“Taking advantage of me is just what I had in mind,” Trisha says, scribbling on a piece of paper. “Here. I'm staying in town for the weekend, we'll be hosting live coverage of the game tomorrow. Say . . . drinks, after the game?”
I take the paper and see that she's written her hotel and room number, along with a phone number that I assume is hers on it. “Sorry, but I'm taken. Flattered, for sure . . . but not available.”
“Well, you think about it,” Trisha says, giving me a saucy look as she gets up. “Think about it,” she repeats
The producers are getting ready to bring the show back for the two guys who are getting ready for their game by game breakdown. I adjust my tie and get up, going off the set to where I see Mr. L standing, his lips pursed but he's nodding. “Not a canned answer.”
“Still a good one,” I reply, looking at the piece of paper in my hands. “Hey, you're a smoker, right?”
“Yeah,” Mr. Larroquette says, “as much as my wife gets on my ass about quitting, I can't help it on game days, I've gotta have my stogies. Why?”
“You got a lighter or some matches on you?”
He reaches into his coat pocket and comes out with an ornate Zippo, lots of scrollwork etched into the steel sides. He offers it, and I go over to the snack table, where there's an empty bowl that someone left behind. Flicking the spark wheel, I get a flame, and set the piece of paper on fire, dropping it in the bowl once it's fully ignited. “Why'd you do that?”
“Some things are more important than freaky sportscasters,” I explain, only to be interrupted by a cough behind us. I turn and see April standing there, her arms crossed and her leg cocked to the side. “Hi. When did you get back?”
“About five minutes ago, enough time to see her hit on you, and you burn that note,” she says, trying not to grin. “I got your chorizo.”
“I thought you told me you sent her to get goose sausage?” Larroquette asks with a smirk. He's not that dumb. “Either way, get some sleep, you'll need it. You’re going up against a great defense.”
He leaves, and I look at April, who's broken out in a smile as soon as he’s gone. Coming over, she puts her arms around my neck and gives me a kiss. “That, if you don't know, was the sexiest, most romantic thing I think any man has ever done for me. Not too many girls can say that their hunk of a boyfriend actually burned Trisha James' phone number. Especially when she had those huge boobs in your face.”
“She tried,” I tease, patting her butt, “How's your folks?”
“Dad's doing better, he's back in the home, and Mom had a good day today. She thought I was still in high school, but at least she recognized me. How're you feeling for tomorrow?”
“Good. I was just going to head home, will you join me?”
“I've got just a little bit of paperwork to turn in on these trips, since this is the end of the month. If I don't get them in, the accounting people get their panties in a twist,” April says with a chuckle. “So I'll head back to the office first. I'll be home by nine though.”
“Great, I'll pick up some butter chicken curry from that place down on the corner, we can relax.”
April smiles and gives me another kiss. “Just relax is right, mister. Remember, women weaken legs.”
She leaves, and I watch her go, smiling wistfully at the sight of her butt in her new jeans. Even April's clothes are changing, and she isn't hiding her figure as much as she used to.
I hear a hum behind me and I turn, seeing Trisha James sipping at a cup of what smells like coffee with an amused look on her face. “Well, at least I can see my number was burned for good reason.”
“A good one. I don’t suppose you can keep this one off your show?”
Trisha laughs and nods. “We cover football — not dating. Unless you do something on the field or involving the cops or something warranting a press release, we don't mess with it. Best of luck with that though, she looks like a nice girl.”
A producer calls out her name and she turns her head and waves. “That's my cue. Take care of yourself tomorrow.”
I nod and head out of the studio, hoping to catch up with April before she's left the parking lot, but I don't see her when I get out there. I shrug and head over to my Mustang, and put my keys in the door. “Excuse me, Tyler Paulson?”
I turn and see a guy in a sport coat and jeans, and he doesn't look like a fan wanting an autograph. Still, he doesn't look like a psycho either. “Yes, I'm Tyler Paulson. How can I help you?”
The guy whips out an envelope, and hands it to me. “Thanks. You've been served.”
He turns and walks away while I stand there, stunned, looking down at the envelope in my hand. Served? As in . . . a lawsuit?
My fingers tremble as I open the envelope, and unfold the notice inside. Ontario Court of Justice, the concern of Tyler Paulson vs. Catherine Paulinski and Greta Lawson in the matter of paternity and child support . . .
I blink, a pit in my stomach. Catherine Paulinski? Greta Lawson? Who the fuck are they?