One of my customers shouts over a cloud of heads, “Hey, can we have our check?”
I nod to her and print it, digging for the correlating credit card in my stack and notice Mike thumping down a series of shots I didn’t ask for.
“What’re those?”
“You’re bringing these to the Falcons.”
My eyes go wide. “The fuck I am!”
He lays his palms on the counter, glasses wobbling under his weight. “You are, and that’s final. I’ve got a mortgage. You’ve gotta buy whatever it is you buy. Go make ‘em happy!”
Stacking my tray full I grumble, “Next you’ll be ordering me to blow ‘em.”
“You think I want to wear those shots?”
“Oh, that’s what’s stopping you? That I’d spill these on your precious tank top?”
Without looking back he gives me a disinterested this conversation is over wave, and returns to his customers.
Here I reluctantly go, balancing my tray high above drunk and sticky sardines. “Excuse me. To your left. Coming through. Right behind you. Whoa! It’s okay, I’ve got it. You’re good. Nope, didn’t spill. Thank you! Just let me pass.”
Mike’s not wrong. The players could go anywhere. I suspect they’re repeat regulars to ensure that every girl in Atlanta knows where to find them, offering the team an eager selection of hopefuls.
So gross.
The horrible fact that I’m a fan of football makes this that much sadder. How they act off the field almost ruins it for me.
Thank God I have someone like Peter now. He’s so thoughtful and humble, like a lot of drummers are. He doesn’t need to be in front of the stage but he’s got music in his veins, like I do. He’d never act like those guys even if he had the option to, say if his band exploded with huge success. He believes the objectification of women to be completely offensive.
Speaking of offense, Mott LaRock, Offensive Center, jersey number 55, spots my approach and grins, “Sweet Tits! Those for us?”
Forcing a smile through gritted teeth I answer, “Yep!”
Quarterback Eric Cocker, jersey 3, glances around. “Who ordered these? You, Tony?”
“Nope.” Running Back, Tony Sanchez, jersey number 72, shrugs a ripped shoulder that has dodged more tackles in one game than I have fingers and toes. “Not me.”
Mott slaps Cocker’s back and announces his theory, “Aw, she came back to you, buddy, to make up and make out!”
The sexy lopsided grin our quarterback is famous for lights up his face and makes those dreamy hazel eyes sparkle like a true-north star. “I doubt it, Mott. Much as I’d be open to it, our waitress looks too pissed to be offering up those kissable lips of hers. Wait, am I wrong? Want to climb up on me and lock tongues?”
I struggle not to smile, because he is charming as hell. “Can’t wait not to do that.”
His teammates laugh.
But their girls are staring like I’m competition. God, I hate it that women treat each other like this. If we didn’t stab each other in the backs so often over a man, we wouldn’t be so damn afraid to relax, be friendly and have fun. Just because I’m not hideous and I like lipstick, too, doesn’t mean anything at all.
I am not a threat.
What’s ironic is we’re the ones complaining that men start wars, when we won’t end the one amongst ourselves. Makes me angry.
I’m here trying to make it clear that I want to work, not flirt.
The cocks they’ve claimed, are safe.
I mean…jocks.
Heheh.
But Eric doesn’t have a girl hanging on his ripped shoulder. As the guys block tables so I can’t set these freebies down anywhere, he sidles up to me, eyeing the shots. “Want me to take these bad boys off your hands so you can do what you really want to do?”
Holding his gaze, I tilt my head, “I can’t wait to hear what that might be.”
He grins, but gets sober again to lower his voice and say in the sexiest way, “You want to tangle that tattooed hand in my hair and tuck my face between your thighs for a good, long and slow hour.”
My jaw drops. I can’t speak. And all the guys lean forward, dying to hear my witty comeback.
But I’m so stunned all I can muster is a stuttering, “Wow, you are such a jerk!”
He winks at me. “Jerks are great in bed—you can leave them while they sleep and not feel the least bit guilty about it.”
“I’ll remember that if I’m ever stupid enough to fuck one.”
The Falcons go up in arms with laughter and cheering. Eric right along with them. His smile is so gorgeous it’s impossible not to feel warm under it.
Clearing my throat I decide to hand-serve the team their shots. He goes to help me, which completely throws my balance off. “You can’t lift them for me when the tray is this full.”
“Oh, sorry!” Holding up his hands we hold our breaths as the skinny glasses settle. The overflowing mugs were fine. Mojitos, solid. But those little shots aren’t made to hold liquid long-term.
“That was close,” I gasp.
Mott reaches out. In slow motion my eyebrows fly up, body tensing as his meaty hand hits the bottom and sends the drinks flying. Booze exploding everywhere. Eric gets soaked. I’m even wetter. The rest of the team saw it coming and backed out of range. Glass shatters around our dripping feet.
Mott grins with pride, quips, “Cocker, I got her all wet for you!”
I lunge for him.
Eric hooks his arm around my waist like I’m a football, lifts me into the air while a slew of curse words pour
