by Liz Lincoln
Maybe the article didn’t have to be written at all, maybe they should have left Quinn to self-destruct on his own. But then other people would have created the narrative surrounding him. Because her article had been out there when the Scorpions cut him, he was given the benefit of humanity.
And those were the stories she wanted to continue telling. Yes, she wanted to write about what happened on the field and in front offices and in locker rooms. But when she told the stories of the players off the field, she wanted to make them humans. Show the messy complexity behind the men held up as idols for many Americans.
“Have I reminded you lately how much I adore you?” Natalie asked.
Annie grinned. “Not nearly enough.”
Natalie laughed. “I adore you, Annie Wilder. Thank you for being the awesomest bestie ever.”
Annie scooted over and wrapped her arms around Natalie. “I’m sure he’s focused on the game, but after that if you can catch him before the Super Bowl, or if not then in a few weeks, talk to him. Swallow your pride and apologize for all the hurt you’ve caused. And then—and this is really crucial, I can’t stress this enough—tell him what an amazing lay he is and that you absolutely need to keep sleeping together.”
Natalie sank back into the couch, laughing. Of course Annie put it that way. “I’m gonna phrase it just like that. Those exact words.”
“Good plan, since I haven’t gotten laid in almost two years. Obviously I’m on to something.” Annie picked up her wineglass from the coffee table and rolled it between her hands. “In all seriousness, if you’re in love with him, tell him that. I mean, also apologize for the hurt, and don’t justify it with the shit I said about you had to write it because of compassion. That’s relevant for you forgiving yourself, but your intentions aren’t really relevant to him forgiving you. Just the end result that you hurt him.”
“How are you so smart?” Natalie asked. “You should go teach teens or something. Or become a politician and make real changes.”
“You’re hilarious,” Annie said flatly.
Natalie sat in silence, trying to figure out how to voice her one remaining concern. Maybe it would sound silly to Annie, but if she didn’t find a way past it, she and Quinn had no hope of truly building a future.
“Spill it.” Annie made a gimme gesture with her fingers.
“What if…what if he starts drinking again?” It was why she left eight years ago, and though he seemed much more committed to his sobriety than her father ever had been, because of her family she hadn’t yet figured out how to quiet the voice in her head that kept asking that question.
“What if he gets cancer? What if he gets hit by a bus? What if he takes a nasty hit in a game that scrambles his brain and he turns into a vegetable?”
“Thanks, that’s all very helpful.” Natalie pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, trying to rub away some of the frustration.
Annie’s sigh was long-suffering. “My point is, you can ‘what if’ a million different scenarios to talk yourself out of being with him. I know he has this disease now, and of course a relapse is possible.” Annie reached over and pried Natalie’s hands from her face, then took them in her own. “But he’s not your dad. He’s not your stepmom, he’s not your brothers. He’s committed to this, and he’s a strong person. I don’t know him well, and even I know that much about him. He set himself up for the best possible outcome. And if he still relapses, he’s got all kinds of support to help him get clean again. And it’ll hurt like hell, but you’ll be part of that support. Because you love him. It’s not any different than if your loved one gets cancer or is in an accident. It’s life.”
Natalie squeezed her friend’s hands. How was it she could know something to be true in her head, but sometimes she needed to hear Annie say it out loud before she could believe it in her heart?
Quinn had the same effect on her.
“You’re right. I just have to be honest with him about it. And insist he be honest with me when he’s feeling weak.”
“Exactly. You got this.” Annie grinned. “And on that note, I have to get upstairs and grade essays. My favorite. Send me the resignation letter when you have it done and I’ll make comments.”
Natalie pulled her phone out of her back pocket, tapped a few screens, and a whoosh sound came from the phone. “Done.”
Annie looked mildly surprised.
“Thanks, Banannie. I owe you dinner once the season’s over.”
Empty wineglass in hand, Annie crossed the room toward the kitchen. “I’m holding you to that. Just focus on finishing out this season and fixing things with Quinn. Then we’ll find you another job that’s a quadrillion times better than this one. I’ll help you, and we can enlist my dad if we have to.” Annie’s dad worked for an international staffing firm headquartered in Milwaukee, and had job connections in every field. He’d helped both women find internships in college.
A moment later, the kitchen door opened, then shut. Annie’s footsteps going up the stairs echoed faintly in Natalie’s apartment.
Natalie finished her wine and took the glass and empty bottle to the kitchen, feeling like for the first time in two days, she could breathe.
She had hope.
* * *
—
MacArthur Field, the Dragons’ home stadium, was an amazing experience every game day. The fans were rowdy and enthusiastic without often crossing the line to obnoxious.
The home crowd for the AFC Championship game was intense. Almost overwhelming. The Super Bowl was on the line. The moment every football player dreamed of from the time he put on his first pair of cleats, the moment he was drafted to the NFL. The Dragons were thirty-two minutes of football away from achieving that moment.
And Quinn was playing like shit.
It was one of the worst games of his career. He hadn’t had this many dropped passes since high school. He was sure all the reporters were saying he couldn’t handle the big stage, the extra pressure of being this deep in the playoffs. But they had no fucking clue. He just couldn’t get out of his own fucking head. And this week, it was a miserable place to be.
As he drove home from Natalie’s what felt like a lifetime ago, even though it was only a few days, he’d called Meg and scheduled daily sessions to help him deal with his anger. He was mad at Natalie for using him for a story and mad at himself for falling for it. Worse, for falling for her. He really thought they’d been starting something they could build a future on. But it had all been for a story.
Meg had helped him gain a little perspective. He could admit maybe the story wasn’t Natalie’s only reason for being with him. But it was still a reason—how else could he possibly interpret that email?—and he wasn’t sure he could forgive that a second time.
The worst part was, he still wasn’t good enough at his newly learned coping skills to leave all his shit in his locker when he set foot on the field. So he’d had a shitty week of practices and a shitty first half of the biggest game of his life.
In the huddle, on second down with four yards to go, just under two minutes left in the half, Matt gave them the play call. For unknown reasons, Quinn was the target again. What the hell was wrong with Crosby? Couldn’t his coach see he was useless today? They should put in a backup, for the good of the team.
But that was the call, and Quinn could tell from the way the Chiefs’ defense lined up, he would be getting man-to-man coverage from their top cornerback, Darrel Hawkins. Matt gave the call, the center snapped the ball, and Quinn took off down the field.
Hawkins was on him like a bad hangover. Quinn turned upfield to look for the ball, and Hawkins was right there. As close as he could get without making illegal contact and drawing a penalty.
Matt danced in the pocket, waiting for Quinn to get open. Matt was an amazing quarterback who made seemingly impossible throws, and under better circ
umstances, Quinn made impossible catches. But right now, against a safety who had a two-inch height advantage over him, Matt would be a fool to throw Quinn the ball.
The offensive line was giving Matt a ridiculous amount of time, keeping the defenders away so he could try to make a play. But the Chiefs’ nose tackle finally slipped around the Dragons’ left guard and went straight for Matt. Quinn couldn’t do anything but watch as his quarterback was wrapped up in the other man’s arms and taken to the turf.
The play was over and now the Dragons were looking at third down and fourteen. If they didn’t convert here, they’d have to punt and give Kansas City the ball back with almost two minutes left in the half. The score was tied at fourteen, and no one wanted to go to the locker room trailing. They had to keep the drive going, run down the clock, and at least get a field goal before halftime.
As Quinn reached the rest of his teammates, Matt called a time-out. He jogged to the side to consult with Crosby, then back to the huddle. Quinn looked to his friend for the next playcall and was startled to find Matt glaring back. Anger flashed in his normally affable brown eyes.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Matt asked. “This isn’t Pee Wee league. You don’t get to sulk because Jenny didn’t check yes on the note you passed her.”
Quinn hadn’t exactly spilled his guts to his housemate about what happened with Natalie. But even as absorbed as Matt had been in game prep, he was observant enough to put together Natalie’s absence with Quinn’s presence and his foul mood, and have an idea of what happened.
Apparently Matt had no problem airing his grievance in the huddle in front of the rest of the offense. Not that Quinn could blame him. He deserved it.
“Get your shit together and just fucking let it go!”
Something akin to panic rose in Quinn’s chest. No, he wasn’t ready to let her go. Not again. Fuck.
Get your shit together, Lowry. It is not the fucking time.
Still, he turned to look up at the press box. There was a glare off the windows, but he knew she was there, watching the game. Watching him fuck it up. His chest ached with how much he missed her.
Three fingers stabbed into his face mask and jerked his head around so he was again looking at his quarterback. “Not her, you jackass. Let go of your anger at her. Let yourself love her, because you do anyway. When this game is over, talk to her. Work your shit out. But let go of the anger right the fuck now because the playclock is running, I’m not burning another time-out, and I want a fucking trip to Miami. Understand, asshole?”
Quinn quickly scanned the other faces in the huddle with him. Everyone looked back at him with expectation, confidence he didn’t deserve, and a complete lack of judgment. He had to fucking step up. He nodded sharply.
“For some reason, Coach wants to go to you again. So I don’t care what you have to do, you lose Hawkins and you get open for me and you get this first down.”
Quinn nodded again, resisting the urge to salute. He had about ten seconds to figure out how to do all the things Matt had just ordered him to do. But, dammit, he would. Somehow.
Matt put his hand into the center of the circle. “OK, true love on three.” The rest of the guys gave him looks like he was crazy, but put their hands in and together they said, “True love.” And went to line up.
As he jogged to the line of scrimmage, Quinn again looked up at the press box. Let himself love her. Simple enough. He couldn’t seem to stop anyway.
He took his position wide to the right. Hawkins lined up across from him. But he could do this.
Before every play, Quinn imagined collecting all the external shit, shoving it in a box, and pushing that box deep down inside to deal with later. So as usual, he imagined collecting all his baggage. The crowd noise, the ache in his calf, the itch of his beard. His anger. His hurt. Everything.
But instead of burying it inside, he did like Matt said and let it go. Imagined it floating up above him, drifting into the sky and out of the stadium. And even if he knew it was all in his mind, he felt lighter.
Matt called the signal. The center snapped the ball. Quinn took off.
And by some miracle of physics, he outran Hawkins. He got to his spot and turned back to look for the ball just as it was coming out of Matt’s hands. Hawkins caught up to Quinn, but he’d anticipated that. He sidestepped the defender, jumped into the air, and trapped the ball between his palms.
Hawkins got a hand on him, but Quinn managed to evade a tackle as he tucked the ball into his side. He was past the first down marker, but there was wide-open field in front of him. So the second his feet were back on the ground, he ran. He dodged a safety, and thanks to an awesome block from Marcus, he managed another twelve yards after his catch.
Even better, his zigzagging run had taken time off the clock and brought the Dragons to within field goal range. They still had time to try for a touchdown and seven points, but at least they could put three points on the board before halftime if it came to that.
The next two plays went to Jaron Edmonds, using the running game to take more time off the clock. Then, on third and one from the eighteen-yard line, with eleven seconds left, they went to Marcus. He caught it on the one and took the few steps he needed into the end zone.
Motherfucking touchdown.
A few minutes later, as he walked with his team to the locker room with a seven-point lead, Quinn felt at peace for the first time since Tuesday morning. He looked up at the press box yet again. They had a lot of talking to do. Shit to work out. Hurts to heal. But he would try. Because he loved her.
But that all would have to wait. First, he had a game to win.
Chapter 23
Natalie winced as Matt held on to the ball too long, clearly waiting for Quinn to get open, and took another sack. His third of the half.
She added the update to the game blog, and when she looked up, she saw the Dragons had taken a time-out. Matt walked away from Crosby and back to the huddle. She watched the group of men, and of course her eyes went to Quinn. He hadn’t been far from her thoughts all week. She was so used to multitasking, she’d managed to do her job while simultaneously mourning the loss of their budding relationship and freaking out about the email sitting in her drafts folder, waiting to go to Ellen and JB.
So it was probably her imagination that when Quinn turned his head away from the huddle, it seemed like he was looking up at the press box. Maybe he was taking a moment to glare at her. Before she could decide, Matt stuck his fingers in Quinn’s face mask and jerked his attention back to the huddle.
As they lined up, she tried to keep her attention on Matt. Whichever receiver or runner they were going to, the play started with Matt. But her eyes drifted. Again. And again she caught Quinn looking up in the direction of the box.
She had to be hallucinating. She was running on too much coffee and not enough sleep or food. So when Quinn actually broke from Hawkins and made an awesome leaping catch, then ran for another twelve yards, she had to check with Clay Horton next to her. “Did he finally make a play?”
Horton nodded with an appreciative smile. “And a hell of a play he made. ’Bout damn time.”
Natalie smiled too as she watched Matt run down the field to embrace his teammate. The Dragons were still in this.
A few plays later, they scored, and even though Natalie wasn’t supposed to root for any particular team, she couldn’t help cheering just a little.
When halftime arrived, she watched with a grin as the team jogged toward the locker room. Once more, she thought maybe she saw Quinn looking her way. But she couldn’t be sure.
Halftime was a whirlwind of activity. She frantically updated the game blog, dashed off a first-half-impressions article, and even found time for a social media poll asking fans what they thought Crosby was saying in the locker room.
And yet, as she did all that, two things were n
ever far from her mind: what she was going to do about Quinn, and that email sitting in her outbox, waiting to be sent.
The second half didn’t go nearly so well for the Dragon. The offense looked amazing, but so did Kansas City’s offense. Five minutes into the half, linebacker Lem Feu’u was injured and ruled out for the game. His absence left a hole that Kansas City’s dynamic quarterback and tight end duo were able to exploit. No matter how many points they scored on offense, the Dragons simply couldn’t seem to stop Kansas City from scoring more.
By the time the clock ran out at the end of the game, the final score was Kansas City 38, Milwaukee 35. Natalie forced down her emotions, knowing that whatever she was feeling, her friends down on the field were feeling it tenfold.
She whipped out another few lines for the blog and posted to social media, doing her best to keep all those emotions in check. She felt heartsick for the team she’d grown up loving and for all the players she cared about.
Her eyes immediately sought out Quinn, who sat on the bench next to Matt, looking dejected and lost. She had an urge to hug them both. But of course she couldn’t do that from the booth.
Plus, now that the Dragons’ season was officially over, she had something she had to do. Her heart started racing as she opened her email, the noise in the room turning to a faraway buzz. She could do this. Yes, it was scary as hell to walk away from job security when she didn’t have a new position.
But she was no longer happy at SLNT. And she would find something new. Or, hell, she knew other reporters who had gone out on their own. Started their own mini-niches in the world of sports reporting. Maybe she could do that.
She had the connections. She would find a way.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she opened the message and hit send.
