The next morning, I work out with Drew at the Mercenaries stadium, running routes with my quarterback. As he rolls through the playbook, I am in the zone, focused on football only.
That’s how I plan to be this season.
Like when I haul in a beautiful spiral and take it to the end zone.
When Drew catches up with me, I give a cocky shrug. “Guess we’re ready for the Super Bowl.”
“’Course we are,” he says, then with the ball tucked under my arm, we head to the corridor.
“What’s it like?” he adds. “To win one?”
I smile at the glorious memory of a certain Sunday a few years ago. Even now, I get a chill. A good chill, just thinking of how it felt to claim the Lombardi trophy. “You know how great sex is?”
Drew snorts, then laughs. “Yeah. I do.”
“Imagine something one hundred times better than that,” I say.
He whistles. “Damn.”
“And then you’remaybein the ballpark.”
“You fucker,” he mutters.
“You asked,” I toss back. Then, I clap him on the shoulder. “We’re gonna have a good year. It’s my personal mission to make a ring happen. I got your back.”
“And I’ve got yours,” he says and then we head to the weight room inside the facility.
While I work out, I try to focus on football only.
With every chest press, I zoom in on the season I want to have, the plays I want to make, the stats I want to surpass.
But somewhere between the squats and the lat raises, my mind returns to the vision from last night in a purple halter top and short shorts that revealed a hint of cheek.
I’ve run into Ellie a few times over the past several years. Ellie’s grandma’s birthday extravaganza a year ago. Then last summer at the fortieth-anniversary party my brother and I threw our mom and dad. Ellie brought them a board game to celebrate the occasion because my parents met at a Monopoly tournament and have always loved their game nights.
But my most vivid memory is when I saw Ellie under the mistletoe at my aunt Sarah’s eggnog-tasting party five years ago. Resisting kissing her was harder than catching a Hail Mary pass.
Ellie was in college then, twenty or twenty-one, batting those big brown eyes at me and smiling up at the sprig of mistletoe. She was all sweet innocence with only a slash of red lipstick across her bee-stung mouth to hint at dirty deeds.
“Merry Christmas, Gabe,” she’d said in her smoky, sexy voice. “Have you been a good boy this year?”
No. I had not. Not one bit.
“I always am,” I said. “What about you?”
She shrugged coquettishly. “I skipped a seminar last week. I hope that doesn’t get me on the naughty list.”
I’d like to get on that list with her.
“That doesn’t seem like enough of a sin,” I said.
“Oh,” she said, with a wicked glint in her eyes. “Maybe I should try harder.”
Iwasharder.
“Guess it depends if you want presents from Saint Nick,” I said, trying to be friendly, not flirty. I couldn’t tear myself away from her, even though I should have.
“I do like gifts. Maybe Santa will understand. I sure hope he’ll fill both our stockings,” she’d said.