“Last time I checked, Nana wasn’t a doctor,” I say.
“You’ve never even had sex! What do you know?”
Nana sips on her ginger ale and then speaks. “I’ve given birth three times, and I know what I know. The baby needs movement. A little bowling won’t put Carla into early labor. The baby will decide when he or she wants to arrive.”
“I’m not saying she shouldn’t get out of the house, but she probably shouldn’t be exerting herself.”
“No need to argue about it now. She’s here, she’s playing, and we’re not taking her home. I don’t consider bowling an aerobic sport.”
“Thank you, Doctor Monica.” I’m staying out of it at this point.
“And now that we’ve unsuccessfully talked you out of making the biggest mistake of your life, Ursula, can we finish whipping your butt?” Monica asks, adding a little levity back into the afternoon.
“Let’s do it,” I say rubbing my hands together like a praying mantis. “I’m feeling lucky. I’m going to quit my job, I’m about to roll a strike, and my life is going to be awesome from here on out. I don’t care what ya’ll say.”
“Okay, Ursula!”
“You’ve got this.”
“Roll that strike, sweetie,” Nana cheers.
And then …
Gutterball.
Chapter Seven
COOP
“Can I get you anything else, Mr. Barnes? How about a little more pie?”
The question just posed to me wouldn’t be so annoying if it hadn’t been laced with sexual innuendo. I suppose it makes complete sense though, because the woman asking is flashing the biggest areolas I’ve ever seen in my life. Pert nipples that are begging to be tweaked or tugged as they overtly jut through a transparent white tank top. Their state no doubt manipulated by the frigid conditions of the room and torrid thoughts of me.
I can’t help but stare at them for a moment before finally looking away. I love the shape and form of a woman, of all women, but I want no parts of this one. She’s trouble. Paternity court type of trouble.
“Nah, I’m good.”
I’m sitting on a stool, on a freezing set, in front of bright lights and a green screen, getting ready to shoot my third laundry detergent commercial for Bolt detergent—my latest endorsement deal. One of the executives for the company, Brad, was my college roommate, and I owed him one, so I agreed to the deal. When we were freshmen I yacked in his mom’s brand new Toyota on our way home from a frat party, and he’s never let me forget it. I’ve been “owing him one” ever since.
I’ve just finished filling myself up on a variety of crap from the craft service table. A table where Miss perky nipples was serving up dessert. I’m supposed to be cutting out all refined sugars and white flour from my diet. It’s the strict nutrition regimen I stick to when I’m getting ready for the season, but the mini pecan pies on the table were calling me. Pecan pie always reminds me of home.
“You certainly aregood, Mr. Barnes.” She pretends to brush crumbs off of her chest to draw even more attention to her breasts. “Good in every way.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Where is Owens? It’s my assistant’s job to keep these kind of desperate women from approaching me. It’s not like her to be late or a no-show. I text her a couple of angry emojis. Words aren’t necessary. She’s been like my right hand man and little sister combined for the last three years. She knows me best. She’ll get the point.
Me::(
Huh, usually she responds right away.
“You’re amazing on the football field.” The woman continues talking. Distracting me from my angry texting. “I love to watch you throw the ball.”
See what I mean? She’s clueless. I don’t throw shit. That’s not what a tight end does.
“So, you’re a football fan?”
“Absolutely!”
Not.
