BENCHED (5 page)

The kid has the same look on her face.

“How do you have time to cook for yourself like this? Don’t you lift weights all day or something?” Phoebe says.

“I also do a lot of grunting and sullen scowling.”

She glares at me.

“If you want something done right, you do it yourself,” I tell her with a shrug.

“Yeah.”

Carrie looks back and forth between us, expectantly.

I eat fast, trying not to overstay my welcome. Phoebe doesn’t have much to say. She finishes hers and watches me eat four more plate loads of food.

“You eat like this every day?”

I shrug. “Gotta feed the beast.”

Carrie snorts.

Her mom appears utterly shocked to see her eating broccoli florets. She pops them in her mouth and chews them with grim determination, eventually clearing her plate of a good handful.

“Desert, scout?” Phoebe offers, cheerfully.

Carrie rubs her stomach. “I can’t. I’m too full. Can I go…”

“Do your homework? Yes,” Phoebe says, smiling.

Carrie moans theatrically and drags herself out of the room.

“She got out of doing the dishes,” I observe.

Phoebe looks at me blankly and then scowls. “You’re a bad influence on her.”

“Am I now?”

“You can leave any time.”

“Not until I help with the dishes.” Before she can say anything, I get up and load up, carrying the plates and pans into the kitchen. Phoebe follows me with the rest and drops it all on the counter.

“What are you up to?”

“The dishes.” I start filling the sink with hot water. “Wash or dry?”

“Excuse me.”

“I wash, you dry.” I sigh. “You didn’t call it.”

She takes up position next to me, and glares at me. I squirt soap into the sink, stop the faucet, and start washing.

“Why are you washing my dishes?”

“You’re tired. You had a long day and it’s my fault those vultures mobbed you. It’s the least I can do.”

“The least you can do is leave.”

I smirk.

“Just can’t let me be nice, can you?”

“You must want something. You’re too much of a dick to act like this for its own sake.”

“You wound me.”

“Right, like you care what I think. Your agent tell you to do this? I’m sure the league will love you taking the time to atone for your sins by helping out the harried single mom.”

I look around, theatrically. “You see anybody else here? It’s just us. No witnesses. I may be an asshole, but I’m not a complete asshole, okay? I’m really sorry for what I did and I’m trying to make up for it.”

“Try harder.”

I turn to face her. “Is that an invitation?”

“Pig,” she says, plucking the wet saucer from my hand to dry it.

I hand her another. “You seem kind of lonely. You could use a night out on the town.”

She freezes and looks at me in utter astonishment. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

“Sure, why not.”

“I…” Her jaw sets. “No. Absolutely not. I’d appreciate if you didn’t come back to my home.”

“Why not?”

She rounds on me. “Because you are an arrogant, self-centered, grandstanding jock and you have nothing but contempt for me. I know exactly how you see me. Poor little thing, she must be going through such a dry spell, right? News flash, Broadside. I don’t need a man, and I don’t especially need a gigolo that throws his dick in a different movie starlet every week. If you think you’re going to make me forget what an asshole you’ve been because you have a big cock, you’re wrong. I’m not that easy.”

“So you’re saying I have a big cock.”

She snarls in frustration, half yell and half growl. “Watch your damn mouth. My kid might overhear you.”

“You said it first.”

“I said no, first. No date, no socializing, no more awkward dinners where you eat out half my fridge.”

“That’s not the only thing I’d like to eat out.”

She turns beet red, I mean so red I think all the blood in her body just flowed to her cheeks. The look on her face is half rage and half…

She’s totally thinking about it. Hard. Visualizing it in exquisite detail. If she wasn’t, she wouldn’t be staring at my mouth.

“You jerk” is all she can manage. “Just leave.”

“I’m finishing the dishes.”

“I said leave.”

“There’s only a couple pots.”

“I can scrub my own pot.”

“I’d rather scrub your pot for you.”

“Get. Out.”

“Fine, fine, I’m leaving. Dinner was great. So about that date, pick you up at five on Friday?”

“Are you completely out of your mind?”

“What, you have something better to do?”

“Yes, spend some of my rare free time with my child.”

“So, that’s a no.”

“Yes.”

“So, that’s a yes?”

“Out!” she yells.

“Okay, fine, fine, I’m going.”

I strut to the front door and stand in the open doorway staring back at her. Her tank top is wet from drying dishes and clinging to her body. Her nipples are very hard, and her legs are shaking. She gives me a look that could melt steel, her lips parted a little like she’s thinking about hopping on my cock right now.

I give her a wave and pull the door shut, and strut back to my rental. I lock the front door behind me and stand there panting. My chin drops and I look down, staring at my own hard on tenting my shorts like it’s taunting me.

Fuck, that was hot. She’s got a mouth on her, that one. The bubbleheads Lou sets me up with just stare at me blankly half the time. I got sick of dealing with them after the fourth girlfriend who just lays there like a starfish while I do all the work, and started just taking them to dinner for appearance’s sake. Lou insists I look like the big stud, pulling down all the top class trim.

Whatever. He’d tell me to stay away from Phoebe. He tells me lots of things.

I need to take care of this. I trudge upstairs, shove my clothes off, and fall back against the wall, roughly jerking my cock as if I’m angry at it for getting me into this.

While I stroke myself, I picture Phoebe buck-ass naked. My mind’s eye puts a nice sheen of sweat on her for good measure, so I can imagine licking it off. I want my hands and mouth on her body. I want to taste her and kiss her and get her so wet, she pleads with me.

The thought of it gets me even harder. My balls tighten at the idea of caressing her collarbone with the tips of my fingers, of what her tongue would taste like in my mouth, how she would squirm and writhe in my hands as I eat her out. I wonder if she has those freckles all over her body as heavily as they are on her cheeks.

Imagining her bending over and flexing her tight ass while my cock slides into her drives me over the edge and I explode into my hands, panting and covered in sweat. God, I would fuck her into the ground, ram inside her and hammer her and keep going without stopping between climaxes so I could pump her full.

Panting, I climb into the shower and turn it on, hot and then ice cold. I lean my hands on the tiles and grit my teeth as the water flows over my back. Standing, I aim the spray straight at my crotch and suppress a cry from the chill.

After I stumble out and dry off, I look out the bedroom window across the yard at Phoebe’s house. She has her blinds drawn, but I can see her moving inside.

No, this is wrong.

The curtains are pretty sheer and I can see her walking around. She turns her back to the window and rubs at her neck, and I realize she’s topless. If she turns around--

I shove my curtains closed. No, I’m not shitty enough to spy on her. Even if she is prancing around gloriously naked, and she just took a shower and her hair is all wet and soft and would smell wonderful if I could bury my face in it and rake my hands up her body and give her breasts a squeeze.

Stop it, Alex.

Oh, well. I can probably avoid her. I have plenty to do on my own.

I have to coach peewee football tomorrow.

P
hoebe

D
amn it
.

I run over and close my curtains properly after I realize what I was doing. All he’d have to do is glance over from his house to see me prancing around naked in my bedroom after my shower.

God, I needed a shower. I also need one of those detachable shower heads.

What on earth is wrong with me? I despise this guy, but I can’t stop thinking about him, or keep my hands off myself when I do. As soon as I got in the shower, I started drifting off thinking of him bending me over the kitchen counter.

Maybe I was a little harsh with him earlier, but he’s so damned forward, making sex jokes and passes at me where my kid could hear. Carrie is oblivious, though. I found her lying on her bed passed out from all that food she ate, her (thankfully completed) homework still sitting on her little desk.

Okay, so, I’m going to stop thinking about him.

Until I lie in bed.

I have a big bed. A queen. I don’t take up very much room. When I lie in the middle and wrap myself in the sheets, I feel like I’m lying in the middle a snowy field, alone. I grab one of my pillows and hug it hard.

Stop thinking about Alexander Wright, Phoebe. Put him out of your head.

It’s a fool’s errand, trying not to think of him specifically, so I try not to think at all, and get some sleep. I have work tomorrow, then I have to pick Carrie up from practice.

Thinking about that makes me toss and turn. He doesn’t seem like the peewee coaching type, and I’m sure he’ll blow his stack when he sees they let girls on the team.

I couldn’t believe she was allowed to play myself, but when I took Carrie to register, I found three other girls already signed up. They’re only six or seven years old, after all, and football is in the blood around here. I was ready to argue with them to let her join, but they signed her right up.

She loves it, absolutely loves it. It’s so silly watching them run around in their goofy oversized helmets and pads. I never miss a game, but I can’t do every practice. A bus picks her up from the elementary school and drives her to the high school with the other kids to use their field.

After I finally get a fitful six or seven hours of sleep and drag myself out of bed, I push a groggy Carrie through the motions of preparing for school, energize her with Pop Tarts, and drop her off.

Then it’s back to traffic patrol. I make my stop at the station, gas up the Tahoe, and set up in a different spot a bit further down the road. This time no news vans crowd me. I get a few more tickets than usual, and the look on my face keeps their mouths shut.

Better day than most, worse than some. Just marking time.

I change at home before I drive over to pick up Carrie. I hate walking up in uniform with all the gear and my piece on my belt. It makes me nervous having it around the kids.

When I arrive at the field, he’s there.

Wright towers over the usual coach, Eddie McGinty, who stands with a clipboard and whistle, visibly annoyed at sharing his responsibility over the team.

A few other parents mill around, waiting for the practice session to end.

“Phoebe,” Eddie says, scowling at me.

“Hey, Ed. How’s it going?”

“They’re slow,” Alex grunts.

“They’re kids,” Eddie sighs.

I join him in glaring at Wright. “What are they doing?” I ask.

The kids are lined up, running from one end of the field to the other.

Well, from one line to the other. They don’t run the whole field; it’s too long.

“Wind sprints,” Wright says.

“Wind sprints,” I say.

“They’re six.”

“They’re football players.”

“Six-year-old football players.”

Eddie blows his whistle. “We’re done for the day,” he says.

The look on Wright’s face says
he’s
not done.

I can’t help it. I start laughing.

“What?” he growls.

“Oh my God, you’re actually into this.”

“Anything worth doing is worth doing well.”

I fold my arms over my chest and smirk at him. “Oh, really.”

“Really. I could show you. I can think of a few things worth doing with you.”

My heart tries to skip a beat, and fire burns its way up my neck and cheeks. I turn away and try to say something smart, but I’m running out of retorts.

“I’m sure” is all I can manage, hoping I sound droll.

“So you changed your mind, then? Friday? I’ll pick you up.”

“No. Besides, you have a game on Saturday. Remember?”

“Yeah, you can cook me breakfast first. You owe me a meal.”

“I didn’t ask you to cook dinner. I don’t owe you anything.”

He smirks. “Fine then, I’ll bring you breakfast in bed.”

I roll my eyes, dismissing him and his banter as Carrie runs up to me, carrying her helmet by the face shield. She’s flushed and sweaty and looks so excited, she could just burst.

Sparing Alexander a glance, I can’t help but think as I take my daughter’s hand. I haven’t had breakfast in bed in a long, long time. David did that for me the very first time we spent the night together.

Thinking of him in the same context as Alexander Wright forms a cold pit in my stomach, and I stumble a step in the grass.

“You’re coming to the game tomorrow, right, Mom?” Carrie asks, oblivious.

“Of course, honey, I’d never miss it.”

I walk her back to the Tahoe and put her in the front seat. She likes to wear her pads and uniform all the way home. I don’t even get why the need for pads considering they can’t actually tackle each other. Maybe it’s just for the sake of authenticity.

Carrie loves it.

When we get home, I send her upstairs to change and do her homework. I pre-heat the oven and drop onto the couch. I could use a beer. I haven’t been much of a drinker since David, but now and then, I feel like I could use a touch. Just something to take the edge off.

There’s a knock at my door

Resignation and panic clash in my head like waves meeting rocks. It’s either a door-to-door Jehovah’s Witness or it’s a reporter. I have very little tolerance for either. I go to the window and peel back the drapes to spy onto the porch before I open the door.

Standing on my porch are a pair of boys in uniform from Albie’s, the grocery store.

When the door opens, they hand me a list.

“Got your delivery, ma’am.”

“What?”

“Your delivery. Your husband called it in.”

“What husband?”

“Groceries. We’ll bring them inside, no trouble.”

I step back and gape at them as they haul load after load of bags into my kitchen. It takes them almost five minutes, and when they return to the door, they stand there. Expectantly. The taller one all but puts out his hand and coughs.

“I’ve got it,” Wright announces loudly, stepping onto my porch.

He pulls out a sheaf of bills and slaps one in both boys’ hands. They blink a few times, and the one almost opens his mouth before they realize that no, they are not dreaming and Broadside Wright just tipped them a hundred dollars, each. His look sends them scurrying.

He steps into my house.

“What are you doing?”

“It’d be rude to drop all this on your lap and not help you put it away.”

My mouth works, but I don’t manage to say anything before he walks right into my kitchen and starts organizing my groceries.

“Hey!” I yell as he takes a couple frozen dinners and pitches them in the garbage can. “What are you doing?”

“You don’t need this crap.”

“What? Yes, I do. What are we supposed to eat?” I pull open one of the bags of groceries he bought for me. “Artichokes?” I blurt out, holding one up.

“Yes,” he says, then snatches it from me and sticks it in the fruit drawer. “Time you and the kid ate some healthy food.”

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

He shrugs and keeps unpacking. “Are you going to stand there and rake me with your eyes or are you going to help?”

I grit my teeth and start sticking groceries into the fridge. He starts rearranging them.

“Milk goes on the left.”

“In my house, milk goes on the right.”

He stands to his full height and looks down at me. “Heathen,” he whispers, then reaches in and shoves the milk to the left hand side of the shelf.

“These are all raw ingredients. What do you expect me to do with this, spend hours every night cooking a--”

Just then, Carrie appears in the kitchen. “I’m done with my homework.” She stops in her tracks and cranes up to look at Wright.

“Whoa,” she whispers.

“Hey, kid.”

“Are you going to make dinner again?”

“No, he’s not. We’re having mac and cheese and Salisbury steak.”

“Awww.”

“Don’t aww me, young lady.”

“Salisbury steak sucks.”

“This does,” Wright says, shaking the box. “I’ll make you the real thing, kid. I got all the stuff here. Do what I tell you.”

“Yes, sir,” she says.

“Okay, get me the big frying pan, and…”

“Excuse me,” I cut in. “This is my kitchen.” I put my hands on my hips, stare up at him and glare.

“You are so cute when you’re angry,” he tells me.

“Carrie, get the pan out like he said and work on putting this stuff away. I need to talk to Mr. Wright on the back porch. Follow me.”

I storm outside onto my back deck and wait for him. He steps out, ducking a little as he passes under the door frame and stands next to me with his hands in his pockets.

“So--”

“Don’t you
ever
pull that ‘cute when you’re angry’ shit on me, you prick. Ever, do you understand?”

“What?”

“Look at me. Look. At. Me.”

He looks me in the eye and I flinch. Why is my vision blurring?

“I have to deal with that all day from the rest of the department and the whole goddamn town. Do you think you were clever with the stripper joke? I’ve heard that one a dozen times. Half the people I pull over try to flirt with me and the other half laugh at me. I’m a big joke all around, do you understand?”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I don’t care what you meant. I want somebody to take me seriously. Give me a little respect. Just a little. I have to claw my way through every day just to get back here and have some time with my little girl. I don’t want you ruining it.”

“Hey,” he says. His big hands shoot out and his fingers close around my upper arms. Jesus, his hands are so enormous, he can close them around my biceps. I suck in air and it turns into a snort.

“Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying!”

“Yeah, you’re not. I’m saying don’t start.”

I push his hands down my arms and off me. When they brush my skin, it’s like an electric current running through my flesh. His hands are rough, his palms calloused and coarse from lifting weights. Mine are the same, toughed by scrubbing dishes and gripping the knurling on my chin-up bar.

I used to have soft hands. I used to have a soft me.

“You, okay?”

Even though I despise myself for it, I rub my eyes with my hand. The back of my wrist comes away a little wet with tears.

“What are you doing this for? What do you want?”

He shrugs. “I told you. I want to make up for what I did.”

“You are. You’re coaching the games. You don’t have to be my butler.”

“I’m trying to take a burden off you. Like you said, I don’t have anything better to do.”

“Yes, but you don’t have to make it up to
me.
That’s what I’m trying to say.”

“Yes, I do.”

I fold my arms over my chest and give him an arched eyebrow. Carrie calls it my Mommy Eyebrow.

“Why?”

“‘Cause I don’t give a shit about the ticket. Or the car, they can keep it.”

“Oh, please, this isn’t the time to make a pass at me.”

“I want to make it right with you. I gotta go cook.”

He turns before I can say anything and strides back into my house like he owns the place. I run after him, back through the mud room and into the kitchen.

“You ready?” he asks Carrie.

“Ready for what?”

“I’ll handle dinner, you go sit on the couch or whatever. Draw a bath and light candles, whatever girls do to calm down.”

I give him a sharp look, but stride past him and into the living room. There, I sink into my couch and let out a blissful sigh. I have a great couch, one of my favorite possessions. It’s comfy as hell.

This time I’m not treated to the sight of my own house on CNN. The media has moved on, probably. No one cares about anything for more than a day or two, anyway. I specifically avoid ESPN. No need to see myself on Sports Center or whatever.

At some point, I fall asleep and wake up to Carrie shaking me by the shoulder.

“Dinner, Mom.”

With a yawn, I rise and walk into the dining room. Wright made good on his promise, and there’s a casserole dish full of steaming beef patties in onion gravy in the middle of the table, along with a big bowl of vegetables and rice. Carrie hungrily serves herself. She glances at Wright and puts a big pile of veggies on her plate.

He stands and serves me when I reach for the big serving spoon. I glare at him but say nothing as he loads up my plate, then sits to fill his own.

God, he must have cooked twenty burger patties. Yet, somehow, they disappear. I keep my mouth shut and watch Carrie animatedly talk about football things with him.

To tell the truth, I don’t much care for football. At all. I don’t even really know how it’s played beyond the basics. I don’t know how Carrie became so fascinated with it. I don’t know why I didn’t try to discourage her, but it just feels wrong for me, being who I am and doing what I do.

The only thing that bothers me is that she’ll have to stop. She’s not going to play in high school, period. I worry she’ll get made fun of, but no one seems to care. They give her more shit for me being a cop than anything else.

Wright is telling her some story about a game. She listens to him like he’s a time traveler or an alien, hanging on every word, absolutely rapt. He still shovels food in his mouth, but he answers all of her animated questions and patiently listens to her talk.