Page 60 of Biggest Player
Water is everywhere.
I scream, “Oh my God!”
Frantically fumbling for a towel, I toss it over the nozzle to stop the outpour of water from spraying everything in sight. “Holy shit!”
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!
We are both soaked.
Water covers me from head to toe, my white T-shirt drenched.
My clothes cling to me as I stand here, dripping water onto the tile floor, shivering as Dex stares at me, wide eyed and horrified, droplets of water dribbling from his hair.
“Dex!” I sputter. “I ... this ...” I have no words.
“Oh my dude, I’m so sorry!” He scrambles to turn the water off, but that only seems to make the spray worse if that were possible.
“What is happening!” I shout with a laugh, the situation too ridiculous to do anything but. If I don’t laugh, I may cry.
This was inevitable; let’s be real here. Dex is a pretty football star, not a handyman.
Side by side we stand in stunned silence, the hissing of my pipes the only sound in the air. That and the mini waterfall cascading down the front of my cabinet, pooling on the floor.
“That wasnotsupposed to happen.”
“Ya think?” I move, water at my feet dripping from the countertops.
What a freaking mess!
A knot forms in my stomach, nerves and hysteria creating a bubble that rises in my throat and threatens to erupt like my pipes.
I burst out laughing.
“This isn’t funny!” he protests, though a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.
“No, it’s not. It’s a mess. But also, it kind of is.” I wipe water from my eyes, almost positive I’m crying too. “I told you we should have called a pro.”
“I am a pro.”
“Do not compare yourself to a skilled tradesman. You play sports.” Not even close to being the same thing.
He shakes his wet head. “All right, fine. You were right—we should have called my buddy.”
I grab another nearby towel and hand it to him, still chuckling. “I think it’s safe to say you need to retire your borrowed tool belt.”
He sighs, using the towel to wipe his face. “You didn’t happen to film that, did you?” He looks so sheepish, standing there dripping wet, that I feel a pang of sympathy.
“No. But I thought about it,” I admit, stepping closer and putting a hand on his arm. “I appreciate you trying. Really. It means a lot to me.”
He glances down at me, eyes roaming down the center of my chest. “Are you wearing one of those nipple bras?”
“What? No!” I laugh, batting at him. “Why would you say that?”
“’Cause I can totally see your nips through your shirt.”
I look down. Sure enough, not only are my areolas on full display because of the cheap, threadbare bra I’m wearing, but my nipples are determined to escape.
“Oh shit.” I cross my arms. “I feel like I’ve entered a wet T-shirt contest I have no business entering.”
