by Shandi Boyes
He laughs. “It’s not quite the colosseum, but it’s pretty damn close.” He assures someone he’ll only be another minute before redirecting his voice to me. “I’m sorry, I’ve really got to go.”
“It’s fine. Go.” I shoo him as if he is standing in front of me instead of hundreds of miles away. “Bye.”
His farewell is more breathless than mine. . .before it’s swallowed by the massive roar of a crowd.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Presley
I toss my phone to Danny before wordlessly apologizing to Coach James. He’s not impressed I had my cell attached to my ear as we trekked down the walkway separating our locker room and the field, but he’s keeping his grumble on the downlow since I’ve chalked up an impressive number of statistics during games and training drills this past few weeks.
I’m not being modest when I say I’m on fucking fire this month.
You’d think my late night talks with Willow would have me slow off the mark, but they’ve had the opposite effect. While encouraging her to bite the bullet by re-strapping on her ballet shoes, I lit a fire up my own ass. I love football so much, I’ve done nothing but relentlessly train the past twelve months to get myself ready to return to the field. My determination to return had me missing the most vital part of my revival. I had to be mentally ready more than physically.
I don’t remember the hours following the crash that nearly ended my career, but I do remember the pain of taking my first step. I was doped up on pain killers, but I was on the verge of vomiting from the pain shooting down my spine. I couldn’t walk without cringing; I couldn’t sit down without wondering if I’d ever get back up. Fuck, for those first few weeks, I couldn’t even wipe my own ass.
I don’t want to go through that again—not ever again—but that fear is what has stopped me from regaining my former glory. I’m so scared of getting injured, I strategized how to stop it from happening, thus not only taking away the love I have for the game, but making me an easy target. I was the best in my field because I was unpredictable. My opponents couldn’t read my next move. In a game where plays are rehearsed backwards and forwards, it was unheard of. Some coaches hated it, but Coach James always encouraged me to think outside the box. It’s what led to him winning three championships before my career was struck down by a cocky attitude and shield I thought was impenetrable.
I won’t let that happen again.
“Are you sure you’re good to go?” Coach James’ breath is visible in the cool night air. It’s colder in this part of the country this late in the season. “If you want to sit out, we can put Foster in for Dalton this week, slowly ease you back to a full schedule.”
“I’m good, Coach. I’ve got this.” For the first time in the past six weeks, there’s absolutely no hesitation in my tone. I can survive another injury, but I’ll never survive giving up my dream.
“Alright then, let’s hustle. We want this win, boys, and we want it bad.”
AND THAT’S PRECISELY what he got ninety minutes later.
“You’re fucking back, baby! Do you hear the electricity crackling in the air, smell the scent of your money being printed? Damn, boy! I’m not even the one who heard my name being screamed all night long, but I’m fucking buzzed like a bumble bee.”
Foster does an impromptu breakdance in front of me. His Michael Jackson-inspired dance moves have my mind drifting to Willow for the fourth time this evening. The spell that woman has put on me is frightening. Even during the middle of Foster’s impressive buttonhook route, my thoughts shifted to her. It wasn’t Foster’s blistering smile when he convinced the defensive back he was running a deep route that had my mind straying; it was his near fall when he planted hard on the slippery surface. He looked like a giraffe taking its first steps. Thankfully, he dug in his cleats, righted himself, then charged back my way before his defensive mark figured out what play we were running.
After grabbing his crotch enough times for Danny to take notice, Foster moonwalks into the showers. His excitement is understandable. We killed it tonight. Our opponents were left grappling when we hit them with touchdown after touchdown. I’m so buzzing with adrenaline, I reach for my phone to call Willow before I can stop myself.
I may not have any self-control, but my conscience does when my eyes drop to the screen of my phone. Willow sent me a text. She’s wearing a pair of fluffy unicorn earmuffs and is snuggling into a pillow that looks like the poop emoji.
The caption of her photo reads: Anything to drown out Skylar’s screams. I swear if I hear her shout, “Go, Carlton! Run, Carlton! You’re the fucking man, Carlton!” one more time, I’m going to puke. An eyerolling emoji ends her message.
For how much I love football, you’d think her disdain for the game would have me backing away from our friendship with my hands held high and my knees bowed. But, nope, if anything, it increases my eagerness. Everyone has their own passion and quirks. Willow’s happens to be dancing and having the ability to pull off kiddie earmuffs like they’re a piece of lingerie. Mine are football and being man enough to understand it’s not everyone’s flavor of the month.
While I’m being upfront, I’ll admit, my love of football hasn’t always been as strong as it is now. When you’re the only son of a football fanatic, you expect to get more than a request to be quiet during game time. I didn’t need my father to run me through drills and watch every game I’ve ever played. I just wanted him to be around.
I’m drawn from my negative thoughts when my phone buzzes in my hand. It’s another text from Willow.
Willow: Thank god, the squawking has finally stopped. Now I can get some shuteye. I hope your meeting went well. Talk soon. Willow xx
I’m in the process of returning her message when my phone rings, and since I was frantically tapping on the keyboard, I accidentally hit the connect button. So I have no choice but to answer the call I’ve been avoiding like the plague the past few months.
“Lillian, how are you?” I don’t give a shit how she is, and thankfully, my grinding teeth when I asked my question should advise her of that.
“Great now. I was beginning to fret that you had forgotten to give me your new number. I’ve left god knows how many messages the past two months. Did you get any of them?”
Her voice is so dramatic, I can picture her lounging on the day bed in her office with her hand splayed across her sweaty forehead. She’ll be wearing something satiny and designer. Most likely one of the hundred negligees she was gifted after our disastrous lingerie shoot, and she’ll most likely have a flute of champagne in her hand.
“I watched the game. You’re almost back to full form.”
I huff, equally grateful and annoyed to see nothing has changed. She never complimented me without adding a snippet of hesitation to her voice. She’ll never issue straight-up praise without me having to grovel for it.
Not realizing her conversation is one-sided, Lillian murmurs, “I talked to some old contacts I have in your field. They’re under the impression you should be back to full contract sooner rather than later. Is Coach James giving you the same vibe? If he is, I can go over the contract for you, if you like? I’ll do it for free, for old times’ sake.”
I honestly don’t know how to reply to her comment. Talking money is nothing out of the ordinary for us; I never looked at a contract Lillian didn’t handle first, but a lot has happened the past fourteen months, enough that I’m confident in declaring I don’t want her anywhere near me or my assets.
“I’ve got things handled. Danny is—”
“I still can’t believe you hired him, Presley. I thought we agreed to have a little break until your head got back in the game, then you’d return here, where I’d continue to manage your career.”
She really means manage me, not my career. I also don’t recall there being any agreement.
“We didn’t have an agreement, Lillian.” I say her name with the same disdain she used on mine. “Once I was released on bail, I left New York with
the intention of never returning. You’ve only popped back into the picture because you’ve caught wind that maybe your cash cow isn’t as dried up as you thought.”
“Now you’re just being ridiculous. I ‘popped back into the picture’ because we had nine years together.” I can imagine her pompous turned-up nose screwing up during the quoted part of her statement. “You might be able to push aside a near decade of time, commitment, and feelings as if it is worthless, but I’m not as cold-hearted as you are.”
“Oh, please, because only warmhearted women fuck their yoga instructors when their fiancé is in rehab!”
I could lower my voice, but I don’t need to. All the men surrounding me are familiar with Lillian and my bickering. They were subjected to it a minimum of twice a week before we separated.
“It was a cry for help! I needed to startle you back to living!”
“By sleeping with. . .” I pause, hating that I’m stooping to her level, but I’m unable to stop myself. “How many men was it again?”
“It was only ever Josue. . . and Dean, but he doesn’t count. I did that for you.”
I scrub my hand down my face as my adrenaline from our victory drains from my veins. “That’s right. I forgot you took one for the team that day.”
“He was going to let you go, Presley—”
“He wasn’t letting me go; I fired his ass! That’s what you do when your fucking agent works more for himself than he does you! If you had paid any attention to anything I ever said, you would have known that, but no, you were all about the money and what you could get out of any deal I made. You didn’t care about me or my well-being; all you cared about was yourself!”
Stealing her chance to reply, I disconnect our call by throwing my cell phone onto the ground. I don’t know why I’m letting her get to me. For the most part, her affairs were a godsend. I should have called our relationship off years before I did, but I hung on, convinced it was the stress of fame playing havoc with who we were as people.
I was so fucking wrong, and I learned a hard lesson from my mistake. That’s why, as much as I hate that my relationship with Willow is being founded on a lie, I need to do this. I need to know she likes me for me. Not a job title. Not the possibility of what I could bring to the table for her. If she wants it, she’ll strive to achieve it herself. I see that in Willow. I see her determination and drive, but it took me nine years to see through Lillian’s tricks, so I need a little longer than a few weeks before I can make a final assessment.
My deceit could blow up in my face, but I don’t see it being any worse than what I went through with Lillian.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Willow
Butterflies take control of my stomach as the hum from behind the stage curtains increases with every minute ticking by. Tonight is recital night at the dance studio I’ve worked at the past year. My hip hop kids killed it. They had not only the kids in the audience up on their feet joining in, they received a standing ovation from their parents.
Now it’s Chelsea’s turn. I swear I’m more nervous than she is. She dodged one grenade when her mother questioned why she wasn’t on stage with the other ballerinas. I told her only the most exemplary students are given a solo on recital night. She bought it. For how long, I don’t know, but for now, Chelsea’s smile is the only thing that matters. She’s worked hard the past few weeks. She trained between six and seven every evening, then she practiced her routine from sunup to sundown on the weekends. She’s nervous, but she’s more than ready.
“Just remember, glisser, then sauter. We tried the other way, but your landing is perfect this way, so we’ll stick with what you find easiest.” I ensure every strand of Chelsea’s straight blonde hair is pulled back into her bun then stand to take in the entire picture. “Perfect.”
“Thank you, Will.” She wraps her arms around my thighs to hug me tight.
“You’re very welcome.” I guide her to the stage with my hand on her back. Her excitement is as palpable as the energy in the room. I can feel it brimming from her even though I’m barely touching her. “Big smiles, Chelsea. Show everyone how much you love dancing.”
When she nods and smiles, I signal to the music producer that she is ready. I swear the entire world blurs when she darts onto the stage to take her spot on the taped X in the middle of it. I can’t see anything through the tears in my eyes and the blinding smile on her face. She is in her element, her heart more fulfilled than the people packing the dance hall to watch their loved ones perform.
My focus only shifts from her when the quickest flash of a smile stops both my feet and my heart. Elvis is slipping through a side entrance of the hall. Even though the sun went down over an hour ago, he wears a cap sitting low on his face, hiding his trademark wonky grin. Once he is ushered to a seat by one of the senior students who won’t perform until next month, he removes his cap. He should have left it on, as his smile when he spots me gawking at him is more blinding than the spotlight following Chelsea’s every move.
I wave at him like a giddy idiot before refocusing my attention on Chelsea. Tonight isn’t about me and the crazy strong feelings I’m developing in an extremely short time period. It’s about a little girl proving to the haters that she can dance despite what anyone thinks. Weight, height, and agility don’t matter when you have passion, and Chelsea has that in abundance.
At the end of her performance, there’s barely a dry eye in the house. Chelsea keeps her cool though. Her prima ballerina attitude is out in full force. She struts off the stage like a super model walking the catwalk, her first tear not shed until she’s in the safety of the stage wings.
“Well done! I’m so proud of you!” My claps are barely heard over the uproarious ones coming from the hall, but I can’t help myself. Her bravery tonight deserves more than a round of applause, but it is all I have to offer, so it is what I give her.
BY THE TIME all the classes have worked through their routines, two hours have ticked by. I’ve checked on Elvis regularly from my post backstage, and not once has he shown signs of boredom. He has watched every child’s performance with the same pride of the parents surrounding him.
He appears thoroughly entertained, and even more so when I sashay up to him with my hips swinging and my booty shaking. “Did you see Chelsea’s performance!? My god, E. The smile on her face will light mine for years to come.”
I’m still so euphoric, I throw my arms around his neck and plant my lips on his without giving him the chance to protest. He doesn’t seem to mind. His tongue lashes my mouth a mere second before my coat is tugged.
“Excuse me, Ms. Willow, we’re going home now.”
I smile against Elvis’s lips before pulling back and dropping my eyes to Xane, up and coming dance prodigy. He’s only six, but his talents are undeniable.
While I bob down to Xane’s level, Elvis advises me he will wait for me outside. It’s probably for the best. Behind Xane are another two dozen students waiting to wish me farewell. Most are clutching flowers.
AS I STEP out of the dance studio wrangling roses and baby’s breath like I’m hacking my way through the wilderness, Elvis fights through an even more dangerous wasteland. He hasn’t just caught the single mothers’ eyes, he’s wrestling back a handful of fathers as well.
“Look at you, Mr. Popular. If they’re not moaning about me confiscating their cellphones, I barely get a grunt out of them.”
Smiling, he removes three-quarters of the flowers from my grip before heading toward his car parked halfway down the parking lot. “They were a little overfriendly, but nothing I can’t handle.”
“Handled more than one groupie at a time previously, have we?”
When his smile grows, I know he took my comment as I intended. I’m not bothered by the attention he gains. I dragged my ass out of bed at 5 AM every Saturday for nearly two years just to get the daily dose of man meat my diet requires, so I can’t blame the dance moms for getting their hit any way they can.
Elvis
removes the remaining flowers from my grasp and places them into his backseat before opening my door for me. “Such old school charm,” I tease while sliding into the passenger seat.
I can’t see his face, but I can picture his grimace from the grunt rumbling through the tinted window near my head. After unclenching his fists, he jogs around to the driver’s side door and slips inside. He fastens his belt, checks mine is latched, then fires up his engine before swinging his dark eyes my way. Damn, I’ve missed seeing his eyes in the flesh. We’ve FaceTimed many times the past three weeks, but a screen can’t show the sparkle his eyes get when the moonlight bounces off them. His dark and mysterious features only heighten the anonymity surrounding him.
We’ve talked an average of six hours a day the past three weeks, yet I still don’t know his job description, what he studied in college, or how old he is. We got the basics out of the way in the first week. He is the only sibling to his older sister, Syndi. His parents have a rocky relationship, but with their steaming moments far exceeding their screaming matches, he doesn’t see them splitting anytime soon. He’s known Danny since he was six and met Dalton as a freshman. When I asked how long ago that was, he skirted the question like he did any time I tiptoed around his age.
If I were desperate to find out his age, I’m sure there are ways I could, but I’m not concerned. They’re can’t be a ton of years between us. His face is too youthful for him to be older than mid-thirties, and he’s never mentioned an ex-wife or the slew of kids most men in their forties have. If I had to guess, I’d say he is late-twenties, perhaps inching towards his thirties, but I wouldn’t go much more than that. That puts him a good six to ten years older than me. Not enough age gap to be frowned upon, but plenty for me to feel guiltless when calling him “old man.”
My stomach grumbles at the exact moment Elvis asks if I’m hungry. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
