Stadium of Lights: A Second Chance Sports Romance (4 page)

A
t least I
managed to get into the taxi before bursting into tears.

How could he be so cold? What the hell happened to make him turn on a dime like that? One minute he was warm, friendly, easygoing and the next a total asshole. Cold and nasty. And all because I’d jokingly flirted with him. Was I that offensive? When he looked at me, did he still see the girl I used to be?

That girl. Oh, I wished I could erase her from the memory of mankind. Always saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Always creating an awkward situation and trying so hard to fit in but never coming close. Wanting to please people, wanting to show how valuable she was. Tutoring the jocks so they would like her. Baking cupcakes for the sports fundraisers, though she never played a sport. Going to every football game and screaming her head off for the team, though her voice was one in a sea of others.

God, I used to feel so proud of Max when I’d watch him play. That was my Max out there, giving ‘em hell. Completing passes, avoiding the sack, running it in if he had to. He was fast, too, and had a gun for an arm. Accurate as hell. He had patience, which was rare for a kid. He didn’t unload the ball the second he thought he had an opening—no matter the pressure. He’d wait in the pocket until he found the right receiver, then unleash. I’d come home from games with a sore throat, sometimes with no voice left.

It hadn’t mattered. It never would. I would always be plain ol’ Abby, no use to anybody.

But I was of use to Max back then. I knew I was. He’d liked me, at least as a person, and it didn’t matter to him that nobody else did. He was confident enough in himself to make the decisions he felt were best and let everybody else deal with it in their own way. I’d been so grateful for his friendship in those days, thrilled for any crumb of attention he’d given me.

I sighed, leaning my head against the taxi’s vinyl seat. The city passed by in a blur, the stadium lit up in the distance even though there was no game. I guessed the maintenance crew was still hard at work, putting the finishing touches on the field and seating before the opener on Sunday. It was like a beacon, that stadium, its light drawing me in.

I could quit. They wouldn’t miss me. I hadn’t even started yet, and they had a strong team to fall back on until they replaced me. It was early in the season. The chances for injury would be lesser. If I were ever going to leave, that would have been the best time. I could leave a letter of resignation on Coach’s desk and never look back. I’d move to the other side of the world, forget Max ever existed and go back to being Abby. Pretty Abby. Abby who worked out like a mad dog to keep her body in shape. Abby who spent hours on end taming her naturally dry, frizzy hair. Who’d had to get over her aversion to putting in contacts just so she could stop wearing those hideous glasses.

When I finally got home—without leaving a letter of resignation, naturally—I took out my contacts and put on those glasses. I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror after putting my contact case away. Yep, there she was. Ugly Abby who nobody liked. How could he do that to me? Throwing me right back where I’d started? He didn’t even mean to, that was the worst part. He was only behaving like his usual selfish, thoughtless self when he forced his way out of that restaurant. He hadn’t meant to make me feel worthless.

Had he?

I shuffled out of the small apartment bathroom with its black-and-white tile and weak water pressure. I couldn’t wait until my Realtor found a house for me so I could feel fully moved in. My things were in storage—no sense in unpacking an apartment I’d only be in for a few weeks at most. I hoped, at least. I heard the sound my shuffling feet made in the otherwise silent apartment. If the sad Charlie Brown theme had been playing—the one from the Christmas special, when he’s really depressed—I wouldn’t have been surprised.

There was a sofa, at least. It was partly furnished. I sat on it with a pint of dark chocolate ice cream—idiot hadn’t even let me get dessert—and flipped on the TV. There was an old movie on, one of my favorites with Bette Davis and Paul Henreid. And Claude Rains, oh, I loved him. My movies had been a respite when I was young, letting me escape to a better world where things were grand and beautiful, and there was always a happy ending no matter the strife. It was just me and Bette and Paul and my ice cream. Add a few pimples and I could have been fifteen again.

* * *

T
he next day
, I showed up bright and early for the on-field workout. I wanted to get an assessment of the players. How were they looking? Who would I have to keep an eye on? Who needed a little more conditioning? I planned to talk with the trainers throughout the process to ask questions, too. Better to get my face out there as soon as possible. I wanted everybody to get used to me, and I needed to assert myself as a major force on the team. I was a professional.

S
o I waited there
with my clipboard as dozens of players made a slow jog onto the field. Right away, I could see the condition they were in. Pitiful was the word for it. Most of them had partied hard the night before, I could tell. Including Max.

M
y stomach turned
when I saw him, and I didn’t know if it was excitement or disgust that set a fluttery feeling off in my chest. I took a deep breath when he came into view, reminding myself not to get caught up in him again. I had a job to do. Still, there was no denying the smile that came to my face when I saw the sunlight beam off his sweaty skin.

“What the fuck is wrong with you assholes? Come on!” Coach screamed from his place at the head of the group. “You’re all the lamest bunch of shits I’ve ever seen in my life! You have a game tomorrow—maybe the biggest game of the regular season—and what do you do? Instead of going home and getting rest, you go out to the titty bar and get plastered. What a sorry fucking excuse for a team.” He caught my eye, and though his eyes were shaded by the brim of his ball cap, I could tell he was embarrassed at his use of language in front of me. I shook my head, showing how little it mattered. I’d heard much worse. Besides, I shared his opinion. They were a bunch of idiots.

And I would have bet money on the ringleader. So that was what he was in such a hurry for. His favorite pole dancers were missing him. Such a man slut.

I walked around the outside of the group of players, taking notes. They were all slow, sluggish. It wasn’t a good way to get an idea of their full performance levels. I’d have to wait until the next day. The trainers screamed commands, trying to pump the players up at first but eventually getting just as frustrated as the head coach. They wanted to see the guys put some heart into the workout. The second-stringers were—I guessed they weren’t cool enough to be invited to the party—but the starters looked like shit. I shook my head in disappointment.

When I looked up from my clipboard, my head still shaking, I caught Max’s eye and held it out of defiance. He couldn’t break me down—look how pathetic he was, struggling to get through basic on-field workouts. I smirked, and he looked away first. For once I felt like I had the upper hand, and it felt wonderful. It had only taken most of my life to reach that moment.

* * *

I
t felt
good to be out of the sun. I fanned myself with my clipboard when I reached my office, pulling down the collar of my yellow polo to fan the back of my neck. The air conditioning was soothing. I hadn’t missed Florida humidity, not by a long shot.

The trainers told me of a few players I’d want to look out for, guys who’d suffered injuries the previous season. A pulled hamstring, a torn ACL that had taken one of the running backs out for most of the season, a shoulder injury on a wide receiver who’d been thrown to the ground just a little too hard by another team’s defense. But he’d held onto the ball.

Coach Cramer stuck his head in. “Morrison? Sorry. I’m not interrupting, am I?”
No, but I’ll have to lock my door from now on
. Good thing I hadn’t taken my shirt off to cool down since I’d actually considered it for a minute. I waved him in.

“Not at all, Mr. Cramer. What can I do for you?” I asked with a smile.

He sat down, taking off his cap to reveal a gray crew cut. He fanned himself with the cap. “Phew! It’s a hot one today, isn’t it?”

“Tell me about it.”

“I can’t wait until it gets a little cooler out. This is always the worst part of the season.”

“Well, at least you’ll be in Denver next week. That will be a lot cooler.”

“True.” He dropped his cap onto his lap, fixing me with a thoughtful gaze. “So, what did you think out there?”

How to be diplomatic? “I definitely thought they could’ve tried harder. I thought they were a little irresponsible for partying it up last night. They looked terrible out there.”

He chuckled. “That’s true. I apologize for using such foul language.”

“Trust me, it was nothing I’m not used to—and I didn’t think it was unwarranted. I wished I could join you and add my two cents,” I admitted with a laugh.

“That would be something. Sometimes I think those boys need to be dressed down by a woman to keep them in line. Might remind ‘em of their mamas.”

“Whatever you need, Mr. Cramer. I would love to dress them down.” One in particular.

“I’ll keep it in mind.” He stood, grinning. “Well, it all starts tomorrow. We managed to get through the preseason with minimal damage, but all bets are off when we face Philly. They’re a tough bunch of boys, but my boys are tough, too. I think you’re gonna have your work cut out for you.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said, all business. “I came here to work, and I love a challenge.”

“Morrison.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t you let them overwhelm you,” he warned. “And if they try any funny business, I want you to report to me immediately. You got that?” For a brief moment, he reminded me of my father. All business, all-knowing, all-important. There was a reason I’d seen less and less of him after graduating college. I shook my head to clear the image.

“I got it, Mr. Cramer.” I gave him a little salute, which he seemed to enjoy. He left my office with a grin on his face. I wasn’t grinning. I was wondering how much my new job would keep colliding with parts of my life I would rather not think about.

“
S
o I took
her home with me,” Jared mourned. “And for all I know, she might be there when I get back.”

The locker room broke up in laughter.

“How many times do I have to tell you not to take the strippers home with you, man? They don’t actually like you. They like your money.” I rubbed my thumb and first two fingers together in his face.

“Why does it always seem like the dancers like you, then?” he asked.

“Because they do like me. I was only talking about you.” Another round of laughter. I’d just gotten out of the shower and was toweling my hair off. It was hell, putting on gear and getting out there, but it had been worth it. I’d sweat out all the poison in my system—and there had been a lot of it.

The locker room reeked of sweat, but it was an odor I was used to. I’d been smelling it my whole life since I was a little kid and my parents signed me up for peewee football. It was a religion in the South, and my parents had been fanatical. But that was all right, because I was, too. I loved it. I couldn’t imagine life without it. So walking into a reeking locker room wasn’t something I dreaded. It was just another part of the experience.

I heard the usual post-workout laughter and goofing off. Most of the starters had gone out the night before to the “titty bar,” as Coach Cramer so eloquently put it. He had a real way with words. I could have gone home after dinner, but there was no way I could spend the night questioning myself. I’d needed to blot it all out.

“What about you, Quarterback?” Jared got my attention, hands on his hips.

“What about me?” I asked with a grin.

“Who’d you take home last night?”

“I told you,” I said, turning to him. “I don’t take the dancers home. I don’t feel like having to check my house the next day to make sure they didn’t take anything. They ain’t stripping because they love to dance. They need the money.”

“Sure, sure. So who’d you hook up with, then? I didn’t see you sneaking off to the VIP room like you usually do.”

The room went sort of quiet as the rest of the team listened in. I wished my teammates would all go back to what they were doing, and that Jared would keep his fucking mouth shut. I glared at him. “I didn’t hook up with any of them. I wasn’t in the mood last night.” I shrugged it off.

“What? Hang on! Wait a minute!” Jared put a hand to my forehead, and I smacked his arm away from me. He laughed. “Are you sick? Are you dying? What the hell’s wrong with you, man? You! My hero! The man who never met a stripper he didn’t like!”

“Ahh, maybe he didn’t think Layla would like it if she found out he banged a dancer,” Garrett suggested from across the room.

“Please. Like I give a shit what she thinks.” I hadn’t thought about her since the day before … when I didn’t know Abby was joining the staff.

“Okay, so what is it? Are you actually sick, man?” Jared looked a little more concerned. I shook my head.

“I just didn’t feel like it, was all. That’s it. I wasn’t in the mood to fuck around. I had a lot on my mind—the way you all should have a lot on your minds. Like birds, and how we’re gonna kill them tomorrow.” That changed the subject, and the team pumped themselves up talking about how we were going to run right through the Eagles’ defense. I was relieved they were so easy to distract.

My heart hadn’t been in it at the bar. That was the long and short of it. I stared into my locker for a minute, remembering how I’d felt when Abby pulled away from the restaurant. I knew I’d hurt her, and I wasn’t man enough to go after her to apologize. I could have—it’s not like I didn’t know she was on her way to pick up her car. I’d known where I could find her. But I didn’t go. I went to the strip club, instead.

That had been a mistake. I hadn’t had fun. I’d only drunk as much as I could handle and then some, all in the hopes of driving Abby out of my head. I could’ve done that at home, alone, without having to pretend to be in a better mood than I was in.

And then what happened? I had to look her in the eye on the field. And she looked so damned smug, too. I’d wanted to ask her who the hell she thought she was, but there was no use in letting anybody else know that things hadn’t gone well between us. I would never hear the end of it. As long as I didn’t make a big deal over her, only Jared and Garrett would ever need to know we’d gone out to dinner at The Private Harvest. I could handle those two.

I finished drying off and got dressed. I needed to call Layla or something, spend a little time in bed … on the couch … in the pool … wherever I felt like having her. I needed to work out some of the frustration I felt, and a workout on the field wasn’t gonna cut it. I needed to sink myself into something hot and wet. She’d probably be pissed at me for not hooking up with her after practice the day before, but I knew how to get around her. She was always pissed about something or other. Typical woman.

I sat around for a little while with the rest of the guys, just bullshitting. We promised each other we would take it easy that day and not go out like we had. There was a big game to prepare for so we couldn’t screw around. The coach was already pissed at us.

I left the locker room maybe a half hour later, as the rest of the team got their things together. I had planned on going home right away but decided to stay behind for a little bit. I wanted to take a look at the footage we had on Philly’s defense from the previous season. I’d already watched it all a hundred times, but once more wouldn’t hurt. There was no such thing as being over-prepared.

* * *

B
y the time
I went back to the locker room to get my belongings, the building was like a ghost town. The halls were empty. No more sounds of laughing and joking from the rest of the team. Silence.

I liked it best that way. I liked being able to hear myself think. Life was too noisy.

Then I heard it. “Damn!” A crash from the therapy room. I ran down the hall, where the door to the therapy room was open. As soon as I looked inside, I saw what had happened. A shelf had fallen and with it a shit ton of gauze and other supplies. And there was Abby, hands in the air like she didn’t know where to start first.

I cleared my throat, and she spun around, eyes wide. “Oh shit, I didn’t know anybody else was here.” She laughed a little, one hand over her chest. “Jesus, you scared me!”

“Sorry. I didn’t know anybody else was here, either.” I looked around. “Redecorating?”

She smirked, arms crossed. “Yeah. I thought the boxes of gauze looked much better on the floor.” She bent over to pick them up, and I caught a glimpse of her perfect ass. She could try to hide it under khakis, but it was no use. She couldn’t cover up what she had going on.

“Let me help you, for God’s sake.” I picked the shelf up off the floor. It had come away from the wall somehow. “What did you do here?”

“I leaned on it when I was trying to reach the shelf above it,” she admitted. “I didn’t know they weren’t anchored to the wall. Only the supports are.”

“Oh, I see.” There were two L-brackets on the wall, and the shelf rested on top of them. I put it back up there. “Leave it to you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Like you’re not the clumsiest person ever. You know you are.” I grinned, taking handfuls of boxes off the floor.

“A lot has changed about me, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Not your clumsiness.” I snickered, turning around to stack what I had in my hands on the shelf. I heard what sounded like a muffled cry behind me, and when I turned around, I saw Abby with her hands over her face.

“What happened?” I laid my hands on her shoulders. She tried to turn away, but I held her in place. “Tell me. What’s wrong?”

From behind her hands, she said, “Why do you do that all the time?”

“Do what?”

“Remind me of all the stupid things about me?” She lowered her hands—her face was red, blotchy, tears rolling down her cheeks. “Don’t you know how hard I had to work to put that person behind me?”

“What are you talking about? What person?”

“Abby!” She pulled away, then got her stuff together. “Leave it on the floor. I’ll take care of it when I get here tomorrow.”

“Abby, come on. Talk to me.” I wanted to reach for her again, but I knew it would only piss her off more. I followed her out to her car, trying to get her to explain what the hell was wrong with her. She ignored me. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I watched her pull away.

“Fuck!” I wished there were something around for me to slam my fists against, but I didn’t feel like replacing my windshield—or getting stitches in my hands. I looked around the parking lot, glad nobody had seen our little exchange.

Only somebody had. I watched Layla get out of her car and wave to me.

“Seriously?” I muttered. I watched her walk over, knowing I wouldn’t be able to get rid of her very easily. But I had to. I wasn’t in the mood anymore. Funny how Abby did that to me. But at least I didn’t start crying about it.

“Hey, you.” She tossed her long, dark hair over one shoulder. “What took you so long?”

“You’ve been waiting for me?” I asked. Jesus, didn’t she have anything better to do?

“Well, yeah. I knew you boys would be here today, and I didn’t see you last night. You haven’t answered any of the texts I sent you, either.”

I pulled my phone from my pocket. “Oh, shit. Sorry. I don’t get great reception in there.”

“It’s okay. You’re here now.” Her full pink glossy lips curved into a smile. Damn, she was sexy. Her sea-green eyes stared into mine like she was trying to hypnotize me.

It wasn’t working just then. “Yeah. I have to get back inside, though.”

Layla looked around the otherwise empty parking lot. “Why?”

“I was watching footage from other games to get ready for Philly. You know what a strong defense they have.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You can’t take a little break for me?”

“Layla.”

“You’re trying to avoid me, huh?

“Listen. Do you think the fans are gonna give a shit whether I spent time with you today? No. They’re gonna give a shit if I don’t score points tomorrow, though. I know that doesn’t matter to you since all you do is wave pompoms around and pretend to understand what’s happening on the field.”

She gasped. “Fuck you.”

“Yeah, whatever.” I waved her off, turning to go back inside. I didn’t have the time or the patience to deal with her drama. There was already enough going on. She wasn’t helping.

I waited another half hour before looking outside. Layla’s car was gone. But when I got to my 4x4, I saw she’d left me a little present before leaving. A nice stripe, right down the side of my nearly new car, courtesy of her key.