Football Dick: A Sports Romance (Big Girls, Bad Boys, and Babies)

by Violet Blaze

  I close the lid of my computer and lean back in my chair, threading my hands behind my neck as I stare up at the ceiling of my apartment. Stupid Rhoden Richards. I'm letting him get to me. No, no, I'm letting a few stupid minutes of what was otherwise a great night get to me. That's pathetic. I can't do that. I won't do that.

  I turn my phone back on, pretend not to notice the text from Walter, and text Hal instead.

  Let's do this thing.

  Designer clothes suck. No, seriously, they suck. Shopping with my sisters (I use the term loosely in Emery's and Reagan's cases) is basically me standing there holding things while they try clothes on and then ask me if they look fat in them.

  The answer is no. No, you don't look fucking fat because you are a size TWO.

  After about twenty minutes of this, I don't feel like I'm breaking down walls or trying new things or overcoming my self-esteem issues; I feel like a pack mule.

  I drop the rest of the clothes that my sisters have hung off me like a rack and walk out of the store. I'm planning on leaving, taking an Uber home or something since I drove here with Hal, when I see a store across the street that I hadn't noticed before.

  Kierstin Bowlin.

  The designer's name is in the window, painted in white along the bottom of the glass with a few others I don't recognize. Hmm. What the hell. I decide to check it out. If it's on the Plaza, the chances of there actually being something in there that I can fit are slim to none. This area used to be hippie central for the city of Arcata, full of people in hemp pants listening to local bands and spending money at one of the local vegan cafés.

  Not anymore.

  Now it's the fashion capital of the city, overflowing with high-end shops that make clothing for toothpicks.

  I cringe at my own inner dialogue and rub some fingers against my temple. It's not that I have anything against skinny people because I don't. I just … I want to matter, too. That's all.

  “Welcome,” a woman says when I walk in the door and pause, trying to read her for any sign of hostility. I can usually tell when I enter a shop if they're going to have anything in my size. The employees will sometimes raise their eyebrows and give me a once-over that's the complete opposite of the ones Rhoden Richards gives me.

  I sigh.

  “Hi,” I say, weaving my way into the tightly packed aisles and pausing at the counter. “Can you show me all the stuff by Kierstin Bowlin?” With a small smile, the redheaded woman takes me over to a wall near the back of the store where clothing hangs on copper racks that reach all the way up three stories of bricks to the ceiling.

  “Anything in particular that you're looking for?”

  I lift my gaze up the massive wall of clothing, all of it in brilliant jewel tones and edgy silhouettes. Suddenly, the beach party makes a whole lot more sense. These clothes are as weird as the woman who pays a guy to make Moscow mules on a private beach.

  “I need a cocktail dress,” I say and then take a deep breath. “One that shows my arms.”

  I make sure to take a picture of each outfit that I try on, cycling through a good dozen dresses that I actually like. First time in forever that that's happened. Normally, trying on clothes makes me want to tear my hair out. It usually goes like this: grab my size, take it to dressing room, try it on and find out it's too tight, go back out, get bigger size, take it to dressing room, try it on and find out that it's too still too tight in one spot but saggy and loose in another. Select new clothing item. Rinse and repeat.

  Today, that's not happening. Today, by some strange stroke of luck, Kierstin Bowlin is looking out for me.

  I hold up the next dress on the rack and wrinkle my nose at it. It's tight and short and it has no straps. How on earth is that going to work? Have you ever tried a strapless anything with size 36G breasts? It's like gravity hates me or something.

  I slip into the dress anyway, liking the idea of finally getting that perfect 'little black dress' that every girl's supposed to have. Well, newsflash, but I'm twenty-nine years old and I still haven't found it.

  I wiggle into the dress, sliding it up and over what I refuse to call muffin tops (they didn't feel like freaking muffin tops when Rhoden Richards was holding them and driving into me). My face flares red as I manage to yank the fabric into place, the tight fit of the dress actually making my boobs stand tall and perky. Yes, I'm wearing a blue-gray t-shirt bra underneath and the straps are sticking out something fierce, but wow.

  My body looks liquid, like a smooth S is being drawn from my breasts to my hips. That's when I notice the tree appliques on the sides, the dark design striking me as familiar. I turn to the side and study the cutouts, the way the insides are lined with lace so none of my skin is actually showing. It's a sexy trick to draw the eye to the waist. I run my hands down my sides and grin as I turn in a circle and feel a surge of elation shoot through my body.

  Yes.

  Yes, I've found it. Three decades of searching and I've found it!

  Meghan Trainor's “All About That Bass” comes on over the speakers and although it's totally cliché for them to play that in a plus size store and yes, the song has so totally run its course … I start shaking my shit, mouthing the words as I snap a photo with my phone and decide not to post this one.

  I'm saving this reveal for the party.

  I'm still dancing and appreciating my find when a man slips inside the curtain of the dressing room and I let out a theatrical scream of shock.

  It's Walter.

  “W-what are you doing here?” I gasp as he pauses and gives me a strange look, brows pinched together as he examines the dress I'm wearing, the bra straps sticking out of the top, my gaping mouth. “How did you … know I was in here?”

  Walter smiles and lifts up his phone. He's dressed in a sharp suit, his freshly grown facial hair carefully clipped and sculpted, eyebrows plucked and groom. Immediately, I start comparing him to Rhoden Richards in my head. Rhoden Richards. The man who sprinted off the beach to get away from me and then watched me walk into a dark alley by myself. Dickhead.

  “As soon as you turned your phone on, I used the app I installed to follow your GPS signal.”

  “You … stalked me?” I ask as I swipe my hands down the front of the dress and Walt's eyes follow the motion. He doesn't look as impressed as I'd thought he would. In fact, he doesn't look impressed at all. “You put an app on my phone? Without my knowing about it?”

  “Works brilliantly, don't you think?” he asks, moving in toward me and lifting my left hand up to admire the ring. I've been wearing it since the beach night although I'm not sure why. Maybe it's a reminder of why I shouldn't be thinking about Rhoden Richards. “Now I can find you when you run away from me.”

  I think Walt's trying to be cute with that statement, but it kind of freaks me out.

  “Is this for the party?” he asks, looking absently at the price tag hanging from the top of the dress and frowning at it. It's a six hundred dollar dress which is a lot for most people, but he looks at that number like it's personally offensive to him. “You should get something nicer,” he says which really bothers me. “Maybe something a little more conservative?” Walter runs his long, thin finger across my collarbone and over my shoulder. I shiver and he misreads the motion, stepping closer and pinning me against the wall.

  His mouth is so not as nice as Rhoden's, not as full and shapely and surrounded by rough, sexy stubble and a masculine jaw. I breathe in deep to try to get a hold of myself (I'm overreacting, I know) and get a whiff of cologne. It smells like vodka and money and stockholders. I don't know how it does, just that it does.

  Walt does not smell spicy and wild and lion-like. He doesn't smell like he could purr in my ear or growl at me or swim naked in the Pacific Ocean.

  “As much as I like what I see,” he says, dragging his hand down and cupping my right breast. The touch … it's the first sexual anything that he's done to me since we met. We've barely kissed, not gotten all wet and tongue crazy like I did with Rh
oden. I have no idea if Walt is just a patient man or an asexual man or if he was just running analytics on me to see if I'd make the perfect bride, but this hasn't happened before.

  Now that it has, I'm starting to get nervous.

  His touch makes me go stiff, my skin rippling uncomfortably, like Little Dick the Puppy does when I press too hard with the wire brush.

  “We should save a dress like this for our wedding night, hmm?” Walt smiles slowly and then bends down, pressing his mouth against mine as his hand kneads my breast through the fabric. I don't open my lips to him, so when his tongue comes out, there's this really awkward moment where I jerk my head away and laugh hysterically.

  Walt must think I'm giggling girlishly because he licks my bottom lip like he thinks I find him sexy and steps back with a wink.

  “Dinner next Wednesday at my place,” he says, not a question. I don't like that. “My entire family will be there. Make sure you get a dress for that, too.”

  “Okay, Edward Lewis,” I say, but Walt doesn't stop, disappearing out the curtain without noticing my Pretty Woman reference. I wait until I hear the door close at the front of the shop and then drop to my knees on the white fluffy rug that covers the cement floor.

  It's as dramatic a move as I'd hoped, but damn, it hurts.

  I lean forward and grab my phone, pressing dial on Ariana's number.

  “Finally. You seriously waited how long to tell me you got freaky with Rhoden Richards again?! If you have his babies, I get one. It's been a dream of mine for a while, but I don't think I can cheat on Scottie like that.”

  “Ariana,” I say as my skin breaks out in goose bumps.

  “Della,” she asks, suddenly worried at something she hears in my voice. “Are you okay?”

  “I think …” I say as I struggle to pull in a full breath. “Ariana, I think I hate Walter.”

  “Sweetheart,” Ariana says softly as she presents me with a cup of tea and lets me curl up pathetically on her couch. “This is news to nobody but you.”

  I take the cup of tea, absolutely certain that it's certified organic (thanks to Scottie) and take a small sip. I think it's chamomile.

  “But … he's the perfect guy,” I say as I try to make sense of my emotions. “I mean, he's good-looking, successful, rich. What's not to like?”

  “He calls me Alana every time he sees me; he drives a Hummer in the city; his company kills honey bees and calls it progress.”

  “Ariana, if I … if I call this off, my family will go nuts on me. My dad … he'll never speak to me again.” My gaze snaps up to find her watching me with narrowed green eyes.

  “So? Your dad's been a complete ass since he married the Wicked Witch of the East. If calling off an engagement with a man you don't like stops him from speaking to his eldest daughter, well, then he wasn't worth it to begin with.”

  Before I can add to the discussion, Scottie appears in the hallway, scruffy and yawning after getting off the late shift at the hospital. He shuffles into the kitchen and starts making a cup of fair trade certified coffee.

  “Honey, she's just realized she hates Walter.”

  Scottie spills coffee grounds across the counter as he jerks his head up and smiles at me, pushing his glasses up his nose as he beams bright.

  “Oh, thank God. We were starting to wonder if you needed a lobotomy.”

  “I never liked the guy, okay? I was just … I was trying to make a smart, logical decision.” Both Scottie and Ariana laugh, like I was actually trying to make a joke about this.

  “She slept with Rhoden Richards again,” Ariana adds without asking for my permission to share the details of my sex life. She never does. “On a beach. A private beach.”

  “Good,” Scottie says, but he's blushing a little which I appreciate. “I like Rhoden Richards. He donated fifty grand to that no-kill dog rescue last year.” Scottie pauses and gives Ariana a look. “Please don't say anything about his butt or I might have to retract that statement.”

  “That's okay. I'm done with that. All I really wanted was a perfect little Rhoden Richards baby. Now that Della's going to marry him, she can just give us one.”

  “Ariana, I haven't even dealt with this yet.” I hold up my hand and wiggle the engagement ring around. “Can we take things one step at a time? Besides, what do you think Walter will do if I break up with him and then officially start dating Rhoden? Can you imagine what that would do to his ego? I can't see that going well. Besides, you're assuming Rhoden's interested in having a relationship with me. He told me himself that he didn't do romance.”

  “So that's a reason to marry Walter? Come on, Del. What do you like about him, if anything?”

  “I …” There's a long pause where I stare into the swirling brown depths of my tea. “He makes my skin crawl and his kisses are like dry ash against my cheek and he never looks me in the eye when I'm talking.”

  “Exactly.”

  I glance up and look from Ariana to Scottie.

  “So how do I break this off?” I ask as I clutch the tea to my chest and try not to look at the zillion dollar ring I'm still wearing. “How do you end it with someone that everyone else is practically forcing you to marry?”

  “Well, first of all, you go to that press conference party and make sure everything goes smoothly. Since Walt owns the team now, you'll have to be certain he's not going to fire Rhoden after you break up with him.”

  I think of Rhoden, of the way he talked about his mom, his childhood. If I got him fired … I wouldn't be able to live with that.

  “That sounds fucking awful. Can I at least wait until Sunday, after the game? It's a home game this time.” Ariana rolls her eyes and gives in, but only because she knows football's sacred to me.

  “Fine. But after the game, you tell your dad, the rest of your family. And then you arrange a quiet dinner out with Walt and tell him in public.”

  The thought makes me sick but also strangely … elated. For the past year I've been thinking of marrying Walter as an inevitable possibility. But I am an adult, and I can make my own decisions and … holy crap. I really do hate the guy.

  I really, really do.

  My auburn curls are loose and bouncy, sleek and shiny, smelling like green apples and melon. My lips are painted with Whiskey, a red burgundy color by Bite Beauty, and I've got on a pair of false lashes that actually look real. My eyes are lined in black, the shadow on my lids a silver-blue that mimics the color of my eyes. I'm listening to “Woman Up” by Meghan Trainor (I know, again) and I feel great.

  That little black dress that Walter hated? I bought it and it looks damn good on me. No, I'm not a size zero like my little sister, but I feel curvy and womanly and pretty tonight. I'm determined to get through this night without an incident, make a clean break from Walter without leaving anything to lead back to Rhoden. Not that I think there's a future for me and him either, but I don't want my crap bleeding into his life.

  Part of me is curious about the press conference that happened this morning, when the official sale of the team was announced. Rhoden was there, I know, but I can't make myself look it up, see Walter take official control of the Adders. Isn't going to the party enough? I've been having to dodge the man all week. And by dodge, I mean literally do things like purposefully “forget” my phone at home, so he won't follow me to the store.

  “How do I look, Little Dick?” I ask the puppy as he stares up at me and wags his orange and white spotted tail. “Good? Amazing? You can just say it. I can take a compliment.”

  I smooth my hands down the front of the dress and check my red soled black pumps in the mirror, loving the way they emphasize the curve of my calf. The little heart tattoo on my wrist stands out like a piece of jewelry when I go bracelet free, so I decide to show it off tonight. Add in a pair of emerald earrings that make my hair look even redder, and I'm good to go.

  I check my boobs in the mirror one last time, praying that this strapless bra I bought will do its job. I've never had luck with them bef
ore, but this one feels like it's choking the life out of me, so hopefully it'll come through.

  I take a clutch and head out the front door, turning my phone on as I hit the elevator and find it opening up to reveal a smiling Walter.

  As soon as he sees me, his expression shifts a little.

  “Hey,” I say, trying to be pleasant. Just get through this and the game tomorrow. Dinner with Walt is planned for Monday, and then it'll all be over. I can stop feeling guilty about cheating on him because we're not going to be together, and he can find a nice girl who'll be faithful to him. “How was the press conference? I didn't get a chance to watch it.”

  I step into the elevator before he can comment on my outfit, hitting the button for the lobby as Walter takes me in from head to toe. I can tell that he likes what he sees, just doesn't like that I'm going to meet a bunch of his colleagues dressed like this.

  Well, screw him then.

  I take a deep breath and feel myself smile.

  “The conference was fine,” he says, gritting his teeth and then releasing a long breath. “Although I spent a good portion of that time listening to Richards talk about his twenty-four thousand dollar penalty for taking his helmet off during a touchdown celebration last week.”

  My mouth tries to do this weird thing where it scowls and laughs at the same time. I'm not sure what ends up coming out. That showboating dickhead, trying to mess up the Adders first chance at the Super Bowl in years! And then … I must be crazy because I think, aww.

  Definitely losing it.

  “He's good at what he does though,” I say and Walter shrugs like he doesn't give a crap.

  “You were right: he's not a good showman. In fact, I'm considering trading him in the next draft. He might not be the right fit for this team.” I feel chills slide down my spine.

  “But his stats are off the charts. He scored forty-two touchdown passes in his second season with the NFL. That's a record.”

  “He's a liability waiting to happen,” Walter says as the door slides open to the lobby and he leads me outside to a waiting Hummer fronted limo. Hmm. I decide not to be judgmental, smiling at the driver as he opens the door and I slip inside. As I do, my dress climbs up my thighs and I start to feel self-conscious. I'm showing a lot of skin today—including my arms. When Walter glances over at me and gives a disapproving crook to his brow, I start to fidget.