Page 28 of Kiss Me Tonight

Blindside number two.

Following the Wildcat’s first practice, driving down my street leads directly to blindside number three:

Levi’s banged-up Honda Civic is parked in my next-door neighbor’s driveway.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

I rack my brain for details from Friday night. She ordered an Uber from the Golden Fleece. No car to take note of at the pub, and when I arrived home, I had no reason to look twice at the house next door. Over the weekend, I packed a duffel bag and drove down to Boston to visit myPut A Ring On Itcastmate, Nick Stamos, and his new fiancée, Mina.

With my foot on the brake, I scrub my palms over my face and then release the pedal to coast into my driveway. The scent of pepperoni and cheese pizza saturates the interior of my pickup, re-centering my attention on the two boxes resting innocently on the passenger’s seat.

One box for today. The other for tomorrow, when I’ll probably procrastinate once again with heading to the grocery store.

News of me moving to London has spread like wildfire.

When I stopped to gas up my truck this morning, an elderly man sidled up to me under the pretense of needing to use the squeegee on his windshield. He didn’t even last twenty seconds before bringing up that dreaded 2015 game where I fucked up my leg and essentially ended my career.

At practice, I was bombarded by mothers, all of whom wanted a picture with me to post on their Instagram accounts. One lady—Belinda, I think—gave my ass a not-so-discreet squeeze when the flash went off.

Even the guy behind the counter at Pizzeria Athena slipped a bare napkin forward along with my receipt. It was a move I recognized well. Sign the damn thing, leave a good tip, or “Dominic DaSilva is an entitled dick” would be all over the internet by the 5 p.m. Evening News.

Maine was meant to be a reprieve from the bullshit of my normal life.

Instead, the only reprieve I’ve had thus far has come from a blond-haired coach who doesn’t seem all too impressed that I could buy this town three times over and still have enough money in the bank to last me a lifetime.

“Don’t do it, man,” I warn myself, already grabbing the two pizza boxes and climbing out of my truck. “Don’t fucking do it.”

I don’t listen to my own advice.

Still dressed in the same clothes I wore to practice, I cross the strip of neatly trimmed lawn that divides our two properties. Whereas my place looks like the stage model for 1970s suburbia, Levi’s Cape-Cod-style home is quintessential New England. Dark gray siding and snow-white shutters. Window boxes with colorful flowers peeking out, seeking the warmth of the afternoon sunlight. A cherry-apple-red door with a brass knocker positioned dead center.

Pizza boxes clasped in one hand, I step onto a ridiculous straw doormat that reads “Home is Where the Tacos Are,” and ring the buzzer.

You’re making a big mistake. You don’t even like her!

I don’t, no.

But I don’t dislike her any more than I generally dislike everyone else.

Two seconds pass before I hear a muffled, “Coming!”

Briefly I wonder if Topher’s home or if he’s out with friends. It’s summertime, after all. No school. No deadlines. No commitments to anything but football.

The door yawns open.

“Sorry about that, I—”

Levi’s apology cuts short at the sight of me on her front stoop. Eyes going comically wide, she lifts a hand to clutch the white towel wrapped around her head. Perspiration curls the strands that have escaped the terrycloth, so they peek out like little devil horns. Fitting, I guess, considering how much she rode my ass all day at practice. The woman is a menace with a whistle. My old Bucs coach would have bowed down to her in pure reverence.

Unbidden, my gaze slips lower, acting on its own accord, like a puppet controlled by the dancing strings of its master.

Spaghetti-strap tank top. The color reminds me of the muted pink shag carpet in my bedrooms. Unlike the thick, string-like carpet, however, Levi’s shirt is thin and practically transparent with Tweety Bird printed over the center of her chest.

No bra.

Tweety does nothing to conceal the fullness of Levi’s breasts.I wish to hell it did.It’s all I can do not to notice the deep shadows beneath Tweety’s jawline and the twin peaks thrusting up against the cartoon character’s yellow cheeks. Levi’s damp skin is not doing me any favors—it’s rosy from her shower and dewy from what has to be some miracle blend of lotion and,fuck, but does she always answer the door like this?

My fingers tighten reflexively around the warm pizza boxes, even as I allow my eyes to wander south. Black gym shorts slung low on her hips. No shoes or socks, only yellow-painted toenails that remind me of Tweety Bird and hard nipples and deep cleavage.

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