4th & Girl

by Monroe, Max

  Thank you for that lovely tidbit of terrifying information, Alma.

  I grimaced as I added sugar and creamer into my cup.

  “You like boneless wings, Gemma?”

  If she would’ve asked me yesterday, I would’ve said hell yes, but now, after she’d tainted them with her intestinal commentary, I wasn’t exactly craving a happy hour at Applebee’s. Or anywhere with wings, for that matter.

  Buffalo Wild Wings, Wings and Rings, you name it, and she’d ruined it.

  “They’re okay.”

  “Personally, I’m a mild wings kind of gal,” she added as I walked back into the dining room and sat down. “I think that’s why I had the shits the other night. I went for the medium, thinking I could handle the spice.”

  Are we really still talking about wings and Alma’s bowels?

  “So, uh, what’s next on the agenda?” I asked by way of changing the conversation to something that wouldn’t ruin my appetite.

  “Did you get all of the King Dong Dildos packaged up?”

  “Yep,” I responded like it wasn’t weird at all for an elderly woman to say the words Dong or Dildo. “I figured I’d leave a little earlier today and drop them off at the post office before I head home.”

  “Make sure you tell him its media mail.”

  I wanted to laugh at her determination. “Alma, with all due respect, those big-ass packages aren’t going to cut it as media mail.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “Uh…no…I know so,” I said and couldn’t stop myself from laughing. “I understand your creative attempts to thwart the system, but sweet Jesus, you’re going to have to pick something a little less monstrous to do it with. If anything, those insanely huge items will need extra shipping just to get them where they need to go.”

  She smirked. “They are pretty big, huh?”

  “Alma, they should come with a complimentary prayer card and an ice pack.”

  “I’ll make note of that for future sales.” A soft, raspy laugh left her lungs. “And the next thing I really need you to help me with today includes moving some of the newest inventory from the garage into the dining room.”

  I followed her lead toward the garage, but just before we stepped through the door, she paused and pointed toward a wooden-framed photograph hanging on the wall. “That’s my nephew Leonard I was telling you about.”

  With braces, an awkward smile, and a bowl cut, old Leonard looked to be about twelve or thirteen in the photo.

  Alma smiled lovingly at his photo. “Isn’t he handsome?”

  Handsome was a bit of a stretch for this photo, but in eighth-grade Leonard’s defense, no one, no matter who the hell they were, looked good at that age. I moved my eyes away before I could criticize his most awkward years too thoroughly.

  Hell, I was pretty certain my school photo from that time included crimped hair, blue eye shadow, and acne.

  “Very handsome,” I lied.

  “You know, you should meet my Leonard,” she said with a smile. “He’s a bit of a cocky shit, but as you can see, he’s a real looker.”

  Even though I’d yet to see the real-life Leonard, and all I had to go by was his stuffy name and eighth-grade picture, I kind of felt like calling him a real looker might have been a bit of a stretch.

  But I kept my bitchy thoughts to myself and just hummed in agreement. The best defense to a setup was always quiet contemplation.

  My parents had been shoving prospects my way for years, and they only got really pushy when I rejected the idea outright. I had to assume Alma would be the same way.

  Eventually, she’d forget about dreams of me and Leonard.

  And maybe one day, I’d be able to forget about her and King Dong.

  Ten seconds on the clock—ten seconds away from winning our second game of the season—and I could feel the sweat dripping down my back. The Miami heat was a change of pace from New Jersey’s slow fade into fall, and the adrenaline of maybe playing a part in maintaining a winning season as a rookie was at an all-time high.

  Miami’s quarterback grunted the call, loud and gravelly as always, and all of us tensed in our positions. With a clap and a stomp of his toe, he shouted for their center to snap the ball and send it spiraling back for his waiting hands.

  I dug my cleat into the turf and took off at a sprint, running my coverage of one of their best receivers with as much speed and precision as I could manage.

  My heart pounded, my palms sweated, and time slowed to a crawl.

  The ball spiraled toward us, a prediction I’d have made any day of the week given the prowess of Edwards, Miami’s all-star receiver, and I churned my legs to keep up with his moves and then some.

  Reading the line of the pass, I juked and turned, spinning to the back and jumping up in front of Edwards in a streak of luck and skill.

  I stretched, reaching to my full height and beyond as the skin of the ball met my fingertips and struggled to sail straight through.

  But I wouldn’t be stopped—not this time—gritting my teeth into the cushion of my mouthguard and clamping my fingertips with the strength of twenty men.

  The ball secure, I fell to my feet and, with assistance from Edwards, continued straight to the ground in a heap with 270 pounds of angry muscle on top of me.

  But I had the ball in my hands and could feel the roar of excitement all around me.

  Miami’s drive had officially been stopped, the game was over, another tally in the win column in our favor, and I’d been the one to make the game-ending play.

  Climbing to my feet, I basked in the moment…

  For about a second before the team was upon me and I was back on the ground.

  Holy fuck, did it feel good.

  “Hell yeah!” Cam yelled, smacking me on the helmet and getting right in my face. The rest of the pile hooted and cheered and shifted until, finally, Quinn Bailey took it upon himself to dig me back out.

  With a helping hand, he dragged me to my feet and smacked me on the helmet three times before bringing our heads together.

  “That’s what I’m talking about, Landry!” he shouted over the booming and echoing noise in the stadium.

  Miami fans booed and groused, but a fair number of New York diehards could be heard in their midst.

  “Mavericks, Mavericks, Mavericks!” they chanted.

  “You better get ready, son,” Sean Phillips shoved in to announce. “We’re gonna party tonight!”

  A smile curved the line of my mouth, and I settled into happiness.

  Life on the Mavericks was good.

  Beer flowing and excitement in the air, the bar where we found ourselves a couple of hours later was the craziest I’d ever seen one.

  Somehow, we’d managed to find a colony of Mavericks fans in downtown Miami, and Sean Phillips was hamming it up with every single one of them.

  Quinn Bailey had found a quiet spot, tucked in the corner, and Cam Mitchell hadn’t left my side once, a meaty arm draped around my shoulder.

  I was more than happy to have Cam’s devotion, but truthfully, I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t rather have been tucked away with Quinn.

  “This guy here,” Cam touted to the crowd. “He’s the real deal!”

  I rolled my eyes at his theatrics and swayed to his rhythm as the excitement of a new song made him bust out in a dance.

  “We Are Family” was fired up on the sound system, and the guys started singing like a pack of lunatics. I laughed and nodded, forgoing participation in actually singing along, and met the eyes of Quinn Bailey in the corner.

  He shook his head and tipped his beer to his lips before pulling his phone from his pocket and getting distracted.

  Shit. I don’t think I remembered to turn my phone back on ring.

  Reminded of the contact with the real world I’d been cut off from for the last several hours, I dug my phone from my pocket and lit up the screen.

  I had four missed calls, including my parents and a couple of college buddies who were
no doubt calling to congratulate me on the win, and several messages from my Nonna.

  “I gotta piss,” I said as an excuse as I looked up into the glowing face of my Cam Mitchell limb.

  He laughed with a smile and shook me back and forth before winking. “Make sure you hit the bowl,” he teased.

  I flipped him the bird and spun out from under his arm to a chorus of laughter from a bunch of guys and slipped down the hall to the bathroom.

  Cloaked in the dark, I stepped off to the side and scrolled through my messages.

  Nonna: If I hadn’t been boycotting watching the game, I might be inclined to say congratulations.

  Nonna: But I am, so I didn’t see it. So no congratulations for you.

  Nonna: Honestly, I might not live to see another game.

  I laughed at her guilt trip and nonsense and typed out another message. Obviously, I’d missed the lunch she’d insisted on the week prior, and if ever there was a woman to hold a grudge, it was my Nonna. She was wicked and twisted, and I loved her more than just about anyone.

  Me: Clearly, you saw the game. And clearly, you’re proud of me. You don’t even have to say it.

  Nonna: I’d be proud of someone I saw more than once in a blue moon. You, I barely even recognize. It might not even have been you on the TV. I can’t tell anymore.

  Me: You know me. And I’m sorry I couldn’t come this week, but we had to leave on Wednesday to get down here for pregame stuff.

  Nonna: You should have rescheduled to Tuesday, then.

  Me: I had practice.

  Nonna: Horseshit.

  Loud and rich, my guffaw could probably be heard above the blasting music and players.

  Me: I’ll shoot for this week.

  Nonna: I’ll start talking to you again when you show up.

  Me: I love you, Nonna.

  I tried to sweeten her up with kind words and sentiments, but she was just as cutthroat as ever.

  Nonna: Whatever.

  I sent my mom and dad a quick text letting them know I’d call them tomorrow and resigned myself to contact my college buddies when I made my way back to Jersey.

  Before I tucked my phone back into my pocket, I opened my browser and stumbled over to the site I always found myself on once again.

  Reddit.

  And still, despite viral sharing and tons of fucking comments, the facts were the same.

  My mystery girl was still a mystery.

  Disappointment hit me square in the chest, but I squashed it down. It didn’t matter if I felt up to the hoopla of tonight or not.

  It was a rite of passage, and I needed to live in the moment.

  I was the man of the hour.

  The rookie of the game. And no mystery girl, blond goddess or not, was worth not living in the moment.

  There’d be plenty of time to think of her later.

  And I would.

  Of that, I was certain.

  “Gemma, honey!” Alma called from the kitchen. “My nephew Leonard will be stopping by for lunch a little later. So, if you don’t mind, try to spruce up the dining room table so we’ve got somewhere to eat.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said as I finished taping shut a freshly packed box. I figured I’d head to the post office and grab a bite to eat somewhere that didn’t require my ass to sit on plastic-covered furniture, and Alma and her nephew would have the time and space to catch up.

  Surely, they didn’t need me being a third wheel.

  And, if I was being honest, I really, really didn’t want to come face-to-face with the guy Alma kept passively trying to get me to date.

  I booked it through the information input process, weighing the package, checking for sizing and shipping method, and selecting the intended shipping date. I wasn’t breaking any land-speed records, but I was literally going as fast as I could.

  But it was all for naught. By the time I’d printed out the shipping label and attached the damn thing to the box, the doorbell chimed.

  “Looks like our special guest has arrived!” Alma singsonged and shuffled her slipper-covered feet into the entryway.

  The old bat had said he’d be here a little later. But, hot damn, if it’d been all of five minutes since she’d dropped the lunch bomb on me.

  So much for making a discreet getaway. I hadn’t even had time to clean up!

  “Well, well, well…” Her voice echoed off the walls and into the dining room. “It’s about time you paid your dear old aunt a visit.”

  Panic took hold. Alma was maternal in a really twisted way, but she didn’t like when she asked you to do something and you didn’t get it done. Even if the demand-to-time ratio was ridiculous. Instead of carefully organizing the shit on the dining table, I grabbed an empty cardboard box and shoved everything I could fit inside of it until it was full.

  I repeated that cycle two more times before all that was left on the table was a handful of already packed envelopes and Alma’s laptop.

  No King Dongs or Motherfluffers or Fleshlights in sight, I sighed in relief. Who knew if good old Leonard knew about his aunt’s pleasure business, but I sure as hell refused to be the bearer of disturbing-dildo news.

  Their muffled voices started to get closer, and I did my best to make myself scarce.

  I grabbed Alma’s laptop, with the mind-set that I could at least finish organizing my shipping labels, and went into the small sitting room off the formal living room and stayed quiet as a mouse.

  Maybe Alma will forget I’m here?

  Hah. You wish she was that senile, my subconscious taunted.

  “Gemma!” Alma called out. “Where are you? I have someone I want you to meet!”

  Shit.

  “I’m in the sitting room!” I called back. “Just finishing up some invent—” I started to excuse myself, but the old bat was way quicker with her wit than she was with her feet, and I had a feeling she’d known where I was all along.

  Alma and her nephew walked into the sitting room, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t choke on my own tongue.

  Familiar, haunting blue eyes.

  Chiseled jaw.

  Memorable body.

  Holy cannoli. It was the guy.

  Leo “I spilled his pee on myself” Landry.

  “Gemma, this is my great-nephew, Leonard,” she said, a proud smile permanently etched across her hot pink-colored lips. “Leonard, this is Gemma, my newest and favorite employee for my…uh…online shop.”

  Newest and favorite employee? I was her only goddamn employee.

  And great-nephew? That clarification would’ve been nice a week ago.

  Sweet Lucifer, I didn’t know how to react to any of it.

  So, I did what I seemed to do best.

  I opened my mouth and let words fly out unchecked.

  “Uh, hi!” I all but shouted as I hopped to my feet, and my voice echoed awkwardly off the windows of Alma’s sitting room. “Hi, Leonard!”

  Seriously, you can stop saying hi anytime now…

  Good God, obviously, I had no idea what to do.

  Do I act like I know him?

  Does he even remember me?

  How in the hell was I supposed to handle a situation like this?

  Just play it cool, Gemma.

  “It’s…uh…nice to meet you!” I said far too enthusiastically and held out my hand like I was brokering a goddamn business deal. “I’m Gemma!”

  So much for playing it cool.

  He smirked and took my proffered hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Gemma.”

  The way his blue eyes sparkled and shone with recognition and his full mouth crested into a knowing smirk, it was apparent Leo Landry knew exactly who I was.

  I was that girl.

  The “I’m so sorry I spilled your pee on myself” girl.

  What were the fucking odds I’d ever have to face that guy again?

  I kind of felt like the universe was trying to shove her boot up my ass.

  Here, Gemma, the universe whispered. I’m going to make
you experience one of the most humiliating moments of your life with a really fucking gorgeous man and just a simple specimen cup filled with urine. And then, I’m going to make sure that guy reappears, and then you get to relive it. Isn’t that nice?

  No, universe, you conniving little biotch. It wasn’t nice at all.

  But Leo Landry? Yeah. He looked just as good, if not better, than the first day I’d laid eyes on him.

  And this time, I had my doubts a golden shower was the kind of thing that would get me fired. Around here, it might just get me a promotion.

  Gemma.

  Mystery girl from going on two months ago, girl who’d driven me to the brink of crazy thinking about her, girl I never thought I’d find.

  Fucking Gemma.

  And of all places, I’d found her at my Nonna’s house, working as her newest employee. And the fact that my dear old aunt needed employees for whatever zany online business store she ran was frankly shocking news, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  Gemma was here, and that was pretty much all I cared about.

  In an impressive feat of contortionism, I could practically feel my foot kicking me in the ass as I stood there.

  If I’d come earlier. If I’d made lunch work the week before…that would have been a week fewer of suffering.

  Good thing I was too fucking thrilled at the sight of her to spend any real time on self-deprecation.

  That would come later, I was sure, but something way more important came now.

  Gemma.

  I took her extended hand in mine and squeezed as warmth ran all the way up the length of my arm. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Gemma.”

  She blushed, no doubt still embarrassed by the way we’d met, and I pictured that blush spreading all over her petite body.

  God, the fantasies I’d had over the past weeks had nothing on the ones I was conjuring up now, and I knew it was because she looked even fucking better than I’d remembered her.