by Lynn Shurr
“We good now? Okay, just remember what happens at the ranch stays at the ranch. But, if you go to Vegas, the paparazzi will find out everything you do.” Tom shoved more oatmeal at his nephew.
Beck clamped his mouth tight. “Cookie!” He pointed at the croissants.
Tom checked the contents of the cup. “Okay, kiddo, you’ve had enough healthy food. Here you go.” He turned over the second half of the pastry and watched the child lick out the chocolate filling. “I think I’ll have the other one unless you want it.”
“No, go right ahead.” Alix broke open a plain croissant and stuffed it with butter and a pat of jelly. She could still feel the warmth of Tom’s fingertips against her chin. Her appetite returned.
Tom finished his breakfast in big bites, one chocolate and an almond down the hatch, leaving half of a plain and one almond for Alix to finish. Then, he sat back and phoned Dean. “Where you at, bro?…Good, because I’ve got your kid, and I’m low on diapers…Yeah, Ilsa dumped him on Alix last night. Says the nanny is sick, but I think what she really means is, you missed four weekends with Beck while you were in Germany. She’s a piece of work, that woman. Anyhow, I fed him breakfast.” Tom leaned back and snapped a photo of the chocolate and crumb-covered boy. “I heard that gasp. Tell Stacy he had oatmeal first. Yeah, see you soon.”
Alix cleaned up the small, happy, besmirched face turning it into frowns. “Finish eating,” Tom directed her. “I’ll take care of the crevices. Dean and Stacy are about an hour out returning from the ranch. They’ll stop off here.”
“Oh, good, we can play with the baby some more.”
Beck scrunched his face, turned red, and grunted. “You might not say that when we get back to the condo. It’s your turn to change the diaper, and it’ll be nasty. Nothing cleans this boy’s pipes out up quicker than chocolate. We’d better go before management notices the stench isn’t coming from the homeless guy by the front door.”
“I’m ready.”
“Take Beck, would you? I have these tabloids to carry to the incinerator.”
The vagrant near the door turned out to be Big Lou, her shape disguised by a black knit Sinners hat and many sweltering layers despite a morning soaring into the high eighties. Before she could make any lewd offers, Tom shoved a twenty into her extended empty soda cup and kept on walking, though she shouted some filthy suggestions his way.
“That’s how it’s done. You just keep moving,” he coached Alix.
Alix kept up with him step for step. It was her life, he’d said so, and she wanted Tom Billodeaux more than ever.
Chapter Fourteen
Summer training camp opened with a team meeting not likely to make Alix any more popular with the guys. Didn’t help that Dr. Funk, team psychologist, decided to call it Sexual Sensitivity Training. Only Alix was exempt from this awkward start to the upcoming football season. General Manager Michener sat at the head table with the shrink along with wiry, wizened Marty Buck, but right from the start, Dr. Funk ran the meeting.
He began with the obvious. They now had a woman on the team. He expected a change in demeanor. A hand went up. “Let’s call that a change in attitude or ’tude instead,” the doctor said, anticipating the question. The hand went down. “Let’s begin with the number one word we should never use.”
He did not say it, simply wrote c-u-n-t on an oversized tablet mounted on an easel. “Can you suggest any other words that should go on this list?”
Ah, group participation. Some of the younger players really got into it a tad too joyfully. Disgusted, Tom kept his mouth shut. Dr. Funk, the red in his face continuing across his completely bald head, flipped to a second sheet and kept on writing until he finally said, “Enough. You get the idea.”
Vince Barbaro, sitting right up front, raised his brawny arm. “Going back to bitch, can we still say ‘that was a bitch’ so long as it doesn’t apply to Alix?”
“I suppose so, but I’d rather you didn’t. I’d like to see a big cut back on use of the F-word, too.” Snickers broke out over his delicacy. “Yes, yes, I know some of you call me Dr. Mind Fuck. That does not concern me. I’ve developed a tough hide over the years since Dean’s father dubbed me that. Please try to restrain yourself in front of the young lady.”
Dr. Funk pushed his bifocals back up his sweating nose. “Moving on to a happier topic, our new punter is very competent at what she does. Should you wish to express your approval of her performance, no hands below the waist! A gentle shoulder pat or friendly knock of the helmet will do.”
Vince shot his hand up again. “High fives, fist bumps?”
“Certainly, if not overly vigorous. You don’t need to prove how manly you are. Next on the agenda—Locker Room Etiquette.”
The groans nearly drowned out the team psychologist. He ignored them. “We, meaning the management and myself, have decided the easiest way to handle this situation and create a comfortable atmosphere for everyone is to allow Alix to lead the team off the field at the end of the game. She will proceed directly through the locker room to her private shower area and when she has finished cleaning up, she will exit from there through a second door into a vacant corridor. In that way, you need not change your usual state of undress or be worried about being caught out.”
“Like I’d care if she saw me naked,” someone sneered. Tom thought the voice belonged to Beef Bolivar, who sat in the back.
“Hell, I’d like it and the other way around, too,” Vince added.
“That is exactly what I am talking about, Mr. Barbaro. Keep those sorts of thoughts to yourself, and I know you and some others on the team will have them. In fact, I’d like any of you to express what reservations you might possess about a woman on our team at this time. Speak freely. No one will be fined at this meeting.”
Beef Bolivar lumbered to his feet. “Women don’t belong in the NFL. Let ’em work in those lingerie leagues if they gotta play. Alix should be sent back to the soccer team or other girly sports.”
“Beach volleyball,” some wit suggested. Dr. Funk appeared to take special notice of the man and wrote something in his notebook. “Special appointments for the two of you. Anyone else?”
Tom stood. He could tell no one, including Dr. Funk, expected this. “I have a problem with how Beef is snapping the ball to Alix really hard, way harder than he ever did to Brian Lightfoot.”
“Alix is more masculine than Lightfoot. I figured she could handle it.” Beef folded his arms across his chest as if he dared Tom to cross the room and take him on.
Tom pointed a finger instead. “You’re trying to make her fumble and look bad so she’ll be cut, but she’s too good to mess up. If you do that during the game and cost us points…”
“What are you going to do about it, Lightfoot’s lady?” Beef searched the room for support and found surprisingly little. Tom, their light-hearted jester, owned a popularity on the team that the heavy-handed Bolivar never would.
Tom started for the aisle. Dean, right next to him, forced him back into his chair by grasping his belt. Instead, Dr. Funk, five-six, middle-aged, and lightly built except for a small paunch, walked the distance and pressed a finger against Bolivar’s vast chest. “Sit down! See me at nine tomorrow.”
Bolivar obeyed. The crunching of antacids by Mitch Michener could be heard throughout the room, though the manager remained impassive. Coach Buck had given Bolivar one of his meanest, squinty stares reminiscent of an elderly Popeye. Perhaps that helped, but tension remained in the air.
Laconically, massive Adam Malala said, “Say, does Alix get bubble bath in her private stall? Because if she does, then we should all get bubble bath. That’s only fair.”
Usually, Tom was the one who broke up tense situations with a funny quip, but not this time. Laughter cut through the tension. Dr. Funk appeared to be the only one without a sense of humor. He simply answered the question. “No, she does not. However, at Tom’s suggestion we have provided a selection of scented bath gels and shampoos. We would be
happy to allow the rest of you the same.”
“Oooh, Tommy the Toe has a feminine side,” said one of Beef’s better special team buddies.
Dean answered. “Tommy the Toe isn’t the one with an appointment in the morning to straighten out his head. Better add Beef’s bro to your book, Dr. Funk.
“I shall. Anyone else with something to say before we close?”
Tom stood up again despite a grab at his belt by Dean. “You know how we mess with the rookies a little, play small tricks, give them nicknames like we did with Beef.” For the benefit of the newbies, he explained, “Beef used to drive cattle to the slaughter house before he walked on with the team. I went up to the ranch and brought back a livestock trailer. We dared him to tow it the length of the field. He did. That earned him a lot of respect and the name Beef. I think if we exclude Alix from any hazing at all, she won’t feel like a real part of the team.”
“Hazing, not allowed.” Mitch Michener put a hand to his flat stomach.
“I don’t mean anything bad or physical. I thought we might put on a little song and dance for her. You know, dress up like cheerleaders. I think a good nickname would be Legs…Legs Lindstrom. Legs aren’t on the list of forbidden words—yet.”
Dr. Funk pondered. “I suppose that might be a good idea, an official welcome and sign of acceptance, a rite of passage so to speak.”
“Great! Since Teddy’s the writer in the family, I’ll ask him to whip up a little ditty. Who’s with me in the chorus line?” Tom scanned the audience for raised hands and noticed none.
He reached out to Dean, widening his eyes to make a small plea, little brother to the big brother he’d idolized. When they were at Ste. Jeanne’s Parochial together, the nuns said Julius Caesar possessed gravitas when they studied that play in English class. Dean had gravitas on the football field and in real life. He never played the fool for a laugh. That had been Tom’s role. Now, he begged Dean mentally to come through for him, him and Alix.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” his brother said.
“Me, too,” Adam Malala agreed. “Even if the folks back home think I’ve turned into a fa’afafine.” No one asked what the Samoan word meant. They got the general idea and knew Adam did a mean war dance before most games. No one messed with him.
“I’m in.” Tom stared in wonderment at Prince Dobbs who’d sat in silence, his head hung as if in meditation throughout the meeting. Only last year, he’d been an example of sexual harassment toward women. “Admit it. I have the best legs on the team.”
That sounded more like Prince. Tom nodded. “Okay, I need one more to make this work.”
Vince Barbaro put up a hand. “I’ll do it, but I got hairy legs, and I ain’t waxing ’em.”
“Hairy is funnier in a case like this. Great. I’ll get some costumes together. Maybe Brian will help if he’s free. Thanks, guys. No team I’d rather play with than the Sinners.”
“This meeting is adjourned,” Dr. Funk pronounced.
Coach Buck stood. “Now get your insensitive asses out on the field. Stretches first, then bleacher runs. Move it, move it, move it!”
****
Alix arrived late at practice. She drew more than one resentful stare. Most of the team lay on the ground doing push-ups. Tom at the end of one row got up to greet her. No one seemed to care if he opted out.
“Where have you been?”
“I had a session with Dr. Funk on how to deal with the guys.”
Tom cupped his hands and shouted to get everyone’s attention. “She had to meet with Dr. Funk about putting up with you jerks.” That got a few grins.
Alix imitated him by making a loudspeaker with her big hands, too. “Yeah, we made up a list of words. I can’t call any of you a d-i-c-k.” She earned her own laughs. “He asked what I would do if any of you came on to me in a vulgar way. I said kick you in the nuts with my large foot.” A few of the men lost their rhythm and collapsed on the ground. “Just so you know.”
Tom took her aside. “Well-handled. Did you really say that to Dr. Funk?”
“No. I sat there and listened to him tell me to ignore any lewd remarks directed at me personally and to report the perpetrator. Now that’s going to make me really popular with the team. Female jocks can be pretty foul-mouthed, too. We aren’t shy violets to be crushed beneath your feet.”
“I never thought you were. You’re more like a steel violet, or maybe that should be magnolia, but you aren’t from the South. I’ll have to work on it.”
“Don’t dig yourself in any deeper, Billodeaux. What did I miss?”
“Just stretches and bleacher runs. We don’t have to do any of the heavy training.”
“I’m glad Coach didn’t make me work out in full pads again.” She wore a short-sleeved Sinners jersey untucked that covered most of her torso and Spandex pants that came to her knees. When she went into her stretches, a few eyes shifted her way again as if measuring her long, long legs. They seemed to particularly admire some of her yoga poses.
She took Dr. Funk’s advice and ignored the glances, but Tom shouted, “Eyes straight ahead, rookies!”
“You don’t need to do that. I can cope on my own. Dr. Funk also said to be firm and not to put up with any B.S. He actually used the initials. What I said back there was me being firm. Now, how many times up and down the bleachers would impress them, but not wipe me out the rest of the day?”
Tom gave her a number, but thoughts of being firm stayed in his brain, which translated it to firm breasts, backsides, and erections. He joined the squad in doing squats vigorously while she finished her runs. Back in control again, he took her to a vacant area of the field to practice doing onside kicks of just ten yards low to the ground. “As a soccer player, these should be easy for you.” They were.
“Nice work. Usually I do them, but if I should be injured, you’ll have to take over for me the rest of the game. The Sinners have only one kicker, one punter, and one long snapper. They put their money into getting a variety of receivers for Dean to target. If either of us is out for any length of time, they’ll call in one of the retired guys or find a free agent who wasn’t signed. Oh, by the way, I lodged a complaint about how hard Bolivar is snapping the ball to you.”
Alix placed a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “I only bobbled it once that first day before I got him figured out. Some guys just are d-i-c-k-s, pardon my language. But please, let me handle it. I need to earn the team’s respect by myself.”
“Your kicks will do that for you. I can’t wait to see our opponents’ faces the first time they get a left-footed punt. Snow cone time.”
“Yeah, I’m up for that.”
“What do you have on your wrist? It wasn’t there this morning.” Tom pointed to a rather masculine-looking watch.
“It’s waterproof. I’m supposed to enter the locker room here at the training field one half hour before the rest of the team at the end of the day. Management doesn’t want me to lose track of time in the shower. I need to be out of there before the rest of you enter. Nice they gave me an extra fifteen minutes this time.”
“I guess they figure girls need more time in the bathroom. With my sisters, that’s pretty much been the case.”
Her light blow to his shoulder caught Tom off-guard. “Did you just call me a girl and compare me to a sister?”
“Sorry?”
Others watched. A deep voice hollered, “Hey, no brutalizing the kicker or touching in inappropriate ways, Lindstrom!” His Italian stallion black mane slick with sweat, his impressive biceps exposed by a sleeveless exercise jersey, Vince Barbaro grinned toothily their way. The chuckles he drew were good-natured and aimed mostly at Tom.
“Who knew Vince had a sense of humor,” Tom muttered. “It’s a whole new world.”
“Tell me about it,” said Alix.
Chapter Fifteen
Tom felt as if he were cheating on Alix as he turned down her suggestions on where to go for dinner or how about hanging out at Mariah’s tonight. Every time
he offered an excuse saying he had other plans and being very vague about them, he had to endure the look of disappointment in her big, blue eyes. He needed to make up reasons to sneak off for chorus line practice and get the costumes fitted just right. In the end, she’d love it and understand.
Getting pompoms—no problem. He borrowed them from the team’s cheerleaders. Finding red sports bras that would span chests the size of Vince and Adam went harder. What to stuff those bras with required some experimentation. Balloons floated out when they did their routine. Vince declared oranges too small. If he had to dress up like a girl, he wanted bigger tits. Adam suggested coconuts, but they turned out to be uncomfortable with their hairy husks and hazardous to the toes if they fell. After much trial and error, grapefruits won out since the bras couldn’t contain melons, which made a terrible mess in Dean’s recreation room when they slipped out the bottom and smashed to the floor.
All agreed on black sneakers for footwear. None felt secure enough to dance in heels and feared off-field injuries even if they could find the appropriate sizes. Short, pleated skirts remained a problem. Brian Lightfoot stepped in to measure their waists and take the list to a shop favored by transvestites of which New Orleans had many. Only he wasn’t afraid to be seen in such a place, not that his tastes ran that way, but he did have friends who practiced dressing as sexy ladies and knew where to go for such goods.
Brian returned with five red skirts piped in black and possessing comfortable stretchy waistbands. “You know, you could have gotten the whole outfit there complete with padded bras. Turns out dressing as a Sinners’ cheerleader is fairly popular.”
“Thanks, but we’ll stick with what we have,” Tom said. “We aren’t likely to use them again.”
“Grapefruits—really?” Brian lifted his nicely shaped dark brows.
“If one slips out, it will be funny,” Tom claimed, not wanting to send Brian back for the tops.
For his service, Brian demanded to sit in on the rehearsal. Stacy joined him on the sofa pushed back against the wall to give the chorus line lots of space. She laughed so hard at her husband in drag that Dean questioned if excessive hilarity was good for the baby. He’d let their secret slip!