WREN

“Bold move,” Mike chuckles as I tap fresh drink orders into the computer.

From the corners of my eyes I ask, “What are you talking about?”

“Snubbing our very own star quarterback.” He jerks his chin toward the horde of testosterone. “And the only reason we’re making so much dough today.”

I return to typing. “His friend called me Sweet Tits, Mike. I don’t have to take that from anybody. Carla even said so.”

“You think she meant them?”

“I think she included everyone who acts like a Neanderthal,” I mutter, tapping one last Orpheus beer in before punching send. Pulling out the song I’d begun to write on a napkin, from my pocket, I read it and change one of the lines quickly while I wait for my drinks. Looking up I ask, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Mike opens beer bottles with flare, caps flying. “Stop writing music and focus.”

“I’m focused!”

“Then stop jeopardizing my bank roll by treating the Falcons like dumb jocks. And you’re not fooling anyone. You’re the only girl here pretending to be immune.”

“You must be high. This is no act.”

“Hey Wren, give me a fuckin’ break, would ya? I’m a dude and even I can see Eric is one handsome motherfucker.”

“You forget I’m taken and don’t care.”

“I’ve seen your boyfriend. He’s a dork.”

Tossing a dirty towel at my co-worker, I laugh, “Don’t talk about Peter like that!”

“He is!”

“You see that string of drink tickets? Those mojitos won’t make themselves.”

Chuckling, Mike rips the paper from the printer and gets to work, hands moving so fast it reminds me why I like him back there with me on Friday and Saturday nights.

I took this cocktail-server shift from Eleanor because it was her weekend with her kids, and their dad took them to Six Flags last Sunday. She wouldn’t let the jerk show her up. She scraped the cash together and took them there again today. What kid doesn’t want to ride rollercoasters twice in a week? But Eleanor was sly, because this time Antoine and Tia were there when the park opened and will stay ‘til it closes. They don’t have a clue about her ulterior motivation of maintaining her status as Best Mom Ever. They just think she’s awesome. Neat trick.

One of my customers shouts over a cloud of heads, “Hey, can we have our check?”

I nod to her and print it, digging for the correlating credit card in my stack and notice Mike thumping down a series of shots I didn’t ask for.

“What’re those?”

“You’re bringing these to the Falcons.”

My eyes go wide. “The fuck I am!”

He lays his palms on the counter, glasses wobbling under his weight. “You are, and that’s final. I’ve got a mortgage. You’ve gotta buy whatever it is you buy. Go make ‘em happy!”

Stacking my tray full I grumble, “Next you’ll be ordering me to blow ‘em.”

“You think I want to wear those shots?”

“Oh, that’s what’s stopping you? That I’d spill these on your precious tank top?”

Without looking back he gives me a disinterested this conversation is over wave, and returns to his customers.

Here I reluctantly go, balancing my tray high above drunk and sticky sardines. “Excuse me. To your left. Coming through. Right behind you. Whoa! It’s okay, I’ve got it. You’re good. Nope, didn’t spill. Thank you! Just let me pass.”

Mike’s not wrong. The players could go anywhere. I suspect they’re repeat regulars to ensure that every girl in Atlanta knows where to find them, offering the team an eager selection of hopefuls.

So gross.

The horrible fact that I’m a fan of football makes this that much sadder. How they act off the field almost ruins it for me.

Thank God I have someone like Peter now. He’s so thoughtful and humble, like a lot of drummers are. He doesn’t need to be in front of the stage but he’s got music in his veins, like I do. He’d never act like those guys even if he had the option to, say if his band exploded with huge success. He believes the objectification of women to be completely offensive.

Speaking of offense, Mott LaRock, Offensive Center, jersey number 55, spots my approach and grins, “Sweet Tits! Those for us?”

Forcing a smile through gritted teeth I answer, “Yep!”

Quarterback Eric Cocker, jersey 3, glances around. “Who ordered these? You, Tony?”

“Nope.” Running Back, Tony Sanchez, jersey number 72, shrugs a ripped shoulder that has dodged more tackles in one game than I have fingers and toes. “Not me.”

Mott slaps Cocker’s back and announces his theory, “Aw, she came back to you, buddy, to make up and make out!”

The sexy lopsided grin our quarterback is famous for lights up his face and makes those dreamy hazel eyes sparkle like a true-north star. “I doubt it, Mott. Much as I’d be open to it, our waitress looks too pissed to be offering up those kissable lips of hers. Wait, am I wrong? Want to climb up on me and lock tongues?”

I struggle not to smile, because he is charming as hell. “Can’t wait not to do that.”

His teammates laugh.

But their girls are staring like I’m competition. God, I hate it that women treat each other like this. If we didn’t stab each other in the backs so often over a man, we wouldn’t be so damn afraid to relax, be friendly and have fun. Just because I’m not hideous and I like lipstick, too, doesn’t mean anything at all.

I am not a threat.

What’s ironic is we’re the ones complaining that men start wars, when we won’t end the one amongst ourselves. Makes me angry.

I’m here trying to make it clear that I want to work, not flirt.

The cocks they’ve claimed, are safe.

I mean…jocks.

Heheh.

But Eric doesn’t have a girl hanging on his ripped shoulder. As the guys block tables so I can’t set these freebies down anywhere, he sidles up to me, eyeing the shots. “Want me to take these bad boys off your hands so you can do what you really want to do?”

Holding his gaze, I tilt my head, “I can’t wait to hear what that might be.”

He grins, but gets sober again to lower his voice and say in the sexiest way, “You want to tangle that tattooed hand in my hair and tuck my face between your thighs for a good, long and slow hour.”

My jaw drops. I can’t speak. And all the guys lean forward, dying to hear my witty comeback.

But I’m so stunned all I can muster is a stuttering, “Wow, you are such a jerk!”

He winks at me. “Jerks are great in bed—you can leave them while they sleep and not feel the least bit guilty about it.”

“I’ll remember that if I’m ever stupid enough to fuck one.”

The Falcons go up in arms with laughter and cheering. Eric right along with them. His smile is so gorgeous it’s impossible not to feel warm under it.

Clearing my throat I decide to hand-serve the team their shots. He goes to help me, which completely throws my balance off. “You can’t lift them for me when the tray is this full.”

“Oh, sorry!” Holding up his hands we hold our breaths as the skinny glasses settle. The overflowing mugs were fine. Mojitos, solid. But those little shots aren’t made to hold liquid long-term.

“That was close,” I gasp.

Mott reaches out. In slow motion my eyebrows fly up, body tensing as his meaty hand hits the bottom and sends the drinks flying. Booze exploding everywhere. Eric gets soaked. I’m even wetter. The rest of the team saw it coming and backed out of range. Glass shatters around our dripping feet.

Mott grins with pride, quips, “Cocker, I got her all wet for you!”

I lunge for him.

Eric hooks his arm around my waist like I’m a football, lifts me into the air while a slew of curse words pour from my mouth. “Okay now, whatever your name is, let’s get you out of here before you lose your job.”

As he carries me to the bathrooms I am fighting him. Finally he sets me down as I pant, “Your friend has the brain of a turd!”

Eric chuckles, hair dripping as much as mine is. He tells the curious line, “Ladies, she’s on the clock and needs to get cleaned up. Unisex stalls right?”

Ready to give him anything he ever asked for, they wave us to the front. “Sure, Eric.” “Oh, gosh, you guys are all wet!” “I saw what Mott did…where are you guys going after?”

He ignores their questions and drags a hand through his soaked hair.

Tapping my feet, sticky all over, I demand, “What are you doing here still?”

He points at the white t-shirt plastered to his torso that is completely transparent now, nipples in tight, dark little points. “Does this look normal to you?”

Blinking at it I mutter, “Nope.”

I’m not referring to how drenched the man is.

His body is what’s not normal.

Mmm.

Mmm.

MMM.