Sledgehammer (Hard to Love 2)

“That odious man is back. It’s like he gets off on upsetting me.”

I glance up into Sarah’s wide doe eyes, her full lips puckered. She’s been complaining about one of the players all night.

“Any news on the grant yet?” I don’t envy Sarah. If the life of an actress is tough, that of a documentary filmmaker is exponentially worse, the struggle real as she waits to hear if her funding is approved.

“No. Can somebody else take that table?” I glance around her, at the VIP table the Gladiators are occupying, the table that will without a doubt earn a hefty tip.

Sarah who graduated top of her class at NYU film school, brilliant documentary filmmaker Sarah, Sarah who looks like a Lilliputian sized Whitney Houston, barely five feet, happens to be as dumb as a bag of d…rocks when it comes to men. It’s usually an endless source of entertainment for me. Except for tonight. Tonight I do not possess the required patience to be amused. I raise an eyebrow. It’s either that, or stab myself in the eardrum so I don’t have to listen to another minute of this.

“He can’t be that bad.”

“He asked me if he could borrow my magic wand for his trip to Vegas. The time before he asked if I could take him to Middle Earth. It’s been shit like this all night,” she snaps, arching a well groomed brow at me.

“And you have no idea why?”

Her expression morphs from confusion to suspicion. She knows me too well. “What’s your point?”

“Have you looked in a mirror in the last decade? Put a freaking paper bag over your head if you don’t want the attention. Now go deliver these drinks to the table where that decidedly terrible man is sitting.”

“I miss having Camilla around to rein you in.”

“Shoo.” I wave. “Off with you. And don’t forget to shake that moneymaker. Mama needs the cash.” She gives me the stink eye over her shoulder and I laugh for the first time tonight.

The crowd parts and I’m greeted by a pair of friendly dimples. Longish, disheveled chestnut hair. Light brown eyes capable of casting a spell from across a room. Not on me, of course. I’m immune to such nonsense. I’m talking on the general female population. What started as the worst, most awkward date in the history of dates last summer on the Fourth of July has turned into a fantastic friendship.

Justin Harper, also known as Dimples, ranked fourth best wide receiver in the league last year. He caught 111 passes for 1,521 yards and 11 touchdowns.

Or so I’ve been repeatedly told.

Yawn. I am not a football fan. But seeing as my best friend is married to a player and my other dear friend is one, I make a real effort to pretend to be interested whenever the topic comes up.

Justin’s ready smile and easy swagger part the crowd at the bar without effort. “Hey there, sugar.” He pronounces the pet name with all the sarcasm in the world.

“What are you doing here, man candy?” Seems only right to return an equally offensive pet name. “Don’t you have curfew with a play-off game only a few days away?” He pushes past a few suits, takes a seat, and hands me a shopping bag. Peering in cautiously, I pull out an official Titans jersey with his name on the back in big block letters.

“I don’t know what to say.” My lips pull up into a creaky smile. Does he want me to wear this hideous thing? Awkward.

“You can say that you’ll wear it when you come to the game on Sunday.”

“Umm…”

“My sister’s still overseas. I won’t have any family there.”

Jeez Louize, why didn’t he just punch me in the tits? I rub the achy spot over my heart. His much older sister, a sergeant major in the army, is the only family Justin ever talks about. I suspect that the parts he hasn’t told me include a lot he’d rather forget.

“What about that accountant you were seeing?”

“Uhh, yeeeaaah, that’s over.”

The surprise is all over my face. And disappointment on his behalf. I thought Justin had met a good one, someone that was genuinely interested in him as a person and not all the jazz that goes hand in hand with dating a celebrity athlete.

“Since when?”

“Since I forgot to call her back and woke up in the middle of the night to find her standing at the foot of the bed, staring at me.”

“There’s no good explanation for that.”

“Not one.”

“Did you change the locks?”

“That same night––so you’ll do it. You’ll be cheering for Team Harper on Sunday.”

The big goofball tilts his head and bats his lashes a few hundred times. “Watch this––” he says, “BAM.” Then he smiles, showing off his dimples. I reluctantly smile back. Such a goofball.

“If somebody’s gotta cheer your lazy ass on, it might as well be me.”