Page 118 of Kiss Me Tonight

As has been mentioned in earlier installments ofCelebrity Tea Presents, it’s been reported—though never confirmed—that America’s favorite tight end went onPut A Ring On Itfor all the wrong reasons. In the land of romantic dating shows, “the wrong reasons” might as well be the equivalent of Satan breathing on the back of your neck. It’s also synonymous with “money-grabbing jerkoff.” You heard it here first.

Heartbroken, single and recently unemployed, DaSilva moved across the country to a small, Podunk town in Maine, only to come crawling back to his old employer for some extra attention in the form of a segment practically dedicated to London High School, where he now coaches football.I firmly believe that this move, more than any other, showcases DaSilva’s true intent. Is he any good at photography? Honestly, who cares. (I don’t). Does this calendar, however, display an underhandedness to stay relevant within Hollywood? These are the facts as I look at them, Dear Reader.

Just in case we’ve forgotten: Aspen Clarke. The girl is married. Enough said.

Truly, I don’t need any more examples to prove what we already know: Savannah Rose made the right choice in sending this social climber home. She can do better. So much better.

Will I still be tuning in to tonight’s episode ofPut A Ring On It, however? You bet I will. Reporting on the insanity of Hollywood is a job, honey, and Daddy needs to pay his electric bill.

Consider the tea piping hot and poured, Dear Reader.

I’ll see you tomorrow for more juicy celebrity gossip.

34

Aspen

“There we go, boys!” Clapping my hands, I run along the edge of the field as Bobby breaks through the linemen. “Yes, Bobby! Perfect! Go, go, go!”

Across the field, Dominic shouts at his players to pull themselves together.

We’re at odds.

Total enemies.

Well, at least until the whistle blows for our next water break.

We’ve been scrimmaging all morning, and after nearly four weeks of working the kids day in and day out, Monday through Friday, the magic is starting to happen.

It. Is.Glorious.

The sounds of pads colliding might as well be music to my ears as Bobby fakes a left, then skirts to the right. Matthew and Kevin, two incoming freshmen, who will probably find themselves on JV at the end of the summer, sprint toward Bobby and the football. Like I drilled into them over and over again in the last month, both boys explode from the hips and lift Bobby straight off the ground.

“Hell fucking yeah!” Dominic calls from the other side of the play, pumping a fist in the air. “Nowthat’swhat I’m talking about, boys! There we go!” He claps his hands, completely missing the fact that he just dropped an F-bomb, then cups his hands around his mouth and hollers my name.

“Yo, Aspen!”

Aspen, not Levi.

He’s been doing that more often than not lately.

Although he’s too far away for me to make out his expression, there’s no denying the utter glee in his voice when he bellows, “How do you like them apples?!”

Only a man like Dominic DaSilva would dare quote Matt Damon on sacred football ground.

I snatch the whistle from where it hangs on my lanyard and tuck it between my lips.Tweet! Tweet!

Everyone halts in their tracks, save for Dominic, who stalks across the field with that swagger of his that should be deemed illegal in all fifty states. “Gather up, boys!” Once I have everyone’s attention, I drop the whistle and fold my arms over my chest. “Since Coach DaSilva here thinks his smack talk is going to make us quake in our cleats”—all my offensive line, including Topher, boo like the awesome kids they are—“I think it’s only right that we put him in the game.”

Chirping crickets are louder than the response I’m given.

Then Topher shoots up a hand, his mouth guard hanging from the corner of his mouth. “Wait, like he’llplaywith us?”

I point to the metal bleachers where we regularly set up shop. “Flag football. I don’t need any of you being pummeled by the Hulk over there.”

One glance at Dominic shows him smirking and rubbing his hands together like an evil scientist. Or a retired NFL player who spent years in a league where acquired injuries became equivalent to notches on a bed post.

Harry hooks his fingers over the cage of his helmet. “I’msoin.”

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