by Shandi Boyes
With slumped shoulders, I enter the room I used to call “ours” before slumping onto my bed and throwing my arm over my eyes. I’ll never been a crier, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have to hold back the occasional sob.
I lower my arm from my eyes when Skylar’s glare heats my face. “How is defending you nauseating?” She air quotes her last word before walking over to smack me upside the head. “I’m sorry for hitting you, but I had to check if there’s more than dust bunnies in your head lately. This is not the Willow I love.” She tugs on the hideously ugly jumper I’m wearing before yanking on an unruly curl in my unwashed hair. “You don’t wallow in self-pity. You pull up your big girl panties; you admit your mistakes, then you get your best friend lifetime tickets to her favorite team’s home games to soothe volatile waters.”
A gleam in her eyes reveals she doesn’t need anything more than words to accept my apology, so I test the theory by saying, “I’m sorry, Sky. I never meant to hurt you.”
“I know.” She bumps me with her hip before moving to my desk to gather my laptop. “Doesn’t mean I can’t be jealous though.”
Sitting up, I sigh. “There’s nothing to be jealous over. I screwed everything up.”
It took me playing my last conversation with Elvis on repeat for days before I fully comprehended it. Not only was he at a loss as to what my accusation centered around, he didn’t have the means to circulate my performance. Don’t get me wrong; his eyes were fixed on me the entire time, but even a highly-skilled dancer can’t memorize a routine after only seeing it once.
That could only mean one thing: Elvis didn’t share my routine with Francesca. If I weren’t the wallowing, miserable half a woman Skylar pointed out seconds ago, I would have called Elvis to admit my error. Alas, hormonal college students could never be accused of being rational during a crisis, and my ego is still a little stung from his shredding weeks ago.
“I think you still have some tricks up your sleeve.”
Skylar looks like she wants to say more, but a roar projecting out of my laptop speakers stops both her words and my heart.
“You better shut your mouth before I shut it for you!”
My eyes rocket to my laptop screen in just enough time to witness Elvis fighting to get out of Dalton’s hold. Confident Dalton has him contained, I drop my eyes to the heading of the video. “Football Bad Boy Back to His Old Tricks.”
My eyes dart back to Elvis when he shouts, “You’ll need more than duct tape when I’m done with you!” I don’t know how he does it with an injured shoulder, but he leaps off the stage with Dalton clinging to his back like a baby koala. “You could only dream of sharing the same air with a girl as beautiful as Willow. She’s smart. She’s quick-witted, and when she dances, the world fades into the background. She’s fucking perfect, more than I could have ever wished for.”
I curl my hand over my mouth to stifle a shriek when he punches a man with greasy hair and an even slimier smile. He doesn’t just hit him once. He pounds into him multiple times, his fight only ending when Coach James steps in, showing impressive strength for his age. He pulls Elvis off the man wearing journalist tags, throws him into the locker room, then demands for the room to be put on lockdown.
“What the fuck did I just watch?”
My wide eyes bounce between Skylar’s as I struggle to unravel the bundle of confusion in my head. She said Elvis was defending me, but from who and why?
Realizing the answer is right in front of me, I attempt to rewind the video. My laptop pinches my finger when Skylar slams the screen shut. “You don’t need to see that.” She tosses my laptop onto her bed before pivoting to face me. “You need to focus on how we can get Elvis’s head back in the game before they get slaughtered even more than they already are. They can’t lose tonight’s game, Will. If they lose, they’re out of the playoffs. I know you don’t like football, but even you must understand how important this game is to him.”
“I don’t have a direct line to his subconscious, Sky.”
When she cocks her hip and spreads her hands over them, calling bullshit without any words, I try another tactic. “How am I supposed to fix something if I have no clue what caused it?”
That stumps her. Not for long, but long enough she fails to notice me yanking my cell out of my pocket until it’s too late. While leaping onto my mattress and bouncing to the very far corner, I punch in the title of the video Skylar just showed me.
“You don’t want to see that!”
I’m not tall—compared to Elvis, I’m a midget—but I have a height advantage over Skylar, meaning she can’t reach my outstretched arm when I hold my cell into the air.
Skylar’s demands for me to hand her my phone ramp up when the video begins playing. The start is the standard conferences you’d anticipate before a big game, but one question completely stops my heart. “He’s endorsing a weight-loss product he can’t even get his girlfriend onboard with. Bit of a hypocrite, don’t you think? Here, buy my fat-slimming products but don’t look at my girlfriend while doing it.”
Elvis stills for several long heartbeats before he yanks off the company cap he’s wearing and throws it on the floor. I can’t stop the smile crossing my face, so I set it free. He has a long way to go before he’ll fix the misconceptions his endorsement instigated, but it’s a step in the right direction.
My smile is wiped off my face two seconds later when a male voice off-camera snarls, “Bit late to back out now, isn’t it? They’re paying you to endorse a fat-shredding product while dating a fatty, so why not keep running with it? Milk that cow for all it’s worth.”
Recognizing that I’ve heard the worst of it, Skylar stops springing into the air like Tigger. She returns her feet to the ground before watching me with wide, cautious eyes.
I clamber down from my bed and sit on the edge of it. “The reporter thinks I’m fat?” I’m unsure what’s taking hostage of my vocal cords: shock or disbelief.
Skylar slings her arm around me and hugs me tight. “He’s an idiot, Will. He’s one of those stupid, pencil-dicked wannabes all woman handle at one stage in their lives. It’s like we can’t enter womanhood until we’re taken down our share of chauvinist pigs.”
Her reply warms my heart, but it can’t hide the facts. “He’s right, though. I am curvy.”
There’s no denying who I am. This is me. I’m curvaceous, loud, and sometimes a little wacky, but that’s okay, because I am happy with who I am, so isn’t that all that should matter?
“I just wish while he was judging me, he picked up some of my other great qualities, like that I’m healthy and work out regularly. That I run faster than the wind and fill a bra like no other.”
Skylar laughs. “Unless they get help.” She wiggles her double Ds, shifting the mood from tense to playful. “And don’t forget dancing, Will,” she points out. “Elvis was right; when you dance, the entire world fades into the background. I cry every single time I watch you perform.”
Her confession fills my eyes with moisture. It also reminds me of all the things Elvis yelled while charging for the reporter. He defended me during a live broadcast on one of the most important days of his career. He risked everything important to him for me—for me.
Now I need to make the same sacrifice.
“Where are your supplies?”
When Skylar stares at me with a stupid look on her face, I’m tempted to return her slap upside the head, but with things still touchy between us, I hold the urge back—just.
“Your 69er body paint? Is it here or in Picky McFlicky’s room?”
I’m in her closet digging through a mountain of orange and navy pompoms before all my questions are answered.
“Here, let me.” Skylar’s hip barge sends me sprawling onto my ass, but it also spreads the most mammoth smile across my face. I’m not appreciating the zap zinging through my wrist from my bad landing; I’m loving the super-sized bottle of body paint Skylar is grasping.
Just before she hand
s it to me, she yanks it back. “You’re not planning to streak, are you?”
Waggling my brows, I snatch the paint out of her hand. “I considered it for a minute, but when I realized you’d never speak to me again if I got us permanently banned from the stadium, I gave it a second thought. It didn’t sound as good the second time around.”
“Lucky, as there’s no coming back from a lifetime ban.” After wiping her brow like she does any time she’s fretting about an exam, she asks, “So what is the plan?”
I nudge my head to the waste bin. “Grab our tickets first, then I’ll fill you in on all the details.”
She gags when she sees how overflowing the bin is. “Seriously, Will! Would it kill you to take out the trash? You’re disgusting!”
Although she is joking, her rile makes the perfect idea pop into my head.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Willow
“P ull over here; we’ll walk the rest of the way.”
Even with the game in full swing, traffic is backed up for miles. The army of navy and orange unable to secure tickets is lining the street. I’m glad to see the 69ers haven’t lost any fans from their recent poor performances.
When the cab driver does as requested, I hand him the last of the bills in my purse. It’s above the fare cited on the meter, but he deserves a generous tip for getting us to the stadium as quickly as he did. I’m also filled with energetic beans. It’s lucky I’m not as wealthy as Oprah, or I’d be handing out cars like they’re lollipops.
You win a car! And you win a car! Everyone in the tri-state area wins a car!
Oprah’s voice fades from my ears when the ticket attendant’s third attempt to scan our tickets fails. “The barcode is damaged.” I act innocent when she asks, “Is that pizza grease?” She drags her cheesy fingers down her pants before lifting her eyes to mine. “Do you have an online version I can scan?”
“A what?”
“An online version,” Skylar explains. “When Elvis gifted you the tickets, was it via email?”
She curses when I shake my head.
The ticket attendant gives me a sympathetic look before handing me back our tickets. “I’m sorry. If I can’t scan the ticket, I can’t grant you access to the stadium.”
“It’s alright, I understand.”
“You can’t just give up. You’ve come this far, in that!” Skylar waves her hand over an outfit I swore I’d never wear. I have streamers in my hair and paint on my face. Although my skirt is in team colors, I’m wearing a one-of-a-kind shirt. It screams Willow Underwood, and I can’t wait for Elvis to see it.
“I’m not giving up. I’m getting inventive.” With a grunt, I pull back a section of cut wire I spotted two teenage boys crawling through when I purchased stale hot dogs from a food vendor months ago. “Our tickets are VIP, so we get our own exclusive entrance.”
“VIP my ass,” Skylar grumbles before getting down low to crawl through the hole.
It will be a tight squeeze—for me, not Skylar—but without the cash to buy tickets from a scalper, we don’t have much choice.
The wire scratches my thighs when I crawl through the tight space. I want to say it is because Skylar’s strength isn’t as impressive as mine, but we all know that would be a lie. I am curvy, and I’m fine with that.
“Which way now?”
“Umm. . .” I scan the area as I strive to think of a solution. The players’ entrance would have been locked the instant Coach James began lockdown, so there’s no use heading that way. The tunnel between the locker room and the field is guarded by too many security officers, so that only leaves us one option: the merchant entrance.
“Throw this on.” I hand Skylar a discarded apron food service staff left lying around before donning my own. They do little to hide the paint on our faces, but they’ll get us close enough to the stadium, we can make a run for it if we get caught.
Which is exactly what happens two seconds later. “Hey! Stop! You can’t go in there!”
“Run. I’ll cover you.”
I look up at Skylar in shock. “If you get caught, you’ll be banned for life.”
“I’ll be fine! Trust me.”
She shoves me toward the entrance before shifting on her feet to face the security officer sprinting our way. His wheezing becomes even more profound when Skylar raises her shirt above her head. From the lack of a strap on her back, it’s obvious she is braless.
“Run, Will! Jesus!” Skylar squeals when she spots me frozen in shock, stunned she’d flash her boobies to save me.
I shouldn’t be surprised. I’d do the same for her.
With the security guard’s interests no longer fixated on chasing me down, I make it into the underbelly of the stadium without further protests. After pulling away the hairs stuck to my sweaty forehead, I unknot the apron and dump it in the closest bin. I pray to God my security ID is still active when I reach the first alarmed door. When three green lines beep across the security panel mere seconds before the door clicks open, I kiss my ID card and raise it in the air.
My steps from here are a little uneasy. I’m in a section of the stadium I’ve only been in once before. It didn’t end well for me. Let’s hope today is different.
I’m about to take a detour down a corridor that looks like the one I raced down after I discovered Elvis in the storage closet with Lillian when a voice halts my steps. It’s a voice I immediately recognize. Who would forget the man who called them a fatty during a live broadcast?
Although I’d love nothing more than to give the reporter a taste of his own medicine, with the game already halfway over, I don’t have time to teach him some manners. . . until he says, “Our ploy might not have worked as you were hoping. Carlton didn’t get sidelined, but I can see our bank balances getting a nice boost a few months from now.”
Someone laughs. I can’t tell from its huskiness if it belongs to a man or a woman. I retrace my steps, more than interested in unearthing the rest of their conversation.
My snooping pays dividends when the male voice asks, “How did you know he had a girlfriend? He kept his relationship well hidden from the media.”
“And we know why!” This voice is bitchy, snarky, and 100% female. You can’t miss the hiss of disdain from a woman enraged with jealousy. “She’s a hideous beast.”
I round the corner with my activated cell in my hand just as the male replies, “She’s not that bad. Did you watch the video you took? I got stiff watching it.”
Annoyed, an elegantly dressed lady with dark hair breaks away from the snickering man. He grabs ahold of her before she can flee the room. His hold is firm, but it doesn’t stop her hand from flinging out to slap him across the face. I expect him to react negatively to her violence, so you can imagine my surprise when it has the opposite effect. He throws her against a wall on his right before sealing his mouth over hers. He kisses her hungrily, as if apologizing for his comment with actions instead of words.
His wordless plea for forgiveness does him no good. She chomps down on his tongue before pulling back from their embrace. “Not until you’ve delivered the goods.”
“Come on, Delilah. They can’t come back from that.” He points to a muted TV in the corner of the room that shows Elvis’s team is close to facing their fourth devastating loss this month. “Their bid for the championship is done and dusted.”
Delilah runs her finger along his kiss-bitten lips, soothing the deep incline of his brows. “The game isn’t over yet. Surely you can wait a few more hours for your reward.”
He’s a fool if he believes a word she’s speaking. I don’t know her, yet I still know she’s full of shit. As soon as she gets what she wants, he’ll be left licking his wounds—alone.
“Did you return the playbook?”
Before Delilah can answer him, a person joins their intimate gathering from an attached room. This participant’s entrance boils my blood with anger.
“I swear to god, if I’m forced to fake an orgasm with Coach
Salter one more time this season, I’ll need to invest in acting classes.” Lillian smirks a grin that reveals her cold insides before joining the duo. “Everything is back where it should be, and Coach James is none the wiser.”
Hearing the gripe in her tone as well as me, Delilah says, “You can’t complain, dear. We’re doing this for you. If you want Carlton running back to you with his tail between his legs, this needs to happen.” Delilah steps away from the wall the man pinned her on, the clicking of her heels covering up the gasp I can’t stifle. “Then we can switch our focus to more important matters.”
Lillian blows a hair out of her eyes like she’s about to endure months of heavy lifting. “That’s easy for you to say, Aunt Dee; you’re not the one flashing her kitty to dirty old men every time she needs a favor.”
Eww. I’m never using the word “kitty” ever again.
I slide right back until I’m flush with the doorjamb when Delilah paces to a window on my side of the room. It has a direct view of the sideline. My mouth falls open when she asks, “Our plan is working. Look at them. The buffoons don’t have the faintest clue Coach Salter has been giving you the playbook for each game.”
Lillian’s eyes widen sardonically. “I didn’t suck his dick for no reason.”
They laugh like playing men for fools is a game and they’re master manipulators.
Just as their laughter dulls, for the first time the past three minutes, the gentleman speaks. It doesn’t improve the situation. “Our campaign is paying dividends. Last month, no one expected a final game without the 69ers; now look at the statistics. Our outlay is minutes from tripling.” He reads the difference between the fixed odds they bet on six weeks ago, and what they’re paying now. They’re going to come out of this shitstorm very wealthy.
“Excellent!” Delilah claps her hands together two times before barking out orders like a drill sergeant. “Mason, continue your campaign of driving a wedge between Carlton and that hideous girl. Releasing her video didn’t have the impact I was hoping for, so jazz it up a little. Get her hackles as raised as you did Carlton’s tonight.” She shifts on her feet to face Lillian, who is waiting further instruction. “Position yourself as close to Carlton as you can. When he’s wallowing about his team’s losses, convince him you’ll do everything in your power to see him through this. Even go as far as offering to pay the restitution we added to his contract after he signed it. He’s too stupid to question how you can afford that, but he’ll be so appreciative of your offer, you’ll be back in his good graces in an instant. While you remind him who’s boss, I’ll continue schmoozing the Devils’ coach. We need as many allies on our side as we can get before you suggest Carlton break his contract with the 69ers.”