Page 1 of The Red Zone
ONE
OCTOBER
I wasn’tone to call people profane names often… but what a fucking bitch.
Mae Garten was the epitome of evil encompassed in the body of a five-foot-ten bleach blonde, and my personal affliction since elementary school.
One would‘ve thought that after two decades of knowing each other, we’d have worked through our animosity toward one another by now. Yet, at this point, I was convinced finding the edge of the universe would be an easier feat.
Why did we despise each other so much, you ask?
Great question. Not so simple answer.
See, in our case, there was no defining moment that changed it all. No playground throw down that marked a pivotal turning point for us, or a monstrous betrayal that demolished our chances of having a hearty friendship.
Instead, our aversion bloomed at a sluggish, long-drawn-out pace with a snide remark here and a displeased eye roll there. Until a time came where we couldn’t be in the same room together, without slashing a multitude of obscene remarks back and forth at each other. That is, until an innocent bystander was forced to break us apart.
Sounds complicated, right? Well, that was Mae for you.
Now, in football, there were a few key components that made up an ideal center quarterback exchange—pressure, push, and pull. Cleverly coined as “The Three P’s”. Thankfully, the many years I’d had to dwell on Mae and I’s mutual disdain gave me ample time to categorize our relationship—or lack thereof—into three pillars that I conveniently liked to call “The Three C’s”.
Competition. Conflict. Control.
It was a principal rule that at any given moment in time, no less than one of the aforementioned pillars was at play between the two of us. For example, until a few weeks ago, I hadn’t seen Mae in nearly seven years. During that time, the element of competition still loomed within every Page Six article and Socialgram photo. Both of which acted as an implicit tally of our latest accolades and career achievements, despite us living nine hundred miles apart with no contact.
If it wasn’t already clear, Mae was the last person I intended to seek out in my time of need. Yet, somehow, I caught myself standing in her backyard peering down at her skimpy blue bikini covered body asking—nay, begging—for a favor.
“Mae, sweetheart. Please,” I pleaded, contemplating how far into the afterlife she would mock me if I dropped to my knees with beggar hands.
A scoff escaped Mae’s lips and a pained expression spread over her face as she pushed herself off the chaise lounge she’d been lying on and breezed past me. Shaking my head, I swept away a bead of sweat from my hairline with my tattooed forearm and watched as she marched toward her back door, attempting to rid herself of my presence.
Which was somewhat understandable given that mere moments ago, I all but demanded that I move into her pool house without giving any prior explanation.
Some might say inviting yourself to live in your sworn enemy’s backyard was rock bottom. And if that was the case, I’d need a search party sent to the darkest depths of the Atlantic immediately.
In the meantime, we shouldn’t overlook the fact that this moment right here was a prime example of “The Three C’s” in action. You see, in this instance, Mae and I were exercising one of, if not the most, important pillars—control. Unfortunately for me, though, she was in possession of power this time around. Not only did she have the ability to escape inside at any second, but she also had the final say in whether she’d deny helping me, which could, in turn, leave me both emasculated and on the hunt for a house.
Neither of which were ideal.
“Sweetheart, I’m sure we can talk through this…”
“Eww.” Mae’s entire body cringed as she swiveled on her heels to face me. “Do not ever call me ‘sweetheart’ again.”
“How about sugar tits instead?” I chided, slipping my gaze down to the thin turquoise material covering her perky breasts. Although seeing the glower on her face as I inched my eyes back upward gave me an overwhelming inkling she wasn’t charmed by my proposition.
Such a shame.
The thing about Mae, was that she’d grown immune to my taunts by the time we were teenagers. However, since our recent reconnection—no thanks to her sister, Scarlett—there was no mistaking her stiffened shock at my newest lineup of lewd remarks. For the better half of a decade, I’d been carefully brewing a new set of ready-to-use annoyances for when we inevitably crossed paths again. Nice to see my years of mental handiwork coming to good use. Best of all, there weren’t any parents or teachers around these days to reprimand me when things got out of hand.
“If I ever catch you gawking at my tits again, I swear to god I’ll wear a turtleneck and peacoat every second until I’m six feet under the ground.”
“Good thing you’re already on the fast track to hell, because lying is a sin.” The corners of my mouth quirked upward into a playful grin as I called her bluff. Just as I suspected, she stood there with a stern-faced expression, stopped in her tracks without so much as a comeback stuck on her lips.
Granted, it wasn’t difficult to conclude her claim as false, being that we were standing outside in one-hundred-and-five-degree Miami heat where she was quite literally frying herself by the pool in next to nothing a few minutes ago.
“Try me, Calhoun… I dare you.”
Apparently, our time apart had made her rusty. Her quarreling tactics desperately needed refining if she wanted to come anywhere close to unnerving me.
