Out of Bounds

“Do you surf a lot?” she asks me.

“Just started recently. Loving it so far.” Surfing is one of the few athletic activities that’s not forbidden by my contract, which is why I’ve been trying to get on the waves as often as I can these days. “What about you?”

“I’ve been doing it for a while. I try to go whenever I have a day off and it’s beautiful out like this. Let me know if you ever want a lesson,” she says, her tone flirty.

“I will take you up on that, no doubt,” I say, adjusting the ice pack. “You ever been hit by a board?”

“A few times. But not on the back of my head. Did you hear about the guy who runs Wild Sand Surf Shop down the road?”

“No. But wait. Let me guess.” I hold up a hand and scrunch my forehead, like I’m thinking hard. Then, as if I’m on a game show, I call out the answer. “I’ve got it. He was hit by a board?”

“Yes,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “Mr. Sarcasm. But wait till you hear where he was hit.”

“Oh man, this is gonna be good.”

“It is. Because his nickname is . . . wait for it . . . One-Eyed Jack.”

Reflexively, I cup a hand over my eye. “No. Say it isn’t so.”

She nods. “It is so. Tip of the board hit him here,” she says, tapping the corner of her eye. “He has a glass eye.”

I cringe. It takes a lot to make me cringe. But I really enjoy the use of my eyes. A lot. So, the prospect of not seeing is pure wince-worthy. “That’s really making me want to surf again.” I take a beat, then loudly add, “Not.”

“And every year on Halloween he goes all out. He slathers makeup all over his eye to look freaky. Like, fake blood and everything coming out of it.”

“That actually sounds mildly horrifying.”

She smiles wickedly. “It is absolutely mildly horrifying. But it’s a great costume for scaring people.”

I raise my chin. “What about you? What’s your scariest costume?”

She shrugs, saucily. “I just go as myself.”

“How’s that scary?” I say, moving closer to her. This woman is a firecracker, and I’m digging talking to her, and looking at her, and let’s just call a spade a spade. The only thing better would be talking, looking, and touching. Fucking would probably be quite nice too. Just saying. “You’re not scary. You’re sweet.”

She narrows her eyes. “No one ever calls attorneys sweet.”

“Ah, so you’re a shark.”

She hums the theme song for one of film’s most famous villains. “Call me Jaws.”

I love that she’s sarcastic and funny. Even better is the fact that she’s not a groupie. Sometime it’s nice to parlay the gig into a little bit of attention, or maybe a fun night out, since there are plenty of women who want a night with the quarterback. This chick? She doesn’t seem to have a clue I play ball, and it’s fun. I’m not complaining or saying no one likes me for me. Hardly. I’m simply enjoying that we’re a guy and a girl on the beach. I haven’t told her what I do though, and it seems strange to leave that out, so I decide to offer a sliver of it. “Just teasing about the shark part. I’m in the sports business, so some might call me that too.”

She raises her glass. “Let’s all be good sharks then.”

I clink my beer bottle to her glass and we both take drinks. That’s all either one of us says about work. She asks no more about sports, and I don’t offer, and that’s fine by me.

She sets down her glass, raises her hand, and reaches for the back of my head. Gently, she pushes the ice pack aside, brushing her palm over my head again. She’s got a reassuring touch. A caring one too. “Maybe you should go as a sexy nurse on Halloween,” I say softly. “Both seem to fit.”

A sweet smile spreads on her pretty face. After a few seconds, she adds, “But that’s not a scary costume.”

I shake my head. “It’s not at all. But you’d rock it.”

Her well of sarcasm seems to slip away from her as she as she whispers thank you. After a few seconds, she adds, “I think your goose egg is history, Andrew.”

I set the pack on the table, but she keeps her hand on me, rubbing the back of my head absently. Fuck, this is nice. More than nice. It’s arousing. Her touch stirs up other parts. One other part to be precise, and I silently curse the fact that I’m wearing board shorts. They don’t hide tents at all. But then again, who cares? If she wants to check out the package, I’ll salute her. I like her hands on me. I like her touching me. Hell, I like what I know of her so far.

She drops her hand and folds both in her lap.