by P. Dangelico
I catch the ball on the rebound, and for the next twenty minutes, we have a great time playing. It’s impossible not to notice that ‘Derrick’ is seriously struggling while the man I assume is his dad does his best to coach him.
“Sam, what do you say we ask Derrick to play with us?” Sam glances at poor Derrick and nods his head. “Derrick, would you like to play with us?” Derrick glances at his dad, who smiles and nods. Showcasing a wide grin, Mr. All American walks up to me and holds out a hand.
“Jason Miller, and this is my son Derrick.”
“Camilla DeSantis,” I say, extending a hand that gets swallowed up by his. He holds it a second longer than I deem necessary. The skin on my neck starts to prickle. I can’t hold his direct gaze. To me, this is indisputable evidence that I will never be comfortable dating.
“This is Sam, my student.” In a sweet gesture, Jason shakes Sam’s hand as well. A short while later Sam starts dribbling the ball and passing it to Derrick. While the boys play, Jason Miller leans in.
“Thank you for that. I keep trying to get him to play with the other kids. He’s just so shy and…well, I don’t want to push him too hard.” Jason looks genuinely concerned for his son. I feel for him, I really do. I can imagine how hard it is for any parent to watch their child struggle.
“I’m homeschooling Sam while his mother is away and I’ve been dealing with the same issue. You’re doing fine…you’re patient with him. That’s the most important part,” I reply, doing my best to reassure him.
“I don’t know what else to do. Both my ex and I are athletic.” I almost laugh out loud at the strategic info drop.
Men, smh.
We turn to watch the boys take a couple of shots and miss. They seem to be talking, which is kind of amazing in and of itself. Jason approaches them, and for the next twenty minutes the boys play while Jason helps them work on technique. As the afternoon gives way to early evening, we say our goodbyes.
“Can I get your number?” At my blank stare, Jason backpedals. “I mean so we can meet for the boys. They seem to be getting on well.”
“Oh yeah, we’d love that.”
Shortly afterward, Sam and I head to the supermarket. We’re in line to pay when I spot it––a picture of Cal and me walking out of the furniture store in the city. The caption over it reads, ‘Off the Market’.
As much as I feared this happening, I’m not as stressed about it as I thought I would be. In that moment, I realize that I do trust Cal. He won’t let anything bad happen to me. I know he won’t. And anyway, it was bound to happen. I mean, he’s a celebrity for goodness sake. Funny how easily I tend to forget that. To me, he’s just Calvin, pigheaded, bossy, though mostly great. Because he is that––great, that is. However, to everyone else he’s a public figure. And now that the news has gone viral, we’ll know soon enough what the consequences will be.
As soon as we get home, I go in search of the great guy in question. The shouting coming from his office gets my undivided attention. Calvin does not shout, ever. Outside his door, I wait and listen.
“You listen to me, Phil. Have I ever tested positive for PEDs? Have you had to deal with me sending pictures of my dick to questionable women? No. That’s fucking correct, the answer is no. So whom I date, or don’t date is no concern to the organization. Am I making myself clear? She’s an incredible person…fuck the PR department. I’m lucky to have her…. I don’t give a single shit about the optics. If I hear one disparaging word being said about her at team events then we’re going to have a problem…You will be seeing a lot of her. I’m calm, I’m calm…speak to Ethan and Barry about that. Oh and Phil, I can name at least five teams that are going to be lookin’ for a starting quarterback next year. Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m sayin’…uh huh yeah, I’m cool…just as long as we don’t have to have this discussion again…yeah, see you in a week.”
That’s a lot of f-bombs in one conversation. I’ve never heard him swear. Well, except for that one time…cowgate comes to mind. My heart is suddenly a jackhammer pounding against my poor bruised chest. I step into the doorway of his office and he glances up from his computer screen. The stern look he gives me doesn’t bother me as it used to. His gaze glides over me like hands making sure I’m in one piece.
“What’s wrong?” he says brusquely, which only confirms my prior sentiment.
“I heard your conversation,” I confess, dissembling at the moment is beyond me. “Was that the GM?” He answers with a slow nod. “I was coming to tell you that we’re in the tabloids.”
His eyes do a slow perusal of my face, reading every single nuance. “You look weird.”
“I don’t look weird,” I argue, the corners of my lips curving up at the absurdity of the situation. “I’m just…I can’t believe you spoke like that to the GM. Aren’t you concerned about your contract?”
His gaze drifts away for a while, his expression pensive. Then it swings back to me purposefully. “Not anymore.”
Waiting for him to elaborate ends in vain. Silence ensues. I spend most of it rocking back and forth on my heels and dissecting into a million pieces what he just admitted and all I can come up with is this, “That was very nice of you.”
His eyes lock with mine, narrowed, sparking with irritation. “No, it wasn’t,” he grumbles and looks away again. “It’s the least I can do.”
“It was very chivalrous of you––to come to my rescue like that.”
His face twists into a semi-disgusted look, a deep v doctoring his brow. “I’m not chivalrous.” Still not looking my way. I just can’t resist…shooting fish in a barrel.
“You’re much too good to me.”
The look of utter confusion on his face is priceless. “I’m not good to you at all. I got you into this.” It comes out all rushed and surly.
“Are you sure about that?” I tease some more.
“Yeah. I know what I want, and I know how to get it,” he says absently. Like I never stood a chance against the power of his will. He’s partly right about that. He’s kind of irresistible when he’s being sweet.
“What do we do now?”
“We’re not hiding, that’s for dang sure.” His twang popped up sometime during the shouting match on the phone and has hung around since. Then his eyes slam into mine, sharp, cunning. He’s a man with a goal in mind. “You wanna go on a date?”
I don’t answer. Because we both know I don’t really have a choice.
Chapter Eighteen
When Cal informs me that we’re going to a Yankees game, I lose my shit––to put it mildly. I almost vibrate off the planet is more like it. Adding to my excitement, they’re playing Boston. I’m squirming in my seat all the way to the stadium. Even Sam, who Cal thought to include without me needing to suggest it thank goodness, is looking at me funny.
I was positive that Calvin would’ve gotten seats in a suite. I’m more of a ‘brave the elements’ kind of fan. I mean, if you’re going to go to a stadium then what the frig are you doing watching it inside on a screen, right? Anyway, he astounds me once again when I’m informed that we have MVP field seats low down on the left side of the field. Not in this lifetime will I ever be able to afford such great seats on my own. Those seats are reserved for legacy season ticket holders and such. At this point, I’m almost in hysterics.
Even though it’s a night game, Calvin pulls a Yankees cap out of his back pocket and puts it on, keeping it pulled down low and his eyes trained on me while we look for our seats.
“Are you always like this at games?” he asks as we make our way down the aisle. I have a ridiculous smile splitting my face that hasn’t budged since we’ve stepped into the ballpark. I nod vigorously, and he adds, “Make sure you wear a hat when you come to mine.”
It takes me a minute to grasp what he’s just said. I squirm in my seat and brave a sideways glance. He’s staring straight ahead…like he hasn’t just lobbed a hand grenade at me. Go to his games? It’s June. That won’t be for another two month
s. By then, Sam will be back home with his mom. And I’ll be…somewhere else. All of a sudden, I have an upset stomach. Except I haven’t eaten anything in hours. I’m definitely not wearing a smile anymore.
“What’s wrong?” My attention jerks back to Cal.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
“I just...” I look into his patient eyes and my stomach flips. I’m going to miss him. How the heck did this happen? “I was just thinking about where I’ll be in two months.”
I can only hold his gaze for a fraction of a minute, scared that he may notice that it makes me sad to think I won’t be seeing him and Sam ever again. I’ve lost so much already. People I love, my career, friends––or rather people I thought were friends until the scandal. And now I’m going to be losing two more. Two of the best people I’ve ever had the luck of meeting.
He’s staring intently, in a way that’s become familiar, as if he has something to say but doesn’t know how to broach the subject.
“You want some popcorn?”
Huh? Okay, maybe not so important. “Uhh, yeah, sure,” I answer distractedly, thrown off by the change in gears.
“Great, get me some too, and whatever else you guys want. And a light beer, bottle, or draft is fine.” He hands me a hundred dollar bill.
Chuckling, I stare at the bill in my hand. “You always this charming on dates?”
The expression he returns is oddly serious. He shrugs. “I haven’t been on a date in eleven years.”
Huh? The twists and turns of this conversation are making me stupid. I’m completely at a loss. And then it dawns on me. Briefly checking that Sam is not within earshot, I say quietly, “Really? I didn’t picture you for the midnight booty call type.”
“Booty call?”
“Fuckbuddy––whatever you guys call chicks you sleep with. Personally, I never cared for that term. I mean, who treats their buddy like that? I know I don’t.”
“What? What are you talking about?” Judging by the look on his face, we’re both confused now.
“Hold that thought. I’m going to get nourishment,” I say, standing, and turning to my left, add, “Sam––you coming?”
He tears his eyes away from the game long enough to nod and we both climb out of our seats and head to the refreshment stands. When Sam and I return, the Yankees are down two scores, bases loaded, and Chase Headley is up at bat.
Calvin leans in and murmurs in my ear, “Keep an eye out for the paps. Don’t hide and don’t forget to smile.” He’s so close I can see a ring of dark, steel gray on the edge of his irises. I stare at this discovery for an inappropriate amount of time. I know this because he frowns at me.
As anticipated, everyone in the general vicinity has been surreptitiously turning to stare at Cal since we sat down. Then they take a long, measured look at me. It’s one thing letting people assume we’re together, flaunting it someplace as public as a Yankees game, however, is a completely different beast. My paranoia reaches an all time high that someone will recognize me and start hurling insults. So far, I’ve managed to not it let it spiral into a panic attack. God knows how because two rows down from us a trophy brunette keeps turning around and staring like she can’t quite place how she knows me.
“Hey!” A grating female voice shouts. Definitely trophy wife. “I know you. You’re that bitch that’s married to that guy––” she snaps her fingers “Blake. The Ponzi scheme in Stamford, Connecticut.” The brunette is standing, her voice getting louder and louder while I’m progressively getting smaller and smaller, trying to disappear under my seat. I feel Calvin’s body go stiff next to me. My grouchy knight in black armor starts to rise out of his seat.
“Cameras are on us. She’s not worth it.” I’m hanging onto his arm, trying to hold him back. My hands instinctively go to cup his face, to keep his attention on me. His eyes, narrowed and cold, find me and soften. Then his gaze drops to my lips. Every part of me goes very still. I can smell his scent, soap and something else, something good. Small puffs of air hit my cheeks. Oh crap, that feels good. His gaze holds mine, the atmosphere between us crackling with tension.
Just then, by the grace of God, the ballpark erupts in cheers as Headley hits a line drive that produces two scores and ties the game up. The spell is broken and my hands drop. I watch trophy’s husband grab her arm and yank her down. He’s whisper shouting at her something to the effect of “blah blah blah, Calvin Shaw, blah blah you’re wrong.”
Uh huh, yeah, little does he know.
Three innings later and the Yankees are up by two and Boston has bases loaded.
“Where would you go?” I hear him say. My eyes are glued to the game in progress, which is why the question takes me by surprise.
“Pardon?” I say with a sideways glance. He’s looking straight at me, his focus ultra intense.
“You said you’ll be somewhere else…where?”
The game interrupts for commercial break, and on the jumbotron directly in front of us, the kiss cam comes on. I love the kiss cam. There––I said it. A couple of octogenarians flash on screen. She pecks him chastely on the lips and everyone joins in on the oohhh and ahhh moment. In the privacy of my mind, I’m making up stories for them. That they were teenage lovers separated by cruel parents. That they later found each other after the war in some over the top romantic, star-crossed lovers way. Which war? I have no idea, but I let my mind run away with me.
“Cam?”
“I don’t know. Probably back at my parent’s place.” I shrug apathetically. “Hopefully, I can find a job teaching. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.” The note of longing in my voice could be heard in Alaska.
A young white couple flashes on screen. The man waves and kisses his pregnant wife, who looks more excited about being on camera than she is about getting kissed.
“You could stay.”
It takes me a while to register what he’s said because, again, I’m not paying attention to him. I’m way too busy ogling the loving couples on the massive screen. I used to be part of a loving couple. I used to be frigging happy––used to be being the operative words.
And then they point the camera at us.
On the jumbotron, my eyes go saucer big, actually bigger, like monster truck tire big. Calvin is a completely blank slate. Before I know what’s what, he slips that big paw of his around my neck, pulls me closer––and kisses me.
I’m in shock. I am in shock. Of course I am. That’s why I don’t move a hair. I don’t even breathe. He cups my face gently and slants his soft lips. Damn, they’re soft. One, two, three brushes.
“Kiss me back,” he whispers.
His eyes are cool and smoky at the same time, smoldering dry ice. That must be an oxymoron. I’m in a trance, wrapped up in solving this enigma, so it’s no surprise that all I can manage to stutter out is something incredibly stupid like, “What?”
And as I do, his tongue slips into my mouth and makes love to mine. Just the taste of him has my lonely soul begging for more. I press closer and he deepens the kiss, giving and giving. Lush, seductive, sweet. And so gentle for a big man. I can’t get enough of him. I’m greedy as all get out for more. I thread my fingers through his thick, short hair. His hat falls off. And I take, take, and take. I don’t ever want it to end.
The crowd goes wild. Mind blown. Game over.
Two weeks have passed since The Kiss starring him and me, and neither one of us has brought it up. Not a word. We just go about our day as if it never happened. Which is nearly an impossible feat because A: it happened. I know this because I dream about it every frigging night. And B: it was the most intense, earth shatteringly good experience I’ve had since…well, in a very long time. His kiss was not at all what I expected. Then again, nothing about this man ever is. It was soft and teasing, and generous…like him. Awwww crap.
“Cam?” His voice jerks me out of my wayward musings. I stare at the gorgeous man sitting across from me at the dinner table. Jezus, did I just say �
�gorgeous’.
“Yeah?”
His lips twitch in amusement. “Did you hear a word I said?” At my blank stare, the corners of those ridiculously soft and tempting lips hook up. “I asked if you have plans for the Fourth?”
I say nothing, completely and stupidly taken by those pink lips. His brow quirks. I’m pretty sure he just caught me staring at them. Great.
“Ahhh, yeah, my parents always have a big barbecue and invite all their friends. Sam’s coming with me.” At this, it’s his turn to stare back blankly. “How about you?”
He shakes his head and resumes cutting his steak into very precise pieces, trimming the fat off with the dexterity of a neurosurgeon. He seems disappointed somehow, like something took the air out of him, but for the life of me I can’t figure out at why.
“I just assumed you have plans.”
His head snaps up and his eyes meet mine. “No plans.”
A strange silence hangs between us. If I didn’t know better, I would almost say he looks hurt that he wasn’t included. That sounds hilarious even inside my head. Therefore, just to prove to myself how wrong I am, I throw out this, “Do you want to come with––”
“Yes.”
“––us.” Okay, what now? I chose a different strategy. “I need to warn you that you’re going to be subjected to hours of incessant fawning.”
“I don’t mind.”
Huh…it never once crossed my mind that he would willingly want to hang out. However, I don’t have time to examine this with the level of attention it deserves because my cell phone vibrates with an incoming text. It’s from Jason Miller.
“Sam, Mr. Miller wants to know if we want to meet Derrick at the courts tomorrow?”