Eyeful (Gladiators of the Gridiron Book 2)

by C. R. Grissom

  I strut to the corner. Holding the costume in place because I don’t want to flash traffic on the street. I start doing a light kick ball change with my feet. All those years of dance classes might pay off. Cars start honking. A nervous giggle tickles my throat. But to hell with it. I’m going to dance like no one’s honking.

  Because of the costume’s limitations, I can’t do anything else but move my legs. My DNA gifted me with yard-long legs and I use them to my advantage now. Holy smokes the costume is hot. I’m going to fry.

  I never asked Goose how long he expects me to dance on the corner. Now I’m afraid of the answer.

  Goose claps. “Phoebe, I forgot the sign. I’ll be right back.”

  Crap. The sign. I can’t twirl a sign and hold the costume down. “Goose, maybe we can wait on that?”

  His face falls. And I have to tell him. “One size doesn’t always fit all, and the tights were meant for a much shorter person. I’ll wear leggings next time, and I promise to hold the sign. But in order to keep the dancing PG, I’ll need to hold my costume.”

  “Oh.” His face turns stoplight red. “Of course. Are you sure you’re okay for now?”

  I smile to reassure him. “Absolutely. I’ve got this under control.”

  “Thanks, Phoebe.”

  “You bet. How about we prop the sign behind me? I’ll dance in front of it today.”

  “Good idea.”

  He leaves to get his sign, and I keep moving my feet. Sweat traces a line between my breasts. At this rate, I won’t have to work out. Which reminds me of Tiago, whom I’d successfully stopped thinking about for the past hour. Him and his predetermined end dates. I wonder how long he’d give us? A week, a month, or a full semester? Maybe just one night to prove he knows what he’s doing in bed?

  As self-defeating as it sounds, I’m curious whether he’d live up to his own hype.

  And considering that bod of his. Well, having access to it might be worth the disappointment of discovering I’m just not cut out for a partner-driven orgasm. Better stop thinking of his body. I’m sweaty enough dancing in this weighted blanket of heat masquerading as a costume.

  In my peripheral vision, I notice a car slowing down in front of me ogling at my dancing self for a few seconds. Welp, Goose pays me to draw in customers. I try to make eye contact with the driver, smiling widely, my feet in motion.

  The windows are tinted. The barely open passenger-side window gives me a glimpse of the man in the car. My body responds by breaking out in goose bumps. It can’t be. The dude looks like Calvin.

  The window rolls up, and the car speeds through the intersection just as the signal turns red. Oh, God. Please let me be mistaken.

  Goose returns with his sign and a folding chair to prop it up against. “This will work out great. I figure we can have you dance for an hour, then give you a break. Okay?”

  I nod because I can’t trust my voice. I’m spooked about the weirdo who might have been Calvin, and in an hour, I’ll have a pool of sweat beneath me. Passersby will think I peed myself. Don’t dwell. Calvin’s not stalking you. You imagined it was him because his voicemail creeped you out. Just keep moving your feet. Think of the guacamole you’ll eat when it’s over.

  Will that make me a cannibal?

  Gah.

  Goose returns to the restaurant. It’s me, the suit, the sign, and the sidewalk. All to myself.

  “Phoebes?”

  I glance to my right. Tiago stands there with his mouth agape. Then he covers his laugh by pretending to cough. Jerk.

  “Are you aware that you’re about three inches away from flashing the neighborhood?”

  I concentrate on moving my feet. “I’m working, Tiago. Can we talk later?” There. I sound reasonable, and non-violent. I’m a neutral avocado, not a spicy one. Suddenly I’m aware of my sweat-slicked face and the hair that escaped my ponytail sticking to the side of my neck.

  Damn it.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “It’s my job. And I like dancing. Now scram, I don’t want to get in trouble on my first day in the suit.”

  “That costume looks oppressive.”

  Great word choice, but it doesn’t stop me from chirping at him. “Will you stop gawking at me?”

  “I don’t know whether to hose you down or bring you a Gatorade.”

  Something cold to drink sounds lovely. But not from the guy who wants to shoot water at me. Though, that sounds okay, too, if I’m being honest with myself. I’m so hot even my tongue feels swollen. “Go away. You’re scaring potential customers away with that scowl. And defeating the purpose of my job duties.”

  “Dressing up like a vegetable and dancing on the corner is part of your job description?”

  “Avocados are fruit.”

  “So are bananas. But you’d show less leg dressed like one of them.”

  Ignoring him, I dance my way around to face the other side of the street. Now he’s behind me, and I convince myself my ass is hanging lower than the hem when I hear him tsk. Crap.

  When it stays quiet for a few solid minutes I risk a glance over my shoulder. He’s gone. Huh. How anticlimactic. I tug the costume down with more force than necessary which pulls my shoulders, too.

  The hairs on the back of my neck rise and somehow underneath the incredibly molten heat of the suit I feel an arctic blast from somewhere behind me. I kick my way around to figure out where the deep chill is coming from, and Caity stands there phone in hand pointed at me. She’s on her own. None of her handmaidens are with her.

  If she were laughing, I might understand why she’s so obviously filming me. But weird as it seems, she’s ignoring me. She’s ten feet away, projecting an expression that screams you’re not there.

  Yet still filming me. Weird.

  “Hi, Caity.”

  The look she shoots me from behind her cell drips with icicles.

  She’s what Grams would call an odd duck. Agnes would offer a naughtier name for her.

  I decide to ignore Caity. I don’t want Goose to check on me and find me having words with someone I’m sure he’d feel is a potential customer. Talk about a person with nothing better to do. Doesn’t she have to study or work?

  First, she goes after Tiago at his workplace. I guess it’s my turn to deal with the fallout of whatever Caity plans to do to make my life miserable. I don’t understand her motive for making a big deal over Tiago and Everest choosing to defend me. This kind of behavior calls attention to the fact she’s on the outside causing trouble.

  Tiago hasn’t returned, so I’m hoping he stays clear while Caity films my dance steps.

  I’m definitely going to ask Faith what the hell can be done about this stalking. I have no experience dealing with this kind of aggression that doesn’t involve petty insults or shunning. I wonder if Caity is the type to do internet digging.

  Shit.

  I really can’t afford to goad her. I shouldn’t have called her a stalker last night. Stupid of me. While I’m here it’s easy to forget Mom in jail in another state. How careless. I have to be on guard. My head starts to pound. The heat, the weight of the costume, the magnitude of Caity’s loathing all make me want to crawl somewhere out of the sun, and sleep.

  My eyes close, my head bobs forward and I jerk awake. I was nodding off while dancing. Some people can’t manage to walk and text, but I can dance and fall asleep. Someday that’ll look good on my résumé.

  Geez.

  Sweat snakes down my back. I continue to dance. Caity goes right on recording me. My hands cramp where I hold the costume fabric at the top of my thighs. If so much didn’t depend on her forgetting this vendetta with me, I’d love to ask her if this is her normal Sunday routine: filming dancing fruit?

  Tiago comes into view behind Caity. He throws his left hand up. Clearly frustrated with the turn of events. He holds a large bottle of Gatorade in his right hand. He must have gone off to find one for me. We don’t sell them in the restaurant. And my stomach plummets at his though
tfulness. Even though I’m alarmed he’s joining the fray.

  He walks right up to me, unscrews the cap, and passes me the bottle. At first, my hand doesn’t want to unclench from the hem of my costume, but I manage to take it from him. “Thanks.”

  He nods at me. Then he turns toward Caity with a polite kind of expression on his face. “How goes it?”

  Normalizing the situation almost teases a nervous giggle from me. But I hide my reaction by guzzling the Gatorade. I’ve stopped dancing to drink.

  She seems nonplussed by his non-reaction. “Oh, f-fine,” she stammers.

  “Going to be a hot one today,” he declares. “Drink that entire bottle. You’re losing electrolytes out here in the sun.”

  A nice way of not saying you’re sweating a river. More hair freed from my ponytail sticks to my neck. He’s standing next to me like there’s nothing out of the norm.

  It’s a rather brilliant way not to escalate the situation.

  Caity puts her phone in her back pocket.

  I drink Gatorade. I didn’t realize how thirsty I’d gotten dancing in the sun and suffering from low-grade anxiety about a potential costume failure. And a massive freaking headache. The brightness of the sun hurts my eyes. “Thanks for the drink.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He takes off his sunglasses and passes them to me. “You’re squinting. Put those on.”

  Caity spins in the opposite direction and fast-walks away from us without a word.

  When she’s a half-block away Tiago says, “What the hell was that all about?”

  “I have no idea.” I pass him the now-empty bottle. “I needed that.”

  I put the sunglasses on. Nothing else for me to do except dance, and I get moving.

  “How long do you have to do this?”

  “Goose said an hour.”

  As soon as I say it, the man himself comes around the corner. His face is wreathed in smiles. “Hey, Phoebe. How’s it going?”

  “Good,” I tell him.

  Tiago says, “She’s losing electrolytes.”

  That word again. I must look frightening. “I’m fine, really.”

  Goose says, “Your friend makes an excellent point. Good first time out, but you need to get out of the sun and take a break.”

  “Okay. Thanks. I’ll go clean up.”

  “Yes, definitely. Take your time,” Goose agrees.

  Tiago says, “I’ll be right back.”

  And he moves in the direction of the restaurant parking lot. I’m not paying too close attention because now that I’ve been given the all clear, I want this thing off. It feels like it gained weight over the last hour I’ve worn it.

  I beeline for the employee restroom, grabbing my backpack before closing the door. I’ll need the shirt and jeans I tucked in there while I wore the suit. Wiggling out of the costume, I pull off the tights and stuff those into my backpack to wash and return on my next shift. I hang the avocado. My hands are so stiff I can barely lift the darn thing onto its hanger.

  My phone rings in my backpack. I reach for it, checking caller ID. After the last automated call, I made a decision to set up Google Voice and linked my number. This gives me the ability to record incoming conversations.

  I answer the call, and an automated recording intones: You have a prepaid call from Helen Sharpe, an inmate at Henderson Detention Center. To accept this call press five. To decline this call push seven. To block this caller press nine.

  My finger hovers over the number five. But I can’t talk to her now, I’m at work. For all I know, Caity might be lurking somewhere nearby. I hit seven, and dump my phone back in my bag.

  I’m not sure if it’s legal or not for me to record a conversation with Mom. Probably, I should find out before answering her call. I can’t imagine getting in trouble for what’s on my phone now, a recording of a recording, but I can always delete it.

  I wet some paper towels and add a pump of hand soap, dragging it across my torso, and along the back of my neck. Repeating until I feel more human. My hair needs washing. I can’t do that in this small sink. But it’s okay. I thread my wet hands through my hair and then run a brush through before resetting my ponytail. Lifting my hair off my neck provides instant coolness, which feels divine.

  I have deodorant with me, thank goodness, and cinnamon-scented moisturizer. I use both. After pulling on my shirt and jeans I’m ready to go back out and face the rest of my shift. When I open the door, Dawn hands me a tall cup of ice water. “Thanks.” I finish the full glass in one long gulp. “Man, that was some fierce heat. I felt like I was frying from the inside out.”

  “Yeah. Goose should probably rethink having you wear that now while we’re still rocking temps in the mid-to-high eighties.”

  “I’m good.”

  “In your shoes, I’d be excellent. Who’s the hottie waiting on the patio for you?”

  “His name is TJ. We go to Fortis together.”

  “Are you guys hooking up?”

  Not yet. I feel a little tug somewhere in the vicinity of my heart. Whether we want to be is still a big, fat question mark. But still. I probably should say something. “We’re circling.”

  “If you decide not to land, I want a shot.”

  It’s such a brazen, confident thing to say it makes me snort. “I’ll keep you posted.”

  Goose steps over to us. “Phoebe, do me a favor.” He hands me another glass filled with ice and water and takes the empty cup in my hand. “Go sit for at least ten minutes. Take a load off, okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I insist. It’s my fault you got overheated. Now I feel guilt. Take a break. Out of the direct sun, under one of the umbrellas.”

  Heading out to the patio, I notice Tiago sitting at one of the umbrella tables. He gives me the come-ahead motion with his hand. I feel the pull of his summons deep in my core.

  Dawn exclaims quietly behind me, “If he stared at me and called me over in that way, I’d have to change my panties.”

  Excellent point, but I have to admonish her. “Don’t say panties. That’s one of my cringe words.”

  “Yeah?” It appears as though I’ve piqued her interest. “Do you have many?”

  “Well, I dislike the other p-word and don’t say moist, unless we’re talking about cakes.” I shudder because they really do give me the shivers.

  “I like you, Phoebe. You’re strange and have pretty decent dance moves. I thought you were going to be a perfect little dud. Now I find you’re just as flawed as the rest of us.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I have a thing about belly buttons. Don’t ever show me yours.”

  I whip around to make sure she’s serious. “You have my word.”

  She nods and walks over to one of the tables nearer to the parking lot where a family just sat down. They have a small French bulldog with them. They attach the dog’s lead to one of the table legs. Dawn asks, “Will your dog need a water bowl? We have clean bowls for our four-legged guests.”

  I no longer care about wearing the suit, sweating like a pig, or potential humiliation for KickBack uploads. The fact there are bowls for pets makes me feel so happy right now.

  “Hey, Phoebes.” Tiago moves the empty chair next to him out of the sunlight and under the full shade of the umbrella. “Have a seat.”

  “Thanks.” I pass him his sunglasses.

  He hands me a sealed plastic bag with a waffle-weave athletic gold towel inside. The Fortis Gladiator logo screen print can be seen through the plastic. “What’s this?”

  “It’s a cooling towel. Run it through cold water and wrap it around your neck the next time you have to dance your way into heat stroke.”

  “Does it work?”

  “Yes, really well. Promise me you’ll use it. I’m worried about you.”

  Wow. He’s done two thoughtful things for me in the past twenty minutes. I tell myself not to get used to it. “Thanks. I appreciate it. How much do I owe you?”

  “Nothing.
It’s a freebie they passed out to the team. That’s my spare. I want you to use it.”

  “Okay. Not to sound salty and ungrateful, but why are you here?”

  “I was driving by on my way home from the Portuguese bakery. I almost rear-ended the VW bug in front of me when I saw you dressed like a green M&M dancing on the corner.”

  “It’s an avocado. How could you possibly think otherwise?”

  “The pit was gyrating. It looked like a giant peanut.”

  Shit! Now there’s a visual I won’t forget. “Thanks so much. I appreciate having that image stuck in my head.”

  “Trust me. I won’t soon forget it either,” he snickers.

  “You said bakery.” I point at the white bag resting on the table in front of him. “What did you buy.”

  “Filhós, what you might know as malasadas.”

  “No, I don’t recognize either. What are they?”

  “Portuguese fried donuts.”

  My stomach growls. It sounds so good right now.

  He grins and passes the bag toward me. “Try one.”

  I take one out of the bag. It’s about the size of an apple fritter. It’s warm and dusted in granulated sugar. Taking a bite, the fried dough texture reminds me of a churro without the cinnamon. It’s delicious. “Oh my God, this is fabulous,” I gush between bites. I finish the whole thing in what feels like seconds. My headache backs off.

  “They are pretty damn good.” His expression turns sad.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He looks away. He inhales and exhales. “They’re my grandma’s favorite. She asked for them today.”

  There’s something more. Because that shouldn’t have caused that look to cross his face. “Is there a problem?” I ask gently.

  “She asked for them to celebrate her birthday. She was a little hurt we didn’t have them for her when she came to breakfast.” He swallows hard and wipes his wrist across his mouth.

  “Did your family forget?”

  When he makes eye contact, there’s a sheen in his eyes that makes my stomach drop. “It’s not her birthday. She’s convinced we’ve forgotten. She cried. It broke my heart.” He takes a breath. “It’s hard to explain what happens to her.”

  I place my hand over his and squeeze.