by M. J. Fields
“NC?”
He nods as he opens the door.
I consider getting out, but I want to see if he’s a gentleman at heart.
He opens the door and smiles. “Let’s go feast.”
When he holds out his hand, I hesitate, and he laughs nervously and runs his hand over his wavy dark hair.
I slide out and look toward the mall. “It’s huge.”
“Not one to brag, but it is a good three inches above average.”
“Do you ever stop?” I laugh as I begin walking toward the entrance … to Dick’s.
He jogs ahead of me and opens the door. “After you.”
“Thank you,” I say as I walk in.
Once inside, I look around. “It’s—”
“Huge, I know.”
“So full of yourself, Mitchell Wescott Moore.”
When he laughs, I realize I just exposed my super internet stalking skills, not once but twice in the past two minutes.
“Don’t,” I warn.
He holds up his hands. “I wasn’t going to blow your spot, girl. I was just gonna say you could be full of me, too.”
“You need to—”
“Look, it’s not my fault you’re every man’s fantasy.”
I laugh. “I highly doubt that.”
“Well, definitely mine.” He shrugs.
“See, now that was sweet.” I smile and begin to walk ahead of him.
“I need to look for a jacket. Colder than balls out there.”
If I told him what I was thinking, I’d say that what he said was an oxymoron, because I’ve actually touched his balls and they weren’t at all cold. They were hot.
I look behind me and see Mitch smiling as a young boy, and his mother approach him. He looks up, and I smile, watching from a close distance as the woman hurries away and leaves Mitch with her son. Mitch laughs as the kid gushes over him, and they talk about what else? Football.
When the woman returns a few minutes later with a bag in her hand, she pulls out a football—orange and navy blue, of course—and digs in her purse for a pen.
Another woman with a green shirt on hurries over and hands Mitch a Sharpie.
When she looks back and grins at the cashier next to the exit, I see the Dick’s logo on her shirt.
Mitch continues talking as he signs the ball, takes a selfie with the boy, and then with his mother. He gives the kid a high-five and waves as they walk out the door.
When he turns to hand the Sharpie back to the pretty blonde employee, he tosses his head back and laughs at whatever she said.
She steeples her hands as if praying, and I see her mouth, “Please.”
He shrugs, nods, and she turns around, pulls her long hair over her shoulder, and Mitch signs the back of her shirt.
He hands her back the Sharpie and begins to walk away when three other employees approach him.
He looks at me as if seeking permission. It’s not necessary—this is who he is—but I nod and mouth, “Of course.”
Once he’s done, he jogs up to me as yet another employee approaches us.
“Do you mind?” she asks, and I wonder if Dick’s only hires females—yet another oxymoron that’s got me thinking I need to find myself a local church.
“Not at all, as long as you can show me where your winter jackets are when we’re done.”
After he signs her shirt, she says, “Right this way.”
“You coming, Flower?” he hurries up to her and says something I can’t hear, as I keep a reasonable distance behind him so he can do his thing.
When we’re in the woman’s department, and he’s asking for stadium jackets in navy, I whisper, “What are you doing?”
“Getting a jacket,” he says as the employee holds up a navy blue, stadium-length jacket. He takes it and tries to hand it to me. “Try it on?”
“I’m not letting you buy me a jacket,” I whisper so she doesn’t hear me.
“Didn’t ask permission. And if it’s that big a deal, you can pay me back in se—”
“Mitch,” I scold. “No.”
“All right, then.” He shrugs.
I expect him to follow when I walk away, but he calls, “Hey,” from behind me, I turn around to see he’s got it on—well, sort of, since his forearms are sticking out “a good six inches.”
“Does this make my butt look big, Flower?”
“Huge,” I say as I turn back around and walk away.
I walk out of “Dick’s” and into the mall, looking around as I wait for him, hoping he gets the memo.
A few feet outside the entrance, I feel my stomach drop as I look up, three stories up, at a ropes course. I watch as kids of all ages run through the course on swinging steps, moving rope bridges, hopping across lily pads, three freaking stories above my head … fearlessly. And I watch in fascination and fear as parents chase their little ones around like their feet are on the ground. BTW’s, they are not.
“Screw. That.”
A light pop to my butt with a shopping bag makes me look beside me.
“Should we skip dinner and head right up there?”
“Oh, hell no.” I laugh.
He doesn’t even smile. I think he’s serious.
“I will Uber my butt back to Saddler.”
When he stops walking, I look back. He’s staring at my ass.
“You’re off the hook, but for today only.”
I point at the bag. “You better not have bought that coat, or you’re gonna be set back another five days.”
He grins. “I’ll give you three, starting tomorrow.” He grabs my hand and pulls me behind him.
All I can do is laugh.
Stopping outside one of the many restaurants inside the mall, he asks, “You ever been to Cheesecake Factory?”
“Looks a bit pricey for two college students, one without a wallet.” I look up at him and cock an eyebrow. “And another who just bought a coat that I’m sure was ridiculously priced.”
“I never spend money, Flower, and it’s about time I start.” He tugs my hand. “Come on.”
After the “telephone game” of whispers in a line of at least thirty people, the whisper makes it to the front of the line just as the hostess calls out, “Number 69, your table is ready.”
He looks around, a smile on his face, in his eyes … at me.
“Number 69,” the person in front of us says. When I look at her, she whispers, “That’s him.”
I look at Mitch, who’s still looking at me, and tell him, “I think our table is ready?”
“Oh shit.” He laughs. He lets go of my hand and waves it in front of himself. “After you.”
I look at the girl, who’s about my age. “Thank you.”
She blushes and grins at Mitch while shaking her head.
As soon as we walk away, she squeals, “That’s him, best at oral and the most playful player.”
“She’s one lucky girl.” Another girl behind us giggles.
“Can’t wait to read her review.”
I feel embarrassed when clearly an unknown number of women around these parts know this player and his game. Yet, I follow him anyway.
“Do you have a preference as to where you want to sit, Mr. Moore?”
He chuckles. “Amy, Mitch is fine, and no preference. We’re cool with whatever. Right, Flower?”
When I don’t answer, he looks back and cocks his head.
I look at him, trying to keep my emotions in check and mask any expression I may give off.
He turns around and nods at her. “We’re good wherever.”
As we’re seated at a booth in the bar area, the hostess tells us that our waitress will be right with us.
Once she’s gone, he leans across the table and smirks. “You good?”
I nod as my foot bounces under the table and look away from him, trying to focus on my surroundings instead of him, or the stares, or the whispered words from the line or his familiarity with the hostess.
“You gotta use the ladies or something?”
I swing my eyes back to him. “No. Why?”
“Your leg’s bouncing up and down.”
“Is not.”
When I feel my foot rise, I realize that mine isn’t on the floor; it’s on his foot.
“Then whose is this?”
I pull my foot off, further annoyed that I’m again “busted.”
Our waitress comes over before I have a chance to put any sort of words together that, one, won’t make me look like an idiot; or two … yeah, I got nothing.
“What can I start you off with?”
He doesn’t look away from me when he says, “We’re gonna need a few more minutes.”
“Sounds good. I’ll be back.”
Still looking at me, he replies politely, “Thanks.
“No B.S., Flower, what’s up? If it’s the jacket, sorry, not sorry.”
The intensity of his stare makes me uncomfortable, or rather my reaction to the way he looks at me makes me that way.
“The jacket didn’t help, but neither does all this.” I wave my hand around.
“It’s a restaurant. People gotta eat, Flower.”
I sit back in the booth and look at him, noticing his eyes creased a bit as if he’s trying to figure me out.
“I know you are”—I shake my head—“who you are here, but I’m just coming into mine.”
“Who exactly am I here?”
I lean in and whisper, “You heard what they said in that line, and then the hostess—clearly you knew one another.”
He cocks his head. “Didn’t hear anything they said. And no, I don’t know the hostess.”
“Mitch, you said her name.”
He looks at me with amusement and whispers to me like I had him, “Flower, she had on a name tag.”
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes.
The waitress approaches our table again. “Y’all ready to order?”
I look at her and see … a name tag.
Yet again, his eyes don’t leave mine. “Not yet.”
“How about drinks?”
His eyes intensely set upon mine, he doesn’t respond.
I look at her. “Hot green tea with lemon and honey?”
“Sure thing.”
“Cold sweet tea. Hold the sour.”
I look back at him, and his eyebrows start creeping up.
“Be right back.” The waitress walks away.
“Ask me what I heard in line?”
“Why?” I huff.
“Do it.”
“Fine,” I concede. “What did you hear in line?”
“A Christmas Carol, with Scrooge McDuck’s voice.” He smirks.
“What?” I laugh.
He shakes his head and smiles, that genuine and blinding smile that pulls me in. “I blame my kid sister, Cara, but bottom line: past lessons, present feels, future goals.”
“You’re gonna have to give me more than that.” I succeed in not showing any sort of giddy feelings kicking up inside me.
“Past lessons: you don’t promise a thing that you can’t deliver. Present feels.” He motions between us. “And future goals, Flower: we both have them, or we wouldn’t be here. We didn’t know each other when we made them, they never included each other, so why pretend our goals have changed? Why not just enjoy the season?”
My heart sinks a little, but his words from Sound ring in my ears. A woman like you may have spent some time thinking she would rather have my tongue between her legs than some douchebag blowing smoke up her ass. It pushes its way to the forefront of my feels.
Looking down, I ask, “Why do you call me Flower?”
“Because you remind me of my favorite kind.”
I quickly look up at him, and, for the first time, he forces a smile. “And what kind is that?”
“Lilies.”
Mitch
Tenth Grade
Friday, JT showed up to school late with a busted lip and two swollen eyes. Lilyanne had a couple of scratches, making me happy that he finally put her in her place since no one else dared fuck with her. She was volatile.
When Coach asked him what the hell happened, JT begged him not to call the cops. He’s forever wanting to protect her ass.
Monday, I’m freezing my ass off, standing beside the truck, waiting for him, when Sheriff Thompson pulls up in front of the building. I fall back so he doesn’t see me. Fucker hates me.
Ten minutes later, he’s walking Lilyanne Jenkins out in cuffs.
I walk toward the school and slow as I get near the cop car. She looks out the window, actually looking scared. It’s the first time I’ve seen tears in that girl, who has otherwise emotionless, eyes.
I flip her the bird.
“You want a truancy ticket, boy,” Sheriff Thompson booms from behind me.
“Sure, I’ll add it to the others you’ve given me.”
He grabs my shirt and slams me against the squad car. “You watch your tone with me, you little shitbag!”
Lilyanne pounds on the window and yells, “Leave him alone, cheese!”
What the fuck?
“One day, you’ll be in the back of this car, and you’ll end up where white trash belongs.”
She smacks the window again. “It’s cold in here, you fucking redneck. I have rights!”
He shoves me again, and I ball my hands into fists.
Smack.
“Farm boy, JT needs you! Don’t be stupid!”
Something in her voice is different, catching me off guard.
As Thompson walks away, I look back and see something of a unicorn—Lilyanne’s face is full of emotion.
I watch her, and she watches me until the car pulls away. Then I head inside to look for JT, knowing he’s going to be upset, nearly inconsolable like he is every time she gets locked up. He always pulls it around, but this time, it’s hard telling.
“You awake, man?” I open my eyes to see Logan sitting next to me on the plane back from NC.
I nod. “Yeah.”
He looks at me for a minute too long and nods. “We’re getting ready to land.”
I put my seat in the upright position, grab the water from my lap, and take a drink.
“You wanna go get dinner?”
I nod. “I’m buying. Dinosaur?”
He shakes his head and looks out the window. “Thinking I miss Carla’s service.”
“Carla’s or Elle’s?”
He glances at me with narrowed eyes.
“No judgment, man. Just thinking we could hold off one day.” Because, after making out in my car for an hour, only copping a feel once, I promised Jamie four days. It’s technically only been three and a half.
“Probably right.” He sighs and leans back. “But you spent a shit ton of money last week on a car. I can buy.”
“Nah, let me treat this time.”
Armed with two take-out containers and an agreement that we both must have caught a touch of something since neither of us ate close to what we normally would, we walk into the house.
“You two get waylaid,” Downs jokes.
“Shut up, Daddy,” Tank teases him.
Downs points at me. “Could be his, too.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” I laugh.
“All of you, shut the fuck up, and let’s watch the game; see where we fucked up,” Logan barks out. “We almost lost.”
“Or his,” Downs whispers, but Logan doesn’t hear him.
Sitting on the couch, my stomach in knots, I remember the day I woke up to Logan’s ex-best friend, our ex-teammate, and a current star quarterback for the Giants, Trucker Cohen, screaming at Keeka, the bartender at Lou’s … the pregnant bartender.
“The fuck are you doing in his bed?” Trucker screamed.
“I fell asleep. I have—”
“Shut the fuck up,” he roared, and she jumped up. “I’m gonna kill you, Mitch!”
Hungover as hell, I rolled over just as he stormed toward me with murder in his eyes and stood up from my bed. “Dud
e, chill the fuck out.”
Keeka jumped between us and screamed, “Trucker, no!”
Worried he might hit her while trying to get to me, I was seconds from pushing her aside when he grabbed her shoulders and shook her.
“Do you fucking think I’m even going to listen to a fucking word you say to me ever again, friend?”
“Truth!” she yelled.
His eyes widened, and he looked at me, angry and confused …
Same, man, same, I thought.
Clearly, he thought I was challenging him because he tried to step around her to get to me.
“Mitch, get out!” she yelled.
“It’s my damn room,” I yelled back.
“It’s Logan’s!”
“No, it’s Mitch’s fucking room, Keeka! Don’t play dumb with me!” Trucker turned and headed for the door. Thank fuck.
But she stopped him.
“I came here last night, and you were walking into your room with two girls, Trucker. Two!”
“So fucking what? You wanted friends! That’s what you fucking said! You said you wanted friends, and fuck if I’m going to … Why the fuck did you come?”
She started stuttering, “I-I-I—”
I stepped toward them, ready to put an end to his bullshit.
“We back to that, friend! Spit it fucking out, and then get the fuck out of my house.”
She started crying. “Logan, he needs you to call him. He asked.”
He stumbled back a couple steps, shaking his head.
Fuck, I thought, knowing that he was with his sister, whose fiancé was hospitalized because he got hit by a car.
“Mitch didn’t want me to go in your room, and I sure as hell didn’t want to see you with two women, friends or not, so I fell asleep. Now Logan, your friend, your only true friend, the only person you respect and will probably ever trust, needs you to call him now.”
“Why were you in his fucking room?” he yelled.
She poked him in the chest. “I went into an empty room to wait for you. Now call your friend so I can get the hell out of here.”
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her behind him and out the door, but then he stopped and looked back at me. “You fuck her?”
“Dude, what the hell?” I shook my head.
“I asked you a fucking question!”
