by Shandi Boyes
I stop counting down the hours left in Willow’s internship when she asks, “I had a few to work with. Wanna hear them?”
I nod before heading back down the stairs we just climbed. As I move through my condo to gather my wallet and keys, she hits me with her best cow jokes.
“What did one cow say to the other cow? Got milk?”
“What do you call a sleeping cow? A bulldozer.”
“What are grumpy cows called? Mooooody.”
“What do you call a cow with a nervous twitch? Beef jerky.”
That one gets me laughing. I like that one.
Once she is out of jokes, I slip my wallet into my back pocket before pivoting to face her. It’s not hot today, but she’s feeling the heat in her getup. Sweat is dribbling down her neck, and her shoulders are hanging as low as her udders.
“Hot?”
She blows a rogue curl out of her eyes before murmuring, “As boiling as curdled milk in a saucepan. It’s totally worth it though. I’m udderly adorable.”
She is. She’s so fucking cute, even a ridiculously hideous outfit can’t take away her appeal. I like seeing her like this, fun and happy. She’s been loving life as much as me the past eight weeks. Excluding our little hiccup two weeks ago, things couldn’t be better. Lillian flew back to New York on her broomstick; Coach James agreed to let me “date” Willow as long as we keep our relationship on a Disney movie level, and a big chunk of the endorsement deal Danny negotiated on my behalf months ago will land in my bank next month. We’re scheduled to start shooting the first commercials next week. Life is golden at the moment. . . so perfect that I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Taking a page out of Willow’s book, I look for the positives instead of the negatives. “In all seriousness, though, where are your clothes? You should probably get changed; Coach James’s house is forty minutes away.”
Willow stops at the side of my dining room to glare at me. “Whatever do you mean?” She’s trying to act coy, but I can see the panic igniting in her eyes. “For one, you said Coach lived around the corner, and two, you’re the one who needs to get changed, right?”
I follow her wide eyes when they glide down the rolled-up sleeves of my dress shirt, over my black trousers before coming to a stop at my recently polished boots. When I hear her forcefully swallow, I raise my eyes back to her face. She’s as white as a ghost, her lack of coloring not compliments of the heavy costume she’s wearing.
She peers at me in shock. “It’s a costume party.”
“It is,” I agree with a nod.
“An American tradition more important than Christmas, Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Super Bowl Sunday.”
I grimace. “You had me until your last comment.”
“You need to wear a costume, E! Skylar said!” She stomps down her foot in a way that shouldn’t be sexy, but is.
As quickly as her tantrum arrives, it disappears. Her eyes widen like she has a brilliant idea as her finger rises in the air. “How fond are you of your rug in the living room?”
I lose the chance to reply when she pushes off her feet and charges for the fur rug we wrestled on weeks ago. Her cheetah speed slows when I murmur, “You’re not hacking up my rug to make me a costume.”
She huffs. “Why not? You’d make the perfect Tarzan. You Tarzan, me Jane.” She makes a face likes she’s seconds from orgasming before murmuring, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to say that.”
“You’re not Jane; you’re a cow.” She pokes her tongue out at me. “And its cold out there. I’m not having any dick shrinkage pictures of me uploaded to the internet.”
“Any more dick shrinkage pictures,” Willow corrects.
She takes a moment to fan her heated cheeks from my growl before she restarts her endeavor to make me look as ridiculous as her. “What about an old football jersey? Surely you have one of those lying around.”
She stops racing across my living room when she reaches my fireplace. With her hands splayed across her tiny waist, her head flops back. “Where’s the pompous, I’m a football star jersey every player has framed above their fireplaces at? That would work.”
“I had Danny put it in storage when I was trying to deceive you into believing I was regular folk. . .” My words fall short when her narrowed eyes snap to mine. “Too soon?”
“Don’t be a mooooron, E. It doesn’t suit you.”
Laughing at herself, she makes a beeline for my coat closet. She’s seen me dump my gym bag in there many times the past few weeks, so she knows there’s a high possibility of finding what she’s chasing in there. “Oh my god, E. Have you heard of a washing machine? Send in the battle crews; I’m fighting back a stinky sock army in here.”
My chuckles are sliced in half when she emerges from the coat closet with one of my team jersey’s in her hand. “Bingo.”
I take a step back, exasperated. “I’m not dressing up as myself!”
“Why not? It will be cute.” She pulls a cutesy face, fluttering eyelashes and all.
I’m not buying it. “I’ll look like a fucking idiot. Who rocks up to a party held by their coach in their team uniform?”
Willow perks her lips. “A person too cheap to buy a damn costume for a party.” She thrusts the jersey into my chest. “You either wear this, or I hack up your rug.”
“I CAN’T BELIEVE I’m doing this.”
The bus driver peers down at the hundred I’m attempting to feed into the machine at her side before lifting her eyes to mine. “Correct change only.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s all I have.” That, and a really annoying girlfriend who makes me dress up as myself and catch the bus like “the regular folks” do.
When the machine finally accepts my fare, I join Willow on one of only a few vacant seats. After plopping into my spot, my eyes scan the bus. We’re the only riders wearing costumes, and we stick out like sore thumbs.
Halfway down the block, the lady next to me angles her head to the side to stare at my outfit. “We’re going to a costume party,” I inform her, panicked I’m seconds from being mauled by an overzealous fan. She’s giving me a look, one I’m not a fan of when I’m off the field.
My fear subsides when the gawker says, “Your outfit is the bomb. You look just like him.” The flash on her phone blinds me when she snaps my picture. After tapping her fake nails on the screen of her cell for a few seconds, she spins it around to face me. “See? Your resemblance is uncanny.”
She has a picture of me next to a picture of me.
She uploads her photo to facechat, snapbooky, whatever the hell it’s called before leaning across me to tap Willow on her shoulder. “YouTube tutorials?”
Now I’m not the only one panicked. Willow’s dilated eyes and thrusting chest have me taking a mental note to look into her YouTube infamy a little more intently tomorrow morning.
“Excuse me?” Willow’s voice is as high as the unnamed lady’s penciled brow.
“His face? It’s makeup, right? You can make anyone look like anyone with the right amount of makeup.”
She’d know. She’s wearing five pounds’ worth on her face.
The longer Willow delays answering the stranger’s question, the more inquisitive glances we gain. The bus riders arrow in closer, more intrigued by our choice in clothing than concerned.
After a quick swallow, Willow murmurs, “Oh, yeah. Awesome stuff. I contoured and shit, and shazam, look what happened?!” She leaps to her feet, filling the air with her sweet scent. “Oh, look, it’s our stop!”
Nice try, buttercup, but you’re about to be taught a hard lesson. “No, that’s not our stop. We’ve still got thirty miles to travel.”
Willow slaps me with her udders when she jackknifes my way. That shouldn’t have my dick paying attention, but for some fucked-up reason it does.
“Shut up and walk, E.”
I fold my right ankle over my left before sinking deeper into my seat. “Not until you say it.” The smirk tugging my lips hig
h wipes the last of the worry from my face.
Willow folds her arms in front of her chest as the lady watches our exchange with enough interest to be deemed creepy. “I’m not saying it.”
“Then sit your ass down, buttercup, cause we’ve still got another thirty miles to travel.” I scoot over, giving her plenty of room to sit on the bench seat we’re sharing with Ms. Stalker and another two travelers.
Willow makes a face that looks like she’s a chicken about to lay an egg when my thigh brushes the unnamed lady’s. “Fine! I’ll say it.” Her ribs expand and contract three times before she murmurs, “You were right.” Her words are so soft, I barely heard them.
I tuck my feet under my seat before leaning closer to her. “What was that?”
“You were right.” This attempt isn’t any louder than her first.
Tilting my head to the side, I tug on my ear. “Still didn’t get it.”
“You were right!”
Jesus, and now I’m deaf as well.
With a smile on her face, she watches me wiggle her words from my ear before adding a few more. “Now can we go? Please.”
The strain crinkling her forehead eases when I wave my hand across my body, indicating for her to lead the way. Once she’s out of earshot, I twist my torso to face the lady sitting mute next to me. “Can you forward me that photo?” It’s not a good shot of me, but the look on Willow’s face when I was being bombarded with the unnamed female’s attention makes it a real keepsake. “Here are my details.”
I hand her my business card before tracing the steps Willow just took. I barely make it onto the sidewalk before the bus doors slam shut, almost drowning out the lady’s high-pitched screech, “O. M. G! Presley Carlton’s thigh touched my thigh!”
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I rock back and forth on my heels. My mood is at an all-time high, my smirk just as large. Willow and I argued for twenty minutes straight this afternoon that I’d be recognized within a minute of getting on the bus. Don’t quote me, but I’m reasonably sure she said something along the lines of, “You’re not that famous, E.”
I don’t want to say it, but I must: “I was right.”
Willow’s bouncy hair flings in her face when she glances at me over her shoulder. She’s standing on the curb, holding open a taxi door. “Shut up and get in the cab, old man.”
Her taunt doesn’t have the same effect on me tonight. “Don’t get mooooody, Willow. I was just playin’. I’ve got no beef with you.”
With a waggle of my brows, I slip past the door she’s holding open for me.
“WHAT DO you get when you cross a Smurf with a cow?” Dalton moseys up to my side, his smirk as big as the one he was wearing when he noticed I came dressed as myself. “Blue cheese. Or in your case, blue cheese balls.” He ribs me with his elbow, his Aladdin outfit not emasculating enough to lessen his scorn. “Get it? Blue balls, as in your balls since Coach James put a stop to all your fun.”
“I get it. Very funny.” It’s not, but I’ll give him a B for trying.
Taking a sip on my bottle of Coca-Cola to hide my smile, I return my eyes to Willow. She’s in the middle of a makeshift dance floor, surrounded by all the players’ children. They honed in on her the instant we entered the room. They loved her outfit, but more than that, they were smitten with her personality.
I can understand why. Within ten minutes, she took a usually dull affair and made it the place to be. We’ve been here for over three hours, and I’ve yet to see one person leave. That’s unheard of. Don’t get me wrong; my team is a rowdy bunch of fuckers, but with the majority of them being single, the last thing they want to do is hang out at the Coach’s house with their shacked-up counterparts. Willow changed that. She’s bridged the divide between the players like Coach James has been trying to do for years, and all she did was be herself.
I’m a lucky fuckin’ man.
Dalton must feel the sentiment in the air as much as me. “All jokes aside, how are things? I feel like I hardly see you now you’ve mooooved on to greener pastures.”
The neck of my bottle can’t hide my smile, so I don’t bother trying. “Things are good.”
“Yeah?” Dalton only says one word, but his eyes ask a lot more.
I wait for Willow to finish twirling Ben’s four-year-old around the dance floor before answering, “Yeah. She’s good. Different.”
“Different is good. Different works.”
Dalton sounds like he’s trying to convince me there’s nothing wrong with different. I don’t need convincing. I’m well aware how good a change can be. I’m playing the best football of my life while also enjoying my life. I’ve never had this type of balance before. Five weeks ago, I wanted to strangle Coach James for his non-fraternization policy, but now I’m not so opposed to it. Willow and I have had chemistry from the get-go, so to have to set that aside for six weeks has allowed us to discover we have a lot more in common than mutual sexual attraction. We’re both striving to return to the glory we once held, me with football and Willow with dance. We love carbs like they’re going out of fashion, and she’s as dorky as I am moody. It’s a nice balance, one I’m very much looking forward to exploring for several months, if not years to come.
I crank my neck to Dalton when he mutters, “I’m glad things are going well for you, Elvis. She’s worked quite the number on Becca as well. She wants to ask her to be a godparent to Jayla.”
“Really?” I don’t know why I’m shocked. Willow’s numerous daily chats with Becca have revealed the extent of their immediate bond. I guess I’m more frustrated than anything. Like why is Willow a prime candidate to be Jayla’s godparent, but I’m not? I’ve only threatened to take Jayla for a cruise down main street in my car with the top down. Doesn’t mean I’d actually do it.
Dalton laughs at my grumbly expression. “You’re already set to be Jayla’s godfather. I just have no plans to ask you since I have no intention of taking no for an answer. But that’s why I wanted to clear Willow’s involvement with you. I don’t want it to get awkward if things don’t work out between you two. We know it’s still early, and I don’t want a lifetime commitment forcing you into something you’re not ready for.”
“Like when I attempted to take Becca home for some magic between the sheets?”
Any happiness on his face fades. “Yes, like that.” He straightens his spine as his eyes seek his wife and daughter across the room. “She wouldn’t have gone with you.”
“Dude! Seriously? She was ready, willing, and able until your dumb ass turned up.”
Coke jumps from my stomach to my throat when Dalton punches me in the gut. “She wasn’t like that.”
I arch a brow, bullshit written all over my face.
“She’s not—now.” He barges me with his shoulder, his knock more in anger than in jest. “Kiss your godfather role goodbye, Elvis. I don’t want an asshat who can’t tell the difference between a girl letting him down nicely and one eager to take him home being responsible for the care of my daughter if anything were to happen to me.”
I know he’s only joking, but I play along. “Ah, come on, man. You know I’m just playin’. Becca only talked to me because she knew you were my friend.” That’s not true, but if it makes him feel better, I’ll pretend it is.
“Damn straight.” His words aren’t as confident as he’s hoping, but like our entire conversation tonight, he plays it cool. “So what do you say? You up for a co-parenting role with a girl too young to know how to parent?”
Malted liquid sprays through the air when I whack him in the guts. He wheezes on the beer trapped halfway between his lungs and his throat, acquiring us many eyes in the room, two pairs more notable than the rest: Willow’s and Becca’s.
“She’s twenty-two—”
“In a couple of months.” He’s chuckling so hard, I can barely make out his words.
If we weren’t entering the playoffs, I’d stomp on his foot. Luckily for him, my head is already in game mode—and no, I�
��m not entirely referring to the game of football.
“Ask her, but don’t mention I’ve already been recruited. If Willow wants to do it on her own accord, let her.”
I wait for Dalton to nod before pushing off my feet and heading to Willow. We turned up; we partied; now it’s time for the real entertainment to begin.
My stride shortens when Dalton calls out my name. When I spin around to face him, he quotes, “I’m just playin’.” He has the smirk down pat, even his stance is accurate, he’s just missing one thing: the fire in my eyes every time I quote my infamous line.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Willow
“I cross my heart and hope to die; I won’t stick my fingers in your pie.”
I throw my head back and laugh. “I don’t recall ever hearing that version before.”
Elvis climbs out of the cab idling at the front of his condo before shifting on his feet to face me. “Wait until you hear Danny’s version.” He tugs on the collar of his shirt as his face screws up. When he hears my laugh, the plea on his face turns rampant. “Come on, Will. I’ll keep it Hannah Montana clean.”
“Hannah Montana pre-‘Wrecking Ball’ days? Or grinding her ass on Robin Thicke’s dick on stage Hannah Montana?” When he makes a face like he’s leaning toward the latter, I murmur, “No deal. We have less than two weeks, E. It’s not that long.”
My tone relays my disappointment. I was handling our abstinence from sex okay until tonight, but seeing Elvis woo the shyness out of a handful of girls who flocked to my side tonight makes me despise events that haven’t even happened yet. It was a struggle for me to keep my hands off him during our thirty-minute trip home, so I know without a doubt that I won’t be able to hold back when we’re safe from prying eyes.