by Anne Leigh
Regata?
I didn’t get the name of the douchebag who’d swiped me.
“He’s a new player. Just fresh out of college. Harvard I heard,” Joaquin kept talking, looking to the side where Regata was standing, watching the plays off the field because of the penalty.
“I don’t like that asshole and I hate Harvard,” I grumbled.
Joaquin granted me a side glance, momentarily removing his eyes from our team who was now setting up Torres up top, Correa and Dejong on the crease, Hilde and Crowes on the wings, and Faccinelli behind the goal.
“Bitter much?” Joaquin joked, “Is it because Harvard refunded you your application?”
“No,” I laughed. Correa was now cutting through the wing with the two guys on the opposing team trying to catch him, but they were getting caught up in dead wind. Correa was quick on his legs and had the cunning ability to elude multiple defenders, making him one of our top scorers.
“Wheeewww. Yeeehaaw!” Joaquin shouted as we watched the ball go inside the cage. The guys on my right also cheered for the precious goal.
Relief struck me. We were up by two with three minutes on the clock. My knee was still throbbing, but it was nothing compared to the pain when I first got hit. Allen, our medic, packed an iced compression sleeve over it, making me feel slightly better. I would have loved to have remained a part of the play, but since I couldn’t, at least we got a score out of it.
The Bisons were not able to one up us so here we were, raising shots at Hot Alleys, the closest bar we could find.
“Hear hear! Xavier here hates Harvard dickbags!” Joaquin said, raising the pint he was holding, to which Kojak bumped his own beer glass with, creating a loud clang.
“F-U to those nerdy wannabes!” Kojak exclaimed, thumping both of his hands on the wooden table which would’ve caved in if the wood was anything but sturdy.
Shaking my head, I stated, “You’re both dense. I don’t think Harvard grads are nerdy wannabes. They’re just nerds.”
“Nothing wrong with a nerd.” Peyton Correa, the savior of the last play, announced. We were lucky to have him. He was thinking of going to Buffalo, but changed his mind after our coach had a long chat with him. He was what we needed to make our team better, so we could have another shot at Championships.
“I didn’t say I had a problem with nerds,” I reasoned. One of my best buddies was married to a controlling nerd. Hot but controlling. I’d never say that to Zander’s face because Sedona was his wife, but geez, she would call yapping about separating whites from colors in the laundry. I knew because Z had her on speaker when the guys and I hung out, then he’d take her off the speaker once she got all sweet, he was a prude.
“So why you hatin’ on Harvard?” Kojak asked, he was a mountain of a man with the agility of a lion. After college, I was thinking about quitting lacrosse altogether. I was trying to get into the computer design business and just as my career was starting to gain ground, my father asked for my help at Lockheed & Associates. My responsibilities kept growing and my time for lacrosse kept dwindling.
Kojak was my teammate at CSUF and he refused to let me hang up my sticks. He sent me the schedule for tryouts for the Bayers and after a few conversations with Nalee, I decided to keep going. Some women would have rolled their eyes about guys playing lacrosse just because it wasn’t a widely known sport like football or basketball. But Nalee, she always thought it was the coolest thing in the world – that I ran around with a long-handed stick fighting for a small rubber ball. What the football-minded masses didn’t see was that lacrosse was considered a contact sport. A rough one at that.
I gulped my beer and replied, “I was dumped by a girl because she got accepted to Harvard.”
Correa toasted, “Smart girl.”
“Screw you,” I retorted. “She was the first girl to like me.”
“And probably the last,” Kojak interjected. It was nice to have these guys around. They were great players on the field and grade A assholes off the turf, but they were solid. Many times when I was lonely after Nalee left my undeserving ass, they were around to pick me up just to hang out.
“My girlfriend graduated from Harvard,” Correa said, the edge of his long gray hair catching on the buttermilk ranch dip we’d ordered for the wings.
Yep, he was only twenty-something and he had gray hair. It caught a lot of people offguard but as soon as the ladies saw his silver eyes, they went gaga and their undies definitely dropped. I even caught Nalee watching him with amused eyes. As if she couldn’t believe a guy like him existed. I could care less about how he looked, all I knew was that he was as quick as lightning. If he looked like the male version of Storm from X-men, then that was his deal.
“You got a girlfriend?” Kojak asked, surprised.
Correa didn’t talk much about women, or a woman for that matter. I roomed with him once, during an international exhibition in Germany, and I swore I thought I was rooming in with a ghost. He was asleep by eight o’clock and must have woken up before sunrise because the only time I saw him upright and moving was on the field.
“Yeah,” he responded while flagging the server to refill his glass.
A woman who was in a red shirt and black skirt neared our table. I saw her eyeing the four of us as soon as we’d stepped into the bar.
Her smile was wide, but her shirt was two sizes smaller. Her breasts were threatening to pour over our table. She skimmed a glance and said, “I’m Nadine. How can I help you, sirs?”
We had a different server earlier, she must have asked to change tables.
Correa’s eyes remained on his glass and he tapped the side of it, “Another one, please.”
It was loud inside the bar since happy hour started half an hour ago, but I could still hear the honey drip from Nadine’s voice, “What’re you having?”
“Yuengling,” Correa answered, still not looking at the server in the eyes. My first impression of him was that he was a very shy guy. And while that was true, I think the fact that he possessed a unique look made him this way, so he wouldn’t have to explain to strangers why his hair was sixty percent gray because of a medical condition from birth or why his eyes were the way they were. People often asked too many questions when something or someone was different; why couldn’t they just see things the way they were. No answers required.
“Anything else?” Nadine asked, her gaze landing on Kojak who also seemed to be ignoring the advance, then when her sights were on me, her lips turned upward, “You, sir?”
“Nah, I’m good.” I waved my hand, sealing off the deal. She was attractive, but so were ninety percent of the women in the world.
“You guys play sports?” she said, her right hand finding a place on her hip.
“That we do,” Joaquin stated in a way that was meant he was going to hand a let-down. Joaquin was married to a nice young lady from his hometown, Santa Fe, New Mexico. I knew because we were invited to his wedding. A wedding that closed down all the streets, including the Historic Plaza and convention center because our little Joaquin was the son of two telenovela superstars who settled in the cozy town when Joaquin was five.
“Oh, like football, maybe soccer? You guys look super athletic.” Nadine’s admiring tone was lost on Correa, Joaquin, and I. Maybe Kojak would take her up, but Kojak seemed more interested in the sliders in front of him than on her.
“It’s kind of like football, maybe soccer,” Joaquin said, amused. It’s hard to describe lacrosse to women who only looked interested in athletes just because they were athletes.
“Oh, you play hockey!” Sure, because hockey was the only sensible alternative. I wasn’t even annoyed because she said hockey, what I was feeling was a bit of impatience because she was obviously not picking up on the signal that we weren’t interested, plus her shrill tone was a tad exasperating.
“We play lacrosse,” Correa spoke up. “And I’m still waiting on my drink.”
Nadine looked put off. “Lacrosse? Oh.”
“Never heard of it,” Nadine replied. “I’ll go get your drinks.”
Joaquin grunted, “Damn she was fine. Finely infuriariting…or is it infuriatingly fine? Watcha think?” while he elbowed Correa on the side.
“Wouldn’t know. Couldn’t care,” Correa said, shrugging.
“You should have seen her face when you said lacrosse, C!” Kojak laughed, chips flying out of his mouth.
“Huh.” Correa lifted a shoulder.
“So where’s this lady of yours, C? Is she out there in Massachusetts? Trying to make the world a better place?” I wondered if Kojak had bumped his head on the field today because he was firing off questions in quite a judgey way.
Correa pulled his long hair off the table, and trust me, this guy could give those long-haired chicks at Pantene a run for their money. He flexed his neck and stretched out his arms. “Actually, no. She’s busy competing at the Australian Open.”
“What the fuck?” Joaquin voiced out what was inside my and probably Kojak’s head.
“Australian Open? She’s a tennis player?” I said, my brain wrapping around the scoop that our quiet midfielder revealed.
Correa nodded, his eyes looking at the TV behind Joaquin. “Yeah, she’s number four in the world.”
I didn’t know much about tennis but apparently Kojak did, because he whisper-shouted, “Fuck this awesome shit. Your girlfriend is Kassandra Evans? The hottest tennis player in the world?”
Joaquin’s jaw dropped, “Que demonios! She graduated from Harvard?”
“I’m telling you, Nales, Kojak almost fell off the table when he learned that Kassandra is C’s Harvard girl.” I adjusted the volume on my phone as I relayed Correa’s admission to Nalee who was working late tonight.
Nalee’s laugh vibrated through the phone as she said, “I would’ve too! It’s not everyday that your teammate who looks like Jason Momoa has a girlfriend who doesn’t only rock some tennis, but also has a brain.”
I lowered my voice. “You think Jason Momoa is hot?”
“He’s not hot,” she paused. I could see her in her office, her hair was now longer so she tied the longer loose ends in a knot with a pencil, a habit I’m not sure she’s even aware of because even when she had tons of hair clips or ties, she still would chose a pencil; her feet up on one of her plush sofa chairs, and documents strewn across her desk. Out of the many things I admired about Nalee, her dedication to her job was right up there. There was something to be said about a woman who valued her work and was committed to making the world a better place for others.
“Nales, of course he’s hot,” I admonished. “The dude has cornered the market on ten pack abs. He’s gone from sprinting on the shores of Baywatch Hawaii to leading the Dothraki in Game of Thrones. Anyone who can do that is a badass.”
“Xavier…” Nalee said in a tired voice.
“What is it, my dear? Are you tickled by the fact that I think Momoa’s hot?” I joked while lifting a leg to put on my board shorts. I’d been in the shower when Nalee left a message that she was staying late at the office. Her latest project was taking chunks of her time away from me, but it was all for a good cause. It made her happy. These days anything that could bring life to her spirit was worth her being away from me. I was selfish. Would always be. But I also knew that now more than ever, I needed to give her breathing room, the space to let her become the accomplished woman that she was.
“No, but I’m sensing jealousy in your statement,” she declared, amusement clear in her voice.
“I’m not jealous that Aquaman’s hot,” I said, in all honesty. “He’s a movie star. He has to be hot or well…his career would be down the drain. Unless he’s the one Wilson brother who’s not hot, but can do comedy with a broken nose.”
“Are you talking about Owen Wilson?” I could hear her typing. The woman was a multi-tasker. She could clean the house, cook an awesome meal, take a shower, and chat with her friends in under thirty minutes. I could barely clean a bathroom in a year, so yep, hats off to all the women who did what not a lot of guys could do in a lifetime.
I clicked on the TV and scrolled through the channels, “Yeah, he’s the ugly brother.”
“Gee, why don’t you just share all your opinions about guys now? If you were on a reality show, you’d definitely be the judge that everyone would hate and tweet about.”
“Hate?” I snickered and plopped my grey Mahabis on top of the ottoman. These slippers were the shit. I could live in them. Dom and John gave me a lot of grief the last time they came to visit because I made an appointment at Bloomingdale’s to try on their new men’s slipper collection. They ended up buying two pairs each because they couldn’t get over the fact that the shearling-like lining made a world of difference on their callus-ridden soles. I’m ordering them a pair of the Gold edition for Christmas and since I was such a generous friend, a referral to their local podiatrist was also in the works. Dom’s big toe needed some help and John’s Jeez-Lou-freakin’-wheez middle toes were atrocious. I’ve read that there was a link between the brain and middle toe. No wonder John’s brain was empty, if you took a close look at his feet you’d know why.
Anyways, back to the present. “Nales, I’d be the judge who would tell the truth like it is.”
“Yeah, but you also need to be politically correct,” she answered. “Or you’d be booted off your own show.”
“Sheesh, your Bachelor obsession is showing.” I stopped on the channel that was airing the show because lookey loo, what a coincidence that today was “The Bachelor” special two hour freakshow. I only watched it because I wanted to see what America was all about. God save us from the cancer of reality shows.
She giggled on the other end. I wanted so badly to pick her up after lacrosse practice, but I got delayed by a call from the office. By the time I got ahold of her, she’d already had something to eat and told me she’d see me at home once she was done. Well, she wasn’t home by the time I freshened up so here we were, chatting on the phone on what was supposed to be date night.
“What time do you think you’ll be done?” I looked at the clock on the cable box. 11:10 PM.
“Hopefully in an hour.” A long drawn out sigh escaped her, revealing the exhaustion she’d been putting her body through. Last week she’d clocked in over sixty hours, not including the time she was on the phone at home, responding to items that needed to be taken care of in the office. This week, she was already working towards another fifteen or more than her regular working hours. I admired her work values, but it doesn’t mean I’m okay with seeing how tired she was.
“Nales, I’m picking you up now.” I stood up from the sofa, leaving comfort so I could have her home before midnight and maybe she’d get an hour more of sleep.
“I have to get this done.” Her argument was futile because I was already grabbing my keys.
“I’m leaving now. Be there in fifteen,” I replied, shaking my head at the possibility that she’d be her stubborn self.
An “okay” came out on the other side of the phone, which totally surprised me and also bothered me, because it meant that Nalee really was exhausted. A few days away, maybe over the weekend, would be good for her to recharge her diminishing batteries.
“By the way, Nales, I’m not jealous of Momoa,” I stated as the street and the late night traffic came into view.
She chortled, “You’re still on that? I thought you were on The Bachelor kick already?”
“I just want to clear the air.” I lowered the windows to let the night ocean air filter inside the car. The advantage of living by the bay was that at night, the air was cool and the scent was infused with a hint of seawater washing away the fumes from gas-powered vehicles. I don’t know if I’d ever be able to live in the desert. Just the thought of cactus made my skin prickle. Not in a good way.
Realizing what she’d said earlier, I pried, �
�So you think Momoa’s not hot? So this means you don’t find Correa hot then?” I lowered the lever on the steering wheel to signal a left turn.
“You wanna know what I think of Jason Momoa so you’d know what I think of your teammate who has a hot tennis player as a girlfriend?” A tone of disbelief littered her voice.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure you wanna know?” she asked in a sleepy voice.
“Yes.” Of course I wanted to know. Correa was not an ugly dude. And if Nalee was comparing him to the husband of Lisa Bonet, I know all about his history because I IMDb’d him when DC Comics approved him to be the living poster for Aquaman, then you bet your mama’s buns off I’d wanna know what she thought of Conan in dreadlocks.
“Fine. Jason Momoa’s not hot, he’s gorgeous.”
The SUV in front of me braked so I followed suit, and in a huff I said, “What?”
“You asked, I answered.” Her tone was blasé.
The lights were green again so I lifted my foot off the brake and accelerated. Making one last turn before I made a full stop in front of her building, I said, “Nales, sweetheart, you’re never going to be alone with my teammate again.”
It wasn’t a threat nor a warning.
It was a fact.
“So, do you think you and Xavier can make it?” I heard Sedona’s voice through Nalee’s speaker.
I raised a brow, sending Nalee a questioning look.
I’d walked downstairs to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. I was just about to turn off the lights when I remembered that Nalee requested to try the new peach lemonade drink I’d bought this afternoon.
It was only eleven, but when you’d been working as much as we’ve had, I’d have traded a kidney to be able to go to sleep at a decent hour on a Friday night. Our working hours had been so out of sync that yesterday she let out a little yell when she saw me come through the front door.
She hadn’t seen my new haircut and it’s been two days since my barber got creative with my chops. I didn’t have a military cut or anything, but I had it trimmed short because Nalee loved it.