Page 34 of Santa Has a Six-Pack
“You’ve got your routine rehearsed for the float, right?” I ask, back in full business mode now.
“Oh, it’s locked and loaded, lady.”
“Great. Just remember, this is a family event.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning… let’s keep the pelvic thrusts to a minimum?” He smirks, and I think better of what I just said. “Actually, let’s be safe and eliminate thrusting entirely.”
“As you wish, ma’am.” He gives me a little salute. “You are not partial to thrusting. Roger that.”
Dear God.
“I am your handler, so?—”
“My what-ler?”
“Matt’s always needed a handler!” Eugene jokes. “This is great!”
I take a breath and do my best to stay professional. “What I meant is, I am your point person on Thursday morning. I’ll make sure you know where to go. What to do. Basically, I’ll take care of all the logistics so you can focus on your performance.” I walk backward, away from him, and continue talking. “We’ll see you bright and early on Thanksgiving.”
“You sure will,” he says. “Until then, stay hydrated, be sure to stretch, and stay clear of those crotch fires. I hear they can be really dangerous.” He winks again.
I roll my eyes and haul ass toward the subway, Keira trailing me.
This guy will be the death of me.
Chapter 10
Matt
Who’s got two thumbs, a killer routine, and is absolutely bringing the house down in the Thanksgiving Parade right now?
This guy.
News flash: these floats are way wobblier than they seem when you watch them on TV. All this time, I had no idea that the performers were fighting like hell to stay upright and not plummet into the stands. Also, it’s cold as fuck out here. I can’t feel my fingers. And my toes? Forget it. They’ve been numb blocks of ice since eight a.m.
Despite all that, I am blissed the hell out.
Because I didn’t think I would ever have the opportunity to perform like this again.
Well, to be fair, I’ve never performed exactly like this before.
When I was a kid, I always imagined I’d have an acting career like Marlon Brando. I would be that mysterious, tough guy who was super serious about his craft. And I assumed the whole world would naturally respond to my mysterious tough guy work. Turns out that while I may be a funny, creative guy, there’s never been anything tough or mysterious about me. I wear my heart on my sleeve, I can’t memorize lines for shit, and past performances always led to an insane amount of anxiety.
When I’m in fitness mode, though? It’s a whole different story. I’m totally at ease.
I have been exercising for the past three-and-a-half hours straight in frigid temperatures for an in-person crowd of 3.5 million, with over fifty million people watching at home. Every time I do a squat, a dip, or a press, a crowd of women in multicolored parkas and knitted hats clap and squeal at me like I’m my own one-person boy band.
Turns out there’s only one woman whose attention I want.
I spot Penny in the stands, her clipboard in hand. She’s wearing a brightly colored parka, too, but it’s unzipped. She’s hatless and gloveless. Her hair is blowing in the thirty-two-degree breeze. She’s calm, cool, and collected. Like always.
She locks eyes with me for a moment, gives me a nod, then says something I can’t hear into her headset.
All business.
And hot as hell.
