Page 27 of Kiss Me Tonight

Don’t turn around. Don’t tell them you know that even unaroused, Dominic DaSilva is packing more down there than any guy you’ve ever seen naked.

Which isn’t a whole lot, anyhow. Two guys, including Rick.

Okay, minor correction: Dominic DaSilva is packing more than any guy I’ve ever seen, both in real life and in porn.

Sue me.

“I hope he jumps around like that all day,” Belinda breathes out.

“I swear I can see his dick bouncing in his shorts from here,” Timmy’s mom echoes in awe. “Five bucks says he’s not even wearing boxers.”

Sweat beads on my brow as I clamp my clipboard to my chest.

“Friday at five, ladies,” I say, hoping they can’t get a read on me. I can only imagine what they’d hear:Oh, Dom? Psshaw. A complete tool but whaddaya know? He ispacking, ladies. The big kahuna, if you know what I mean. The Weiner schnitzel of all Weiner schnitzels.

Oh. God.

I clear my throat, my cheeks burning.“Meet at the Golden Fleece. I’ll email the rest of the parents. Please bring your spouses or any family members—anyone who would like to be involved in the fundraising process.”

“Who are you bringing?” asks Miss Dick In a Sock.

I lift my chin and hope all they see is a coach ready to do anything to give her players an experience they’ll never forget—even if they don’t make the cut, even if they get stuck on JV instead of varsity, even if their wish comes true and they end up on the front line.

“I’m bringing Coach DaSilva.”

Even if I have to drag his dead, limp body with me.

7

Dominic

Three.

That’s the number of times in my life when I’ve felt absolutely blindsided by fate or the universe or whoever the fuck is pulling the strings behind the scenes.

The first time, I’d been absolutely sure that my top pick—the Atlanta Falcons—were going to call my name in the draft. After studying their roster, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know they were in need of a tight end. And, in collegiate ball, there’d been no one better than me. I had the record-breaking stats, the drive and the ambition, not to mention the heart to finally belong to something on a permanent basis.

They passed me over for a pimply-faced kid out of Utah, and I was left to await my fate on the metaphorical bench.

An opportunity that Tampa Bay didn’t squander.

While all the players around me were surrounded by family, all ready to leap up and lose their minds in excitement, I sat alone with only my coach from LSU cued in via speakerphone.

I accepted my blank Buccaneers jersey and team hat alone.

Went back to my hotel room alone.

Celebrated with a bottle of Patron alone.

The second time, I was down on one knee before Savannah Rose,Put A Ring On It’s bachelorette. The producers and the film crew and the asshole director, who looked like a frat boy and talked like a douchebag, all had a front-row seat to what should have been a private, tender moment. Only, I didn’t propose marriage to Savannah. Didn’t even propose lifetime commitment because that sort of promise doesn’t have a slot in my genetic makeup.

But I offered what I could give, what I’d never offered to anyone else before her and what I doubt I’ll be offering again anytime soon: the chance to see if I could love. Fully. With every corner of my soul. Something I’d given to no one but the game of football.

For the first time since my early foster-care years, a thread of hope had sparked within me. Bleeding out of every crevice, locking my limbs tight as I waited for her answer. I had no ring. I had no flowery language or desperate words of love because that was the ugly truth: I didn’t love Savannah Rose.

Not that it didn’t stop me from hoping she’d take a chance on my emotional defects and see that I was willing to give our budding relationship my all.

She turned me down.

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