Hot Ticket (31 page)

“Oh, Case!”

Josh grabbed a napkin, swiped at the bits of chili, and said, “Next time, sport.”

At the same time, Lindy snatched up a napkin and said, “Blot, don’t wipe!—too late, it’s going to stain. Ah, Josh, look at your coat. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “Gives it character.”

“No, really. Send me the cleaning bill. I insist.”

“Lindy, I said it’s no big deal.” He wadded the messy napkins into a ball. “Now, what were we talking about? Oh, yes, dinner . . . with me. So how about it, beautiful?”

“Technically,” she said, flashing her best smile at his flirty vibes, “we are having dinner.”

Josh pointed to the array of junk food on the tabletop and said, “This is carnage, not dinner.”

“Not what you had in mind? No? Good. Say, is your team winning?”

He laughed and said, “My team certainly is . . .”

The rest of what he said was instantly lost to Lindy. Nothing registered, not that she was bored with football talk; it was more that she had bigger troubles brewing.

Her beer had hit rock bottom, and the urge to go stepped up its demand for immediate action. She darted an anxious glance over his shoulder, toward the nearest ladies’ bathroom.

The line was still long.

Josh must have pondered the meaning behind the glint in her eyes, because he turned his head, followed her gaze, and said, “Something wrong?”

Lindy drew breath to speak, but Casey didn’t give her the chance.

“Aunt Lindy has to pee,” he said, stuffing the last bite of hot dog in his mouth and looking up to find his aunt glaring at him. “What?” His eyes grew innocently wide, and he shrugged. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

“You used to be my favorite nephew,” Lindy said with a pointed stare. “Now, you’re out of the will.”

Josh laughed and ruffled Casey’s wavy brown hair.

“One day,” he said, “you’ll understand there are some things a man doesn’t share with strangers.”

“But you kissed my aunt,” Casey said. “You’re not a stranger.”

“Good point, but actually, your aunt kissed me. There’s a difference.”

As the two of them dissected the fine art of tonsil hockey, Lindy experienced a worrisome moment. The urge to go became relentless. Another few minutes and she feared it would threaten her with an embarrassing leak.

The female body was built to hold off Mother Nature only so long, and now the old girl’s time and patience were running out.

“I’m ducking in the men’s room,” Lindy said, gathering up their trash in one swipe as her feet headed in that direction. “It’s never busy in there.”

Both guys turned to her and blurted out in unison, “You can’t do that.”

Their single-mindedness brought her up short, and she angled back toward the table.

“And why not?”

“Women don’t belong there,” Josh said with a patronizing chuckle, “that’s why. Leave us at least one place where we can go to get away from females.”

Lindy’s auburn eyebrows shot upward.

“You really are a cowboy, aren’t you?” she said.

Any reservations or modesty or thoughts about decorum Lindy might have entertained vanished before the echo of his voice died. This wouldn’t be the first time she let a superior tone goad her into unknown adventures.

“Can I help it if we live in the age of accusation and litigation?” he said.

“The old CYA shuffle?” she countered. “Except the big boys
only cover their own asses. Women share their inner sanctum all the time with infants, toddlers, little kids, not to mention the beauty queens who sashay in to adjust their sugar thong around Uncle Jim and the twins. Be real. The ladies’ room is like a freakin’ Grand Central Station, but we’re supposed to hold the men’s room as sacrosanct? Oh, please.”

And on that note she turned, her sights set on the forbidden chamber. Josh and Casey fell into step beside her.

“Since you feel that way,” Josh said, “don’t let one of the security guards see you. It’d be a shame if they nabbed you as some kind of pervert.”

“I’m not ninety. I don’t intend to be in there that long. I’ll slip in and slip out. No problem.”

“Did I mention video cameras?”

“You think I’m kidding, don’t you?”

“Hey, far be it for me to stand in the way of a determined woman with a small bladder.”

Lindy halted, did a bank shot with the ball of trash into a metal can by the wall, and faced them.

“Fine,” she said. “Casey here will stand watch at the door for me. Won’t you, Case?”

“Say what?” Casey almost choked on a slurpy inhale of his soda. “I’m too young to be sent to jail. Are you willing to risk scarring me for life?”

“What happened to being young and fearless? And don’t be so dramatic. No one’s going to jail. Are you taking sides with Cowboy Bob here over your own flesh and blood?”

“We guys have to stick together. Right, Josh?”

“You bet, buddy.”

Lindy crossed her arms over her chest and offered a grim smile to both of them.

“It’s a long walk home, nephew. If you start now, you might make it in time for breakfast. Or not.”

Straw stuck in the side of his mouth, Casey sobered.

“I don’t know this guy, and I don’t agree with a thing he said. Which door you want to try, darling auntie? North or south?”

“Wait a minute,” Josh griped. “Throw me under the bus, why don’t you.”

“That’s my boy,” Lindy said. “Now, let’s try north. It’s closer.” She wrapped her arm around Casey’s shoulder and then turned to Josh and winked. “Back in a minute.”

“I’ve got to get going,” he said, tapping his wristwatch. “Halftime’s almost over.”

“Oh.” Her stomach fluttered, the aftermath of the kraut dog, she decided. “Okay, see you later, then.”

“Yeah . . . later.”

She’d plowed ahead through the milling crowd when she heard Josh behind her call, “Lindy, wait! Give me your number.”

She angled her head over her shoulder but kept walking.

“Why?” she said, suspicious about what was coming next.

“I’ll call you.”

Bingo.

Lindy mentally cringed. The line was an innocuous one, blithely spoken, and one usually tripping off the lips of a liar.

Every woman experienced the disappointment in that phrase at least once in her life. If he was really interested, he would have been a little more original, wouldn’t he? And here Lindy had a flicker of hope that she and the cowboy might actually possess the start to some serious chemistry.

“I’m in the book,” she called back, figuring that was definitely the end of that.

Fourth Quarter

What a dork.

Josh didn’t catch her last name, probably because she didn’t throw it. Stewart, maybe? Or did she spell it S-t-u-a-r-t?

Hell’s bells.

Had to be one of them. She was Casey’s aunt, after all. Surely, they’d share the same name.

Josh should’ve just asked her when he had the opportunity. Oh, no, that was too easy.

Much better to look for a needle in a haystack. With his luck, Lindy and Casey’s mom were sisters, so her last name could be Smith for all he knew.

Twice he went by her small box section on the way back from the pretzel and soda kiosks for his date, but Lindy’s seat was empty both times. Judging by Casey’s empty seat, too, Josh decided they must have headed home early to beat the traffic.

He wasn’t deterred. How long might it take to phone every Stewart and Stuart listed in the phone book?

Josh grinned to himself—nothing like a challenge.

Just as he was fed up with being the personal step-and-fetch-it boy of the narcissist he was with, a text message on his cell phone saved him from cracking his veneer of courtesy over her well-coifed head.

A few minutes later, in response to the message, he strolled into the new franchise owner’s luxury box, located high above the arena. The posh room was an unexpected beehive of energy.

Principal team owner W. C. Corsetti stood at the plate-glass window against the backdrop of the arena’s upper bleachers. He had an appreciation for the finer things in life as well as for deep-pocketed celebs who visited the Emerald Coast beaches and tipped waitresses with obnoxious abandon.

To those bicoastal star types, he extended a standing invite to watch games exclusively from his owner’s box, where he preferred the conveniences of privilege, which included a full-course meal complete with accommodating wait staff. And just then, Corsetti had his thinning silver head together with a country singer cum actor Josh had seen before but couldn’t put a name to.

Adjacent to them, his PR spokesman perched a hip on the corner of a massive cherry wood desk and yammered on a cell phone. Behind him, the franchise’s general manager slouched on an oxblood red leather sofa that faced the picture window and chattered into a hands-free phone stuck in his ear. The team president, who was also W.C.’s oldest son, was ensconced in a deep leather chair in the corner, wearing a sweet young blonde like wet underwear and gesturing as he spoke to someone on a landline phone.

Something was definitely up.

No matter the activity they engaged in for the team, W. C. Corsetti was the maypole around which they all circled.

A hardscrabble man of the old school with a boxer’s nose and bags under his eyes, he always wore a white suit and ivory string tie, no matter the season or the occasion. And in the age of permanent press, he favored pearly white silk shirts, handmade in Hong Kong.

He dressed like a tampon, acted nuts, and the local media loved him. Even before the season had officially opened, sports reporters had dubbed him the George Steinbrenner of the South.

It was because of Corsetti that management chose Josh’s cousin Snake as potential quarterback, not only because his nickname aligned him with the mascot, but because his flamboyant and brash mannerisms endeared him early on to the predominantly Southern fans.

The new team was Corsetti’s baby, comprised of a lot of free agents who were looking for good deals. But without Josh there to find an inoculation of capital, who knows if they would’ve survived in the league to play in the franchise’s inaugural season.

Truth be told, Josh made it happen.

He was the go-to guy, a venture capitalist who owned his own firm, which, loosely translated, meant he was a workaholic and a high-priced middleman. His livelihood came from marrying money to product—in this case, a consortium out of New York entering into a limited partnership with Corsetti.

Josh acknowledged the room’s occupants in a general greeting and received a variety of welcoming grunts and nods in return.

“You paged me, W.C.?” he called over the noisy voices.

Corsetti glanced up and waved Josh farther into the room.

“Junior worked the contraption for me,” he said. “C’mon in. Will someone fix this boy a drink?”

At the command, a waiter in a formal white coat and dark pants stepped out from around a well-stocked bar.

“No, thanks,” Josh said, waving him off. “I’m good.” Then to Corsetti, he added, “What’s up?”

“I’ll be with you in a minute.”

And Corsetti resumed his conversation with the actor.

Josh shrugged out of his jacket and hung it together with his hat on a fancy iron-scrolled hall tree near the door and then crossed the carpeted room, helping himself to a couple of peeled jumbo shrimp off a loaded hors d’oeuvre tray along the way. An
envy-inducing eighty-inch plasma television dominated one wall, its hi-def picture tuned to a local channel but with the sound muted.

What with the jumble and pitch of conversations going on, no one could have heard the television anyway. Normally, Josh would have given the revolutionary electronic device an appreciative glimpse and kept moving.

But not this time.

Corsetti quit his confab and turned his attention from the window. He stepped back toward Josh, a rocks glass filled with melting ice in his hand.

“Great view from up here,” he said. “Like Zeus looking down from Mount Olympus, I see every sin that goes on down there on the field and in the stands.” He canted his head in the direction of the TV on the wall. “Thought you might want to take a gander at this.”

On the giant screen, a commercial touting relief for hemorrhoid sufferers faded to black.

“Appreciate the concern,” Josh said with a ripple of impatience. “But I’m not bothered with hemorrhoids.”

“Eighty-six the attitude, and just watch a minute. This is important.”

So Josh did. And when black gave way to a lifelike color picture that filled the television screen, he made a jaw-dropping discovery.

He stopped and watched Lindy’s sexy features swim into view in a plug for the late-night news, while the text scrawling across the bottom of the screen told its own tale.

Tonight at eleven. Woman charged with misdemeanor in civic center disturbance . . .

Holy Moses! Could he pick them or what?

There was no doubt his Lindy from earlier was the “woman” in question. Every feature of her was etched into his memory from her out-of-control fiery red hair to the sassy curve of her mouth.

As he watched emotions crossing her slender face—first, irritation and then calm tolerance—the unexplainable feeling hit him of riding an elevator going down too fast.

He and his macho attitude had practically double-dog-dared her to attempt a hostile takeover of the men’s facilities, but he had been teasing. Apparently, she had gone through with it and her coup had been quashed.

The woman was a fireball; he’d give her that. He admired a woman willing to take the kinds of risks that led to amazing experiences.

And something told him that getting arrested tonight certainly qualified as a humdinger of an experience for her.

“Since when is using the john a misdemeanor offense?” he blurted out to the room at large.

“Misdemeanor trespassing,” Corsetti corrected, then hoisted his glass in the air, gesturing to another unobtrusive waiter for a refill. “Everybody gets their fifteen minutes . . . channel seven’s been airing that same picture every commercial for the past half hour.”

Trespassing?

Well, who knew?

Not Josh, and certainly not Lindy, which is what it appeared she and Casey were commenting to the cop who was unnecessarily placing her in custody. No sound bytes accompanied the short clip, so Josh could only guess at who might have said what.