Eyeful (Gladiators of the Gridiron Book 2)

by C. R. Grissom

  Agnes says, “I thought you had to cover the whole schlong, not just the tip?”

  Oh, my lamb. I want to shout: No questions or interruptions! “You do,” I manage to say calmly. “I’m just showing you how to start.”

  While the banana is raised for the world to see, I align the tip of the condom with the banana’s perianth—ironically the reproductive part of the fruit—and gently roll the condom toward the stem. Once unfurled, I decide to walk it through the classroom. “And now it’s fully sheathed.”

  This show might help against more tell.

  One of the ladies whisper-shouts to the person next to her. “I haven’t seen one so firm in about thirty years. Brings back nice memories.”

  Holy crap. I move quickly down the row. “Okay,” I shout. “Why don’t you all try it now.”

  For the next hour I have to help seniors befoul bananas. One granny used so much force the condom tore. Which became the basis for another conversation entirely. At the end of the class, Grams wraps her arms around me.

  “I’m proud of you, darling. You were uncomfortable but made sure everyone knew the importance of safety. Especially at our age.”

  “Thanks, Grams.” Her praise makes me feel good. And the embarrassment I felt is minor compared to a potential gonorrhea outbreak.

  She and Gavin walk out of the classroom. I reach for my backpack to get my cell phone. I’ve been incommunicado since Caity and her minions saw me with Agnes at BargainClub. A red bubble with the number fifty-six hovers over my KickBack app. My heart starts to kick, and my lungs vise. I open the app to find Caity’s revenge shot.

  I’m tagged each and every time someone posts a comment.

  Ohmygod. I stop breathing. How do I go back to school today? I can’t fucking hide from this. I swipe my sleeve across my mouth.

  Agnes taps my shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

  I shake my head. There are no words. She takes my cell. “Pfft.” She passes my phone back to me. “You gonna let her win?”

  “I can’t think.”

  “Come back to my place. You’ll regroup, and think of something.”

  Her complete faith in me bolsters my confidence. She’s right. I won’t let Caity win. That witch is going down.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Tiago

  I’m at work. My phone vibrates with a text from Everest. It’s a screenshot of a meme posted to CampusLife@Fortis KickBack page. The pic shows Phoebe shopping with an older woman at BargainClub. What looks like a case of condoms rides in the cart. The pic has a caption: Looks like our Gladiators will suit up for tonight’s orgy.

  My vision pulses red. The original post came from Caity, who happens to be lurking behind the desk on her favorite treadmill. I glance over my shoulder and watch her smile spread. Guys at school think she’s pretty, but they’re one letter off. She’s petty. The kind of girl who declares all-out war on anyone she perceives as a threat. And I painted a target on Phoebe’s back. I knew calling dibs fell along the lines of colossally bad ideas. It had to be the flammable component responsible for igniting this mess.

  Phoebes won’t want to get near me again.

  I still don’t have answers. Shit.

  Everest texts again. Don’t engage. Conflict of interest. She’ll make your work life miserable. Let me handle this?

  No word from Phoebe since we met for boba tea. Blood thrums through my veins. My compulsion to see her and make sure she’s okay is at odds with my goal to get information from her.

  I shouldn’t have kissed her. She’s getting under my skin, and consuming brain space.

  Everest will party-ban Caity. It will have to be enough.

  I text Everest: Do it.

  I want to tell Caity no one deserves to be shamed for buying protection. I wonder how long it’ll take before she comes at me anyway. And do I give two curly turds about whether she does? The answer is yes and no. I don’t want to lose my job. It’s not much, but I contribute to the family budget. Sonny knows I won’t study at work unless I’ve cleared all tasks. I’d hate to start over somewhere new where I’d have to build trust with my employer all over again. But if Sonny fires me because of Caity? He’s not the kind of person I’d want to work for or support.

  I’ll send a text to Phoebes. Casual. Something I’ve been meaning to do ever since I called dibs in the locker room two days ago. I type: We play New Mexico at home Saturday. My family doesn’t use my tickets. Faith will be there. Want me to leave you a ticket at Will Call?

  I hit send. And read my own text. Shit. Why did I type that crap about my family? My jaw clenches. I’m such a loser.

  My phone pings with a text from Phoebes: No thx. I’m not into Gladiator orgies.

  Oh, shit.

  I’m so sorry that happened. Trust me. No one believes her bs.

  Tell that to the assholes who are calling me #CondomQueen.

  Fuck.

  My blood pressure soars.

  I need to spread the word and make sure this shit stops now. Someone taps my shoulder. I turn to see who the hell is touching me and find Caity in my personal space. “Can I help you?” I say in a low voice through clenched teeth.

  She takes a step backward, and gnaws on her lip. “I need help with the treadmill. I called your name three times.” Her eyes narrow at me. “That text must be important.”

  I swallow back the words I want to say, but can’t. “More important than you can grasp. I’ll meet you at the machine in a minute.”

  She turns quickly and strides to the treadmill. Ponytail bouncing like she hasn’t a care in the world. The knowledge that her social life is about to become as thin as a Gladiator game ticket fills me with satisfaction. Soon she won’t be able to gloat.

  Everest sends what seems like an essay in text to me, adding CW to the thread.

  Caity set a narrative the team doesn’t want or deserve. The ban has been issued. Soon she’ll be the social equivalent of an airborne virus.

  I type: And the assholes calling Phoebe The Condom Queen?

  I see the three-dot bubble as Everest types. The text hits, and it’s wordier.

  Also handled. By now, the entire campus will know anyone talking about Phoebe, sharing the meme, or creating new memes will no longer be welcome to any party or social event hosted or attended by any Gladiator. She’s done.

  CW wrote: Should I ask Faith to call her?

  I type: YES!

  I know deep in my gut this isn’t over. Caity will have another move up her sleeve. She might leave Phoebe alone, but the scoreboard remains live and there’s play left in Caity’s game.

  Meanwhile, I have to track Phoebes down and talk to her in person. Apologize for this shitshow. And prove to her I fully support her, and so does the team. The sandwich I inhaled ten minutes ago curdles in my stomach. I have to make this right for her. Regardless of what might have happened between our families.

  Caity’s picture was deliberately cruel.

  I have no idea why Phoebes needed to buy that many condoms, and it’s none of my business anyway. If I keep telling myself that, I’ll stay on the right side of this situation. Overanalyzing her motives or reading into it makes me act like Caity. But part of me, a part deep inside my head, wants to know.

  Stop.

  Focus on the task at hand, which means supporting Phoebes without asking questions. Because I don’t need to know. I just want to know. Badly. Not the same thing as being nosy. But here I go lying to myself again.

  I send Phoebes a text: Meet me for boba tea?

  She doesn’t respond.

  Strolling over to the treadmill, I do my best to hide my anger toward Caity. Treat her like she’s another demanding customer. Just another asshole. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “It stopped working.”

  “While you were on the machine?”

  “I started to program it, but it shut off.” Her eyes shift left.

  I touch one of the keys, but the machine remains off. I bend down to feel the cent
er of the platform, checking the tautness. That’s when I notice the power cord isn’t plugged into the outlet. I plug in the treadmill. Keeping my mouth shut is not easy.

  “Going to any parties this weekend?” she asks.

  Her tone sounds friendly, which means she’s either poking around for info or I’m about to stomp on a verbal land mine.

  “I don’t have time for parties during football season.” Not completely true, but not an outright lie either. “You’re all set.”

  I head toward the desk. Caity says, “Parties are overrated. So many of the same people, doing the same things. It’s all so boring. Isn’t it?”

  “Yup.” When someone steps up to the desk, I’ve never been more grateful for an interruption. “Hey, how can I help you?”

  This member—someone I haven’t seen before—wants information on our full list of classes. I could kiss her on the mouth. But that would be weird, considering she’s got to be my mom’s age. I introduce myself, and guide her through which classes she might enjoy more, asking questions about her workout routines to get a gauge on whether she should focus on beginner or intermediate classes, when my phone starts to blow up in my back pocket.

  I have it set to vibrate only; it’s now buzzing every five seconds nonstop.

  Dread makes my hands shake while I explain the different spin and yoga classes to Mrs. Bugnatto. I want to pull out my phone and look, but at the same time the urge to dump it into the nearest toilet and let the auto-flush feature keep me blissfully unaware of this latest shitstorm to hit battles inside me.

  Mrs. Bugnatto asks about Weight Training Wednesdays while I register her for the first set of spin classes she’s interested in. My back pocket continues its consistent rumble. As soon as she leaves the front desk, I reach for my phone. Anxiety coils around my spine, constricting my lungs as it claws up to my neck to tighten the muscles and spear pain into my brain.

  Fifty-four messages. All sent individually by each of my teammates.

  I open the text from Everest first. It’s another screenshot from KickBack. This time it’s a selfie posted by Phoebes posing with a bottle of massage oil in hand, while the older lady holds a tube of cherry-flavored lubricant. Both women have their mouths open in exaggerated surprise. Phoebes hash-tagged her post with #RelaxItsJustSex.

  Everest’s text has a two-word opinion. Well played.

  Pride swells in my heart for her, while the pressure in my chest deflates. Her response is on point. She wrote the most sex-positive fuck you to Caity while tagging her in the post.

  I scroll through the texts from my other teammates. Baloo’s text shows three sets of clapping hands with a flexed arm emoji at the end like an exclamation point. CW’s was more to the point. A thumbs-up.

  To a man they’re all supportive of Phoebe’s upload.

  Her post, plus Everest’s mandate about party-banning anyone who trash-talks her will be the most effective buzzkill to Caity’s bullshit about condoms and Gladiator sex parties.

  Caity steps off the treadmill and heads toward the girls’ locker room without a backward glance at me. It occurs to me she’s on her own. Normally, the other girls serve as props on a stage for Caity. A wall of women who provide that backstop for sound and an essential element of leadership. You can’t lead if no one follows. It makes me wonder whether they ditched her when this crap went down. If so, they were never her real friends.

  I won’t let myself feel sorry for her. She made a choice. The wrong one. Now, she’s got to deal with the fallout. At some point, she has to leave middle school behind and start adulting. Which should include how not to attack someone you barely know for no reason other than you can.

  I ignore my own personal code about not texting again when the previous text goes unanswered, but I can’t stop myself from sending another text. A single word this time. Brilliant.

  I get a text from her. Do I know you?

  Not sure if it’s flirty or if it means I’m still banished to the sidelines. Her instant reply allows me to hope. I type: Dopey guy. Works at the gym.

  Phoebe sends: And…?

  I snort out a laugh, but answer: Looks like a four-legged Disney character…

  She replies with the lion emoji.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Phoebe

  Once I left Agnes’s place, I rode my bike to school for class. I had to pay twenty dollars to Frick and Frack, but I got my bike back. Some might question my decision to return here where I’m vulnerable to name-calling, but what choice do I have? Cutting class lets Caity win, too. And I didn’t want to risk running into Grams. One look at my face and she’d know something was up.

  Why do I care what Caity calls me? I have bigger worries. What if the security guard duo file complaints about me? What if I’m forced out of the retirement village or Grams has to pay fines? Playing musical couches can only get me so far.

  After my afternoon lecture on Ancient Rome, I bolt to the library. Sitting in the quiet section on the second floor near the microfiche machines provides me with undisturbed thinking time. Just me and the dust motes that dance in the waning sunlight. My phone is in my hand and I’m still staring at Tiago’s message. Well, that happened. I don’t know if he’s being nosy or waiting for an opportunity to be an asshole. But he shocked the heck out of me when he sent me that brilliant text. And then the Simba reference.

  I feel the smile spread across my face. Doofus.

  Another text from Tiago reads: Are you okay?

  I reply: Yes. Now leave me alone.

  My phone vibrates again. So…do I leave tickets for you Saturday?

  I send a one-word response: Fine.

  Now what? I should text Faith and make sure she’s going to be there. And that she doesn’t mind sitting with the Condom Queen. Damn.

  While I debate whether I should text Faith about the game, I receive one from her.

  Heading over to Philz for coffee. The one off the east end of campus. Meet me there?

  Kind of a sign. This library is only about three blocks from the coffee place. I type: On my way.

  She adds the like reaction to my message.

  I stuff my laptop into my backpack and swing it onto my shoulder. I take a quick look around, but no one pays attention to me. Maybe no one really cares? Promiscuity isn’t a crime unless you’re selling it. Ha. I should print that on a shirt for Agnes.

  My cell rings and I warily check to see who is on the other end. Shit. Calvin again. I send the call to voicemail. Why does he feel like he can scold me about not accepting Mom’s calls? Why does he assume it’s okay to get involved anyway?

  The message beeps. I’m not going to get sucked into their drama. I push play. “Phoebe, it’s Calvin. I’m in town on business and I want to see you. Call me. Don’t make me hunt you down.”

  His voice sounds tired rather than menacing, but the fact he’s in town makes a shiver skitter down my spine. Closing my eyes I say a quick prayer begging God that he’s not here to steal homes again.

  Shoving my phone back in my pocket, I step through the door at the coffee place. Faith waits at the back of the line.

  “Hey, Phoebe.” She leans over to hug me. “How are you?” Two vertical lines appear between her brows and create a number eleven. Her face is a mask of concern.

  “I’m fine.” But my voice betrays me.

  She pulls me in for a hug. “Please don’t let this get to you.”

  Realizing Faith means Caity and not Calvin, I force myself to switch gears and take a deep breath. “I won’t.”

  “Good. I’ve been worried about you since TJ shared Caity’s posts with me.”

  It hits me how genuine Faith is in her friendship with me. “Did TJ guilt you into a coffee date?” I probably shouldn’t have asked the question like that. I sound super defensive, but Calvin’s voicemail shook me.

  “No.” Her left eyebrow raises independently of its mate. “He clued me in that you might need someone in your corner right about now. Are you mad?”

>   “No.” I scrub my hands down my face. “Sorry. I’m turned up.”

  “Apologies aren’t necessary. I loved your response.”

  I haven’t yet. Oh. She means Caity. Stop thinking about Calvin, I admonish myself. “She stopped posting, so that’s a relief.”

  “Truth?”

  “Umm.” My heart slams against my ribs in three hard beats. Because there’s more to the story. “Yeah?”

  “Everest nipped this crap in the bud.”

  Wait. What? “Who the hell is Everest?”

  Her smile goes wide. “He’s my pretend-non-biological brother. Also, a team captain. He’s the undisputed leader of the Gladiator football team.”

  I don’t follow. “What does Everest have to do with Caity or me, for that matter?”

  “Hang on, let’s order.”

  I’m dying to know what the hell those two have to do with the new social media silence, but I’ll have to wait. We give the barista our orders. The small coffee and tip cost almost half of what I pay to Pump It Fit for my monthly membership. What a sobering thought.

  Crap I need a job.

  “Earth to Phoebe.”

  “Sorry. I was just thinking this might be a great place to work.”

  Faith glances around. “Possibly?”

  I shrug my shoulders. I have experience working in a deli. Not quite the same as a specialty coffee place, but customer service, counting change, and cleanliness must all apply as like skills.

  We find a vacant table once our coffee is ready. “Talk to me about Everest and Caity.”

  Something to distract me from Calvin being in San Jose, and what it might mean to at-risk homeowners. She blows on her tall mocha latte with a sprig of mint before taking a sip.

  “Everest has a lot of social cred at school. People don’t want to piss him off because once you get party-banned that’s it. You’re finished.” She takes another sip. “Strictly speaking from a social standpoint.”

  “Yes, but what if you don’t care about parties?”

  “We’re going to be great friends.” She smiles at me. “There are people who don’t care. But the students who do? It’s enough of a bargaining chip. Caity earned the party ban for going after you.”