“Of course, you should go with him on a scenic tour in a helicopter to the Florida Keys,” Etta Jo says.
“I’m not a big fan of flight,” Giselle says. “I prefer two feet on the ground.”
Interrupting, I say, “I’ll take the job.”
She and Etta Jo do a double-take.
“Really?”
“Seriously?”
“Yes,” I nod, feeling a little fluttery with nerves, but unwilling to go back on my decision.
Over the next few days, this is only reinforced when I call my parents and they don’t reply while I tie up loose ends and pack—not that I have much left and certainly nothing else to lose, especially now that the Cinderella Spill is officially viral.
6
DECLAN
None of us Boston Bruiser players lose sleep over what some have dubbed the “Moon-gate” incident, as the actual full moon hangs high in the sky over the city.
Well, I lose a little, but I’ve become a night owl. My phone pings with messages about our prank that others have dubbed “Bruiser Butt,” and I don’t doubt that the papers and press will churn out headlines, images, and articles by sunup.
So, it comes as no surprise when, the next day, Coach Hammer summons us to his office. From the other end of the hallway, Wolf, Chase, and Grey shuffle in my direction. Each of them wears varying expressions of dismay. Likely, they’ve already gotten an earful from family and friends.
We enter the room with the hardwood bookshelves and dark green rug. Hammer’s two-yard square window doesn’t provide a view of the city, but rather the practice field. It’s austere and demands respect. I almost feel like Mom sent the kids to Dad for discipline. Not that I’d know.
Hammer is on a call and gives us the one-minute signal with his pointer finger, along with the hairy eyeball.
Grey grumbles.
“Don’t you dare say, ‘I told you so,’” Wolf warns.
“Come on, we’ve done worse.” I shrug.
“Guys, Elyse was there.” Chase refers to Starkowsky’s daughter, who is a grown woman and has certainly seen her share of football players in various stages of dress, having been around the team her entire life. In fact, she’s a reporter and spends a lot of time in the locker rooms pre- and post-game.
“Doesn’t seem like a big deal,” I say.
“It’s the principle. Would you want your daughter to see our backsides?” Chase asks.
“He has a point,” Grey says.
“We don’t have daughters,” Wolf says.
“You know what I mean,” Chase hisses.
I laugh because the idea of us settling down and having kids is preposterous. About as likely as me ever eating mayonnaise again. We’re all so far from that stage of our lives, it’s laughable.
Though Chase and Grey eye me like I ought to rethink my priorities. I suppose French fries with gravy, or even ketchup, isn’t a bad combination.
Coach Hammer gets off the phone. By the way we all lean in, we each prepare to apologize, but Hammer holds up his massive hand, indicating we save it. He gets to his feet and starts pacing along the bank of windows overlooking the practice field. “I understand the pranks are part of the game, the camaraderie, and the glue that holds the team together in some ways. But you went too far. I’ve had a lot of heat coming down from up high lately about your,” he turns his hand in a circle, “about your antics.”
“We totally should’ve just glued Brandon’s hands together,” I whisper.
Chase elbows me in the ribs, which is no joke because the guy’s arm is meant for gunslinging a football. Come to think ofit, he’s probably the one who accidentally jacked up my nose yesterday.
Wolf lifts and lowers his shoulders. “Oh, come on. We were having fun. We thought it was just going to be Brandon, not the commish.”
