“Sometimes you are just too much,” grabbing his face between both hands and planting kisses all over him. “And I love it.” I eat up his affection knowing Sasha could be watching.
He tells me how much he loves me and with his usual cocky charm, how to find him out on the pitch.
The game was going well. At just before the half Diego has racked up an assist and two goals. The taunt of his name being chanted throughout the stadium creates an overwhelming amount of pride in me. “Santo Feo,” the crowd sings.
“Come on, ref! He’s offside.” I’m frustrated with the lack of calls from the referees. Earlier, Diego was clearly taken out, but the referee couldn’t be bothered to pull out a card.
I can feel Mazzy’s eyes on me. “What?” she questions, but I don’t bother to turn to face her. “I still don’t get this offside shit,” she says with equal parts frustration and resignation.
“Sheesh,” my exasperation a tease. “After all these years, you still don’t get it?” From the corner of my eye, I register the shake of her head and the tiniest bit of shame pass over her face. “Okay, let me see if I can explain this in Mazzy terms.”
For a moment, I ponder the possible topics I could use to help her understand. Running through my knowledge of Mazzy, the most logical considerations are music, dance…
“I’ve got it,” my voice unnecessarily raised. “Imagine we’re at a bar with the girls,” referring to the group of ladies we met in a dance class we took as freshmen. “You and Sammi are eyeballing the same guy; he’s the ball.”
Her eyes go big at the mention of ball. “Is he a big ball?” gesturing with her hands held apart his possible size.
Shaking my head, I demand she focus. “Stay with me Mazzy. It’s not the time to be in the gutter.
“Since, you and Sammi are friends you agree to play by the rules, and the rules are simple: the night club—the field—is divided in half, you and Sammi each protecting a side, but you each need to reach the end of the other’s side for the goal—in this case, taking Mr. Man Meat home.”
“I love a good competition,” she interjects.
“You each are the last line of defense before the other scores, goalie and defender rolled into one. The only way she legally gets past you is if she has the ball—Mr. Man Meat—in tow. Keeping things fair, it’s ‘may the best woman win.’” Mazzy dusts off her shoulders and pops her invisible collar.
“Now, let’s say that Sammi enlists Ashley to help and they have the ball, or more specifically in this scenario, Mr. Man Meat’s attention. Ashley’s herding him towards Sammi and her goal.”
The way Mazzy’s screwed up her face I’m either about to lose her with my analogy or the thought of Ash and Sam getting one over on her is so unappealing it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth. I’m hoping for the latter.
“Problem is Sammi is already waiting behind you waiting for Ash to hand him off to her.”
“That bitch!”
I can’t stifle the chuckle her reaction elicits. “That’s offside.” Gesturing back down to the game, I continue. “See the guy in red just in front of our goalie?” She nods. “He’s you. If a member of Team Sammi gets behind you while Ashley,” pointing to the player from the other team with the ball, “still has the ball, Team Sammi is offside.” I shrug like it’s nothing. “There are a few more technical considerations, but that’s the gist of it."
By the time the half ends, I feel like my bladder is going to explode. This baby business is brutal on your lady bits when you think about it. Constantly going to bathroom, making your tits swell to the size of small watermelons—yes, I’m exaggerating, and then there’s labor and delivery.
I freshen myself up while I’m in the bathroom since we’re moving to the wives and girlfriends section for the second half. I don’t know when Mazzy will be back again and Diego’s next games—while she’s in town—are away games, I decided she needs to see the other half of what I deal with at the games: the WAGS.
I load up Mazzy’s hands with a few bottles of water and I go to find Bean. “Hey, Bean. I’m gonna take Mazzy down to the seats for the full experience. Let her see what life in the WAGS section is all about.” Bean and his usual game day buddies chuckle at the thought.
“You ready for this Mazz?”
She gives me a look that says, ‘Do you even have to ask?’
The weather is still nice. Mazzy and I are both wearing short sleeves and Capri jeans which means our ink is showing. Normally, this is not something I’d ever waste a minute worrying myself over, but the murmurs and not so subtle under the breath mumblings I heard the first time I sat down there with them, made it very clear that along with my being American, my tattoos made me the ultimate pariah.
Fortunately, not all the wives and girlfriends felt that way. It was contained to a small group of them that were the team’s version of Mean Girls. The others were at least cordial and waited until I wasn’t around to talk shit, if that’s what they chose to do. A couple of the ladies went out of their way to be friendly and help me adjust, even including me in the gossip as if I’d always been there.
“Hey, Vicki. Hey, Sue.” I greet two of the wives when we reach the WAGS section. They each stand up to give me a gentle hug while air kissing both cheeks. “This is Mazzy. Mazzy, the Wives,” I introduce, referring to my name for the two wives that welcomed me with open arms.
“Ladies,” Mazzy drawls in her lazy California accent, “which hotties on the field are yours?” She’s overly ostentatious even for Mazzy.
“Number nine,” says Sue.
“Number sixteen,” says Vicki.
“I tell ya, ladies, there are some of the hottest men on that field today.”
Vicki leans in to tell me what a riot Mazzy was and how she was sure going to ruffle some feathers today. I whisper back, “Where I have to watch my tongue, she can unleash hers on whomever she deems deserving. I told her about my first game down here. She insisted she get to see them,” nodding up and back behind us.
“So, Mazzy,” Sue starts, “Izzy tells us you’re not much of a fan of football.”
“Is anyone really?” she deadpans.
“Oh, Mazzy,” I plead. “Behave.”
“Unless being a fan of football players makes you a fan of football. Then, by all means, you can call me a big fan,” she holds her hands about twelve inches apart with a wink from behind her sunglasses.
The teams are taking the field as halftime is coming to an end. I told Diego we would be down there for the second half, so I’m not surprised that he makes a point to look for me. He flashes me a smile and with his right hand, he holds up one finger then four then three. Each number representing the number of letters in the words ‘I love you.’ I respond with two fingers then four then two then four. These numbers representing how much I love him: ‘so much so much.’
“Bleh,” Mazzy croaks beside me, “you two are even too sweet for my sweet tooth.”
“Oh,” Vicki starts, “they’re sickening. Of course, Izzy’s hands get fuller every time he does something like that. What was it you called them, Izzy?”
“Who? The Vapid and Obtuse?” I answer knowing exactly what she’s talking about.
She holds in a laugh, “Yes, the Vapid and Obtuse don’t even see Izzy as an obstacle. When your man looks and acts like Diego, you don’t get to keep him without a challenge even when you have his last name.”
We hear a snort from behind us with, “Especially if you’re the owner’s daughter.”
Because we all know what they’re alluding to, we let it go. I’ve even expressed my concern to Diego about Sasha’s attentions. He truly doesn’t see what my concern is about, but has assured me he’s mine nonetheless. Men can be so clueless.
When number twenty-one turns to look back at the WAGS section, Mazzy doesn’t fail to disappoint. Knowing that he’s one of the Mean Girls’ men, she goes out of her way to be super flirty. “Hey, Number Twenty-One,” she calls out to him fluttering her fin
gers in a wave. “You and me sans clothes, a bed is optional,” she shouts clearly for all those within twenty meters to hear.
I choke on the sip of water I just took as a result of her bold proposition. Watching Number Twenty-One, one moment he’s all smiles, the next he looks like he was the kid that got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
None of us looks, but it’s safe to assume he was get a glaring look from his wife behind us.
Sue and Vicki are still cracking up when Mazzy says to me, “Izzy, with the number of good looking men on this team, I might just have to move here.”
The cough that comes from behind must belong to Mrs. Number Twenty-One. “Excuse me,” she spits out, “but that’s my husband you’re talking about.”
Mazzy, always on her A-game, replies coolly, “I’m sorry. He didn’t mention that when I was just flirting with him. My bad.”
I don’t encourage her behavior nor do I discourage it. It’s been my experience, however brief and infrequent, that this lady and her band of mean girls deserve every bit of Mazzy’s or anyone else’s antipathy.
“While you’re letting your friend,” now addressing me about Mazz, “flirt with my man, your man is getting real cozy with the boss’ daughter,” she hisses.
“Alexis, I’m aware of what it looks like, but I am more than certain that my man knows he’s my man.” Tsking the next part, I ask, “Can you say the same?” knowing full well that his last infidelity was all over the British tabloids.
The jaws of Sue and Vicki are practically hitting their laps and Mazzy’s snickering behind her hand. Mrs. Number Twenty-One looks like she’s about to blow. Instead, she stands with a stomp and demands her merry band of mean girls follows. The lot of them storm up the stairs and out of sight.
“Izzy, you are definitely going to make this season interesting in the stands,” says Vicki.
“Interesting might be an understatement. I’m thinking we should start a reality show…The Real Housewives of London United.” Sue holds up her hands and moves them across the sky like the words were on a marquee.
“That’s my girl,” Mazzy nudges my shoulder with hers.
The game ended in a tie and of course, that confused Mazzy. She’s used to overtime and extra innings. I tried to explain, but she’d become distracted with one of the staff standing on the sidelines.
“That’s Jason Becks,” I lean in to tell her. She repeats his name as if she’s trying to taste it.
After they shake hands with the opposing team, the team heads back our way to the locker room. We’re waiting outside the locker room with the rest of the families when Diego comes out with Jason following. They make their way to where I’m waiting with Mazzy.
“Two things: What happened with James’ wife?” referring to number twenty-one. “And are you still up for the party tomorrow night? Jason, here, is the one throwing the birthday bash.”
Mazzy hears everything. When I look to her for an answer to the last question, her eyes are practically begging me to say yes. “Party sounds fun. We’re in. And what do you mean what happened with James’ wife?”
“Izabella Santo that man is furious with me and it had nothing to do with the game considering I gave him the ball so he could score,” he levels me a look that says come clean.
“She was soooo busy talking about you and Sasha, I challenged her to a ‘who can trust their husband’ contest.”
Jason bursts with a laugh. Diego is trying to stifle his. “And Mazzy may have flirted with him knowing a little bit about their tabloid history.”
Both men stop laughing and just stare at Mazzy. “Hey,” Mazzy starts to defend herself, “Izzy was telling me how awful the team’s Club Mean WAGS are, I thought I’d have fun with them while I was here. You know how it is, D. When you mess with the Izzy, you get the Mazzy.”
“And when you mess with the Mazzy, you get the Izzy,” finishing our dynamic duo mantra. “I haven’t seen James come out or the Queen of Mean out here. I wonder how news got to the locker room so quickly. She must have texted him.” I snort a little. “Oh!” my exclamation drawing the attention of others around us. “Mazzy, this is Jason, or as Diego calls him, Jay. Jay, this is Mazzy.” They shake hands.
“Careful. I heard she bites,” Diego playfully warns.
“That’s not all I do, Tweedle D,” she deadpans. She turns her attention to Jason and falls into conversation with him as we make our way out to our cars.
Diego wraps his arm around me and I take the opportunity to confirm he’s not pissed at me for giving James’ wife a hard time. He just laughed and said “the truth hurts.” He asked me if I was sure I was up to a party and I eagerly answered with a “hell yes.” I never turn down an opportunity to dance with my man.
Chapter Ten:
Witchy Woman
September 2006
The ride over to Jay’s house is fascinating. Mazzy is going on and on about whether or not Jay could be interested. After their flirting session of matching wits in the parking lot after the game, she’s been more on than off. It’s quite entertaining, actually. I haven’t seen Mazzy this excited over a man in…Wow! I can’t remember the last man that got her going like Jay does.
When we arrive, the sight is a bit startling. There is security everywhere and the outside has ropes leading up the walk similar to the outside of the club. Diego gives his name to the bouncer at the door and we’re led inside.
The interior can only be described as understated opulence. The size screams look at me, but the decor says, I’m a bachelor and I like to keep things simple. Jay was nearby when we got there. I assume he’d been waiting for Mazzy, because he immediately whisks her off to get a drink after he offers us to make ourselves at home. Diego leads me to a set of couches with empty space along the wall at the back of the great room. We make nice with a few of the other partygoers before Diego decides he needs a drink and I need water. Resisting the urge to roll my eyes and chastise him nearly makes me break out in a sweat. When he’d been gone for what seemed to be too long, I decided to stretch my legs and look for my god of a husband. Just as I stand, I see him across the room headed back to me with our drinks in hand.
The party is filled with women willing to sell their souls for a stolen kiss from my husband. It's obvious in their stares, the tug of their teeth on their bottom lips, the shift in their posture as he makes his way past them. He’s ignoring their attempts to get his attention. His focus is on me and he knows I can see everything.
The slight scowl on my face is probably not as slight as I think.
He's shaking his head, probably for more than one reason. We've been here before, women willing to do anything for a taste of him, even with me hanging from his arm. What floors me is their complete lack of respect for themselves and relationships in general. I suppose their gold-digging, athlete-stalking ways will eventually pay off. They're bound to find a professional footballer that's all ego and no heart. They can't all be Diego.
The thought pulls a smirk across my face. He’s still making his way across the room and back to me. The shift in my facial expressions raises his brow in amused curiosity. There’s still a sea of partygoers between us, but he’s getting closer. I’m moving before my head’s on board with the decision to make my way to him.
When he notices that I’m on the move, understanding washes over his gorgeous face. The smirk on my face melds into a look of seduction. He knows. This is what I do. We do. Much like Diego makes every effort to stake his claim on me, I don’t hang back or hide in the shadows when these knock-off Barbies think that my man is fair game.
Hips in full motion, the slow sway stirs a longing in my core. I swear he can see it the moment I recognize the ache. The look in his lust-filled eyes could be seen from the Hubble telescope. Almost as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone, replaced with a fiery glare and a scowl.
Before I can react to the sudden shift in his facial expression, there’s a hand on my elbow giving it a squeeze meant to stop my fo
rward progress and shift my attention. I know without looking it’s not someone I’m familiar with and it’s about to set off my Saint. With a less than gentle tug, I’m free of the presumptuous man’s paws with not so much as a hitch in my step.
“Dick tease,” he spits.
Where his unsolicited touch did not warrant my attention, his uncouth verbal slap stops me dead in my tracks. Eyes still focused on Diego, I steel myself. Who the fuck does this asshole think he is? Forgotten are the Barbies pawing at Diego every step of his way back to me. This fucking asshat has solicited my wrath. Diego’s tight grin tells me he knows what’s coming. The shake of his head says, ‘Stupid fucker.’
“Excuse me?” I whirl around to dickless. I’m normally a cross your arms across my chest kinda girl, but this little bundle growing inside me has made my already ample tits almost a cup size larger. I don’t need to give this hack anymore ammo. So, with my hands on my hips, I wait to see what Mr. Asshat has to say next.
“You heard me sweetheart. Dick. Tease,” he makes a point of annunciating his original slur. Oh, these fucking douche-thletes, every team, every city, every country has them.
Stopping any further comments from Mr. Asshat, I begin, “If I weren’t ready to put you in your fucking place, I’d be happily steering you in the direction of the gaggle of vapid and obtuse dying to sink their claws into someone,” I pause, pronouncing each of the next words with a pointed finger, “just like you,” ticking off the next words on the same three fingers. “Dickless, classless, and a hack. You resort to childish fucking name calling when you’re let down gently.”
I notice that Diego’s made his way to my side along with tonight’s Queens of the Vapid and Obtuse. Shaking my head, I clear my mind of these clueless trolls. Diego drops back to just behind me. I can feel him, but he’s letting me handle this.
“Way to be a fucking, man,” delivering the last of my verbal lashing which drew the attention of the dozen or so closest to us.
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