“You’re dyslexic?”
Big D’s shoulders tense at the word, as though hearing it is physically painful. He nods his head just once but doesn’t say anything else.
I place the pad back on the desk and walk to stand beside him. I draw the curtain on my side too and we stand, gazing down at the grassy patch outside his dorm building, watching the world go by. I wait to speak, trying lots of things out in my head and deciding that they all sound wrong to say aloud.
Dominic clears his throat slightly. “You couldn’t read it, could you?”
I turn and look at him, standing in profile, half lit by the light of the room, half in the shadow of the night outside. I think of all the times I’ve seen him play, all the times I’ve passed him in the corridors or glanced at him in the cafeteria. I had created a persona for him, based on those fleeting interactions that seems so incongruous now that I almost want to laugh.
“The human brain is a wondrous thing,” I say gently. “Even those who study it, don’t understand even ten-percent of its wonders.”
“Dyslexia isn’t a wonder,” he says sharply.
“It’s a processing thing.” I think back to my friend Jayne at school and the difficulty she had in keeping up with the work. I remember her frustration and I understand how Dominic feels. “But no one knows why or what benefits people with Dyslexia might have in other areas.”
He looks down at me solemnly, like he wants to refute what I’m saying but is weary of repeating the negative mantra he’s probably been spouting his whole life.
“There are no benefits, Hannah.”
“How do you know? What if it’s that bit of odd processing that makes your spatial awareness so great. What if your exceptional catching abilities have come about because of the way your brain processes different inputs.”
He looks at me seriously, dark eyes framed by a strong brow, and that nose that is just so masculine it makes me feel hot between my legs. He looks at me as though he thinks I’m talking shit, but there is a tiny part of him that appreciates my efforts.
“Anyway,” I continue. “It doesn’t matter to me. I’ll read what I can, and if I need you to clarify, I’ll ask.” I see him shake his head a little, but I don’t give him a chance to object. Professor Starkie gave me this gig, and I’m going to do my best for Big D, however much he might oppose it. “Let’s just try it for now, okay.”
He takes a deep breath and sighs. I get the impression that I’m trying his patience, but he can’t bring himself to say no. I expect more discussion but he just walks past me to the desk and begins to write. I take a seat next to him and read my book, looking across at his work every so often. Hunched over his notepad, he looks like a little boy trying to do his best. In reality, he could probably crush my skull with just one fist, or blow my eardrums with one bellow. His left leg, the one nearest to me, jiggles up and down as though he’s nervous. Although I do my best to take in what I’m reading, I really struggle with him sitting so close to me.
Eventually, Dominic stops and passes me his work. I place my book back in my bag and take a pen to mark what he’s written. It’s hard to read his writing, mainly because I’m unfamiliar with it, but once I get halfway down the page it starts to get easier. Sometimes letters within a word are inverted. Other times, whole words appear in the wrong position within a sentence. I get through half of his work before I have to ask him about something. He’s nibbling his nail nervously but stops to tell me what he meant.
At the end, I have an urge to draw a big smiley face, but I stop myself. How patronizing would that be? The thing is, I feel so happy with what he’s written. Not only has he absorbed everything I said, but he’s interpreted the questioning in such an interesting way.
“Wow,” I say, and his cheeks pink a little. “You really got it.” He looks at me suspiciously. It’s as though he doesn’t believe I’m being genuine and that makes me sad. I wonder how many people have criticized him in the past to make him so uncertain about his own capabilities. I hate that life can leave its mark on us in that way.
I ask him lots of questions and he starts to talk, reluctantly at first, and then with more enthusiasm. In the end, I find myself smiling so much at the change in him that he stops mid-sentence.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I’m just really happy that you seem to have grasped this so well.”
“I love history,” he says. “It’s what I wanted to major in originally, but the administrators didn’t think I could manage with it. They wanted me to take something easy so that there wasn’t so much risk of me not passing. Trouble is, I just don’t care about the courses I’ve been taking. I can’t make myself enthusiastic enough to get the grades.”
“So, how come they let you now?”
“I told them that I’d tried it their way and now it was my turn. If they want me to pass, they had to let me take the courses I wanted.”
“So that’s why they’ve set you up with me as your tutor?”
He nods. “They obviously don’t think I can do this by myself.”
“Based on what I’ve seen, if you had started this course at the beginning of the semester, you would have had no trouble.”
He picks up a football from under the desk and turns it in his hand absentmindedly. “You’re a good teacher,” he says. “You sound like you love this too.”
“I do.”
We look at each other for what seems like an eternity but is probably only a few seconds. My heart speeds in my chest as if it can sense there is something in the air that wasn’t before. If things were different, if I was different, and if Dominic Ramsey made a move, then maybe I’d let him kiss me. My lips tingle for contact. My heart aches for connection. There was a time when I’d have thought nothing of leaning forward and taking what I need. But time moves on and other things take priority.
I can’t breathe for all the tension in the air and the longing I feel for the me I had to leave behind. Dominic moves forward, just a fraction. It’s as though he’s testing to see if I’ll respond. And just when I’m in the middle of the ‘I want to, I shouldn’t’ discussion in my head, his phone rings.
The phone is on his bedside table so he has to get up to answer it. While he does that I quickly pack up my bag so I’m ready to leave.
I turn to see him looking at the phone. “I have to take this,” he says and I nod, making my way to the door. Big D looks torn like he wants to tell me to stay but he also wants to deal with the call.
In the end, he answers it. “Hey,” he says softly. I get a pang in my heart because he sounds like he’s talking to a girlfriend. Maybe I’m being hasty thinking the worst. It’s hard not to bring baggage from the past into every new interaction. I know I’m probably been hasty making judgements, but I don’t know how to be any different.
I push the handle and open the door and he follows me. “One second,” he says to whoever is on the line. “Thanks, Hannah. I’ll see you Thursday?”
“Sure.” I walk quickly down the corridor and fly down the stairs feeling icky. This is why I have my rule.
Fuck that shit. Big D might be a whole extra portion of sex on legs, and one of the most interesting guys I’ve met in a long time, but I need to keep my legs closed and my eyes firmly on the prize; the scholarship for next semester and getting my degree. Nothing else matters.
5
Dominic
Hannah rushed out of here like she suddenly realized her house was on fire. As I carry on my conversation with Bethany, I feel gutted. I wanted Hannah to stay and talk more. For the first time in a long time, I felt like I was myself with a girl. Not just the big jock who’ll make a great accessory or a fat wallet when he goes pro. Not just a guy with a big dick who’ll give them a good time. Hannah was impressed by what I had to say. That made me feel bigger than a mountain.
Bethany talks at one-hundred-miles-per-hour, telling me all about her friends and what she had for dinner. I smile because I love
hearing all the little things that are important to her. I tell her a bit about how training is going, then I mention Hannah. Bethany goes quiet. I think she’s a little jealous that I might be spending time with another girl. “She’s really smart,” I tell her. “And she’s going to help me get good grades.”
“That’s good,” Bethany says, but her voice tells me she still isn’t sure.
“Anyway, you better go, sweetie,” I say. It’s getting late and Bethany gets crabby if she doesn’t get enough sleep.
“Okay, Dommy,” she says. I always smile when she calls me that, even though it sounds a little too much like dummy. It’s always been her special name for me.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Bethany giggles and hangs up.
I drop the phone onto my bed and take a seat on the chair I was using when Hannah was here. I look over the notes I wrote and the essay outline she made me complete. I cringe because I know it’s full of errors that I just can’t help making. I’d give pretty much anything to be able to write like a normal person. But even as I think that, I remember what Hannah said. It’s bullshit that my ability on the field could be linked to my brain processing differently. I know that she was just trying to make me feel better. But if I had a chance to get rid of my dyslexia and lose my football skills, I don’t know that I’d take that exchange. When I play, I’m exceptional, and I love that feeling. I love knowing that there are only a few other people in the world who can do what I do.
Hannah told me I could have passed this course without her. That made me feel fucking amazing because I can tell she isn’t the kind to bullshit about something like that. If she thought I needed extensive help, she would have told me for sure.
I tear the notes off the notepad and slide them into my new folder. For the first time in a long time, I feel like I can really do this. I can make football and studying work. All I want is to be able to give my family some joy and to make up for all the hardship Bethany has suffered.
If Hannah Star can make that happen, well, I’ll be in her debt for life.
6
Hannah
On Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday nights, I become I different person. I pack away Hannah Star the conscientious student and put on Hannah Star the sex kitten. There’s a Gentleman’s Club just across the state-line and I’ve been working there since I started college.
You see, I’m not a trust fund baby. My daddy doesn’t fill my account each month with dollars for books and clothes. I don’t have a charge card for gas or groceries. Everything I get, I get for myself. I’m partly proud of that fact. I like being the kind of person who can stand on her own two feet and survive. I’m also jealous as hell of those who don’t have to.
As I drive across town in my comfortable clothes, I glance at the passenger seat where my uniform is packed into my bag. It’s a small bag because my uniform is pretty nonexistent; a barely-there bra and panties set, stockings and black patent heels. All the waitresses wear the same thing. The only part we’re allowed to personalize is our hair. Oh, and I forgot my favorite part of the costume. A black lace cat mask. Well, it is called The Kitty Cat Club. At least with that on, I’m less likely to get recognized.
It’s already busy in the lot when I pull in. Greg is at the door, standing like a suit-clad statue. He’s so still, but when there’s trouble that dude can move. I go around to the back to the staff entrance, and let myself in with my security tag. The changing room is busy and I say hi to the girls who are getting ready to start their shift. It’s a strange environment. Friendly, but none of them has ever suggested we meet outside of work. I think everyone keeps it professional because we’re all here for the tips. It adds an element of competitiveness to the relationships.
When I’ve changed from my white cotton bra and panties into my black lace work set, and drawn up my stockings, I sit at the dressing table to fix my hair and make-up. Red lipstick is important. I’ve tested it out and the nights when I wear it are always more lucrative. I leave my hair down but pin a little black and diamante clip into it to hold it back from my face. I stand and look at myself in the mirror. All the salads and other carb-free meals have paid off. My body looks good. The better I look, the more I earn. It’s as simple as that. One last finishing touch. I pull the gold glitter spray from my purse and spray myself all over. Lastly, I spray a little more over my hips and stomach, where my stretchmarks are most pronounced. The shimmer covers them just enough that they aren’t noticeable in the low light of the club.
I head out through the corridor and straight to the bar to pick up my tables.
“How ya doin’, Star?” Kaleb, the barman, is looking extra cute today. He grins at me with shiny white teeth and the cutest dimples out in full force, and I smile back. He’s a good guy and he always makes sure I get some generous customers.
“I’m okay,” I say. “You got me some good tables?”
“Sure. Can you take 9 through 15 for me?”
I glance to where the tables are and see than most of them are already full.
“Sounds good.”
“Abigail just clocked off. Can you take this order to table 10?”
“Sure.”
I pick up an order-book and pen, place it on the tray and then lift the tray of drinks.
The music is so loud and the catcalling even louder. It’s early but the girls on stage are keeping the crowd entertained. I look and see Angel and Goldie twirling around the poles on the main stage. Angel has her trademark white lingerie and little fluffy wings. Goldie is all in gold.
The three men at table 10 have their eyes glued to the stage, but as I place their drinks in front of them, they turn to me.
“Hey, a new waitress,” the nearest one says, looking me up and down like a hungry dog.
“Hi, I’m Star, and I’ll be your waitress for tonight.”
“Where did the other one go?” the brown-haired dude to my right says.
“She finished her shift.”
He looks pissed off and I think I know why. Abigail likes to tease her customers as a way of getting bigger tips. When they think they’re going to get some at the end of the night, they tend to splurge to seal the deal. I bet he’s already well out of pocket, which will mean less for me tonight.
“Can I get you anything else?” I ask, hoping they’ll want some chips or something.
“No darling. Maybe later.”
I turn to scan the other tables I’m supposed to be looking after. A man at table 12 catches my eye and waves me over. He’s a regular so I smile extra wide and sway my hips as I walk. “Hey, Star,” he says in his Georgia drawl. “Can I get a Jack Daniels, straight up?”
“Sure.” I rest the empty tray on the table and jot down his order. “Anything else?”
The other men at the table place their orders. As usual, I try not to look at anyone for too long but I keep that smile on my face because that’s what men like to see in a place like this. Happy women dressed for their visual pleasure or undressed as the case may be. Kitty Cat’s gives them an escape from the realities of life; the wives that want them to do jobs around the house or spend more time with the kids, the moms who want them to come over and help them mow the lawn, the kids who want to play ball for just 10 more minutes. They come here to forget, to pretend.
We are the fantasy they wish was a reality.
Sometimes I feel sick to my stomach at all of it, but it pays the bills, and I’ve got a lot of those.
I make my way back to Kaleb, swinging my hips as I go. My heels are about as comfortable as four-inch stilettos can be, but they still pinch a little with every step. Kaleb prepares the Jack, and the other drinks, and I carry them back to Mr. Georgia and his friends. He’s watching me all the way and I hold my fake smile extra wide.
It’s all worth it when he tips me $10, but not so much when he tucks it into the strap of my bra. His fat fingers brush the swell of my breast and I want to recoil but I can’t.
“Thank you, baby,” he
says in a husky voice, as though turning on his bedside manner would make me interested in him.
“That’s okay, Sir. You let me know if I can get you anything else.”
I take two steps back and survey my other tables.
There’s a lone man on table 13 who’s looking right at me. I haven’t seen him around before. Smartly dressed in a dark gray suit and tie, he looks richer that most of the other middle management types we get in here. Richer and meaner. I can’t put my finger on what it is about him that I immediately don’t like. His eyes are a gorgeous blue but cold as ice. He has a chiseled, pristine air about him that feels unnatural. I may not like him, but I have to serve him.
“Hello, Sir,” I say, wiping down his table and setting the mats neatly. “What can I get for you?”
“Vodka,” he says. “Neat.”
No please. No smile. No nothing.
“I’ll be right back,” I say. This time, I don’t sway my hips. I don’t want to draw any extra attention to myself. I don’t want him to get the idea that I might be interested. At the bar, Kaleb is busy making drinks for Candice. We smile at each other and watch him do his barman magic. When he’s done I tell him I want a neat vodka and he pours it.
“Have you seen the guy on 13 before?”
“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “Cool suit, though.”
“He’s creepy,” I say, and Kaleb looks again, squinting a little through the low light of the club. He shrugs.
“There’s a lot of creepy dudes in this place,” he says. “It kinda comes with the territory.”
“I don’t know.” I look over my shoulder and catch the ice-man looking over. “He gives me a bad feeling. Keep an eye out, okay?”
Kaleb frowns. We’ve been working together for a few months so he knows that I’m not a diva or a drama queen. Usually, I get on with my job quietly and efficiently, so when I voice a concern he takes me seriously.
“I’ll radio Louis,” he says. “He’s the eye in the sky.”
I smile up at the CCTV camera above the bar to where old man French is watching.
BIG D: A SPORTS ROMANCE Page 3