Anaconda: A Sexy Romantic Comedy

by Landish, Lauren

  "All right. Good luck today, Troy. Laurie's really been looking forward to seeing you play."

  Whitney walks away, and the public address announce system plays the music that signifies that warm-up time is over. I retreat to the locker room, getting ready for the game. As I finish suiting up, pulling my helmet on and making sure my gloves and shoulder pads are right, the numbers run through my head.

  Five years old. Laurie's five years old. Which means . . . she's half Italian.

  At least I understand now why the little girl was so familiar when I first saw her. She's got the same shape to her face as Whitney, that perfect little heart shape, and a twinkle in her eye that I still remember from when Whitney was up to precocious tricks, ones that I usually enjoyed when we were together.

  Couldn't she have waited even a few months? Were all her words to me, saying she loved me . . . were they just lies? How long did it take for her, after she left Silver Lake Falls, to hook up with that guy?

  I'm trembling in rage now, and as the team goes out to start the game, I'm seeing red. We end up kicking off, which is just what I need as I'm about to explode. In the huddle, I look around at the defense, a mix of first and second team players who are getting their work in before the borderline players start the second half.

  "Storm Rip Slant," I call, taking over the huddle leader duties. Richard, the leader of the backfield, calls the coverage, and I line up. I've adapted to the rigors of pro football, adding a lot of muscle from my high school days, and I now tip the scales at an even two hundred and thirty-two pounds. Every pound of it is trembling, and as the wide receiver on the other side goes into motion, I snap into a steely focus.

  "Slide, slide! Cowboy!" I holler, adjusting the play. It's on my shoulders now, and I call off the slant, instead adjusting to a slide to the other side, knowing what's coming. The ball snaps, and the quarterback rolls out toward my side. Our outside linebacker fades out, covering the tight end that's going out into the flat, while I read the QB's eyes. They flick left, then right, and I know where he's going. I pounce on the read, and I step in front, just in time as the ball is released. It smacks hard into my gloves, but I've still got the soft hands that let me throw a pretty good ball myself back in high school, and I intercept the pass, barely breaking stride as I streak toward the end zone, the offense chasing me. The other team's got no chance, and I go in standing up for a touchdown.

  During halftime, some of my teammates look at me in a bit of awe. The starting linebackers, especially Tim, who I'm slotted behind, look a bit worried, and I understand. One half, against at least partially another team's starting offense, and I have seven tackles, a sack, one forced fumble and the interception returned for a touchdown. It's the sort of performance that turns heads and gets attention.

  "Don't blow your load in the pre-season," someone jokes as I stare at the carpet of the locker room, still trembling. I haven't stopped trembling since Whitney walked up the steps in the stadium, and I can't get my mind off her. "You know, premature ejaculation ain't good for anyone."

  I ignore the taunt, my mind still locked in battle mode, and it takes our linebackers coach two tries to get my attention. "Wood. Wood! Coach wants to see you."

  I nod and go into Coach's office, taking deep breaths to calm down. Our head coach doesn't like players angry. He wants us calm. I'm trying. "Yeah, Coach?"

  "What the heck was that out there?" Coach asks, smiling. "Damn, Troy, you were a solid rookie last year, and in camp, I thought you'd made strides, but that? The league's going to piss test the hell outta you after that one. Only thing that could have stopped you was kryptonite."

  I shrug, taking another deep breath. "Just . . . I had content."

  "What?" Coach asks, confused, and it's my turn to smile.

  "I had emotional content." Ever since Cory and I talked about it, it's been my guiding philosophy. Play with emotional content.

  Coach nods, not quite getting the reference, I can tell, but understanding enough of what I'm saying. "Whatever it was that you used to get that content, I want you ready to rock in the second half too. I'm putting you in for the first series before putting in the other players. You keep playing like that, and you're going to have a strong case for a starting slot."

  "Still have one more series to go, Coach. Let's see what happens."

  We get the ball to start the second half, so I'm chilling on the sidelines and waiting for our chance. Our defensive coordinator is going over some pictures and stuff on his tablet with the guys who will be taking my place after this series, nobody talking to me. I'm so locked in the zone.

  We need emotional content. Not anger.

  That's true, but anger is part of emotion, and right now, I'm running on high octane anger and rage. Five years, and not a word, then suddenly, I find out why. Five years ago, Whitney tore my heart out and left nothing but a black hole that still hasn't filled.

  "Defense!"

  I look up, and realize we punted, going three and out. I run out on the field and form the huddle. "Hawk Triple Blast," I call, looking around at the circle of faces that are mostly totally different from the guys I was playing with in the first half. These are the scrubs, the guys who are praying for a slot on the team and hoping a good performance might get them a roster slot, or at least a spot on the practice squad. "Let's run this shit."

  We break, and I roll my jaw, making sure my mouthpiece is in. The other team sent out their starting offense to start the second half, wanting to put up something that looks good for their fans back home, and I can see they're licking their chops, knowing that other than me, it should be easy pickings.

  "Fire, fire!" I scream, adjusting. "Blast twelve papa! Blast twelve papa!"

  Some of what I yell is bullshit, meant to draw off the other team. The only part that matters are the words 'fire' and 'twelve,' which resets the linemen back from their zone stuff scheme to basic smash mouth football, and that I'm going in right behind them. We need to punch these guys in the mouth, get them on their heels before they can settle into a comfortable pattern, and grind down the newbies I'm surrounded by.

  The ball snaps, and I blitz, ripping through the guard's grip before he can get pressure on me. The quarterback is mobile, but he called a straight drop back pass, and my helmet catches him in the middle of his back before he can do much more than roll and try and protect the football. We crunch to the ground, and the quarterback collapses underneath my weight, groaning in pain as he does. I roll off, walking back toward the huddle while our home crowd roars and the other guys look on. I look back and see that the quarterback is still down, holding his right wrist in pain.

  My part of the game is over, and Coach pulls me out, looking at me in a bit of wonder before sending in my replacement. The game's in hand, and now it's time to try and unload before seeing Whitney.

  After five years . . . Whitney.

  Chapter 13

  Whitney

  "So what did you think of your first live football game, Lorenzo?"

  Laurie's only five, but she talks like someone a lot older than you’d think. She still eats like a five-year-old. The remnants of her spaghetti and meatballs stain her face on both sides of her mouth, and I think that's a speck of Parmesan in her hair, although it's hard to tell.

  "It was quite different from what I'd expected," Lorenzo replies, sipping at his wine. "The crowd was smaller than I thought there would be."

  "Pre-season games are almost always light sellers," I explain, sitting back and watching my daughter finish her spaghetti before our desserts arrive. "The fans kind of know that for most of the game, the players won’t be trying their fullest, especially the starters. They're there to get live practice in, and since the game doesn't count for the standings, they relax. It's a long eighteen weeks of real games they've got ahead of them before the playoffs start, and they only get two weeks off during that time."

  "I see. Still, it was entertaining. Too much pausing for my taste, but I expected that after you
two made me sit through the videos."

  “Troy kicked ass, Mama!"

  "Laurie Nelson, who taught you to talk like that?" I ask in semi-outrage.

  "It was in that movie we watched," Laurie says, giving me her most angelic smile. She's so like Troy that it's hard to deny her anything, especially after seeing him today, and she knows that she can use her good looks to her advantage, and not just with me. She's hard to control that way. "You know, the one with the aliens who sucked the people's faces?"

  "Yeah . . . I thought we said we weren't going to copy what they said in that movie too?" I remind her, and I can't help but smile. My daughter's got a mind like a steel trap, and very few things escape the sponge than is her brain unless she wants to ignore them. "Remember, I said that it's not polite to talk that way?"

  "Okay, Mama," Laurie half-pouts, but then brightens. “He was awesome! Why can't he do that every game?"

  "Because there are a lot of big, mean men who are trying to stop me," a voice behind me says, and my head whips around. It's hard to breathe again as Troy comes up, his hair a little shorter than he wore it in high school, and his shoulders a little wider, his chest a little more muscular, but still . . . that smile, those intense blue eyes . . . it's hard to breathe. "I take it you enjoyed the game?"

  "Uh-huh!" Laurie nods, yelling in her excitement. She doesn't know it, but it's the first time she's really met her father, and already, I can see she's entranced with him. It's easy to see why as Troy squats down next to her chair, pulling his left hand from behind his back, where he'd been holding a football. "What's that?"

  "I remember that when I talked to you in the stands, I promised you something for you too, and not just your mama," Troy says, handing the football to her. "The team lets me keep footballs that I return for touchdowns, and I thought there's nobody I'd like to give it to more than the cute little girl who helped me on the field by cheering so loudly for me."

  "Wow . . .” Laurie says, entranced as her tiny hands try to hold the pro-sized ball. "You wrote on it?"

  "Uh-huh," Troy says, staying squatting. "It says 'To Laurie, thanks for the big help, Troy Wood.' Sorry if my handwriting is a bit messy. It's hard to write on leather with a pen."

  "Can I play with it?" Laurie asks, and I have to hide my chuckle. A normal fan would probably have immediately socked the ball away as a keepsake, hoping to maybe sell it on EBay some day. Laurie's a five-year-old kid. She sees a new ball she can try and play with.

  "If you want," Troy says with a laugh, "but it's a little big for you right now. Maybe start with a smaller one first, one that you can hold easier."

  "Would you join us, Troy?" I ask, nodding at the fourth chair. "After all, when you give away things like that, the least we can do is offer you coffee."

  "I'd appreciate that," Troy says, and his eyes are burning with intensity again. "It's been a long time, Whitney. So what's brought you back to Silver Lake Falls?"

  "Family vacation," I say, still not letting on that Lorenzo and I aren't together. I can't trust myself around Troy. His pull is like gravity, and I need to hold out, if only for Laurie's sake. "I wanted to bring Laurie to meet her grandmother. Mom's ecstatic, of course. And, I got an invitation to Dani Vaughn's wedding."

  "Really? That's good," Troy says, hiding the hurt my words cause pretty well. It doesn’t make it to his face, but I can see it in his eyes. Now he knows I've been in contact with Dani and not him. "I'm sorry. I wasn't introduced to you, sir. Troy Wood."

  "Lorenzo Galvani," Lorenzo replies, and the two men shake hands. I can tell Lorenzo is jealous, and maybe he should be. I'm having a hard time seeing him at all now that Troy has joined us. "Whitney tells me that you and her used to . . . go to high school together?"

  “We did,” Troy replies, sitting back. The waitress comes over, clearly star struck but handling it well, Troy's obviously known around town, and he takes his order, a tiramisu, after Laurie tells him what she's having. "I think I earned the treat tonight, don't you, Laurie?"

  "Uh-huh," Laurie says, grinning. “It’s good.”

  "That it is," Troy agrees, smiling at my daughter fondly. He turns his smile to me, and I feel fresh heat inside me, a heat that's been gone for a very long time. "So you're in town for a while. That's great. If I can ask, what have you been up to the past few years? I mean, I figure you've been in Europe, but you know . . . lots of time between high school and now."

  Lots of time, and none at all, I think, looking into Troy's face and fighting back the memories. Did I fall into a time machine or something?

  "We're expanding our business," Lorenzo interjects, his neck stiff and his body taking on that posture that I'd learned so long ago means he's pissed off. Not every man is ruled by their passions, but Lorenzo is certainly one of them. "We are thinking of opening a new gallery in the area."

  "A gallery? Impressive," Troy says, taking a sip of water. "What sort of gallery?"

  "I studied art when I was in Europe," I reply, nervous about Lorenzo's tone of voice. I don't want a fight, not here, not now. He’s supposed to be okay with us not being together, but this is tough, I’m sure. “I’ve picked up a good eye for art, it seems, and I've cultivated a good list of clients here in the States. It's gotten big enough that we're thinking of maybe making a go of it full time here, instead of our clients having to come to us in Italy."

  “Ambitious," Troy says. "I am glad you've found success. It was hard not knowing for so long."

  "She is taken care of," Lorenzo nearly spits, and I glance at Troy, worried. I remember how protective of me he was when we were younger, but I'm not an innocent eighteen-year-old girl any more. I shake my head just a little bit, hoping he sees me.

  Troy notices and gives me a tiny little nod, and sits back, taking a big breath. "That's good. So, Laurie, I guess you speak Italian too?"

  "Uh-huh. And English too. My teachers at pre-school said I was one of the best," Laurie says with more than a touch of pride. "You want me to teach you?"

  Troy laughs at her unexpected offer, but nods. "I think that would be great. But, you should probably ask your mama first. I mean, it takes a long time to learn a foreign language, and I'm a guy who spends most of his time getting hit in the head."

  "What's that mean?" Laurie asks innocently, and I try not to groan as Lorenzo interrupts Troy before he can answer.

  "It means that Mr. Wood may not have the most functional brain, Laurie," Lorenzo says with more than a hint of malice. "It might make him slow at learning.”

  Troy looks up, his mouth tight, and he lowers his eyes to look directly at Lorenzo. "I may not be fluently bilingual. I may not even have my degree yet. I know that. But I'm not an idiot, and I don't exactly appreciate being called stupid."

  "Bruta selvaggia," Lorenzo shoots back, and now it's my turn to be angry. Taunting Troy is bad manners, but to do it in a language that Laurie fully understands and knows that Troy's being taunted in is over the line.

  "Lorenzo!" I snap, pissed off. "There is no need for that. Troy has been polite and is a friend."

  "Si, si . . . un amico. Un amico speciale," Lorenzo spits back sarcastically before getting to his feet. "Scusi. I must make the toilet."

  Lorenzo storms off, and I can tell by looking at Troy that he understood enough of Lorenzo's words that he grasped the meaning. I wait a bit while we calm down. "Guess you remember more Spanish from school than most people."

  "Some," Troy says, obviously still pissed. He looks at Laurie, then at me, and shakes his head. "Maybe this was a bad idea. I don't want to give you a hard time. Maybe I should go."

  "Don't, please, Troy?" Laurie says, and she's nearly in tears, seeing her new hero so upset. "Lorenzo didn't mean it."

  Troy blinks at Laurie's words, as surprised as I am, and he sits back, nodding. "Okay, Laurie, just for you.”

  Laurie nods and smiles, and I'm nearly in tears now, watching Troy father his daughter without even knowing it. Lorenzo comes back and sits down, saying nothing as the wai
tress brings out the desserts. Troy makes the best of the situation, talking with Laurie and me while eating the tiramisu, even clowning around a little by 'forgetting' a giant glob of cream on his nose, which makes Laurie descend into a gale of giggles. We finish dinner, and Troy is restrained enough to not offer to pay our check, seeing the way Lorenzo is still seething. As we get up to leave, Lorenzo takes Laurie to the car while I get my purse.

  "Whitney," Troy says, leaning in close enough that it feels again like old times. "This was . . . this was nice. I'd like to see you guys again, if that's okay."

  "I'm not sure, Troy," I reply, trying to control myself. "It may not be . . . safe."

  "What is safe?" Troy asks, and slips a piece of paper into my hand. "Please. It's just my phone number. Just a call maybe. At least so I can ask the questions I need to ask."

  I slip the paper into my purse and leave. Outside, I see Lorenzo stewing next to the car. Laurie's inside, but Lorenzo's still pissed, staring at me over the car. "What?"

  "Are you happy now?" he nearly yells, gesturing at the restaurant. "First the game, and now this? Are you happy that you saw Mr. Football Hero? Can we go now? Or do you want some more private time?"

  "Lorenzo, what I do is my own business," I say evenly, trying to keep my voice level. "We've discussed that, and you agreed to it as well. I know your feelings, but I won’t be ordered what to do!"

  "So you can go running back to him? He's an imbecile, a brute who gets paid to beat up people in front of a crowd! You might as well call him a gladiatore!"

  I nod, and open the door of the car. “Maybe, but he was polite and kind to all three of us tonight," I say. "That's better than I can say for you. Now, are you driving, or are you going to stand there?"

  Lorenzo thumps down into the driver's seat and jams the keys into the ignition. He sits there for a moment, then shakes his head. "No. I'm sorry, Whitney, but I can’t do this anymore."

  He gets out of the car, leaving the keys in the ignition, and now Laurie's crying in her booster seat in the back of the car, watching the two adults who have so far raised her yell and argue. I get out and watch Lorenzo go around to the sidewalk. "Where are you going?"