BENCHED

by Abigail Graham

The kid’s eyes lock on the frying pan. “She didn’t know she had me in her belly yet. My dad went out to the store to get something and he got robbed and shot.”

  “Christ,” I mutter. “Okay, um.” Fuck, what do I say? Let’s talk about something else? Sorry about your dad, kid?

  I glance at Phoebe. Or try to. Her head is gone. I take a few steps into the living room and see her. She flopped over on the couch and she’s sound asleep, curled up in a ball, snoring softly.

  Is that why she became a cop? Somebody shot her husband? Jesus, they must have married young. She’s younger than I am. Married right out of high school, probably. Was the kid planned? Was she going to surprise the father with the good news?

  Jesus, I’m going to be sick. He just goes out and never comes back. What if he was running an errand for her?

  She looks completely different asleep. The harsh glare she usually has is gone. When she’s not scowling, she’s actually really pretty. She doesn’t look like a hardass cop at all.

  Christ, she lost her husband young and she’s alone with this kid. No wonder she was freaked out by me flying past her kid’s school. Carrie is all she’s got.

  I know what it feels like to lose everything.

  Now, I feel like a complete shit heel.

  “Broadside?”

  “My name is Alex,” I tell the kid, as warmly as I can. “I hate when people call me that.”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. It’s fine. I’d rather you call me by my name is all.”

  “Okay.”

  Back in the kitchen, I flip the meat a few more times and make sure the other dishes are ready. The veggies are tender, the gravy is hot, the instant potatoes are ready (Phoebe doesn’t stock real ones) and dinner is about to be served.

  Carrie pushes a stool to the counter, climbs up, and pulls out plates for three people. “Are we still having the lasagna?” she asks me.

  “Sure.”

  I take that out and let it rest on the table while I plate up the rest. When it’s done, I send the kid to get her mom. She’d probably punch me in the throat if I roused her from sleep.

  Doesn’t stop me from watching. She sits up, groggy and yawning, and pulls the tie out of her hair. It spills over her shoulders in soft, frizzy curls that cry out for someone to knot their fingers in them. When she’s between sleep and scowling, she has that kind of easy, casual beauty that people strive for but never find. She looks a lot younger after some rest.

  Until she remembers I’m in her house and glares at me.

  Her phone rings and she steps into the kitchen to take it while I sit at her dining room table.

  The kid reaches for a fork.

  “Wait for your mom.”

  She frowns a little. “Okay.”

  Phoebe walks in, looking tired again already. “That was my boss. They’ve cleared the reporters. You can leave now.”

  “Eat first,” I grunt.

  She sits and looks over the plate I made up for her. Carrie happily spoons up her lasagna. Kids can eat anything as long it has calories.

  “What is all this?” Phoebe says.

  “Food.”

  “This is enough for ten people.”

  “Nah, it’s enough for two of you and one of me. Eat.”

  She sticks a slice of chicken in her mouth and her face lights up as she chews. “Carrie,” she says after she swallows, “try this.”

  The kid has the same look on her face.

  “How do you have time to cook for yourself like this? Don’t you lift weights all day or something?” Phoebe says.

  “I also do a lot of grunting and sullen scowling.”

  She glares at me.

  “If you want something done right, you do it yourself,” I tell her with a shrug.

  “Yeah.”

  Carrie looks back and forth between us, expectantly.

  I eat fast, trying not to overstay my welcome. Phoebe doesn’t have much to say. She finishes hers and watches me eat four more plate loads of food.

  “You eat like this every day?”

  I shrug. “Gotta feed the beast.”

  Carrie snorts.

  Her mom appears utterly shocked to see her eating broccoli florets. She pops them in her mouth and chews them with grim determination, eventually clearing her plate of a good handful.

  “Desert, scout?” Phoebe offers, cheerfully.

  Carrie rubs her stomach. “I can’t. I’m too full. Can I go…”

  “Do your homework? Yes,” Phoebe says, smiling.

  Carrie moans theatrically and drags herself out of the room.

  “She got out of doing the dishes,” I observe.

  Phoebe looks at me blankly and then scowls. “You’re a bad influence on her.”

  “Am I now?”

  “You can leave any time.”

  “Not until I help with the dishes.” Before she can say anything, I get up and load up, carrying the plates and pans into the kitchen. Phoebe follows me with the rest and drops it all on the counter.

  “What are you up to?”

  “The dishes.” I start filling the sink with hot water. “Wash or dry?”

  “Excuse me.”

  “I wash, you dry.” I sigh. “You didn’t call it.”

  She takes up position next to me, and glares at me. I squirt soap into the sink, stop the faucet, and start washing.

  “Why are you washing my dishes?”

  “You’re tired. You had a long day and it’s my fault those vultures mobbed you. It’s the least I can do.”

  “The least you can do is leave.”

  I smirk.

  “Just can’t let me be nice, can you?”

  “You must want something. You’re too much of a dick to act like this for its own sake.”

  “You wound me.”

  “Right, like you care what I think. Your agent tell you to do this? I’m sure the league will love you taking the time to atone for your sins by helping out the harried single mom.”

  I look around, theatrically. “You see anybody else here? It’s just us. No witnesses. I may be an asshole, but I’m not a complete asshole, okay? I’m really sorry for what I did and I’m trying to make up for it.”

  “Try harder.”

  I turn to face her. “Is that an invitation?”

  “Pig,” she says, plucking the wet saucer from my hand to dry it.

  I hand her another. “You seem kind of lonely. You could use a night out on the town.”

  She freezes and looks at me in utter astonishment. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  “I…” Her jaw sets. “No. Absolutely not. I’d appreciate if you didn’t come back to my home.”

  “Why not?”

  She rounds on me. “Because you are an arrogant, self-centered, grandstanding jock and you have nothing but contempt for me. I know exactly how you see me. Poor little thing, she must be going through such a dry spell, right? News flash, Broadside. I don’t need a man, and I don’t especially need a gigolo that throws his dick in a different movie starlet every week. If you think you’re going to make me forget what an asshole you’ve been because you have a big cock, you’re wrong. I’m not that easy.”

  “So you’re saying I have a big cock.”

  She snarls in frustration, half yell and half growl. “Watch your damn mouth. My kid might overhear you.”

  “You said it first.”

  “I said no, first. No date, no socializing, no more awkward dinners where you eat out half my fridge.”

  “That’s not the only thing I’d like to eat out.”

  She turns beet red, I mean so red I think all the blood in her body just flowed to her cheeks. The look on her face is half rage and half…

  She’s totally thinking about it. Hard. Visualizing it in exquisite detail. If she wasn’t, she wouldn’t be staring at my mouth.

  “You jerk” is all she can manage. “Just leave.”

  “I’m finishing th
e dishes.”

  “I said leave.”

  “There’s only a couple pots.”

  “I can scrub my own pot.”

  “I’d rather scrub your pot for you.”

  “Get. Out.”

  “Fine, fine, I’m leaving. Dinner was great. So about that date, pick you up at five on Friday?”

  “Are you completely out of your mind?”

  “What, you have something better to do?”

  “Yes, spend some of my rare free time with my child.”

  “So, that’s a no.”

  “Yes.”

  “So, that’s a yes?”

  “Out!” she yells.

  “Okay, fine, fine, I’m going.”

  I strut to the front door and stand in the open doorway staring back at her. Her tank top is wet from drying dishes and clinging to her body. Her nipples are very hard, and her legs are shaking. She gives me a look that could melt steel, her lips parted a little like she’s thinking about hopping on my cock right now.

  I give her a wave and pull the door shut, and strut back to my rental. I lock the front door behind me and stand there panting. My chin drops and I look down, staring at my own hard on tenting my shorts like it’s taunting me.

  Fuck, that was hot. She’s got a mouth on her, that one. The bubbleheads Lou sets me up with just stare at me blankly half the time. I got sick of dealing with them after the fourth girlfriend who just lays there like a starfish while I do all the work, and started just taking them to dinner for appearance’s sake. Lou insists I look like the big stud, pulling down all the top class trim.

  Whatever. He’d tell me to stay away from Phoebe. He tells me lots of things.

  I need to take care of this. I trudge upstairs, shove my clothes off, and fall back against the wall, roughly jerking my cock as if I’m angry at it for getting me into this.

  While I stroke myself, I picture Phoebe buck-ass naked. My mind’s eye puts a nice sheen of sweat on her for good measure, so I can imagine licking it off. I want my hands and mouth on her body. I want to taste her and kiss her and get her so wet, she pleads with me.

  The thought of it gets me even harder. My balls tighten at the idea of caressing her collarbone with the tips of my fingers, of what her tongue would taste like in my mouth, how she would squirm and writhe in my hands as I eat her out. I wonder if she has those freckles all over her body as heavily as they are on her cheeks.

  Imagining her bending over and flexing her tight ass while my cock slides into her drives me over the edge and I explode into my hands, panting and covered in sweat. God, I would fuck her into the ground, ram inside her and hammer her and keep going without stopping between climaxes so I could pump her full.

  Panting, I climb into the shower and turn it on, hot and then ice cold. I lean my hands on the tiles and grit my teeth as the water flows over my back. Standing, I aim the spray straight at my crotch and suppress a cry from the chill.

  After I stumble out and dry off, I look out the bedroom window across the yard at Phoebe’s house. She has her blinds drawn, but I can see her moving inside.

  No, this is wrong.

  The curtains are pretty sheer and I can see her walking around. She turns her back to the window and rubs at her neck, and I realize she’s topless. If she turns around--

  I shove my curtains closed. No, I’m not shitty enough to spy on her. Even if she is prancing around gloriously naked, and she just took a shower and her hair is all wet and soft and would smell wonderful if I could bury my face in it and rake my hands up her body and give her breasts a squeeze.

  Stop it, Alex.

  Oh, well. I can probably avoid her. I have plenty to do on my own.

  I have to coach peewee football tomorrow.

  Chapter Four

  Phoebe

  Damn it.

  I run over and close my curtains properly after I realize what I was doing. All he’d have to do is glance over from his house to see me prancing around naked in my bedroom after my shower.

  God, I needed a shower. I also need one of those detachable shower heads.

  What on earth is wrong with me? I despise this guy, but I can’t stop thinking about him, or keep my hands off myself when I do. As soon as I got in the shower, I started drifting off thinking of him bending me over the kitchen counter.

  Maybe I was a little harsh with him earlier, but he’s so damned forward, making sex jokes and passes at me where my kid could hear. Carrie is oblivious, though. I found her lying on her bed passed out from all that food she ate, her (thankfully completed) homework still sitting on her little desk.

  Okay, so, I’m going to stop thinking about him.

  Until I lie in bed.

  I have a big bed. A queen. I don’t take up very much room. When I lie in the middle and wrap myself in the sheets, I feel like I’m lying in the middle a snowy field, alone. I grab one of my pillows and hug it hard.

  Stop thinking about Alexander Wright, Phoebe. Put him out of your head.

  It’s a fool’s errand, trying not to think of him specifically, so I try not to think at all, and get some sleep. I have work tomorrow, then I have to pick Carrie up from practice.

  Thinking about that makes me toss and turn. He doesn’t seem like the peewee coaching type, and I’m sure he’ll blow his stack when he sees they let girls on the team.

  I couldn’t believe she was allowed to play myself, but when I took Carrie to register, I found three other girls already signed up. They’re only six or seven years old, after all, and football is in the blood around here. I was ready to argue with them to let her join, but they signed her right up.

  She loves it, absolutely loves it. It’s so silly watching them run around in their goofy oversized helmets and pads. I never miss a game, but I can’t do every practice. A bus picks her up from the elementary school and drives her to the high school with the other kids to use their field.

  After I finally get a fitful six or seven hours of sleep and drag myself out of bed, I push a groggy Carrie through the motions of preparing for school, energize her with Pop Tarts, and drop her off.

  Then it’s back to traffic patrol. I make my stop at the station, gas up the Tahoe, and set up in a different spot a bit further down the road. This time no news vans crowd me. I get a few more tickets than usual, and the look on my face keeps their mouths shut.

  Better day than most, worse than some. Just marking time.

  I change at home before I drive over to pick up Carrie. I hate walking up in uniform with all the gear and my piece on my belt. It makes me nervous having it around the kids.

  When I arrive at the field, he’s there.

  Wright towers over the usual coach, Eddie McGinty, who stands with a clipboard and whistle, visibly annoyed at sharing his responsibility over the team.

  A few other parents mill around, waiting for the practice session to end.

  “Phoebe,” Eddie says, scowling at me.

  “Hey, Ed. How’s it going?”

  “They’re slow,” Alex grunts.

  “They’re kids,” Eddie sighs.

  I join him in glaring at Wright. “What are they doing?” I ask.

  The kids are lined up, running from one end of the field to the other.

  Well, from one line to the other. They don’t run the whole field; it’s too long.

  “Wind sprints,” Wright says.

  “Wind sprints,” I say.

  “They’re six.”

  “They’re football players.”

  “Six-year-old football players.”

  Eddie blows his whistle. “We’re done for the day,” he says.

  The look on Wright’s face says he’s not done.

  I can’t help it. I start laughing.

  “What?” he growls.

  “Oh my God, you’re actually into this.”

  “Anything worth doing is worth doing well.”

  I fold my arms over my chest and smirk at him. “Oh, really.”

  “Really. I could show yo
u. I can think of a few things worth doing with you.”

  My heart tries to skip a beat, and fire burns its way up my neck and cheeks. I turn away and try to say something smart, but I’m running out of retorts.

  “I’m sure” is all I can manage, hoping I sound droll.

  “So you changed your mind, then? Friday? I’ll pick you up.”

  “No. Besides, you have a game on Saturday. Remember?”

  “Yeah, you can cook me breakfast first. You owe me a meal.”

  “I didn’t ask you to cook dinner. I don’t owe you anything.”

  He smirks. “Fine then, I’ll bring you breakfast in bed.”

  I roll my eyes, dismissing him and his banter as Carrie runs up to me, carrying her helmet by the face shield. She’s flushed and sweaty and looks so excited, she could just burst.

  Sparing Alexander a glance, I can’t help but think as I take my daughter’s hand. I haven’t had breakfast in bed in a long, long time. David did that for me the very first time we spent the night together.

  Thinking of him in the same context as Alexander Wright forms a cold pit in my stomach, and I stumble a step in the grass.

  “You’re coming to the game tomorrow, right, Mom?” Carrie asks, oblivious.

  “Of course, honey, I’d never miss it.”

  I walk her back to the Tahoe and put her in the front seat. She likes to wear her pads and uniform all the way home. I don’t even get why the need for pads considering they can’t actually tackle each other. Maybe it’s just for the sake of authenticity.

  Carrie loves it.

  When we get home, I send her upstairs to change and do her homework. I pre-heat the oven and drop onto the couch. I could use a beer. I haven’t been much of a drinker since David, but now and then, I feel like I could use a touch. Just something to take the edge off.

  There’s a knock at my door

  Resignation and panic clash in my head like waves meeting rocks. It’s either a door-to-door Jehovah’s Witness or it’s a reporter. I have very little tolerance for either. I go to the window and peel back the drapes to spy onto the porch before I open the door.

  Standing on my porch are a pair of boys in uniform from Albie’s, the grocery store.

  When the door opens, they hand me a list.

  “Got your delivery, ma’am.”