Ladies Man (Manwhore #4)(33)
“Double zero.”
“Fitting, ’cause you’re a whole lot of nothing,” I say drolly.
“You’re a mean girl, Regina.” There’s a smile in his voice. “Now sleep.”
“I’ll sleep when you do.” I hang up, smiling down at the phone.
I’m still thinking about him when I finally turn off the lights. I’m still thinking about him in the middle of the night when I wonder where he is and who he’s with. Some girl he thinks he’s good enough for, even when he thinks he’s not good enough for me.
Well she’s welcome to him, really. I have Trent, who makes me happy, and who I’m good enough for. Trent only needs me, not a battalion of women like Tahoe does.
*
I’m sitting in the second row of bleachers at the large lacrosse field of Tahoe’s men’s league when the players shuffle out onto the field. I spot him instantly. Double zero. One of the tallest, largest forms out there. He wears a white jersey with red numbers. Cleats, shorts, shoulder pads, thick white gloves, elbow pads, and a helmet streaked in red and white. He’s wearing a helmet with a facemask—all the players are. But Tahoe also wears a visor underneath the facemask. It’s a swirl of colors, starting with red at the center, fanning out to orange to yellow to blue. I can’t see his eyes; but I can feel his stare as he looks up at the stands.
He looks as intimidating as shit as he heads straight to the middle of the field. He faces off against his opponent, hunches forward. They’re nearly nose to nose, their lacrosse sticks down on the ground.
He glances in my direction. My heart flips in my chest. Nervousness fills me for him, for the game or for some other reason, I don’t know, but I squirm a little in my seat.
“About to face off,” a voice through the speakers says.
I’m holding my breath by the time the whistle sounds.
It all happens so fast. Lacrosse is so quick, it’s hard to keep up as a spectator, hard to understand without prior knowledge. Muscled guys in uniforms run around the field, swinging their sticks. But I actually googled the game before so I know a little bit about what’s happening now.
The men hold their lacrosse sticks; they call them shafts or handles as well. They’re alloy metal or titanium, with a pocket that holds the ball. This ball is their ultimate possession. This ball is what Tahoe just scooped up, and the announcer yells, “Possession Red! Pinch and sweep, and he’s off!”
He moved so fast, the opponent fell, face flat to the ground.
He holds the stick low to his chest as he charges forward at full speed. Defense moves in; he stutter-steps and then split-dodges to the left, fooling the defense, and then throws over his head.
“Score Red!” the voice calls.
I try to catch my breath, but once again they’re facing off. Tahoe hunches low, glancing in my direction for just a second. It’s only a second, but it’s enough to make me suppress another squirm. He’s very menacing. No emotion on his face as he turns his head just a fraction, his colored visor flashing with the move.
Each team has ten players. The goalie, three defenses, three midfield men, three attackers—then two referees. Tahoe is the center midfield man, the one who faces off and fights for possession of the ball every time a game begins or a goal is scored.
He’s super quick, muscular in form and as athletic as a pro.
On his second face-off, he makes a fast break—claiming the ball with a flick of his wrist, a run, and a perfect pass. His team member catches and throws, and when team Black’s defense steps in to scoop up the ball, Tahoe charges forward.
“Check him, check him!” someone cries beside me.
Tahoe checks him by slapping his stick into the other guy, throwing checks left and right as he fights to recover possession. Before I know it, he’s not only scooped up the ball, but immediately passed it to a team member a foot away from the goal.
“Score Red!”
I can tell he’s comfortable with both hands, even his off hand. I can also tell he’s an aggressive, no-nonsense player. If anyone has the ball, he wants it, and he’ll check and use his speed, his wits, his everything to get it.
During the third face-off, he looks at me again. I came alone, am sitting here surrounded by strangers, but I don’t feel alone simply because he keeps turning his head to look at me in a way that makes me feel as if I’m with him.
His head remains tilted in my direction—they face off.
“Possession Black!”
His opponent runs with it; Tahoe gets so mad he charges forward and trucks him to the ground. “Unnecessary roughness,” the announcer says. “Illegal procedure number zero-zero, penalty box, thirty seconds.”
“Oh, that always happens,” someone beside me tells his friend. “He plays so aggressive, he always gets a penalty.”
I watch Tahoe grip his stick angrily as he storms to the box, seething as he drops down on one knee, his head canted up at the clock, waiting impatiently. A trainer approaches to offer him water, and he declines with a shake of his head.
The backup does the face-off, and the announcer soon calls, “Score Black!”
As the teams position at the center of the field again, Tahoe charges out of the penalty box.
He leans forward, in position to face off. He’s seething testosterone as he scoops up the ball and runs with it, so powerful that he throws the ball from far away. The ball blows up-field and the goalie sweeps to the right, but the ball hits the top shelf, right at the bar, then bounces inside.