Page 77 of Kevlar To My Vest
He just shook his head and walked away.
I watched him until he disappeared in the crowd.
Well, his ass, anyway.
***
“Bad boys, bad boys,” Shiloh sang. “Whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when they come for you?”
Without even thinking, I answered with, “Hopefully come with them.”
The same thing I’d said to my sister only hours before.
Which caused a riot of laughter out of the women on the other side of Shiloh.
Ember, a badass blonde, had joined us about five minutes ago to come and give her husband, Gabe, a kiss.
She was the trainer for the Kilgore Athletic Department.
Payton, a nurse, was on the other side of Ember, leaning practically over Shiloh and Ember’s lap to yell at me. “Will you share?”
I looked up just in time to see Trance walking towards us with my order from the concession stand. “Fuck no. Trance is all mine.”
Payton giggled. “No, dummy. I was talking about the food.”
“Oh,” I said. “No. You can’t have that either.”
They burst out laughing, and I stood before walking back over to the railing.
“Thank you!” I squealed.
“I expect payment in the form of sexual favors later.” He said as he handed over my drink, nachos, pickle and Sour Punches.
I placed it all on the metal flooring and snuck my upper body through the rails, wrapping my arms around his neck.
I could feel the heavy layers of his Kevlar vest underneath my hands, and I leaned back and regarded him. “Is that vest hot?”
He raised his hand and made a tiny gap in between his thumb and forefinger. “Tid-bit.”
I could tell he was teasing. Mainly because he was sweating like a pig.
It was in the low nineties, but the humidity was what made it so sticky out.
I offered him my coke and he declined. “I drank half of it on my way over already.”
I mock glared at him and gave him one more kiss before he left to do another round with Kosher.
Radar watched them go with longing eyes, so I gave him a nacho to make him feel better.
A sudden uproar from the crowd in front of me had me looking up in time to see a man in blue and gold streaking down the field, leaving everyone behind him in the dust.
“What number is that?” I asked excitedly.
“58.” James, Shiloh’s husband, answered.
I started shrieking. “Go Falco! Go! Run those legs off! GO!”
When he scored, and the home crowd started going wild, I assumed that he made it to the end zone, and I started jumping up and down in excitement. “Woohoo!”
