Page 51 of Just for the Cameras
Two smoothies are set down in front of us, and we both politely thank the human being who served us, only for me to have to turn my gaze back to the rotten tomato in front of me.
“No amount of torture that you put me through will end this contract between us. And I don’t even know why you’re trying to end things in the first place.”
“Because I don’t want to do this,” he hisses at me.
“You don’t have a freaking choice,” I hiss right back. “The sooner you realize that, the better.” I get that he doesn’twantto help me out, but it’snot a lifelong commitment. It’s a few weeks and then he can just go on with his football-loving life.What’s his deal?“No matter how much you complain and whine and groan about helping out the freaking flamingos, nothing’s going to change. This is it, this is what you have to do, so why don’t you just suck it up and be nice?”
“Because that’s not who I am.”
“Clearly,” I say as I throw my hands up to the sky, lean back in my seat, and take a sip of my smoothie. “Oh wow, this is delicious. Is it strawberry banana?”
“Yeah.”
“Delightful.” I suck in some more and then turn my snarly gaze back on him. “Can we come to some sort of truce? An agreement that doesn’t make us both want to keep badgering each other? Because listen…man…I’m not the one who did this to you. Your team did. And I’m just the one you have to deal with, and if you ask my friends, I’m a pretty nice person. So if you could just drop the asshole persona to realize that, maybe we would get along better.”
“This coming from the person who said I’m lacking in brain cells.”
“Okay, I can admit when I’m wrong, and that was not nice to say,” I reply in a calm voice as the rest of his food is delivered. There’s a giant chunk of pineapple on the top of his fruit salad, and without even thinking about it, I snag it for myself, only for him to eye me and then pull his bowl closer to him. “But maybe we can start over. Okay.” I clear my throat. “Hi, I’m Maple Baker. I’m a flamingo zookeeper over at the San Francisco Zoo, I’m thirty years old, I have zero knowledge of the sport of football, and I really like music by Ed Sheeran.” I gesture to him. “Okay, your turn.”
“Not participating,” he says as he sticks some omelet on his fork and takes a huge bite.
“Fine, I’ll answer for you.” I take a sip of my smoothie, swallow, and then say, “Hi, I’m Graydon St. John, and I play defensive tackle—”
“Defensive end,” he grumbles.
“Oh, right.” My cheeks flame. “Hi, I’m Graydon St. John, and I play defensive end for the Seattle Foghorns—”
“San Francisco.”
“What?” I ask.
“You said Seattle. Last time I checked, we’re in San Francisco.”
“Did I? Huh. Maybe all the sweating and exertion has gotten to my brain. Not used to such a taxing effect being placed on my body.”
“Shame,” he says. “Sweating and exertion is all I fucking crave…”
When my eyes connect with his, all I see is darkness and innuendo…
Sexualinnuendo.
Visions of him sweating…
Exerting…
Sweating and exerting…
They both viciously flash through my mind like an erotic theater, causing a wave of sweat to break out on my lower back because I bet he knows how to sweat and exert properly.
Not that I’ve thought about it or anything.
But let’s be honest, one look at the man and you can gather he knows what he’s doing. No man with hands that large doesn’t know what he’s doing.
Flustered, I say, “Um, well, that’s…that’s information I didn’t know. So…good thing we are doing this, right?” I clear my throat, then nervously laugh. “So to sum it up, you like sweat and exertion, and you’re a defensive tackle, I mean end. Defensive end. And you eat a lot of protein and, umm…you like the combination of strawberries and bananas. Oh, and you live in San Francisco, not Seattle. Did I miss anything?”
He lifts his fruit bowl up and starts chomping away on fruit. “Nope.”
“Anything you want to add?”
