Chapter 8
Melody
“He gave you his number!” Lindsey is high stepping around the duplex doing jazz hands. “He wants you to call him first and talk to him about his game… This is huge! It’s unbelievable!”
“Unbelievable is right.” I don’t share her enthusiasm.
I don’t like how my insides are all shaky, like I’ve just gone through a hurricane, because he showed up on my doorstep demanding answers.
I’ve been around him before. I drove him to the airport, and having him here, standing in front of me, looking down on me with those gorgeous eyes, that silky dark hair, a curl falling over his brow like Superman, those muscles straining against his shirt…
It was the moment I’d been dreading and anticipating, the million-dollar question that jet-fueled my comeback. I have a feeling you’re still angry with me, and you’re taking it out on me on your show.
I was ready to spit nails that he’d put it that way. As if to imply he’s above reproach, and the only reason I might possibly critique his game would be because of some ridiculous beef.
He read me like a book. I was mad at him, otherwise I’d never have said those things in front of a live audience. I definitely thought them, they were all true, but if he hadn’t embarrassed and humiliated me the way he did, it would only have lived inside my mind.
How dare he be right?
At least I pulled it together enough to tell him how I really felt about his game.
“I don’t understand why you’re not more excited about this. You have a direct line to the horse’s mouth.” She leans into me, jabbing my ribs with her elbow. “And what a horse that is. I wouldn’t mind taking him for a ride, amirite?”
“Don’t be gross, Lindsey.”
“There is nothing gross about Knox Bradford. He is quite literally perfect.”
“You’ve never had him in the back of your car shouting at you.” I walk over to my desk. “That’s an experience I’ll gladly never revisit. He clearly has anger-management issues.”
“I don’t think so.” Lindsey shakes her head. “I’ve never seen any signs of it on the field, and he’s had lots of opportunities to lose his shit out there.”
“So you’re saying I bring it out in him?” I tilt my head, batting my eyes at her.
She harks a laugh, walking over to give me a hug. “If that’s true, it would absolutely be a first. I’ve never met a person who didn’t love you.”
“Thanks, bestie.” I lift my hand, giving her arm a squeeze. “I don’t believe you, but you know if I were to use that number to discuss his game play with him, I could never sleep with him. It would be the height of unprofessionalism.”
“So you’re thinking about it.”
“No.” Good thing I’m not as bad a liar as she is, or she’d see right through that bald-faced lie. How could I not be thinking about it?
“Hey, I won’t tell anybody if you do,” she teases.
Shaking my head, I place my phone face down on the desk.
“I guess he thinks he can just come over here and apologize, and that’ll be the end of our show. No more commentary. He’s off the hook.”
Lindsey leans back on the sofa, smiling excitedly. “I’m guessing he’d be wrong to think such a thing.”
“Dead wrong.” I sit in my chair, waking up my computer. “Let’s see how he does against Seattle, and we’ll take it from there. Baby steps.”
* * *
K-Brad
Any thoughts for me heading into the game?
It’s Monday afternoon, and I’m making an early dinner, which involves reheating leftovers. His words on my phone summon up all the feelings I’d experienced confronting him in person. Just like that, I’m standing on my porch in the face of all his sexy, dominating glory.
I take a few deep, calming breaths, plant my feet, and reply rationally.
Melody
You have coaches for that.
K-Brad
They’re ass-kissers. I want the truth.
Melody
I didn’t call them that. You did.
K-Brad
Hold up, let me check. Instant replay, I believe you said, “You’re surrounded by a bunch of ass-kissers. That explains a lot.”
Melody
Only after you said no one talked to you the way I do. I find that hard to believe. Your coach tells you what you need to hear.
K-Brad
Maybe I hear it better coming from you.
My chest tightens, and I will myself to be strong. He’s trying to hijack my show the way he hijacked my night all those months ago.
I won’t let him.
Melody
You’ll see my comments along with everyone else. When I make them.
My phone goes still. I don’t see the gray dots bouncing, telling me he’s already composing his comeback. I don’t see any signs of him being there at all.
I refuse to give in to the sinking feeling in my chest. I have standards and ethics. I always have. Letting him know what I have planned for the show is violating that code. If that means he’s done talking with me, so be it.
I am not unhappy or even sad about it.
K-Brad
What did you want to be when you grew up?
My heart did not jump out of my chest at this new, unexpected turn.
Melody
What age are we talking? I wanted to be a lot of things.
K-Brad
Of course you did, you delight. Let’s say preschool, before the other kids told you what you couldn’t do.
My lips pull into a reluctant smile, and I’ve got to hand it to him.
Melody
First I wanted to be a princess. Then my best friend’s dad showed us that old movie The Quarterback Princess, and it changed my life.
K-Brad
Helen Hunt can do that to a person. Have you seen her tits?
A laugh bursts through my tight lips, and my shoulders start to relax.
Melody
It was more the idea one could be a quarterback and a princess. It had never entered my realm of possibilities.
K-Brad
How old were you?
Tilting my head to the side, I remember that day so well. It was the same day my dad came back. I had no idea who he was. I was used to people coming and going in my mom’s antiques store. I was even used to her dating.
I don’t remember the precise details of the day, but I remember prancing around the store in my tiara, carrying my pink football.
Melody
I was three.
K-Brad
I bet you were cute.
Shaking that away, I won’t let him wear me down with his charm.
Melody
What did you want to be?
K-Brad
I don’t know what I would’ve been if I hadn’t been a Bradford.
Melody
You make it sound like the name is synonymous with football.
K-Brad
It is, except for Mav who bucked the rules to play hockey.
Ah, yes. The cousin in LA, who is the star center for the LA Champions. You don’t even have to like hockey to know about him.
Melody
Was there ever a time when you didn’t want to play football?
K-Brad
Nope. I cut my teeth watching my dad and his brothers playing in the park. Austin would play with them, and all I wanted to do was be on that field. They wouldn’t let me until I was bigger, closer to their size.
Melody
Why not?
K-Brad
When they were all younger, they nearly crushed my aunt Dylan. I think it scarred all of them pretty badly.
Melody
They sound like a fun group.
K-Brad
They’re the best. They’d advise you to tell it to me straight. How’s it looking for tonight?
An actual laugh bursts through my lips, and I shake my head, composing my reply.
Melody
Nice try. I’m still not your coach. I suggest you talk to the people who are paid to tell you how to play.
K-Brad
They’re not as cute as you are.
Melody
Puppies are cute. Have a good game, Mr. Bradford. I’ll be watching.
K-Brad
So formal, Miss Dunne. I’m sure you will.
* * *
The Seattle game was even more stressful than the game against Arizona. Lindsey and I both spent the majority of the time pacing the living room, alternately screaming, shouting, and crouching to the floor with our heads in our hands.
“Don’t @ me, K-Brad, but talent clearly isn’t your problem,” I say as we head into halftime. “Discipline is.”
The comments section of the pod goes insane with hearts, angry emojis, laugh-crying emojis. The fans are all over it as well, leaving their own comments, kitchen-themed and otherwise.
The second half is as fraught as the first. I’m watching the game in my headset with the attached mic, and with every long pass he misses, every run that is blocked, the tension in my chest twists tighter.
“I hope they have extra defibrillators ready to go at Ochsner,” I note. “I expect many of y’all will be needing a jump after this game.”
Another flood of comments and laugh-crying emojis fills the screen. I’m sitting in front of the television chewing my thumbnail as I watch Knox fall back, scanning the downfield like he always does. It’s his go-to move, and thankfully this time, Baker finds an opening.
He fires a perfect spiral, directly into the receiver’s arms for a touchdown. They make the extra point, and the final score is a squeaker, 14-9 win.
Falling back in my chair, I exhale heavily, issuing my final verdict on this game. The defensive line is there. They saved the game. Again.
“K-Brad’s biggest issue is he wants the long pass, the quick score. Say it with me, Saints Nation, Take the checkdown!”
Our comments section blows up with all-caps repeats and a thousand up-votes. Of course TMI is on it. They post a lengthy critique, heavily quoting my show as their lead story under the headline, “QP TO K-brAD: TAKE THE CHECKDOWN!!!”
My lips twist as I see it go live almost instantly, and the snarky comments immediately begin rolling in. I actually feel bad. Then I’m furious.
Standing, I toss my headset onto the desk and growl as I cross my arms, staring at the comments blowing up my laptop.
Lindsey dances into the den sipping a margarita and holding one out to me, then she stops mid-prace, frowning when she sees my face. “What’s wrong?”
“This is exactly how he wants me to feel!” I turn, uncrossing my arms to take the drink from her hand. “He wants to get close so I’ll feel bad when he plays a completely undisciplined game, and I call him on it.”
Her glee melts into worry. “Do you feel bad?”
“Of course, I do. Don’t ask me why. It’s not like he stopped being the guy who yelled at me in the Uber, or who told me to get back in the kitchen.”
“It’s true.” Lindsey presses her lips into a line. “He was a real shit. And a pig. A pig shit.”
“He’s not a pig shit.” My throat is tight, and I look down at my phone lighting up with a text.
K-Brad
I should take the checkdown.
I can’t swallow the knot away. Fuck him for texting me this. Why does he have to be so humble and sweet?
“I’m the shit.” My voice is quiet, and I think back to our texting, to him asking about my dreams as a child, telling me about his big ass family. “He’s nice.”
Lindsey walks over and puts her head on my shoulder. “You were such a baller tonight. You said everything everyone was thinking and it was funny and smart.”
“I started a dogpile.” My shoulders drop, and I scrub my fingers over my eyes with a growl. “I hate dogpiles.”
“Yeah.”
“No, I mean, I really really hate dogpiles. I hate dogpiles so much, I start searching for a way to support the victim.” I lift the margarita and take a big, huge gulp.
Lindsey’s lips purse, and she nods slowly. “He’s really hot.”
I inhale so fast, I almost choke. Then I almost send tequila through my nose.
“Lindsey!” I squeal, holding the back of my hand to my upper lip.
“What?” She turns, giving me doe eyes as she takes a sip of her drink. “You said you wanted to support him. He’s hot.”
“That doesn’t make any of this okay!”
“Doesn’t it, though?” She tilts her head to the side, squinting. “Hot guys can get away with all sorts of shit from what I’ve seen.”
I hold my phone in my hand, studying his text. He’s not like that, and it makes me itchy and tight. It makes me feel like I’m in trouble when I’m not.
I didn’t do anything wrong. I reported the game exactly as he played it, warts and all.
My fingers fly over the screen as I compose a reply.
Melody
It’s a strategy for a reason.
I imagine he’s busy with post-game interviews, showers, transportation… Instead, he texts right back.
K-Brad
You’re right. I want the quick score. I worked hard to have Kyler and Baker recruited, and I depend on them too much.
Melody
You have to look at what’s right in front of you.
The line goes silent. My shoulders are tense. I hate this.
Lindsey sips her drink as she watches me. “What did he say?”
My eyes flicker up to hers, and she’s giving me a knowing smile.
“He agrees that I’m right. He leans too hard on Goff and Hartfield.”
“It’s okay,” she laughs, giving me a nudge. “You can call them Kyler and Baker.”
“I don’t know them well enough to call them by their first names.” I look down at my glass, considering a refill. “It’s not professional.”
“I think you’re going to have to let the professional part of all of this go. At least behind the scenes. We all know what’s happening.”
I look up at her, wide eyed. “Nothing is happening. I’m not…”
She didn’t say it, and I won’t give her the words.
“I think you are.” My bestie puts an arm around my shoulders. “Just relax. Let it happen.”