Down the hall, I knock lightly on the cast manager’s door, but there’s no answer. While I ride an employee golf cart to the busstop, I type a letter of resignation to my boss in an email. There is simply no way I can go back after that fiasco.
The suffocating humidity plasters loose strands of hair to my neck. Hopefully, I look just enough like your average, run-of-the-mill wreck that no one recognizes me as Bigfoot Mozzarella from the fountain.
2
DECLAN
They say I can charm my way across the football field. I prefer to think of it as pure, unfettered skill.
In the locker room, I have the reputation for enjoying a laugh. My pearly white teeth gleam behind my mischievous smile. “We could glue his hands together while he’s sleeping,” I suggest.
When the guys are silent, whether contemplating my suggestion or figuring out how to talk me out of it, I add, “With regular glue. Not extra-strength adhesive this time.”
“Declan, he’s our new center. We need him to have use of his hands,” Grey says, ever the practical one.
“Yeah. Coach Hammer says his hands are gold.” Wolf grunts as though that remains to be seen.
“The commish says he’s like the rising sun and any team would be lucky to have him.” Chase lifts and lowers one shoulder as if that’s up for debate.
“Luck has little to do with it. I say he’s in it for the paycheck.” Wolf cut his eyes in Chase’s direction.
Grey sniffs.
“Now, now. Let’s give him a chance,” Chase says. “You felt the same about me.” He arches an eyebrow, referring to his start on the team as a legacy player.
“You proved yourself,” Wolf says.
“So will Brandon.” Grey speaks like this is a foregone conclusion.
“We’ll see. Brandon Campos will have to do more than prove himself. He’ll have to endure our killer practices, show that he’s a team player and not a showboating—” Wolf goes on to use what the coach refers to as “locker room words,” aka language he doesn’t stand for.
Coach Hammer keeps things neat and tidy around here—says it’s a family affair. He insists we wear suits pregame, doesn’t allow salty language or rumor mongering, and if he had his way, we’d all be happily married with families.
That’ll be the day.
Back to the matter at hand. I rub mine together. “Brandon Campos, the newest player for the Bruisers, will have to prove himself for sure. First, he’ll be initiated—carrying on the decades-long tradition of pure mischief and malarkey.”
The guys chant, “Malarky.”
“How about we replace his toothpaste with mayonnaise?” I wrinkle my nose because the idea alone grosses me out. After a late-night party, I ate fries with aioli—what Wolf calls Rich Kid mayo—and it didn’t sit well. Haven’t touched the stuff since.
Chase tilts his head from side to side. “We could always use the old standby.”
“No. We’re not covering the toilet seats with plastic wrap. Coach Hammer made me clean it up last time. Never again, man.” Wolf shakes his head.
“Doughnuts filled with mayo? Mayo in Oreos?” I suggest while trying not to gag. It’s moments like this that the remains of my Irish accent comes through.
“What’s with you and mayo?” Chase asks.
Giving a sharp shake of my head, I say, “Forget I mentioned it.”
“I know what we’re going to do.” Wolf’s lip curls with mischief.
“Oh, boy. He has that look.” Grey turns his head slowly from side to side as if he’s already seen the slow-motion train crashing into the dumpster fire. “Whatever it is, I’m not sure I want to take part.”
I cuff him.
“No, you’re not backing out. With Rylen off on his honeymoon, we need all the manpower we can get.”
