by Tia Lewis
“Excuse me. Aren’t you Max Anderson?” Abby and I both looked up at the pair of girls standing next to the table. They could’ve been twins, and for all I knew, they were. Both of them wore low-cut tank tops, short shorts, and too much makeup. Both had long hair curling down over their shoulders, and both looked at me like they wanted to have a little fun. Maybe more than a little fun.
“I am,” I said, flashing them a smile. They giggled, sort of leaning on each other.
“I told her it was you, but she didn’t believe me.” The blonde laughed, nudging the brunette she stood next to. They both licked their lips when they looked at me. I stirred a little at the thought of what I would do to them while they were doing things to me. I might even be able to get them to do things to each other while I watched. I imagined the two of them kissing with my cock in the middle, between their tongues …
Abby cleared her throat across the table, and when I looked over, she looked at the wall while sipping iced tea through a straw. My cock went down. She was right. It would be a mistake. They were probably underage.
“Thanks for coming over,” I said. “And I hope you watch the game this weekend.”
“This weekend?” Yeah, right. I should have known. I smiled, lifting one hand in a wave before turning back to Abby. They got the message.
“Wow,” she muttered when they left. “They did everything but sit in your lap. It was like I wasn’t even here.”
“Oh, come on.”
“I mean it. Like the old days. Back then I used to blame it on the glasses and bad hair days. Now? What’s the excuse now?” She held her hands up in front of her. “Am I invisible? Is that it? And only you can see me?”
I smirked. “I think you’re going a little overboard.”
“I don’t think I am. I think I’m actually invisible when I’m around you. I mean, I do have pale skin …”
“You’re not invisible, Abby.”
“No, people just see you first.” She smiled, and it looked a little sad.
“That’s because only women come up to us. If men did, they would see you.”
She blinked once, twice. “Wow. You don’t see what was wrong with that statement, do you?” She chuckled a little. “Men don’t come up to us when we’re together because they assume we’re … you know … together. And they’re scared to death of you. Either that or I’m not attractive enough.”
“You’re more than attractive enough.” I wondered if any of the guys at the restaurant thought what she said, that we were together. That would just be weird and wrong. Right? So I told myself.
“I am?” She smiled coyly, pulling her red hair out of its tight bun and shaking it free until it floated around her shoulders in a halo. It was thick, full, and the scent of her shampoo drifted across the table. She leaned her chin on one hand and batted her eyes at me. I didn’t laugh. I was too busy getting a hold of myself to laugh. Holy shit. Was this the girl I used to hang out with in high school?
“Hello. Earth to Max.”
“Hmm?” I couldn’t keep my thoughts from fighting each other in my brain. Old Abby vs. New Abby.
She wasn’t smiling anymore. She straightened up in her chair, and our eyes locked. If lightning had struck the table, I wouldn’t have been surprised—there was that much of a charge in the air. I practically felt the hair on my arms stand up straight. It was eerie.
“I think we should go,” I said, standing before I started getting a hard-on, which would only have made things worse. If I were walking around, focusing on other things, I could control myself.
“Why? Are you sure?” I ignored the question, tossing a couple of hundred dollar bills on the table. Abby’s eyes widened.
“Wow. Generous tipper.” I didn’t answer. I only walked away from the table, toward the entrance. Again, heads turned when I walked through the room. I heard murmuring and giggling and even the snapping of a few pictures on smartphones. I didn’t care about any of it. I had to get out of there. I had to breathe.
What the hell was I thinking back there? So what, some bouncy red hair and the scent of coconut shampoo was enough to get me thinking about sex? What was I, an animal? It was Abby! Abby who was the best friend I could’ve asked for, but not the type a guy fucked. She just wasn’t. I signaled for my car as soon as the valet made eye contact.
“Max, wait! What’s wrong with you?” She’d finally caught up to me. “You ran out of there like the place was on fire. I didn’t even get dessert. They didn’t even deliver our check.”
I shrugged it off. “I’m sorry. There’s something else I forgot I had to do tonight.”
“Oh, right. The bar, with your teammates.” I didn’t have to look at her to know she was smirking. I would’ve bet money there was an eye roll in there, too.
“Sorry, Abby, I can’t drop everything just because you’re back in town now.” I turned my head so I wouldn’t have to see the hurt on her face. What a dickhead thing to say. Even I knew it was. I couldn’t tell her what was really bothering me, and it seemed like a smarter idea to push her away. She was dangerous. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I knew she was.
“Wow,” she whispered. “Still an asshole I see.”
“Whatever. I don’t know what you expected from me. I didn’t change that much.”
“Obviously.” I realized she started walking away.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m getting a cab back to the stadium. I should’ve known it was a mistake driving here with you.” She threw her hand into the air and a taxi appeared out of nowhere. I didn’t try to stop her, even though a voice in my head screamed at me to do just that. I watched as she stepped into the cab, slammed the door shut and pulled away without even a look in my direction.
I pulled out my cell phone. “Jared? Where are you guys? I need to clear my head and have some fun tonight.”
6
Abby
At least I managed to get into the taxi before bursting into tears.
How could he be so cold? What the hell happened to make him turn on a dime like that? One minute he was warm, friendly, easygoing and the next a total asshole. Cold and nasty. And all because I’d jokingly flirted with him. Was I that offensive? When he looked at me, did he still see the girl I used to be?
That girl. Oh, I wished I could erase her from the memory of mankind. Always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Always creating an awkward situation and trying so hard to fit in but never coming close. Wanting to please people, wanting to show how valuable she was. Tutoring the jocks so they would like her. Baking cupcakes for the sports fundraisers, though she never played a sport. Going to every football game and screaming her head off for the team, though her voice was one in a sea of others.
God, I used to feel so proud of Max when I’d watch him play. That was my Max out there, giving ‘em hell. Completing passes, avoiding the sack, running it in if he had to. He was fast, too, and had a gun for an arm. Accurate as hell. He had patience, which was rare for a kid. He didn’t unload the ball the second he thought he had an opening—no matter the pressure. He’d wait in the pocket until he found the right receiver, then unleash. I’d come home from games with a sore throat, sometimes with no voice left.
It hadn’t mattered. It never would. I would always be plain ol’ Abby, no use to anybody.
But I was of use to Max back then. I knew I was. He’d liked me, at least as a person, and it didn’t matter to him that nobody else did. He was confident enough in himself to make the decisions he felt were best and let everybody else deal with it in their own way. I’d been so grateful for his friendship in those days, thrilled for any crumb of attention he’d given me.
I sighed, leaning my head against the taxi’s vinyl seat. The city passed by in a blur, the stadium lit up in the distance even though there was no game. I guessed the maintenance crew was still hard at work, putting the finishing touches on the field and seating before the opener on Sunday. It was like a beacon, that stadium, its
light drawing me in.
I could quit. They wouldn’t miss me. I hadn’t even started yet, and they had a strong team to fall back on until they replaced me. It was early in the season. The chances for injury would be lesser. If I were ever going to leave, that would have been the best time. I could leave a letter of resignation on Coach’s desk and never look back. I’d move to the other side of the world, forget Max ever existed and go back to being Abby. Pretty Abby. Abby who worked out like a mad dog to keep her body in shape. Abby who spent hours on end taming her naturally dry, frizzy hair. Who’d had to get over her aversion to putting in contacts just so she could stop wearing those hideous glasses.
When I finally got home—without leaving a letter of resignation, naturally—I took out my contacts and put on those glasses. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror after putting my contact case away. Yep, there she was. Ugly Abby who nobody liked. How could he do that to me? Throwing me right back where I’d started? He didn’t even mean to, that was the worst part. He was only behaving like his usual selfish, thoughtless self when he forced his way out of that restaurant. He hadn’t meant to make me feel worthless.
Had he?
I shuffled out of the small apartment bathroom with its black-and-white tile and weak water pressure. I couldn’t wait until my Realtor found a house for me so I could feel fully moved in. My things were in storage—no sense in unpacking an apartment I’d only be in for a few weeks at most. I hoped, at least. I heard the sound my shuffling feet made in the otherwise silent apartment. If the sad Charlie Brown theme had been playing—the one from the Christmas special, when he’s really depressed—I wouldn’t have been surprised.
There was a sofa, at least. It was partly furnished. I sat on it with a pint of dark chocolate ice cream—idiot hadn’t even let me get dessert—and flipped on the TV. There was an old movie on, one of my favorites with Bette Davis and Paul Henreid. And Claude Rains, oh, I loved him. My movies had been a respite when I was young, letting me escape to a better world where things were grand and beautiful, and there was always a happy ending no matter the strife. It was just me and Bette and Paul and my ice cream. Add a few pimples and I could have been fifteen again.
The next day, I showed up bright and early for the on-field workout. I wanted to get an assessment of the players. How were they looking? Who would I have to keep an eye on? Who needed a little more conditioning? I planned to talk with the trainers throughout the process to ask questions, too. Better to get my face out there as soon as possible. I wanted everybody to get used to me, and I needed to assert myself as a major force on the team. I was a professional.
So I waited there with my clipboard as dozens of players made a slow jog onto the field. Right away, I could see the condition they were in. Pitiful was the word for it. Most of them had partied hard the night before, I could tell. Including Max.
My stomach turned when I saw him, and I didn’t know if it was excitement or disgust that set a fluttery feeling off in my chest. I took a deep breath when he came into view, reminding myself not to get caught up in him again. I had a job to do. Still, there was no denying the smile that came to my face when I saw the sunlight beam off his sweaty skin.
“What the fuck is wrong with you assholes? Come on!” Coach screamed from his place at the head of the group. “You’re all the lamest bunch of shits I’ve ever seen in my life! You have a game tomorrow—maybe the biggest game of the regular season—and what do you do? Instead of going home and getting rest, you go out to the titty bar and get plastered. What a sorry fucking excuse for a team.” He caught my eye, and though his eyes were shaded by the brim of his ball cap, I could tell he was embarrassed at his use of language in front of me. I shook my head, showing how little it mattered. I’d heard much worse. Besides, I shared his opinion. They were a bunch of idiots.
And I would have bet money on the ringleader. So that was what he was in such a hurry for. His favorite pole dancers were missing him. Such a man slut.
I walked around the outside of the group of players, taking notes. They were all slow, sluggish. It wasn’t a good way to get an idea of their full performance levels. I’d have to wait until the next day. The trainers screamed commands, trying to pump the players up at first but eventually getting just as frustrated as the head coach. They wanted to see the guys put some heart into the workout. The second-stringers were—I guessed they weren’t cool enough to be invited to the party—but the starters looked like shit. I shook my head in disappointment.
When I looked up from my clipboard, my head still shaking, I caught Max’s eye and held it out of defiance. He couldn’t break me down—look how pathetic he was, struggling to get through basic on-field workouts. I smirked, and he looked away first. For once I felt like I had the upper hand, and it felt wonderful. It had only taken most of my life to reach that moment.
It felt good to be out of the sun. I fanned myself with my clipboard when I reached my office, pulling down the collar of my yellow polo to fan the back of my neck. The air conditioning was soothing. I hadn’t missed Florida humidity, not by a long shot.
The trainers told me of a few players I’d want to look out for, guys who’d suffered injuries the previous season. A pulled hamstring, a torn ACL that had taken one of the running backs out for most of the season, a shoulder injury on a wide receiver who’d been thrown to the ground just a little too hard by another team’s defense. But he’d held onto the ball.
Coach Cramer stuck his head in. “Morrison? Sorry. I’m not interrupting, am I?” No, but I’ll have to lock my door from now on. Good thing I hadn’t taken my shirt off to cool down since I’d actually considered it for a minute. I waved him in.
“Not at all, Mr. Cramer. What can I do for you?” I asked with a smile.
He sat down, taking off his cap to reveal a gray crew cut. He fanned himself with the cap. “Phew! It’s a hot one today, isn’t it?”
“Tell me about it.”
“I can’t wait until it gets a little cooler out. This is always the worst part of the season.”
“Well, at least you’ll be in Denver next week. That will be a lot cooler.”
“True.” He dropped his cap onto his lap, fixing me with a thoughtful gaze. “So, what did you think out there?”
How to be diplomatic? “I definitely thought they could’ve tried harder. I thought they were a little irresponsible for partying it up last night. They looked terrible out there.”
He chuckled. “That’s true. I apologize for using such foul language.”
“Trust me, it was nothing I’m not used to—and I didn’t think it was unwarranted. I wished I could join you and add my two cents,” I admitted with a laugh.
“That would be something. Sometimes I think those boys need to be dressed down by a woman to keep them in line. Might remind ‘em of their mamas.”
“Whatever you need, Mr. Cramer. I would love to dress them down.” One in particular.
“I’ll keep it in mind.” He stood, grinning. “Well, it all starts tomorrow. We managed to get through the preseason with minimal damage, but all bets are off when we face Philly. They’re a tough bunch of boys, but my boys are tough, too. I think you’re gonna have your work cut out for you.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” I said, all business. “I came here to work, and I love a challenge.”
“Morrison.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t you let them overwhelm you,” he warned. “And if they try any funny business, I want you to report to me immediately. You got that?” For a brief moment, he reminded me of my father. All business, all-knowing, all-important. There was a reason I’d seen less and less of him after graduating college. I shook my head to clear the image.
“I got it, Mr. Cramer.” I gave him a little salute, which he seemed to enjoy. He left my office with a grin on his face. I wasn’t grinning. I was wondering how much my new job would keep colliding with parts of my life I would rather not think about.
7
&
nbsp; Max
“So I took her home with me,” Jared mourned. “And for all I know, she might be there when I get back.”
The locker room broke up in laughter.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to take the strippers home with you, man? They don’t actually like you. They like your money.” I rubbed my thumb and first two fingers together in his face.
“Why does it always seem like the dancers like you, then?” he asked.
“Because they do like me. I was only talking about you.” Another round of laughter. I’d just gotten out of the shower and was toweling my hair off. It was hell, putting on gear and getting out there, but it had been worth it. I’d sweat out all the poison in my system—and there had been a lot of it.
The locker room reeked of sweat, but it was an odor I was used to. I’d been smelling it my whole life since I was a little kid and my parents signed me up for peewee football. It was a religion in the South, and my parents had been fanatical. But that was all right, because I was, too. I loved it. I couldn’t imagine life without it. So walking into a reeking locker room wasn’t something I dreaded. It was just another part of the experience.
I heard the usual post-workout laughter and goofing off. Most of the starters had gone out the night before to the “titty bar,” as Coach Cramer so eloquently put it. He had a real way with words. I could have gone home after dinner, but there was no way I could spend the night questioning myself. I’d needed to blot it all out.
“What about you, Quarterback?” Jared got my attention, hands on his hips.
“What about me?” I asked with a grin.
“Who’d you take home last night?”
“I told you,” I said, turning to him. “I don’t take the dancers home. I don’t feel like having to check my house the next day to make sure they didn’t take anything. They ain’t stripping because they love to dance. They need the money.”