by P. Dangelico
“I have a thing, a team sponsored event coming up on Saturday. Do you think Sam would like to go?”
“I think he’d love it if you asked him. He worships you, you know.” Still no smile. “I’ll go see my parents.”
“You don’t want to come?” he casually asks, more like a question framed as a statement.
When I don’t answer right away because I’m SHOCKED, he takes that as a no. “It’s fine.” He’s already mad. Good Lord, this guy is wound tight.
“Jeez, give me a chance to answer. I’m just getting used to you not growling the question.” His lips want to curve up. I know they do. Making this guy smile is becoming a worthwhile pursuit. That’s why I answer, “I’d love to come.”
Around lunchtime, Shaw makes an appearance. That seems to be happening more and more lately. We’ve reached a fragile detente in our tolerate/hate relationship. I don’t even bother to ask. I place some of my looks-fried-but-it’s-really-baked-chicken on a plate along with fresh grilled vegetables and roasted Yukon potatoes sprinkled with rosemary, and set it down next to Sam in the hope that these two males might relax around each other over a good meal.
Maybe I really am my mother’s daughter after all.
One quick glance at Shaw tells me he’s having an orgasm over the chicken and my spirits lift. I’m thinking that should take the edge off of the grumps, until he opens his mouth.
“We have an event to go to on Saturday at team facilities.”
Not a question, not a, “Hey, how are you doing Sam?”
Nope. A command. A command that leaves no room for further discussion, given to a eight year old that’s already completely intimidated. What does he do for fun? Drown kittens? Now I’m fuming.
“What your uncle means, Sam, is that there’s a team event that he needs to attend and he would love for you to go with him. It helps kids that are sick. Would you like to go?”
In the periphery of my vision, I see the deep v etched on Shaw’s brow. All those warm fuzzies he’s usually oozing are directed at me over Sam’s head, which I do my best to ignore. In the mean time, I’m telepathically flipping him off. Without looking once at his uncle, and in a small voice that breaks my heart, Sam says, “Are you coming?”
“Sure. Where you go, I go.” His eyes brighten and he gives me a short nod. Shaw’s full lower lip looks tight with (surprise surprise) displeasure, although he wisely chooses to remain quiet. I return to my now cold lunch. The rest of the meal is painfully conducted in silence.
Chapter Nine
The event Saturday is to benefit a local children’s hospital. Children’s organizations are often the beneficiaries of the Davis’, the Titans owners, charity efforts, which I believe stem from the fact that, sadly, they lost their only son to cancer. Shaw informs me that there will be carnival-like games set up for the children and the players to compete in, therefore, to dress casual. Sam and I are waiting in the kitchen, me in my dark designer jeans and a black v neck wool sweater with a pair of black flats––my go-to outfit when I don’t know what to wear––and Sam is in a nice blue button down and khakis.
What I’m not prepared for is the sight walking down the stairs. He’s dressed in a pair of artfully distressed designer jeans, a blue and white checkered button down shirt, and Italian leather lace up boots that are pretending to look worn and used, though probably cost a small fortune. Seriously? It looks like he mugged a mannequin in a Barneys window. He also trimmed the beard. It’s super short and neat. Basically it looks like he spent more time on his appearance than I did. Not that that’s too difficult; I’m no fashionista, usually sticking to the classics. His pale eyes meet mine and for the life of me I can’t look away.
Pretty boys have never appealed to me. Ruggedly handsome is my preferred style. I’ve always had a private fetish for the working class hero. For guys who know how to use their hands and come home sweaty and a little bit grimy and say things like, “Let me wash up first.” Ironic since my husband was solidly white collar––a shrink would have a field day with that one but I digress. And now I remember why Shaw never did it for me. If he was any less of a brute, if his brow wasn’t plagued by a perpetual scowl, he would be prettier than most women.
Those large, gray eyes are framed by a crowded fan of lashes so thick and black it looks like he’s wearing eyeliner. And the slender nose coupled with those sensual lips? All I have to say about that is he’s lucky he has a strong jaw and sharp cheekbones otherwise he’d be a Disney character.
I must be glowering because he says, “What?”
“A haircut wouldn’t kill you.” It’s still in a man bun. This earns me a half- assed grunt. The unhygienic beard is gone––not the obnoxious personality. He does a quick sweep of my person and his mouth pinches.
If this peacock even thinks about criticizing my clothes…
“Let’s go.”
In the car I put on a video for Sam to watch in the backseat. Shaw remains quiet, his eyes on the road ahead. It doesn’t bother me as it once did. I know now that’s just him.
“Is there anything you expect Sam to participate in? Pictures? Anything I should know about?”
Okay, I’m babbling. I tend to do that when I’m nervous and it just dawned on me that we’ll be in public, most likely surrounded by reporters and someone might recognize me. Crap. Double crap. Shaw’s eyes flicker to my leg, which is beating nervously against the floor of the car.
“Didn’t you hit the can before we left?”
Charming. “Yes, I did.”
“Then what’s the deal? You nervous?”
How much do I explain? I have no frigging idea. “Yes,” I answer, going with the truth. He’s staring like he expects me to elaborate. I’m having a hard time with this clean shaven version of the Prince of Darkness who looks deceptively like Prince Charming.
He’s watching me now. Between that piercing gaze of his and my frazzled nerves, I’m starting to unravel. My chest feels tight. “Stop staring at me like that. It’s rude,” I snap, and watch his eyebrows climb up his forehead. After a backward glance to make sure Sam isn’t listening, I whisper, “I’m scared someone will recognize me.”
“So what?”
“So I tend to inspire nasty behavior in whomever recognizes me.” His expression hardens. Even with those pretty features, he suddenly looks dangerous.
“What kind of behavior?”
I sigh heavily and moderate my oxygen intake because the last thing I need right now is to hyperventilate, and there’s a really good frigging chance of that happening.
I hate talking about this––with anybody. There’s so much shame attached to it. Do I want to tell him about the time someone waited outside my house for two days only to spit on me when I took the trash out? Do I want to explain that I had to drive an hour away just to grocery shop for months because I had an orange thrown at me at my local grocery store? No. I really don’t.
“Shouting and swearing, sometimes pushing and shoving,” I mumble. When the silence continues, I chance a glance in his direction. He’s staring ahead, his jaw locked, his mouth stretched in a grim line. We ride the rest of the way in silence, the atmosphere tense. I think I may have just driven the last nail in my own coffin. He’s probably mad that may happen around his nephew and I don’t blame him. He parks the car and I’m about to jump out when he grabs my wrist.
“You don’t have to worry about that shit happening anymore.”
What’s that supposed to mean? Before I can ask, he’s out of the car.
Inside the indoor practice facility, the entire field is covered with carnival themed games and food stands. A lot of the guys on the team are in attendance, most with large families in tow. When I realize how many of them have young kids, it makes sense that they would still be in town until school lets out. As soon as we walk in, Sam’s eyes go wide and a smile spreads across his face.
“Sam, why don’t you walk around with your uncle so he can introduce you to some of the other players o
n the team?”
This question is answered with a little boy scowl that’s a carbon copy of the one Shaw gives me when I’ve done or said something to displease him, which of course is often.
Shaw starts to walk away. “Let’s go, Sam.”
Sam shuffles after him, dragging his feet, his shoulders slumped. And I almost feel bad pushing him.
The next hour passes slowly. I hide in a corner, away from a bevy of reporters and photographers, and watch Shaw and Sam from a distance. They aren’t saying much to each other, but it’s more time than I’ve ever seen them spend together since I moved in. I guess that’s something to celebrate.
“Whom are you hiding from?” I look sideways and find Ethan Vaughn scanning the crowd suspiciously.
“No one…what about you?” The exasperated expression he gives me puts a smile on my face.
“Short brunette, loud voice. Give me a heads up if you see her coming this way.”
“You badger me relentlessly and now you expect me to help you?” I say mildly amused.
“How is Angelina, by the way?”
“Infatuated. Add another heart to your trophy case.” For that comment, I get a strange quirk of his brow. His beautiful eyes follow the path mine take, straight to Sam.
“I knew you would be good for him,” he says, those chocolate orbs glimmering in triumph.
“How would you know anything about it?”
“Cal’s been raving about you. He says you’ve worked wonders with Sam.” Say what? “Oh shit––just go with it.”
“Go with what?” Before I can get another word out, Vaughn swings an arm around my neck and huddles closer.
“Vaughn, if you don’t remove your hand from the vicinity of my breast area, I will break off every single one of your digits,” I say in the same voice I used to employ on my unruly third graders.
“Look over my shoulder and make sure she’s gone,” he whispers. Fighting a smile, I glance over his shoulder and spot the busty brunette staring at us with her head tilted and a pout on. Behind her, I catch a glimpse of Shaw.
“What is she doin…aaaaaahhhh.” Vaughn is pried off of me by an angry ogre with a firm grip on his ear.
“You’re hurting him, stop it.” Shaw lets go. While Vaughn is busy rubbing life back into his cherry red ear, I lift his hand and inspect the ear. “You’ll survive.”
“Fuck, Cal. What the hell’s wrong with you?” Vaughn looks pissed. I get the feeling this is strange behavior even for Shaw.
“Nothing’s wrong with me. What the hell’s wrong with you?” Shaw snaps back. Ethan narrows his eyes. There’s a lot of bewilderment there.
“Where’s Sam?” I ask, suddenly worried. Pointing behind him, I get a grunt from Shaw. Sam is standing there looking unsure and awkward. “Way to go, hero.” Stepping around them, I grab Sam’s hand and we walk off.
“Oh crud. You beat me again,” I say, feigning disappointment. Sam giggles so loudly I may have to throw ten more games just to hear it again. We’ve been playing a beanbag toss game for the past half hour.
“Can I play?”
Both Sam and I turn around at the sound of the deep voice. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Shaw look quite this uncomfortable. He’s standing there with his hands shoved in the front pocket of his jeans like the last kid on the playground to be picked for a dodge ball team. Do I let him disrupt the happy vibe we’ve been surfing, or turn him away and possibly cause more problems down the road? With a warning glare at Shaw, I say, “You can take my turn.” I don’t miss the worried look that crosses Sam’s face.
A short while later, even though the excitement has fallen a notch or two, Sam still seems to be having fun. I can’t deny that part of me is surprised. I didn’t expect Shaw to make this much of an effort. Maybe there’s hope for him yet–– although he made sure to win at least half the games so the jury is still out. Jerk. I just hope these two have turned a corner.
“Now you take my turn,” Sam says, surprising me. I glance at Shaw and the smug look on the arrogant ass’ face makes my spine go laser straight. So he wants to play does he? Fine by me. Should I mention I was the pitcher on a championship winning softball team? I’ll keep that little beauty to myself.
By the tenth game, Sam is openly cheering me on and I have to forcibly stop myself from doubling over in laughter. Shaw has smoke coming out of his ears. The Super Bowl MVP doesn’t like to be upstaged by a girl apparently. Not that either of us are winning; it’s a dead heat even after he stopped taking it easy on me.
“One more, or are you done?” I taunt and watch those chilly eyes narrow. “That killer glare doesn’t work on me, Calvin.” The sound of his name on my lips makes his twitch. He wants to smile, I know he does, and yet…nothing.
“A picture, Mr. Shaw?” We turn to find a photographer armed with a massive camera already poised to shoot.
“Not now,” Calvin answers.
“Just a quick one,” insists the photographer and begins snapping pictures of us. Calvin’s entire body stiffens. All except for the good parts that is.
“Unless you want to be banned from team facilities for life, I suggest you erase the last three pictures.” His voice is deadly calm and his face a frozen mask. This is not his game face, one I know well from the hundreds of games I’ve watched him play over the years, this face holds malicious intent. The photographer smartly tunes into the serious threat. He nods slowly and begins scanning the screen on his digital camera. Stepping closer, he shows me the last pictures on the screen. I give him a tight smile after I confirm the absence of our images.
“Are we cool?” the young man asks Calvin.
“We’re cool.”
As soon as the photographer is gone, I turn to Calvin. “What was that about?”
His gaze stays on the beanbag he tosses in the air and catches. “I saw the look on your face when he took the picture.” Then he drops it and walks away without sparing me another glance.
All the action makes Sam and me hungry. Heading over to the food stands, we decide on a couple of hotdogs and something to drink. Then we find an empty picnic table on a quiet side of the field to eat.
“Fancy meetin’ you here,” drawls a friendly voice. I look over my shoulder to find Justin Harper loping in our direction. His crooked, carefree grin provokes one on my face, too. When he reaches us he swings a long leg over the bench and straddles it.
“Sam, this is Justin Harper, the new wide receiver for the Titans. Justin, I’d like to introduce you to Sam McCabe, Calvin Shaw’s nephew,” I say, heavy emphasis on the last few words.
“Nice to meet you, Sam.” Harper thrusts out a hand that Sam shakes with a smile, instantly taken by Justin’s sunny demeanor. Leaning into me, Justin whispers, “I have a question for you.” My whole body braces for the worst. Looking a tad self-conscious, he asks, “Is your friend single?”
It takes me a moment to realize he’s asking about Amber. The smile this incites almost breaks my face in two. “Dimples––what about the girl you were crying about?”
He screws his face up in an adorable scowl. “She’s already datin’ someone else damn it.”
“Are you sure about this?”
I mean, I love Amber more than I love myself, but she’ll devour and spit him back out before he realizes he’s lunch meat. I feel the need to at least give him the opportunity to save himself.
He nods vigorously, eagerness sparking in his light brown gaze.
I’m thinking, ‘it’s your funeral’, even though I answer, “Yes, she’s single.”
“We’re going,” a deep voice shouts.
Justin narrows his eyes and we both turn in its direction––along with all the other thirty some odd people in the general area. Standing a few yards away, Calvin is watching me with a careful look of indifference. He’s facing a tall, attractive ginger wearing glasses and clutching an IPad. She’s trying to speak to him, her expression determined, but he’s clearly not paying attention to her. His hands are stuffe
d in the front pockets of his jeans, his body language illustrating his boredom. Typical. God forbid he has to engage with one of us mere mortals.
“I said we’re leaving.”
What the frigging hell is his problem?? A blast of humiliation marks my neck.
“Is he always so much fun?” I can tell Justin is keeping it PG because of Sam, who gets off the bench and begins walking toward Calvin.
“I’m sorry, Justin. This has nothing to do with you,” I say, chasing after Sam.
His eyes move between Calvin and me. The devious look on young Harper’s face makes me pause. “How about I take you to lunch some time?” he shouts loud enough for half the field to witness. It literally stops me in my tracks. Caught between answering and escaping, I choose option B, to escape. Speed walking past Calvin, I take Sam’s hand and head toward the exit of the training field.
On the drive home, we’re all silent. Once the Range Rover is parked in the garage, Calvin disappears into the house, not to be seen again. I end up ordering pizza for Sam and me. Sam looks as tired as I feel, so after dinner we go upstairs early and watch television together before bed.
My mind is swimming with the events of the day. In the shower, Ethan’s words come back to me in a rush. Calvin’s been raving about you. Raving? Yeah, maybe raving mad. Not even the sweet sensation of the hot water pounding on my head can make that admission sound remotely plausible. I’d have to stretch my imagination pretty thin to believe Calvin had anything better than neutral to say about me.
By the time the phone rings around eleven and Amber’s face pops up on the cell screen, I’m desperate for a distraction. “I’m so excited for you. This is the beginning of great things. I can feel it.” She’s just booked a national commercial for a major brand of soap and I couldn’t be any happier for her. Her gorgeous face will be piped into every household with a television.
“Meh, we’ll see,” she answers.
