Chapter 12
Melody
“Welcome to the show, Melody Dunne, or should I say Quarterback Princess?” Chet Arnold sits across from me in an armchair, smiling like we’re dishing all the hot goss on a new reality show, The Real Quarterbacks of New Orleans.
“Nobody really calls me that anymore,” I say with a light laugh from where I’m sitting in a matching armchair.
“You’re still it, though,” he teases. “And I’ve wanted to have you on the show for a year now.”
“All you had to do was ask, Chet.” I give him a knowing smile.
I know exactly why he flew all the way down to New Orleans to film a special guest collaboration with me—and why he didn’t make the effort last year.
Lately, my coverage of Knox has gone international, with more people tuning in for the Saints games than ever before.
“Tell me, what got you so focused on the Saints’ quarterback? There are several talented players in the league. Why Knox Bradford? Or shall we call him K-Brad?”
He adds the last part with a chuckle, and I shift in my seat, considering my answer. “The Bradford Boys have always been fun to watch, even when I was a young girl—”
“Growing up as the daughter of Scout Dunne and niece of John Roth Dunne, for those unfamiliar with your background.” He looks at the camera and winks.
“Coming from a football family did help,” I concur, glad to broaden my potential reasons away from a bad night in an Uber.
“But you’re not connected to the Bradfords in any way,” he clarifies.
“No, Chet, I’m just a southern girl who grew up watching SEC games on Saturdays and the pros on Sundays and Mondays.”
“And the Saints?” He tilts his head.
“They’re a storied program with a rich history. They’ve had Archie Manning, Drew Brees… They had a dramatic comeback after years of losing seasons to win the Big Game against the Colts, where they went up against Archie’s son…”
“It is a fun history,” he cuts in, smiling like we’re sharing fond memories.
“Knox Bradford has the potential to be the next big thing. If he can get out of his own way and stop playing hero ball.”
“Ouch!” Chet makes a comical noise as his eyebrows rise. “And that’s what makes you so entertaining to have in our ears during the games—that sharp wit, combined with your football knowledge.”
I hold my smile steady. I hadn’t intended to go hard on Knox while visiting this show. It doesn’t help that Chet seems to amplify everything I say. Knox would spank my ass for it.
A flash of heat moves through my lower stomach, and I shift in my chair. I remember us together in a bathroom at Razoo’s. It’s a wonder we didn’t burn the place down. That was achingly hot and not nice at all.
“This is your open invitation to watch the games with me each week,” Chet continues. “We’ll do a split-screen play-by-play, yes?”
My attention returns quickly to the guy sitting across from me, and I consider his offer. “I don’t really co-host anymore, but thanks anyway.”
“Ah, yes, I remember you had a bit of a falling out with your last co-host, Susan Jackson? Something about being too harsh on your subjects?” He gives me a grin, and I can almost hear him saying Gotcha!
My throat pinches, but I force my expression to stay relaxed. I don’t like being on camera for this very reason. I’m a terrible actor, and if something makes me uncomfortable, it’s written all over my face.
“We had different goals,” I say with a tone of finality.
Chet holds up his hands. “Understood. What if we just called it a special edition? You can be my guest for a one-time, New Orleans versus Texas showdown, right here in the Big Easy.”
I feel like I should’ve anticipated this. I vaguely remember a text I got from this guy not so long ago. I also remember he and Susan had similar feelings about luring guests into their webs and then flipping the script on them.
“I’ll think about it and get back to you.” I look at my wrist, ready to wrap this up.
“Playing hard to get?” He grins, leaning forward and touching my arm. “Take a look at how much the fans would love it.”
He waves his hand to the screen behind us. It’s the projection of a computer screen with our video in the middle and comments rising faster than rice boiling over in water.
Users with screen names like “Blitzbabes” and “KelceYouLater” post responses ranging from “Baby, just say yes!” to “Don’t puss out, QP!” to “Who gives a fuck what she thinks?”
I typically don’t read the comments on my episodes in realtime.
“What do you say?” Chet grins at me, and I glance at Lindsey standing in the shadows near the camera crew.
Our eyes hold, and I can tell she’s as concerned as I am. Chet’s a loose cannon, and he’s already tried to gotcha me once today. I don’t like being out of control of the mic.
At the same time, it would expand our audience if I joined him for a special edition. My lips twist, and she shrugs, giving me a covert thumbs-up.
I inhale slowly, turning to him. “I guess one time couldn’t hurt.”
The screen erupts with confetti horns and hearts, along with angry red faces and thumbs down, and my host leans back in his chair, smiling like the Cheshire Cat. “This is going to be epic.”
* * *
K-Brad
I don’t like Chet Arnold. He’s the ick.
My phone is on the counter in my bathroom, and I glance down while brushing my teeth. When I read the text, my eyebrows quirk, and I huff through my nose. Tell me about it.
Still, I can’t let Knox talk me out of something that could be good for the show. He’s not my boyfriend. We’re fuck buddies. Secret fuck buddies, at that. Nothing more.
I don’t have feelings for him.
Melody
He has a smarmy vibe, but I wouldn’t mind tapping his audience.
It doesn’t take long for Knox to catch that softball.
K-Brad
I wouldn’t mind tapping your… audience.
That makes me laugh for real as I spit into the sink and rinse my mouth.
Melody
Pretty sure my audience feels the same way I do about you. They want to love, but the frustration is real.
K-Brad
So real. Let’s work it out. Razoo’s br?
Melody
No—my knees were covered in bruises.
K-Brad
I’ll bring the knee pads.
I curl into my blankets, snickering at the very thought of him showing up at the bar carrying knee pads only for us to disappear into the bathroom.
K-Brad
What are you doing right now?
Melody
In bed, about to put on true crime and go to sleep.
K-Brad
You sleep to true crime?
Melody
I let it play while I sleep.
K-Brad
That can’t be good for you.
Melody
Insomnia is worse.
My phone falls silent, and I wonder if he’s decided he can’t keep talking to a lunatic who can’t sleep without the dulcet tones of City Confidential lulling me to sleep.
But Keith David has such a soothing voice, even if he is the Shadow Man.
K-Brad
I know you’re going to talk to that guy. Just don’t dogpile me.
My lips press, and my brow furrows. I slide my finger over the gray oval containing his words.
Melody
I hate a dogpile. It’s the lowest form of discourse.
K-Brad
It also sucks when you’re underneath it.
Doesn’t suck to be underneath you…
I don’t send that. I push down the knot in my throat and squeeze my eyes shut. I scrub my fingers over my forehead and do my best to refocus my thinking. He’s not my boyfriend. I’m a professional journalist.
Melody
I’ll be the same as always.
He doesn’t reply. We don’t say goodnight, and I put the phone away angry that I feel guilty.
Turning away from the nightstand, I hug my knees closer. I’m not falling for Knox Bradford, and I won’t show favoritism. My job is to call it like I see it. That’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. Nothing is going to change.
Still, anxiety creeps up my shoulders like silent crabs across the ocean floor.
* * *
“They’re playing a stellar game tonight.” Chet is in his leather chair positioned in front of a massive flatscreen television broadcasting the game. “I expect the wagers are pouring in on FanDuel—Saints win the ring?”
“I’m not a betting gal, Chet.” I’m beside him in a matching chair, watching it all happen in realtime. “It would go against my journalistic ethics.”
“I’m starting to wish I had ethics.” Disappointment is in his tone, and I don’t believe him for a second.
Chet Arnold invited me here for one reason, an unofficial roast of Knox Bradford. I’d been preparing to remain neutral, keep my comments to what they always are. I’m seriously glad Knox hasn’t made a single mistake… yet.
“We know from experience, talent isn’t the problem.” I watch the Saints’ defense keep the Texas offense in check. “Decision-making is.”
“It’s one for the books,” Chet replies. “We’re heading into the half, and so far, I’ve only seen good decisions.”
“Don’t jinx us.” I smile at him, hoping to lighten the mood.
His eyes meet mine, and he forces a laugh.
Oh, brother. I wonder if anyone falls for his act. It’s so clear he’s not a fan. He’s not happy they’re doing well at all. I’m really proud of Knox tonight, and I don’t care one bit if it takes the drama out of this collab. Sorry, not sorry, Chet.
“Hang on… It looks like the offense is going to get another turn before the break.” His voice rises in anticipation. “The pressure is on, and we both know what that means.”
It means Knox needs more time, which he rarely has. I have to remember I call him K-Brad in my official capacity as the host of Girl’s Got Game.
“O-line didn’t do him any favors in Miami.” I watch as they prepare for the snap. “Let’s see if they’ll create a pocket.”
“The clock is running down…” Chet fills the space with chatter, but we’re both waiting to see what happens with only seconds left.
The snap happens. Knox falls back, holding as he scans the field for an opening. My throat tightens at the clean shot of his face, his blue eyes wide and calculating. I can’t help remembering how I ran my tongue over his neck.
He’s so beautiful… and talented… and…
At the last second, he twists out of the path of the linebacker and starts to run forward.
“Is he going to hand it off?” Chet’s voice rises.
I know he’s not. I’ve watched him too closely for too long. He takes the sack as the clock runs out, and the buzzer sounds to break the game.