Alisha shrugged and tromped along silently beside him.
If she'd only listened to him, they probably could have avoided this whole pouting business. He'd told her that they would probably lose because the Colts would rest their starters for most of the game, so they'd be ready to go for the playoffs. He hadn't said it to be an ass (shocking, right?), but hello, he watched a lot of Sports Center and he was a dude that knew his football. She'd adamantly disagreed with him, stating that they could have a perfect record (and perfect season if they won the Super Bowl) and that there was no way the Colts would just throw it away like that.
So they made a $10 bet (with a side of some hot, nasty sex—winner's choice) and traded barbs throughout the first half. They laughed a lot; and Alisha was super into yelling and cheering for her boys in blue and high-fiving fellow Colts fans in their section. (Her knowledge of the game, by the way, was impressive and hot.) The Colts took a commanding lead early on and she took a great deal of pleasure taunting him and the Jets fans nearby. She'd delighted in calling their quarterback Dirty Sanchez and he'd nearly choked on his beer. And when he teased her and asked if she even knew what that meant, he almost pissed his fucking pants when she described it to a T. (Alisha Larrington had a dirty mind, kids.)
At one point he thought was going to have to step in when some douche Jets fan got mouthy with her, but she shut ol' dude down and verbally annihilated him without so much as batting an eyelash. (She was awesome in a lot of areas.) Big had been so proud (and turned on) that he'd tugged on one of her braids and dropped a loud, smacking kiss to her lips; then he bought her a beer and a jumbo pretzel with hot mustard because the victorious smirk on her face was fucking adorable. (Shut up.)
It went downhill after halftime. She'd nearly gone apoplectic when she saw Peyton, Dallas, Reggie and the rest of the first string take the Bench while third string Curtis Painter stepped in as QB. But she insisted that a 17-6 lead was more than adequate, and she was still confident that they'd pull off the W.
She'd taken his teasing in stride at first, companionably flipping him off or rolling her eyes at him over the top of her beer.
And then the Jets took the lead in the fourth quarter and the profanities that had been flowing impressively off her tongue in the third quarter died out and made way for extreme pouting as she sported her Mayor of Sore Loserville demeanor.
They were halfway through the parking lot and her silence and crazy speed walking was annoying the shit out of him. "Hey, Pouty McPouterson—slow your roll a little," he bit out testily.
Alisha stopped and turned towards him, taking in the pinched expression on his face. She was being such a brat and it made her feel like a total asshole. Grabbing the front of his coat, she glanced up at him with a crooked and embarrassed smile on her face. "Big, I'm sorry," she said sincerely. "I'm such a sore loser. God." His response was an arched eyebrow. "What I'm about to say will probably not seem like the truth, but the game was so much fun." Big's signature smirk appeared and her own lips twitched. "Okay…everything until the fourth quarter was fun."
"Alright," he nodded curtly.
"Thank you for bringing me," she smiled brightly. "I couldn't tell you how long it's been since I've been to a game. You're super badass and awesome for giving me such an amazing Hanukkah gift." She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing, but it was pointless. Her laughter tinkled through the air around them.
"Now, that wasn't so hard was it?" he asked with a wicked grin, folding his arms around her shoulders and hugging her tightly against him. She leaned into his torso, wrapping her arms around his waist and lifting her mouth up for a kiss. He kissed her soundly and then smirked against her lips. "Just so you know, Larrington, that apology saved you from getting the Dirty Sanchez later." Her mouth dropped in shock and he laughed, skirting away from her and narrowly dodging the blow she aimed to his side.
"This city is full of fucking lunatics," Big said, as they spilled into Alisha's apartment. He toed off his sneakers and shrugged out of his jacket.
"Oh, come on, Big," Alisha giggled. "It's not every day that you see a man reading Keats to a pigeon." She took off her Colts jacket and hung it in the hall closet; she gave his the same treatment.
Big rolled his eyes and chuckled. "Not just a lunatic, but totally bat shit crazy then," he murmured, splaying his hands over her denim covered hips and drawing her closer. He smirked down into her eyes. "Sorry your team lost."
Alisha's lips fell back into a pout, but quickly twitched up into a smile. She'd gotten over the sting on the ride back to the city. (Mostly) "It's okay," she shrugged, running her hands over the front of his shirt. "I really had so much fun at the game; thank you again," she told him sweetly. Tipping her head back, she Rosemary up on her toes and pressed her lips to his, lingering there. She grinned at him when she dropped down again.
A crooked smile formed on his lips and he tugged playfully at her braids. "You're welcome, Shorty."
"I'm going to go wash this horseshoe off my face," she said, gesturing to the blue Colts emblem she'd painted on her cheek earlier. She patted his chest and headed for the bathroom.
He watched her go (he loved to watch her go) and plunked himself down on the couch, switching on the TV.
