Page 32 of Just Playin'
When I reach the bar, the bartender greets me like Mr. Mystra always did—she’s just forty years younger and nowhere near as short and pudgy. “You haven’t aged a day.”
She nudges her head to the display cabinet the winning ball and team photo is displayed in before locking her eyes with mine. The sparkle of attraction in her hooded gaze would usually have my cock paying very careful attention, but he’s not even twitching tonight.
Don’t get me wrong; the barmaid is attractive with her long, dark locks, pulse-quickening green eyes, and a rocking body; my cock just has his sights on an even more appealing brunette than the one giving me all the right signals at the completely wrong time.
“I’m looking for my friend, around five-four, curly brown hair.” I project my voice to ensure the bartender can hear me over the hum of patrons, but she still appears lost. Unsure if she’s confused by my lack of interest or my description of Willow, I try another tactic. “She’s been plied with vodka by three douchebags hoping to get in her panties.”
“Oh.” Now she’s clued in. “She’s over by the jukebox.” She sets down the glass she’s polishing before pointing to the far left-hand corner of the room.
I jerk up my chin in thanks before taking off in the direction she’s pointing.
“If it doesn’t work out, you know where to find me. My shift finishes at twelve. . .”
If she continues talking, I wouldn’t know it. Her sultry voice was swallowed by the roar of the crowd watching re-runs of Foster’s third touchdown of the night.
I make it three-quarters of the way across the peanut shell-coated floor before my dimpled chin, carved cheekbones, and trademark wonky smile give me away.
“Hey, it’s Presley Carlton. Great game tonight!”
“Oh my god, my dad is going to flip! Can you sign my cap?”
“Mr. Carlton, do you have any tips on how I can improve my game? Coach has been riding my ass all season, but I’m still not meeting targets. If I don’t shape up, he’ll ship me out.”
I smile at the first greeter, haphazardly sign the 69er’s cap the second shoves into my chest, then lower my eyes to the beer the third accoster is clutching before swinging them to the mountain load of empty glasses on his table sitting next to an open packet of cigarettes.
Enough said.
“I’ll quit right now.” He fumbles his words just like his hands when he dumps his half-chugged beer on the table before submerging his cigarette pack into the liquid. “There. Done. Thanks, Mr. Carlton.”
I smirk, wishing it was that easy before continuing to cross the room. I find Willow a few seconds later. Her back is flattened against the jukebox as she attempts to get as much space between her and the asshat who is crowding her as she can. She doesn’t seem impressed with whatever he’s whispering in her ear. Her shoulders are high in annoyance, and her fitted shirt has no chance in hell of hiding the thrust of her chest. She’s not just annoyed, she’s quite possibly frightened.
I rush over to save her, but my liberation comes too late. Willow’s knee becomes friendly with the man’s groin before I get within an inch of her. He topples to the ground like I did weeks ago, his screams as tormented as the ones I shredded when I felt seconds from death.
When Willow leans over his fetal-curled frame, I expect her to offer him the same assistance she gave me. She doesn’t. She lays her boot into his ribs, her kick firm enough to cover his sports blazer with peanut shells.
“John Farnham is a national icon! How dare you compare him to Peter Andre!”
She makes a gagging noise, like everyone within a five-mile radius understands who she’s talking about. We have no fucking clue. The dozen or so people surrounding her are peering at her with as much blankness in their eyes as my face is holding.
“So no, Archer-Mac-Farcher, I don’t want to show you my map of Tasmania. Australia has enough droughts to contend with without adding the dryness your tacky ‘I’ll make you so wet you’ll fill a river’ line caused the area between my legs.”
After a final sneer that includes an incredibly cute screwed up nose and prolonged stare, Willow steps over a writhing Archer to head back to the bar. She makes it two steps away before she notices me at the side, gawking at her. I expect her sass to continue, to give me as good as she gave Archer, but she does no such thing. She withers like a picked flower left on the windowsill in the midday sun before racing toward the exit.
Her race through the crowd is made with ease. I’m not so lucky. I’m stopped and asked for autographs multiple times, and the ones without a Sharpie hover close to pat me on the back in silent congratulations on the supposed “great game” I had.
By the time I make it outside, my car is getting a boot placed on it, and Willow is halfway down the block.
“I’ll be back.” I give the parking attendant a severe finger point before taking off after Willow.
A squeak pops out of her mouth when I band my arm around her waist, tug her into my torso, then spin her around. I probably just scared the living hell out of her, but with my car seconds from being towed, I don’t have time to offer an introduction.
“Please not tonight, E. My stomach is swirling, and your car just got back its new car smell. Do you really want to risk it?”
I tug her into my embrace a little tighter, loving that she called me “E.” Elvis is the annoying nickname I was given by a football camp coach who had an obsession with the “King of Rock.” Like everything when you’re seventeen, it spread through camp like wildfire. By the end of the day, everyone was using it.
Unfortunately, even those closest to me knowing how much I hate it hasn’t stopped them from using it. Thank fuck I’m mostly referred to by my last name. It’s the name commentators and fans scream when I’m sprinting down the sideline or throwing a perfect ball to the receiver, so for the most part, Elvis is an alias only those closest to me use. But I like “E.” It has a nice ring to it. Especially when it’s voiced by an inebriated Australian girl who could read the dictionary and make it sound sexy.
Willow sags into my chest when I ask, “Did you eat anything before you went out drinking? Or did you chug them down like a novice on an empty stomach?”
