by P. Dangelico
“It’s okay. I’ve got it.”
“Let me,” he mumbles, directing the words at some unseen point in the distance. As he reaches the door, he stops and turns, his shuttered eyes meeting mine squarely. “Thanks for coming.”
The words ‘what are friends for’ are on the tip of my tongue but they die on my lips. We’re not friends. We’re just two people thrown together by circumstance. Before I can do something really stupid like persuade him into talking about what’s bothering him, I remind myself that in two months time I’ll be gone and his life will continue as if we’ve never met.
“No sweat,” I answer. After which, I watch him disappear inside, taking his heavy thoughts and somber mood with him.
Chapter Fourteen
“Hmm,” says the man sitting across from me. I look up from picking at the nail bed of my thumb and meet his thoughtful gaze.
Four months ago, out of some insane unfounded optimism, I sent my resume to a bunch of schools that had teaching positions available. One of them actually called to set up an interview. The cherry on top was that I received the call while Calvin was busy digging into the egg white omelet with mixed vegetables I’d made for him. Such sweet delight. I won’t lie, I spoke loud enough for the entire block to hear.
Okay, so it isn’t the greatest. Located in one of the worst sections of the Bronx, the commute to New Jersey is awful––and dangerous if I have to stay late for meetings. Regardless, I can really make an impact on the lives of the kids living in that neighborhood so the risk is worth it…and let’s face it, not like I stood a chance landing any of the primo jobs in Manhattan and Westchester.
“Are you currently employed, Ms. DeSantis?” Mr. Rodriguez, the Principal and head of the hiring committee asks with a warm, sincere smile. The groves fanning out from his dark eyes and the bristly gray hair lend him an appealing gravitas. I perk up at his query and nod enthusiastically. “I am. I’m currently homeschooling an eight year old boy.”
“You didn’t list that on your resume.”
“Ah, that’s because his uncle, the man who hired me, is a… uhh…public figure. I signed a nondisclosure agreement.”
Principal Rodriguez’s curiosity is piqued. I notice his eyes grow a touch wider. He reclines in his chair and places his hands behind his head, a silent debate clearly being fought somewhere inside his skull. “Well, Ms. DeSantis, as much as I’d like to say it doesn’t make a difference that you have no references, I’m afraid I can’t. Do you think your employer would be willing to write you one?”
Just the thought of asking Calvin for a favor sets my teeth on edge. “He takes his privacy very seriously,” I explain, dejected beyond measure. His blank stare prods me to continue. “I can try.” The corners of my mouth creep up in a forced smile.
“Great,” the principal answers as if it’s all settled.
“Great,” I mirror, stiffly reaching out to shake his hand. All that’s left for me to do now is to give up the microscopic particle of dignity I have left.
It takes me an excruciating four hours to get back to Calvin’s, an accident on the Cross Bronx Expressway turning it into a parking lot. I’m in the kitchen, making myself tea before heading off to bed, when Cal walks in. His intense gaze takes in my rounded shoulders and the mood I’m wearing. Walking past me, he grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and takes a seat at the counter.
“How’d it go?”
“Good.”
“You think you’ll get it?” he murmurs in between sips of water, his scrutiny a palpable thing.
“Not sure.”
A lengthy pause ensues. “Do you need a personal reference?”
I thought I was immune to surprises. I thought Matt had cured me of those. I was wrong. It takes me a full minute to dig my voice out under all the disbelief. I turn to take in his face. Which is a bit difficult when you have a mostly naked Adonis before you. I may not be cured of surprises, but he’ll never be cured of parading around nude.
“You’d do that?” I say, my voice overly bright with excitement. And then he surprises me again by frowning.
“What do you take me for, Cam?” There’s a wounded look on his face that makes me feel like garbage. Jezuz, I hurt his feelings. I don’t ever want to hurt anyone’s feelings, least of all his. He stands, looking…shit, he looks disappointed. “I’ll have it for you tomorrow.”
Without waiting for me to respond he walks out of the kitchen, leaving me to deal with the fact that I suddenly really care about what he thinks, that I’ll do anything to avoid seeing that look of disappointment in his eyes ever again.
We spend the rest of next week treating each other with polite indifference, falling into a routine of sorts. As promised, Cal wrote a glowing letter of recommendation––which only made me feel worse. And to add insult to injury, when I called Principal Rodriguez to inform him I was emailing it over, he in turn informed me that they had already hired a more qualified applicant.
Without me extending an invitation or him voicing a preference, we all eat breakfast together. Not much is said. Then Calvin goes off and does whatever he does. Training most days. Sometimes at home, sometimes with his trainer while Sam and I complete our lessons. When lunch rolls around, Calvin magically appears again. Not much is said at lunch. Once we’re done he goes to his bat cave, I mean his office and Sam and I usually head to the park. Which is exactly what happened today.
After a solid hour of playing basketball, Sam and I go food shopping. It’s already late afternoon by the time we pull into the garage. We’re in the process of unloading grocery bags and carrying them to the mudroom that leads to the kitchen when I hear shouting. The noise descends into a sort of groan. Sam and I look at each other, drop the bags, and hurry from the garage to the kitchen.
“Camilla!”
Without sparing another second, we run to the gym where we find Calvin sprawled face down on the mats.
“What happened?!” Cal turns his head to face me and I drop to my knees.
“Pulled a muscle in my back,” he groans.
“Sam, go get the cold packs in the freezer,” I order. Sam doesn’t hesitate, sprinting out of the room.
“Where’s Mercedes?”
“Needed the day off.”
“How long have you been lying here?”
“Maybe an hour.”
Instinctively, I start running my hands down his back to check for heat and swelling and find it on the left side of his lower back.
“Tell me if you feel any pain,” I say while I palpate the area.
His breath catches. I can feel him holding it. “A little…right there.”
“It doesn’t seem serious. Most likely a strain. I’ll ice it and get you some ibuprofen. Do you want me to call the team trainer?”
“No.”
“What about that blonde? The one that comes over to give you massages?”
“Natalie? Hmm, better not.”
“Why?”
He mumbles something that vaguely sounds like ‘can’t deal with her hitting on me right now’, and I have to bite my lower lip to school the grin spreading on my face. Very gently, I massage the area, the heel of my hand pressing and stretching the hot skin of his lower back.
“Ughhh––keep doing that.” Short, breathless moans break the sentence apart. “You seem to know what you’re doing.”
“Played softball ‘til my senior year in college.”
“Really?” He sounds genuinely confused.
“I think I should be offended.”
“No, no, please. I just…”
“Don’t worry about it, Champ,” I interrupt, taking mercy on him.
Sam returns with the ice packs and hands them to me. His eyes are wide and anxious.
“It’s nothing serious, Sam.” That seems to calm him a little.
“I’ll be fine, Sam,” Cal adds gruffly. Yeah, very reassuring. However, I cut him some slack since he’s in pain.
“Sam, I’ll take care of this. Why don
’t you go start that book we got yesterday.” At my suggestion, Sam leaves skid marks. I’m pretty sure he’s still not entirely comfortable around Cal.
“You’ve really been pushing it lately.”
“Have to be ready for minicamp.”
My eyes do a slow dance over his perfect butt. “You’re more than ready. I’d say give it a rest, but your body just did it for me.” After he responds with some incoherent grumblings, I continue with, “I don’t think we should move you. Maybe I’ll just turn the television on while I alternate icing and massaging.”
“Okay.” That one word does what nothing has ever done before––make him sound vulnerable. My poor, weak heart spasms. After I get him the painkillers and order Chinese take-out for dinner, I start icing and massaging.
“You don’t have to stay with me if you don’t want to.” Something in the tone he uses belies his words, although I could be imagining it––not like I can trust my judgment any longer. “Yeah, right there,” he groans.
“If you don’t want me to stay, just say so.”
“Stay if you want to,” he says, hurriedly.
I pick up a remote complicated enough to operate a military drone, and spend the next few minutes fumbling with it. When I have zero success turning on the television, Calvin patiently walks me through it, after which, I resume my tender ministrations. Last season’s conference championship game pops up on the flat screen.
“You’re a split second late on your release. You didn’t trust your receiver––the defensive back read it perfectly.” The words leave my mouth before I have a chance to stop them. The moment I finish the sentence I know I shouldn’t have.
Palms flat on the mat, his cheek resting on them, he lifts his face slightly to look at me. It’s tight––and not from pain.
“Stewart wasn’t where he was supposed to be. That’s why he got traded.”
It’s plain as day to me. Cal was a fraction of a second late pulling the trigger and it cost them the championship. “Why aren’t you saying anything,” he spits out. He’s pissed. I hear it loud and clear even though he’s trying hard to hide it.
“Because I disagree. You didn’t trust him. Watch the film from three years ago. You had the quickest release I’ve ever seen.” We both fall silent for the rest of the game. By the time it ends, he’s in ‘deep brooding’ mode.
“Do you think you can make it up the stairs?”
“No. I’ll sleep on the couch,” he mumbles without glancing my way. The rest of the furniture we ordered arrived earlier in the week. The extra oversized down couch is wide enough to sleep two people comfortably.
Slowly, I help him get up, throwing my entire body against his to support his weight, his arm hanging over my shoulder. The scent of deodorant and soap hits me in the strangest way. I recognize it as Calvin’s scent. One that’s become familiar in the same way that Matt’s once was.
That realization spirals out of control. My throat begins to close up and the dampness in my eyes threatens to turn into full on tears. Biting the inside of my cheek, I try desperately to keep that from happening. While Cal stretches out on the couch, I run upstairs to grab his pillow and blanket, and take the time to collect myself.
I’m momentarily stunned when I step into his bedroom for the very first time ever. It’s pristine. Everything is either white or beige, the furniture expensive, sheets that look like the King of England would sleep on are ironed perfectly. I grab a pillow and a cashmere blanket off the bed––yes, cashmere––and run downstairs.
“I got your fancy shmancy blanket and a pillow.”
After I place the pillow behind his head and hand him the blanket, I glance his way and notice the very serious expression he’s wearing.
“The first time I ever slept on a mattress off the ground was in college.” His tone is unmistakably defensive…and now I feel like a complete and total jerk for teasing him. Good grief. If he keeps offering hard luck stories, I’m going to have to start a collection plate for him.
“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean––I was just being a smart ass. I like your fancy schmancy blanket.”
Those gray orbs are still peering intently. I stand there awkwardly for what feels like an eternity, waiting for him to say something, anything. He’s so handsome it’s a frigging crime against womankind. I can say that as a matter of fact. Talk about hitting the DNA Powerball. It seems inconceivable that someone could be this beautiful and ridiculously talented as well.
“Thank you,” he says super seriously.
“You’re welcome.”
He keeps staring as if he wants to say something else…until it starts to get weird.
“Good night.”
The expectant look in his eyes dissipates. “Night.”
When I step into the living room the next morning, I find him watching the same game tape we’d watched together. He turns to look at me and the expression I find does not bode well.
“You’re right,” he mutters. Then his gaze returns to the television. For the sake of peace, I bite back the urge to say ‘I know.’
“How’s your back?”
“Better.”
“I suggest you relax today. Can I bring you some stuff to keep you busy? Books or anything?”
“Na, I’m good,” he grumbles like a sullen teenager.
“Vege omelet?”
Tearing his eyes away from the game footage one more time, he pins me with an intense gaze. I have no clue what this means and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know. I give him a ‘well?’ look and he nods.
In between my lessons with Sam, I spend the better part of the day shuttling back and forth from the living room, to the kitchen where Sam and I work on reading comprehension, addition and subtraction. Cal seems to get progressively grumpier as the day wears on. I had no idea how many different ways my name could be yelled until this very moment.
Mercedes wanders into the kitchen around lunchtime. I give her my most pitiful look, which goes nowhere. “Don’t look at me. He’s calling you,” she bluntly states, no sympathy for my plight.
As soon as I’m done with Sam, I walk into the living room to see if he needs anything and find him on the carpeted floor stretching.
“How does it feel?”
“Much better.”
“Yeah, well, you need to take it easy for the next two days. Are you going to get an MRI to see if there’s a tear?”
“Made an appointment already.” I get another indecipherable look.
“Turn around and I’ll massage it.”
I don’t have to ask twice. I almost laugh at how quickly he gets into place. Lifting his shirt, I palpate the area. And after I determine that there’s no heat, which tells me he should be on the mend in no time, I grab the heating pad and apply it. He lets out a deep sigh as I begin to work the balm into his skin. His eyes flutter shut, his long black lashes sitting on high cheekbones.
“Lower,” he orders. “Pull my pants down.”
“Excuse me?” I chuckle.
“What’s the big deal?” he grunts out.
“I get it that you like getting nude in front of strangers, however, I’m not one of your many admirers. Believe it or not, I can live my whole life without seeing your bare ass and be just fine.” As I say this, I yank the elastic of his track pants down to his crack (no underwear, obvs) exposing two back dimples…I think they just winked at me.
An army of red ants is suddenly crawling up my neck, which irritates the crap out of me. Next, I start to feel everything south of my waist grow suspiciously warm. What the…I avert my eyes from those pesky dimples and work the muscle next to one.
“I grew up sharing a two bedroom trailer with ten people. I had no idea what privacy was until I bought my first house. You get over being shy real quick.” The last few words are colored by a twang.
Aaand I just got double barrel kicked in the sternum. Ouch. This is starting to become a habit. I don’t even know what to say to that, so I keep my fat mouth shut.<
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“How long did you play softball?” he continues in that panty melting deep voice of his.
“Until my senior year at Boston College.”
“What position?”
“Pitcher.”
At this, his eyes crack open and study me closely. “You must’ve been really good.”
“Hmm. I had an ERA of 1.82 and 237 strikeouts.” Softball had always been easy for me.
“That makes you one of the best in the league. Why’d you give it up?”
For the first time in years, I’m tempted to tell the truth, the truth that I can barely admit to myself, let alone out loud. And yet for some reason, it feels like if anyone would understand without judgment, it’s this man.
“The official answer is chronic shoulder pain.”
He scans my face, his sharp, intelligent eyes reading every nuance. “And the unofficial?”
“I didn’t have the heart for it anymore. I’m not a competitor like you. The time spent practicing and traveling, the dedication it takes. You know––” At this, he gives me a commiserative nod. “I played because I was good at it with very little effort, but I never had a passion for it.”
He’s now staring at me like he wants to say something and doesn’t know how to begin. After too much time spent in silence, I add, “And if you ever repeat that, I’ll get Amber to murder you in your sleep.”
At the mention of Amber, he groans. Just then, Sam shuffles awkwardly into the room and mumbles something about his new Lego set.
“Sam––do you know how to play Madden?” Calvin asks him. Sam nods vigorously. “Wanna play a little with me?”
Hiding my shock is out of the question. Calvin has never actually asked Sam anything, let alone to play a game. The smile this produces on my face is just plain silly. I point it directly at the big man lying on his stomach and he kindly answers with an eye roll and a headshake. Two hours later, I’m groaning, “Can’t you just let him win once in a while? Sam? Are you listening?”
Both of them ignore me. Sam is as relaxed as I’ve ever seen him while Calvin looks like he’s about to smash the television into a thousand pieces.
