Forgetting the Rules: A Second-Chance-Romance Sports Standalone

by Mariah Dietz

  A heavy sigh breaks through her lips. I doubt she would tell me she doesn’t want Dad to run for office even if she feels that way. My parents have always been a unified front, making it oftentimes difficult to know whose dream is being chased. However, Mom loved being in Rome. She worked hard to learn to speak Italian and made friends, and had a routine she obviously enjoyed. Then again, maybe it was stepping away from a job where she’d worked twelve-hour days that made her seem so blissfully happy. “You’re right. Let’s go meet these guys and see if they can teach us how to take a correct selfie.”

  We make our way across the backyard, and though I won’t voice the thought to her, it feels strange to have them home again. If I’ve learned anything in my life, it’s that few things ever remain constant. Things, people, relationships are all like the weather and change constantly.

  “There they are,” Dad says as we step through the French doors that lead into the living room. I hadn’t made any changes to the house when they’d moved. In part because there had been little clarity about their next steps and also because I knew that if I end up getting drafted, the chances of me staying here in Seattle are slim.

  A small team of people are standing in the formal living room, all in varying shades of blue and black suits sporting smiles that I’m sure they’re going to be teaching to me. “My wonderful wife, Michelle, and my son, Ian.” Dad moves to stand beside us. “Guys, this is Anna Pollard and her team.”

  “You have a beautiful family, Mr. Forrest,” Anna says. “We’re looking forward to working with all of you and getting to know you better.” She proceeds to introduce the swarm of people behind her, addressing them each with their titles that mean little to me before suggesting we take our seats.

  Mom had asked if I could make sure my entire afternoon was cleared for this meeting. At the time, it didn’t seem like the worst idea, but sitting here now and listening as they start to address my Dad’s history and dissecting our lives, my attention keeps jumping to the one thing I’ve been actively avoiding: Rose.

  Regret has been stitching its way into my thoughts since the pre-game interview with her last Saturday. In our shared Labor Economics class we have every Thursday, she spent the duration of the class on the opposite side of the room, ignoring me. I’ve considered texting or calling her, but neither seems appropriate nor genuine, which I know will only make the situation worse. Rose is everything I swore I’d never like: impulsive, stubborn, and guarded. It wasn’t that I was looking for an obedient and silent woman to date, but the girls I’ve been interested in previously have been bubbly, warm, and friendly—three words that fit Rose and yet don’t at all. We first met in January of last year during a study group. She’d been sitting by herself, highlighting her textbook and scribbling down notes. I remember because she didn’t look up at all or participate with anyone in the group though she continued to show up every single week.

  Four weeks later, she showed up after me for the first time, and I actually saw her face when it wasn’t tipped into the pages of a textbook. She was shockingly beautiful—the kind of beautiful that demands and holds your attention. I was memorizing every detail about her, from her straight nose to the unique green shade of her eyes, to her perfectly full lips. I’d instantly pictured burying my hands in her long, dark hair and deciphering her elegant tattoos with my tongue. The study group had grown, and there were only two open seats, and she chose the seat next to me. It was then that I realized she wasn’t even studying the same subject. We were meeting for Statistics, and she was reviewing macroeconomics.

  Once again, she didn’t say a word throughout the study session, the hint of her perfume distracted me the entire night, which led me to catch glimpses of the tattoo that wrapped around her forearm. Her nails were black, and she chewed on a pen the entire time she sat next to me, never once looking up. I still don’t know if it was luck or a curse that she chose the seat beside me because, since that day, Rose Cartwright has been impossible for me to ignore.

  The following week, she was already in her seat when I arrived, and this time, I decided to sit beside her. In my quest to be smooth, I knocked over her coffee and a stack of her notecards.

  “Shit,” I’d said. “I’m sorry.”

  She grabbed a stash of napkins from the front of her backpack and quickly mopped up the mess.

  “I’ll get you a new one,” I’d offered.

  She smiled, then. And if I hadn’t already been intrigued by this girl, I would have been then. Flawless lips, high cheekbones, and eyes that shone with humor. She pushed her dark, glossy hair back and shook her head. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve had it since this morning. You probably saved me from food poisoning.”

  “You’re clearly doing college wrong if you can hold onto a coffee for eight hours.”

  Rather than smiling again, she cocked one eyebrow. “Normally, I’d agree. But this coffee was gross.”

  I’d glanced at the generic cup. “Bad coffee stand?”

  “Bad order,” she admitted. “I was trying to be less cliché and order something dark, bold, and sophisticated, and it was just bitter and gross. Say what you might, but I’m content being a cliché coffee drinker, and I’ll take my cute boots and plaid shirts as well—zero shame.” She shrugged, but then she winced. “Well, maybe a little shame. The leader of the group is a coffee snob, so just don’t mention it to her because I need this group.” Her smile turned playful.

  “You know this is a Statistics study group, right?” I’d asked, nodding to her opened textbook.

  Her eyes grew wide. “What? I had no idea.” Her voice was completely even, and her face gave nothing away. For a moment, I couldn’t tell if she was pulling my leg or really clueless. “Is this the part where I smile, and you check out my boobs, and we go on our merry little way?” she’d asked.

  “Why are you here when you’re studying macroeconomics?”

  She gave me a warning look. “Because,” she whispered. “This is the best study group I’ve found on campus. The moderator hates when people talk and leads with fear like a total dictator, and it’s glorious for studying purposes.”

  I unzipped my bag and withdrew my coursebook. “Your secret’s safe with me. The coffee and the macroeconomics.”

  She grinned. “That’s good. Otherwise, you might have become my new archenemy, and I don’t really have time to plan revenge plots.” She turned her attention back to her opened book.

  “By the way, you’re hanging out with the wrong crowd if you’re exchanging smiles for boob stares,” I told her.

  Rose glanced up at me but didn’t say a word. I was distracted for the next two hours, wondering what that single glance meant.

  A throat clears, drawing my attention to the present. Anna is looking at me. “You should know that people might try to dig up things from your past. It’s ridiculous stuff that they try to spin most of the time, but occasionally, something can make it out that you don’t want to be public. It helps us if you can let us know about any of those things ahead of time. It doesn’t have to be now, but if you can make a list and get it to me, it will help us get ahead of things and put the correct connotation on the situation.” Anna looks between my parents and then me. “Sadly, this could impact you, as well. Most politicians don’t go after kids, but the rules of politics have changed a lot, and it seems there are few things left untouched.”

  Dad shakes his head. “Ian’s way smarter than I was at his age.”

  I think of the picture of me playing grab-ass with a girl the summer before last and feel myself cringe.

  Let’s hope he’s right.

  8

  Rose

  “Secrets are being spilled like beans over on a brand-new site that is giving us a whole new look at our football team,” I read the first line of the story again. “No,” I whisper, reading what’s supposed to be my article on the front page of The Daily Dose of Brighton. “Drawing attention and intrigue, the players’ deepest secrets are being revealed one play
er at a time, and if you saw Saturday, you know my pun was intended.” My jaw drops. “No!” I repeat. “No! No! No!” I finish reading the butchered article and crinkle it in my fists. I forget about the homework that was just assigned and Anna’s phone call that I need to return as I head toward the newspaper room.

  I push the door open so hard it hits the door stopper and quickly scour over the room, searching for Anthony. The classroom is mostly empty, so I head to the back where his tiny office is and hammer on it with my fist. “Anthony!” I yell.

  When he doesn’t reply, I try opening that door, but it’s locked. “Don’t you hide from me, you weasel,” I mutter as I pull out my phone and stab his number into my phone from his contact information that’s posted on the bulletin board.

  He doesn’t answer.

  He wouldn’t.

  He’s probably hiding.

  When it prompts me to leave a message, I release a flood of words. “I don’t know why you assigned me sports and then hijacked my article!” I grind my teeth to keep myself from calling Anthony a dozen expletives. “I spent my entire Sunday writing and researching for my article, and you just butchered my name and journalistic integrity, not to mention you lowered The Daily Dose to tabloid status! Thanks for signing my name to your disaster. Much unappreciated. Call me, you coward.” I hang up and release a long breath.

  I wonder if he’s hiding from me or CJ, a lineman who was featured on the rumor website today and in my article—which was definitely not my article.

  I want to turn back time to this weekend and my time spent with Olivia, vegging out and catching up on some much-needed girl time. I want to go home and hide under my bed until this all blows over. I want to call my dad and cancel our plans for Sunday. I want to find a familiar show on Netflix and the most comfortable pair of shorts in my closet and hang out with our cat, Juliet, all day. Last fall, Arlo found her and brought her to our apartment. She was a scrawny and malnourished little ball of fur that constantly hid under the couches initially. After trying to find her family for several months, we came to the realization she was likely a stray, we adopted her as our own. Now, she treats the apartment like her oasis, finding the most comfortable and plush spots to sprawl out and claim as her own like a true lioness.

  “Is everything okay?” Amita asks from her desk where she’s blowing on the steam coming from her coffee.

  “Have you seen Anthony?”

  She shakes her head. “It’s just been me in here this morning.” I’m not surprised. Amita is dedicated to the paper and has been since freshman year.

  I release a quiet sigh. “I’m sorry you didn’t get editor,” I tell her. “I voted for you. I assumed everyone voted for you. You deserve it so much more.”

  Amita shrugs. “I appreciate it, but it’s okay. This gives me more time to focus my attention on some other opportunities.”

  “Oh yeah?” My response is an instant reaction rather than genuine interest, my attention still directed Anthony’s closed door in the back corner. Would he hide in there and pretend not to be here?

  “I’ve begun writing a column as an independent contractor for a blog that’s trying to target younger generations and educate them on world issues.” She pushes her large, white-framed glasses higher on her nose.

  I think of the article I wrote and submitted to Anthony last week about food security that he refused to print. “That sounds amazing,” I tell her. “I was telling Anthony, people want to be informed, and they want to help make a difference. This is why you would have made an awesome editor, and I’m currently trying to hunt our crappy editor down so I can strangle him.”

  Amita smiles and leans back in her chair. “What did he do?”

  “He rewrote my article,” I tell her. “Not only did he rewrite it, but he butchered it and made it into a tabloid piece and made me out to be a complete liar because I promised someone we wouldn’t write anything about the story.”

  “Oh, is this about that website?” she asks.

  “Yes.” I release another sigh. “Apparently, Anthony knew it was going to be released, and he wanted me to do a pseudo-investigative piece to find out why and help make this some juicy, exciting story to get more reads, because all he cares about is ad sales. I told him that’s not what we’re here for, that we publish good, quality content here, and then he does this behind my back when I don’t oblige.” I throw both my hands up. “And he left my name on the article, which really pisses me off. I don’t want to be associated with this crap. Did you read it?”

  She nods. “It was pretty awful. He did a terrible job of trying to sound like a girl.”

  I groan. “It’s awful. And how is this newsworthy? We should be publishing content that opposes this website, not giving it a platform. We’ve just poured gasoline on a tiny ember.”

  “Did you see today’s photo?” she asks.

  I splay my hand across my face to cover my wince. “Yes.” It was a photo of CJ, a freshman I don’t know. He was nude except for a pair of cowboy boots and emojis of beakers along with a caption, rumoring that he slept with his high school science teacher.

  “Do you think the rumor is true?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “I have no idea, but I don’t think it’s our job to be the jury when we don’t have any of the facts. I mean, a claim like that could ruin his teacher’s life if it’s not true.”

  Amita nods. “I know. Could you imagine?”

  “I don’t think it will spread that far. I doubt anyone in Alabama or wherever he’s from cares about Brighton’s football team, but still, this is ridiculous.”

  “I can’t believe people think it’s attractive,” she says.

  Behind me, the door opens. I turn in hopes of finding Anthony, but instead, Janet slips in. “Hey,” she calls. “I read your article.”

  “It wasn’t my article,” I tell her.

  “Who do you think is sharing these pictures?” she asks, ignoring my clarification. “I hope they have some of Paxton Lawson. He is so freaking hot. I saw him last week, and I didn’t realize how big his hands were.” She lifts her own hand to model the size of his. “Like huge. And you know what they say about guys with big hands…” She wriggles her eyebrows.

  Amita scoffs, a smile spreading across her lips. “Am I broken? I don’t think these pictures are hot.”

  Janet exchanges a look with me. “Like at all?”

  Amita shakes her head. “No. It makes them all seem like players and gross.”

  “Luis dates Alexis,” I point out.

  “Yeah, but he was pulling her bathing suit off in public,” Amita says.

  “I’d let him pull my bathing suit down in public,” Janet says.

  Amita laughs. “No you wouldn’t.”

  Janet shrugs. “Probably not. And I get it, I mean, some of them are kind of players.”

  “But is that a bad thing?” I ask. “I mean, as long as they’re upfront and honest about it, should we or anyone else care about how many sexual partners they have?”

  “Fair point,” Amita says.

  “I mean, I don’t date, but I like sex.”

  Janet smirks. She knows my rules.

  “So, you sleep with like a fuck buddy?” Amita asks.

  I shake my head. “No, that leads to confusion and feelings. There’s no way to be casual fuck buddies. I don’t sleep with the same person twice.”

  “Ever?” Amita asks.

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  “So you’ve had like a hundred sex partners?”

  I laugh. “How do you take me saying I don’t sleep with the same person twice and translate that to me having a hundred sex partners?”

  “Well, if you’re having sex very often, you must have slept with quite a few guys.”

  “I don’t keep track,” I tell her. “But, I don’t sleep with everyone who has a penis.”

  “I’m shook,” Amita says. “I need more details.”

  “There aren’t that many details,” I tell her. �
�I’m not looking for a serious relationship, but I like sex, and so I will sleep with a guy that I’m attracted. I lay out clear rules that nothing will transpire, and if they’re interested, we go from there.”

  “Aren’t you terrified of catching an STD?” Amita asks.

  “Oh, I have rules for that as well. I am all about safe sex.”

  Amita’s eyes are three times their natural size as she stares at me. “But, there’s still a risk. I mean, condoms don’t protect against syphilis, or herpes, or genital warts…”

  “Absolutely, which is why if I’m interested in having sex with someone, we go get tested together and share our results. And trust me, there is nothing more awkward than learning hot boy’s got chlamydia right along with him.”

  Amita looks at Janet. “I feel like such a prude right now. But, rock on for making the guy go and get tested with you. I mean, it seems like it would be awkward as hell to me, but it’s definitely brilliant.”

  I nod. “We should all feel empowered when it comes to sex, in my opinion. It’s not something to be embarrassed or ashamed about. It’s normal and natural and all those things, and it’s usually when people don’t talk about it or are uncomfortable talking about it that the risks of pregnancy and STDs go up.”

  Janet grins at me. “I want to be you when I grow up.”

  I laugh. “You should feel empowered. And if you aren’t comfortable asking someone to get tested, then I can refer you to some really great battery-operated boyfriends.”

  Janet shrieks with laughter while Amita covers her face with both hands. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation in the newsroom.”

  “It’s a good conversation to have anywhere,” I tell her. “Also, if you’re interested, I have a ton of notes and an article about food security that Anthony refused to print. You can have it and maybe find some inspiration for that blog you’re working for. It might be a better audience.”

  Amita grins. “Really? That sounds amazing.”