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

by Mariah Dietz

  “Are you finished?” Anna asks.

  “Am I ever?”

  She releases a long breath as she shakes her head. “Is Olivia coming?”

  I grab a pair of tennis shoes from beside the door. “No, she’s sick.”

  She frowns, showing her humanity. “I’ve heard it’s going around. She needs to have some ginger. It will help boost her immune system.”

  “Already on it,” I tell her as I move around the kitchen to grab some things for Olivia. I drop them off in her room and leave the door cracked so Juliet can come and go.

  I grab my purse. “Where’s Kurt?

  “He had to work this morning.”

  I frown. Losing half of our party and distractions is guaranteed to spell trouble. “Where are we going?”

  Anna gives me what can only be described as the stink eye. “That client I told you about, Grayson Forrest, Dad’s joining the team to offer some advice, and he thinks volunteering is a good idea.”

  The client translates to Ian’s father.

  “Okay… What does that mean?”

  “Well, since you couldn’t reschedule, you get to join us.”

  “Aren’t you extra Grinchy today.”

  “I know…” she grumbles. “I’m just…” She releases a long sigh. “My period started, and I really thought we were going to be pregnant this month.” Her shoulders fall. “And now dad is helping on my first campaign at the state level, and I get it, Dad’s his friend and has a ton of connections and knowledge, but I just feel like I’m taking the back seat. And to top it all off, I really want some steak and eggs with béarnaise sauce, and I know that is super first-world whiny, but considering I’ve worked the last fourteen days straight, all I want to do is sit and eat and be selfish.”

  I wrap my arms around Anna. My sister can sometimes come across as unfriendly and high strung, but under her rough edges is a heart that is three sizes too big that she often conceals out of necessity and exhaustion … and a bit of snobbery that likely exists from a combination of exclusive private schools and constantly being told she was a genius from the age of six.

  “I’m sorry. I know you were hoping it would be positive, and I know it will happen, and when it does, you’re going to be the best mom. I’ll tell you what, if you have time, I’ll take you out for a late lunch after this. We can get Dick’s.”

  Anna’s eyes narrow. “Did you not hear me? I said steak, eggs, and béarnaise sauce.”

  “I know, but the next best thing is a nice, greasy, and delicious cheeseburger from Dick’s.”

  “Do you see my skin?” She points at her face. “I can’t eat burgers and maintain this skin.”

  I laugh. “How would you know if you’re not eating them?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Don’t believe me. Just wait until you reach the age where just looking at a doughnut makes you gain weight and break out.”

  I’m not about to tell her I tried to turn down a doughnut last week. “Never. Now, where are we going? Are we planting trees? Cleaning a park? Is it just the governor-elect?” I ask, my chest holding equal parts of hopefulness and dread. “Is that what he’s called? Governor-elect?”

  “He’s just a candidate. Elect is after he wins and before he takes office. And I think it’s just him.”

  I’m relieved.

  I’m disappointed.

  I’m still really confused.

  I haven’t seen Ian since we met Wednesday to discuss the articles for The Daily Dose, articles I’m still regretting agreeing to write. It makes me feel demure and weak because while I won’t admit it, even to Olivia, I agreed because I couldn’t say no. Avoiding him makes it easier for me to rationalize my feelings and sort things out so I can look at the articles objectively. I’m doing it for friends and because regardless of my personal thoughts on many of the rumors, too many revolve around sex-shaming and rumors that lack facts and ethics—the backbone of good journalism.

  “And I don’t really know where we’re going. Dad said it was at a sanctuary but then mentioned having to go through background checks.”

  “Background checks?”

  Anna shoots me a look of impatience. “I don’t know.”

  “What happened to ‘I’ll share the deets when I get there?’”

  “I have the address.”

  “Deets is plural. Address is singular.”

  “I don’t understand how you learned to be such a smartass.”

  I laugh. “So many reasons, so little time. We should go.” I glance toward my room to ensure Juliet is nowhere near and reach for the door when I realize it’s clear.

  Anna and I head outside in time to catch our neighbor leaving his apartment. He’s lived here longer than we have and has a young daughter who periodically stays with him. Olivia thinks he’s nice. I’m still not ready to remove him from creeper status.

  “Morning, Rose.” He lifts his commuter cup in greeting.

  I offer a small wave, but don’t say anything. I’ve learned that the best way to handle men you’re on the fence about is to ignore them because most have easily stimulated egos, and talking to them or even smiling at them seems to only puff them up.

  “He looks creepy,” Anna says, mirroring my thoughts.

  “I think so too. You should tell Olivia next time you see her.”

  Anna’s brown eyes grow round. “She doesn’t see it?”

  “She’s nicer than us.”

  Anna bursts out laughing and then links her arm with mine. “How’s school going?”

  “Good.”

  She gives me a cross look. “Well,” she corrects me. “When you say good, it makes you sound like you attended public school.”

  “Just when you start to be likable, you say something like that,” I tell her, following her to where she’s parked.

  She rolls her eyes. “I have Starbucks for you if you get into the car and listen to me whine about my new assistant.”

  “Reduced to bribing?”

  “She’s awful, and I need to word vomit all about it.”

  “Isn’t this why you’re married? Kurt is supposed to listen to your word vomit.”

  “He thinks my expectations are too high.”

  I slide into my seat and rub my hands together at the sight of a venti iced coffee with whipped cream. “You do love me,” I say, reaching for it.

  She grins. “A little less today because I’m not getting my steak and eggs.”

  “With béarnaise sauce, yeah, yeah.”

  “Okay, so my new assistant is late every single day.”

  “Late late or Anna late?”

  She glares at me. “I’m the one talking. You’re supposed to be drinking.”

  I grin. “Does Kurt get tired of you always being on top?”

  “Why do you make everything sexual?”

  “That was my first joke.”

  She gives me the side-eye. “I’m serious. You talk like you’re a fourteen-year-old boy.”

  “How many fourteen-year-old boys do you spend time with?”

  “One. You.” She puts her car into drive and heads out onto the main road.

  “I don’t understand why talking about sex is so taboo? Why is it okay to talk about a great sale or about someone they don’t like or some disgusting medical tale, but we can’t talk about what brought on a toe-curling orgasm?” I take a quick drink of my coffee. “People don’t even feel comfortable talking about sex with their partners. I don’t get it. Sex is everywhere. It’s on TV and in books, and on billboards, and practically everyone we know is doing the dirty, and yet, if you mention it, people all get squeamish and embarrassed.”

  “Because it’s awkward. I don’t want to picture my business partners on their knees, humping their wives.”

  “I’m not saying you should talk to your business partners about what sexual positions they prefer. I’m talking about me.” I point at my chest.

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “I’m not talking to you about s
ex.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Because it’s weird.”

  “It’s only weird if you make it weird.”

  Anna shakes her head. “You’ve already made it weird.”

  “I like sex.”

  “Oh my God,” Anna says, dropping her head back.

  “I like saying that, too. Hey,” I start when I see her give me a look, “you set me up for that one—that’s on you. But really, Anna. You’re married. You’re supposed to be having sex. I’m twenty-one and healthy—I should be having sex. Why is this embarrassing?”

  “I’ll stop and buy you sushi if you’ll shut up.”

  “I’d rather have this conversation.”

  Anna sighs. “Are you going on about this because you want to tell me about something you did?”

  “No. I just don’t understand why talking about sex is so uncomfortable.”

  Another heavy sigh greets my words. “Because it makes people feel vulnerable and uncomfortable.”

  “But why?”

  “Probably for many reasons starting with it wasn’t acceptable for many while growing up and expanding to how most feel vulnerable when considering sex. Some are uncomfortable with their body image, and some are uncomfortable with not knowing things about their body or why or how things work.”

  “Do you feel vulnerable while having sex?”

  Anna wipes a hand across her forehead. “Sometimes. Kind of. Yeah.”

  “I feel empowered.”

  She belts out a laugh, her hand hitting the steering wheel. “You would.”

  “I’m serious. I didn’t rely on a guy to teach me about my body or how to have an orgasm, so I know exactly what I want and what I like.”

  “You’re an anomaly,” Anna says, looking at me as she turns on her blinker.

  “If we talked about sex more, maybe there wouldn’t be two-hundred-million girls and women who had their clit surgically removed.”

  “I don’t think making sex a household topic is going to stop female genital mutilation.”

  “But it might. We’ve stigmatized sex so that it’s only acceptable for guys to have as many sexual partners as they want and to be seen as sexy for being experienced, and it’s disgusting if women aren’t virgins. Like that thin layer of skin in our vaginas somehow equates to a price or worth.”

  Anna looks at me. “I’m glad you were born in this generation.”

  I grin. “Also, you shouldn’t open your birthday present in front of Dad, but you should open it in front of Kurt.”

  “Rose! Don’t tell me you bought me a book about sex.”

  “I didn’t.”

  She glances at me. “What is it then?”

  “A vibrator.”

  “I hate you.”

  “After you use it, you’ll love me.”

  Her cheeks redden. “How are you my sister?”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “On the way home, you aren’t allowed to say two words. It’s my turn to talk,” she says as we pull to a stop.

  “Then I should probably say now that I agree with Kurt, and your expectations are a little too high.”

  Anna scowls at me as she comes to a stop. “The death of accountability is the problem with our world?”

  “Really? I’d have guessed famine or disease or maybe corruption.”

  “Out!” she screeches, pointing at the passenger car door.

  My smile slips from my face as I face the large one-story building. I haven’t been here in years, and only ever with my mom. She was, after all, who had fitted me with my idea of a crown and cape and told me that we had the opportunity to change the world—I’d just always interpreted that to mean saving the world.

  Memories rush through me, stealing my breath and stinging my eyes. I want to tell Anna to take me home, explain that this is infringing on whatever monthly deal we have carved out.

  “God, we’re out in the middle of nowhere,” Anna says, rubbing her arms from the morning chill still hanging on.

  We are out in the middle of nowhere, which makes being here even less appealing. When it comes to spending time with my dad, I rely heavily on routine and expectations. Our brunches consist of a thirty-minute pre-brunch drink out on the patio when it’s nice and in the living room when it’s not. During that time, we make small talk which is generally taken up by Dad asking me about classes and Anna grilling me on professors and theories. I spend this time finding ways to include Kurt into the conversation—for my benefit, not his. This always has him looking like a deer caught in the headlights as he stumbles over his sentences. Eight years later, he still looks at our father like he’s a celebrity. Once brunch is ready, I usually deflect the conversation by asking Anna about her work, and on the few occasions that doesn’t work, Olivia fills the gaps with small talk—something I can’t seem to manage with my father.

  This place changes everything, creating a new game board and pieces that don’t make any sense.

  “Why are you pouting?” Anna asks.

  I turn my attention to her, and for a second, I see our mom. Anna has always looked so much like her, more so as she gets older. The greatest difference these days is their hair, which Anna insists on wearing short, whereas Mom always wore hers past her shoulders. “I don’t understand why we’re here,” I tell her.

  She shrugs. “Me either. But let’s just get it over with.”

  I trail behind her through the single glass door that still has a broken spring. Inside, a woman is behind a counter wearing a hunter green top.

  Anna goes straight to her while I hang back, trying to recall if I recognize her. “Hi, we’re here—”

  “Anna!” Dad peeks his head out from behind the doorway that leads to the back where some of the animals are kept. “These are my girls,” Dad tells the woman in the green polo.

  The woman behind the counter lights up. “Of course. I can see the resemblance. Go on back.”

  I glance at Anna to share a look of bewilderment—a look I know Olivia would be exchanging with me right now if she were here—but Anna is already moving toward Dad with a smile plastered across her face, reminding me that some of our differences span far and wide.

  “Girls, I’m so glad our monthly brunch date didn’t work out. This is such a great opportunity for us. Rose, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to our future governor, Grayson Forrest, and his lovely wife, Michelle, and their son, Ian.”

  15

  Ian

  I don’t hear the rest of Bill’s introduction. I’m too distracted to listen because Rose’s expression and the few details of her past are sliding into place before my eyes.

  I met her dad only an hour ago, introduced to me as Bill, my dad’s buddy from college and previous White House’s Deputy Chief of Staff. Which translated to me as a man with connections and talents who my dad was convinced he needs at his side in order to win the election for state governor. I can see the similarities now between Bill and Rose, though they’re mostly subtle, all but one—they have the same full smile that they can turn on in a second. My attention turns to Rose’s sister, Anna. Her hair and eyes are darker, but it’s easy to tell they’re related. With her last name being Pollard rather than Cartwright I hadn’t connected the dots until just now.

  Rose refuses to look at me. It’s as though I can hear her thoughts telling me this isn’t a part of her life she wants me included in. I know because the few times we discussed her father, she’d give an honest answer that held truth and pain and sandwiched it with sarcasm before quickly changing the subject.

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Rose. We’ve really enjoyed working with Anna,” Mom says as she takes a step forward and shakes Rose’s hand. “What a small world that you go to school with Ian.”

  Rose glances at me, surprise visible in her expression before she smiles. “But Ian and I have a class together this year.”

  “Rose is also the sports columnist for the paper at Brighton. She’s actually going to be breaking the story
with the new website,” I tell Mom.

  “Oh,” Mom blinks several times, “I didn’t realize you guys had decided to go forward with that idea…” she rolls her hands, her discomfort apparent.

  Dad looks at me, shock making him blink rapidly in response as he pieces together his own puzzle of recognition. After all, we didn’t speak at great lengths about Rose, but there was enough dialogue that he knew my feelings toward her.

  Bill clears his throat. “Are you sure you want to post the new site?” He looks at Anna. “I know your PR team is advising you to come out with this new approach, but I would bury it. Hammer through a dozen injunctions and get it buried and forgotten.”

  Upon meeting Bill, I’d liked him. Very personable and extremely well-spoken, he came across as an asset that I understood. Now that I know he’s Rose’s father, it’s hard to look at him the same way. Rose has never openly shared why she doesn’t get along with her father, only that she doesn’t.

  “I would hate for you to roll it out there and for it not to go right,” Bill says, his uncertainty is written in his wrinkled brow and light tone.

  “That’s why we need the home-court advantage,” I say.

  Dad nods. “I hate that it’s out there, too, Bill, but we’ve gone over this, and we really believe that this is the best way to control the situation, so it doesn’t blow up in our face.”

  Bill nods. “Understood. I’m glad you have Rose writing the piece. She and Anna will be able to work together on it to be sure it’s consistent and effective.” He turns to Rose. “I liked your piece that came out yesterday on the women's volleyball team. You did an exceptional job of shedding light on the proportionality aspect. I think a lot of your readers are going to be thinking about your article for a while.” His compliment seems genuine, but the fact he tells her this here and now reminds me of how little she sees him.

  Rose’s smile dims, her teeth disappearing as she presses her lips together with a tight smile that looks both foreign and uncomfortable on her.

  Before our conversation can continue, the woman who had introduced herself as Debra returns from the back where the veterinarian who she introduced us to is getting set up. “Are we ready?” she asks. Her attention stops, and she tilts her head with curiosity. “Rose?”