Eyeful (Gladiators of the Gridiron Book 2)

by C. R. Grissom

  The crap you learn when living with seniors.

  Planning my snack, I fantasize about drowning something in salt, but not my cookie. Maybe the burger stand will still be open, and I’ll get fries. I’ll shake so much salt on top, everyone in a twenty-foot radius will retain water. I’m sick of low-fat, low-sodium solutions to the eternal question of what’s for dinner. Craving grease, salt, sugar, high fat and marshmallow fluff, I’m a woman on the edge, and I want a deep-fried Twinkie.

  “Um, Phoebe. Are you okay?”

  “Sorry, I had a daydream about worthless eats involving many carbs.” I smile at her. “Salt drifted over the scene like snow on a mountain pass.”

  Faith laughs. “That’s the reason you zoned out on me? Are you low-carb eating or something?”

  “I live with my grandmother who trades food made with sugar and salt for a shot at a longer life. It makes me happy she’s health conscious because I want her around, but it also means I eat that way, too. And sometimes it sucks.”

  “Let’s get you a cookie with caramel or fudge on the side for dipping.”

  “You have the best ideas. Make it happen.”

  We drop off our essays with Professor Pérez then we stride across campus toward The Canteen. There aren’t any awkward conversational pauses with Faith. She engages me, asks my opinion and seems to care about my response. We exchange contact info with each other, and I feel like this might not be a one-time thing. The chance of friendship warms me. My so-called friends back in Las Vegas abandoned me when the story broke about Mom’s alleged crimes.

  On our walk toward the cafeteria many male types shout out to her. The kind that play sports. She’s popular with jocks. Girls, too. But there are numerous athletic types who call out to her.

  “Have you joined any clubs?” she asks.

  “No, I wish I had time for one. I have to find a job. If you hear of anything on or close to campus, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Yo, Faith. Wait up.”

  I hear a familiar sexy voice and something deep inside me coils tight.

  Tiago runs toward us but stops short when his gaze meets mine. “Phoebe. I didn’t realize you two know each other.”

  “We’re in Social Theories together,” I explain. He stares at me with his face devoid of expression. I can’t decide if he’s acting cold toward me because we’re crossing paths in school and not at work where he’s paid to be polite.

  Faith asks, “The better question is how do you two know each other?”

  He smiles at her. A genuine grin that makes my insides turn gooey, but then I’m bludgeoned by an emotion resembling anger, which I suspect is simple jealousy. Stupid and unnecessary. Tiago has the right to flirt with anyone he wants. Even my new friend.

  The jerk.

  Before he has a chance to answer I say, “I met Tiago when I joined the gym where he works.”

  “Tiago?” Faith’s lips curve.

  An expressive cringe moves across his face. “Yeah, about that. Everyone calls me TJ.”

  Am I the only one who knew his real name? Did I break some kind of confidence? Crap. “What does it stand for?”

  Faith says, “Pray tell.”

  Tiago shakes his head. “I’m not getting away without decoding the nickname, am I?”

  Faith says, “Nope. Spill.”

  “Tiago Joaquim. TJ.”

  “Huh.” Faith says, “Do you spell your middle name with an m?”

  I’m not sure why the spelling matters, but Faith seems interested.

  “I do. Why?” Tiago asks.

  “Are you Portuguese?” she asks.

  “Yes, I thought you knew.”

  “Eu não sabia,” Faith says. Speaking another language as easily as she conversed with me in English.

  Tiago says, “Hold up, Faith. Aren’t you Italian?”

  I’m a third wheel in the conversation. It’s so awkward. And I want a cookie the size of my face. Promises were made, damn it. Can’t their mating call happen some other time? Preferably when I’m too far away to witness their mutual adoration.

  “I am, but I speak fluent Portuguese. My high school offered Portuguese as a second language, and it was close enough to Italian for me to learn quickly.”

  “Another cool fact about you, Faith. Caleb better hold on with both hands before someone else scoops you up.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Man. I say who scoops. Besides Caleb happens to be my favorite flavor.”

  Ah. She has a boyfriend. Thank you, baby Jesus.

  She turns to me. “Wow. That sounds dirtier than I meant. TJ plays football with my boyfriend, and off the field, he fights off women with charm and charisma.”

  He winces. “It’s not like that.”

  Her laugh sounds a bit wicked. “It’s exactly like that. Now, do you need anything? You’re interrupting our mission to devour face-sized cookies.”

  “Rumor has it you’re tight with Professor Shelby.” Tiago turns to me, including me in their conversation. “My Lit teacher. Faith is her golden girl. I can’t seem to do anything right in her class.” He hitches his backpack higher on shoulder. “Come on, Faith. Help a guy out. Be my study buddy.”

  “Sure. Away from campus though. I hate fighting off your admirers.”

  I snicker. “The lionesses will claw all threats to the pride apart.”

  Faith nods her head. “Good analogy.”

  “It’s the truth,” I say.

  “Interesting,” Tiago says with a hint of sarcasm. “Do you always tell the truth?”

  Good question. Mom drowns herself in lies, but I can’t stand them. “Yes.”

  “Funny. You seem like the kind of girl who keeps secrets.”

  There’s the tone again, and it pisses me right off. In Las Vegas, I kept my head down and ignored people who taunted me about Mom. I didn’t make waves. No comment, while the shutter clicked.

  Enough.

  I tilt my head, narrow my gaze, and use the same sarcastic tone he used with me. “Keeping a secret has nothing to do with telling the truth. It’s about loyalty.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Tiago

  Faith and Phoebe leave me in the quad and walk toward The Canteen in search of their snack. I think about what she said. Secret keeping being about loyalty. Is she protecting her mother? The cheating, house-stealing woman who gave her life.

  Shit. I won’t get the dirt on her mom unless I attach myself to her. Another whisper says it won’t be too much of a sacrifice. I will the voice to shut up because Avó’s home, our home, hangs in the balance.

  I’m one degree of separation away from the con artist. Scammers are successful because they sound sincere. Trustworthy even. Like Phoebe. My heartbeat accelerates like my nerves punched some kind of go pedal. I take a deep breath. I need to play nice. Get Phoebe to open up about her mother, and best-case scenario expose the scamming op.

  Save the house.

  Who am I kidding? She won’t incriminate her own mom. Besides, Phoebe could be a part of it, too. Smells off. She moves to San Jose and now title scams happen here, too? Regardless, I won’t find any answers standing in the quad with my thumb up my ass. New play. Get my own cookie, join Faith and Phoebe in the dining hall. Maybe I can get them both to help me with my Lit paper. Studying will provide the perfect excuse to hang out.

  I check my conscience to see if using Faith to get closer to Phoebe makes me a horrible human being. If I’m honest with myself, the answer is yes, but. Yes, but it’s not like I’m going to kidnap Phoebe, tie her up and make her answer my questions. My brain stutters on the image of Phoebe tied up, instead of a chair and a lamp shining on her face, there’s a bed and a can of whipped cream on the nightstand. My abs clench. Fantasies are fine, but they won’t get me closer to the truth. I can’t forget what’s on the line: Avó’s home.

  We’ll be homeless soon.

  Hitching my backpack higher on my shoulder, I haul ass toward the cafeteria. I’ll get to know Phoebe and decide whether she’s the kind of
person who protects criminals. Faith will never find out. Besides, she’d understand if I explain what my family stands to lose.

  Pushing through the doors, I make my way toward the section where the cookies are on display. Damn. Long line. I glance at the left side of the dining room and don’t see the girls. I scan the right half and spot them at a table at the back of the room. A shaft of sunlight illuminates both girls. They lean closer to each other as they laugh.

  Phoebe’s smile hits me like a bare-fisted punch to the solar plexus.

  Pow!

  That’s the problem. I’m attracted to her. She dips a piece of cookie into some kind of sauce in a small cup. Her eyes close and I can almost hear the mmm sound she makes as she chews. I stop in the middle of the cafeteria, struck by the dead-sexiness of pure bliss written on her face right now.

  It awakens something primal inside me. A need to bring her the same pleasure that butter, sugar and flour evoke in her. Shit. She’s off-limits. This is a fact-finding mission, not a booty call.

  I reach their table just as she takes another bite. I wipe my hands on my jeans and force myself to relax. “Hey. Room for one more?”

  “Sure.” Faith asks, “Where’s your food?”

  I sit in the empty chair. “By the time I came inside the line for cookies wrapped around to the opposite side. Do you think we can sync study schedules now? Phoebes, do you want in?”

  I say it casually, an easy punt to put the ball where it needs to be. No pressure. Except in my chest where anxiety bands and squeezes my lungs.

  Her brows raise. “Phoebes? As in feeble?”

  Shit. “Why would I ask you to be in our study group if I thought you weren’t sharp?”

  She startles and her cheeks tinge pink. I can’t tell whether she’s embarrassed or nervous I linked her to her legal name. Phoebe Makenna Sharpe, daughter of Helen Sharpe, incarcerated stealer of homes. I assume Phoebe conveniently wiped it out when she transferred here. Like her mom erased Avó’s ownership of her own home.

  Faith snickers. “Clever save, TJ.”

  “Have you declared your major?” I ask Phoebe.

  “Accounting and computer science.”

  Damn. She’s got to be wicked smart. But it’s also suspicious. Like a way to learn how to scam people, too. “I should ask you for help with Calculus Four.”

  “You could.” She shrugs. “What’s your major?”

  “Marketing for now. That might change if I can’t keep playing football after college.”

  “I never asked which position you play.”

  “Placekicker.”

  Her brows draw together. “What’s the longest field goal you’ve kicked?”

  The fact she recognizes my position digs the hook deeper under my skin. “Fifty-six yards, but the wind worked in my favor that game.”

  “Significant. What’s your average kickoff hang time?”

  This girl straight-out knows football. Wicked hot. “Three-twelve on average.”

  “Not bad, but if you want to go pro, you’ll have to keep it up longer.”

  “Wow. First time a girl has ever said that to me.” I can’t resist teasing her.

  Phoebe snickers. “You know what I mean.”

  “You definitely know the game.”

  “I grew up in Las Vegas.” Her lips curve. “I worked in a deli next to the sportsbook. I heard every comparison and argument made about each position. Plus, I like football.”

  “I’ll be sure to quiz you later, but for now I need an assist with my Lit assignment. Help a guy out?”

  Faith studies us. “I have plans to meet my friend Beau in twenty minutes; maybe Phoebe has time now?”

  “I’ve got an hour to spare before we meet to review film. If Phoebe can swing it?”

  Phoebe nods. “I’ve got time.”

  Faith wraps half of her cookie in a napkin. “I’ll leave you guys to it.” She turns to Phoebe. “This was fun. I’ll text you later.” Faith hitches her backpack to her shoulder. “Next time, I’ll introduce you to my bestie, Beau. You two will definitely hit it off,” Faith says to Phoebe before taking off toward the exit.

  Pulling my laptop out of my backpack, I switch to the chair Faith vacated. “I appreciate your help.” I type in my pass code and tilt the screen in her direction, so she can read what I’ve written so far for the assignment. I do need help.

  “I have to write a paper to either support or challenge Jonathan Edwards’s sermon and his opinions on the rights and responsibilities of human beings. Using Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God as well as the other treatises we’ve read this semester to support my opinions and views on sin and punishment.”

  Phoebe leans in to read, then shakes her head. “I’m not familiar with that piece. Do you have a copy?”

  I scroll down the document where I’ve cut and pasted the Puritan theologian’s angry portent of doom preached to his congregation in Enfield, Connecticut, during the Great Awakening. My heart does place-kicks in my chest. This assignment might give me an opening to ask about her mom. “Here you go.”

  I slide my laptop closer to her. She reads fast, judging by how quickly she cruises through the sermon. Phoebe chews her bottom lip. She scrolls up, reads the passage again, and then takes a deep breath. Color infuses her cheeks. I remain quiet, anticipating her reaction. After a few minutes, she scrolls up to read what I’ve written. She sits back and closes her eyes. It’s fascinating to watch.

  Phoebe taps my laptop screen. “I like where you’re going with this, but you need to be more concise in your opening paragraph. A strong first line will set the tone for this piece.”

  “Okay, help me out here. What would you write?”

  “How about this?” Phoebe says, “As good people, we need to ride the line between owning our actions and atonement—not because Hell looms, but because our behavior affects others.”

  Her words cause my gut to clench. “Do you really feel this way?” I ask.

  “Of course. Don’t you?”

  Truth or prevarication? I can’t find the answer staring into her violet-colored eyes. And there’s no way I can ask about her mom right now without the question being awkward and out of left field.

  “What?” she asks. “Do I have cookie crumbs on my face?”

  “No. You have an interesting take on sin and punishment.”

  She pauses. “Not really. I have a strong sense of cause and effect. I can make your brain numb on the subject, but you don’t want to hear it. Let’s polish the rest.”

  “You might be surprised. I’m a good listener.”

  She shakes her head. “Maybe another time?”

  We work on the paper, but I’m distracted by Phoebe’s brain and overall sexiness, as well as her scent—something almost sugary spiked with vanilla. Caught up at the moment, I forget why I’m spending time with her. Not just homework. Answers. Her proximity clouds my judgment. I can’t allow myself the luxury of attraction to her. It’s an indulgence I can’t afford.

  She sits back and nods. “That, my friend, should get you in better graces with your Lit professor.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you.” And that’s honest, because she helped me be precise with my rebuttal.

  “Nope. You had your argument laid out to begin with. I tweaked it. Give yourself credit where it’s due.”

  Her praise warms me even though her attitude toward atonement seems closer to mine than to someone capable of withholding information on a crime. “I owe you. Can I treat you to boba tea?”

  She startles a bit. “What, now?”

  “Or we can pick a different day and time that works for us both.”

  “Okay,” she says. “Do you want my number?”

  I’m feeling like an absolute shitbug for my deception. I remember Mom crying, what we stand to lose, and resolve to get the answers I need to protect my family.

  “Yes, your number would be great. We’ll set something up soon, yeah?”

  CHAPTER FIVE


  Phoebe

  Even though I’m on my own, I’m comfortable hanging out. Chewing dried-out lasagna, lost in the noise, and surrounded by people my age. Tiago left me about ten minutes ago to watch film with the Gladiators. Grams sent a text asking me if I’d like to join them for dinner. Since I didn’t want to be a third wheel, I stayed here to eat in The Canteen. People-watching and absorbing the atmosphere while relishing my anonymity.

  When I reach Gavin’s apartment at dusk, there’s an advisory taped to the door that reads: Warning, Do Not Enter, Area Under Fumigation. I check my phone for any texts from Grams and find no new messages.

  Anxiety transmits along my nerve endings sparking panic while clammy sweat breaks out along my hairline. I tell myself it’s some mistake and not another bold move on the part of the security guards to force me out.

  Be calm. Don’t scare Grams.

  But no light shines from her apartment windows to offset the coming dark. She and Gavin haven’t returned from dinner, likely unaware I’m blocked from Gavin’s place.

  I’m not calling her to fix this. Using my key to get inside, I don’t turn on the light, afraid of getting caught by Frick and Frack, the two overzealous guards. Instead, I use my phone’s flashlight to cross through the living room and down the short hallway to my room. I need to grab another change of clothes, my workout gear and necessities for spending the night at the gym.

  Tiago’s face—the stern one, not the attractive, smiling version—clouds my thoughts. My heartbeat ratchets. Forget about him. Focus. I grab the stuff I’ll need and cram it into my backpack. It occurs to me Grams will worry about me if they see the sign barring entrance to Gavin’s apartment. I send a text to her: Staying with a friend tonight. Need to study. See you tomorrow. <3

  It’s not a lie exactly if Tiago works tonight. Though, if that’s the case, I’ll need to avoid him. And I always need to study. That’s how I convince myself I’m not lying to Grams, the only person who loves me.

  Tossing my backpack over my shoulder, I slink toward the door. Taking a deep breath, I turn the knob and make a quick check of the walkway for any lurking unpleasantness sporting utility belts and palpable scorn. The area remains clear. Relief weakens my knees. Once I lock the door, I take the path toward the parking lot. The awful pressure in my chest reminds me to breathe.