He chuckles. “You’re not my type.”
I gasp. “What? Why not? I’m a hottie.” I turn my body so I can check out my own ass and show it to him at the same time. “Does my milkshake not bring all the boys to the yard?”
He shrugs. “I’m sorry, D, but I don’t like blonds.”
I touch my overgrown hair, which is in desperate need of a haircut. “What if I dye my hair? I love it, but I’d do it for you as a grand romantic gesture.”
He rolls his eyes. “I know you prefer a bubbly partner, clearly notmystyle. So I’m not your type either…and I have a dick. Also not your type. You’re a vagina man, through and through.”
“Hmm. I suppose that’s true.” I rub his bleached-blond mohawk. “If it makes you feel better, know I prefer blondes, so if I liked men, you’d bemytype.”
“You sure about that?” he asks with a thick tone of suggestiveness.
“What does that mean?” I probe.
“It means I think you like a certain brunette.”
“Who?” I genuinely have no clue who he’s referring to. I went home with another sexy blonde just the other night.
He smiles as he condescendingly pats my chest. “There’s a fine line between love and hate, D. And hate sex…” he bites his lips and shivers, “hmm, there’s nothing better.”
Is he referring to Kennedy? It’s been about ten weeks since New Year’s Eve. For the first two, she was uncomfortably civil to me. It was bizarrely off-putting, so I decided to poke the bear back to life. I kept saying things I knew would bother heruntil one comment finally tipped her over the edge. I told her one set of women’s lips is for arguing while the other set is for apologizing. As soon as I said it, she fell right back into her natural state of raging bitch where we’ve happily remained for the past two months.
I even lost another bet to her, but the stakes were clean and fun, as we pinkie swore they would be. She now gets to pick my walk-in outfit for our first game of the season later this year.
Gameday walk-in outfits have become sort of a thing over the past few years. We get photographed walking into the stadium and then judged by social media for what we wear. I love to wear wacky clothes, so I don’t care what she chooses. Maybe a fun pimp outfit, complete with a fur coat, floppy hat, and a pimp stick. Or, knowing Kennedy, she’ll probably just want me in something fashionable since I never wear nice, designer clothing, and it drives her nuts. Whatever she chooses, it will be funny, I have no doubt.
I scoff at Champ’s comment. “I willneverhave sex with?—”
“Who won’t you have sex with?” Coach asks as he walks into the gym.
It’s probably not a good idea to mention sex with his daughter, even though I’m discussingnothaving sex with her.
“Vance,” I answer. “I’ll never have sex with him.”
Vance gives me the finger from the free weight area. “What’s wrong with me?”
“You’re too broody for me. I like them bubbly.”
“You like them stupid,” Vance mumbles.
“Oh, well then, maybe Iaminterested in you.”
Once again, I’m gifted with his middle finger, and I can’t help but chuckle.
Coach shakes his head. “I feel like other teams discuss football in their weight rooms, but every damn time I walk in here, you’re talking about anythingbutfootball.”
I shake my head. “We were discussing math, but before that, we were chatting about Vegas. You should come this year, Coach.”
“Pass. Vegas is for the young. You all have fun without me. Not too much though. Stay out of trouble,” he commands in a warning tone.
“Okay,Dad. Any other advice?”
“Print out your boarding pass the night before so you don’t forget it in the morning.”
I let out a laugh. “We’re flying private, but even if we weren’t, no one prints boarding passes anymore. Save the environment and all that jazz. You can download your boarding pass to your phone without killing planet Earth.”
“Hmm,” he growls. “I don’t trust that virtual wallet thingy on my phone. My generation still prints boarding passes because we all suffered error messages at two in the morning when we lost term papers and had to start them over from scratch five hours before they were due.”
