Sidelined (10 page)

Hell, I’d take a toy gun pellet to the foot at this point.

“How’s life with the Vipers?” Scott asks.

“Hard,” I answer honestly. “Long hours and hard work is the only way we’re gonna win the Super Bowl.”

He nods slowly. “You were unlucky last year.”

“Yep.”

“You look like you’re in good form this year.”

“Yep. We’re pushing hard.”

“Good.”

“Yep.”

“When do you fly to Boston?” Mom interrupts our awkward conversation.

“Early tomorrow morning,” I answer. “I should probably get home and pack now.”

“Of course!” she replies, standing, and damn.

She asked because she could see I want to leave.

“Thank you,” I mutter in her ear, hugging her at the door. “You need anything for the house?”

“Oh, it’s okay,” she replies quietly.

“No, Mom. I told you. You want somethin’, you tell me.”

“There was this bedspread on Amazon…”

“E-mail me the link, all right?” I kiss her cheek and hug her once more. Turning to the front room, I raise my hand and say goodbye to Scott and Bella.

I walk out of the door with my helmet, put it on my head, get on my bike, and wish like fuck I were going to Macey’s apartment instead of mine.

Next time I see her, I’m telling her that I make the fucking calls from now on.

“H
elping you move on a fucking weekend,” I mutter, slicing open a big box. “Am I okay to open this one, or am I going to find another magic bullet?”

Ryann blushes. “Fuck you.”

“I will repeat: helping you move on a weekend. You already fucked me, doll.” I open the box and, upon seeing a bunch of bathroom stuff, grumble. “Why the hell didn’t you label any of these?”

“I forgot, okay?” she protests. “I moved quickly. Like…days, quickly. I kind of just shoved stuff everywhere and moved.”

“Well, I can see that,” Leah interjects. “Why is there a thong mixed in with your cutlery? And more importantly, is it clean?”

I look over at Ry. She bites her bottom lip then runs across the room and scoops the bright-red thong out of the box.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “I remember doing the laundry basket and kitchen drawers at the same time, so…”

“Ooookay.” I walk over to where Leah is staring at the box in total shock.

After grabbing a tea towel from the small, circular dining table, I scoop up the cutlery and dump it into the sink. When I have it all, every bit gripped by the towel, I run the hot tap and throw the towel into the sink with it.

“What are you doing?” Ry gasps.

I lift an eyebrow. “I’m making sure your cutlery is vagina-juice-less.”

Leah bursts into laughter, while Ry just kind of…stares at me. To be honest, she looks like she can’t decide whether she wants to laugh or yell at me. I shoot her my sassiest grin, lifting my shoulder and turning my face into it in a decidedly cute way.

“Fuck me,” Ry finally mutters through giggles. “What would I do without you?”

“Be a hell of a lot more fucking bored?” I offer, turning off the tap. “Now, just to be clear—these were just washed with real hot water, but I ain’t touching them. Just in case of vagina-juice-ness.”

Ry hits me and shoves me out of the way. I laugh the whole time.

“Hey, is your cable connected?”

“Nononono.” I shove my finger in Leah’s direction. “We are not watching fucking football.”

“Who said anything about ‘we’?” she snorts. “Ry?”

“Yes, it is. They did it quickly. Surprisingly.”

“You threatened and bribed them, didn’t you?” I ask.

“My mom pretended to be me.” She smiles sweetly.

“Yes! And there’s wine?” Leah interrupts.

“And three nachos kits in the cabinet,” Ry confirms. “Now,
that
I organized successfully.”

“We all have our strengths, doll. And yours lie in nachos and wine.” I pat her arm sympathetically. “Now, where are the wine glasses?”

Ry opens and shuts her mouth. “Ah…”

“Oh, you’re shitting me,” Leah groans.

I sigh. “From the bottle it is.”

After another hour of unpacking before the game started and we put the nachos in the oven, we managed to locate one set of wine sippy cups. Which is totally good enough for us. We much prefer to lounge around and drink wine like slobs than sit up all prim and proper and sip from a real glass.

God knows how Leah copes at Corey’s.

“Okay.” I narrow my eyes and point at the screen. “So, where’s Jack?”

Leah giggles. “On the sideline. We’re playing defense.”

“Oh. Shit.”

Ryann laughs. “Seriously, I fucking love the fact you’re banging a football player and you don’t know a single thing about the game.”

“Oh yeah?” I turn to her and wave my sippy cup indignantly. “What do you know about football?”

“INTERCEPTED!” Both Leah and Ryann shout. “Go, Wilson, you fuckwit!” Leah screams, sitting up and waving her arms. “Ruuuuun!”

“What the fuck just happened?” I whisper, looking between the TV and my friends.

“Bastards!” Ryann swigs her wine.

“We intercepted the ball,” Leah explains. “One of our defense caught it instead of their offense and made a run up the field.”

“Ohhhh.” I don’t get it.

“Jack is on now,” she tells me with a smirk.

“Where?”

She sighs at Ryann’s laughter and moves toward the television. “Okay, this guy here in the offensive line.” She points at some dude. “He’s the snapper. When Corey calls the play, he’ll throw it back to him, and Corey”—she taps the screen—“will either throw to one of the wide receivers, like Reid”—she taps some guy at the far right—“or pass it back to Jack.” She points now and looks at me. “This guy is Jack. Number twenty.”

“Right.” I frown. Seems simple enough, doesn’t it? Snapper passes to Corey. Corey throws to Reid or passes to Jack. Okay.

“Watch—run, you bitch!” she screams at, presumably, Jack.

“Wait! What are the lines for?” What the hell is the yellow line on the field? Why are they on the field? More importantly, they’re not actually on the field, are they? Wait, did they just move?

“If they get the ball over the yellow line, they’ve made a first down. Okay?”

“But what if they don’t get to the yellow line?”

“Then they’re going for it the next time,” Ryann adds. “The yellow line always dictates how many yards are left to the next down. Look—it’s one yard. So as soon as they hit the yellow line, they’re on first down—RUN!—and if they do, like—GO! YES!—like that, then they’re back to the first down.”

I frown and sit back. “Right. But it isn’t fair, is it? Because they throw the ball back, and when it goes to Jack, he’s like, what, fifteen yards from the yellow line? So he has to run farther. Why don’t they just run it from the offensive line thing?”

“I don’t know!” Leah frowns too. “It’s just…how it works.”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“So ask Jack next time he comes over for some booty.” She winks.

I briefly close my eyes. Between football and the mention of Jack calling for booty…I need more wine.

The Vipers won. Apparently, they smashed the Patriots. I don’t know what the score was. I tried to watch another quarter, but for some reason, my brain couldn’t get past snapper-Corey-Jack-run/Reid-pass. There are a whole bunch of other terms Leah used, like sacking and incomplete passes, and don’t get me started on the flag business.

They seriously need to offer college courses to teach people this stuff. It’s complicated.

Now, though, it’s twenty-four hours post wine and nachos and three hours post early work shift. Note to self: No fucking wine the night before an eight-a.m. start on a Monday morning. Ever again. I dragged my ass into work slower than it takes a sloth to crawl an inch across a goddamn branch.

Nonetheless, here I am, hangover killed by several pills through the day, work done, and grocery shopping done. And now …I’m staring at a blank page on my laptop for an essay I need to complete.

Hell, fuck completing it. I need to start the fucking thing first. Wait. I need to know what the essay is on first. And I kind of have until nine a.m. tomorrow to write five thousand words, so I’m pretty fucking fucked.

Fabulous.

This is why everyone hates procrastination. Unless you’re in the process of procrastination, of course. Then it’s great.

I dig my folder from the depths of the rack at the end of my sofa and slide my notepad from it. After flicking to the latest page used, which is helpfully marked by a magazine cutout bookmark in the shape of Channing Tatum a la Magic Mike, I note the title of the essay. Then, regretfully, I tuck Channing back into the notepad, close it, and type the title.

And I stare at the page.

I sigh and grab my book. I aimlessly flick through the pages. Whatever motivation I had several weeks ago to restart college with a bunch of eighteen-year-olds has most definitely faded quite significantly.

I should have taken my forensic science degree and applied at CSI as a fact-checker or something.

I blow my bangs up and sit back. More page flicking ensues until I find the right chapter and I can read. My eyes skim over the words, and I sure hope my subconscious is taking them in because I can’t say that I am.