The air in the arena is refreshing. It’s cooler on game nights. The practice was intense for me, standing on the sidelines next to the groom-to-be, Nathan.
“Hey, congrats. The big day is coming up.” I force a smile, proving that I’m not a diabolical person with ill intentions.
“Thanks, man. I’m glad you can make it to the wedding. Who are you bringing?”
Shit. I RSVP’d for two. I can’t show up to their wedding as a single person. That would be lame, and I’d look pathetic. I need to make Melanie jealous of who I’m bringing to the wedding. How could this important detail escape me?
“You’ll find out,” is my retort before I run on the field. I need to remain focused on practice. We line up on the scrimmage line. The ball is snapped. I run downfield, breaking away from the other players. I look over my shoulder, keeping my eye on the ball. Travis releases the football. It’s a perfect spiral. I move into position, leap into the air, catch the ball, and un into the end zone for a touchdown. Overjoyed, I do a quick dance move on the green. This is how I used to be— before the breakup.
After the breakup, I lost my ability to have fun. I don’t laugh or smile much. I can make it look good, but they are expressions I’ve mastered over the trauma of being dumped.
I keep my celebration short. I intend to catch the ball a few times in the game next week. I always play my best, which helps if I’m in the game mentally.
Nathan and I are huge contributors to the team. I come through in a pinch, and I hold the team’s record for this season with eight touchdowns.
Weighting in at over 200 pounds, Nathan is a solid defensive man. We run more plays, and the ball is snapped again. Nathan takes me out, and I want to pummel him for whisking Melanie away from me, but I suppress it. I’m taken out. He’s tough, and I hate getting hit by him in practice. We quickly regroup. The whole team is pumped for the last game of the season. It doesn’t mean anything to us since we’re in the playoffs, but I’m using the last game as a warm-up for the first playoff game.
The practice concludes with a few words from our coach, Jack Reinhold. He is a Hall of Famer from his time as a running back. We all like him. He’s fair and relatively calm, which is great when everyone loses their shit after a terrible call is made on the field. We head to the locker room, where we shower and change. I say goodbye to players as I leave.
When I pull into the driveway, I first notice a small car I do not recognize. Strange, I wasn’t expecting anyone. I’m annoyed because I’m forced to maneuver around it to reach the garage. I wonder who is in my house as I toss my keys on the countertop in the kitchen. I follow the sound of a vacuum cleaner into the living room.
I find a woman wearing a bra top matching her yoga pants. She’s dancing while she pushes the vacuum back and forth over the large area rug. I observe the white ear pods in her ears and I stand, listening as she sings the words to the Taylor Swift song “Bad Blood.” She’s punching the air with one arm as if she’s in a club with friends. Clearly, she’s a Swifty. Interesting.
I cross my arms. I’d be pissed if she wasn’t so damn cute. The cleaning service is supposed to send someone when I’m not here. It takes her a few minutes to finish with the rug and turn off the vacuum. I approach from behind and stand beside her.
“Hi.”
“Oh my God.” She screams and takes two steps back which causes her to trip over the vacuum. Her body frails with arms and legs here and there until her butt hits the floor. The look on her face is priceless.
I can’t stifle the laugh that permeates the room’s silence. She’s comical, her fall was perfect. She was as graceful as a spider, her arms and legs intact.
“Who are you?” she asks.
“Who are you?” I lend her a hand and help her up. “Sorry, I laughed. Are you okay?”
“Fine.” Her tone implies she’s not amused.
Funny, because I want to amuse her. She’s too serious for one so young. She looks to be in their twenties. Even as she fell, she had a serious look on her face.
“I’m sorry, your fall was quite the… fall.” I let go of her hand as she stands. My fingers tingle. I’ve never had this with anyone before. It’s as if two currents are connecting. At that moment, I’d forgotten about my ex-fiancée.
“You laughed at me,” she huffs, checking her large breasts to make sure nothing slipped out.
“I assure you if I had a video of it, you would laugh as well.” I backed up a few steps to give her space.
“I’ll be finished in a few minutes.” She taps the top of the machine. The cord comes to life as it is sucked into the device with a whirling sound before it disappears. Her body moves with the elegance of a dancer. I wonder how many positions I could bend her into. She’s agile. Her movements are fluid. I imagine her curling around me like an unbaked pretzel, naked and enjoying all the delightful things I could do to her and with her.
My cock twitches. This isn’t possible.
I’m in love with someone else.
“I never got your name…” I begin hoping she’ll give me information.
“Penelope. Penelope Moretti.” She pushes the vacuum and disappears from the room. I follow her down the hall to the linen closet.
“Let me make it up to you. I’d love to take you out to dinner.”
“No, it’s fine.” She bristles and moves past me to retrieve a sweat suit she left draped over the back of the couch. She slips out of her sneakers, tugs on the bottoms, and ties the drawstrings. I watch as she pulls the oversized top over her head.
She isn’t one of Lucinda’s regular staff. I see them come and go because I have cameras attached to the house. I’m used to security cameras as I grew up with them, and it’s the way things are done today, especially for a high-profile athlete. I live in the suburbs. This isn’t a huge city, but one can’t be too careful. All our information can be found; what isn’t public is usually obtained for a fee.
She slips her feet into her sneakers and bends to pull the backs over her heels. I have a close-up inside view of her beautiful buttocks, and I’m mesmerized by her lithe body and efficiency.
“I’m Oliver. I play for the Megalodons.”
She stands, turns, and meets my eyes. “I know.”
Hm. She’s not impressed.
“Look. I’m trying to be nice here.”
“I’m nice.” She grabs her coat and slips it over her body.
“Two-word answers are not what I call friendly.”
“It is to me. I think. You are used to women complying with your every wish,” she states before she sails past me into the kitchen.
I chuckle. She’s correct in her assumption. But that’s neither here nor there.
She moves to the kitchen counter to grab her keys and retrieve her caddy filled with supplies on the floor.
I can’t let her leave. I just met her, and I want to know more about her.
“I want to take you out to dinner.”
“Um. Maybe you don’t like to hear the word N-O.”
She’s right, but I don’t have to agree. I’m sure she anticipated me being a stereotypical jock. Even I love to watch Travis Kelce play ball, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge that he showed quite an attitude when I watched his brief stint on a dating show years ago.
“Fine. You pick the place.” I’m scrambling for ideas.
“Why?” She pauses at the door.
“Because I want to apologize for laughing when you fell.” Boy, she’s tough. Who turns down a free four-course dinner?
“I’m good.” She says, lifting her chin in defiance. “But thanks anyway.” And with that, she turns and walks out the door.
I’m speechless. Shit. Would it be too much if I called Lucinda for her number? Technically, she’s not allowed to give out that information. I’m still reeling from the rejection when I open the refrigerator. Taking inventory of the Greek yogurt, kale, and hard-boiled eggs, it’s obvious I haven’t shopped since I flew home from Christmas dinner at my parent’s house in Boston.
I turn to the counter to get my keys, thinking about what I want for dinner, and it takes a second for me to realize—they aren’t my keys. The keychain is a winged metal logo with the word Mini in the middle.
My lips curl into a knowing smile.
All I have to do is wait.
She’ll be back in a minute.
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