Keeping Score: A Sports Romance

by Dee Lagasse

  “You still love him.”

  There was no question in my brother’s statement. Maybe he’d known for a long time.

  At least since the night I decided getting wasted on cheap vodka was better than acknowledging that Jake had posted a picture of him kissing another girl. We were about a month into our freshman year of college. Jake was in Alabama. Salem and I were at the University of Massachusetts together.

  Despite her pleas to stay in our dorm room, I decided I needed to go find a party. Before I could do anything too stupid, Salem called my brother. Javier showed up at the frat house I had wandered into. I fought him kicking and screaming until he threatened to call my parents. That was also the first night I met Adam.

  To this day, I’d always been so thankful he didn’t judge me based on first impressions.

  I spent the entire twenty-minute car ride to his apartment drunkenly spewing the ugliest things about a girl I’d never met.

  I hated her.

  I hated everything about her.

  I hated her bright pink Polo shirt—with every button undone, and the collar popped up. She had on the tiniest white shorts. Her bleach blonde hair was pulled into a high ponytail on the top of her head, much like my own right now.

  I hated that Jake clearly had a type.

  Pretty. Blonde-haired. Blue-eyed. Cheerleader.

  I hated that she was everything I wasn’t.

  But more than that…I hated that she was everything I wanted to be.

  Not that I wanted to be a blonde-haired, blue-eyed cheerleader. I was always quite content with my ripped jeans, band tees, and Chucks. There was never a time I didn’t love my hips and the “bubble butt” my mom said I inherited from her.

  But that girl had Jake. His attention. His time. His lips on hers.

  And after that night, she just kept showing up in his photos.

  Salem and I dubbed her “Alabama Barbie” before we found out her name was Jess and that she was actually from Ohio.

  Based on the evidence that they seemed to be at a party every single time Jake posted photos of the two of them together, I didn’t think they were that serious. I thought I had a chance to fix things. I had a plan.

  I waited for him to show up at my parents’ house on Christmas Eve. After all, it was tradition. But he never came.

  Instead, Jake brought Jess back to Massachusetts to meet his mom. My parents ran into the three of them at the grocery store the day after Christmas and invited them over for dinner. Despite the fact that I was staying in my old bedroom during break, I found an excuse to leave.

  I didn’t want to see Jake. More importantly, I didn’t want to see Jake with her.

  I became quite the expert in excuse-making since then. Because of that, I successfully managed to avoid Jake for the last six years. It helped that he lived in Alabama, then in Florida, and—according to my father—spent the majority of the most recent off-season in Montana.

  There was no reasonable way to explain why it still terrified me—the thought of seeing him.

  Maybe it was because I knew I’d have to explain myself.

  Maybe it was because Salem and Javier were right: Jake deserved an apology.

  Maybe, just maybe, I was simply scared to face him because I knew it didn’t matter how much time had passed.

  It hadn’t changed what he meant to me.

  It was easier to push it aside, to pretend those feelings didn’t exist, when I didn’t have to face him.

  I missed him.

  It was as simple and as complicated as that.

  I missed what we had together. There were no walls between us. No secrets. No boundaries. Everything Jake and I shared, was genuine.

  There were still times I found myself wishing I could just pick up the phone and call him. We were each other’s biggest fans. We got each other through the hard days. When Jake said everything was going to be okay, I believed him.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t try to move on. I tried to forget him. There was nothing I wanted more than to just put the past behind me, but it was hard to let go of someone when they invaded your dreams. Every fucking night.

  It also didn’t help that he maintained a relationship with every person in my family. My parents, my brother, and my abuela never thought twice to turn on the television when they knew he was playing a game. My father was with Jake when he was drafted. Everyone, except me, flew to Miami for his first game as a professional football player. My parents were Jake’s personal guests for the Super Bowl.

  For more than half a decade, I watched Jake play from behind a television screen. I saw him grow as a player—both on and off the field. I heard the post-game interviews when he took both the wins and the losses with the same grace.

  I’d seen the photos of him visiting children’s hospitals. On Father’s Day, my dad was late to his own barbecue because he attended a charity golf game Jake hosted to raise funds for Fox Hollow’s youth football programs.

  Part of me wished he turned into an egomaniac when he was drafted. There was also a small sliver of unexplainable hope that my family would cut ties altogether. It was completely selfish of me. Jake didn’t deserve that.

  It probably would have stopped the what ifs, though.

  What if I had answered his calls the night he kissed me? What if I met him at our spot the next day? What if I had listened to my heart instead of my head? Would we have stayed together? Would we still be together to this day? What if he still held it against me?

  What if he doesn’t forgive me?

  Isa

  It was early enough that once we got into the city, there was no need to rush. Neither Javier nor I said a word as we walked the three blocks from the parking garage to the club. Which was fine by me. The thoughts in my head were loud enough to drown out the buzz of Boston’s rush hour traffic.

  When we reached Retro, I was surprised to see a line forming outside already. The doors wouldn’t even open to clubgoers for another two hours. It wasn’t out of the ordinary to come into work on Friday and Saturday nights and find people waiting to get in, but it was five o’clock. On a Tuesday. It was still light out.

  As we approached a group of scantily dressed women, I couldn’t help but notice that half of them were wearing body-hugging Bluecoats football jerseys.

  “Hi, I’m Isa Coleman, one of the Retro house photographers. Do you ladies mind if I grab a picture to throw up on Instagram?”

  They eagerly agreed. As they shifted and popped their hips, I counted down from three.

  “Is it true?” one of them asked as soon as I snapped the photo. “Are the Mendez brothers and Jake Pierce inside?”

  Stepping in, Javier redirected her question by offering their first round of drinks on the house. “Just tell the bartender it’s on Javier.”

  The atmosphere in the club was nothing like it would be later that night.

  Right then, bright fluorescent lights were lighting up the empty dance floor. In a few hours, they’d be turned off and replaced with the strobing neon kind. Luke Bryan’s southern twang would be nonexistent and the bumping bass that came with nineties hip-hop would fill the speakers instead.

  Bartenders and shot girls were either running back and forth restocking alcohol or setting up their stations for the night. A handful of bouncers who’d shown up already were all congregating in one corner, management in another.

  Ace, the weeknight DJ, stood by the bar with an armful of bottled waters. As I approached, his eyes lit up in recognition. “Hey, Isa! I didn’t know you were working.” The corners of his lips curled up in a sly smile. “I actually have something for you tonight.” Excited, he thanked Krissy, the bartender, for his water and made his way toward the DJ booth, which was set high on a platform overlooking the room.

  Ace started as the weeknight DJ just a few weeks after I officially became one of the house photographers. I didn’t work many weeknights, but I worked enough that I knew he played a “House Mix” for the staff while everyone got ready
for their shift. From upper management to the bathroom attendants, if you were working, he wanted to make sure you were included.

  Every time we worked together, he tried to get me to talk about the music I listened to. I brushed him off when I realized there was no one else in the building that shared my personal preference.

  “All right,” Ace began, his voice booming through the speakers as he spoke. There were maybe two dozen of us in the club that could hold just over a thousand people. “So, you guys know I’ve been working on figuring Isa out. Well, I got a tip from a little birdie, and I expect you all in the middle of the floor for the next couple of songs.”

  As “What’s My Age Again” by blink-182 began to play, I looked around, ready to put the blame on my brother only to come up empty. Javier was nowhere to be found.

  “Put that camera to the side, girlfriend.” Krissy laughed as she gently hip-checked me. “You heard the man. He expects us to dance.”

  I slid one of my arms through the strap hanging loosely from my neck, double-checking to make sure my camera was secure. When I was certain it was okay, I grinned and took Krissy’s outstretched hand.

  By the time the first chorus hit, we were joined by three more bartenders and just as many bouncers. As the song came to an end, Ace seamlessly mixed in the live version of “Dammit”—also by blink-182, my favorite band since I was thirteen.

  Back then, I thought I was such a badass while cursing with Mark Hoppus and Tom DeLonge as they sang. Travis Barker was the first celebrity I really crushed on. I’d seen them live more times than any other band. Even after Tom left the band in 2015, I went to every show faithfully.

  When I was feeling especially nostalgic, I pulled out my old The Mark, Tom, and Travis Show CD and blasted it as loud as my car stereo allowed. Listening to it in my car was nothing like this, though—the music so clear it almost felt like I was at a concert.

  Just like I would at a live show, I submerged myself into drum beats and guitar riffs. When the second verse started, I spun, my hands raised high above my head as I danced to the beat. Nostalgia coursed through my veins.

  All of that stopped the moment I came face-to-face with the person I’d been hiding from for just over half a decade.

  Jacob James Pierce.

  I should have known as soon as I heard “Dammit” that the “little birdie” Ace mentioned was Jake. He was probably the only person on this earth that knew it was my favorite song. Everyone else in my life knew that blink-182 was my favorite band, but Jake was the one that spent hours with me listening to Dude Ranch on vinyl.

  Jake was the one that knew everything.

  Every damn thing that mattered.

  When I pictured this moment in my head, I always imagined I would hold my head high and take responsibility for what I did. I didn’t foresee the tight knots in my stomach or the small beads of sweat growing in my palms. The anticipation was laced with paralyzing fear. As soon as Javier told me—as soon as I began to panic—I should have known I wouldn’t be able to handle this the way I presumed I could.

  I should have known that Jake would make every nerve of my body go into overdrive. It was Jake, after all. How fucking foolish I had been to think he wouldn’t still affect me like this.

  With crossed arms and a knowing smirk, Jake nodded his head in the direction of the bar. I didn’t say a word as I followed his lead. With every step we took, my heart slammed against my chest.

  Thump, thump, thump.

  And…why the fuck was it so damn hot in here?

  When Jake stopped at the end of the bar, I prayed to all things holy that my shaky legs didn’t give out beneath me.

  Somehow, none of the photos or video coverage over the years had done Jake justice. The sleeves of his white V-neck hugged the bulging muscles of his biceps. I realized this when I caught myself staring at them like some sort of horny fangirl.

  The next thing that grabbed my attention were the black skinny jeans he was wearing. I immediately had to fight the urge to call him out on his attire.

  The boy I once knew had teased me about the ninety percent of guys I found attractive, using the argument that “no guy’s jeans should be tighter than his girlfriend’s.”

  But, he was not the boy I once knew.

  He was also not dressed for a night at Retro.

  Professional football player or not, there was a strictly enforced “no white shoes” rule in place at the club. His bright white Nikes made him a walking, talking contradiction. It was also too early—way too early—for him to be here.

  “Jake!” I forced a big, fake smile in his direction. “Hi. It’s so good to see you!”

  At my response, his lips formed into a tight line. His brow furrowed in frustration as he let out a breath. “Don’t do that.” Breaking his eye contact with me, he asked the closest bartender if it was possible to get two shots of tequila.

  For a brief moment, I assumed one of them was intended for me. I opened my mouth to tell him I couldn’t drink while working, but he quickly downed both shots.

  After pulling out his wallet, he dropped a few bills down by the empty shot glasses. “Don’t act like you’re excited to see me. We both know that’s bullshit.”

  I swallowed, and the guilt that’d been building up over the last six years settled in my stomach like a brick. A top-forty country song started to play for one of the shot girls as I tried to find words. Any words.

  None came.

  Not a single word.

  It was as if I’d forgotten the last twenty-four years of putting my thoughts into verbally spoken sentences.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t be here long,” he continued, unfazed by my silence. “I just brought Fox and Lynx by to check out the space for their thirtieth birthday.”

  Often said to be this generation’s Peyton and Eli, Fox and Lynx Mendez quickly became Bluecoats favorites after they were the first twin brothers drafted to the same team in NFL history. Everyone in Fox Hollow thought it was meant to be, a gift from the football gods that Fox came to join our team. Given what he’d done for the Bluecoats, I wouldn’t argue with them. It made sense that Jake would be friends with both of them.

  The Mendez brothers were older than us, but that didn’t matter on the field. As part of the offensive line, they all worked together—Fox as the starting quarterback, Lynx a wide receiver like Jake. I met Fox a few times when I attended games with my dad, but Lynx was much more elusive.

  During my silent meltdown, I wondered how much of an asshole I’d be if I asked Jake to make introductions.

  The thought was immediately abandoned when Jake offered me a small, sad smile. “Have a nice night. You look good, Bug.”

  A flood of emotions filled me when he called me by the nickname he gave me as a teenager. The memory of the moment crashed down on me like a tidal wave.

  “You’re just a little Shutterbug, aren’t you?” he said as I snapped another photo. “From now on, I’m just gonna call you Bug.”

  “Bug?” I laughed nervously. “Really? Like an ant?”

  “I was thinking more like a cute little ladybug that always has a camera hanging from her neck.”

  “My abuela calls me ‘Mariquita,’” I started as I turned to face him. “It means ladybug.”

  “Well, now I have no choice.” He shrugged. The corners of his lips turned up into a smile. “It was meant to be, Bug.”

  “Jake, wait!” I called out as he walked away from the bar. When he didn’t turn, my nerves morphed into desperation. “Jacob!”

  That got his attention. As he turned, I swallowed again, the pain visible on his face.

  He shook his head slowly, lips forming a thin line. After a brief moment of thought, he closed the space he’d just put between us. “You don’t get to do that, Isa. You don’t get to call out my name like it pains you to say it.”

  “I’m sorry.” I needed him to know. I needed him to know just how sorry I was. “I should have—”

  “It was a long time
ago.” His tone was cold. Emotionless. A complete contradiction from the hurt his voice held just moments prior. “We were kids, Isa. I loved you. You chose Devon.”

  “I didn’t choose Devon!” I yelled. The outburst drew attention to us. The feeling of people watching burned like fire on my skin. I didn’t care, though. He was wrong. “I broke up with Devon the night you kissed me. I just needed time to wrap my head around what I felt for you. It scared me. You scared me.”

  “Wait, what? No,” he said, shaking his head again, this time in disbelief. “Devon came to Kelsie’s party a few hours later, bragging to the guys on the team about smashing Coach’s daughter. I assumed that you…and when you didn’t show up the next day, and you started avoiding me, I just…”

  His sentences were fragments of unfinished thoughts, but I easily filled in the blanks as he went along. “You mean to tell me this whole time you thought I blew you off because I was too busy screwing Devon McDaniels?” I couldn’t help but laugh, stopping only once I locked eyes with Jake, who apparently failed to see the humor in that I was still very much a virgin then.

  “I need to find Javier.” Jake didn’t explain himself further before he left me there, standing alone.

  As he walked away, the sounds of the club became increasingly louder. I’d been so hyper-focused on Jake, I almost forgot there were other people in the room with us.

  “You must be the infamous Isabel.”

  While I was chasing my rampant thoughts, Lynx Mendez joined me by the bar.

  “I am,” I confirmed as I turned, sticking my hand out for him to take. “It’s nice to meet you, Lynx.”

  Fox and Lynx Mendez may be identical twins, but there was no mistaking which brother stood to my right.

  They were both strikingly handsome. Their shoulder-length chestnut curls and scruffy facial hair were synonymous with their identities at this point. Fox was the only one who took advantage of that, though.

  In the off-season, he walked the runway at New York’s Fashion Week. The photos of his black-and-white Calvin Klein shoot had all but broken the Internet, and you couldn’t turn on the TV without seeing his Dior commercial.