Page 21 of Falling for My Son's Best Friend

“Sorry,” she breathed, scooting by, wiggling her butt in my face as she went out into the aisle. “So sorry Trent, that was a tight fit.”

I was rock still, barely even able to breathe. Because oh yeah, Marie’s rump had been inches from my mouth and it’d taken all of my self-control not to take a bite of it right there, bite right through that denim and get a hunk of love, taste that hot white meat. But shit, we were in public. So I merely smiled tightly.

“No worries,” I grunted, clearing my throat a little like I had a cough. “These are nosebleeders, we can’t expect too much here.”

And Robbie came back at that moment.

“Mom, here’s yours,” he said, handing her a hot dog, “and here’s yours,” he said, handing me a foot-long wiener, obscene-looking, the sausage sticking out of the normal-sized bun on both sides, flopping disgustingly.

“You gonna eat that?” Marie said cheekily to me, one hand on the railing, poised, like she was ready to take flight.

And I looked again at the huge wiener, the skin tight, crackling almost, a deep red color, glistening under the stadium lights.

“I’m gonna devour every inch of this, unless you want some?” I said casually, blue eyes gleaming at her. “Want a bite?”

Marie laughed throatily then.

“Maybe when I get back,” she giggled, before spiriting herself away.

Robbie couldn’t have missed that exchange, he couldn’t have missed the sparks between me and his mom. But instead, my friend was turned towards the court, eyes like a hawk as he watched the players scurry here and there, sneakers squeaking on the paint. Suddenly a three-pointer swished and he leapt to his feet, waving his arms wildly.

“Go Chargers!” he bellowed. “Fuck yeah!”

I rolled my eyes. My friend was clueless, too into the game to notice anything, completely caught up in the action miles below. Shit, his mom and I could probably have sex right here and he wouldn’t notice, jumping and cheering like a madman, windmilling his arms so that he almost hit the people around us, swinging a little towel in a circle like it was a rotor, a blur of white.

But I was kinda bored, to tell the truth. On the one hand, I love all sports, and basketball is up there. I love seeing the speed, agility, the blocks, the “nothing but net” moments. But tonight, I wasn’t interested because there was a female that spoke to me, someone who occupied my mind. And speaking of which, Marie had left for the ladies’ a while ago. Where the fuck was she? Stretching, I got to my feet, surveying the crowd. Nope, nothing but a mass of strange faces.

“Yo, I’m gonna take a leak,” I rumbled to Robbie. Fat chance he noticed. The dude’s eyes were intent on the court and he mumbled something or other while taking another swig of beer.

So I shrugged, taking the stairs in huge strides until I was on the concourse. Where was Marie? As usual a long line wound its way out of the women’s restroom, whereas there was no line whatsoever for the men’s, guys striding in and out, pulling their zips up as they finished their business.

So I walked around a little, restless, in search of my best girl. Where the fuck was she? Arcade Arena was huge, and they recently remodeled it so that the concessions were top of the line. There were hot dogs, sure, but they were Famous Nathan’s, the place that hosts the hotdog eating contest each July Fourth out on Coney Island. And shit, there was Shake Shack, plus some sushi, and some artisanal beer too, for those that wanted to be fancy. Of course, this all cost an arm and a leg, like they say in the Mastercard commercials, the experience is “priceless.”

But I know a little about sports being a pro athlete myself, and yeah the trappings are nice, but without a good team, you’ve got nothing. So there was no reason to be blindsided by huge stadiums with retractable roofs, twenty dollar Cokes, or seats with personal TV sets. At bottom, it was all about the game, the quality of the sportsmanship, the sheer athleticism and hours of practice. This extra stuff? Icing only. Without the underlying cake, you’d have nothing but a mouthful of sickly sweet cream.

So I sauntered around the concourse, taking in everything, but not letting it get to me. One day, I’d hit the majors and it’d be my face on the walls, my name on the jerseys. But for now, I needed to sit tight and see where life took me.

And suddenly, I spotted Marie. A rush came over me seeing that curvy form, the wavy brown hair. It was weird. We travel a lot for my job, and it’d never bothered me before, having no one. Made things easier actually, I had no responsibilities, no obligations, the only thing I had to do was get myself from one place to another, make sure my form was in tip top shape.

But unexpectedly, seeing the brunette changed things. There was a feeling that yeah, maybe I’d like to see her after my games, I’d like to have soft arms around me, a warm body in my bed. And not just any warm body, but one I adored, one that welcomed me, curvy, delicious, not some strange pussy that I’d picked up for the night.

So I shook the head ruefully. What the fuck was going on? This was my best friend’s mom for crying out loud, someone who I’d known for a couple days. And in another couple days, I’d be gone again, nothing but a memory, a hot memory, sure, but a memory nonetheless. Disgusted, I shook my head. Fuck, I was losing it, really losing my shit on this trip, but this was no time to let on. Pasting a smile on my face, I walked up to the brunette.

“Hey,” I said, smiling at her. “What’s going on?”

And Marie turned to me, a smile on her lips, but her nostrils flared slightly, there was a nervous edge to her voice.

“Victor here was just telling me that he owns the team,” she said lightly, trying to seem casual and fun. “Isn’t that a coincidence? Who knew!” she said with a tremulous shake to her voice despite the fact that her lips were twisted upwards.

And I swung around to look at the man talking to her. Oh yeah, just like the first time at the bar, this dude was old and then some. He had to be at least seventy, with snow white hair, stooped a little, wearing designer jeans and a fancy puffer jacket, the kind that cost eight hundred bucks.

“Yeah, I own the Chargers,” he croaked, his features creased, like he’d slept on his face. “This here’s my team, I’m not a part owner, I own this club one hundred percent,” he bragged.

I tried not to show my disgust. Once an asshole, always an asshole, even when you were seventy. But I didn’t want to be rude to a senior citizen, so I merely smiled neutrally.

“Well congrats, this must be a great night for you cause the Chargers are up by ten,” I rumbled.

“Yeah, and I pay a ten thousand dollar bonus to whichever player scores the most each game,” he chortled, wheezing and huffing a bit. “So long as they win,” he added. “Nothing if they lose.”

---