He smiled to himself. It was a crappy old complex on the outside, but Troy had done a little work on the inside. He’d painted, for one thing, and bought a nice, deep and fluffy area rug to put over the old and worn carpeting in the living room. He had some nice shelving and a fifty-seven-inch flat screen. He’d made repairs and improvements here and there, like taking down the shower curtain and installing a glass shower door, sanding and refinishing the bathroom cabinets, scrubbing the place like he owned it. His parents’ old leather sectional fit right in. The only things he had that were new were the butcher-block table and high chairs. His bedroom furniture was only a few years old and he had been collecting a few framed LeRoy Neiman prints for the walls. The frames were more valuable than the prints, but he liked Neiman’s sports art.
“Make yourself at home. Help yourself to anything—eat, drink, whatever. There’s the remote. I have to get a shower. I’ll be quick.”
He left her standing in the small living room. Once he was under the hot water, sudsing the smell of salt and seaweed from his hair and body, he smiled to himself. Grace was a free spirit. A little wild and uncontrolled with a deep-down joy and playfulness that turned him on. He might’ve acted a little insulted at her lusty humor directed at him but, to be honest, he wouldn’t have it any other way. That was no prissy little laugh the girl had: she laughed down to her toes. There was passion in her.
He revisited his checklist in his mind and moved She must be a happy person to number one in his requirements. If that meant laughing at his foibles, he could live with that. Grace didn’t come across as whiny, self-pitying, cloying or desperate. If he demanded a woman be a good sport, then he had to be, too. And who forced him to jump that wall? He’d been showing off. He loved showing off.
She might just prove to be a good little playmate.
When he got back to the living room to Grace, she was curled up in the corner of the sectional, holding a cup of something hot with both hands. Her boots were sitting at attention beside the couch and she was wearing bright pink socks. One of the many New Year’s Day bowl games was on television. He stood looking down at her, smiling, with his hands on his hips.
“Do you feel better?” she asked a little sheepishly.
“I’m tempted to hold you down and give you something to really laugh about. You ticklish, Gracie?”
She pulled back a little. “Don’t even think about it,” she said, holding up the cup. “I’m armed.”
“What is that?”
“Hot chocolate. You had some envelopes of mix in the drawer by the refrigerator.”
He wrinkled his brow. “That could be very old.”
“I don’t think dry powders spoil. Want to taste it?”
“Thanks,” he said, reaching for the cup. She handed it to him and he put it behind him on the coffee table. Then he tackled her on the couch. While she shrieked and begged and laughed, he pinned her with his body and attempted to tickle her.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she squealed.
“What are you sorry for, Grace?” he asked, a devilish gleam in his eyes, pinning her to the sofa.
“I’m sorry I laughed and bruised your delicate little male ego,” she said, smiling.
“Ooh,” he growled, giving her a good rib-tickle.
“Ack! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Stop it, stop it!”
“What are you sorry for?”
“Okay, I lost it, I was out of control, I laughed at you when you were vulnerable and I’m sorry. No tickling!”
“A cop was threatening to arrest me for indecent exposure!” Troy said. “He thought I was a parking lot predator!”
A smile beamed across her face. “That was the best,” she said. “I’m sorry, but that was the best part. Although, that wave...I will never see anything like that again in my lifetime! You are an excellent fun coach.”
“It wasn’t my intention that you have fun at my expense,” he said. But he was smiling when he said it. “I was going to show you how to have a good time.”
“And so you did,” she said, smiling into his eyes. “Think of how successful that might’ve been if you could read. I mean, there was a sign. Can I make you some stale hot chocolate?”
“I don’t think so. I think my mother sent me that in one of her many boring care packages. What should we do today? Want to go out? Any ideas?”
She shook her head.
“Let’s stay in,” he said. “Let’s make some game food. I have stuff in the freezer. I have tri-tip and buns for tri-tip sliders. Or we can go with wings or pizza. I have beer but no wine.”
“I have wine in the flower cooler,” she said. “I just feel like such a slouch, eating so much trash and bar food.”
“I’ll slice some onion and pickles for your sliders. I have some deli potato salad but I don’t know...”
“Dangerous?” she asked.
“By this date, very likely. I don’t expect you to be that much of a good sport.”
“Oh, so that’s your game? You want a good sport?”
He gave her a quick kiss. “I want to enjoy myself with someone who’s enjoying herself. I have a feeling, a dark feeling, you don’t need my help with that.”
“Okay. I’ll do one more day of carbs and fats. But the next time we eat together there will be green things.”
“I love green things,” he lied.
He told her to take the Jeep to her place to retrieve her wine and she brought back a Scrabble game. She also threw in a DVD of one of her favorite non-chick flicks, Red. He looked at it and said, “I love Red!”
“Just in case your brain goes numb from football,” she said. “But I can do football as long as you can.”
They had a rousing game of Scrabble, which Troy won by a stretch. They curled up on the couch together to watch Red. Every once in a while Troy invaded her space for a make-out session. In midafternoon they worked together in the kitchen to build some sliders, which they ate on big plates in front of the TV. Troy quizzed her about football teams and stats. “You’re a big football fan,” he said.
“I’m a small football fan,” she corrected. “Or maybe medium. I enjoy the game but I don’t live for it like some people do. And I have a good memory for football facts.”
“And your favorite sport?” he asked.
“That’s a tough question. I think I like watching everything competitive.”
“I think I’ll invite you to my Super Bowl party,” he said while they rinsed the dishes.
“You’re having a Super Bowl party?”
“Uh-huh,” he said, directing her back to the couch, pulling her down and getting her back in his arms. He loved that there was no hesitation from her. His arms went around her waist, hers went around his neck, lips on lips and bodies pressed together. It being the height of winter, the sun was lowering and the only light was that from the kitchen and the TV.
“Who’s coming to your party?” she asked, lips pressed against his neck.
“I’m thinking of a very small party. It could be a private party.” He caressed her back, her sides, ran a hand over her butt and down her thigh. “Maybe just us.”
“I’m not sleeping with