Chapter 7
Knox
My fingers tighten on the pigskin, flexing as I scan the field, left to right, from Kyler to Baker, looking for any opening.
Our linebacker Brady Armstrong makes a beeline, heading straight for me.
He doesn’t tackle me because it’s practice, but the dude is a fucking Sasquatch.
He’s bigger than my uncle Garrett if that were possible, and I recall the way he sacked the Cardinals’ quarterback like he was nothing more than a rag doll.
I step away, running to the center, when I see Baker is open and pull back, firing a hard pass straight to him as Brady grabs me around the waist.
“Sacked,” he growls, but I twist away before he brings me to the ground.
“Hartfield has it. He’s running it in for the score.”
“Fuck,” my teammate hisses, and I cut an eye at him. Did he want to plant me like a tree? “You still need me for Monday night’s game.”
“Do we, K-Brad?” His tone is sarcastic, and I’m hot-headed enough to imagine punching him right in that smug grin.
I’m also smart enough to know that would be the wrong move.
“What the fuck, BA?” I rest my hands on my hips. “You’re siding with that chick?”
“She’s smart, and she knows football.” He walks parallel to me in the direction of the lockers. “We’re on track. You going to step it up and start scoring some touchdowns?”
Shaking my head, I walk with him all the way back. As hard as I’ve worked to prove myself, I keep on having to do it all over again.
“Yeah.” My tone is sharp, perhaps a bit angry. “I am.”
“Good.”
We part ways, and I go to my locker where I strip off my jersey and toss it into the bin followed by my practice pads. I’m about to head for the shower when I see Devin Banks appear at the door, waving for me to come over.
I walk over in my shorts wondering what our team’s nerdy data analyst wants. I hope it’s some inside tip on Seattle’s weaknesses, player patterns, or holes in their defensive line.
Because that’s his job.
If it’s a breakdown of all the shit I got wrong in our last game, I’ll be cutting it short. I’ve heard enough for one day. Not to mention my own personal replay track is running in my head.
“What?” My tone is sharp.
Devin is undeterred. He’s even smiling, practically bouncing on his toes. “Ready to owe me big time?”
Not what I was expecting. “I don’t know.”
“I found her.”
My brow arches. “Her… Who?”
“I heard some of the guys saying you wanted to find that Quarterback Princess. You know, the girl who’s been giving you such a hard time on her pod?”
“Yeah, yeah.” I wave a hand. “I know.”
“Well, you asked, I delivered.”
Surprise hits my chest, causing me to take a step back. For months, ever since this bullshit started, I’ve been turning it over in my head, wondering if I should confront her, make her say all her crap to my face, or let it go.
Austin thinks I should let it go. Hell, even Baker thinks I should let it go.
Actually, Baker thinks we need to have some good, solid hate sex, but I’m not going there.
I’m also not letting it go. “How did you manage that?”
He’s a data guy. I expect him to say he did some high-tech surveillance shit like cross-check her IP address or triangulate the frequency of her transmission.
I have no idea if any of that is real, but it’s what I expect.
I do not expect him to say, “I ran into her and her producer at Tropical Isle. She left her credit card at the bar, and I offered to return it to her.”
“They gave it to you?”
“I paid her tab, so yeah. They assumed we were friends.”
He produces a Discover card with palm trees all over it. The name Melody Dunne is in the bottom left corner, and I slide my thumb over it, thinking. It almost feels like I’m holding a golden ticket.
“How do you know it’s her?” I glance up at him.
“The girl who was with her, her producer, showed me a video of her doing one of her hot takes. She said it was just a test of how she would look on YouTube, and trust me…” He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You do not want her putting that up on YouTube. It was brutal.”
My eyes narrow, and I snatch the card from his fingers. “Got an address? I’ll make it a personal delivery.”
“I’ve already sent it to your email.”
“Thanks, Dev.” I return to my locker, stopping long enough to put the card in my wallet and grab a towel.
* * *
Standing in front of the small house on a little side street off St. Charles Avenue, my eyes travel around the exterior as I think about what I plan to say to her.
The wood siding is painted a dark forest green with white trim, and the two sets of French doors across the front are ancient cypress painted dark brown. It’s a pretty standard, Uptown duplex.
A silver water bowl is on the front porch between two chairs. I assume it’s for the neighborhood cats. Noted. She’s kind to the animals, but not to complete strangers.
I lift my hand, preparing to knock, preparing to get some answers. A question passes quickly through my mind: Would it be better if she were just doing it for the ratings, or would it be better if she has a real beef with me?
The latter would give me more respect for her. If she’s really pissed about something, maybe we can talk it out, find a solution, get her to get off me.
If it’s for ratings, I’m sunk.
I knock firmly on the ancient wood and wait. At least these doors don’t have full-sized windows. It’s possible she might take one look and run.
Instead, the door opens swiftly, and a beautiful girl appears in front of me. Golden-brown hair is piled on top of her head, and she’s fresh-faced and smiling.
She’s dressed in white terrycloth shorts and a long-sleeved faded pink tee with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows. On the front it reads I’m a Delight. It’s funny. But I don’t want to like her.
She looks away, over her shoulder, talking to someone in the house. I stand in her doorway, filling it almost entirely, and when she turns her head to face me, her lips part. Her bright blue eyes go round as saucers, and her jaw drops. She blinks several times, not speaking.
Taking that as my cue, I hold up the credit card. “I think this belongs to you.”
Her eyes flicker to the plastic then back to mine. “How…” She turns her entire body to look behind her into the house before facing me again. “I don’t understand.”
In that simple movement, a memory flashes through my brain. It’s in the shape of her jaw, the movement of her head, the tenor of her voice. My eyes scan her face again, and it’s like trying to remember a forgotten dream.
“Have we met before?” The credit card is momentarily forgotten. “You seem… familiar.”
Her eyes drop to her feet, which I notice are bare. Red toenails, and she answers in a low voice. “I gave you a ride to the airport.”
The airport? I shake my head. That’s not right. If we’d dated… if we’d slept together, I’d remember. This girl is too pretty for me to forget.
“Was it after a game?” I do my best to ask in a way that doesn’t sound like I’ve forgotten something I should remember.
“It was after the playoffs. You were at a Marriott going to the airport, and I—”
“Fuck…” I whisper, recognition punching me. “You’re the Uber driver.”
Was she this pretty when she drove an Uber? Why the fuck is a pretty girl like her driving an Uber? Isn’t that dangerous?
“Yeah.” Her voice is quiet, like she’s waiting for me to connect the dots.
I connect them. It was the ride from hell, and I kind of lost my shit that night. It was right on the heels of losing that game, and a bunch of friends invited me to join them at the beach. I couldn’t get out of town fast enough.
“I’m sorry.” My tone gentles. “My flight ended up being delayed because of the storm. I shouldn’t have shouted at you.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.” Her head tilts, and she frowns up at me. “I’ve always wondered… Why didn’t you use your car service? Why would you, of all people, call an Uber?”
“It was a last-minute thing.” I clear my throat, unsure of how exactly to say this. “Is that why… I have a feeling you’re still angry with me, and you’re taking it out on me on your show.”
During the brief pause that settles between us, I notice several things. Her lips tighten, her eyes narrow as if she’s embarrassed or angry or both, and her hands ball into fists.
“No.” Her chin jerks, eyes flashing. “What I say on the show is not because you were a total jerk to me that night, even though you were.”
“Whoa.” Both my hands go up like she pulled a gun. “I said I’m sorry.”
“You should be sorry.” Her pretty eyes flash, and damn. Melody Dunne is hot. “You could be great. You’re the Shaquille O’Neal of NFL players. You should be winning the MVP trophy, but you’re not. You should be training harder, but you’re not. Why not? Why don’t you want it?”
Her questions, her tone, the animation she adopts whilst simultaneously complimenting me and telling me off have my eyebrows all the way to my scalp.
None of this is what I expected her to say, and I’m completely thrown off-balance. “What makes you think I don’t want it?”
“I watch you every week.” She takes a step forward, and while her head only comes up to my chest, she’s mighty. “You have so much potential. It’s infuriating.”
“I’m playing my best,” I argue, but it feels weak in the face of her determination. “You don’t know me.”
“I know you’re Jack Bradford’s son.”
“I’m not my dad. He was a legend.” My voice rises, and I can’t believe I said that out loud just now.
I’ve never said that to anyone, and I feel like I fucking showed my hand.
“You could be a legend.” Her tone matches mine.
She’s not backing down, and I’m both flattered and furious. No one has ever talked to me this way. I’ve always been taken for granted as a star player. No one even questions it.
“How do you know all this?” I’m on the defensive, which I did not expect when I came here to confront her about how she’s making my life a living hell. “What’s your interest in football anyway?”
Her lips twist, and she crosses her arms. “My dad’s Scout Dunne.”
Now it’s my turn to have a jaw drop. “The Scout Dunn? Velcro fingers?” I take a pause, looking to the side and putting my hands on my hips. “He was incredible. He never missed a pass. Not even the stinkers.”
“No, he didn’t,” she repeats.
“But… he walked away.”
Her blue eyes hold mine, unrelenting. “He wanted to be an actor. Then stuff happened, and he came home and found me.”
I understand priorities changing. My uncle Hendrix also discovered he had a baby girl, but it didn’t stop him from playing.
“He walked away,” I say flatly.
“He wanted to be a dad,” she counters. “Tell me, Knox Bradford, what do you want?”
I straighten from where I’m standing in the doorway. I can’t tell if she cares or if she’s just busting my balls.
The only people who talk to me this way are Dad and Edward, although Edward only gives you the brutally honest feedback when you ask for it.
I’ve learned to give myself a few weeks of mental preparation before asking what he thinks. If I even ask him at all.
She’s still standing in front of me waiting for my answer. I have one, but I’m not ready to say it to this force of nature who put me on blast. The last thing I dare to show is weakness.
So I deflect.
“I want your number.”
It’s eighty degrees, yet the air around us freezes. Melody doesn’t speak. I think I might be able to knock her over with a feather, and a grin curls my lips. Score one for K-Brad.
“My cell number?” Her voice rises in disbelief. “Why?”
I take a step closer, bracing my hand on the wooden doorframe above her head. “No one has ever talked to me that way outside of my family, and I’m pretty sure they’re biased.”
“So you’re surrounded by a bunch of ass-kissers?” Her brow arches. “That explains a lot.”
My chest tightens, and God help me, I’d better be careful I don’t fall in love with this woman.
“I don’t think so. But you’re an outside observer. Your dad is one of the greats. Brady Armstrong thinks you know your stuff, and I want to hear it.”
“I’m not your coach, Knox Bradford. I’m a podcaster. I have a job.”
“Sure.” Reaching up, I scrub the back of my neck with my hand. “But everyone needs a friend. Right?”
Her lips tighten like she’s fighting her reply. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Too many friends? Can’t add another until one of them dies?”
“My job is to be impartial, and if we’re friends, I risk losing objectivity. And… I suspect you’re trying to make me go easy on you on my show.”
I hold up both hands. “I would never.”
“Oh, wouldn’t you now.” Sarcasm is in her tone, and she’s so damn cute standing there in those shorts and that shirt with her hands on her hips in her bare feet. A delight.
“Fine. I don’t want to be friends.” I realize I really don’t. My mind has drifted into Baker’s approach to this situation. I want to nail her to the wall and hear her moaning my name. “You can say what you want on your show, but say it to me first. Deal?”
She inhales slowly, and from somewhere behind her, deeper in the house, I hear a voice whispering Do it! My eyes flicker into the space, but I can’t see anybody.
“Give me your number, and I’ll consider it,” she says.
A hand shoves a phone into hers from behind the door, and she looks down, shaking her head with a scoff.
“Okay.” I hold my hand out for her device. “I’ll enter my digits.”
Another momentary hesitation, her eyes flicker to the left, and then she holds the phone out to me. Her hand is small compared to mine. Our skin brushes, and it’s a ripple of electricity through my stomach. I wonder if she feels it, too.
If she does, she gives nothing away. Bonus points for having a great poker face.
I quickly tap in my information and save it as K-Brad. If you can’t lick ‘em…
Mmm… Hold that thought for now.
I give the device back to her, and she looks at it briefly before looking up at me again. “I’m not promising anything.”
“Understood.” I reach into my pocket, handing out her forgotten credit card. “The ball is totally in your court.”
She takes it. “Thank you for returning this. You never said how you got it… or how you found me.”
“You left it at the Tropical Isle. My friend Devin Banks got it for you. He’s our data guy, so he has ways.”
Her eyes flicker to the door again, and she’s communicating with whoever shoved the phone in her hand. Whoever it is seems to be on my side, so I play it cool.
“I hope to hear from you, Miss Dunne.”
“It’s Melody.” Her eyes are sharp. “I’m not going to lie for you, and I’m not going to lie to you. Ever.”
I allow the smile I’ve been fighting to spread across my lips, and she blinks away from my face quickly, her cheeks flushing pink. Was that a point for K-Brad?
“I’m counting on it.” I give her a nod before turning and walking down the short path, back to my waiting Rover.