Eyeful (Gladiators of the Gridiron Book 2)

by C. R. Grissom

  She still types my name when she texts. Every time. I can’t bring myself to tell her not to add my name to a direct text. She and Dan Turner, my special teams coach, are two contacts programmed with sound. I set everyone else to vibrate. If Dad ever dialed, I’d hear the audible alert, but he hasn’t called since the accident. These days, he’s got nothing to say.

  Mom used to text me all the time. Asking if I’d like bacalhau for dinner or to stop for milk on my way home. Her texts now reveal her ratcheting anxiety and the complete erosion of her confidence. There’s nothing I can do to fix it.

  I call Mom.

  “Tiago.” She takes a deep breath. “We need a lawyer.” Her voice cracks and I know she’s crying.

  My lungs compress. “Mãe, diz-me. What happened?”

  “It’s the house. We got a paper that says we have to leave within ninety days. There’s a copy of the deed transfer to Chadwick Properties. How? Why would my mother sign such a thing?”

  I hear her sob.

  Then she says, “Meu deus, não posso.”

  Despite her constant worry, Mom doesn’t overact. She’s crying for the Lord because she can’t take anymore. I try to explain. “Avó wouldn’t risk her house. It’s a lie. Don’t cry. Take a picture of the notice and text it to me. I’ll ask Sonny. He might know someone we can talk to, but it’s gonna be a scam. You’ll see.”

  “È a verdade. It’s her signature on the deed transfer. I know in my heart I hold the knife to kill me in my hands. First your daddy. Then Avó. Now, this. Bad things happen in threes.”

  Mom can’t make the th sound so it sounds like she said bad tings happen in trees. Eight months ago, I would have teased her. Now, I want to hold her tight and protect her against any threat.

  It has to be bullshit. Avó would never risk her house. She and Vovô paid cash for the house after they scrimped and saved for a decade working at Gangi Bros., a tomato cannery in Santa Clara. The company has been gone for years, along with Vovô.

  “Mãe, please. Be calm. I’ll come home right after work. Send me that letter, okay?”

  Adrenaline courses through my veins. I fist my hands and do my best to pull air into my lungs. When the folk song trills, I enlarge the image and start reading. Next, I open a new browser and search for information on the company listed on the title transfer. But nothing comes up except a website for a real estate firm. I type title scams and hit pages’ worth of articles on fraud that happened in Vegas.

  Reading the articles makes my skin go ice-cold, like the time the team doused me in Gatorade after kicking the winning field gold against the Spartans. Oh shit.

  Mom’s right. We’re going to need a lawyer. I’m right, too. It’s a scam. A successful title fraud scam where people got tricked out of their homes. They must have branched out to Silicon Valley. Once the title registers, the person sells the house to a real estate company who then sells off the home. Two quick transfers of ownership and the original homeowner gets fucked out of their house.

  I remember this now. When the news hit, it caught my interest because we’d just moved into Avó’s house. My family’s financial struggles are directly related to Dad’s astronomical medical bills, but these people lost their homes because con artists stole it with a signature.

  Seniors were successfully defrauded out of their homes by convincing them to register for a reverse mortgage. But the only document recorded from the transaction was the title transfer. They preyed on naïve people who trusted easily. They often chose homeowners who learned English as a second language or didn’t speak it well. Once the new title gets registered, people were told to move out and their homes were sold. The original owners got nothing from the transaction.

  I continue to click through articles posted to various news sites. The office manager who worked for the real estate firm allegedly involved was arrested about three months ago for tampering with evidence and currently awaits trial. They haven’t found the alleged ringleader or enough evidence to prosecute the woman for title fraud. My brain goes ding when everything falls into place.

  The woman under arrest hasn’t snitched. Neither has her daughter, Phoebe.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Phoebe

  When I step through the door, Grams sips tea at her dining room table. She’s not alone. A suave, older gentleman sits next to her. He shoots me a grin and says in a Scottish accent, “There’s another fine lass, Simone. Your beauty carries on through two generations.”

  Adorbs. I know he’s flirting with Grams, but his words warm me. The soft burr of his accent highlights Gavin’s appeal.

  Don’t think about his penis.

  Grams says, “You’re a rogue and a flatterer, but thank you. She’s my pride and joy. Phoebe, let me introduce you to this rascal.”

  I focus on the space in between his eyebrows. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Och, lass. I owe ye an apology for revealing what should have remained hidden beneath my kilt. We cannae refold that particular square of tartan, but I am sorry for my behavior. Will ye find it in yer heart to forgive me?”

  I’m charmed. Before long he’ll have Grams and me both wrapped around his finger. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to send those?” I tease.

  Color spreads across his cheeks. “Not specifically, no. But Mum dinnae live long enough to warn me about the pitfalls of owning a cell phone when yer cursed wit’ a wicked mind.”

  The snicker escapes before I can stop it. “You’re forgiven. But you need to be careful, because pics don’t fully disappear, basically the web forgets nothing.”

  Gavin chuckles. “Aye, not unlike my great-aunt Elspeth. The woman could recall each one of my transgressions from the day of my birth onward.”

  “I bet they were legion,” I say.

  I’ve stalled long enough; I have to tell Grams about the visit from security. “Grams, the guards stopped by while you were out.” I reach into my backpack and pass her the warrant they delivered. “I have to leave today, or they could move to evict you.”

  “Nonsense.” She scans the document. “I won’t hear of it. Dirty little troublemakers.” She taps the page in front of her. “First, they pass out fines like Halloween candy and now this. Gavin, this tyranny must be stopped.”

  He asks, “May I read it?”

  Grams slides it over to him. He reaches into an interior pocket of his charcoal-colored suit jacket and pulls out reading glasses.

  The deadline was clear, and I can’t waste more time. “Excuse me. I need to grab some things.”

  I go into my room and pack two pairs of leggings, two T-shirts, and enough underwear and bras for three days. Toiletries necessary for my new nomadic lifestyle get stuffed into my gym bag.

  Tears threaten to clog my throat. I won’t cry in front of Grams. No reason to make her stressed about my situation when she isn’t to blame. I’m nineteen years old. I’m not a child anymore. It’s time for me to start adulting. Technically, I’m not homeless. I’ll be able to leave the bulk of my stuff in her spare bedroom. I’m not barred from visiting my grandmother. The fact I won’t have a bed to sleep in presents a challenge, not an obstacle.

  My new mantra is to embrace adventure. Turn this suckfest around with positive emotion and action. I won’t cave to the temptation of curling up in a corner like a cocktail shrimp and sucking my thumb. I scrub my hands across my face and breathe deeply.

  Las Vegas would have been a safer location to crash in plain sight at night. Almost everything remains open twenty-four seven. Not just convenience stores and gyms with wicked hot boys inviting you to climb on the massage table for ten minutes of heaven.

  Don’t go there. It would be an incredible waste of time to chase Tiago, the guy with the lion eyes and a pride of lionesses ready to claw my eyes out if I get within swiping distance. For all I know one of them might even be his girlfriend. Probably the blonde with the death stare. Ugh.

  After gathering my things, I follow the short hallway to the dining room. “Gr
ams, I have to go before the guards show up.”

  “Darling, you’ll do no such thing. Gavin and I have worked out a plan.”

  Gavin takes her hand in his own and says to me, “Lass, ye dinnae have tae leave. For the next ten days, ye’ll kip in my guest room. I will bade here with yer grandmother. It willnae be proper otherwise.”

  The muscles between my shoulder blades crank with tension. “Oh, but I couldn’t kick you out of your home.”

  “Lass, it’s my pleasure tae help Simone foil the wee gobshites.”

  Coughing, I choke on nothing. It’s the word gobshites dropped in that soft burr of his accent. My laugh erupts—the kind where you have to clutch your stomach—and I can’t catch my breath. I haven’t felt the urge to laugh since Mom’s arrest. My mood lifts for a moment, and I’m me again. The girl before news vans camped on our front lawn or followed me to school.

  Gavin grins, then steps into the kitchen. “Tis not ideal for ye, bouncing between the two homes.” Gavin passes me a glass of water he filled at the tap. “Three, if we arrange for Agnes tae help.”

  Agnes? Who’s that? “Grams, what will your friends think?”

  “Phoebe, dear, I couldn’t care less. You will not be forced out again. We understand it’s not terribly convenient for you, but you’ll stay.”

  “Dinnae fash,” Gavin says to me. “Ye’ll have a place tae rest yer heid.”

  At least I won’t be forced to manage a massage table nap tonight.

  *

  Sleep eluded me last night. Tossing and turning in Gavin’s guest room while he spent the night with Grams. I feel responsible for ejecting him from his place. I hurry into my last afternoon class on the cusp of being late.

  “Okay, people. Listen up. Today you’ll take part in an experiment conceptualizing wealth.” Professor Pérez addresses the class as we find our seats.

  I’ve tightened the focus for my major since Mom’s arrest. Instead of pursuing a career as a financial analyst, I’m delving into the world of forensic accounting. I want to help people or corporations victimized by embezzlement, find the money and get it back. People who steal from others should be in jail. Like Mom.

  The thought strikes hard and guilt follows. Mom wants to explain her side, but I can’t listen to her excuses when people were forced from their homes. She destroyed evidence that could have implicated the real estate firm. I know damn well she’s protecting her boyfriend since it’s his company.

  I can’t prove it, just one of those things deep down I know might be true based on past crap she’s pulled in the name of love and money. Destroying evidence resulted in much more than protecting Calvin. She obliterated proof necessary for victims to potentially save their homes. Her arrest should be our final break, but I haven’t severed ties yet. Deep down I want to believe she’s not lying. I’m holding on to one small shred of hope she followed orders to destroy the company’s hard drives without understanding the implications to those with so much to lose.

  Our relationship won’t change for better or worse with my procrastination, so we are where we are. Locked in limbo, while I pray I’m not being lied to by my mother again.

  I sit next to a stylish, curly-haired brunette who smiles at me when I drop in the chair next to hers.

  “Hey there,” she says. “I’m Faith.”

  She’s friendly, which surprises me since I haven’t really met anyone here willing or outgoing enough to make new friends. It’s a problem when you’re lumped together in classes with all introverts. I manage to say, “Mine is Phoebe. Nice to meet you.”

  She nods then picks up the page in front of her at the table. I do the same.

  The sheet is a bio for a dude named William Daniels. A nineteen-year-old student who moved to San Jose from Compton, Kentucky, a former coal mining town with a population of less than five hundred people. He’s working his way through college on a partial scholarship and spends his free time applying for grants to offset his college expenses. A business major with a focus on e-commerce, he hopes to create opportunities for employment that don’t focus on coal. The town’s demographics skew heavily white—with a median family income of less than fifteen thousand per year. The statistic blows me away.

  How the frick do you even buy groceries or pay rent, much less live in a town with fewer than half the population of my high school? William sounds interesting, though. A determined person whose focus centers around community change. I admire the quality. We’re the same age, William and I. At least we are according to this bio. I wish I had his drive to succeed and make a difference in my hometown. But no one in Las Vegas wants to be saved.

  Faith says, “Whoa, Chad Shipman has to be fake. Talk about a charmed life.”

  I glance at her page. She has a different bio. I tip William’s sheet in her direction. “This guy comes from a tiny town in Kentucky. Most people used to work in the coal mines.”

  “Where no one has a job now.”

  “Exactly. He wants to find the next big thing and save his town. I’m such a slacker.”

  Interest lights her eyes. “What’s your major?” Faith asks as she sets Chad’s bio on the table in front of her.

  “Accounting and computer science. I want to be a forensic accountant. What’s yours?”

  “Sociology.” She winks at me. “Focus on community change.”

  “Do-gooder,” I say with a smile. “I repeat. I suck.”

  She leans toward me and playfully knocks my elbow with her own. “Stop.” But she smiles when she says it. “Why forensic accounting?”

  “I want to stop white-collar crime.”

  “Yet you don’t believe your major leans toward social consciousness? Come on. We’re girls with goals. We should start a hashtag. Well, I would if I followed social media.”

  It feels good to have a conversation with someone my age again. The image of Tiago in his Pump It Fit T-shirt pops up to shimmer seductively in my mind. I replace his muscular, perfect body with the panoramic of the four girls who guard their male. I shake my head to clear the nonsense filling my brain and pay attention to the girl in front of me. Intrigued by someone else my age who isn’t linked to several hundred followers. “Seriously? No social media? And I’m pretty sure girls with goals is a hashtag.”

  She laughs, but humor doesn’t reflect in her eyes. “It’s a dark place where evil gathers, so I choose to stay far away.”

  I nod my head. In light of all the attention focused on Mom and then me, I understand disconnecting from social media. I did. Well, not entirely. I created a new KickBack account to follow the CampusLife@Fortis account. But it’s new, and I’m followed by no one.

  The professor explains how the experiment will work. We’ll all remain standing as she reads off different questions. We are expected to answer based on how the person whose bio we have in hand would respond to the question. If at any point the answer is no, we take our seat. Simple.

  The professor asks, “Did you receive financial aid—parental checkbook, scholarships or student loans—that will offset the cost of your tuition?”

  Everyone remains on their feet. It makes sense. The chance of anyone my age being able to afford tuition without assistance is rare.

  “Next question. Would you be able to afford to eat if you didn’t have a food plan on campus?”

  About a third of the class sits including myself. I’m certain William—Will? Willy?—wouldn’t have the money.

  “Did you have the option to avoid student loans?”

  Ten more students take their seats.

  “Can you afford off-campus housing?”

  Another group of students sits. Faith remains standing along with five other people.

  “If you didn’t get a full-ride scholarship, would you be here?”

  Three more people sit. Faith and another guy at the far end of the classroom are still in.

  “Will you be debt-free when you get your undergrad degree?”

  Both remain in place.

  “If
you pursue a postgraduate degree, will it be paid for you?”

  The guy sits; Faith is the sole survivor. She bows and says, “Every class needs a butthead.”

  While we all snicker, she takes her seat next to me.

  Our professor addresses the class. “Precious few of you will end your college careers without debt. If you’re one of the lucky ones, be aware of the fact not everyone has your advantages. While the experience is fresh in your minds, please write an essay about the things you have in common with the student whose bio you have in hand. Highlight the significant differences, too.”

  Mom got me the scholarship to UDO under suspicious circumstances. She was tight with Theo Celles, and she volunteered for the foundation for about six months. Wham. Suddenly I have a free ride. Then she started working with the real estate company that helped steal from innocent people. The fact I’ll get an education at a private college while people have lost their homes eviscerates me with guilt. The administration at my former college got tired of my notoriety and approved the scholarship transfer to this campus.

  Shaking my head to clear my thoughts, I realize I need an angle for the essay. I’m coming up blank. The commonalities between William and myself are clear. We both want to help people. His goal is more specific than mine, but I go with it. I also write about how much I respect his aspirations toward finding the next big thing for his hometown. After a page, I’ve cobbled together a decent paper, and meet the expectation for the assignment.

  The professor calls out, “Five minutes, people. Wrap it up.”

  Faith turns to me. “I need coffee and a cookie after this. I’m far too much like this rich prick Chad. I need the healing powers of a snickerdoodle. Want to go with me?”

  “I’m in if we hit up the cafeteria. I’m on a meal plan—not being rich or a prick.”

  “Ha.” She snorts. “Perfect. They have them in small, medium, and bigger than your face. And you know what they say: go big or go home.”

  A face-sized cookie sounds like a fast pass to diabetes. Shit. How old am I, ninety-seven? I should eat two of them to compensate for the rampant old-lady worry clouding my head. I’m going to live like my hips won’t give out in four decades.