by Luis, Maria
I release a pent up breath, accepting the fact that he’s not going to answer. Which is fine, just fine. This won’t be the first time in my career that I’ve had to work with someone who I get along with like oil and water. Sure it helps to be friends but it’s not a requirement to get the job done.
And something tells me that Dominic and I . . . we’re not on the path to friendship.
Not even close.
Just as I begin to turn away, ready to head back to my new group for more lift drills, he speaks up, voice low enough that I only hear it as it carries on the early summer breeze: “Because someone told me that if I want to hack it out at this coaching gig, I have to be prepared to get vulnerable.” A small pause that catches my breath and fills my lungs with anticipation. “It’s safe to say I’m a work in progress.”
11
Dominic
I’ve discovered the tenth circle of hell:
The Golden Fleece after it’s been ransacked by football parents.
“. . . And then I told Suzy to lay off the Cheetos before she starts pooping orange. She cried. I felt like a horrible dad and caved. Next thing I know, she’s the happiest three-year-old on the planet, smashing Cheetos into her face like she’s on the verge of starvation . . .”
“. . . Naked boobs, Josh. You know how horrifying it is to walk into a room and see your son doing that to the daughter of a friend of yours? I screamed. Craig screamed. She screamed. We’re all scarred . . .”
“If he takes my car one more time without asking, he’s grounded until he’s so old, he’ll have gray hairs coming out of his nose.”
The scene before me is like a PTA meeting on steroids, and though I know I should be mingling and introducing myself, my ass has been parked in a booth for the last ten minutes and counting.
Where the hell is Levi?
This meeting was her brilliant idea.
“We’re both new to the school,” she told me yesterday after practice, “so we really should make an effort to introduce ourselves and let the parents get to know us.”
Except that our peppy head coach is nowhere to be found, and I’m slowly beginning to suspect that I’ll be forced to handle this shindig alone.
Looking at the impending clusterfuck objectively, nothing about this event is out of my realm of expertise. I spent four years faking smiles on TV for millions of people every week. Before that, when I played for the Bucs, I spearheaded a new, team-led charity where each player—myself included—mentored a child in foster care. Junior Buccaneers was a cause close to my heart, but I made the tough decision to pass the director role to another one of my teammates after I retired from the league.
The mission of the charity was always to cut out the trustee boards and all the inner-politics that inevitably comes from having too many mouths shouting their respective opinions.
Player-led.
That was the goal.
And when I wasn’t a player anymore, I gave someone else the chance to do something good, something that makes a difference in a way most people will never understand.
What’s the difference, then, between founding a charity and talking to a bunch of parents?
Expectations.
No, that’s not it.
I take a drag from my beer bottle.
The difference is simple: I understood the kids who came through Junior Buccaneers. A long time ago, I was that kid. I never had a mom or a dad—not a set who played an influential role in my life, at any rate—and being shuffled from house to house meant that I never stuck around long enough to feel largely impacted by the women and men who took me in, either.
I’m a fish trying to swim on solid ground.
Doesn’t mean that I can’t do my best with what I’ve got.
I drain the rest of my Bud Light, then slide out of the booth.
Shawn, the bartender who I met last week, is hustling hard tonight behind the bar. Parents swarm him like locusts, no doubt feverish at the thought of being kid-free for an evening. Conversation closes in on me from all sides as I maneuver my way through the dense crowd.
“. . . I heard Dominic DaSilva is the new assistant coach . . .”
“. . . Oh, my God, did you see him two nights ago on that dating show? Girl, I live for the drama. When he punched that other guy, I swear my ovaries exploded . . .”
“. . . What the hell was the athletic director thinking, bringing in a guy like him? Yeah, he’s good on the field, but I hear he’s a complete asshole . . .”
My molars grind together as I fight the urge to say fuck this and head home.
Playing for the NFL isn’t at all like being a celebrity. For the most part, my reputation when I played for Tampa Bay was mostly hearsay. Even when I worked for Sports 24/7, the mass media didn’t give a shit about me. Certainly nothing I ever said or did made headline news and landed me on the front page of every gossip rag in the country.
Then I went on Put A Ring On It.
Old tweets began to resurface. Old flings came out of the woodwork to reveal their side of our breakups to online gossip sites like Cosmo and, the worst of them all, the anonymously run Celebrity Tea Presents. Old acquaintances suddenly had an opinion as to why I behaved a certain way on one episode and acted completely different a week later.
In the three months since footage was leaked to the media, just after filming wrapped up in Bali, my life has been shoved under a microscope in ways I never fathomed were possible. And in the month since Put A Ring On It began airing every Wednesday night, my name has trended online continuously.
No wonder the pillars of Hollywood shake and crumble on the regular, until fresh blood pops up to stabilize the crippling foundation of bone-weary celebrities. Three months of putting up with this shit and I’m already done for life.
When I finally reach the bar, I flag down Shawn, who’s sweating at the temples and looking totally frenzied.
“What?” he snaps as he pours wine into a glass, then shoves it into the hand of a waiting customer.
“I heard this place has a closed-to-the-public courtyard out back.”
He sends me a look that would cut a lesser man at the knees. “So?”
Hands on the bar, I lean forward so he can make out every word: “So, hand over the key and let me lead the parents away from your regular patrons.”
Shawn’s brows tug together, just as someone shouts, “Hey, man! Where’s my whiskey?”
That’s all the convincing the bartender apparently needs because he reaches for the keys hooked onto his belt and shoves them in my open palm. “Five bucks a pop,” he says, before I can call out to the masses to retreat to the back. “Half of them aren’t drinking anything but tap water, and if the boss comes in tomorrow to find out that I let them all stay without—”
“Add it to my tab,” I cut in, tossing the keys up in the air and re-catching them. “I’ll get a head count before the meeting’s over and you can charge me for it.”
His dark eyes widen. “You sure? That’s a whole lot of money.”
I shoot a glance to the crowd. It’s utter pandemonium.
Levi should have picked any other night but a Friday for this—and she’s not even here to deal with the fallout.
“Yup, just do it.” I clap my free hand down on the bar top, then pull away. “If you’ve got a microphone or something back there, make the announcement.”
“I’ll do you one better.”
The next thing I know, Shawn is hauling his aging body up onto the bar and hollering for all London High football parents to follow the “Hulk” to the exclusive courtyard. I can’t help but grin. Back in my LSU days, my teammates always called me the Hulk. Even among football players, I’ve always been on the big side.
Sure enough, though, Shawn’s unconventional methods do the trick.
Like lemmings being led straight into the unknown, the parents fall into line behind me. Past the swinging doors that open up to the men and women’s bathrooms on either side of me, a narrow hallw
ay leads directly out into the courtyard.
A pergola, with lights strung up along the oak wood, catches my eye first. Then a full-bodied, clay chimenea that sits dormant and dark, off to the right. There’s a motley number of patio furniture—nowhere near enough to account for the fifty or so people who have shown up for the meeting tonight—but beggars can’t be choosers.
“Find a spot!” I bark out, motioning as I turn for everyone to get their asses in gear.
If Levi wanted this meeting to be eloquent, she should have shown up.
For the third time since I arrived, I pull my phone out of my jeans’ pocket and check for a missed text or a call.
Nothing.
Again.
As I wait for everyone to situate themselves, I fire off a quick message to her:
Me: Where the hell are you?
Worry pierces me for a quick second while a million possibilities skip through my brain. Maybe she got in a car accident? Is something wrong with Topher? Did something happen from the time she left practice earlier today till now? It’s only been six hours, give or take, and while six hours doesn’t seem like nearly long enough for a catastrophe to go down . . .
My fingers fly over the glass screen one more time.
Me: You and the kid okay?
Then I pocket my phone and focus on the parents of my players. Players who, in the five days that I’ve had them running drills for three hours every morning, have come to mean something to me.
Think about how excited they are to have you as their coach.
All right. Time to make the magic happen—or die trying.
“Some of you may know me,” I say, keeping my voice steady but raised, so the folks in the back can hear me too, “and some of you are probably wondering who the hell you followed into a dark courtyard you’ve never been granted access to before.”
The joke earns me a few chuckles, mostly from the dads in the group.
“There were supposed to be two of us greeting you all tonight.” I point to the invisible space next to me, hovering my hand about shoulder-high. “My partner-in-crime is on her way”—I fucking hope—“and you’ve probably heard of her family, the Levi’s.”
A few hell yes we know her! rise up, and I feel a modicum of relief that the group hasn’t stomped back into the bar and left me out here alone.
“Aspen probably doesn’t need any introduction.” I ignore the fact that her first name sounds illicitly forbidden on my lips. Levi is familiar, safe, and not the name of a woman who moans when she eats pizza and forgoes wearing a bra around the house. “But I probably do,” I continue, noting a few of the women tittering to themselves behind shielded hands. “Dominic DaSilva. I played for the Buccaneers for a decade and some change, then took a TV hosting gig with Sports 24/7. I’m excited to start this new journey with all of you here in London, and I’m really pumped to see how well your sons do over the next two months of summer camp.”
“I was told we’re talking about fundraising today,” comes a voice from deep in the pack, out of my line of sight. “Coach Levi mentioned it the other day?”
Fundraising.
I haven’t talked fundraising since college ball.
Swiping a hand over the back of my skull, wishing I hadn’t left my ball cap on the dashboard of my truck, I give a clipped nod. “It’s on the agenda for the night, yes—”
“I heard you agreed to do a calendar for the team,” calls out a woman to my left. “A naked one.”
“No, not naked!” shouts someone else. Another female, I think. “We’re keeping it PG-13. Remember? Someone mentioned his dick in a sock.”
My dick in a sock?
In all my years playing for the NFL and working with various branding sponsorships, I’ve never posed naked. Not a single time. Briefs only? Yes. Briefs and cleats? Also yes. Briefs, cleats, and a football clutched in my hands? On multiple occasions, yes.
But not balls-hanging-free-dick-flapping-in-the-breeze naked.
Conversation erupts, groups of parents taking sides on whether or not I should be photographed with a sock covering the family jewels—or not photographed at all.
I’m siding with the latter.
One-hundred-percent.
Needing a drink to wash this nightmare away, and wishing I hadn’t been so eager to finish my beer earlier, I hold up both hands and pray for divine intervention. Sorry, Father, for I have sinned—but please, for all things holy, get Levi’s curvy ass here right now and let her deal with this shit.
“Whoa now, guys. I don’t know who confirmed this calendar thing, but I can assure you that I won’t be—”
“Coach Levi was the one who suggested it.”
My stomach lurches. “Come again?”
The woman who brought up the sock bit shifts her weight, then sips from her cocktail. “It was the other day . . . at our first practice. She asked us all to meet here for fundraising ideas, and she said we should come up with ways to use you working for London High to our advantage. Oh, look, she’s right there—Coach Levi!” the woman bellows, turning heads with the force of her shout. “Didn’t you think Coach DaSilva posing with a sock over his member would be the best method to ensure calendar sales?”
I feel my phone buzz in my pocket at the same moment Levi stumbles up next to me. Her blond hair is wild and curly. Even in late evening light, it’s hard to miss her panicked expression—the heavy-duty makeup caked onto her skin like she’s bathed in the stuff is not doing her any favors.
Her blue eyes meet mine.
I don’t look away as I grab my phone and quickly check the text, already knowing it’s from her.
She doesn’t disappoint.
Levi: I’m walking in now. I’m so so SO sorry. Ultimate disaster. Will explain later.
Her throat constricts with a visible swallow as she continues to hold my gaze, never once severing our connection while I pocket my phone.
I make a show of welcoming Levi to the faux stage, wrapping my arms around her tall frame. Her shoulders twitch when I make skin-to-skin contact, like she’s either uncomfortable with me hugging her or she’s fully prepared for me to turn the tables around and put her in the hot seat.
If I promised a group of people the chance to see her in nothing but nipple pasties and panties made of candy, I’d have a lawsuit on my hands.
Something she must realize because her mouth finds my ear—she’s risen up on her tiptoes—and whispers, “It’s a big misunderstanding, I promise.”
“Nah, Coach,” I return, my voice low and my nose grazing the curve of her jaw, “you sold me out.”
12
Aspen
Tonight, Dominic smells like sandalwood, aftershave, and pissed-off man.
Full confession: I don’t blame him for the latter.
I’m late.
I left him to the wolves.
And I . . . feel so friggin’ guilty.
He’s been mingling like a champ over the last thirty minutes, ever since I showed up and announced in no uncertain terms that a naked calendar would never be up for discussion. There was some grumbling of disappointment before more common fundraiser ideas were thrown into the mix: a bake sale, a car wash, and someone even suggesting a dog-walking stint on the weekends.
I smiled and laughed and took down names for whoever might be willing to help with what, but never once did I forget about the man beside me. Oh, Dominic chuckled right along with me and he certainly kept the conversation moving when a few of the parents shouted out rowdy suggestions. But we were standing elbow to elbow, only inches apart from each other, and it was impossible to ignore how he studiously ignored me.
The moment we were done, he was out in the crowd, shaking hands and even doling out hugs to those who asked for one.
He’s sans baseball hat tonight, which means, whenever the moonlight slants across his face, I’m given full access to his austere features. Narrowed eyes. Flatline mouth. Hard jaw—hard enough that when he does laugh, I half expect it to shatter
into a million little pieces.
My phone vibrates with the fourth incoming text since I made it to the Golden Fleece.
Willow. Again.
I last all of five seconds before unzipping my purse and grabbing the phone from the depth of my bag.
Willow: I’m sorry.
Willow: Like, when I say I’m sorry, I REALLY, REALLY AM.
Willow: Love me?
Willow: Okay, I screwed up. How was I supposed to remember Topher needed me to pick him up from a friend’s house when I had Mr. McHotPants down MY pants??? Take pity, sis. One of us needs to be getting laid, and I’m MORE than happy to be the one to make the sacrifice.
I let out an undignified snort. This is a serious case of Classic Willow.
I can count on both hands the number of times Willow has actually shown up when I’ve needed her. My sister’s track record is abysmal, and I spent most of my early life cleaning up her messes.
Until I moved to Pittsburgh with Rick and left her to fend for herself.
In the time that I’ve been gone, she’s been married twice and divorced the same number of times. She’s gone on to work in at least three different industries, and only settled on selling real estate in the last few years. Okay, I guess I can’t be all that annoyed about her latest job change. If it weren’t for her tendency to be extremely nosey and up in everyone’s business, I wouldn’t have bought my house fully furnished the day it was put on the market.
Despite the fact that my sister is a flaky serial dater, who drives a pink car with a license plate reading EXWIFEY, I love her dearly.
Doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have known better than to ask her to pick up Topher for me. But she’s been begging me to let her spend more time with him, considering how she only saw him maybe once or twice a year until earlier this month, and I figured this would be a good first step.
Pick up Topher.
Bring him home.