Most Valuable Playboy(26)
Once your name is slapped on the back of jerseys, though, you give up full-time anonymity. You take the chance that someone might recognize you anytime you leave the house. But, I have this theory. People don’t always recognize you when you’re walking around town because they don’t expect to see you grocery shopping or buying your own prophylactics. You can blend in more easily.
Even so, I do take the necessary precautions. Grabbing a Giants ball cap from my car, I pull it low on my forehead and cover my eyes with shades, even though the sun is slipping behind the water. I walk from my mom’s house along the beach and into town, jagged rocks and sand on one side of me, the main drag on the other.
When I reach the shops along the waterfront, I stop at a lamppost and survey the scene on the other side of the street.
Violet’s salon hangs out next to a wine shop on one side and a bicycle store on the other. Her block is also home to a dress boutique, an ice cream parlor, and one of those stores that sells horrendous T-shirts with sayings like “Old Guys Rule” and “Gone Fishing.” Heroes and Hairoines shuts its doors at six on Wednesdays, and as I stare at the floor-to-ceiling windows of the salon, an hour before closing, I can safely say my mom was exaggerating.
But only by a smidge.
The line doesn’t snake out the door, but a parade of tourists—and perhaps locals, too—crowds the front, snapping shots of the salon even at dusk.
I grab my phone, steeling myself as I open Google News, searching for my name. I aim to avoid personal searches, since they yield about the same level of satisfaction as eating cardboard for dinner does.
I lean against the lamppost by the water as a seagull lands by my side, squawking for food. “I don’t have any. Go find Ford,” I tell him. But this bird is one of those seagulls that doesn’t speak English, so he doesn’t move.
Quickly, I learn that Ford was right. The local online media has picked up on last night’s auction news, dubbing us The Quarterback and the Hometown Girl in one article, The Renegade and the Stylist in another. My favorite headline is one from a local gossip rag calling us The Baller and the Babe.
That’s some honest reporting right there. Violet is a total babe. I read the brief mention.
Ladies and gents in the Bay Area who’d been hoping for a night with the most valuable playboy will be crying in their cereal. The Renegades new starting quarterback is off the market since the fox from his hometown claimed him at auction last night. It turns out the baller who leads the team and the babe who snips hair in Sausalito have been locking lips for a while now. Let’s all just sigh and moan because it’s not fair that hot athletes only date models or hometown girls. How about us regular gals? Do we ever stand a chance with a superstar? At least the receiver is still single. Have you seen Jones Beckett’s hands?
Damn. The press jumped all over the event like paratroopers from a plane. I hop over to Twitter to see what fans are saying, and a quick search reveals exactly why Violet’s shop is suddenly on the map in a whole new way.
Darn, I’d been planning on flashing my boobs at him during the next home game.
* * *
The universe hates me. Not only is his GF hot, she’s also so sweet. But on the plus side, a new salon for me!
* * *
If I go to Heroes and Hairoines, maybe the Renegade hottie will show up and realize he wants me instead!
* * *
Who cares about dumb athletes? Did you see her hair? I’m so jelly of those locks!
I scoff at the last one, muttering, “Three-point-five GPA in college, thank you very much. And it was not inflated. But, Violet’s hair is pretty.”
As I scroll some more, I find cell phone shots of a woman standing outside the salon, pointing her thumb at it, wearing an Armstrong jersey. There’s one from last night of us answering questions on stage. Then a photo of us kissing. Then another. Then another. I zoom in on one, like the pervert I am. In this shot, I’m holding her face, my lips are crushed to hers, and her arms circle my neck. Spreading my thumbs on the screen, I enlarge the photo even more, zeroing in on her hands on the back of my head. Her fingers are threaded through my hair, and she’s clutching me tight. That does not look like the way a woman holds a man who kisses her weirdly.
That looks like a woman who wants to be kissed. Who wants to be touched. Who wants to be taken.
My blood heats as I remember the kiss. How my head was a haze and my body was amped full of electricity. How there was nothing else in that moment but the feel of her.
And now, as my skin heats, I want another moment like that.
Get yourself together.
I refuse to get turned on from a cell phone shot.