“Seems alright to me,” chortles our highest scoring player on a casual smirk.
Hoss exhibits no hesitation in shoving him over to join my sibling at the same time she declares, “You will be too.” Upon the splash, she cordially extends her hand towards my own Slayer. “Arden Hoss, but the boys usually just call me Hoss.”
“Gillian,” their palms clasp together and shake, “and most people call me Gilly outside the office.”
The second their touch splits, her head cocks to one side in obvious curiosity. “You look so familiar.” Sounds of Snowman resurfacing threatens to summon my attention elsewhere. “You a season ticketholder?”
I brace myself for the inevitable whistle on the play I know is coming as Gilly frees a hiccup that delays her response. “No.”
“Foundation volunteer?”
“No.”
“Friend of one of the boys?”
Another hiccup becomes heard.
“Actually, you kinda remind me of-”
“That’s a great shot,” gushes Romella Pascual, Hoss’s replacement due to her recent promotion, from beside Perdita Lumet, our lead inhouse photographer. “Chicks are gonna love seeing Snowman soaking wet like that.”
“She’s not wrong,” Hoss casually agrees. “I see the thirsty twat comments from broadskies on the reggie.”
“And the pushintothe water was top cheddar,” Pascual praises upon them closing their distance.
“Got that too,” Lumet assures prior to squatting down to snap a few more shots of Snowman wrestling with my little brother. “Thisis what I’m here to capture.” She gives her dirty blonde hair a good push out of her face and resumes clicking. “I want everyone loose and casual and fun and relaxed like I’m invisible, just like they do at the games.”
“Lummy, you’re the only one here dressed like you just left anAlice in Wonderlandthemed tea party,” chirps Hoss with a crooked smirk. “You’reimpossibleto fucking ignore.”
She sharply cuts the camera upward and snaps a pic. “Try.”
Hoss flashes the woman her middle finger sparking warm giggles to freely leave Gilly once more, the sound settling myheart that’s been repeatedly skipping beats like a new DJ scratching his first record.
The mental reference easily reminds me of something I need to do, which prompts me to back away towards the booth that’s set up beside the tented arrangements. “Y’all excuse us. I need to see a man about a microphone.”
“Isn’t it a horse?” Pascual ponders in confusion.
“Yeah, but it’s Tendy,” Hoss’s offhanded dismissal precedes me spinning on my heels. “Just go with it. Goalies are weird.”
Once we’re out of their earshot, Gilly quietly inquires, “Does that not bother you?”
Determination to reach my destination doesn’t deter. “What?”
“That phrase.” She waits until my stare finds hers. “The fact that everyone thinks you’re weird.”
“I am weird.” Her mouth twitches in obvious objection pushing me to grin wider during my defending. “I don’t think that’s abad thing, Gillybean.” A small bounce of my shoulders is wedged between statements. “I essentially get paid to wear a dog bite trainer suit in eighteen-degree temperatures while people shoot rubber circles at me that are going on average ninety miles per hour. Not sure I’d call that normal.” Light laughs escape us both. “Definitely not sane.” Additional snickers fuse between us. “The thing is…everyone is entitled to think what they wanna think.” Another innocent shrug is executed. “And I’m entitled not to care unless I want to.”
Awe – I don’t think I could ever get tired of seeing – expands in her gaze leaving me no choice but to blush.
I swear toSawchuk, if she slapshots anymore looks like that at me, the boys are gonna be askin’ me all afternoon how I got sunburned so quick.
Our arrival to the music space is the first time our hands momentarily separate, only done to allow me to properly greet DJ R3VERS3 – who I paid out of pocket to be here.
“Groffee T,” we briefly embrace one another with a one hand pull and pat, “always bringin’ the flava that be.”
“R3VERS3, rewind, and play that shit one more time,” I chime back alongside our splitting.
He immediately lets his dark gaze drift over to the beauty beside me and hungrily strokes the black scruff on his tiramisu shaded face. “And who’s the dime?”
