by Lynn Shurr
Alix opened the door to find herself confronted by a line of five burly cheerleaders with Vince Barbaro, hairy as a highland gorilla, in the lead. He burst into song, surprisingly tuneful as he drew out the notes.
Alix Lindstrom, Alix Lindstrom!
The other manly cheerleaders fanned out shaking their pompoms with vigor.
We don’t care about your T’s or your A…
And we have only one thing to say, today!
The chorus line swayed in one direction, then the other.
We only care about your legs, your legs,
Your wonderful, miraculous legs!
Her teammates, a very unlikely bunch of dancers, went into high kicks. Tom, all fuzzy, kicked the highest, naturally. Vince dropped back. Dean, Prince, and Adam knelt. Tom did a split in front of her. A deep voice in the arc of players surrounding the dancers said, “That ain’t natural in a man.”
Vince glared at Beef Bolivar, but didn’t let the comment ruin the finale. He sang out sweetly—
Legs Lindstrom, Legs Lindstrom!
“Got it recorded,” Brian declared. “Copies for everyone on the team.”
“Leave me out. It’s revolting, guys dressing up that way.” Bolivar pushed through to the showers, stepping over Tom still on the ground.
Brian shook his head sadly. “There’s always one in the bunch.”
Everyone else stayed to enjoy the moment. Vince got to Alix first and patted her on the shoulder. “What did you think?”
“That was outrageously funny. What a good voice you have.”
“Um, thanks. Just remember, I always got your back, babe. Ah, I mean babe in the way I mean dude when I talk to a guy. Maybe I should have said dude instead.”
“I’d prefer just Alix or Lindstrom.”
“I think we’re supposed to call you Legs now, but Alix, that would be great. Say…”
On the ground, Tom held out a desperate hand to Dean. “I can’t get up. Help me before…”
“You want to go out tomorrow night, Alix? I know this great Italian place on the other side of the bridge. Mafia dons used to eat there. Best place outside of Philly, I tell ya.”
Alex watched Tom struggle to his feet and hoped he hadn’t done any permanent damage. His brown eyes looked a little wild like those of a shying red stallion. She answered Vince. “Sure, I’d like that. What time?”
“Seven. I know where Tom lives. Pick you up there.” Vince stepped aside since Tom was breathing down his hairy nape.
“Did you like it? My brother Teddy wrote the song. I know it’s not great, but he had deadlines to meet. Brian did the choreography and helped with the costumes, but the idea was mine. You know, to welcome you to the team, Legs.”
“I loved it. I think everyone did but Beef.”
“That just says it was great.” Tom rooted in his sports bra and withdrew a grapefruit. He presented it, still warm and fragrant from his body, to Alix on an open palm as if it were a golden apple and she Helen of Troy. “You like grapefruit? I think they’re still good.”
“Sure, with brown sugar on top and a cherry in the middle—which makes them taste like dessert.” Alix accepted his tribute.
Vince barged in again. “Here, you can have mine, too. The grapefruit was Tom’s idea. He wanted to use oranges. Way too small, I said.” His grapefruits smelled like sweat, but Alix took them and deposited all three in her gym bag.
Dean stalked by and put two more in her hands. “Here, get these out of my sight.”
Adam Malala clapped his quarterback’s shoulder. “See, Dean can be fun. He’s not all work and no play, right guys?” That got a sustained laugh. No one worked harder or longer on the field than Dean who rarely joked about anything. He left that to Tom.
Tom removed the rest of the citrus from his bra and took the two Dean left behind. He began to juggle the fruit. “Adam, toss your two in one at a time.”
Adam did. Tom caught the first but the second went splat on Alix’s sandaled feet. “Sorry, balls are easier. I learned to juggle for the Camp Love Letter kids.”
“It’s been a long time since I had a grapefruit pedicure.” Alix kicked the split fruit aside.
“They have those?”
Before she could answer, Prince Dobbs cut in. “You can get anything you want if you pay enough, Tommy boy. Say, mind if I keep mine? My woman has a craving for sour right now, pickles, kraut, you name it.” He didn’t bother removing them from the sports bra, but merely ran his hands down his thoroughly waxed body and taut abs. “Say, I make a pretty fine looking woman.”
“Absolutely.” Alix pressed her lips together to contain a wide smile.
“Except for this.” Prince lifted his skirt. “See the scar? That’s where my life-blood spurted out before Dean put a tourniquet on it. Got to be grateful for that. Praise the Lord!”
“Praise the Lord,” Alix echoed, happy when the man moved away.
Vince returned from what had to be the world’s quickest shower. He’d put on a snug fitted red shirt and tight jeans and run his fingers through his long black hair giving him the air of an Italian gigolo hanging out on the beach. “You need a ride home, Alix?”
“I drove today, but thanks.”
He cocked a finger at her and pulled the trigger. “Saturday at seven.” Vince strode away, working his gluteus maximus like a male stripper.
“Mafia dons,” Tom muttered. “He’s probably related to some.”
“Could be. You’d better shower or else I’m driving home alone. Evidently cheerleading is hard, sweaty work.” She crinkled her long nose at him.
“But you did like our skit?”
“I loved it. Thanks, Tom.”
When Tom smiled broadly at her, Alix swore she could almost see his golden aura.
****
On their way up to the condo, Arturo mentioned that some packages had arrived for Alix. He’d left them on the doorstep. The man wasn’t jesting. Several boxes, large and small, all from Wisconsin, cluttered the foyer. Tom helped her drag them inside and got a knife to cut the numerous strands of strapping tape that surrounded the cardboard. The easiest to extricate turned out to be a nice selection of Wisconsin cheeses bearing the message, “Happy Birthday from Rika. I know you don’t have cheese this good in N.O.”
“It’s your birthday? Why didn’t you tell me?” Tom struggled with one of the larger boxes.
“I didn’t want you to feel obligated to get anything. Believe me, that show you put on was gift enough. I’d planned to bake a cake tomorrow—red velvet—that we could have after our usual dinner. I still might if I have the time before my date with Vince.”
Alix broke into one of the smaller packages that glugged when she set it upright and bore numerous “fragile” stamps. She withdrew a card with a leaping fish on it clearly designed for a man on his special day. It read, “Enjoy what you love best on your birthday” and contained a sizable check with the notation, “For a fishing trip next time I visit.” The contents proved to be a bottle of good, pale amber Swedish aquavit with a note around its neck. “Save some for me. Your Morfar.”
“Original. I have to admit my folks never gave me booze and a fishing trip for a birthday gift.” Tom finally penetrated the box he’d sawed upon for several minutes and opened the flaps.
“Not original for Morfar. Aquavit is his all-purpose gift and strapping tape, his favorite fixative. Oh, no!” Alix pressed her hands to her cheeks in complete dismay. “Mom sent my scrapbooks. Now I am embarrassed. Don’t look!”
But Tom had already flipped open the first one. “These go back a long way. I still have braces on my teeth in this one with my mom and the rest of the kids at some charity event.” He refrained from pointing out she’d drawn a heart in red marker around his face.
Alix snatched the album away and slammed it shut, but Tom had already delved into another one. “Wow, all of Dean’s mess from last year and at least two dozen pages devoted to Stacy’s nuptials from the ring to the gown to the formal picture
s released to the press. How many years have you been doing this?”
“Since I turned twelve, I guess.”
“Tomorrow you’ll be…”
“Twenty-three tomorrow.”
“Going on a dozen years. I’ll bet my mother doesn’t have files as complete as these. Something is missing, though. It ends with the wedding.”
“I went into training to be a punter and had no time for this nonsense any more. I’ve grown up.” Very primly, Alix shut the cover.
“Give me a second.”
Tom had that impish grin on his freckled face that always preceded mischief. He’d worn that expression at yesterday’s practice nearly all day. She should have known something was up before she opened the locker room door to be serenaded by hirsute cheerleaders. He returned with pieces of newsprint waving in his hands, grabbed the last album, and turned it to the last unused page. Lifting a flap, he inserted the picture and article about her rescue of Lorena from the tabloid and smoothed the plastic top sheet over it.
“There. Your first official encounter with the entire Billodeaux family. I sort of wish the paparazzi had been following us around so there could be more. I hope there will be—in a good way. Here’s a few extras to send to your family. They should be making scrapbooks about you!”
“You saved these. You’re so sweet.” She dared to touch his cheek. It turned red under her fingertips.
“But not sweet like Brian Lightfoot,” Tom hastened to add. “Hey, it’s a great picture of you. Everyone should have a copy.”
“Now I am sorry I won’t be celebrating my birthday with you. Maybe we could do something together in the afternoon.” Staying home in bed with him had crossed her mind and disappeared swiftly running on red sneakers into the distance as Tom answered.
“Uh, I have an appointment tomorrow that’s going to take a while.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.” Her hand returned to its proper place in her lap.
“Nope, just time consuming. You do realize I only left you alone here all week in order to prepare the skit. You’d think football players would be quick studies, but not so much when it comes to singing and dancing at the same time.”
“That’s okay, Tom. I know my family asked you to look out for me, but it needn’t be every second of every day. We train and live together. I get you need some space.”
“Not very much space, just tomorrow afternoon.”
Not meeting his eyes, Alix fished out a couple of greeting cards from the side of the box. One had a floral design and the sentimental phrase, “For a Beloved Daughter on her Birthday.” It contained a gift certificate from her mom and dad for a spa day in New Orleans. The second had a half-naked, hunky guy on the cover and the message: “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do on your birthday—so anything goes!” Tille enclosed a gift card from the same spa for a pedicure and added a note. “Got to take care of those million dollar toes. Give Dean, Tom, and Vince a kiss for me.”
She showed them to Tom. “Looks like I’ll be spending my afternoon at a spa.”
“Which spa?” He snatched the cards and handed them back again. “Good place. I think Stacy goes there.”
“I guess we both know what we’ll be doing tomorrow. Would you help me drag these boxes to my closet? No need to open any more of them.” Alix lifted one herself. Tom took the other two stacked under his chin.
“Just put them way in the back.” Alix nudged on the light in the deep walk-in.
He complied, but did a double take as he noticed his own face peeping out from a gap in the hangers full of clothes—that photo from Sports Illustrated taken after his longest, game-saving field goal ever last season while Alix trained to be a punter. She threw down her box and moved in front of it too late to save her dignity. Hands on hips, she said defiantly, “So what. Mia Hamm is on the other wall. Both of you are great at your sport. Besides, that’s a good picture of you, also.”
“One of my best,” he agreed. He seemed entirely too happy to have caught her crushing on him.
“Out! I need to decide which dress to wear on my date with Vince tomorrow.” That should put a damper on his vanity in case he thought he was her only option, and she’d simply sit around waiting for him to make a move. It succeeded. His expectant grin faded. Tom left her closet and her bedroom, tripping only twice on a stupid white throw rug and a pair of running shoes tossed on the floor.
Chapter Seventeen
Tom paced the floor like an expectant father in a Fifties movie. Dads didn’t do that any more. They waded right into the blood and gore of the delivery room. Dean had filled him in on those gruesome details. Blood and gore. He wished he hadn’t thought of that. Vince planned to take Alix across the Huey P. Long Bridge from the Eastbank to the Wank or Westbank. Once a steep, terrifyingly narrow, two lane structure that vibrated when the trains sharing the bridge rumbled across it, the structure had been widened and modernized making it no longer a thrill ride, but still the fog might come up off the river and turn the trip into a hazard.
Vince arrived early, all spiffed up in a charcoal suit with a wide gray silk tie and a matching shirt, his black hair combed straight back, raising those mafia connections in Tom’s mind again. As if he were Nels Lindstrom, he told the man to take good care of Alix and to drive safely. Vince nodded solemnly, presuming Tom had the right to tell him what to do with his roommate instead of getting belligerent. They waited together as uncomfortable as a father with his daughter’s prom date for Alix to appear.
“There’s no rule about dating a teammate, is there?” Vince asked, ending the silence.
“Not yet.” Tom wished there were, but then he’d be forbidden to see Alix, too.
Rosy and polished from her day at the spa, she swirled into the living room. Her little black dress came to mid-thigh and swung about her fabulous legs, flirty and light, not at all tight, but short, very short in Tom’s opinion. The scoop of the neckline showed her breasts, pushed together by one of those magical bras with which he had some experience. When taken off, the contents often disappointed, but he knew that would not be the case if Alix disrobed. She’d be perfect. She wore her hair in her usual white-blonde bob, but sported a headband with a black velvet rose on one side. She hadn’t bothered with any jewelry. Vince stood. So did Tom. Neither spoke, though Tom wanted to suggest she wear a jacket despite it being in the nineties all day and not much cooler now.
Made uncertain by their stares, she blurted, “I wore black in case I spill on my dress. Tom can tell you I’m a messy eater.”
“I like a woman who enjoys her food. You look great, really great, Alix.” Vince had a naturally deep voice, but Tom swore it dropped another notch as the male hormones rose to the personal protector’s throat. “Shall we go?” Vince gallantly held out an arm.
“Don’t be late,” Tom heard himself burble. “I mean we still have lots of training camp left and should get rest when we can. Me, I’m resting tonight.”
“Like kickers need to rest,” Vince said.
Alix squeezed his arm, actually his bulging bicep. “Hey, don’t forget I’m a kicker, too.”
“If all kickers looked like you, I’d love that a lot.”
Off they went to enjoy Italian food on the other side of the Mississippi as if there weren’t any good places in the city. Tom filled his evening setting up a surprise for Alix, a delicate table of white and gold that the antiques dealer said had cabriole legs and a checkerboard inlay of onyx and ivory, probably at one time serving for games of chess or draughts kept in the little drawers inset in the sides—late seventeenth century, French, Louis Quatorze. Whatever the hell it was, the thing cost a pretty penny. On his way out, he spied a teapot and matching cup the exact shade of blue as Alix’s eyes. He held the cup up to the light and could see his hand on the other side it was that thin. Both pieces of porcelain were tricked out with plenty of gilding and sprays of dainty flowers.
The salesman glided up beside him. “What exquisite taste you have, sir. Also Frenc
h, very old, Limoges.”
“Yeah, I thought so,” Tom bluffed. He picked up the teapot, examined the bottom as if he were one of the guys on Antiques Roadshow. He liked when they did sports memorabilia. “It’s really faded, but I think this says ‘museum reproduction’.”
The antiques dealer reddened to the edge of a stiffly styled toupee that didn’t quite match his remaining hair and tidily trimmed mustache. “Perhaps only the cup is Limoges. Allow me to include both as a gift from Royal’s of Royal Street. I’ll have them delivered with the table.”
“Nice of you, Mr…”
“Randy, Randy Royal, proprietor. Please consider shopping here again.” The last seemed almost a plea to Tom, the heck if he knew why.
“Just make sure to ask Arturo to keep them for me behind the desk, okay?”
“I’ve already written the particulars on the delivery slip.”
“Good, see you around.” Tom left doubting he would.
That out of the way, he kept his appointment for a chest waxing at a salon recommended by Brian Lightfoot, not the same place Alix would be spending her afternoon. This establishment seemed to have mostly male attendants. He hoped that didn’t apply to hers. After he stripped and lay on a linen-swathed table sheeted in a layer of plastic, his genitals modestly covered by a thick towel, Steve, who warmed the wax strips, suggested he might want to sign up for the whole package—chest, legs, and pubic area. For the last, a number of designs were available. He handed Tom a binder with suggestions to peruse while Steve proceeded with the chest waxing. Evidently, a penis could be adorned with a pouf like a poodle or surrounded with close and imaginative razor work or go completely bald. Tom didn’t think he’d like a razor so close to his goodies. One slip and…
