3. Ian
3
IAN
I remember my Super Bowl win like it was yesterday. The energy. The crowd. The adrenaline. Existing in the coveted flow state of elite athletes. The flow meant I was ready.
My gift as a quarterback is—was—the ability to become one with the game. All those hours of practice and conditioning, beating my body and mind into submission until nothing could pierce my confidence. Not to go all Jerry Maguire on you, but I’m the entire package. The Quan.
Any given Sunday, I made miracles happen.
I managed that feat with a screaming stadium of fans and millions more watching at home, so surely I can fake the whole confident dad thing for one twelve-year-old kid.
Why won’t my damn palms stop sweating?
I’ve been pacing the living room of my new house for the past hour. Pausing in front of the distressed white shelves I set up on either side of the room’s gas fireplace, I adjust—what did the catalog call it—the love knot.
The clay sculpture looks more like a pile of dog crap to me. But the trendy design catalog I ordered almost everything from to fill the two-story space assured me it’s farmhouse perfection.
I want my daughter to consider this house her home. Maybe this piece of— this love knot will prove I’m serious. Trustworthy. Responsible. Worthy of her love.
I hope Riva approves. And that Monika, my ex and Riva’s mother, agrees.
Hell, earlier this morning, I was half-tempted to ask my canine-chatty neighbor if she approved. For the past four weeks, I’ve listened to her talk to the dogs that amble around her backyard without her once noticing I’m out there.
The dogs sense my presence often enough, but haven’t given me away. They seem to realize her monologues make me feel like I’m not alone.
My neighbor has plenty of conversations with humans, too. These mainly occur in her driveway when people drop off or pick up their precious Fidos and Fifis.
At first, based on the snippets of gut spilling I heard through my open kitchen window, I thought she was a professional therapist. Considering the verbal diarrhea the woman next door elicits from her customers, maybe dog trainers are the new hairstylists.
This solitude is my own doing.
I’m waiting for Riva to arrive so we can start our lives together in this new Pleasantville-esque town. A happy life—just the kind my daughter deserves.
One I’m determined to give her.
The doorbell rings, and I startle, wiping damp hands on my athletic shorts. This is it. Go time.
But it’s not Monika and Riva on the other side of the door.
“Hi, I’m Sadie.”
I recognize her, of course. She comes and goes multiple times daily, loading dogs in and out of her ancient Land Cruiser. Still, her face up close is a surprise. A beautiful, beguiling surprise.
I bet she’s close to my age—thirty-five a month ago—or maybe a few years younger, with creamy skin and freckles dotting the bridge of her nose. Her brown eyes are wide-set with flecks of gold around the edges, and her mouth is soft with a lower lip fuller than the upper.
An incredibly kissable mouth, I’m shocked to discover.
She usually wears shapeless clothes: faded jeans with a flannel over a loose T-shirt. Utilitarian, basic, no-nonsense. This afternoon it’s pushing eighty degrees, so she’s in cut-offs and a gray tank top that skims her oddly delectable curves and has a hole near the bottom hem.
Her raggedy-ass wardrobe fascinates me. My girlfriends are models, actresses, or influencers—women who preen and gallivant and take pride in their fashion sense. I could give a rat’s ass about fashion, and living next to a woman who doesn’t care either validates my decision to move to this nondescript little town.
I picked it sight unseen based on a Buzzfeed ranking of the happiest towns in America. Skylark, Colorado topped the list. It was a risk, but I want to raise my daughter in a place where people are normal. I want to feel normal.
“Hello?” A hand waves in front of my face. “I don’t mean to interrupt anything, like finishing the build-out of your freaky basement dungeon. I thought I’d officially introduce myself. I’m your next-door neighbor.”
I blink. “I know who you are. The dog lady. What’s this about a dungeon in my basement?”
It’s her turn to blink—like she didn’t realize she said that part out loud.
“Oh, well…never mind.” She takes a step back, and I half expect her to turn tail and run as her face goes slack, like she’s seeing me for the first time.
Her gaze travels up and down my body. I might have retired from a career as a professional athlete, but I still work out. Not to sound like an egotistical jackhole, but I’m not hard on the eyes.
Except Sadie squints and swallows, like taking in all six-foot-four inches of me might make her sick to her stomach. Okay, that’s a first from a woman. Or anyone.
Huh.
“Tell me more about this dungeon,” I suggest with a wink. “Are there handcuffs?” Flirting always works for me.
Or it has until now.
She visibly shudders. Shudders. And crosses her arms over her chest. I’m trying hard not to notice her chest, but it’s damn near perfect.
“It’s just that no one in the neighborhood has met you,” she explains, craning her neck to look over my shoulder. “Your shades are always drawn and you drive an SUV with blacked-out windows and have loads of boxes delivered. Big ones. Remember the scene in Twilight when Bella calls Edward out on being a vampire?”
Is the cute dog lady on something? “Who the hell are Edward and Bella?”
She grimaces then waves away my question like dandelion fluff. “It doesn’t matter. To each his own. Anyway?—”
“I’m furnishing a house. I’m having furniture delivered. Not paraphernalia for a dungeon. I don’t even own handcuffs.”
“You must not listen to true crime podcasts.” She shrugs. “Lots of creepers keep rooms like that in the basement. Not lots I guess, but you know what I mean.”
Unfortunately, I do.
I rub a hand along the back of my neck. “People around here think I’m a creeper? I’ve been trying to keep a low profile.”
A no profile until Riva arrives, because I don’t want the fact that she has a famous father to affect her getting settled.
Sadie studies me for a long moment, as if trying to assess whether I’m telling the truth, and I wait for recognition to dawn.
Unless this woman lives under a rock—which I can tell you she doesn’t since her house is next door—she’s seen what my agent calls my enviably chiseled jawline on TV at some point. I have commercial endorsements for products ranging from car insurance to burgers to high-end fashion lines. I’ve recently added a stubbly beard to the mix, a new look that's already generating buzz among my fanbase and had my agent frantically calling to ask if this "brand evolution" was approved by the team.
She draws in a deep breath. Here we go.
I’m ready for her to fawn, but instead she says, “There are online quizzes you can take to determine whether your neighbors might be serial killers based on their observed habits.”
My chiseled jaw goes slack because it’s clear she’s done some research. Research that doesn’t involve my career stats.
“What’s my score?” I ask, genuinely curious despite the peculiarity of this exchange.
“You don’t want to know,” she says simply. “Anyway, nice to meet you, mystery guy. I’ll spread the word that the neighborhood won't be featured on Dateline any time soon.”
She glances past my shoulder again. “I had a dog escape into your yard. Is it okay to go through your side gate to grab her? I wanted to ask first before heading in. Trespassing and whatnot.”
“You all but accuse me of being a deranged murderer, and you’re concerned about trespassing?” I cough out a laugh and then pin her with a severe glare, the kind that used to make upstart reporters and unprepared defensive coordinators quake in their shoes.
Dog lady nods, seemingly unfazed. But I catch a hint of color rising to her cheeks and like the thought I put it there.
“It’s Princess’s first time overnight with me. She slipped under the fence when my back was turned. Wiggly little thing. I can’t lose a pup during her first stay, you know? Her owner is already nervous about being away from her.”
“Wow, you talk fast.” I’m focused on her mouth so I don’t miss anything and find I like how her lips turned up at the corners when she said wiggly. A little more than I should.
A sleek black Mercedes pulls to a stop at the curb. It has to be Monika and Riva. “Sure, go get your lost dog. The gate is unlocked.” I step onto the front porch. “I won’t even try to kidnap you while you’re on my property.”
“Appreciate that,” she says with a bright smile but still no recognition.
Maybe I lucked out by moving next door to the one person who exclusively watches the Puppy Bowl on Super Bowl Sunday.
I want a regular life. Sadie, the dog lady, isn’t what I had in mind when I imagine my perfect neighbor, but she’s quickly converting me.
She hops off the side of the porch as the back door to the Mercedes slams shut.
“Hey, there,” I call with a wave that neither my ex nor my daughter return.
“You weren’t joking about going low-profile,” Monika says as the driver unloads several duffle bags from the trunk.
“Is there a pool?” Riva asks as she surveys the modest neighborhood like she’s never seen a house less than five thousand square feet. Maybe that’s true, which is one more way I’ve failed her up until now. I try to see Elmwood Circle through the eyes of a kid who’s lived most of her life in posh Beverly Hills.
Monika and I only dated for a few months at the start of my NFL career. I was on cloud nine with the money and fame from my hefty rookie contract, and she was a fledgling starlet intent on getting her name in the headlines any way she could. Our spark flamed hot and fast, burning out quickly, but not before Monika’s surprise pregnancy. Much to the shock of both our agents, we agreed we wanted the baby and have been somewhat effectively co-parenting ever since.
In truth, Monika does the heavy lifting. I got traded from LA to Atlanta after one season and two concussions. I stayed healthy and focused long enough to achieve a Super Bowl ring and four respectable—if disappointing in the end—playoff runs.
I did my best—or told myself as much—to see Riva on bye weeks or in the off-season. Mostly, I sent elaborate gifts and FaceTimed while Monika took our daughter to various shoots and sets as her career took off. Easy enough, she claimed, when Riva was younger, but once she started school, things changed.
Monika hit it big with an ongoing role in a superhero franchise, while I was downed by a dirty sack during a Monday night game that knocked me unconscious for twenty minutes. I came to in a smelly locker room at a stadium far from home. I’m not saying my life flashed before my eyes. But the gravity of what I was risking did.
To my agent’s chagrin, and the speculation of various sports channel pundits, I announced my retirement at the end of my team’s dismal finish last season.
“No pool, but there’s a big maple tree in back that’s perfect for a tire swing.” I smile and try to portray a confidence I don’t feel.
“Riva is allergic to rubber,” Monika tells me with a sniff.
“And peanut butter,” the girl adds.
I’m familiar with the nut allergy, but is there such a thing as a rubber allergy? I grab bags while the driver pretends to ignore this first-world-problems conversation. “We can find a non-rubber swing.”
“I’d rather have a pool.” Riva kicks the toe of her sparkly sneaker against the cobblestone path leading to the front of the house. “Or go with Mom to Hawaii. Everyone there has a pool or lives near the ocean.”
Monika is filming on location in Maui for the next six weeks, which is why Riva is with me for the summer. And beyond, since the plan is for her to live here full-time when the school year resumes. I want a do-over on being a dad, full stop.
“You and your dad are going to have a great time together,” Monika says, wrinkling her nose like one of the dog lady’s pups has deposited a turd at her feet. “So much fun to be had in…Pleasantville.” Oscar-worthy performance, it’s not.
“Skylark,” I correct.
“Sure,” she agrees.
In the beat of silence, while the three of us contemplate the irony of the town I chose to move to based solely on an online quiz, I hear the side gate to the yard squeak open.
“A dog,” Riva practically squeals. “Daddy got me a dog.”
Uh…first of all, my heart flips at the word daddy, which she hasn’t called me for far too long. Then it plummets because 1. I didn’t get her a dog, 2. Monika made me promise no pets, and 3. Sadie, the dog lady, is staring at my ex the way I want her to look at me.
Complete astonishment and awe.
Monika Graham is a bona fide A-lister.
“We agreed,” Monika reminds me through clenched teeth as Riva hurtles toward Sadie and the wriggly pup trying to escape her grasp.
“I didn’t.” I take a step forward. “Riva, that’s not?—“
“Hello.” Sadie tears her gaze from my ex and holds up a hand like she and Riva are playing a game of Red Light, Green Light. My daughter digs in her heels and stops mid-stride. Impressive. “Do you like dogs?”
Her voice is calm and commanding in a weirdly appealing way. I’ve heard the tone before. It’s how she talks to the dogs she trains in her backyard. However, she doesn’t sound so self-assured when she’s conversing with herself or voice texting—badly, based on the insults she hurls at auto-correct.
“That’s my dog.” Riva holds out her hands. “Give it to me.”
I shoot Monika a look, although I have zero right to judge our daughter’s atrocious manners. I’ve offered little to the equation besides DNA, gifts chosen by a professional shopper, and a hefty monthly child support payment.
“This is Princess,” Sadie says, ignoring Riva’s rudeness. “And she already has an owner who loves her very much.”
“She’s in my yard,” Riva counters.
Sadie’s confused gaze flicks to me. She lifts a brow and mouths the word basement .
Despite how in over my head I am, my lips twitch. “She didn’t escape from the dungeon,” I assure Sadie, moving forward with the bags. “This is my daughter, Riva. She’s living with me.”
“Even though Hawaii is way cooler than Colorado,” Riva clarifies, then glances over her shoulder. “I want that puppy, Dad.”
She sounds like that bratty girl from the old Willy Wonka movie. I can’t remember her name, but it’s not a comparison I like making.
“We agreed no pets.” Monika’s voice is calm, and she bestows Sadie with a megawatt smile. “Although that little ball of fluff is a cutie.”
Monika was bitten twice as a girl, so has always been terrified of dogs, but her people don’t think that’s a good optic for social media.
“Rivs, give me a kiss and hug goodbye.”
“I want Princess. I’ll name her Sophie.”
“She’s got a name.” Sadie displays more patience than me. “I need to bring her back to my house. Loved you in the last Revstar movie, Ms. Graham.”
“Thank you,” Monika says, adjusting her sunglasses. “Riva, a hug.”
“Dad, you can’t let her take my dog.”
“Who needs a dungeon,” Sadie asks no one in particular, “when you can have fun family times on the front lawn?”
Does she realize she’s speaking out loud? The mix of authenticity and snark fascinates me.
Riva watches Sadie hurry across the driveway that separates the two houses, the dog cradled in her arms like a baby.
“Say goodbye to your mom, and I’ll give you a house tour.”
“No pool and no puppy.” Riva rounds on Monika and me. If the girl has a superpower, it’s shooting fire from her crystal blue eyes—the same color as mine. That fire is clearly meant to turn her parents to ashes. “I hate this place.”
She stomps toward the house, banging through the front door like it did her wrong.
Except nope. I’m the one who hurt her, and it has nothing to do with the dog. “That went well.”
“She’s nervous about staying with you,” Monika explains.
“We’ll figure it out.”
My ex nods but doesn’t bother to pretend she believes me. I don’t blame her.
“I’ll call tonight after I check into the hotel.” She gives my arm an awkward pat. “How are the headaches?”
“Better.” Mostly.
She nods. “I hope you’re happy here, Ian.”
There are plenty of things I regret in life, but those few months of dating Monika and the daughter we have as a result will never fall into that category.
“Riva and I will find a way to be happy. How can we not in a town the internet assured me is so damn happy?”
She cracks a smile. A real one, not the Hollywood version she’s perfected over the years. “I’m not sure why, but I believe you.”
Makes one of us, I think, as I watch her climb into the backseat of the Mercedes to be driven away.