by S. J. Bishop
I waited until they finished talking and she was headed down the ramp, then I pretended I had to take a leak. I went down the ramp and stopped Clarissa before she could exit the stadium.
"Hey, I'm sorry about before. I had no idea you were Coach Walker's daughter."
"And I had no idea you were such an asshole."
I tensed but knew I deserved that. "You don't watch football?" I asked.
"My father always liked football better than us growing up, so I decided not to like football."
I hesitated, not liking to hear anything negative about Coach.
"Can I buy you a drink later, after practice? Make up for being such a douche?"
She surveyed me with her eyes before opening her mouth. "I don't have drinks with douches. Or assholes. So you're out of luck." Then she turned and left me standing with my foot in my mouth.
5
Clarissa
I stood on the stage, holding my breath and waiting for the director's reaction. I didn't know what I was so nervous about—it was just a night club, not Broadway. But still, it was a job singing, and I needed a job. Badly. If I had to listen to my father tell me one more time that I should forget my dream, I thought my head might explode. I needed something, anything, to prove to him that I wasn't just wasting my time. Plus, how good would it feel to be able to say, "I got it!" just once. I realized now how all those college productions and student films in Colorado counted for shit in New York.
"So?" I finally asked after a minute. It was a small night club, and because of that, we all got to see each other audition. There were at least two dozen other girls all seated around the room, their eyes trained on me.
The director was studying me. "It was good," he finally said. "I think you might have the best voice of anyone I've ever heard."
My heart skipped a beat at his flattery.
"Thanks!"
"However," he said, walking up to me with one hand raised. He motioned for me to get off the stage and lowered his voice as I came up to him.
"Can I be completely honest?"
I nodded.
"I would love to hire you, but the club's owners would kill me if I did. You need to drop about thirty pounds, at least, if you want to seriously compete in this town."
My jaw dropped open. "But... my voice... you said..."
"I know, honey, it sucks. You sound like a fucking angel when you sing, but I just can't do it. Lose the weight, come back, and I'll put you on stage in a second. But for now, I have to pass."
The director looked sorry for what he was saying, and in a way, I appreciated his honesty, but it was still hard to take. A few of the girls in the room chuckled as I made my way outside. I texted Madeline as I walked several blocks home. Come over. I need to get drunk and can't afford to go out. She texted back that she'd be right there. At home, I slammed the door behind me and let out a loud scream of frustration.
My dad appeared from out of nowhere, his eyes alive with concern. "Clarissa? What happened? Are you okay?"
My cheeks grew red. "Oh, um, sorry. I didn't think you were home from practice yet. I was just... letting off a little steam."
"I decided to give the team a little break. It's not that much longer to the Super Bowl." He studied me a second. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Fine," I said, hanging up my coat. I still had on the dress I'd worn for the audition. It was dark blue and hugged every curve of me. I felt like a movie star in it.
"You had another audition, didn't you?" he asked, shaking his head.
"Yeah, so?" I spat back at him. I hated hearing that tone in his voice.
"Which means you failed another audition."
"I'm still learning the ropes in New York," I said, defending myself.
"And how long is it gonna take you to learn them? When will you give up these fantasies of yours and get something you can actually do?"
"I can do this! I can sing. I can act. It's not my fault no one wants to give me a chance."
"Maybe that means something. Maybe you should listen to the no's."
"What if you had done that, Dad? What if you had listened to all the no's you got on your way up? Where would you be now? Shoveling shit out of blocked toilets in high schools across Colorado, right? Or did you forget that you used to be a janitor before you said ‘fuck it’ and went for your dream?"
I could see the frustration and anger in his eyes. It never failed to surprise me. If anyone should have understood how I felt, it should have been him. Yet he acted like I was crazy for pursuing my dreams when he'd done the same thing.
The doorbell rang, breaking the silence. I stood there a second before turning to answer it. The breath left my lungs in a great whoosh as I took in Lars's face. Even when I was pissed at him, I couldn't help but take in the chiseled features that replaced oxygen with lust. I felt pulled toward him the second his mouth moved and his perfect lips formed the words echoing from his throat.
"So, are you gonna invite me in, or should I stand here all day?"
6
Lars
I sat awkwardly at the table, looking from Clarissa to Coach to Madeline. Clarissa's friend had been surprised to see me when she'd shown up. Unlike Clarissa, she had recognized me immediately. The ego in me was glad, though part of me thought it had been nice to be with a woman who had wanted me just for me.
Madeline had been making eyes at me over dinner since we'd sat down. She was hot, but not as hot as Clarissa, who was making my cock jump in a navy dress that showed off her million-dollar cleavage. I was shocked to realize it wasn't fake, like most other girls in this town. I guess I hadn't really gotten a good look the night outside the bar, and a ping of regret coursed through me.
"I really wish my father had told me we were having dinner guests," Clarissa said, shooting daggers at Coach.
"You weren't home," he said, sounding just as annoyed as she did. "You were at an audition."
"You were?" I asked, wondering what she might be auditioning for. "How'd it go?"
She stared hard at me, her lips alternating between a smile and a frown. "Fine," she finally said.
"What was it for?"
"A night club."
"Singing?"
She nodded. "That's a great idea. You have a terrific voice."
Coach Walker stared at me as if I'd just said the moon was made of cheese. "How do you know what kind of voice she has?"
"Oh," I said, suddenly flustered. "I just meant she has a nice speaking voice, so I'm sure her singing voice must be even better."
Coach looked at me a minute before picking up his fork and shoving in another mouthful of ravioli.
"Thanks again for inviting me."
"You can't eat alone every night," he said. "Besides, something's going on with you. I need to keep my eyes on you before you blow your wad at the Super Bowl."
"Jeez, Dad," Clarissa said, shaking her head.
"What? Lars knows what I mean."
"You eat alone?" Madeline asked, her eyes drooping lazily in my direction. "Why? I mean, I'm sure you don't need to."
"I like being alone. Sometimes."
"Yeah, well, you're gonna be alone real soon if you fumble that ball anymore in practice. You've got renegotiations coming up. What are you doing out there lately, anyway? It's like you came into practice one day and forgot how to play."
"I'm just having an off week," I muttered, not wanting to look at Clarissa. Ever since that night outside the bar, I hadn't been able to concentrate on the game when I needed to.
"Off week my ass. I've seen you play better drunk, hungover, and after you've been up for twenty-four hours straight. Now, shape up or you’re gonna cost us the game and yourself a contract."
I tried not to let Coach's words get to me, even though everything he was saying was true. Suddenly, I felt something soft sliding over my leg and up my thigh. I paused with my fork midway to my mouth and glanced under the table. Madeline's foot was making its way toward my crotch.
I
pushed my chair back and stood up. "Where's your bathroom?" I asked. I wasn't about to play footsies with Madeline at Coach's dinner table, not with him and Clarissa both sitting there. What kind of asshole did Madeline think I was, anyway?
"I'll show you," Clarissa said, jumping up from her chair.
I followed her hips as they swaggered through the halls. Coach's house was nice. Much nicer than the small one-bedroom apartment I was currently living in. Growing up, I'd lived in a studio apartment that I'd had to share with my mom and six other people. It was always dirty and always smelled of sweat and dust. My apartment now was nice, but nowhere near as nice as I wanted it to be. I intended to get something better when my rookie year was up and I had a new contract; I just needed more money first.
"What do you think you're doing here?" Clarissa suddenly snapped and spun around on me. Her face was inches from mine. I could feel her hot breath washing over me, still smelling of violets.
"What do you mean? Your dad invited me for dinner."
"You could have said no."
"Why should I? I like your dad."
She paused for a second, considering. "It's just a bit awkward, don't you think?"
I grinned. "More awkward than fucking you up against a brick wall outside a bar?" I could tell she was trying not to laugh.
"Come on," I said, reaching out gently and running my fingers up her arm. Her body shivered, and even though I knew she was trying to stay mad, her eyes were purring. "I've never fucked like that before. Have you?"
In response to my question, her cheeks reddened over her alabaster skin. I couldn't take the way her eyes swooned languidly as I leaned in toward her. She was driving my body into a frenzy. I moved forward another inch, pressing her once again against a wall. I kissed her.
7
Clarissa
I couldn't believe this was happening again, here in my home. Our lips twirled together. My sex grew wet as Lars pushed my dress up and fingered me. The small callouses on his fingertips made me shiver. They felt good on my silky soft clit as he rubbed against me, creating a friction that I would have thought impossible to achieve in so short a time.
Stop it! You're mad at him! Remember?
But I couldn't remember. Not with his tongue down my throat and his hand in my panties.
"We can't," I moaned softly into his ear. "My father's downstairs." His only response was to kiss my neck and take hold of my hand, bringing it close to him so I could feel the growing bulge in his pants. My heart was pounding in my chest. I could taste his masculinity on the tip of my tongue. A thin film of sweat broke out across my forehead.
Suddenly, I heard footsteps. I tried to free myself from his embrace, but he held me tight against his core.
"Let me go. It's my father. I know his footsteps."
My head swiveled nervously in the direction of the stairs.
"First, agree to go out with me again. This weekend." His lips moved against mine, brushing me softly with his tongue.
"I can't," I panted.
"You can."
The footsteps were close now. Any second, my father would round that corner. I couldn't let him catch me with my dress hiked up to my waist. I lifted my foot and brought it down hard on Lars's foot. He jumped back, the bulge in his pants shrinking as he hopped up and down in pain. I fixed my dress just in time. My dad rounded the corner. He stopped when he saw us, looking at Lars as he cradled his now throbbing toes.
"What's going on?" he asked.
"Nothing," I lied. "I was just showing Lars our Picasso when he stubbed his toe." I pointed to the limited edition lithograph we had on our wall.
My father sighed and looked at Lars. "I can't leave you alone for a minute, can I? Don't hurt yourself; you're already playing bad enough."
"I have a feeling that after Saturday, I'll be playing much better."
Back around the dinner table, I realized that Madeline had hardly touched her food. "Do you want something else?" I asked while my dad and Lars talked football. She shook her head. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "I had no idea we'd be having dinner with my dad and Lars. I promise to raid my dad's best liquor when we're done."
"It's fine," she said. "I wonder...does Lars have a girlfriend?"
I blinked, sudden jealousy rising up in me. "Yes," I lied.
"Oh." Madeline stared at me uncertainly for a moment before her lips curled up. "Ohhh," she grinned.
"So, Lars," I said, turning away from Madeline. Suddenly, I didn't want to talk to her anymore. "What do your parents do?"
"My parents? Nothing, as far as I know. My dad took off right after I was born, and my mom..." He sucked in some air, and for a second, I saw years of pain under his dark golden skin. Then it was gone just as suddenly as it had appeared. "I haven't seen my mom in years," he said and left it at that.
I don't know why I was so surprised. I guess I'd just assumed that to get as far as he had, his parents must've supported him along the way. But I could see by the way he spoke about them that that was far from the truth.
I guess we have some things in common after all.
When Lars got up to leave, he set his phone on a side table as he was putting on his jacket. Madeline and my father were both crowding him, still talking. I scooped up his phone and entered my number into his address book. Then I handed it to him and mouthed the words, "Call me."
8
Lars
"Goddammit, Lars! Pick up your feet when you run!"
I dropped the ball onto the field and spit on the ground, taking my helmet off and throwing it across the field. "Fuck!"
"Now you're just being a child," Coach Walker said.
I took deep breaths in and out, trying to get my mind back in the game. I just couldn't stop thinking about her. Clarissa. She was driving me out of my mind. I'd texted her, and she'd agreed to meet me Saturday night, but that was still three days away. What was I supposed to do until then?
How about you be a man? Better yet, be a goddam quarterback and focus on the game!
Coach walked over to me. "Take five!" he yelled to the guys. I stood there, waiting for whatever it was he wanted to say.
"Is it drugs?" he asked. I laughed and shook my head. "No, Coach. I haven't used drugs in years."
"A woman then." It wasn't a question.
I shook my head, then shrugged my shoulders. "It can't be. Women don't get to me like this."
"They do if they're the right woman."
I looked at him uncertainly. It was strange talking to him about Clarissa without his realizing it.
"Look, Lars. You're a great player. Do you know how rare it is for someone to come out of nowhere like you did? No college ball, just high school. No special training. No semblance of a career up until the day you showed up to tryouts. You have a gift, and it's my job to make sure you don't blow it."
The thought of losing my job as quarterback scared the shit out of me. There was nothing else I was good at except breaking faces, and I'd made a promise to stop that. Ash's image flashed before me. I couldn't be one of those guys slinging burgers making minimum wage. I'd spent my entire childhood sleeping on a floor, and I wasn't going back.
"Look, I appreciate it, but that's not your job, Coach—"
"Well, I'm making it my job, goddammit. Now, do what I say. Get out there and get your head on straight. Or else I'm gonna kick it straight, got me?"
I grinned at him. "Got it," I said.
I pushed Clarissa out of my mind. Every time she tried to surface, I thought of old cartoons or motor oil or anything else except her precious, beautiful face and those tits like a ripe melon waiting for me to sink my teeth into.
"Good game, Lars," Coach said when we were done. "Way to pull yourself out of it. Now do the same thing tomorrow and every day through the Super Bowl."
"You got it, Coach."
"By the way, Randall's in my office. He wants to see you before you go."
"As in Randall Neilson, the general manager?"
"Don't get
your panties in a bunch. He just wants to talk contract."
Fuck. I wasn't exactly in the frame of mind to talk contract with Randall Nielson. I entered the office and sat across from him.
"What's up?" I asked.
"Your contract, that's what."
Ha. Funny man.
"I'm gonna cut right to it, Lars. You're asking way too much. It's unprecedented for a player to come out of his rookie year and ask for the kind of money you're asking for."
"That so?" I asked, keeping my head cool. Always got to keep it cool under pressure. An image of Ash, cradled in my arms as a river of blood fell out of his mouth, flashed before me. I pushed it away.
"That is so," he said. "So I suggest you rethink your contract terms and maybe find someone who can better represent you. Point you in the right direction since you're a bit out of your element, doing this all on your own."
"Fuck that," I spat. Cool. Keep it cool. I didn't like Randall. I never had. He was a smug prick who liked to make others sweat. "I'm worth it. I've helped the team get to the Super Bowl, and we're gonna win it this year."
"For the kind of money you're asking for, you'd have to." He squinted his stupid, beady eyes at me. "Not just that, though. The Bobcats have to win the game, and you have to lead them to victory in it."
"Fine. Done." I said it like it was no big deal, but inside, I was sweating. Randall smiled cynically at me.
"Is that a fact? Just like that? I'll tell you what, Lars. If you can do that, lead the team to victory and stay out of trouble—both on and off the field—then you've got a deal."
My heart stopped. Had Randall just agreed to a fifty million dollar contract? Oh shit. I'd never seen that much money in my life, except for when I was working for Angelo. Growing up poor, I'd never thought I could have even one tenth of that. My heart was doing cartwheels.
"You think you can do that, Lars? Stay out of trouble and win us the game?"