Chapter 12 #2
“The play was messy,” I observe, wishing it weren’t.
“That means the breakdown will be messier.” Chet laughs, turning his chair to face me. “Let’s get into it.”
We’ve got fifteen whole minutes to fill, and I look down at my hands, thinking of the best way to put it, keeping in mind what my fans want.
“Pressure isn’t his friend, but what we saw there was a failure of the line.”
“Hmm…” Chet leans back, his eyes catching that same light as when he asked me about Susan. “I’m not hearing you defending our favorite rookie, am I? You’re not going soft on us are you, QP?”
My eyes narrow. “No, Chet, simply reviewing what we saw here.” I force my shoulders to relax. “We both noted his good decision-making throughout the first half. If the receivers aren’t getting separation, at some point, you have to throw it away or take the sack.”
“Or…” Chet spins slightly as he leans into the camera, raising his voice. “Take the checkdown!”
My traitorous eyes flicker to the screen, and dozens of comments flood the space in all-caps reading TAKE THE CHECKDOWN! It’s the chant I started, and I stand by it. Still, I’m not letting this turn into a dogpile.
“Unless you toss it to a defensive lineman,” I counter, my muscles tense as I use his mistake to redirect the conversation. “Nothing’s lost on a sack going into the half. They’ll come back, and we can see if their earlier momentum holds.”
“Sounds like a good time to review the highlight reels.”
The show goes into Chet’s usual halftime run, and I excuse myself, claiming to need a bathroom break. When I get to the small space, I close the door and switch on the cold water, cupping some in my hand and drinking.
I shake my fingers and press them to the back of my neck. He’s playing really well. It’s undeniable. I’m not going soft. It’s not about the takedown, it’s about the hot take, and up to now, the hot take is Knox Bradford is showing he could have the career he deserves.
“Shit…” I whisper, pressing my fingers against my forehead. “I’m not going soft while the whole world watches. I’m a professional.”
Lindsey
You doing okay, QP?
Melody
I retired that nickname.
Lindsey
It’s cute. It’s a bit like K-Brad. Let it go.
Melody
Knox is playing really well.
Lindsey
I asked you once before, what happens if he stops making mistakes?
Melody
And I said we’d cross that bridge when we got to it.
Lindsey
He did take a sack heading into the half.
My throat tightens, and the instinct to defend him rises in my chest. What is happening to me?
A bell in the studio signals the two-minute warning, and I drop my phone into my bag.
* * *
“This was a good one.” Lindsey drags the cursor back on the video and lets it run.
I’m speaking, eyes fixed on the big screen. “I had planned a ‘What Was That’ award for tonight, Chet, but it looks like it’s going to the coaching staff. When are they going to start drilling these guys?”
“It’s a question a lot of us are asking…” Chet’s reply stops as Lindsey pauses the video.
“Too early to tell if the fans are making the transition.” She switches between screens, checking the ratings as she monitors the comments. “You kept the sharp wit, but we’ll have to see if going after the coaching staff lands as well.”
“My goal from the start was to comment on the game as a whole.” My voice is quiet, and I’ve changed into my PJ pants and long-sleeved tee. “I never intended the show to be focused entirely on one player.”
I wonder if that one player will show up here tonight like he has after every game so far. My skin hums at the thought, and I hate how much I want to wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him.
Lindsey shows no sign of going out, even though the Saints beat Texas handily.
In the sideline interview, my eyes drank him up. He was so proud, his eyes dancing happily. He had every reason to feel that way. It was his best game of the season.
“Here’s a good one.” Lindsey drags the cursor to another spot in the video.
“I know K-Brad can do better. That’s what makes this so frustrating.” My expression is focused, and I’m leaning forward in the chair, my hair shoved behind both ears.
It reminds me of how I used to watch the games with my dad. We had so much fun breaking down the plays and cheering for our favorite teams. I talk to my listeners the same way I used to talk to him, snark included.
“That’s about as rough as you get.” Lindsey exhales a sigh, rocking back in her chair. “If TMI is looking for something, I expect they’ll go with that one.”
I chew the side of my thumb, wondering if he’ll be angry I said that. I wonder if the fans piled onto that comment. It’s really not a bad thing to say. I always note his talent. Heck, it’s practically a compliment.
“Or you’ll be the headline.” Lindsey turns in her chair, grinning at me. “I told you he was hot, and after that run-in at Razoo’s, I expected something like this.”
“I told you what happened at Razoo’s,” I argue, but my voice climbs the scales. “He was mad about the things I said at the game, and he wanted to get it off his chest.”
“And how exactly did he get it off?” Her eyebrow arches, and she tilts her head, a brown spiral-curl falling over one eye.
My eyes narrow, and I fight against my inability to lie. “With his words.”
That’s mostly true. Words like, You like being spanked? and Take my cock like you love it. I shift in my seat as my pussy flutters. Damn, that was hot, and I did love it.
“Words that make your face all red?”
I swallow the thickness in my throat, arguing, “You know I don’t like confrontation.”
“Is that what we’re calling it now?”
Standing, I toss the pillow onto the couch and head for my room. “I’m getting some rest.” As if that’s going to be possible. “The lead-up to this show has me exhausted. I think I’m getting a headache.”
Or something.
My friend’s lips twist, and she rises, walking over to me. “I’m sorry, Mellow. I know being a hard-ass doesn’t come naturally for you.”
“I try to be very fair.” My voice is a low pout.
“You are, now get some rest. We’ll see what happens this week. Maybe K-Brad will realize we all do better when he gives you something you can use.”
“Maybe.” I know what I could use tonight, and he has it.
But he doesn’t give me anything. A whole day passes. The ratings on my guest spot on Chet’s show aren’t bad. They’re not as wild as the ratings on the Miami game, and TMI doesn’t pull anything for their featured article.
To be fair, the game coincided with an over-the-top domestic dispute between a major reality-show couple that conquered all the ratings. I hope.
Another day passes, and not a peep. Walking around our duplex, I chew my finger wondering if he’s angry enough to end it between us.
Would he do that? He seemed to like our clandestine hookups as much as I did, and they all followed some of my harshest critiques.
Lindsey leaves to see a movie with friends, but I stay back. There’s no way I could sit still long enough to watch a movie tonight. I’m way too antsy.
Looking up at the clock, it’s early evening. I know where he lives…
Snatching my track jacket off the hook, I dash out into the twilight, headed to the streetcar that goes all the way to Canal, right to the entrance to the French Quarter.
All the way, I stare at my phone, wondering if it would be easier just to text him. Only, I don’t text him. That’s our arrangement. I told him I wouldn’t talk to him before games.
But the next game is almost a week away.
I chew on the side of my thumb again, and my fingernail is a wreck. Mom would be so disappointed I restarted that old habit.
The bell rings, and we’re finally at the last stop before this car turns around and heads back Uptown.
I hop off and walk with purpose along Royal Street until I get to Nicholls.
I’m still several blocks away. His apartment is in the Marigny, but I avoid the touristy streets that have all the traffic.
I’m only a little breathless as I stand at the front entrance to the large, historic apartment building. I press all the buttons, like it’s some old-school detective movie, and one of his less-cautious neighbors buzzes the front gate open.
I still don’t know what I’m going to say to him. Am I going to yell at him for not showing up after the game and fucking my brains out? Am I going to accuse him of only wanting me when I’m mean to him? My chest sinks at the thought. Does he?
I don’t have time to drive myself any crazier. Clearly, I’ve lost all semblance of professional distance or standards. I’m burning down that bridge, jumping on the ashes, and scattering them to the wind.
The elevator dings, and I step out in front of his door, breathing fast. I question everything about what I’m doing right now, how I sneaked into his building, how he might not even be home, and looking down, I realize under my jacket, I’m dressed in leggings and a ratty old tee.
I didn’t even bother to brush my hair or put on a little lipstick. Good lord, am I that horny?
Yes. The answer is yes.
Furrowing my brow, I lift my hand and bang hard on the door. It’s a solid, forceful knock, and the sound of footsteps thud quickly from the other side. I take a step back as the door flies open so fast, my hair swooshes.
“What?” Knox’s voice is strained.
He’s dressed in a white tank with brownish stains on the side, his hair is a mess, and he seems truly desperate. My lips part, but all the words escape me. I don’t know what is happening right now.
Knox Bradford is standing in front of me, holding a red-faced, crying baby in his arms, and he literally smells like shit.