shopping sprees and outrageous snobbishness.
The football wives constantly compared notes on how much money they spent on cars, houses, jewelry, and clothes. Oh, the clothes! They were always trying to out-dress each other. Carmen couldn’t relate. She liked to wear simple clothes that she could launder in the washing machine, and Natron appreciated her casual style. Impressing people wasn’t on Carmen’s agenda. If the garment needed dry-cleaning, she had no place for it in her closet. Her life was too practical and busy for all that.
Working as an artist, Carmen needed clothes that could handle a little mess. No matter how hard she tried, she usually had a smudge of paint somewhere on her—even with her paint smocks. Natron liked to find one, then tease her by licking it off, whether on her neck, her cheek, her forearm…
The thought sent chills running through her.
It still amazed her that Natron Dakers was her man.
She wasn’t famous, rich, or wildly successful. She wasn’t even beautiful in the traditional sense. Chunky by today’s beauty standards, she liked to think of herself as pleasingly plump. Natron said he loved her curves.
Across the room, Charmaine waved to her. Carmen waved back and smiled to herself, thinking Charmaine would eat the football wives for lunch. She imagined turning Charmaine loose on the snobby women and pictured Charmaine cutting them down to size in less time than it takes a lion to take down a zebra. The heiress was dressed to the nines as always in a chic black and white dress and she was flirting mercilessly with one of James’ executives. Poor guy; by the end of the day he’d be in love with Charmaine and she’d cast him aside as she did countless others.
Marley came over and gave her a hug. “Come sit with me, Carmen. Are you all set for drinks?”
“Yes. Thanks so much for having us.”
Marley looked at her as if she had sprouted another head. “Well, of course, Carmen. You’re the guest of honor. We’re all so excited to watch Natron play,” she said, squeezing Carmen’s hand.
They found seats near the front, and Carmen peered out the glass picture window just in time to see the Dallas Vipers’ offense take the field. She scanned the Astroturf for Natron and found him, lining up left of the line. Her daddy, number eighty-seven.
Natron crouched forward, his muscles tensed, and he stood like a statue waiting for the ball to be snapped.
At the snap, the quarterback, Clay Davis, handed the ball off to the running back. Natron blocked the cornerback, tying him up while the running back ran the ball ahead five yards.
Carmen watched, but for her, the rest of the game, including the location of the ball, was peripheral. During each play, her eyes stayed locked on Natron. He moved with the grace of an angel, displaying an athleticism that was rarely seen, even in professional football. She sighed a contented sigh. He was beautiful and she could watch him all day.
The Vipers continued to move the ball on the ground. Running the ball effectively not only got them closer to the goal-line, it also ground down the defense and opened up the passing game.
On the next play, Davis dropped back in the shotgun, ducked to his right to avoid an oncoming defensive end, and let the ball fly. Carmen followed the ball with an eagle’s intensity. Sprinting toward the end zone, number eighty-seven launched himself into the air, elevating at least a foot over the defender. Laying his body flat in the air, Natron reached for the ball. His hands curled around the swirling bomb and pulled in into his chest. The defender at his hip fell helplessly beside him and Natron landed in the end zone. Touchdown Vipers.
Cries of “Oh, my God!” and “Did you see that catch?” echoed throughout the suite. Hoots and hollers were accompanied by high-fives and fist bumps all around. Marley gave Carmen a little squeeze on the shoulder.
“He’s amazing.” Marley shook her head. “How does he
The football wives constantly compared notes on how much money they spent on cars, houses, jewelry, and clothes. Oh, the clothes! They were always trying to out-dress each other. Carmen couldn’t relate. She liked to wear simple clothes that she could launder in the washing machine, and Natron appreciated her casual style. Impressing people wasn’t on Carmen’s agenda. If the garment needed dry-cleaning, she had no place for it in her closet. Her life was too practical and busy for all that.
Working as an artist, Carmen needed clothes that could handle a little mess. No matter how hard she tried, she usually had a smudge of paint somewhere on her—even with her paint smocks. Natron liked to find one, then tease her by licking it off, whether on her neck, her cheek, her forearm…
The thought sent chills running through her.
It still amazed her that Natron Dakers was her man.
She wasn’t famous, rich, or wildly successful. She wasn’t even beautiful in the traditional sense. Chunky by today’s beauty standards, she liked to think of herself as pleasingly plump. Natron said he loved her curves.
Across the room, Charmaine waved to her. Carmen waved back and smiled to herself, thinking Charmaine would eat the football wives for lunch. She imagined turning Charmaine loose on the snobby women and pictured Charmaine cutting them down to size in less time than it takes a lion to take down a zebra. The heiress was dressed to the nines as always in a chic black and white dress and she was flirting mercilessly with one of James’ executives. Poor guy; by the end of the day he’d be in love with Charmaine and she’d cast him aside as she did countless others.
Marley came over and gave her a hug. “Come sit with me, Carmen. Are you all set for drinks?”
“Yes. Thanks so much for having us.”
Marley looked at her as if she had sprouted another head. “Well, of course, Carmen. You’re the guest of honor. We’re all so excited to watch Natron play,” she said, squeezing Carmen’s hand.
They found seats near the front, and Carmen peered out the glass picture window just in time to see the Dallas Vipers’ offense take the field. She scanned the Astroturf for Natron and found him, lining up left of the line. Her daddy, number eighty-seven.
Natron crouched forward, his muscles tensed, and he stood like a statue waiting for the ball to be snapped.
At the snap, the quarterback, Clay Davis, handed the ball off to the running back. Natron blocked the cornerback, tying him up while the running back ran the ball ahead five yards.
Carmen watched, but for her, the rest of the game, including the location of the ball, was peripheral. During each play, her eyes stayed locked on Natron. He moved with the grace of an angel, displaying an athleticism that was rarely seen, even in professional football. She sighed a contented sigh. He was beautiful and she could watch him all day.
The Vipers continued to move the ball on the ground. Running the ball effectively not only got them closer to the goal-line, it also ground down the defense and opened up the passing game.
On the next play, Davis dropped back in the shotgun, ducked to his right to avoid an oncoming defensive end, and let the ball fly. Carmen followed the ball with an eagle’s intensity. Sprinting toward the end zone, number eighty-seven launched himself into the air, elevating at least a foot over the defender. Laying his body flat in the air, Natron reached for the ball. His hands curled around the swirling bomb and pulled in into his chest. The defender at his hip fell helplessly beside him and Natron landed in the end zone. Touchdown Vipers.
Cries of “Oh, my God!” and “Did you see that catch?” echoed throughout the suite. Hoots and hollers were accompanied by high-fives and fist bumps all around. Marley gave Carmen a little squeeze on the shoulder.
“He’s amazing.” Marley shook her head. “How does he
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