Winning Pass - A Football Romance (3 page)

Every now and then, Elijah sneaks up on me with another kiss on my cheek or grabs my hand and swings it up high and back down, laughing. I think it makes him happy to be close to me.

We talk a lot about the ways that I can get Jessie back next year. He jokes and says I should stuff my bra with balloons full of chocolate pudding so Jessie thinks I grew a pair of boobs over the summer. I blush so hard because Elijah just talked about my bra and said boobs. It’s so weird, but I smile so big when he winks at me and holds his hands way out in front of his chest.

I walk down to Elijah’s with
The Secret Garden
in my hand, ready for our lesson for the day. He’s not answering the door. I knock harder, but instead of Elijah, some old man opens the door looking like he just swallowed something hot. His face is red and his eyes look bloodshot. Is this guy what a drunk person looks like?

“Are you Paige?” he asks me. I tell him yes, and he lets me go inside Elijah’s house. But Elijah isn’t home, and now I’m in the house, maybe by myself, with a strange man.

“I’m Nathan, his father.” His words don’t make sense because I know Elijah’s dad isn’t around. He lives in Texas. I try to walk backward and ask him where Elijah is.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Elijah isn’t here. He’s . . . with his mother right now.”

I run out of the house as fast as my feet will carry me. His dad or not, the man was creeping me out. When I get home, I’m breathing too fast, and Stacey comes around the corner from the kitchen, and her eyes are as big as plates.

She doesn’t let me tell her what just happened, and she shrieks at Mama to come. Mama’s eyes are sad. I don’t know what’s wrong with them.

“Honey, there’s been an accident.”

I’ve never been to a funeral before. I don’t want this to be my first, but I don’t have a choice. Elijah needs me, and we made a promise we’d always help the other when they need it.

I want to tell him he looks really cute in his black suit with the dark blue tie. It reminds me of those teenage prom movies that me and Stacey watch. But he’s not looking at me. His hand grips mine tightly just like it has all day, but he won’t look at me. So I sit and be quiet with him.

The prettiest bouquet of red and yellow roses is put on top of the black casket, and someone is turning a weird crank that’s lowering it into the ground. I let go of his hand for just a moment, wanting to get a better look, but Elijah jumps up and runs away from us all. That’s the last time I saw his mom. In a cold box in the ground.

He’s hiding in a tree outside the cemetery. I pick up the hem of my dress and climb up after him, not even stopping when the branches scrape my skin.

He’s talking about running away from here and going to travel with one of his favorite bands all over the world. But he needs me to go with him. And he yells as me when I tell him that’s silly.

“Why is it silly, though, Paige? If everyone expects us to act like grownups and understand everything like grownups do, then why can’t we be grownups?”

I don’t sleep the next night because I think about climbing into Elijah’s window and kissing him. I’ve been watching those teen movies, and I think I can do a better job this time. I want to make him smile again, and he always does when we’re close like that.

But Elijah beats me to it. When I go to meet him at our usual spot, he has a box of paper and envelopes for me and gives them to me before telling me he has to kiss me. So I let him, but it’s a little scary because I don’t know why he still seems sad. There’s no smile on his face this time, but the kiss is a lot longer than usual, and when Elijah puts his hands on my shoulders, I sort of feel like one of those girls in the movies. He’s crying though, so it’s wet and sloppy, and my face sort of sticks to his. I don’t mind it until he tells me he has to move to Texas with his dad.

Then my world ceases to exist.

I
don’t know
what’s worse—my killer headache or the fact that I must have pissed the bed last night. On one hand, I want to open my eyes and see what exactly the damage is, but on the other, the bright Texas sun is already blinding me through the window. “I have got to remember to buy some blackout shades or somethin’,” I grumble to myself, my throat grittier than the sand at the beach.

When I finally do pull my sore ass out of bed, I say a little worthless prayer. I hadn’t totally lost my dignity the night before, just my bottle of beer. And for some reason, there’s a little white card that drifts down to my feet when I stand up. I turn it over in my hand to read Johnny Maine’s name and number on it, with the words ‘call asap’ scrawled across the top. Scratching my beard, I call his number, knowing damn well that whatever he has to say probably isn’t going to make my head feel any better.

And after yelling my ear off for nearly fifteen minutes, he proves me right. I guess last night, I had a little too much to drink and passed out at the bar, and the bartender had to call Maine to have me picked up. There were some people who had to be paid off to make sure this didn’t ‘get out to the presses, fucking Christ, Witter.’

It’s probably a good thing I’m so hung-over or otherwise, I’d have probably run my mouth off, and then I’d really be in some deep shit. It’s one thing to cop an attitude with Coach T, who just brushes it off, but Johnny Maine is something completely fucking different. You
do not
mess what that dude.

Even still, I can’t begin to describe how much that bullshit pisses me off. I can’t even drink without someone trying to control my every move. It’s part of the main reason I sometimes hate playing pro.

After his words are done echoing around in my brain, I peel my wet clothes off and drag myself over to the shower, sighing with relief as the hot water hits right between my shoulder blades. It’s been two weeks since training camp, and I’m still feeling the effects—sometimes, I wish they would just get straight to the pre-season instead of giving us the break. That small opening in the clouds is just enough to get us used to the normal routine until it’s right back to the gridiron with our noses to the dirt. Go fucking figure.

I groan as I wash the grime off me, the water helping bring me back to about seventy-five percent. It would take my favorite cup of coffee to really finish the job. Actually, I’d much rather have a big glass of my mom’s sweet tea, but I’ve never been able to replicate it the way she used to make it, and after I threw the pitcher across the kitchen and cracked it after the fifth time I tried to brew it, I just gave the fuck up.

Pulling the towel around my waist, I go into the kitchen to brew myself some since it looks like Romina, my housekeeper, hasn’t put on a pot yet. “Hey, Romina! You missed the coffee pot!” I call out, smiling a little to myself. Romina’s been my housekeeper since I bought this place a couple of years ago. She’s possibly the funniest little Portuguese lady I’ve ever met, especially since she can be sweet one minute and cussing you out in Portuguese the next. She doesn’t put up with anyone’s shit, much less mine, and I have a mad respect for her because of it. Plus, she keeps everything clean and makes some mean
caldo verde
.

The coffee fills the mug quickly, and I scrounge around in the fridge to find something to eat. There isn’t much more than beer, leftover Chinese food from two different places, and some frozen pizzas. I squint over at the clock on the oven. It’s only nine thirty-three. I half-contemplate throwing in a pizza anyway, but I can just hear Romina scolding me for that one, so I search around for the bread in the walk-in pantry, pissed that I don’t even have the butter to make toast with. Dry ass toast and some coffee. Breakfast of champions.

It sounds like she’s moving around in the living room, but when I come around the corner, I nearly jump back when I see a six-foot-five man standing on the plush carpet instead.

“Jesus Christ, Kevon. How the hell are you even in my house right now?”

He just gives me that big ass smile of his and opens his arms out wide. “You know how I do. Actually, Romina was comin’ out of the house as I was strollin’ up. I think she said somethin’ about you being buck-ass-naked in bed and tryna spit game at her. And damn, man, you can’t even put on some shorts or nothin’?”

I nearly spit out the hot coffee. “She said what?”

“Or she said something else . . . I dunno, man. She was speakin’ Spanish, so it could’ve been anything I guess. I just went with a likely scenario.” He grins, and I roll my eyes.

“Portuguese,” I correct him. “So she let you in. What are you doing here, then? You usually send me about a dozen texts before you ever show up.”

Kevon shrugs. “I heard Maine was pissed about you passin’ out cold last night. I wanted to make sure you were still alive, and if not, possibly take your Rolex collection.”

“I don’t own a Rolex collection.”

He pretends to look shocked. “You don’t? Oh, that’s right! It’s me with the Rolexes! Anyway, Coach T sent me up to check in on you and to see if you’re comin’ to that charity fundraiser. The one for kids?”

Kevon lives the closest to me, and usually, our coach uses Kevon to speak to me. I don’t exactly know why, but it’s whatever to me. He and Kevon get along better anyway. I rack my brain for some memory about a charity tomorrow, but I’m coming up empty. “I don’t remember anything about a charity like that. We’re supposed to be going?” Shitty as it sounds, I really hope it’s voluntary only. Dealing with a room full of screaming kids this early in my hangover is a recipe for disaster.

“They only need like six or seven peeps, but I already volunteered. I guess he thought you’d do it too. I dunno why though. Everybody knows you don’t do the public stuff.”

It’s true. I hate being out in the public eye like that, but the way he says it makes me feel like some old hermit or something. “Yeah . . . I guess.”

He rolls his eyes at me as he walks past me. “Don’t even play that bullshit with me, man. I know you too well for that. It’s going to be all day, like eleven to six. You look like you just got off the bottle yourself.”

“Hey! I showered. And I even washed my hair,” I say in protest as I follow him back through to the foyer.

Kevon looks me up and down and scoffs. “What you
need
to do is shave that scruffy ass thing off yo’ face. What is that, anyway? You look like Grizzly fuckin’ Adams or somethin’, man. Ain’t no ladies gonna want that action between their legs.”

Say what you will about him, but Kevon is one hilarious motherfucker. I just don’t let him know it too often, or his head would blow up to be the size he pretends his dick is.

“Who has time for that, anyway?” I grumble, even though I already know what his reaction will be.

His eyes bug out, and he turns to look both ways before leaning in close. “Man, do you even like pussy? ‘Who has time for that?’ You better make some goddamn time. You know my bro told me when men go too long without getting laid, their balls will shrivel up and they can’t make babies no more. For real!”

I laugh, completely unable to hold it back any more. “Oh yeah? And what’s your brother, an expert on dicks?”

“Naw, man, he’s a doctor! Don’t give me that look, man, like you surprised or somethin’. Don’t pull that stereotypin’ bullshit on me, player. He’s a real doctor, with them fine ass nurses and all.”

I shake my head as he follows me into my kitchen. I’m going to need another cup of coffee to deal with this . . . and a handful of aspirin.

He reaches out and grabs my shoulder. “Just stay home today, Elijah. What did you get so tore up for last night, anyhow?”

I think about the last thing I saw before I started really downing the booze. The woman with the long red hair, and how much she reminded me of everything I was forced to give up. You’d think that after so long, it wouldn’t make me turn to the bottle to get away from it. My mom. Home. Paige.

I look away before mumbling, “The past.”

Y
ou know
you’re a small-town girl when even the ride from the airport to the hotel you’re staying at is exciting. That’s pretty much been my experience so far in San Antonio, although I think there’s more to it than that. The underlying anxiety that seems to be jolting my nerves has nothing to do with the excitement of travelling for the first time in my life, or even looking forward to my first FitCon, or even potentially learning a ton of helpful information for my business.

Nope. It’s the fact that for the first time in my adult life, I’m standing inside the same city that Elijah Simmons is standing in. Or, excuse me, Elijah
Witter
.

I tell myself that I shouldn’t worry about any of that right now as I’m walking the length of the smaller convention center buildings, checking out display after display and vendor after vendor. Even when I’ve walked around and spoken to a bunch of different people who are as eager to make the same business connections as I am in this industry, I’m still distracted by that feeling—where I just
know
this weird thing is about to happen, and I just
know
it has to do with him.

I try to keep my goofy ‘psychic tendencies’, as Stacey lovingly refers to them, under wraps, even from myself. That was the old me—the one with the dreams three times bigger than most, who wore her heart on her sleeve and was teased mercilessly for it. I’m not that girl any more, or at least, I’m the way more sensible version of her. How else was I supposed to make it through physical therapy training? After trying my hand at three other career paths before that, I knew I had to settle on something, and thank God it’s something I’ve gotten really good at.

My whole idea for coming here was actually to look into my idea for creating a yoga clothing line that catered to plus-sized women, because I know the struggle firsthand. After years of hearing, ‘You have such a pretty face . . .’ and ‘You’re not plus-sized! You’re only a size twelve!’ I was tired of feeling out of place. I’m too big for the ‘normal’ yoga pants with all the super-cute patterns and whatnot, but I’m not big enough to fit in with the women who don’t feel represented enough in the clothing department.

That’s what I’m supposed to be working on, anyway . . . but when it comes to Elijah and anything related to him, I still reach down and tug at that part of myself deep inside. The part that I buried under sensibility and adulthood. If I can’t even concentrate on what’s going on right now when I’m supposed to be here learning to work with others and about new products and techniques . . . what else am I to do?

The whole day has gone by, and deciding that I would be better suited ordering takeout from my hotel room, I head out of the building. The sun is fading, but I’m mesmerized by the way the clouds seem to lazily float by, mixing into a palette of pink and burnt orange smeared across the sky beyond the buildings. We get beautiful weather like this in North Carolina, but there’s something to be said for the open expanse of the sky.

But instead of making a bee-line for the hotel, the marquee sign on the next building over suddenly lights up and draws my attention until my mouth hangs open:

There is no way. That can’t be the same San Antonio Longhorns team that Elijah plays for. It must be something else . . . except I see a big white banner hanging above the box office booth with a picture of the team’s helmet and mascot on it.

I’m walking over there as if my life depends on it. When an opportunity like this presents itself, even
I’m
not dimwitted enough to take it for granted. There’s no one in line as I walk up to the ticket attendant and ask for a ticket to the event. She looks me over, her expression one of total boredom, before gesturing for me to go inside. I quickly thank her and let myself in, my eyes immediately darting all over.

There’s a small scattering of people, some with kids and some by themselves, who are being ushered into the next room, and I jog over to join them, hoping no one asks me for a ticket.

The next room is done up in brilliant colors, mostly to appeal to the kids, if I have to guess, and at the front of the room, there is an open stage with a few huge men standing there with a group of kids, talking and laughing with them into microphones. I scan the football players on the stage and try not to bite my lip too hard when I come to the conclusion that Elijah isn’t with them. The football players walk off the stage and the small audience claps, me joining in half-heartedly and a minute too late.

God, this is stupid. I most definitely should not be getting this upset over him not being here. I mean, he has to be in the city somewhere, right? And to be honest, I’m still not sure if I should even be bothering with this whole endeavor, anyway. What are the chances that I’ll run into him here in a big city like San Antonio? It’s not like I’m going to turn around and accidentally bump into him, although I have been known for my clumsier maneuvers.

Dammit, I will not cry. I. Will. Not. Cry. My eyes prick with a tiny slice of pain as I try to bat the tears away, and I turn to face away and wipe my face with my hand. But instead of being graceful about it, I stumble into a hulking mass of a body that doesn’t budge an inch.

“Oh crap, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there,” I say as I look up—that moment when I thought just maybe, God would throw me a bone here—but I frown when I don’t recognize the man I’ve just run into.

“It’s all good, sweet thing. I wasn’t watchin’ where I was going either,” he replies with a Texan drawl. I don’t exactly appreciate the ‘sweet thing’ part, but I did realize that I was face to face with one of Elijah’s teammates.

I swallow, blushing furiously as I try to smile up at him. Jesus, are all football players built like Thor? “No, no. Totally my fault. So you play for the Longhorns?” It’s like I have a special super power of my own to be the most socially awkward person possible.

The tree-trunk of a man runs his hand over his head and looks at me with a smirk on his face. “I do. Is that something that interests you?”

I ignore his obvious attempts and press on. “Actually, it does. I’m an old friend of one of your teammates. I think. I don’t see him here, and I was hoping I could catch up with him.”

He pulls himself up into an even straighter stance, as if shit just got real. “Well I dunno. I’m pretty good friends with plenty of my teammates, but I might not know your friend too well. Is he offense or defense?”

Dammit. I honestly had no clue. I give him a sheepish smile. “I, uh, don’t really know. I think he’s a . . . wide-backer?”

The guy lets out a hearty laugh, clutching his stomach. “Hoo-ooh. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting that. Maybe it would help if you gave me the dude’s name. But if you’re tryna look for some long lost baby daddy or anythin—”

“—Elijah. Elijah Simmons. Or I guess . . . you’d know him as Elijah Witter now,” I interrupt him.

His eyes widen to nearly double their size, and he looks completely dumbfounded. “Elijah? You know him? Who did you say you were again . . .? Wait. You that girl . . . that girl he was friends with, right? Aw, shit.”

I suddenly lose the ability to speak and instead start fumbling over my words like a total fucking idiot. “That’s ah, wow, you, oh, okay. You know him . . . then?”

He just laughs again, throwing his heavily tattooed arm around my shoulder. “I gotta get your number. I’ll text you later with his address. Motherfucker ain’t doing nothin’ today that I know of, so it shouldn’t be a problem to go see him. I’m . . . pretty sure he’d be glad to see you.”

The way he says the last part kind of throws me off, but I let it go because holy hell. This is really happening.

“Really? Oh my God, that would be great. Thank you so much . . .?”

“Kevon. I’m his closest friend, I guess. Yeah . . . I guess I’d say that. And you’re Paige, right?”

I’m so ridiculously, over-the-moon amazed that this guy knows my name that I just nod along like some overeager teenager or something. I mean, what else can I do?

His grin is infectious, and although I can tell he’s a handful on his own, I happen to like Kevon. Let’s just hope he’s a fan of keeping his word.