The players begin swimming warm-up laps, raw power cutting through the water with grace. The screams reach an eardrum-shattering level.
The camera comes out. I hold it up, snap away indiscriminately. Some of my favorite shots have been happy accidents and between the colors and all the kinetic energy this moment is rich with possibilities. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this but you’re right,” I begrudgingly admit.
“Of course, I’m right.” Zoe grins, full of herself.
“Look at Red––” Blake snickers and hooks a thumb at Dora whose eyes are pinned wide open. “She’s in a trance. Can’t even answer. Red––”
Leaning over, Zoe snaps her fingers in Dora’s face. Dora swats her hand away and laughter breaks out. “Red, are you breathing? Do you need CPR?”
“Beat on her chest, Zo,” Blake yells.
“Those swim trunks are s-small,” Dora mumbles.
“And tight,” Blake adds, her sculpted eyebrows waggling.
“No Jiffy P-Pop,” Dora adds.
“Like the popcorn?” I query, confusion stamped on my face as I picture the tin pans my dad used to use to make popcorn on movie night when I was a kid.
Dora flushes red to the roots of her long auburn hair. “You know…” She chews on her lips, eating away all the gloss. “When you have too m-much hair down there and the suit…”
A dry burst of laughter rips out of me. The ability to visualize in high definition can be a curse sometimes. “Ohhhhh.”
“Some of them shave their entire bodies,” Zoe remarks with an expression of maniacal reverence. The image this elicits instantly floods my face with heat.
Reagan’s silky-smooth junk.
Eyeballing me, Zoe snickers. “You’re picturing it, aren’t you? I know you are. Don’t bother denying it, you filthy animal. I can see it on your face.”
Which makes me laugh, overriding any embarrassment.
“I guess I-I’m filthy too, then.”
“Ramos––” Zoe holds up a palm and Dora high-fives her. “Welcome to the club.”
Reagan
As soon as the buzzer sounds, I jump out of the pool and head to the bench to towel off with the sonic boom of the cheering crowd trailing after me. I am bone-tired. The goal I scored plus Warner’s and Dall’s led us to beat Cal by two. Part of the reason may or may not have been that I played with a little more motivation than usual.
Alice Bailey.
I never expected to see her at one of my games. Not today, not ever. She doesn’t strike me as the type to enjoy athletic competitions of any sort. And yet what did I find as I absently scanned the crowd? The girl who’s been keeping me up at nights sitting in the first row of the bleachers with a Yankees ball cap pulled low over her eyes, and those long bare legs stretched out before her. Nice try with the hat, but I’d recognized that face anywhere.
I’m having a hard time closing my eyes at night without her flashing dark eyes and heart-shaped ass invading my personal headspace. Which is a major fucking inconvenience since there’s no way I can scratch that itch. If I don’t find a distraction soon, my dick will go on strike.
I’m in the midst of throwing on a t-shirt and shorts when a commotion at the opposite end of the pool gets my attention. The crowd is slow in leaving the stadium, the usual Speedo chasers hanging around waiting for the guys to leave the aquatics building. A group of people part and a guy stumbles through. My lungs arrest. I can’t draw a single breath because it’s not just any guy––it’s my brother.
He stumbles around in a state of anxious confusion while I’m frozen, rooted to the cement beneath me in shock. My hands shake from an adrenaline rush, the only sign that I can still move my limbs. I can’t tear my eyes away from him. His t-shirt, torn and stained. His jeans, worn-out and filthy, look ready to fall off his hips. He’s shoeless and dirty and thinner than I’ve ever seen him.
I haven’t seen Brian in three months and not for lack of trying. I’ve been chasing him all over the damn city. I’ve got people I’ve developed relationships with, some I pay to call me if they spot him. And according to them they hadn’t seen him either lately. Which was making me think the worst had happened. It’s always there, the fear, lurking in the back of my mind.
“Rea…” Dallas murmurs from somewhere behind me. Every set of eyes left in the stadium is staring at him. At my brother the junkie.
“I know,” I tell him. He’s got my back if I need him but this is my burden to carry. Snapping out of a daze, I make my way over to him, taking with me all the attention in the stadium. Of the spectators. The Speedo chasers still here hoping for a chance to talk to me. The coaching staff. It’s about as comfortable as getting a tooth drilled without Novocain.