Winning Pass - A Football Romance (2 page)

H
ere we go
with the same old bullshit posturing—with maybe one or two actual legit questions thrown in the mix for GP. If I had my choice, I would easily skip all this noise and head back to my place to enjoy a beer or three.

But of course, I have no choice, not when I sign my name on the dotted line. They own me, literally and figuratively. I slip the special edition jersey over my head and lean back in the chair, dying to get the hell out of here.

Johnny Maine points to one of the reporters with their hand shot in the air like an overeager kindergartener.

The guy stands abruptly, and a dozen cameras focus on him. "There was some talk that you were looking to be traded to a team out east before the contract was drawn. Is that true?"

It takes all the strength I can muster to stop myself from rolling my eyes. I clear my throat and lean forward to talk into the mic, my deep voice suddenly booming through the room. "I was considering all of my options. But I think I made the right choice today by staying with the team that's helped bring me to where I am now."

My vague answer seems to irritate most, but I really don't give a fuck. Johnny Maine might own my ass, but
they
sure as hell don't. I give the sea of faces and flashing bulbs a smug smile and casually glance at my watch. Damn. We still have fifteen more minutes to kill.

More questions are thrown my way, and I answer them all with the ‘careless charm’ I’ve been pegged with since the beginning of my career. I wouldn’t exactly call myself charming, but whatever floats Maine’s boat, I guess. He’s the one signing the checks.

I glance over at the man, wondering what’s going through his mind right now. If it’s anything like last time, he’s probably going through a list of potential new sponsors in his head. Everyone knows I’m on Johnny’s short list of favorites, probably only second to the legend himself, Mitch DuPont. But since his old ass hasn’t been on the field in over twenty years, I’m the next big thing. Or so Johnny likes to claim. Me, personally? I don’t give a rat’s ass what they say. I made it to the pros, which is basically all I was meant to do. So now that I’m here, it’s whatever to me.

Johnny thanks everyone for coming out, spouting off thanks to our sponsors and ‘God’s own state of Texas.’ He catches my gaze, giving me the look. It’s my cue to stand up and smile and wave at everyone like a goddamn beauty pageant queen. He knows how much I hate all this fanfare, but it’s all necessary business to him. I’m to do what I’m told, so I do. Dozens of lights flash, and I head down the steps completely exhausted from the day.

“It wouldn’t kill you to at least look like you care, Witter.” Johnny is right up on me, squeezing my shoulder. “You’ve gotta give the press something to work with.”

I sigh. There’s never any satisfying the wealthy owner of the Longhorns. Much like someone else I know. “Sorry, Johnny. I thought the $105-million-dollar contract was giving them something to work with.”

I want to say more, but I keep my mouth shut, not wanting to sound ungrateful. He narrows his eyes at me, but I’m off the hook. For now.

The banquet room is straight ahead, the smell of expensive catered food calling out to me. I walk inside with Johnny to meet up with the other five players who renewed their contracts today.

“Go make some friends this time around. Got it?” he demands. I give him a stiff nod and immediately head over to the open bar while he goes to schmooze with the other rich men. I mean, I guess I can’t really say anything about rich men, considering I am one . . . but I’m every bit as different from them as I can be.

I ask the bartender to pour me a glass of whiskey, ready to unwind. I wouldn’t have to drive myself home tonight, so why not make it worth my while?

“I should’ve known I’d find you over here, brooding into your booze. You’ve gotta work on your predictability, man,” someone says from behind. I instantly know the voice.

“Yeah, I guess I have a lot to work on lately,” I grumble. “Did you enjoy yourself out there, twinkle toes?”

Kevon’s my only real friend on the team. I mean sure, I shoot the shit with other guys on the team, but there’s no one I really want to hang out with outside the locker room. Except Kevon, one of the other first-string wide receivers. Lazur Ahmed is our third main guy, getting bumped up from benchwarmer last season by the two new kids playing back-up.

Kevon laughs at me, showing off his gap-toothed smile. “People ate that shit up, man. Can you blame them though? I mean, damn, look at this fine specimen,” he says, bringing his right arm up into a bicep curl flex. “This baby was my ticket to that sweet seventy mil, and all I had to do was throw on the t-shirt and hat and a big ass smile on my face. It’s a good day, Wit.”

As shitty as I feel about contract-signings, Kevon has a way of putting things into perspective. “Yeah, yeah. And the ladies will be lining up around the fountain-feature driveway,” I reply before he has a chance to give his usual answer to everything.

He claps me on the shoulder. “That’s right.” The bartender slides him the beer he ordered, and Kevon gives me a once-over, frowning. “You look like you just ate some rank pussy, son. What’s up with you?”

Leave it to Kevon to turn anything into a conversation about the fairer sex. “Just done dealing with all the congratulatory bullshit. We have to kiss every sponsor’s ass and then thank them for letting us. I hate doing that shit, you know?”

He rolls his eyes as hard as he can, leaning back for emphasis. “Oh shit, here we go again. You about to do that whole
woe is me
bull, aren’t you? Man, you need to get your ass laid, my friend. Maybe then, you’ll stop moping and crying into your hundred dollar bills and shit. Buck up. Save the melodrama for when you’re old and wrinkly like Maine’s nutsack.”

I snort, unable to help myself. “Thanks for that image, Kevon.”

He opens his mouth to say something else but shuts it really quick, twisting his mouth tight when he catches sight of something next to me.

“Hey, hey!” Dad says, shoving into my arm with his elbow. “Your name is looking pretty good on that big contract, son.” He looks over at Kevon, giving him a smile. “Yours too, Williams.”

Kevon nods before motioning to me that he’s going to go. “We’ll catch up later.”

As soon as he’s gone and I’m left with my father in the corner, he rounds on me, dropping all the pretense. “I don’t suppose you were at least careful not to bad-mouth your sponsors in front of anyone else?”

I take in a deep breath and exhale slowly, not even trying to deal with the hard-ass and his praise Lombardi philosophy right now. “No. I was just letting off some steam. It’s been a long day.”

“Good. Remember that I’ve . . .
we’ve
worked too hard for this. You can’t just go easy on yourself now.”

I’m pretty sure I can very well do that, but I nod along with him. The last thing I need is to hear more of the old man’s shit about pride and the game, and blah-blah-fucking-blah. I’ve gotten as far as he pushed me practically my whole life, and he still isn’t satisfied.

“Look, I just want to kick back and have a drink. Can’t you let me chill out for the night?” I ask, interrupting his same old lecture. I’m sure I’ll pay for it later, when he bangs on my door at four in the morning to get me out the door and doing sprints. And I’ll do it, because I’m apparently a good little boy.

Dad straightens up and looks around us before his eyes fall back on me. “No more of that idiotic talk. Maine’s in your pocket, so make sure to keep him that way.” Always with the dramatic parting remarks. It’s like he was born to be an actor or something, even though he thinks anyone in the entertainment industry is a piece of shit, useless gold-digger who gets paid way too much to do something so easy. How utterly ironic.

--

I’ve found a spot away from most of the crowd, having put in my fifteen minutes with the coaches and my teammates. A waitress in a tight, short black uniform comes over to the dark corner I’ve staked a claim on and gives me a fake polite smile. “Can I get you anything else, sir? Another glass, perhaps?”

I’m already on my third glass, enjoying the electric buzzing along my veins. I tip the drink toward her. “Sure thing.”

She steps away, and that’s when I really notice her. She’s slight, with long red hair that’s done in a braid down her back. Instantly, the room goes fuzzy around her.

There’s always that fraction of a second when my heart slams against my ribcage, trying to break free each time I see a redhead who looks to be the same age. After all, our birthdays were only six weeks apart, even though I had the disadvantage of being held back a year. And it’s every time I see a woman who, for the briefest of moments, reminds me of
her.

There was a time when I thought we’d see each other again, crossing paths in our lives at just the right moment. But that kind of hope no longer exists in me. I’ve given up on feelings pretty much altogether, and aside from the one-night stands I’ve encountered, I don’t see many women in general, much less her.

Fairytales are for chumps, and I have way too many things going on in my life to let myself worry over someone else’s. Hell, she’s probably married with a bunch of kids and writing books for a living or something. She was always such a bookworm. If I ever did have the chance to see her, I’m sure I’d try like hell to fuck her, thanks to my many,
many
teenage fantasies about a sexy reunion with her, but then I’d have to leave her all over again.

I run my thumb along the neck of the bottle, and like a devout person trying to drop an addiction, I allow myself a few minutes to think about her before slamming the door shut on the memories that stirred in my head.

Before I close it off until the next time, I say her name, just to feel it with my mouth. “
Paige
.”

I
yank
my arm away from the edge of the hot pan and cradle it against my chest. “Dammit,” I mutter to myself, pissed that I’ve lost my concentration on the food for the millionth time. I’m supposed to be cooking sausage and eggs, but all I’m really doing is taking a ridiculous stroll down memory lane and burning the crap out of my food and various body parts.

Stacey’s doorbell rings, and I stand there waiting for a minute to see if she even notices. “Stacey. Stacey? Stacey!” I call out, even though I doubt she can hear me from all the way upstairs. I throw down the greasy spatula and careen around the corner of the kitchen just in time to make it to the front door before the doorbell rings again.

I open the door, and the UPS guy is already halfway back to his truck. There’s a small package addressed to my sister, and I take it back inside, curious. Stacey is pretty weird about ordering anything online, sort of like our mother. Except our mother hates technology and anything related, and Stacey is super big into conspiracy theories.

Once I’ve finished my small and not-so-filling breakfast, I head upstairs to see what my lovely big sister is up to, holding the package. We have a tradition of doing a sister sleepover once a month, and this time, it’s my turn to stay the night with her and Rafael.

Her door is open so I walk right in, waving around the lightweight box. “You’ve got mail,” I call out in a sing-song voice. “Ooh, maybe it’s from the Illuminati!”

Stacey scoffs at me from inside her closet. “As if. They use different methods of contacting you from what I’ve . . .” she begins, poking her head around the door.

I toss the package onto her bed and take a seat at her vanity, getting a too close for comfort look at my splotchy face. Ah, the not so sexiest look of all.

“What’s that?” Stacey asks. “Is that actually for me?”

I roll my eyes at her. “Well it’s damn sure not for me. It says your name on it. You don’t remember ordering anything from” —I look at the shipping label— “A2Z.com? It looks like it’s from one of their warehouses.” Now, if I didn’t know my sister that well, I wouldn’t know that the twitchy look in her eyes means she’s hiding something. I raise my brow. “So you
do
remember what it is?”

Stacey shrugs her shoulders and goes back into the closet.

“That’s not an answer.” If I was the snooping, gossipy one, I’d probably open it just to be funny, but I don’t. God knows, I don’t need to ruin our sister sleepovers, especially since it’s our way to keep connected and help us stay affectionate instead of hateful like when we were growing up. “Hey, is it that outfit you said you wanted me to wear from that store in the mall? For FitCon next week? I hope not, because you are terrible at guessing what will actually fit me.”

A clang. Then another clang. Finally, a thump, and Stacey swears loudly. What is she doing in there? Building a door to Narnia?

“FitCon. Oh, I was meaning to ask you about that.” She’s back with her basket of random pictures she’s kept since we were kids. “Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

“About what?” I have a knack for delaying the inevitable. That’s right, my super power is procrastination.

Her hand is on her hip faster than if she were strutting her stuff on the runway. “Don’t even play that game. You know damn well what I’m talking about. Which reminds me . . . look what I found earlier.”

Stacey hands me a few photos that are slightly bent but otherwise in decent shape. I see the date on the back of them first, earning me a trip back down memory lane, which is exactly where I don’t want to be.
Dammit, Stacey
.

I don’t bother to turn them over, since I already know what’s on the other sides. “Why do you have these?”

“Honestly, I don’t even know. They must have been mixed up from some of yours. But come on, Paige. Don’t you think this is a sign?”

I let out a sigh. “There you go with the symbolism bullshit again. I don’t believe in any of that. All it means is that you have a serious case of hoarding . . . disease. Like those crazy ladies who live in their trashed houses with, like, fifty cats.”

She brushes my comment off and snatches the box out of my hand. “I’m telling you, it’s fate. You can be a non-believer all you want, but you should at least try to see him. Even if it’s only for closure.” Her words are kind, gentle even.

My chest tightens from emotions that I have to keep at bay, but I give her a small smile. “I’m going there for my business. And maybe, maybe, I’ll see about setting aside some time to look him up. That’s the best I can do.”

The bed creaks as she flops down next to me, pulling me into a tight hug and practically squealing in my ear as she crushes the package between us. “I knew you’d go! I have a good feeling about this!”

I pull back, eyeing the box. “If I go, will you tell me what that is?”

“Maybe,” she replies with a funny look on her face.

--

I don’t mean to do it, but I turn on my ‘weird mood’ playlist in my car to try to drown out the sounds of the world, thinking more about the past. I tell myself these little lies as if I’m actually going to convince myself with them.

Lie # 1- The only reason I’m even entertaining the idea of trying to see Elijah is because I will already be out in San Antonio. It’s not like I’m hopping on a plane for some whimsical wish to reunite with the boy who stole my heart. That would be insane. Definitely insane. And I don’t do insane. I’m too straight-laced for that.

Lie # 2- I’m too much of a realist to believe in anything like fate or destiny. I don’t read my horoscope because it’s just a silly bunch of crap that doesn’t at all make me giggle at my kitchen table . . . sometimes.

Lie # 3- I’m not at all worried that Elijah wouldn’t recognize me from the skinny little thing I used to be before puberty really set in. Really. Set. In.

Lie # 4- It wasn’t really love. Not at eleven years old—there’s no such thing when you’re that young.

The reality of what may lie before me if I seek out Elijah suddenly hits me like a ton of bricks. I could ask him what happened after he left me and our hometown behind. Was he sad? Was he relieved? Is that maybe why he never wrote back? Did he ever think of me . . . or even miss me?

The windshield wipers squeak-squeak against the sloshing rain, helping to create the background music to my memories as they slowly wash over me. How could it be fifteen years since Elijah walked into my life with that same mop of black hair and a devil-may-care attitude?

I should’ve never worn this dress for two days in a row. It isn’t the first time I’ve had to do that because Mama hadn’t had enough time to take our clothes to the laundromat this week and I am stuck having to space my dirty clothes out and make sure I don’t do this very thing. But it’s a Monday, so it seems fine until I get to school and Jessie Landers pushes me out the way, laughing about how I’m so poor I have to wear my dirty underwear inside out. 

I forgot that she saw me when Mama took me and Stacey out grocery shopping with her yesterday morning. What I wouldn’t give to live somewhere completely new and start seventh grade this fall with a blank slate.

The tears are already streaming down my cheeks before I think to wipe them away. Jessie rounds on me with her BFFs, Mandy and Nicki. They remind me of the Cerberus, the three-headed dog from Greek mythology. This makes me laugh a little to myself, but I stop short when Nicki and Mandy both take their turns pushing me against the wall until I finally trip over my backpack and hit the ground.

Part of me wishes Stacey were here to show them up, but then I remember Stacey sort of hates me right now, for some reason, and she would probably help them humiliate me in front of everyone.

“God, Paige, you’re such a baby. Are you seriously crying? I barely even touched you,” Jessie screeches, laughing along with her friends. “Look at her. She’s like one of those sad little dogs that never get fed at the shelter.” 

I know that if I don’t get up, I’m going to regret it, that I need to stop letting her treat me like dirt and finally do something about it. She throws more insults my way, and just as I’m trying to think of the best comeback, I hear shoes shuffling behind me and I see Jessie’s smirk turn to a frown.

“Better than being one of the circus elephants puttin’ on a show,” someone says behind me. I slowly turn and look way up to see a tall boy standing right over top of me. I think I remember him now—he’s a new kid who transferred from another elementary school in the next town over. 

“Excuse me?” Jessie fumes, crossing her arms across her chest. Mandy and Nicki copy her move exactly, and the boy and I laugh at the same time.

“My point exactly,” he says, pointing to her copycats. “All we need is one of those funny clown cars.” 

He’s helping me up, but I don’t know why. “Do you always let them say that kind of stuff to you?” 

“Not always. Sometimes, I walk away before they get the chance.” 

I don’t like the way he looks at me, like I’m some poor little girl. I mean, I am a poor little girl, but still. He introduces himself, even though I’m trying to hurry and wipe my face before he sees me cry. “I’m Elijah Simmons. Who are you?”

I’m grabbing for my giant red-framed glasses, glad no one stepped on them like last time. When I put them on, I finally get a good look at the blurry tall boy. But he’s not blurry any more. And I’m pretty sure I’ve swallowed my tongue, because I can’t talk. He pushes his floppy black hair out of his face, and then the rest of me is frozen.

“Do you want me to guess?” 

His words don’t make sense, but that’s probably because I can’t hear over the loud way my inner voice is screeching in my ears, telling me this is a cute boy and to proceed with caution. This is not a drill. “Do I want you to guess what?” 

“Your name. Didn’t you hear me? Usually, when someone asks you who you are, you give them your name.” 

“Oh. Uh, Paige.” And now I’m dying, because ew, why am I such a dork? A dork with flaming red cheeks that hurt from smiling so hard.

He smiles back. “Uh, Paige. That’s a new one.” 

I don’t know why, but Elijah thinks I’m at least cool enough to talk to every time we see each other. Most of our classes are together, but he usually sits in the back of the room while I sit up front. It’s only been a couple of weeks since he started school here, but Elijah gets pulled out of class. He looks mad when he comes back in a little later, but he won’t tell me why. Since we talk a lot now, I’m surprised, but I don’t want to make him mad by asking him about it, so I don’t. 

The park is our new favorite place. We ride our bikes, and Stacey is mad because we share one, and she wants to go ride around with her boyfriend. But she’s only fourteen, and Mama says no, so I win this time! 

Another couple of weeks go by before he tells me his real story. He lives close to me, but his mom works at the only lawyer’s office in town, so they’re not as poor as we are. But sometimes, he has to do the cooking because his mom works long hours, and that makes me feel better because I do, too. Stacey is supposed to, but she refuses to do anything except stay on the phone when Mama’s working.

Elijah gets mad when I ask him if he’s read one of my favorite books. I finally stop asking him and bring one to him one day. It’s my absolute favorite,
The Secret Garden
. He gets really quiet and then pulls me into his room and makes me promise not to tell a secret. I think he’s about to tell me something super cool like his dad is a spy, which makes sense, because his dad isn’t around and he doesn’t really talk about him that much. But instead, he tells me he has dyslexia. I know what that is because I read a lot, so I am quiet. I would be so sad if I couldn’t read right.

He’s failing his classes because his mom doesn’t know how to help him learn and has to work so much. So I take the long way back home on my bike so I can go to the library first. I borrow every book I can find about dyslexia and read as much as I can over the weekend. When Monday comes, I’m ready.

We work for weeks, and finally, Elijah is able to work through reading on his own. He gives me a big hug and tells me I’m his best friend and I can’t leave him because he needs me too much. I don’t tell him this, but I need him too. Jessie doesn’t always bother me when he’s around, and that makes stuff so much easier.

The summer is finally here, and we leave elementary school for good. I used to be scared about seventh grade and middle school, but I know Elijah will still be there, so I don’t worry too much any more.

Elijah comes to my house one night, and we swing on our ugly front porch swing, drinking the warm sodas he brought from his house. I know something big is about to happen, because Elijah keeps touching my leg with his, and it’s making me shake like I’m cold, and I’m bouncing around on my toes, even though I can’t reach the porch floor very well.

We’ve grown so much just in the last few months since we’ve been best friends. Elijah is super tall, like the tallest kid ever. He said he’s 5’7”, which is crazy because I’m only 5’0”. But it’s nice, because I like the way he looks down at me to smile.

Elijah kisses me, but he accidentally knocks into my teeth too hard because I was getting ready to ask him what he was doing. Then I get it. And I kiss him the next time, exactly three seconds later. It’s kind of awesome, and I keep feeling hot in my cheeks and pushing my stupid red hair back. I know my whole face is the same color as my freckles.

But Elijah just smiles down at me like he’s just learned his favorite rock star is coming to town and playing a concert just for him.

It’s funny because that was the beginning of the summer. We meet in the park a lot, sometimes just to ride bikes and sometimes to walk around without everyone spying on us. My mama and Stacey both bug me so bad. Stacey calls Elijah my boyfriend, and even though I sort of like it, it’s super embarrassing.

His mom is really nice and always hugs me and calls me Reba because my hair is the same color as her favorite country singer. But she makes the best cookies when she’s around and lets us have soda, so I’m definitely okay with it.