Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Bobby
Well, that was as uncomfortable as that Gator jersey I had to wear one year for Halloween when I lost a bet with my brothers. Dad nearly disowned me, right after he ran me out of the house screaming about Bulldogs for life. What the fuck is Molly’s ex-husband doing here engaging in a petty dick-measuring contest? I mean, I know I’d win the contest, but that’s beside the point. I felt that guy’s stare all through practice.
My wife ? Shit, I didn’t like hearing that guy call Molly his, nor did I care for his arm around her shoulders. Not that she’s mine either, but considering they’re divorced now, you’d think he could let up on the whole my wife thing. Whatever that was, it put me in a bad mood.
“Bye, Bobby!” Matthew gives me a wave from the exit door as I’m getting my skates off.
Blake wraps his arm around his son’s bony shoulders and hustles him out of the arena with the other kids. Blake, however, doesn’t bother with a goodbye, which is fine by me. It would have taken my entire adult ration of self-control to not flip the guy off.
I toss my skates in my bag and stand up again, stretching the kinks out. Coach went a bit psycho on me at practice today. Said I had some catching up to do since I missed yesterday’s practice due to the python. Like it was my fault Florida Man struck again. Whatever.
My phone rings from the depths of my bag. By the time I find it, it’s stopped ringing. Richie calls me right back though, always one to bother the shit out of me just for sport. Except there’s also a text from Molly. I ignore the incoming call from my brother and read her message instead.
“Well, shit,” I mutter. She turned down my date idea. Kind of. I ’ m going to say no. Which in my limited knowledge of proper English means saying no in the future, but maybe she doesn’t want to say no right now? In other words, there’s still hope. If the message had been go fuck yourself, hell no to this date idea , then I’d take that as a firm no. Her text is a firm maybe. I can work with maybe.
Practice was just as brutal today, though a bit shorter since we leave tomorrow morning for our road trip. I joined the old guys in the ice baths and I have to say, they might be onto something. I’m feeling spry as a spring chicken as I leave the rink.
My phone rings again. Goddamn Richie.
“Yo, Richie, why you blowing up my phone?” I answer, slinging the bag over my shoulder and heading out of the facility.
“I’ve been trying to reach you. I’m a little low on gas. You think you could pick me up before we head to that charity thing?” he asks by way of greeting.
I close my eyes for a second. “Shit. I forgot about that.” I check my watch. I barely have enough time to pick him up and get over to the center on time. Kaitlyn set everything up for me, including tipping off one of her favorite paparazzis. She’d never forgive me if I blew it off or showed up late.
“I’ll be right there. Be ready to go. Clean shirt. No bullshit, Richie.”
“Since when do I–”
He doesn’t even finish that ridiculous question before I hang up on him and sprint the rest of the way to Wolverine. Traffic is stupidly thick in the middle of the day thanks to the older set getting to their pickleball tournaments and doctor appointments.
Thankfully, Richie is dressed in a T-shirt that’s not only clean but also doesn’t have the name of a bar or a curse word on it. It’s basically a fashion miracle. I probably shouldn’t have asked Richie to come along to my charity work, but Ashley suggested it as a way for us to bond over something wholesome.
Richie and I pull into the parking lot my navigation system directed me to. A squatty building with an unfortunate orange paint job and above ground electrical wires streaming to it greets us. Two small windows should offer light into the place, but they’re covered by security bars. The door has a handwritten sign that says Bros 4 Bras .
“Dude.” Richie peers out the passenger window at the place. “That’s some serious cable wire they got there.”
I push open my door and slide out. “We’re here to work, Rich. Just follow my lead.”
Richie and I head inside where we have to blink repeatedly for our eyes to adjust. The overhead lighting in here is the stuff of nightmares for fitting rooms. The mega-watt halogen lights make my Gucci slides look sickly orange instead of Bulldog red.
“Can I help you?”
We look left to see an elderly woman with a bat in her hand, slapping it lightly against her palm in a menacing manner as she glares at us. We both put our hands up and Richie looks at me to take the lead. Kaitlyn’s going to get an earful about this if I end up getting my ass kicked by an octogenarian.
“I’m Bobby and this is my brother, Richie. We’re here to volunteer this afternoon?”
The woman’s face clears and the bat gets tossed aside onto a pile of lingerie. Her facial wrinkles stack up as she smiles, making her look like our Grandma Betty Mae. The transformation is incredible.
“Bobby!” She leans in to hug me like she already knows me, a waft of minty muscle cream and denture glue hitting my nose. I pat her back and watch Richie look even more awkward than me when she gives him the same treatment. “Welcome, boys. I’m Betty, the manager of Bros 4 Bras. Sorry for the bat, but you’d be surprised how often we get robbed.”
I look around the place, seeing bras on every surface. Six-foot tables and clear plastic bins are set up against all four walls and in neat rows filling the space in between. I had no idea this many bras could be in one place beside the bra factory. Television screens line the walls above our heads, maybe thirty of them in total. It’s like a sports bar, but instead of whiskey and beer, it’s bras and more bras.
“My husband Johnny, God rest his soul, started this place in 1972 when his sister did a stint on the streets.” Betty puts her thin hand on my arm. “She was pretty well endowed, if you know what I mean. Had funbags the size of watermelons, that girl did.”
Richie makes a choking noise he tries to disguise as a cough. I nod, giving everything I’ve got to keeping a straight face.
“Anyhoo, come to find out, it’s hard to afford bras when you’re homeless. Johnny rounded up his friends and started a nonprofit, asking all our female neighbors and friends for their old bras. From itty bitties to the bazookas, we collect them all. I’ve kept the place going and am proud to say we ship out over one hundred bras to every state in the nation every year.” Betty pats my chest with her left hand and Richie’s chest with her right. “That’s where you two come in.”
“I’ve got a bad back, but Bobby here can lift the heavy boxes,” Richie offers. If Betty had her back turned I’d have flipped him off for trying to get out of working.
Betty’s laugh is like tinkling wind chimes. “Oh no, sweet thing. I need you boys to sort the sizes. What good is a triple-D hammock to a woman who’s got nothing but bee stings, you know? Proper sizing is imperative for good breast support.”
Richie’s face is turning the kind of purple that spells trouble for my image if he opens his mouth. I put my hand over Betty’s, getting her attention. “You can count on us, Betty. We’ll have hundreds sorted before our shift is over, don’t you worry.”
Betty smiles at me like I’m her favorite boy. The door to the place swings open and a guy with a camera pops his head in. “Bobby Rhodes?”
Shit, that must be the paparazzi Kaitlyn called. “Yep. Come on in. We’re just about to start sorting the donations.”
Betty gets us set up at a table in the back but gets pulled away when the phone starts ringing at the front. The camera guy stares around in all directions, probably wondering how his day led him to the land of brassieres.
Richie hands me a red lacy number. “I don’t know, man. Is this a size three?”
I roll my eyes and take the bra from him, holding it up by the straps. “First of all, bras aren’t sized that way. There’s a band size that measures around the rib cage, and then there’s the cup size.” I hold it up and twist it this way and that while the paparazzi’s camera clicks away. “I’d say this pretty thing is a thirty-two-C.”
Richie checks the label. “Well, holy shi–oot. You’re right. Thirty-two-C.” He puts it in the correct bin and grabs another bra, this one a beige color with cups bigger than my head. “Guess this one.”
I hold it up and assess. “Forty-two-F.”
When I’m proven right again, Richie high-fives me. Even the paparazzi guy starts handing me bras to get my guess. Sometimes I have to put the bra on over my clothes and feel up the cups to get a good read on the size, but I’m ten for ten so far. Hot dog, I’ve finally found a charity I’m good at. We keep going like that until the paparazzi checks his watch and assures us he has enough pictures. He heads out and we keep sorting. Eventually Betty comes back with a bin full of remote controls.
“I forgot the best part! Johnny insisted on having as many televisions as possible for him and his friends. They’d spend hours in here sorting and watching sports. I’ve upgraded the televisions over the years and pay for cable.”
“You’re the best, Betty.” Richie gives her a hug and takes the bin from her. I’ve got ten more bras sorted by the time he gets all the televisions on and tuned into different stations. He’s gaping at the walls like he just stepped into Tampa’s swankiest strip club. “I’m in heaven.”
We shoot the shit over whatever’s playing on the screens while we sort for the next hour. Ashley was right to suggest I bring Richie. Can’t remember the last time we talked instead of insulting each other. My stomach starts to rumble and I put down the latest lime green bra to suggest we head out for dinner. We say goodbye to Betty and promise to return soon. I fire up Wolverine right as my phone rings.
“Kaitlyn!” I answer on Bluetooth speaker, feeling proud of myself. “You’ll be pleased to know, we did good at the–”
“Why the hell are there pictures of you wearing a bra and copping a feel of your own boobs on social media right now, Bobby Rhodes?” Her angry voice floods the interior of my vehicle. Richie and I stare at each other in shock. Right before he doubles over laughing.
My skull hits the headrest as I stare at the ceiling. “Are you serious?”
Kaitlyn goes off for a good ten minutes about what a mess I’ve made of things before letting me go. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to count to ten while taking deep breaths. I recognize the signs of anger, but there’s no stepping back from this one. All the things Ashley instructed me to do go out the goddamn window. Molly said no to a date. Coach is pissed at me for something out of my control. And now this. I tried to do something good, and it backfired.
Coach is right. I’m a screw up. Always have been, always will be.
I roll my head on the headrest. Richie is wiping tears from his eyes. “How does the Irish Rogue sound for dinner?”
Richie shrugs. “I can get us a discount.”
I put the car in gear and head for the familiar bar. I just need some food in my gut and to wash it down with a stout beer. I’ll try again tomorrow, but for today I just need some comfort food. We pull in and find a parking space easily. Richie greets his fellow bartender buddies inside the dark tavern. He gets us set up with a frosty glass of beer at the bartop while they fry up some disgusting food for us to eat. I take one long swig of the beer, all my worries melting away as the roasted malt hits my tastebuds.
“If beer’s wrong, I don’t want to be right.” Richie smacks his lips after drinking half his pint.
I huff a laugh, taking another sip. I can feel myself slipping backward and yet I can’t–won’t–do a damn thing to stop it. I’ve tried most of the things Kaitlyn said to do and what has that gotten me? Nothing but frustration. Might as well enjoy the beer while I circle the drain of my career.
My phone vibrates in my back pocket. I put it on silent when we got to the bar, hoping to dodge any further phone calls from Kaitlyn, but when it buzzes again, I feel guilty for ignoring her. I pull the phone out and squint to see an unfamiliar number.
Unknown: Hey Bobby. It’s Matthew. You said I could contact you anytime. Is it wrong to bully a bully?
My spine freezes. I reply back as quickly as my thumbs let me.
Me: Hey, Matthew. Depends. What’s the bully doing?
Unknown: It’s mostly social media stuff. Just spreading altered pictures of someone and making fun of them. I wanted to spread a picture of the bully.
Me: I think you’d be better served taking screenshots of what the bully’s doing and talking to your mom. Or your principal about what’s going on. Don’t lower yourself to their level.
Unknown: I was afraid you were going to say that. Fine, I won’t send the pic.
Me: Where are you?
Unknown: At the convenience store down the street from Mom’s.
I look out the windows of the Irish Rogue. It’s hard to tell with the neon beer signs, but it looks pretty dark out there.
Me: Does she know you’re there?
Unknown: No . . . ? She thinks I’m studying.
Me: Stay right there. I’m headed over.
I reach into my wallet and throw a few twenties on the bar. Richie looks over at me with his eyebrows raised. I stand up and pocket my phone again.
“Gotta go. Can you Uber home?”
He nods, distracted when the bartender comes over with a plate of nachos and wings. I head out, suddenly not interested in beer or bars or bras.
Don ’ t lower yourself to their level.
Time I took my own advice.