Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 51427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 257(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51427 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 257(@200wpm)___ 206(@250wpm)___ 171(@300wpm)
“But how do I find him?” I ask, instantly intrigued. I would like to change my fortune.
“Is there someone you know? Maybe from high school or college?” Veronica suggests, then lifts her cup of chai tea and takes a drink.
“I studied theater. Most of the guys were gay.”
“Fair point,” Veronica says, then taps her chin. “And your actor friends?”
“I don’t like to mix business and pleasure. It’s hard enough as a woman trying to make it in Hollywood,” I say. “That’s why I started scriptwriting. I didn’t want to face the inevitable invisibility that comes with turning thirty-five, watching roles dry up, except for the mom, the teacher, or the gay guy’s best female friend. On the flip side, a man can bang anyone as long as he’s still standing, even if he needs a cane or a walker.”
“Amen,” Veronica agrees. “But back to the challenge. Who do you know outside of Hollywood?”
“Hmm. I need someone I can take home to Mom,” I muse, picturing the birthday party coming up for Aunt Tilly. Hosted at my mom’s house—the home where I grew up.
Oh!
An image pops into my head.
The guy who lived down the street from me growing up. He was older than me, and he used to help all the moms with yard work and chores. “I know! Gabe Clements,” I say.
Hazel tilts her head. “The football player? As in, the receiver for the Los Angeles Mercenaries?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Oh, that’s right. When we watched that game last year, you said that’s my sexy next-door neighbor.”
I sure did. I enjoyed the hell out of watching Gabe play football. Every time I saw him rip off his helmet, I had heart palpitations. His eyes made my stomach flip even through the TV screen.
“Gabe’s perfect for the challenge,” I say, jazzed by this idea already. “He’s the consummate good guy. He helped all the moms. They always cooed about what a sweetheart he was, bringing their trash cans back from the street, mowing their lawns, and so on. My mom always went on and on about what a good guy he was.”
“He sounds great then,” Hazel says.
He sure does.
But I have other memories of Gabe, more private ones. Ones I don’t share with my friends.
Like when I was fifteen and home alone on a Saturday in May. My parents took my sister and brother to the Santa Barbara baseball tournament for the day. But the game went into extra innings, so they decided to snag a hotel room. They asked Ms. Clements to send her son to spend the night so I wouldn’t be alone in the house.
That was the hardest and the hottest night ever. The sexy football star slept fully clothed on the living room couch downstairs while I tossed and turned under the covers in my second-floor bedroom, hot and bothered, imagining the then twenty-five-year-old stud stalking upstairs and fucking me into my twin bed.
Of course, nothing of the sort happened. Gabe is, as advertised, a good guy.
But it didn’t stop my younger lustful self from dreaming.
I smile. Wickedly. Yes, I will definitely take the good-guy challenge for Gabe Clements.
5
FILL HER STOCKING
Gabe
The next morning, I work out with Drew at the Mercenaries stadium, running routes with my quarterback. As he rolls through the playbook, I am in the zone, focused on football only.
That’s how I plan to be this season.
Like when I haul in a beautiful spiral and take it to the end zone.
When Drew catches up with me, I give a cocky shrug. “Guess we’re ready for the Super Bowl.”
“’Course we are,” he says, then with the ball tucked under my arm, we head to the corridor.
“What’s it like?” he adds. “To win one?”
I smile at the glorious memory of a certain Sunday a few years ago. Even now, I get a chill. A good chill, just thinking of how it felt to claim the Lombardi trophy. “You know how great sex is?”
Drew snorts, then laughs. “Yeah. I do.”
“Imagine something one hundred times better than that,” I say.
He whistles. “Damn.”
“And then you’re maybe in the ballpark.”
“You fucker,” he mutters.
“You asked,” I toss back. Then, I clap him on the shoulder. “We’re gonna have a good year. It’s my personal mission to make a ring happen. I got your back.”
“And I’ve got yours,” he says and then we head to the weight room inside the facility.
While I work out, I try to focus on football only.
With every chest press, I zoom in on the season I want to have, the plays I want to make, the stats I want to surpass.
But somewhere between the squats and the lat raises, my mind returns to the vision from last night in a purple halter top and short shorts that revealed a hint of cheek.
I’ve run into Ellie a few times over the past several years. Ellie’s grandma’s birthday extravaganza a year ago. Then last summer at the fortieth-anniversary party my brother and I threw our mom and dad. Ellie brought them a board game to celebrate the occasion because my parents met at a Monopoly tournament and have always loved their game nights.