Chapter 18
Melody
K-Brad
I really like this lamp—it’s very Saints coded. And this print of Lafitte’s is fire. Why didn’t you stick around? My cousin Edward is here. He’d like to meet you.
His text sits on my phone screen, burning a hole in my brain, but I don’t reply.
I’ve already chided myself for getting emotionally involved with him and his situation. Now I’ve put our picture in a frame, and to top it all off, I stole a poem from his drawer. I’m out of control!
I can’t reply to his text or it’ll only get worse.
K-Brad
I found this face down on my dresser… I think it looks better in this frame.
He attaches a picture of the print I made of the three of us, which he has transferred to the “family” frame. My heart squeezes, and I press my palms to the sides of my head.
Standing, I walk away from the phone, inhaling deeply and exhaling. Be strong, Mel.
K-Brad
Cmon, QP. We’re not doing this again, are we? I need to tell you what’s going on with Cricket. I think she’s about to cut that tooth. Look…
He sends me another photo of her sitting on his lap with her little cheek against his bare chest. Her finger is in her mouth, and she looks like she’s falling asleep. It’s possibly the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.
K-Brad
Edward said Ba might be her way of asking for her mom. Damn, that hurt.
My shoulders ache, and I rest my forehead on the back of my hand, staring at the words, at the pictures, at his sweet little girl’s sweet little face.
I can’t take it anymore. I scoop up my phone, fingers flying.
Melody
I can’t do this, Knox. We have to have professional distance.
K-Brad
Heyyy, I knew you were there. I’ve been busting my ass all week to get ready for the game tomorrow. Any tips before I take the field?
Melody
Talk to your coaches.
K-Brad
I know. You’re not my publicist or my coach or my press secretary… but you could be something better.
My eyes squeeze shut, and I shake my head, putting my phone aside. No.
I know what he means by something better. I know I’m thinking the same thing. We caught a glimpse of what we could be, and it was lovely and sweet. We already know our chemistry is undeniable.
But I have to set a boundary.
He’ll play tomorrow night, and he’ll know my thoughts like he always does, after the game.
* * *
K-Brad
I’m about to head out. I’ve got a hot take for you: K-Brad + QP = Gridiron Gold.
I’m sitting at my computer getting ready to cover the game when his text comes through. My stomach tingles, and my lips part.
“Gridiron Gold.” I shake my head, doing my best to ignore the surge in my chest, that sneaky happiness trying to throw me off. “That’s not what the people want.”
I put my phone away. It’s time to focus, to catch my breath. Time to remember my purpose, my audience, why I’m doing this…
I’m doing this because he yelled at me in an Uber and I was pissed. We didn’t even know each other then.
Of course, I knew he was the rookie quarterback who’d cost us the playoffs because of one undisciplined mistake after another.
I knew I was pissed at him for that, or maybe more at the coaching staff for not doing a better job.
Or at the offensive line for not providing better coverage, forming a pocket.
But it was more than that.
I was pissed at Susan for refusing to listen when I told her being a gotcha journalist sucked, and it wasn’t who I wanted to be. I was pissed when she walked out, and all of our subscribers went with her, essentially proving her right.
Proving that what I wanted to do—be fair and talk to people about who they wanted to be, how they saw themselves, what they thought they were doing right and wrong; get to the heart of the matter in a way I believed would be interesting—was in fact not what the listeners wanted.
Our audience wanted dirt, gossip, drama, shock, tears.
I felt so betrayed and stupid.
Then I ran out of money with an eviction notice staring me in the face.
Then he got into my car for a ride to the airport.
“I took it all out on him,” I say to myself softly. “All that anger, all that hurt, all those broken dreams… All that fear that I was about to lose everything.”
Is it possible something good could come out of all the negativity? I’m so sick of negativity. I’m so exhausted from the constant barrage of fighting and hot takes, but I’ve learned the hard way rocking the boat can lead to ruin.
The scrap of paper I found in my pocket sits on my desk, smoothed flat with a paperweight on top. My eyes float over the words again, like smoke on the water.
A hurricane over the Gulf, a rip-tide pulling him out to the deep. He’s terrified? I’m terrified.
I could lose a game and survive.
Losing you, however…
However, full stop is right.
“Ready to do this?” Lindsey walks into the room, setting an Abita Amber on the table beside me.
“Yes.” I answer firmly, shaking away these thoughts. Headset on, mic ready. “It’s showtime.”
* * *
The fans are brutal.
I don’t have to see their comments popping up in real time on Chet’s big screen to know they’re letting me have it out there.
TMI led the charge with their headline, “QP GOES FLACCID ON K-brAD!!!!!!” which doesn’t even make sense, followed by a quote from my show, “That bad throw had nothing to do with lack of talent. It was lack of coverage.”
“For starters, I don’t have a penis that can go flaccid,” I call out to Lindsey, who’s in the kitchen mixing up extra strong Don Julio and sodas for us.
“You had a lady-dick for about two months there, then you let him fuck it right off you.” She walks into the room, holding out the tumbler to me. “Not that I blame you! He’s a sexy motherfucker.”
“What did I say that was wrong? He never has good coverage!”
I’m still fighting, even though she doesn’t have to tell me. I know what I did. I felt it as I said the words. It was exactly what I knew was happening the minute that little girl patted him on the cheek and said “Ba!”
It was solidified in cement the moment I read his text where his cousin surmised she was asking for her dead mother. I couldn’t do it. The days of roasting him were done.
“It has nothing to do with fucking him.” My voice is quiet. “I still had the edge when we were sleeping together.”
Even when we were sleeping together in a way that melted my kneepits.
“What was it, then?” Lindsey’s voice is quiet as she crawls onto the couch across from where I stand, contemplating my failure.
“It’s her. It’s the way he is when he’s with her. They’re too perfect. I can’t hurt them.”
The tumbler of tequila is in my hand, and I walk around the sofa to sit beside my friend. She scoots around, and I lean my head on her shoulder.
“He made mistakes tonight,” Lindsey notes quietly.
“Minor ones,” I counter.
“You wouldn’t have let them pass before.”
“If you’d seen the way her little fingers tapped lightly on his arm as she slept…” I can still see the two of them sitting in that picture window, the rain falling outside, her little baby mouth phantom-sucking a cold washcloth.
“We’ve got to get rid of that baby…” Lindsey’s voice is a growl, and my head pops up.
“What are you saying?” I cry, horrified.
She snorts a laugh as she takes a sip of her drink.
“I’m fucking with you. We’re not getting rid of the baby, and you’re in love with him.
Hell, it sounds like you’re in love with both of them.
We might as well get our resumes together.
Think I could parlay what we’ve done here into a bigger producing gig? ”
“Thanks.” I purse my lips, rolling my eyes at her. “I’m not in love with him, and we aren’t going anywhere. If I know anything, our audience is going to be intrigued by this turn of events. They’re not going to abandon us. They’re going to stick around to see what happens next.”
“I think you’ve been drinking your own Kool-Aid, sis. Our subscribers are here for catty dunks on their favorite bad boy from a sassy Quarterback Princess. They don’t want girlfriend softballs.”
“That is so mean. I did not throw girlfriend softballs.”
“Let’s see, and I quote, ‘K-Brad isn’t cocky. He simply doesn’t want to disappoint everyone.’ What the everloving fuck does that even mean, Mellow?”
“It’s the truth,” I argue softly, anxiety creeping up my shoulders.
“What are you, his mother?” Lindsey drops her head back with a loud groan. “Even I wanted to gag at that one.”
“It just came out!” My voice goes high, then I put my drink on the table and drop my face into my hands. “I got too close. I know him too well. I know how he feels, how important all of this is to him. And he’s such a sweet daddy…”
I want to kick my own ass at this point.
“Like I said, it was great while it lasted.” Lindsey takes a long drink of her tequila, finishing the tumbler. “Hell, it was even fun. You can be really funny when you’re pissed.”
Pulling my legs to my chest, I rest my chin on my knees thinking. “There has to be a way to get my mojo back. I have to be able to make roasty jokes without feeling these feelings.”
“You’re in love with him, and that bitter edge isn’t coming back any time soon.”
“Stop saying that.” I cut my eyes at her, and she tilts her head, turning her phone to me so I can read what I said on the screen—thanks, TMI, you assholes.
“Quarterbacks don’t hear the crowd when they mess up, they hear themselves.”
Shaking her head, she points at the pullquote. “It’s like you turned into a box of tampons.”
“He cares a lot!” My chest is tight. My stomach is in knots, and I can’t keep defending him. “I don’t want to read any more about it.”
My phone lights up with a text, and I expect it to be him. Surprisingly, it’s Chet Arnold.
Chet
Come on, QP, let’s give it another shot. You clearly need me to get you back on your game.
“Oh, look! Chet thinks I’m off my game because I’m missing him.” My voice is sarcastic, and I turn my phone for her to see. “Should I say yes this time?”
“Yes!” She almost gags on the words. “Tell him you’ll do the collab! Maybe he’s right and his catty influence is all you need to get your head on straight again.”
“My head is on straight, and I see clearly.” I lift my chin, my chest filling with indignation. “I don’t like dogpiles.”
“So don’t dogpile. Be the cat with sharp claws spitting hot takes.”
Inhaling slowly, I’m not feeling great about that position either. I look at my laptop, the Saints headlines filling the screen.
“At least they won.” It’s impossible to be shitty about that. They’re halfway to the playoffs, and even if it sounded like I was kissing his ass, Knox played as well tonight as he did against the Cowboys. “Aren’t we the fans? Don’t we want them to succeed?”
“Yes, but we can also be honest about room for improvement.”
“You asked me once before what happened when he started winning.”
I smile, thinking about those early days, when Knox showed up here demanding answers. I think about our conversation and what I truly believe.
He’s his own thing. He’s different from his brother or his dad or even his grandfather. Knox Bradford is the next Bradford football legend.
“I don’t like that face.” Lindsey circles her finger around my expression. “Tell Chet yes, and we’ll set up the chat. The guys are headed to Minnesota, and you’re getting back in the saddle.”
I don’t comment, and I’m not making any promises.
But I do reply to Chet.