Page 4 of Big Balls
2
Zoe
My pulse is racing.I can’t seem to catch my breath. I’m trying so desperately not to say or do something stupid that I feel the impending disaster of our interaction looming right above me like the Sword of Damocles.
The greatest wide receiver in the history of the New Orleans Sinners—possibly top ten of the league of all time—is saying something, but I have to focus in order to force myself to listen and try to make the sounds into actual speech words. Wordy things. Understanda-babble.
I feel the warm prickle of embarrassment along the back of my neck, because if there was ever a time to get a grip, it was a few seconds ago. Right before my brain shut off at being in the personal space of Ethan Alexander, number 18, the living hero of my entire football-loving family.
Except for my brother Asher. But he played for Alabama, so his tainted Crimson Tide opinion doesn’t count.
Unfortunately, Ethan Alexander is staring at me with a look on his face that can only be categorized as disgust. His lips are curled, his eyebrows drawn, and his nose is wrinkled up. Like I stink. Or like I just threw up on his shoes.
I shake my head to clear the jangling of my thoughts. “I’m sorry, what were you saying, Mr. Alexander?”
That almost sounded normal. He doesn’t know what my voice normally sounds like, so he doesn’t understand that it’s not usually this whiny and breathy. Or maybe he’s just used to women acting all ridiculous around him, because he doesn’t even react when I basically ask him for a do-over of our entire one-sided conversation.
But even upon a rehearing, I’m still having difficulty following what he’s saying. Either it doesn’t make any sense, or I’m having some sort of brain meltdown due to being in a conversation with the top playmaker in the entire league.
Any guy who’s reasonably fast and has a great quarterback can make a good, solid catch, but Ethan Alexander is known for making especially risky moves after the ball is in his hands. He somehow squeezes extra yards out of almost every single play, usually through some combination of speed and instinct that leaves his opponents in the dust.
I’ve watched him catch a ball one handed more times than I can count, then somehow get control of it and blaze into the endzone. He makes it look so easy. But I know better.
I grew up in a football family. My dad coached my brothers since they were on Pee Wee teams, and all three of them grew up to lead their respective college teams. Finn was even invited to attend camp for the Huntington Wolverines when he was right out of college.
But none of them could even dream of the plays that Big Balls Alexander makes regularly. The moves he pulls out seem almost supernatural because he plays at such a high level.
Okay, Zoe. Focus. He wants me to go into the ladies’ restroom.
“Um, not with you, right?” I emit this terrible, high-pitched giggle that probably sends dolphins skittering out to sea. “Because I’m definitely not that type of girl.”
Not that Ethan Alexander isn’t unbearably hot. He is. He’s downright lickable in photos and even more appealing in person. But anybody with eyes can see that I don’t even have any business being in this hallway with him, let alone fooling myself that I could ever be in his league, so to speak.
Besides, I’m only on this secret VIP floor by accident. I walked off the elevator when it stopped, never realizing that there was this other level to the stadium where the rich people went to watch the games.
I’ll eventually have to figure out how to hijack a ride on one of the top secret elevators and head back to the regular people seating, so I can find my two college BFFs. They are never going to believe I met Ethan Alexander though. Never.
His mouth pinches up into a look of absolute revulsion. Well, thanks for that giant blow to the ego, Most Eligible Bachelor of New Orleans 2018 and 2019. I really appreciate the overall shitty attitude toward my bang-ability.
“No,” he says slowly, as if he’s worried that I’m having problems understanding him. Great, he thinks I’m an idiot.
“I need you to go in there and look for my daughter. Katy. She’s five, but she’s in there all by herself, and I need to know that she’s okay.”
“Oh,” I say, my hand flying to my reddened cheek. “Your daughter. I can definitely do that. No problem. I’ll go in and check on her. Yep, yep, yep.”
I wince as my overly helpful and chipper attitude chooses to manifest as verbal diarrhea. Great. I’m sure glad I could meet one of the best players in the game when I can’t seem to shut up and act like a regular person.
His jaw grinds, and I see his eyes flick to the door of the restroom again.
“Now? How long has she been in there?”
His lips pinch together, and then he scrubs one of those huge hands across his face. “I don’t really know. I was down in the locker room cleaning up, but I’ve been waiting out here for at least fifteen minutes.”
I nod. “Probably a poopmergency. Gotcha.” And then my face heats up to the level of the surface of the sun because I just blurted out the wordpoopmergencyto Ethan freaking Alexander. I will the levee to break and wash me out to sea, but no such luck.Still here.
His nose wrinkles again, but then he shakes his head. “No. Well, maybe, but probably what’s happening is that she doesn’t want to flush. The loud sounds sometimes really get to her, so she makes someone else flush the potty.”
I pause, working my way through this new information. “Does she have sensory issues? Is that why?”
