by K. K. Allen
A few minutes later, Maggie faces me and opens her mouth. “So you played football for my dad, huh?”
I nod, unsure of where this is going. Something tells me she’s not really asking. She already knows the answer.
“Were you any good?”
My mind flashes to a smaller version of me with my eyes on my opponent while Zach danced around in the pocket. If anyone came near him, I was all over it, pinning them to the ground just in time for Zach to launch his next rocket.
“Yeah, I was pretty good.”
“But you didn’t want to go pro? Or you weren’t good enough?”
I shrug. “Guess I’ll never know if I was good enough. Football was never my number one. I fell into it because of Coach, but my heart has always been with the culinary arts.”
Maggie’s eyes soften. “When did that start?”
I lean back in my chair, spreading my legs and thinking back to all the memories of my dad while growing up. He was my inspiration. “My dad was always baking or cooking something. I remember coming home from school to the most amazing smells. He never had to ask me twice to join him in the kitchen. He’d plop me on that counter, and I’d watch him work and help as much as I could.”
“Did your mom cook, too, before she…” Maggie’s face turns red, and I know she wishes she could take the question back. No one ever likes to ask questions about my mom’s death, which suits me just fine because I normally hate answering them.
I smile faintly. “My mom didn’t cook. She refused, actually. My dad says it inspired him to impress her with every meal. My mom was a photographer. The first camera I ever picked up was hers when I got old enough to fiddle with the thing.”
“That’s sweet.”
The fact that I just blurted all that out to Maggie doesn’t seem sweet to me. In fact, it might just scare the hell out of me. I take a swig of my beer instead. “Your turn. When did you start modeling?”
“I was a regular pageant girl,” she says, batting her lashes at me, “from four years old until my mom decided it was time to start making actual money. That’s when she hooked me up with her old agent, and off I went. Commercial one day, fashion-brand shoot another, and runway event the next. I barely had time for school. Eventually, I had to get a tutor to supplement my time out of the classroom.”
“Wow, that’s pretty intense for a young girl.”
She bites down on her bottom lip. “Yeah, but it was all I knew. My mom’s career ended faster than she wanted it to, and I became her little puppet. She lived vicariously through me until I finally called it quits.”
“How’d you do it? How did you finally break the ties to modeling? Is it because of what happened on that runway?”
Maggie’s face grows red and she shakes her head. “No, I was already on my way out. My heart wasn’t in it anymore, but the timing ended up being perfect. I saw what was happening in the media with Zach and Monica, and I knew she needed me even without her saying a word.”
She’s hiding something, but I’m not going to push it. “A sister’s intuition?”
She nods. “Something like that.”
“Can I ask another question? A personal one?”
She swallows another mouthful of beer and shrugs. “Why the hell not?”
I smile while searching for a safe way to ask the question. “Do you think you’ll ever talk to your dad again? Do you want to?”
Maggie’s eyes snap to the field, like she’s searching for the man. “There’s always been this part of me that wants to see him.” She speaks quietly, but there’s no mistaking her words. “But then I think about the last time I saw him, and I can’t let myself forgive him for what he did.”
I don’t know why I have this yearning deep within me to make things right between Maggie and her father. The last thing either of them probably want is me getting in the middle of their issues. “Monica and him seem to be getting along,” I start, but then I shut up before I can finish my thought. That was probably the wrong thing to say.
Maggie’s sharp caramel eyes turn from the field to me. “I don’t mean to be rude, but can we talk about something else?”
“Sure,” I say slowly as she reaches for the hot dog and pulls it out of the wrapper. Her foot taps quickly against the concrete as she rips open the condiment wrappers, one by one, with her teeth, and then decorates the dog. I have the strangest feeling that she doesn’t even know she’s preparing to eat the damn thing.
I reach for the camera around my neck and focus on her glossy pink lips. Her mouth is marginally parted, her perfectly trimmed nails have a firm grip on her bun, and her cute button nose is currently inhaling her food.
There’s something so innocent about the picture through the lens. On the surface, it’s just a woman and her hot dog. But I can’t escape the stirring feeling in my gut when I look deeper. There’s something lonely, yet flawless about how Maggie appears to me now: seemingly unwanted, perfect beneath the mask of artificial condiments, yet toxic because one taste of her will only spell trouble. But damn, I want to spread her, taste her, and swallow her whole.
Jesus. I swallow and try to shake away my dirty thoughts. In my defense, it’s been a long time since I’ve found true pleasure in a woman. Sure, there was that one time with Faye months ago, but a little fucking around in a hotel opposed to a whole night of tantric fucking are on two different scales of orgasm. And I want the good kind, the mind-blowing sex that fills me repeatedly and becomes an all-night fuck-a-thon.
I’m not supposed to have those kinds of thoughts or feelings about Maggie for so many reasons that I’m starting to lose track of them all. But today isn’t about sex. It’s about learning how I can work and live near Maggie for the foreseeable future. She may not like me, but she doesn’t have to hate me. She’ll at least have to tolerate me if I’m going to be her boss and her landlord.
I don’t know how many photos I snap before Maggie’s head snaps toward me. Her eyes fly wide, and she gulps down her next bite then slams a palm an inch from the lens. “What are you doing?”
I lower the camera and laugh. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. You were really enjoying your meal.”
Maggie’s face is bright red, and while I know I caught her off guard, her reaction scares me a little.
“Delete those photos.” Her tone drips with warning, but I’m too locked up in confusion to take her seriously.
“What?” I shake my head. She’s out of her mind. “No.”
“Desmond Blake, delete those photos now, or I will leave.”
My jaw drops. “Maggie, stop. They’re good photos. Look.” I hold the camera up, display side facing her, and tap through each photo. Each one is aimed more at the hot dog she’s holding than on her. “I was capturing your food. That’s all.” I fail to mention how nice her lips look in the photo. Apparently, I don’t need to because she already appears to be calming down.
She sits back in her seat and narrows her eyes at me. “Next time, ask my permission first.”
I can agree to that. “I will. I promise.” I lower my camera to my lap and assess her. “Jeez. Aren’t models used to having their picture taken?”
“I quit modeling, remember?” With that, she shoves the rest of her hot dog in her mouth and chews before finishing off her drink. Then she shoves her empty cup against my chest. “Beer me.”
I take it from her and stand with a light chuckle. The lines will be crazy since there’s only twenty minutes to go until game time, but I think I can still make it back before kickoff. “Anything else? Cotton Candy? Red Licorice?” I tease.
She shakes her head and turns her eyes down to her phone, which she starts tapping away on. “Just booze. Thanks.”
I refrain from scolding her on her alcohol intake and head toward the aisle just as Monica, Chloe, and Gavin are walking up the stairs.
“Hey!” Monica lights up. Why can’t I have that same effect on Maggie? “How’s she doing?”
I chuckle and toss a look over my s
houlder. Maggie’s still got her nose buried in her phone. “One guess.”
Monica smiles. “I’ll go talk to her.” She raises her eyes to Chloe. “Can you grab me a drink? And a funnel cake?”
Chloe grins. Being Monica’s best friend, Chloe seems well-attuned to Monica’s fixation with food, especially desserts. “Of course.” Then Chloe looks at me. “Coming with us?”
“Lead the way.”
Gavin gives me a fist bump, and we take the stairs two at a time until we reach the top. Like I guessed, the line is a mile long.
Rocking back on my heels, I eye Gavin and Chloe. “You two ready for the big day on Saturday?”
The two exchange big smiles as Gavin wraps an arm around her. “As ready as we can be,” he says. “We’ve only waited our whole lives for this.”
As pessimistic as I am about love, I can see that they radiate devotion toward each other. It’s a beautiful thing to witness.
Chloe looks at me with a humorous gleam in her eyes. “Mostly, things are going smoothly. We can’t thank you enough for catering it for us. We know you usually have classes on Saturdays.”
I shrug. “You booked it far enough in advance, so it’s fine. I should be thanking you. One of my goals for this year is to grow the catering department.”
Chloe beams at me. “That’s so exciting.”
“Let us know if there’s anything we can do to help,” Gavin chimes in. “We’ll be happy to spread the word, write a review, anything.”
“I appreciate that, man.”
After we purchase our food and drinks, I make my way back to the seat to find Maggie alone with a sad look on her face as she stares out at the field. The entire team is out there now, including Coach, and I can only guess that’s who has put her in a sour mood. I stifle my discomfort and pass her to sit down.
When I hand her the beer, she thanks me and searches my hands, like she was expecting something else. “Where’s yours?”
“I’ve already had four drinks. That’s my limit.”
Maggie looks shocked and confused, and I don’t blame her. That’s the reaction I normally get when I tell people my rule. “Like, in an hour?”
I laugh. “No, in a day.
She looks horrified. “Seriously? You must think I’m an alcoholic.”
I’m still laughing. “I don’t think that at all. I know plenty of people who get belligerent on a daily basis, and I don’t judge.”
“But why? Your rule doesn’t match your whole… persona.”
I’m grinning now. I’m not exactly sure why, but I think I like that she has pegged me all wrong.
“I just like to be careful about what I put into my body. Alcohol messes with more than a person’s state of mind. I like to know that I’m in control at all times.”
She narrows her eyes and nods. “That’s right. You’re a control freak.” She sets her beer down. “Well, now I don’t want to drink this. Thanks for being a buzzkill.” She settles into her seat.
“I don’t mind if you drink, Maggie. I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad. It’s just a promise I made myself the first time I got really drunk in high school.”
“Why?” she challenges, and it’s another question that I am unsure if I want to give her the answer to.
This time, I decide fuck it. “Because I don’t want to wind up like my old man—that’s why.”
The expression on her face right now—the one filled with a newfound understanding—is one I wish I could capture. It takes all the resistance I have not to reach for my camera. But almost as quickly as the shock and disbelief wash over her, they dissolve like her face just hit the sun.
“I forgot I’m not the only one with daddy issues,” she finally says.
“Yeah, well, at least I still talk to my issue.”
She swishes her hair over her shoulder and purses her lips. “Okay, in that case”—she picks up her drink and puts it between her lips while darting a glare my way—“I clearly need this more than you do.”
I grin, unable to help the way my eyes fall to her glistening lips. “Guess you do.”
17
Standing Room Only
Maggie
The game starts, and Desmond hoists me to my feet when everyone else around us is standing. Cymbals are crashing on the other side of the stadium as horn instruments and drums serenade the players after kickoff. I hate that there’s an excitement that flits through me at the crowd’s noise and at the way every eye in the house is trained on the field below. The large monitors zoom in on my dad. Wearing a headset, he paces the sideline, deep in conversation with someone on the other end.
The last time I went to a football game was in Dallas against Seattle. Oddly enough, my dad was the starting quarterback. I still have vivid memories of that day, cuddled up with my sister and mom in the press box. Eyes were trained on my dad like he was the only man on the team. Even after the game, reporters stood in clusters, waiting to talk to him. And he always gave the best, most inspiring one-liners during the post-game interviews with the media. I was so proud. My dad was my hero in more ways than one. He was also the first man who ever broke my heart.
And the last.
The scene before me all seems so surreal.
I feel a nudge at my side. “You okay?”
Desmond is watching me, waiting for me to respond. I don’t know what to say, so I settle on the truth. “I was just thinking about the last game I went to. My dad was playing, and it was in Dallas against Seattle. Ironic, huh?”
Desmond’s eyes turn toward the field as he seems to quickly connect the dots. “Oh, Maggie, why didn’t you say something earlier? You were making all those Dallas-versus-Seattle jokes, and I didn’t even think.”
He genuinely looks sorry. I didn’t even have to explain to him why this football game over any other is probably the hardest to watch.
“Do you want to leave?”
I watch his mouth for many beats after his last words, blinking and wondering if I just made up his voice in my head. “You would do that for me?”
He glances between me and the field. “Well, yeah. If you’re uncomfortable. I brought you here to have fun, but if it’s too much—”
“It’s fine,” I jump in.
He hesitates a moment. “Really?”
“Yes. I’m a big girl. I’ll be fine.” I right my shoulders. “Besides, I’m really counting on those free meals.” Now stop talking and let me watch the game.”
The smile that lights up his face sends a charge of electricity through my body. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that version of the Desmond Blake charm before. It’s not an overblown cocky smile. It’s just natural and kind of sweet. I snap my head toward the field and try to get it out of my mind, but just like with every other thing about him—his long locks that look healthier than mine, his thick lips that could easily swallow me whole—I can’t.
For the next hour or so, I shamelessly sip my booze while he screams his lungs out every time Seattle gains a single yard. And he’s not the only one. These fans are rabid, definitely more intense than any I’ve ever seen before. They’re on their feet to celebrate every inch of forward movement and quick to scream profanities when the refs get it wrong. They’re practically foaming at the mouth in anticipation of a—
“TOUCHDOWN!” Desmond screams. Then he turns to me in what seems like a slo-mo scene in a romantic comedy. He must have forgotten my cup is still full of beer when he comes in for the hug. His arms wrap around me while I’m fighting to make out the words to warn him that things are about to go downhill fast. He pulls me in for a bear hug as my hand holding the cup shoots out and away to save us from a disastrous spillage. But then he lifts me and starts to jump. Not once. Not twice. But three times, in celebration of Zachary Ryan throwing a touchdown pass that puts Seattle in the lead.
He doesn’t even notice that beer has just doused us both until a droplet falls from my forehead to my nose. I can feel the amber liquid sliding over my skin like I’ve just
been hosed down. He releases me, and his mouth stretches wide. I can’t hear everything he says, but his apologies are clear. But that’s before he realizes that he has been doused too. His perfect hair is now wet and stringy, and his lips are now gloriously shimmery.
Maybe I’m drunk because I kind of want to kiss him right now. And well, I just might.
“Shit,” Desmond screams before letting me go and effectively shattering my trance. Everyone around us is still cheering, and I can’t even hear myself think let alone hear what Desmond is mouthing to me now.
“What?” I scream over the noise.
“I’m so sorry,” he says again as he swipes at his wet face. “I got too excited.” Then he swivels toward the field, where Coach Reynolds is giving Zach a pat on his back. “Did you see that?” Desmond leans toward me and booms with excitement. “Did you see that pass to Anderson?”
I laugh because no matter what my feelings are toward football or my father or our memories, Desmond’s face right now is priceless. His excitement is contagious, and his hugs are far too good to forget.
“Yes, I saw it,” I finally say.
For the rest of the game, I actually watch without a resentful bone in my body. For the most part, I keep my eyes off my dad, and I focus them on Zach since he’s the one Desmond and Monica are here to see. I can do that. I can focus on something other than my own past and be happy. Maybe I can even start to fall in love with the game again.
Seattle ends up winning thirty-two to fourteen, and Desmond is high on life. I remember that feeling, that joy, that intoxication that flooded my veins with each win. I remember when I would see my dad after a game and he would smile bigger than I thought possible. And somehow, that smile felt like it was aimed at me every single time.
I won’t deny that there’s something magical about the way the game brings so many people together, win or lose. To an extent, it doesn’t matter how much a person understands the sport. All that matters is what color they wear and how loud they scream.
