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“Baby, are you okay?” But Beau’s just worried. He’s protecting me while Colt does, too.
Colt shoves the photographer away like he’s a cornerback, making him fall back on his ass, too, while Ruby stands over the guy. She twists her face, mocking him, “Ewww. You smell like you wanna be left alone.”
I want to laugh, but Beau hikes me like a football, tossing me gently inside the limo before he slides in behind me. Ruby then Colt join us before the chauffeur slams the door.
Beau brushes back my hair. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I answer.
“Where are you hurt?” He inspects my hands, looking for abrasions, then my wrists, as if he’ll find a protruding bone.
“On my pussy.”
“What?” He moves to lift my dress, but I shoo his hands away.
“I mean my panties,” I huff. “My panties aren’t fine.”
“Oh no!” Ruby gasps. “Girl, is it Aunt Flo? Do you have a tail flower? Did that dickhead start the Red Rage, The Blood Bath, The Estrogen Exodus, The?—”
“Jesus of the pink lady jizz.” Colt laughs. “You two are just alike. How many names you got for your period?”
Ruby shrugs, reaching into her clutch. “I’m always packin’ cotton. Whatdayaneed? Regular? Super Plus? A wad of tissues?”
“No.” I want to cry, but I start laughing. “No, I’m not flying the red flag. I’m wearing these.”
I might as well show them because I’m about to have a viral vagina. One no penicillin can cure.
And yes, dammit. I know that’s not how that medicine works, but wait til you see my injury.
Lifting my dress, I reveal what was meant for Beau and Colt tonight, not Instagram and ESPN.
My men tilt their heads like puppy dogs. You’d think I’d have them trained by now, but they’re slow to read my panties.
TOUCHDOWN
My white triangle reads in bold, black ink with a red football that also looks like women’s lips. I ordered a dozen pair from Etsy to get fucked, not be fucked.
“Uh-oh,” is what falls from Beau’s sexy lips.
“They’re Atlanta’s colors,” is all Colt can confirm.
“Well,” dismissively Ruby shrugs, “at least they don’t say ‘ball control’ or ‘huddle up boys’ or?—”
I laugh, recalling all the football terms I hear Beau and Colt shout at games on the flatscreen while I snicker, dying not to make the puns.
But now I toss ‘em out.
“Yeah,” I add, “or ‘man-to-man coverage,’” I’m crying, “or ‘in the pocket’ or ‘face mask’ or ‘smash mouth offense’ or?—”
“Quarterback sneak,” Colt jumps in, “or ‘running up the score’ or?—”
“Two-minute warning.” Beau’s laughing, too.
“Damn.” I swipe away tears and mascara. “I could put all those on panties and open an Etsy shop.”
“You should!” Ruby scoots to the edge of her seat. She’s across from me and beside Colt. He’s so big he makes her look like an elfin fairy with an evil plan.
“That’s how you’ll spin it,” Ruby says. “You’ll say you bought the funny panties since people make jokes about women who date ballers.” She pauses, finger in the air. “Ballers! There’s another pair we can sell. We can put it on boxers, too. But see what I mean? You can say you wore them as a joke, but since you fell, making fans fall in love with your touchdown panties, you’re opening an Etsy store and donating the money to charity. You’ll be fine.”
