Page 9 of Penalty Shot

“Wow, that was…” he trails off.

“Above average,” I say with a cackle because it’s like calling the Himalayas above ground.

To his—or his bravado’s—credit, Randall snorts. “I’ll work harder next time,” he says teasingly and nips my ear lobe. “Just remember you asked for it.”

Wow. It takes a second to quell the swoon impulse. This man has serious game. His grip tightens around my ass cheeks. I wiggle my body playfully and his cock stirs.

“Hold it, hotshot, I need to clean up.” I head to the bathroom to relieve myself. I consider the woman in the mirror. She’s flushed and disheveled and grinning like a fool. I splash water on my face, because I’d like to get dressed without looking like I’m drunk on sex.

“Calling room service. Are you a vegetarian?” Randall asks from the other side of the bathroom door.

Does he expect me to stay? I’m about to sayno thanksand make the usual excuses to leave. It’s been a long day and an even longer night.

“I’ll get a vegetarian pizza with the cheeseburgers,” he continues, not waiting for my answer. When I come out, he tilts his head at me. “Anything else?”

I haven’t eaten since sharing a plate of wings at the bar. Cheeseburger room service sounds like the epitome of luxury. Add to that the enjoyable view of Randall with tousled hair, swollen lips, and low-slung boxers. It feels silly to leave right now. It’s not like I’m staying over.

“I thought athletes only ate salads and protein shakes. Aren’t you supposed to watch what you eat?”

“Good point. I’ll order fries,” he quips while patting his six pack.

He calls in the order. He’s taken out two water bottles from the minibar, so I open one and gulp the much-needed hydration. When Randall hangs up, he takes his own water bottle and nearly finishes it in one go.

“What’s with the rules?” he asks, holding up a beer for me. “Not that I’m complaining. I wish more women were up front about expectations.”

I bypass the beer and lift my water bottle instead. “Or more men, for that matter.”

“Sure. Although I’m as up front as it gets. What do you want to know aboutmyexpectations?” he asks with a wink, putting the beer away and grabbing another water.

I consider his question for a minute and decide that if there’s one person I don’t have to worry about, it’s this playboy goalie. My rules serve him as much as they suit me.

“You don’t expect me to share my cheeseburger, do you?”

He laughs before pulling me into the bed and kissing me hard.

When the room service arrives, I even have my own plate of fries.

“ThinkThe Wolf of Wall Streetmeets Shakespeare’sMacbethbut with an Chinese American woman taking over an international marketing conglomerate,” I say in one breath.

This is the first time I’ve actively workshopped my playBlood Will Have Blood.I’ve written, edited, revised, and generally obsessed about it privately for years, but it wasn’t until I got an honorable mention for a literary award that I had the confidence to ask local artist friends for critique.

This is my year to get it produced. If I say it repeatedly, that might actually come true.

Imagination Ohio, a collaborative community theater that’s served the area for fifty years, received a public grant to expand their summer offerings to include world premieres by Ohioans. In this context, “world premiere” is a fancy way of saying plays that have yet to see the light of day.

I’ve worked with the arts organization in various capacities before, as a stage manager once and as assistant director last summer. However, this is my first attempt to add my play to their lineup. I’m officially submitting it to the theater’s artistic director next week.

My theater buddies are gathered at my mother’s living room to iron out final details. Sienna, Ma’s coworker and best friend, has also volunteered to be a sounding board. I’m grateful to be within a circle of people who are here to support my dreams. Or maybe they’re here to eat Ma’s homemade dumplings. Both can be true.

“Why did you make the three witches pasty looking whitemen with indecipherable accents?” Woody asks.

“It’s obviously a direct reference to billionaires with space rocket fetishes,” Lily answers for me. She’s not wrong.

“The commentary on the way capitalism enables and curtails racial identity is fascinating.” Hailee is our resident PhD student. Every artistic friend group has at least one member who’s sacrificed her life to the altar of academia.

It goes on for a while, this discussion about themes and dialogue and characterization.

Should the prologue be shorter?No, they decide.