paper. Caity and company should take off. Now would be good.

  I walk in on a whispered conversation between the foursome. Three scatter and rush to climb on the available tables. I clamp down hard on my irritation. Even though I know it’s a bullshit excuse, it pisses me off she didn’t bother to get her friends on board to back up her story before she fucked up my table.

  They had to walk right by Leslie to come and find me. At the front desk, she passes me a screwdriver and the key to unlock the token box before taking off to do rounds thr
ough the gym to make sure everyone is okay.

  The owner steps through the front door. Hallelujah. He’s somewhat of a micromanager, but he’s a great guy. “Hey, Sonny, I was about to fix the massage table. Client says it’s stuck. Want to help?”

  The light hits Sonny’s eyes, and I know he’ll take over. “What seems to be the problem?”

  I use our hand signal for customer fuck-up, by tapping my middle finger against the counter, but for her benefit, I say, “Caity says she can’t get it to work.”

  He nods and takes the screwdriver from me. A short, but insanely fit man, he bench-presses two-twenty without breaking a sweat. Mom says he wears too much anger on his face, but he’s always been level with me.

  I grab the Pump It Fit binder that conceals my notebook. “Sonny, I’m going to take care of the ten thirty upstairs. Watch the desk for me?”

  Sonny prefers hand signals and numeric codes for our shop talk, so customers don’t understand.

  “Sure, kid.”

  He ambles off to help Caity, who looks irritated that she’s cornered herself into dealing with Sonny instead of me. I head upstairs to take my thirty-minute lunch break, which won’t involve food but will involve writing my freaking essay.

  I sit at the table in our small break room. The prompt: A college education is worth the cost. My first thought is to debate the concept because it depends on your financial situation. My paper turns into more of a rant about the cost of medical care and what happens when you exceed the maximum coverage. I realize I’ve got to circle back to how a student can justify the cost versus the debilitating debt you face when they hand you a diploma. I hit my writing stride as my words erupt on the page.

  The opening melody from “Bailinho de Madeira”—a Portuguese folk song about the island my parents emigrated from—plays in four notes, signaling a text from Mom.

  Shit. Mom doesn’t text during the day unless she needs me. My heart goes boom, boom, boom in three hard knocks against my ribs. The text reads:

  Tiago, call me when you can.