by Lynn Shurr
“So a Lady Badger?”
“Just a Badger. They got rid of sexist terms years ago.”
“Not here. Just warning you. You ready to strut Bourbon Street?” He half hoped she’d say, “No, let’s stay in and light a fire.”
“I can’t wait!”
“Just a minute.” In the face of that enthusiasm, Tom went to his bedroom, shed his jacket and tie, opened his collar, and rolled up his sleeves. No sense sweating any more than you had to on Bourbon Street or setting himself up for muggers by being too well dressed.
They descended into the bawdiest strip of the French Quarter where tourists roamed, college students newly released from classes raved, and hardcore drinkers staggered from bar to bar. Barkers beckoned passersby into strip clubs and drag shows. Good jazz clubs and superb restaurants abounded. One man with a large snake draped about his neck asked Alix if she’d like to stroke his python.
“Why not?” She relieved him of the reptile without any help and handed Tom her phone to take a picture. He obliged and shoved a few dollars at the snake handler, though he hadn’t liked his tone.
They marched on dodging living statues of many varieties from tin men to cowboys and an excess of sidewalk tap dancers. At a souvenir shop, Tom ducked inside and returned with a fringed parasol striped in purple, green and gold—the colors of Mardi Gras. He opened it and demonstrated his strut for Alix by wiggling his skinny ass and taking grotesquely long strides while pumping the umbrella up and down. She laughed with her head thrown back and snapped another picture.
“You try it.” He handed over the parasol. “Work those hips, lift those legs, stick out that chest!”
“I don’t have much of a chest.”
“What you have is great, and there isn’t a person on this street who can beat your legs.” She did her best to his applause and a few lewd comments from some drunken frat boys Tom really wanted to pop. He steered Alix away and into one of the better bars.
“You could probably use something to drink by now.”
“After all that champagne, I doubt it, but it’s still very warm outside. How about a martini?”
“Shaken, not stirred, right?” he said in his best James Bond accent. The bartender rolled his eyes, but Alix giggled as good as any girl.
The drinks arrived with a scrim of ice on the top and a plastic pick shaped like a sword impaling two olives immersed in the glass.
“Not bad,” Tom said. “But I think the best part is the olives.”
“Me, too. I’ve never had a martini before and wanted to try one. Really, I usually drink beer. Wisconsin has great beer—and cheese curds to go with it. Pretzels, too.”
“And it has you. That’s lots to be proud of.”
Alix cocked her head at him. “I can’t figure out if you are recruiting me or flirting.”
“Maybe both. Ever seen a drag show?”
Alix shook her head.
“Then you’re in for a treat.” He paid for their drinks and escorted her to the best spot he knew for that kind of entertainment, Les Femmes Fatales. They settled at a table close to the stage, ordered beer for their two-drink minimum, but being a classy joint, it came in frosted glass mugs. A Cher impersonator took the stage and did a set followed by the lovely Diana Ross. The last to perform swayed into the spotlight wearing a long lavender gown studded with crystals that made it glitter with every movement, though the bodice rode low on two spectacular breasts. The long, blonde curls of an impressive wig draped over them. Following the theme, she had coated her lips with in shining lavender and wore contacts that made her eyes appear almost purple. Stalking the platform in killer stiletto heels and unafraid to show some leg with a slit up the front of her dress, she launched into a steamy song about jungle fever and repressed missionaries.
“Dolly Parton?” Alix guessed. “Though I don’t think she’d do a song like that.”
“Nope, Layla Devlin.”
“Never heard of her.”
“Hollywood is a cruel place. That song is from one of her movies. My dad did a cameo in one of her films, and she got a little obsessed with him. Mom warned her off, and she transferred to our previous quarterback. Nearly killed both my mother and his fiancée around eight years ago. She ended up in an asylum and never did another motion picture.”
“Kind of sad. Now that you mention it I remember some of that from my movie magazines. I just forgot her name.”
“Not really sad when you think of it from the Billodeaux point of view. I don’t know where she is now, but I’ll bet my dad keeps track.”
The steamy ditty came to an end. Speaking in a low and husky voice, the chanteuse breathed into the mic. “Good evening, I’m Lilah Devine, and this is my tribute to the magnificent Layla Devlin wherever she is tonight. Lilah has not forgotten you, baby. But the two of you up front—naughty, naughty for speaking while I perform.” She shook a rather masculine finger tipped with a long, lilac nail and bearing an enormous amethyst ring at them. “My first piece was the Academy Award nominated song from Miss Devlin’s film, Masai!. Layla had great range in her acting ability. The next is the love theme from her western, Savaged!, in which she starred with New Orleans’ own Joe Billodeaux.” She waited until the smattering of applause died down before beginning a ballad of hopeless love.
Since both of them blushed at being scolded, Tom and Alix stayed silent for the rest of the performance. Lilah left the stage blowing kisses and paused near the wings to throw one two-handed into the ether. “For my beloved Layla.”
They left soon after that uncomfortable event. Tom told Alix the rest of the story as they strode along the blocked off street that had become considerably boozier in atmosphere during their absence. “That guy was as obsessed with Layla as she was with football players. Supposedly, he provided her with the gun she used to assault the other women, but he swore up and down he’d given it to her to protect herself. Anyhow, no charges were pressed against him. In him, Layla at her best lives on.”
“Even sadder.” Alix studied her feet as they walked along side by side almost, but not quite, touching.
“Hey, New Orleans isn’t a place to be sad. Want to go hear some really good music at Mariah’s Place?
“I’ve heard of it—where all the Sinners players hang out. Don’t think I’m ready for that yet.” She checked her watch. “I have to be at the airport at six a.m. and should get some sleep. This has been a wonderful evening. I’m sold on the city. Just one more thing.” Alix curved an arm around Tom’s waist and pulled him close. She snapped a selfie of them together. “I need evidence because no one back home will believe I spent the night with Tommy the Toe. I mean went out with Tom Billodeaux.” Her blush probably showed up on the second insurance shot.
“We’ll do it again after you sign with the Sinners.” He led the way back to Canal Street. “Say, you remember what I said about needing a roommate? You could stay with me for free since I own the place.” Okay, it was his turn to flush when he recalled that Stacy said if you paid a woman’s rent she was your mistress.
Evidently, Alix felt the same way. Her fine, fair hair flew as she shook her head hard. “I couldn’t do that. What would Morfar and Dad say?”
“What do you pay for rent in Madison?”
“Four hundred a month when I lived there with a roommate. I’m staying with my family until I get a job.”
“Believe me, you have a job. You can pay me that much if it would make you feel better.” Four hundred—you couldn’t get a closet for that in New Orleans let alone part of a luxury condo, but she didn’t have to know. “I wouldn’t intrude on your privacy. You could cook. I can eat. See, it might work.”
She smiled at last. “I’ll think about it if the deal goes through.”
“It will. Say, you need to come up and get your food. I’ll show you those two rooms and the bath.”
“You keep my portion. I can’t take food on the plane. If there is a next time, you can show me the rooms then.”
Relu
ctantly, he steered her into the parking garage, keeping an eye out for the bag lady who sometimes lurked there and might put Alix off coming to New Orleans. Tom helped her into the SUV for the return trip to the motel. He walked her to her door and lounged against the wall wishing for an invitation to come inside—which he didn’t get.
“I do hope I see you again, Tom.”
He shot a finger at her. “You’ll be at mini-camp in June. Mark my words. Your parasol. You’ll need it for Mardi Gras.” He turned over the gaudy little umbrella.
“Thanks for everything.” Alix leaned forward a little, then seemed to think the better of bestowing a kiss and slipped inside her room.
Tom lingered while she turned the lock with a snick and rattled the door chain into position. Looked like the evening had definitely ended. No matter, he’d see her in May for sure.
****
Alix leaned her back against the motel door. She wondered if Tom still stood outside wanting to come in. The thought had flashed through her mind, but no. If she jumped into bed with a Sinner, some people would assume she’d gotten the punting position by sleeping with the kicker. She released a deep sigh of regret. This whole thing would not be easy, and she so did not want to disappoint Morfar, not in his condition. He’d gotten the first call after she returned to the motel and been his usual subdued self. “Ja, sure, you’ll get the job. You are my best student.” Beneath that, she’d sensed his excitement. At home, her mother shrieked and her sisters squealed. Her dad delivered an austere, “Nice work.” That was as good as it got in Wisconsin.
She hoped she hadn’t spilled too much to Tom Billodeaux. Oh, she knew all about him and his family—more than she let on. Right next to her Mia Hamm poster, she’d hung one of Tommy the Toe taken after a sixty-one yard field goal that saved the game. He hadn’t made the cover of the sports magazine, but his personality shone through from his wide grin to his tousled red curls, worn long and wild at the time. Though proud of his accomplishment, he’d stated modestly that he was happy to help the team get the win. So cute, very nice and supportive, just as she’d imagined. And interested in big, clunky her, if she wasn’t mistaken.
Alix kicked off her flats and did a happy dance with her big feet on her way to a second shower. She’d be able to wear two-inch heels on a date with Tom and believed he wouldn’t care if she went even higher! Please, please, please, let him be right about the Sinners taking her on as a punter.
Chapter Three
Exactly as Tom figured, Alix Lindstrom got her contract. His agent did squeeze an even million annually out of management for three years. In his opinion she was worth more. Acton “Action” Jackson, the hyperactive head of PR for the Sinners, all but did cartwheels across his office in ecstasy over the promotional possibilities, not that the Sinners’ home games weren’t always sold out anyhow. The man had a slate of interviews set up for Alix that began with her public signing and donning of a Sinners jersey bearing the number one in honor of her grandfather and extended all the way to the start of the season. She’d come back to town for the first event along with her parents and Ancient Andy, all of them put up at the Marriott so close to his place he could see it from his bedroom window.
If a kicker could kick himself, Tom would have done so for not getting her cell phone number during their evening out. He’d held the thing in his hands when he took her picture with the python and never keyed in his own. What’s more, he could barely get near her for all the hoorah over the first female punter in the NFL, the first woman to play as well. Asked how he felt about this development by numerous reporters, he replied that Alix Lindstrom had great potential, and no, he didn’t think her sex would be an issue for anyone on the Sinners team. He might have lied a little about that last one because a few of the guys mumbled under their breath about the sanctity of the locker room, bad enough that female sports correspondents had to be accommodated, and how football in general should be a male preserve.
Others, he suspected, were getting ready to make their move on the attractive new punter. With that thought in mind, Tom crossed the street and tried to contact her first by having the desk ring her room. A gruff male voice, definitely not Alix, answered, “Ja, who is there?”
Judging by the heavy Swedish accent hardly diminished over the years, he was speaking to the iconic kicker, Anders “Andy” Mortenson. Tom’s throat dried up a little. “Um, Tom Billodeaux. I’m trying to reach Alix. I’m down at the front desk.”
“She is out shopping for summer clothes with her mother.”
“Oh well, tell her I called to see how she’s doing.” Tom prepared to hang up but the voice on the other end boomed, “Wait, you will wait a minute. I will come down with her father, and we will have a cold beer in the lounge. When Alix returned to Wisconsin, all we heard was about Tom Billodeaux, nothing else. Time we meet in person.”
“I think we did once when I was very little—before I knew I wanted to be a kicker.”
“Ja, ja, Joe’s redheaded boy. We are on our way.”
Left without a choice, Tom went toward a bank of elevators hoping he’d chosen the right set. His hair would help them pick him out anywhere in the lobby as strongly as if he wore a rose tucked behind his ear. When the two men emerged, he had no doubt they were Alix’s kin. The younger of the two, a robust man of around fifty, had her height and a full head of white hair. Thick white brows sat above piercing blue eyes. He had the tanned, leathery hide of an outdoorsman and shoulders as broad as a bull elk. Nels Lindstrom offered Tom a hardy handshake, but not a smile.
Ancient Andy Mortenson, who had kicked for the Sinners until the age of forty-two, no longer resembled the man whose video clips Tom had studied. The thick head of blond hair had been replaced by a shining bald head and a face lacking eyebrows. Diminishing his height, he stooped forward, and his legs were uncertain enough to require the use of a thick cane that more resembled a cudgel. Still, in the broad cheekbones, wide mouth, and straight nose, Tom saw some of Alix. Andy also shook his hand, but more lightly and with a slight tremor. Even Tom’s, “It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” didn’t cause those Alix-like lips to break into a grin.
Andy Mortenson answered with, “Let’s have that beer.”
They moved to the dark and quiet of the lounge in the late afternoon far from the heat and traffic noises off the street that pushed inside every time the main doors opened. Under the glow of red-shaded lights, the men took seats at the bar with Tom pressed between Alix’s menfolk like a sardine in a thick sandwich. Both frowned when the bar had no Blatz beer available, but they settled for Milwaukee’s Best in a bottle. Tom ordered the same, exerting beer diplomacy. Each took a few sips in silence.
Tom restrained his usual urge to run off at the mouth or say something glib. He waited. Finally, Andy spoke. “You’re a real good kicker. You probably make real good money, more than I ever did.”
“Thank you. That’s a great compliment. As for the money, a good agent and inflation probably accounts for my income.”
Nels Lindstrom elbowed Tom in the side in a not unfriendly way. “You set up my girl with a top-notch agent. He got her a good deal. We appreciate that, don’t we, Pappa Andy?”
Andy nodded and the red lights of the bar traveled across his bald head. “As her fellow kicker, we expect you to keep looking out for her.”
“I plan to do that.”
“Good. Now about this room you offered her in your apartment.” Alix’s father helped himself to a large handful of peanuts from a small dish on the bar and did some seriously intimidating crunching.
“Just trying to help her get settled in the city, sir. I mean she’d have her own suite—bedroom, bath, spare room and use of the kitchen and living room. We’d have the floor to ourselves, and the building has great security.” Tom wet his mouth again with the beer.
Andy nodded his approval. “Ja, we think it is a good deal for Alix so long as those rooms lock. Alix is an innocent girl come to a big city, never lived anywhere larger th
an Madison. New Orleans can be a wild and dangerous place, I remember.” Still, a faint smile passed over Mortenson’s face as if not all the memories he had were bad. “We would expect you to watch out for her off the field, too.”
“Like a sister,” Nels Lindstrom added.
“Sure. I’d be happy to do that. I know how to look out for girls. We have six in our family.” Tom grinned, imagining his six-foot tall Valkyrie who could punt a football the length of the field and probably send a man’s nuts clear up to his throat if he gave her any trouble as an innocent girl. “My place is just across the street. You want to inspect it?”
“Ja, sure. Her mama will want to see it, too. When they get back.”
The men shared another beer in silence before returning to the lobby. With excellent timing, Alix and her mother, engulfed in enough shopping bags to open their own boutique on Royal Street, struggled up the steps to the echoing main floor. Their men hurried to relieve them of the load, and all rode up in the elevator to dispose of the burdens, including Tom who had somehow acquired a long, zipped bag over one arm and a pink striped Victoria’s Secret sack that exuded a heady scent and promised even more than that. He glimpsed down hopefully at the contents but encountered only black tissue paper.
Mrs. Lindstrom relieved him of his parcels first by hanging up the long garment bag, then whisking away the lingerie. She held up the bag of dainties. “We drove all the way out to Metairie in that rental car for these because Alix noticed a shop on Veteran’s Boulevard on her last trip here—as if we don’t have such places in Wisconsin—not that I could ever get her to go inside one before. Nothing but sports bras and women’s Jockey shorts for her in the past. I tell you, put wings on my baby’s back and dress her in some of these bras and panties, she would look as good as any of those underwear models.
The sisters must resemble their mother whose head was covered in short, golden curls, at her age probably thanks to a good dye job, and whose body, a trifle on the plump side, would fit neatly under her towering husband’s arm. The friendly in the blue eyes, now Alix had that. She also had a deep blush on her cheeks.
