[NOTE: this story has a longish set-up. If you need instant gratification, this bit isn't for you. However, this story introduces some characters that may wind up playing out over several stories. So... if you can stand a slow, steady build-up of tension, the payoff should be pretty intense. Happy trails.]
Janie looked out the window. "Game starts in half an hour. Where are they?"
"Fuck if I know," Rick shrugged. "But here be beer, plasma, chips and good company."
"Aww."
Janie crossed the living room and gave her boyfriend a hug. It was a tender moment, at least until Rick gave her butt a squeeze. She giggled, gave her cheeks a wiggle and pranced away.
Rick half-pointed at her shirt. It was tight cream button down number β tight enough that the middle-bust button magically undid itself on a regular basis. "Button's open."
"Hm? Oh. Again?" Janie half-consciously buttoned the button as she headed for the hall.
"Tease."
"Maybe," she purred as she disappeared into the bedroom.
Almost a shame that his friends were going to show up, Rick thought. He watched Janie round the corner and couldn't help but stare at her dancer's butt. Granted, she wasn't naked but she still filled her jeans like an American calendar girl.
Rick turned back toward the tube. The television was flashing great Superbowl moments, from Vince Lombardi to Janet Jackson's boob - still the most TiVo'd event in television history. Even now there was a moment of silence between commentators as they ran every angle of pixellated nipple there was. It was an artistically lurid bit marred only by the doorbell.
"Do you have that?" Janie's voice rang from down the hall.
"Uh, yeah."
Rick opened the door to see a large brown paper bag hovering over a pair of Bahama shorts. "Well there's something you don't see every day."
"Dude, this is not light."
"Come in."
Brian brushed by Rick and it was a study in contrasts. The new arrival was a six-four, 205-pound beach bum, a poor surfer, a great volleyball player and an environmental engineer by trade. The host was a five-eleven, 265-pound former Stanford linebacker and psychologist by trade.
"Got room in your fridge?"
"Some. Why all the stuff?"
"You said it was BYO."
"I did not... Did I?"
"You did."
"Shit. Sorry." Rick took the thirty-pound bag off Brian's hands and effortlessly guided it toward the refrigerator. "No, I've got brew, chips and enough meat for a world-class tail-gater."
"Real food. Now that's an idea."
"Grill's on the patio. You know what to do."
"Would you mind?"
"Long as you make enough for everybody."
"I don't see anybody else here."
"Janie's in the back, Dave and Bill'll be here-" The doorbell interrupted. "-Right about now."
"I'll get cookin'."
Brian started rummaging through the kitchen, Rick stepped out to get the door. Standing at the front of the condo was a wiry man of five-nine. Bill brandished a bottle of Gran PatrΓ³n and a bag of limes in one hand, a small stuff sack in the other.
"One bottle? You're not sharing?"
"So help me God, if I drink like I did last time, just kill me."
"You drink like that and you'll have it covered yourself."
Rick stepped aside and Bill slipped past. The newest guest was a triathlete and certified computer science genius who worked on commission β when he felt like it.
Bill stepped toward the TV and sized up the pre-game. He waved the nylon stuff sack and it took the shape of a DVD case. "I brought a little post-game entertainment."
"Ahh..."
"Anabolic. Only de highest quality pussy for me frien-"
"Bill!" Janie cried out. She bounded across the living room and gave him a hug. "Good to see you!"
"Fuuuu-ck." Bill turned four shades of magenta and hid the stuff sack behind his back. "Have I mentioned I'm an idiot?"
"Frequently," Rick nodded.
"So," Janie pressed on. "What did you say you brought?"
"Er-"
Bill was going into fidget mode β something Rick didn't want to miss β but a loud rap on the door pulled him away.
The last guest was Dave, a 6-foot, 300-pound tree-trunk of a man that had been in the secondary at Stanford with Rick. Since graduating with his criminal science degree (and getting a job with the Los Angeles County Sheriff), he'd taken up powerlifting to grow from huge to fucking massive. He had a powerlifter's gut but if law enforcement ever got boring, Dave would make the next great strong man for Cirque du Soleil. The way he perched the pony keg on his shoulder, it seemed more like a parrot on a pirate.
"Brutha!"
"DAAAAAaaaave!"
"Let me give you this."
Dave swung the keg off his shoulder and put it square in Rick's arms. Rick practically went cross-eyed but managed to fake some grace as he carried it to the kitchen. Dave tsked-tsked behind him.
"Got to get back in the gym, my man."
"Eh... I enjoy shopping for clothes at normal-person stores."
Janie's gravelly voice croaked between them. "βWhich you barely do anyway."
The one girl of the group gave the Dave the Bear a bear-hug and sent the giant into terminal aww-shucks mode. Just as quick, she unwrapped and headed for the kitchen.
Both men watched her bound past the breakfast nook. The middle button on her shirt was open again, teasing the men with a glance of globes in black lace. Dave was shaking his head and trying not to stare. Rick glanced at Dave, and joined in the head shaking.
"Man, she is something else," Dave mumbled.
"Yeah, she is, isn't she?" Rick tilted his head as he watched her. "Ya know, she actually gets all my jokes..."
Dave looked at Rick with a bit of alarm. "My friend, you've been bitten. Have you used the 'L' word yet?"
"...Yes."
Dave shook his head, his expression grave. "This is serious-"
Brian walked past and high-fived Dave. "Dude, good to see you!"
"You too, man!"
"Three burgers or four?"
"Just two," Dave demurred. "I'm on a diet."
In the background, the television got suddenly louder. The pregame was wrapping up, statistics flying around the screen as the cameras showed players running out of the tunnel. It was game time.
From kick-off to the end of the first quarter, it was tense. The first ten minutes was a pure defensive battle, then the offenses started to hit their strides. By the beginning of the second quarter, the score was 10-10. Everybody was shouting, drinking, eating, yelling, drinking, glancing at Janie's peek-a-boo shirt, drinking, cursing, whooping, drinking, hollering and high-fiving.
By half-time, it was 17-16. As they tossed to a commercial, Brian and Bill each sprinted for a bathroom. Dave sat on the couch, almost vibrating with adrenaline while he swished beer around in his mug.
Janie put a hand on his shoulder. "Freshen that up a bit?"
Dave killed the last half in one gulp. "Sure."
"You doin' okay? You're looking a little intense over here."
"Yeah... It's just... I see a good game, I start reliving all the days I played."
Janie nodded. "You're big enough to play in the pros. Why didn't you?"
"I wasn't this big back then. I was good, but I wasn't like Rick. He had the kill instinct. You know he had an offer? He turned 'em down. It coulda gone Butkus-Singletary-Urlacher-Rick... But he turned 'em down."
Janie straightened up. "I had no idea."
"He won't talk about it unless you ask. You should ask him sometime." Dave nodded, then glanced down and his vision caught on her shirt. "You know your button..."
"Oh! Thanks."
Janie took the beer mug and disappeared into the kitchen. Dave watched her hips sway as she walked away and Bill whacked Dave from behind.
"What did you have to go tell her for?"
"Don't worry. I'm psychic and I will 'will' her shirt to open again." Dave turned and grinned. "It's all a part of my master plan."
"Master-bate, maybe."
Rick reappeared from the bathroom. "Master what?"
"Self-control," Brian piped in.
Dave nodded. "Just talking about all the natural beauty around here."
Janie came back out, nodding as they spoke, a snack tray in one hand and Dave's beer in the other. She handed him his beer and looked out the sliding glass door at the dark Santa Monica Mountains. "They are pretty aren't they?"
All eyes went to her shirt and the answer was four male voices in unison. "Yes, they are."
Janie rolled her eyes and set down the vegetable tray. When she stood, the weak button popped and male eyes were on it like tracking radar.
"Damn," Bill said. "You are psychic."
"I told you."
"Psych-o, maybe," Rick corrected.
Janie looked at her shirt and shook her head. "Fuck it."
When she didn't reach to redo the button, there was a general cheer.