Just Playin': Romantic Sports Comedy

by Shandi Boyes

  She smiles, loving the snippet of envy in my tone. I’ve been friends with Dalton for over a decade, but I don’t know his security code.

  Traitorous bastard!

  My eyes stray from my clenched face to Willow when she asks, “Jealous?”

  When I nod, she winks before heading for the main entrance. Once again, I follow her like a lost puppy. The low hang of my jaw triples when she places a freshly cut key into the deadlock to secure Dalton’s front door.

  “You got a key too?”

  Acting like I didn’t whine like a bitch, Willow gallops down the stairs of Dalton’s house. She adjusts her backpack before pivoting to face me. The late afternoon sun bounces orange hues off her springy locks, making them look more auburn than they are.

  “It was nice seeing you again, Elvis.”

  With that, she spins on her heels and heads down the sidewalk.

  “Where are you going?” Curiosity rings in my tone. There’s nothing but a bus stop and a few vacant plots of land in the direction she’s heading.

  When reality smacks into me, so do my back molars. “You’re not catching the bus. It will be dark before you get home.”

  Like I need any more reminding I shouldn’t be gawking at her ass like I am, Willow says, “It’s okay, old man, I know how to handle myself.”

  My look shows my disdain for her nickname. “Even if you can, let me give you a ride.”

  Not looking back, she continues down the path. “Once bitten, twice shy. I’m good.”

  “Come on, Will.” I purposely use her nickname, hoping she’ll believe I’m her friend and not a creep looking to be gassed for the second time in my life. “It’s a ride, not a wedding proposal. It’s on my way anyhow.”

  That stops her.

  She fiddles with the straps on her backpack while connecting her eyes to mine. It’s the fight of my life to force my eyes to follow her eyes’ lead. It isn’t my fault; I’m a man and her backpack straps are displaying her impressive rack in the most brilliant light. If I were a cartoon, my tongue would be hanging on the ground, and my eyes would be bulging out of my head. Her body. . . schwing! When you combine her sexy curves with her beautiful face, what do you get . . .? Me continuously adjusting my crotch.

  When my eyes finally find Willow’s, she asks, “It’s on your way?”

  I angle my head to the side so my head bob could be misconstrued as a shake.

  She doesn’t buy my half-hearted response. Snarling, she pivots on her heels and keeps walking.

  “Fine! It’s not on my way, but I’m hungry, and there’s a pizzeria near your college I’m dying to grab a slice at.”

  My heart stops beating when her feet stop pounding the pavement. “Which pizzeria?”

  She doesn’t spin around to face me. She keeps her eyes front and center, confident she doesn’t need to look at me to know I’m lying. She’ll hear it in my tone.

  I shouldn’t like that she thinks she can read me so easily, but I do.

  “Mickey’s.”

  She cranks her neck back to peer at me. “On West 37?”

  Smiling, I nod. “Best pizza on this side of the country.”

  “More like best pizza on the planet.” While bridging the small gap between us, she asks, “And you’re going there tonight?”

  “Yep!” –I am now— “It’s right across from your university. I don’t even have to pull into the parking lot to drop you off. You can just get out at Mickey’s and walk across the street. What do you say? That sounds fair, doesn’t it?”

  She rocks on the balls of her feet while contemplating. I really wish she wouldn’t; every rock forward brings her fantastic tits within touching distance. If she doesn’t hurry up and make her decision, I’m about to face charges for sexual misconduct.

  After what feels like an eternity, she finally relents. “Okay, but. . .” She takes five seconds to settle the redness creeping up her neck before murmuring, “If you at any stage hang your head out the window like a dog, I’ll do more than slam a cue stick into your balls.”

  My nuts tuck inside myself, the threat in her tone too ominous to ignore.

  Confident she has me scared, she returns to Dalton’s driveway, slides into the passenger seat of my car, then closes the door without the slightest bang. My entrance is nowhere near as sleek as hers. The panic buzzing in my crotch has me on high alert, and it’s weighing down my movements.

  Unfortunately it also has me thinking recklessly.

  Willow stops fiddling with her belt when I ask, “Before we head out, can I ask you something?”

  Her brows furrow in confusion, unsure what has caused the crackle in my usually smooth timbre, but she nods all the same, too curious to let a flare of panic stop her from discovering what’s caused the quick change in my composure.

  I bet she wishes she weren’t so damn inquisitive when I ask, “When was the last time you ate Chinese? The new car smell is finally returning, and I don’t want to risk ruining it.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Willow

  M y attempt to peel myself out of Elvis’s chub-holding car is thwarted by him splaying his giant arm across my chest. His arms are so long, his fingertips could brush the window next to my head, but he’d rather use them to pin me in his car, so he keeps them curled around my side boob.

  “I’m just playin’. I know, poor timing, but I swear I was only trying to lighten the mood.”

  “Lighten the mood. . . or intensify it?”

  When my eyes lower to his inappropriate grope of my breast, Elvis’s eyes bug out like they did when they took in my body earlier.

  “Oh fuck, sorry.” He yanks his hand back to his side of the car as if scorched by my touch. “I wasn’t going for a feel. I’m not like that. I’d ask before grabbing. I don’t just help myself.”

  Realizing he’s rambling like a pimple-faced virgin, he pushes the automatic start button and reverses out of Dalton’s driveway. We travel the first five miles with his eyes forward and his mouth tightlipped. I don’t mind the silence. It gives me a chance to settle my erratic heart rate from his closeness.

  I thought the patter of my heart against my ribs was because of Becca, but it didn’t taper when she left with Dalton. It grew astronomically. That could only mean one thing: Elvis is the cause of my heart’s stutter.

  I don’t know whether to be pleased or annoyed by my notion. Elvis’s cell phone number has been burning a hole in my pocket the last three weeks, and just when I thought I had a hold of the situation, it blows up in my face.

  Don’t get me wrong; I wanted to call him—only to thank him for the products that helped me emerge from hell days earlier than I expected—but my pride wouldn’t let me. I’ve never been more mortified than I was the night he drove me home, and I’ve had some ripper blunders in my short nearly twenty-two years. Add that to the fact everyone at my university watched my video on YouTube, and I simply ran out of time. The last three weeks have been a blur. Not necessarily a good haze, but a blur nonetheless.

  It’s funny how people enter your life at the right time. If I hadn’t defended Becca three weeks ago, I wouldn’t have a video on YouTube with close to two hundred million views, but then I also wouldn’t have needed her maturity to keep my head out of the clouds the past three weeks.

  Skylar has been great, but Becca was the only one who remained quiet regarding my supposed “stupidity” for not accepting the numerous requests for an interview. No one but Becca couldn’t understand why I didn’t want the publicity. She understood my worry about how quickly the tables can turn, and how it would feel if I were the one on the receiving end of the backlash, so she constantly reminded me no monetary amount could replace my values when the offers grew exceptionally with everyone I rejected.

  That’s why I was visiting Becca today. She was helping me draft a letter to have my details removed from the original video that started this all. I love the messages of support I receive multiple times a day, but they do little to soothe the st
ing of the handful of hateful ones I get.

  Loathing the silence between Elvis and me, I attempt to end it. “What do you think Becca will have?”

  Any tension left brimming between us ends when Elvis answers, “I’m hoping a baby, but who knows these days.”

  “Ha ha, smart ass. I meant a boy or a girl. Becca said they kept the gender a surprise.”

  I swivel in my seat to face him head on, taking in his casual yet scrumptious jeans and fitted shirt as he discloses, “It’s a secret to Becca, but Dalton knows.”

  “What? How?!”

  I give him a sympathetic look when my squeal shreds his eardrums. He’s not concerned. His chuckle has my nipples paying him as much attention as they did when his arm was splayed across my chest.

  “He bribed the sonographer for the results. Becca was happy to wait until the birth, but Dalton is an impatient ass. He would never wait to find out something he could know months earlier.”

  “So he’s known their baby’s gender the entire time, and he’s never told Becca?”

  I’m truly astonished. I’ve spent a lot of time with them the past three weeks, and up until a minute ago, I would have happily declared they keep nothing from each other.

  Elvis nods, then grimaces. “Well, he hasn’t directly said it, but—”

  “Ohh. . . the giant teddy in the nursery. He bought that, didn’t he?” When Elvis nods, I tap my feet on the ground. “I told Becca his fur wasn’t aqua. That’s straight up baby boy blue fur!”

  I sink deeper into my seat, loving the excited butterflies taking flight in my stomach. Becca and Dalton will be great parents, and, if I’m being honest, I’m dying to meet the little person they created together. I don’t have any siblings, so until I marry someone with a shit ton of brothers and sisters, this is as close to an aunt as I will become. I’m also not the one about to squeeze a watermelon through a lemon-sized hole, so I’m feeling great right now.

  I’m still buzzing with excitement when Elvis pulls his fancy sportscar into Mickey’s Pizzeria’s parking lot. This early at night, it’s more deserted than usual.

  My eyes stray to Elvis when he says, “Grab a bite to eat with me.” His tone reveals he isn’t asking, but he’s not demanding I eat with him either. He’s giving me a suggestion and letting me choose whether or not to run with it.

  Although it will most likely make me even more embarrassed, I ask, “Do you not recall what happened the last time we ate together?”

  A ghost of a smile raises Elvis’s cheeks. “Are we talking about the cue stick or our trip home?”

  I give him my take your pick look.

  His faint grin turns into a full, blistering smile. “I’m safe either way. One, Mickey’s doesn’t have a pool table. And two, your campus is right over there.” He points to a row of buildings, unsure which dormitory is mine. “I don’t need to drive you anywhere. You can walk your sorry ass home.”

  I rake my nails down his pec like all the super-hot chicks in the movies do. Regrettably, I don’t have the French-tipped nails required to pull off the sultry tease. I kept mine clipped when I played netball in my teen years, and habit has kept them that way.

  My breath tickles Elvis’s jaw when I lean in close to his side. “The only thing sorry about my ass is the fact it’s failed to gain your attention.”

  Confident my lack of flirty moves was made up for by my sassy tongue, I peel out of his car. It could be hope making me hear things, but I swear Elvis murmurs, “Your fine ass was the first thing I noticed about you,” before he begins the acrobatic routine it takes for him to leave his car.

  “SO BECCA ARRIVED with a date in tow but left with Dalton?”

  After downing a gulp of his soft drink, Elvis nods.

  “No way. How did her date handle it?”

  He swallows before locking his eyes with mine. “He didn’t have much choice. Dalton wasn’t leaving without her.”

  “That may work in fiction, but that’s not the way things happen in real life.” I drag a napkin over my saucy lips before scanning the room. “If I were interested in the crew-cut, spank my monkey three times a day just to dispel half the testosterone pumping through my body brute two booths over, just because you tell him I’m leaving with you, doesn’t mean I have to.”

  “Yeah, it does.” I can’t tell if his voice is self-assured or pig-headed. It may be a combination.

  Hooking my foot under my bottom, I angle myself closer to Elvis. “But who I go home with isn’t up to you. It’s my decision. If I want to mess the sheets with Dog the Bounty Hunter’s son, that’s my prerogative.”

  He dumps his half-empty glass onto the table before leaning his elbows on it. The sauce from the pizzas we’ve shared fans my lips when he asks, “Do you want to smear the sheets with him?”

  His sexy scent of pureed tomatoes, garlic, and a manly cologne is messing with my senses because I swear he sounds jealous right now. I shake my head to rid it of my stupid thoughts. The past two hours have been awesome; we’ve talked like lifetime friends, shared two whole pizzas, and he gave me an update on how he and Dalton met before he “forced” Dalton to work up the courage to approach Becca.

  It’s been amazing, but our time together has also revealed how rusty my dating skills are. Not only have I continually misread Elvis’s comments as flirty one-liners, but I’ve taken the occasional brush of his thigh against mine as a signal he wants to play Naked Twister with me beneath the sheets. I know that isn’t the case. I couldn’t compete for his attention on my best day, much less against all the attention he’s attracted tonight. Even with him requesting that we be seated in the far back corner of the restaurant, he’s gained many admiring glances.

  I’m not even angry. Elvis is too handsome not to encourage a second look. I’m just grateful I don’t have to strain my eyes to drink in all his features. It’s not often I say I’m lucky, but I am tonight because I have the best seat in town.

  The silly thoughts in my head shift to naughty ones when Elvis’s deep growl rolls through my core. “Willow?”

  When I peer at him, shocked by the anger drawing his dark brows together, the conversation we were having only seconds ago smacks back into me.

  We’re discussing women’s rights, not my womanly needs.

  “No, I don’t want to sleep with him, but that’s not the point. If I wanted to sleep with him, I could sleep with him, and there’s nothing you could do about it.”

  The thick stubble on Elvis’s top lip digs into his nose when he twists his lips. “That’s true.”

  I gasp, surprised he’s conforming to my ways so quickly. He doesn’t give off pushover vibes. From the stories he shared tonight, most of the alpha machoism Dalton exhibited the night he met Becca was learned from Elvis, so I expected more fighting spirit, or, at the very least, a sneer.

  I get both when his lips tickle my earlobe and he snarls, “Just like if I want to drag you out of here over my shoulder, kicking and screaming, I could, and there’s nothing you could do about it.”

  Jesus—how can I misconstrue that? The need in his voice is so extreme, a bead of sweat rolls down my back. It’s absorbed by my panties, which are just as sticky.

  Before my chest can bristle in confusion, Elvis adds stacks of wood to the fire he’s building. “Now follow me outside before I go all caveman on his ass.”

  I slant back far enough I can see his eyes. They’re narrowed with anger and blistering with a glint I can’t quite identify.

  Although I’m a mix of confusion and excitement, I can’t help but say, “You’re being a buffoon. He’s not interested in me. I just used him as an example.”

  While scooting out of our booth, Elvis digs his wallet out of his pocket. He tosses a bundle of crisp notes onto our recently delivered bill, then his eyes stray to the gentleman in question. “Oh, he’s interested alright. He’s nearly busting a nut just looking at you. I think the schmuck needs to be taught a lesson about what happens when you mosey in on a girl while she’s
on a date.”

  Date? When did this become a date?

  When Elvis heads in the stranger’s direction, I remain frozen, too shocked to move. I’m usually pretty clued on, but tonight I’m utterly dumbfounded. I guess the plot within minutes of the start of a movie; I know who the killer is long before the on-screen detectives do, and I knew I was going to crush hard on Elvis well before I spun around to face him, but this is a one-eighty I never saw coming.

  Elvis is a brute of a man with enough testosterone to light the city, but I never pictured him as the jealous type. He was so laidback tonight, I was beginning to wonder if he had a competitive bone in his body. Then I realized my error. You don’t need to be competitive when there’s no one to compete against.

  When Elvis’s long strides end next to the man I used to make a point, I snag my backpack from my seat and race his way. I’m reasonably sure he won’t do anything, but considering tonight is only our second meeting, I’m not willing to test out another theory. The throbbing veins in Elvis’s arms is concerning enough, so I don’t want more mess thrown into the shitstorm I’d like to avoid.

  “The pizza was great. Thanks for the wonderful service,” I mumble to our waitress before hooking my arm around Elvis’s elbow and dragging him toward the exit.

  It’s lucky I skipped weights this morning because it takes all my strength to move him, and even then, I still feel like I’m lugging a crane. At this rate, I’ll need to exchange some of the medication Elvis purchased me last week to buy hemorrhoid cream.

  “Holy fishcakes, are you a lunatic?! Who goes all jack-rabbit crazy like that so quickly?” I break away from Elvis’s side when we reach the gravel parking lot at the back of Mickey’s. “Did you forget to take your medication today? I don’t recommend doubling up, but I also wouldn’t recommend skipping your loony pills tomorrow. You went from normal to fucked up in under three seconds. Who does that?”

  My belligerent rant is abandoned when Elvis asks, “But you left with me, didn’t you?”

  I still as commotion stirs in my gut.