by P. Dangelico
I stand there for a full twenty minutes before returning to my bedroom. I can’t, as of yet, figure out how it happened, but I’m hoping I made a friend.
I have not made a friend. Not even close.
The gruff demeanor is alive and well. And he’s always home––always. This house is probably around ten thousand square feet. Mathematically speaking, it should be easy for me to avoid him. But it’s not. You know why? Because he’s always frigging home! I get up to cook breakfast––he’s in and out of his office. I cook lunch––he’s in and out of the gym. I cook dinner––he’s in and out of his office. I don’t get it. Is he on house arrest? Most guys travel during the offseason, go on vacation. Shaw? Nope, he’s home.
I made braised pork chops for lunch. Thankfully, Sam isn’t a picky eater. So far everything I’ve cooked for him has gotten his approval. Just as we sit at the island to eat, I watch Shaw, freshly showered after his morning work out, stride into the kitchen and open the refrigerator. He removes his containers of ‘death to inflammation’ food and places them on the counter. I glance at Sam and notice his gaze is downcast as he eats, avoiding eye contact with his uncle. Shaw’s eyes flicker to my plate, then his containers.
“I made some extra if you want.” I point to the covered pan on the stove. He looks torn. When his eyes return to my plate, however, there’s a hunger in them that makes me want to laugh. It’s like I offered a diabetic a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Not waiting for a response I may never get, I go to the stove and fix him a plate, and set it down with utensils next to Sam’s seat. Then I return to mine. Shaw slowly sits down and begins to eat his meal.
The silence is stifling.
Most days during lunch, Sam chatters about the afternoon lesson plan. He’s a sweet, curious child. An only child, he’s told me. We haven’t spoken much about his mother; it’s still too soon for me to press him on that sensitive subject. But I now know that he loves trains, building things, and animals. I know he’s not very athletic, although he’s tall for his age––a Shaw gene, no doubt. He loves to read, but his favorite subject is mathematics. And of course he’s naturally introverted. So it’s not surprising that he’s intimidated by the gruff hairy giant sitting next to him. Today he’s completely mute. I don’t know how this chasm between these two started, but I know I have to find a way to bridge it.
“Knock, knock,” I say from the open doorway of his office. Shaw pauses the game footage he’s watching on a flat screen television. His desk chair is tipped back, legs crossed at the ankles, feet propped up on the edge of the desk. His head turns to me and I watch his eyes shamelessly work all the way down the length of my body.
If I didn’t know what he really thinks about me, this wouldn’t be an issue. But I do. My ears are suddenly on fire. I’m wearing work out clothes. Black leggings and a body skimming, technical shirt. Nothing sexy, nothing’s hanging out. The fact that I’ve never been self-conscious wearing these clothes before and now am because of one man makes my blood boil.
“Where are you going?” The warm baritone, a voice that on anyone else I would find panty torching, is ‘nails on a chalkboard’ level annoying on him. There’s an accusation in his tone, something snide in the way he says this. I cross my arms because if I don’t, I may take my sneaker off and throw it at his head. Where did I get the idea that I could actually befriend this beast?
“To the strip club, for my shift. Where does it look like I’m going?”
“Out for a run when it’s dark out.”
Huh? “It’s five thirty,” I feel the need to point out.
“And dark out. It’s dangerous. Use the gym,” he says and hits the play button on the game footage, his attention returning to the screen. I walk into his office and plop down in the armchair in front of his desk.
“I can appreciate your obsession with my safety, Mr. Shaw––” At the word obsession, I get a cynical, sideways glance. Then his eyes return to the game.
“Calvin.”
“Calvin…Willie, whatevs.” His head swivels to face me again, his expression genuinely confused.
“Willie?”
“Robertson. Your fashion idol.”
His black eyebrows lower, lower again, his lids grow heavy. I may have just gone too far but the die has been cast.
“You think I look like Willie Robertson?”
You think I look like a cow, pops into my head, though thankfully it does not come out of my mouth. His lips twitch, and twitch again. Then they curl up ever so slightly. He strokes his beard.
“You don’t like my beard.”
“I’m sure the vermin that call it home luv it.”
“Is this what you came in here for?”
“We need to talk about Sam.” The mild amusement drops off his face, his expression suddenly uncomfortable. “What about him?”
“Did something happen between you two that I should know about? He shuts down around you and I’d like to know if there’s something more to this besides your super duper charming personality.”
“Nothing’s happened,” he says. I don’t miss the way his muscles tighten. His feet swing off the desk and hit the floor with a thud, his posture now defensive. I’m confused. My gut tells me that there’s more to this story, though I don’t press. I recognize the mulish expression on Shaw’s face. It looks just like the one Sam wears when he’s having trouble with a math equation.
“God, you two are some much alike some times.” Shaw looks surprised at this. “If you’re not busy this week, I would like for you to join us at the park. Or maybe you can throw a ball around with him?” I casually suggest.
“No,” he spits out. What the heck? The strength of his refusal gets my attention. My eyes snap back to his face. He’s glowering again.
“Why?”
“I pay you to teach him, not play psychiatrist. Do your job and mind your own business.” He turns the television back on and ignores my stare. Good grief, I need a happy pill to deal with this guy. He’s right. I’m not a psychiatrist. However, he certainly needs one.
Chapter Eight
Mother Nature has not gotten the memo that it’s finally April and already spring. It’s cold, and the rain has been steadily coming down for a few days. A pressing need to burn off some nervous energy has me pacing the house like a caged animal. Until I remember he said I could use the gym.
Around three o’clock, while Sam is busy with a new Lego set, I decide to sneak in a forty minute run. I walk into the gym holding my breath and exhale when I find it blessedly empty. After stretching and doing a five minute warm up on the treadmill, I start jogging lightly. Kings of Leon are singing ‘Comeback Story’, my new anthem, and I’m starting to get a little bit of a runner’s high. I’ve settled into a comfortable pace when two very tall men walk in, stop, and stare at me. The double take gives me whiplash.
Shaw and his trainer. Damn it. Without breaking stride, I smile tightly and wipe my sweaty face with a hand towel.
I consider myself an athlete. No, I’m not doing an Ironman triathlon any time soon. However, when I run it’s not for vanity, it’s for fitness. That’s why a large dose of anger pumps through my veins when I suddenly become conscious of all my bouncing flesh. I can literally feel my boobs go up and down, up and down. My thighs are now two slabs of beef rubbing together, and my butt feels like it has its own zip code. Who cares what this asshole thinks, I say to myself and try to concentrate on Kings of Leon. No such luck. I’m reduced to stealing furtive glances across the room, my eyes tracking them as they move from machine to machine like I’m some insecure teenager.
The trainer is almost as tall as Shaw and handsome in a nondescript way. He gives me a friendly smile with no heat as he passes, and in return, I offer another constipated smile. Shaw pretends I don’t exist, which is more than fine by me. Trust me, I wish he didn’t exist, either.
He goes to the wall and presses buttons ‘til the music comes on. Some country western song I don’t recognize. Then he walks to
the mats and starts stretching. They’re talking in hushed voices, saying something I can’t hear, and it’s making me nervous…and now I’m becoming paranoid. I really need to get a grip.
Turning it up, I pick up the pace, running much harder than I usually do because their sudden appearance has managed to compound the tension I’m already feeling. My eyes flicker to Shaw on and off. In between his bench presses, I catch him scowling at me. Wonderful. He’s pissed I’m intruding on his work out. I can’t win with this guy.
Twenty minutes later, my thighs are on fire because I NEVER RUN AT THIS PACE. I don’t know who I’m more mad at, myself for being an idiot that’s so easily intimidated by a man that means nothing but a paycheck to me, or him for being such an ass.
I finally hit a wall and reduce my grueling Olympic marathon speed to a comfortable walk. Time to cool down. The exhaustion makes my mind go thankfully quiet for a nanosecond. Shaw walks into the bathroom attached to the gym and I’m left alone with the trainer. He’s setting up the next machine for Shaw when my treadmill shuts off.
Without Shaw’s judgy glare searing me, I scurry over to the mat and begin stretching. I’m lying on my back with my feet planted on the ground when the face of the trainer floats above me, into view. He’s hovering, saying something I can’t hear because I’ve got Kanye West singing that ‘what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger’ and I’m thinking, bullshit but whatevs. I take out my ear buds and give him a questioning look.
“You want help stretching out your hamstrings?”
Shit, I hope he’s not coming on to me. I search his eyes for a sign and find none. “No, I’m good, thanks.”
I barely get the words out when a booming voice from across the room shouts, “Steve, I pay you to train me, not to hit on the help.”
The help? The help? Steve looks at me and shakes his head, leaving me to attend to ‘the master of the house’. I’m officially done. I couldn’t care less what this man, or any man for that matter, thinks of me or my looks. I’m too tired, too disappointed in life, too disillusioned to care anymore. And it’s enormously liberating. A shit ton of weight is suddenly lifted from my shoulders. I don’t even care if I get a Charley horse that lasts a week. Without finishing to stretch my already sore legs, I get up and hobble out. Maybe Kanye is right after all. Maybe I am stronger.
“You have to admit, he’s kinda hot,” Amber says as she wipes down the bar. All my tables are empty. The club was unusually slow tonight. It’s almost one and I’m ready to head home. Home? That’s weird that I would think that way about Shaw’s house.
“A few weeks ago he was murdery. Now he’s hot?” Benedict Arnold.
“So was Ted Bundy. Those two things are not mutually exclusive.”
“Honestly, I don’t see it,” I say, shaking my head. “I mean, his traps are a thing of beauty, but I just can’t get past his totally shitty personality.”
“Tall drink of water at twelve o’clock,” Amber mutters, her heavy-lidded eyes glued to a spot over my shoulder. “Gonna bust my vibrator tonight.”
I turn to take in the object of her blatantly sexual interest and come face to face with a familiar set of dimples. He walks up to the bar and takes a seat directly in front of us. Amber’s mouth curves into a crooked smile that means only one thing––trouble. Leaning on the bar, I prop my chin up with my hand and settle in to watch the fireworks.
“Dimples, what can I get you?” she practically sings. Actually, this guy seems harmless. He smiles good naturedly at her.
“Jäger, please,” he answers with a heavy sigh. His soft, brown eyes go back and forth between us. “How are you ladies doin’ tonight?”
“You sound a bit down sweet cheeks, what gives?”
Raising the shot glass in mock cheers, he tips it back, drains it, and slams the empty glass on the bar. “You wanna know?”
“I’m a bartender. I hear more confessions than a priest.”
“I got dumped. She said she doesn’t trust me to stay faithful to her livin’ so far away,” he explains dejectedly.
“How far away is the little lady in question?”
“Tennessee.”
“Is she right?” I ask. A stubborn wrinkle appears on his forehead. He shakes his head vigorously. “Well you are kind of a flirt, Dimples.”
“Harper,” he says as he pats his chest. I have a feeling Dimples has had more than one shot tonight. “Justin Harper. And that’s just me, she should know that well enough by now.” For some strange reason, I believe him. “I don’t mean nothin’ by it.”
While Amber listens attentively to Justin’s tale of woe, I take off to grab my stuff from the locker. Justin is closing out his tab as I walk past the bar on my way out.
“I’m off,” I say and Amber nods back. I’m halfway to the door when I feel a tap on the shoulder.
“Can I speak to you for a minute?” Justin Harper looks uncomfortable. My suspicious glare makes him smile. “Just a minute. I promise,” he says with his hands up in surrender.
“Fine,” I grumble, tired and anxious to get home. “Walk me out.” As we walk out the door into the cold dead of night, he says, “I just want to apologize for last week. That was outa line, and I don’t want you thinkin’ I was being disrespectful is all.” I look up into his face and find a sweet, embarrassed earnestness that makes me smile. This is a pleasant surprise.
“Apology accepted.”
“Harper, what the hell are you doing here?”
That voice, that frigging voice is drawing closer. I turn to the left to see Shaw getting out of his car. Harper looks totally confused. His gaze shifts back and forth from Shaw to me. Walking up to us, Shaw grunts out, “Are you ready?”
“You two know each other?” Harper asks hesitantly.
At the same time I answer, “I’m the help,” Shaw answers, “How do you know her?”
“Time out. How do you know him?” I ask Shaw.
“He’s the new wide out we just traded Tennessee for.” Talk about a small world. Shaw is killing young Harper with his glare.
“Justin, a pleasure meeting you. Shaw, let’s go,” I say, not even bothering to look back to see if he’s following me to the still running car.
In the Range Rover, I crane my neck to find Shaw still talking to Harper. He’s pointing a finger aggressively in the younger man’s face. Eye roll. A minute later, he’s buckling his seat belt and driving down the street with the same scowl plastered to his face.
The former me would’ve stayed quiet, wouldn’t have caused a ripple. Everything’s changed now, however. “I can’t do this anymore.” His head turns swiftly in my direction, something strongly resembling fear crosses his face and his body braces. “I can’t live day in and day out with someone that is about as pleasant as a nest of riled up hornets. Life’s too frigging short!”
He squirms a little in his seat. His expression turns pensive, the lines of anger on his face going smooth. After blowing out a deep breath, very quietly, he says, “I’m sorry…I’ve got a lot on my mind lately.”
Wow. I mean, wow. An apology? A genuine one? And he just admitted I wasn’t the instrument of his pain. Maybe there’s hope for him yet. “What are you stressed about?” Helping people, if it’s in my power, is an instinct I cannot curb or deny. That will never change. If he wants to talk to someone about it, I’m a great listener––except I really don’t expect him to answer.
“For one thing, my contract expires after this season.”
More honesty. It’s official––hell has frozen over. “You’re in your prime and you had a top five total QBR last year.”
He glances briefly at me. By the look on his face, I think it’s to make sure I’m the one that spoke those words, and not some other random person who has somehow hitched a ride with us in the last ten seconds.
“You watch football?”
Should I be offended? Not only am I big fan of professional football, I can recite stats as well as any dude. I watch all three days of the draft
and check Bleacher Report every couple of days for breaking news. This, he does not need to know because I’ve never been a big fan of the Titans, or him for that matter, and I have a tiny suspicion that he may take this as a personal insult. When I give him a sly smile, his brows lower in understanding.
“Whose jersey do you own?”
“That’s for me to know and for you to wonder about,” I say, chuckling at his annoyed expression.
“Top three,” corrects Mr. Modesty.
“Under Brady,” I counter. His face scrunches up in mock anger.
“The year before he was two bellow me.” I laugh at this. I laugh. Holy cow, we’re actually laughing together. Well––technically he’s not laughing. But there is a ghost of a smile on his face. And it feels good. So damn good.
I glance his way and his face has transformed. Even with the beard, he looks much younger when he lets go of all that angst. Brooding intensity is only sexy on a man if your own life isn’t filled with shit that makes you broody and intense.
“Are you really worried? You’ve won a Super Bowl and appeared in another, you’ve been voted league MVP I don’t know how many times…you’re indispensable to this team.”
Taking his eyes off the road again, he turns to look at me. I notice that his handsome face wears gravity well. Yes, handsome. For the first time, I get a glimpse of it.
“Nobody’s indispensable,” he says quietly. A meaningful silence hangs between us.
“Calvin.” His name sounds pleasant on my lips––and strangely familiar. He makes a humming noise and his smoky grey eyes hold mine. “I don’t want to be at odds with you. I’ve had my fair share of crap this year and I...” What am I trying to say? Take mercy on me?
“I get it,” he says. “I don’t mean to pile on.”
“I’ll be out of your hair soon enough. Can we call a truce?”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding slowly. After that, a comfortable silence settles between us. I find myself smiling the rest of the ride home. As we pull into the driveway, Calvin’s the one to break the silence.