Eyeful (Gladiators of the Gridiron Book 2)

by C. R. Grissom

  “I’m not sharing. I’m still traumatized.”

  “Come on, Phoebes. We’re friends.” This statement is so wrong right now. I’m using her to get info. Would I be here if I had the answers I’m after? I don’t know.

  “Your secret’s safe with me.” And it will be.

  “Fine. I went to prom with a budding ventriloquist. We dated each other a few weeks before the event and planned to take our relationship to the next level later that night at the hotel.”

  A sour taste unfolds inside my mouth. I don’t want to hear about Phoebe having sex with someone else. The pinprick of jealousy is colossally stupid. “Everybody’s first time is embarrassing and awkward.”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “Most girls don’t have sex with someone who throws their voice.”

  “Huh?”

  “Aspiring ventriloquist. He gave my vajayjay a voice.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “No. I’m. Not.” She shifts in her chair and stares off into the distance. “It was worse when he tried to pretend it was some kind of puppet.”

  That’s so bad, and I can’t stop laughing. “Holy shit,” I say when I catch my breath. “You’re not joking? What did he make it say?”

  “There’s not enough money or alcohol in this world to get me to tell you.”

  Shit. Humor is my kryptonite. “Damn, girl. I hope the next guy knew what to do.”

  “The next guy wasn’t much better. I stick to self-service.”

  The thought of Phoebe self-servicing sounds off an imaginary whistle, giving my competitive side the signal to start game mode. “I know I can do better. Put me in, Coach.”

  “Are you even serious right now?” she asks.

  Her eyes crinkle at the corners, her expression a cross between interest and no freaking way. I don’t expect her to take me up on my offer, but either way it’s a win. Keep her talking about herself or get my hands on her. It’s a method to peel back another layer of the girl who unwillingly fascinates me.

  “I never joke about sex. Besides, I want to prove my point. The guys you slept with were either selfish, stupid, or both. Making love can be sloppy or memorable, but should always leave you satisfied.”

  She points her index finger at me. “You’re just after your gender’s prime directive.”

  I snort out a laugh. “And what’s that?”

  She sighs. “To get laid as often as possible.”

  “Okay. Mostly true.” I reach over and tug on her hair lightly. “Some of us are selective.”

  “Would you say you fall into that category?”

  “I do.” I lean across the small table to get closer. A little exaggerated but I need her to know I’m joking. Mostly. “On behalf of my gender, I offer myself in service to you to prove not all men are inconsiderate in bed.”

  “Noted.” A full-on blush paints her cheeks. “Besides, we haven’t even kissed…”

  Phoebe tilts her head as though considering. “It would change our dynamic. Sex ruins everything. And that wouldn’t be cool.”

  “Hey, seriously. Are you okay?” I’m worried something bad happened to her and not just mediocre sex.

  “Wait, what? Yes, sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything other than boring and awkward being my experience.”

  “I can beat boring and awkward.”

  “Uh-huh.” Her smile spreads. “So can I. They make all manner of appliances to avoid those two words.”

  Damn. My pulse beats in time with my spiking desire, and my mouth goes dry at the mental images she just drop-kicked into my brain.

  She leans in and makes eye contact. I’m lost in the unique shade of violet blue. What the hell am I doing? I should stop. I’m acting reckless with a girl I can’t have.

  “Under the circumstances I think I’ll stick with what I know.”

  Her voice sounds raw. Fuck it. I want this. It’s not my first bad decision, and it won’t be my last. I lean in to kiss her but stop—my mouth an inch away from her lips. “Give me a chance to change your mind. Pucker up, Phoebes.”

  She nods. Then her eyelids close like the connection of our gaze burns too hot, uncovers too much. And maybe it does. The moment our mouths fuse I want to consume her. When her tongue swipes across my lower lip, I have to force myself not to act like the lion she accuses me of resembling. I thread my fingers through her silky hair. She tastes like milk tea and smells like coffee.

  I could fall for this girl lightning quick, but we’re at an impasse. She’s the daughter of my enemy.

  She pulls back first and presses her fingers against her lips. The instant loss of heat shocks me.

  She drops her hand to her lap. “Well. Hmm. You do that really well.” She rocks back in her chair. “But Mama Chen might object.”

  She’s right. We’re not private. I’m more bummed we have to stop than I have a right to be. I can’t start anything with Phoebes; it wouldn’t sit well. Pursuing her without having answers about her role with the scams. “You’re right—we shouldn’t freak out the management.”

  *

  As soon as I step through the door at home, I hear raised voices. Mom and Avó go off on each other like angry and opposing fans at a tailgate. I sprint through the laundry room and into the kitchen in time to hear Mom yell, “Mãe, pare.”

  “Hey, what’s going on?” I ask. Mom never raises her voice to Avó. She’s always even-toned and respectful when she talks to her mother.

  “Avó was on the phone again. Talking to people about the house.”

  Mom’s face betrays her anxiety while Avó’s face is a casebook study in stubbornness. Eyebrows slanted over squinty eyes. Lips compressed into an angry slash. Hands clenched at her sides. It’s a look I’ve seen often growing up, and I know there will be no victor after this skirmish.

  “Avó, don’t talk to anyone about the house. These are not good people. Will you promise me?”

  Avó shakes her head. I have to get through to her. “Please, Avó, trust me. Eles são ladrões.” I make eye contact and repeat, “They are thieves. Don’t trust them, they lie. Okay?”

  She shrugs, but I can tell she’s listening for the moment. Whether she retains this conversation will be anyone’s guess. Sometimes her memory is like a steel trap. And lately, it’s like a colander with holes large enough for the noodles to sift through.

  Her hair is dyed a warm brown. She wears all black. Vovô died before I was born, and I can’t remember Avó wearing any other color. Her go-to outfits consist of a long skirt paired with a silk blouse. A gold crucifix hangs from her neck. She’s the strongest woman I know.

  “Let’s go watch the telenovela. Alejandro and Valeria are supposed to find each other in this episode.”

  “It will be Santiago, Alejandro’s evil twin. He will kidnap Valeria and ruin her life.”

  Watching Spanish soaps with Avó takes pressure off Mom, providing necessary breaks from making sure Avó doesn’t wander out of the house and down the street. I place my hand on Avó’s lower back to guide her into the family room. She’s at least a foot shorter than me. Her body feels more fragile each day, and it scares me she might not be with us much longer.

  We pass the bedroom Dad has slept in since his release from the hospital. I knock on the doorframe twice and notice he’s awake, propped up in his hospital bed, and staring at the wall. “I’m home,” I call out, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. It’s another match strike to my heart, a quick flash, but the burning sensation lasts like the burning wood presses into my skin.

  I don’t want Avó to realize how much Dad’s silence hurts me. “I wonder what Alejandro will do if that happens?” I ask.

  “He will lose his mind and his heart.”

  “Why would he lose his mind?”

  “When the heart experiences great loss, the mind follows. Especially for Alejandro. Who does he have left? His brother killed their parents by setting their house on fire. His sister became a bride of Christ.” She makes the sign of the cross. “No
family, no love, his soul will die like a plant without water or the heat of the sun to give life.”

  Avó can’t make the th sound either. The sun becomes da sun. Mostly I don’t notice except today, when I want to memorize everything about her. Playing along I say, “Or he can find another girl.”

  Avó smacks my belly lightly with the back of her hand, the Portuguese equivalent to shut up and listen. “You are young, Tiago. You have not lost your heart yet. Your eyes may have wandered; your head may have dreamed about kisses. But your heart is your own. One day you’ll lose your heart to a girl. If she’s the right one, she’ll feed your soul.”

  An image of Phoebes pops in my mind. Ignoring it, I lean down to plant a kiss on Avó’s head. “Two women already own my heart. I don’t have time for one more.”

  “Family is important. Your daddy…his body and his pride suffer. You and your mother have to help him do everything. He mourns the loss of his independence and regrets the heavy price paid. Tenha paciencia, meu neto.”

  She pats my hand while she asks me to have patience. “He must choose to accept his fate or fight to walk again, se deus quiser, but nothing we do will fix it.”

  Avó’s right. Maybe it’s God’s will or Dad’s lack of it, but the need to encourage him to try physical therapy spikes the anxiety I’ve lived with since his accident. Worry about Dad drills inside my brain like a football slammed into the turf by a nervous QB facing a sack. It started with Dad’s accident and I haven’t had a day when it doesn’t tackle me at some point.

  Getting drafted by the NFL is my primary goal after college. That kind of money will stop this endless battle over every freaking penny we earn. Once I’m in, I can pay for Dad’s physical therapy.

  I won’t give a fuck how much it costs either.

  Leading Avó to one of two blue love seats in the family room, she sits in her normal spot. The couches face each other with a long cherrywood coffee table set in between, while Dad’s leather recliner sits in perfect alignment in front of the television. Empty. We don’t use it. Maybe we subconsciously believe if we do it might jinx his chances at recovery.

  Selecting the soap from the DVR menu, I settle in with Avó. If the guys ever find out I watch soaps, I’d never hear the end of it.

  Avó is the equivalent of a soap opera expert commentator. She fills me in on all the nuances happening on screen. No need to watch, I can listen to her analyze every scene. She’s like her old self when she watches telenovelas. Probably the biggest reason I sit here listening to her running dissertation about Valeria and Alejandro’s love life.

  Which makes a fine circle back to Phoebes and our kiss. Smoking hot. Thinking about it makes my gut clench. I have no right to want her. Family first. But I get in her orbit and the gravitational pull makes me forget my first objective: answers.

  My body anticipates the naked something more with Phoebes. Hormones don’t stop because suspicion implies this girl might be complicit in her mom’s crimes. Lust only concerns itself with the desire to slide my tongue over and into her, focusing on the challenge of making her come harder than she does with anything battery-operated.

  Thwhap. Avó smacks my thigh, effectively pulling me out of my Phoebe fantasy, which I shouldn’t have indulged in while sitting next to my grandmother anyway.

  “You can’t watch the show with your eyes closed. You missed Santiago. I told you he would make trouble.”

  “Sorry, Avó, I had something stuck in my eye.”

  Avó squints at me. “Pare. A girl is stuck in your eye.”

  Busted. “It’s not what you think—she helped me with homework.”

  “You close your eyes to dream about homework? Tell me a different story, meu neto, this one I don’t believe.” She points at the television. “Watch the show. I’m not easy to fool like Valeria.”

  When the credits roll, Mom steps into the family room. Mom’s hair is still her natural color so it’s a darker brown, like mine. She’s taller than her mother, but not by much. She’s five three to Avó’s four eleven. Mom leans down and kisses my forehead. “Obrigado, meu amor. When do you need to leave for football?”

  “In about twenty minutes.” Avó has fallen asleep sitting up on the couch next to me.

  “Oy, Tiago, you need to eat. Why didn’t you tell me? I have linguiça I can heat for you and papo secos fresh from the Portuguese bakery in Santa Clara. Mrs. Silva bought for me. You take to eat before practice, okay?”

  Portuguese sausage and fresh-baked bread. A favorite of mine. Mom is a freak about me going hungry. It’s sweet. She gets it naturally from Avó. When Avó fills your plate, you’d best clean it because otherwise you get the passive-aggressive questions like, “You don’t like my cooking?”

  The guys figured it out when Mom and Dad had some of my teammates to dinner last season. Avó piles up plates like we’ve been starved for weeks. Then, when you’re not looking, you get another huge helping heaped on your plate. In Avó’s eyes, if you’re over six foot, it takes too long for the food to reach all the places it needs to go, so you’d better load up to make up for it.

  I grab my backpack, keys, and the linguiça sandwich Mom made for me. She slathered it in mustard, just the way I like them. I kiss the top of her head and yell, “Pai, I’m off to work. See you later.”

  “Oy, you’ll wake your avó.”

  “Nah. She’ll sleep for at least an hour. We’ll talk about the call she made later, yeah?”

  She kisses both my cheeks. “Deus te abençoe.”

  Sending me out of the house by asking for God’s blessing on me became a new habit of hers courtesy of Dad’s accident. I nod. “Love you, Mom.”

  *

  I arrive in the locker room feeling at home. Noise level cranked to deafening. Rap music competes with a country tune while Everest, one of the team captains, shows CW, aka Caleb, how to line dance. Everyone has a nickname, well, except Tim Burr. We couldn’t top that.

  The rest of the guys whoop or offer insults.

  Baloo shouts, “Not like that, CW, your other left.”

  I don’t have biological brothers, but these guys are my family.

  “Yo, TJ, what’s kickin’?” Baloo asks.

  “You need to find a new line.”

  “You still our kicker?” He nods, answering his own question.

  I flip him off.

  Baloo laughs in three syllables. Ah. Ah. Ah. It cracks me up every single time. We were roomies once. Maybe one day we will be again. It depends on Dad’s questionable mobility, and right now it doesn’t look good.

  “Who’s the new girl I saw you pressing heads together over laptops in The Canteen the other day? The one with the grape Kool-Aid eyes?”

  “She’s a friend of Faith’s. She helped with my Lit paper.”

  “You calling dibs?”

  No. Damn it. “Maybe.”

  He does this thing with his eyebrows, and I swear it’s like they communicate. Looks like they’re screaming bullshit.

  “Fine.”

  Baloo’s mouth spreads in a wide grin. He raises his voice. “Everest.”

  Shit. Everest’s gaze zeroes in on us, and he stops his dance lesson mid-step. I hear him say, “I’ll be back,” to CW.

  But CW follows him anyway. Crap. It’s going to be announced. Every guy on the team will know I called dibs on Phoebes, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. Yes, it’s a fairly new team ritual. But if she finds out, she’ll probably kick me in the balls for this anti-feminist, caveman claiming custom. At the same time… What the hell am I doing? I have no right to clear the field when I can’t make a play.

  Baloo winks at Everest. “TJ has an announcement.”

  Everest nods. Since he initiated this team tradition immediately following a crisis last summer when two of our teammates fell for the same girl, he takes the declaration seriously.

  CW looks on with interest. He mouths, “Faith’s friend?”

  I grimace, but nod.

  CW whispers, “Don’t f
uck it up or Faith will be pissed. When she’s pissed, I hear about it. And she’ll rain it down on you, too.”

  Shit. I know he’s right. Which is why I didn’t want to call attention to Phoebes. It’s freaking complicated. “Yeah, yeah.”

  Everest claps his hands and the music cuts off immediately. He is a force in the locker room and on the field. He may rule the world someday.

  “Gentlemen, let’s give TJ the floor. He has an announcement.”

  My entire body grows hot under the heat of all those stares. I never imagined having to call dibs. The fact I’m not clear to do this weighs heavily, but fuck it. “Phoebe Makenna is off limits. I call dibs.”

  Tim Burr puckers his lips and makes kiss sounds. Chrysler claps in slo-mo. And Everest asks, “Is she going to the game this week?”

  “I’m not sure.” It wasn’t at the top of my list of things to do. I want answers, not someone sitting in the stands under false pretenses.

  “Have you asked her?” Everest asks exasperated.

  “Not yet.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “Good question.” I guess I’m going to have to ask Phoebes to our game Saturday.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Phoebe

  When I step through the door after parting ways with Tiago at Mama Chen’s Boba Tea Shop, Grams glances at me. Her face appears drawn, like worry etched itself across her features.

  “Darling, I’m so glad you’re here. We’ve run into a bit of a hiccup with your current sleeping arrangements. Those little monsters arranged for Gavin’s apartment to be fumigated.”

  Tension bands between my shoulders, tightening the tendons because I need a solid backup plan. The gym didn’t exactly pan out, since Tiago drove me to my fake apartment and all. My heart skitters in my chest. He can’t work late every night, can he? Crap.

  “Obviously, you can’t stay there now. Don’t fret, my love. Agnes Marlowe in building three offered her spare room to you.”

  How awkward. Crashing with someone I’ve never met. “Grams, I don’t know what to say, but I’m sure Mrs. Marlowe doesn’t want a stranger in her home.”