Forward Progress (Men of Fall Book 1)

by S. R. Grey

Oh hell, what now?

  I walk over to him, raising a questioning brow. “Paul?”

  He nods. “Hey, Eden.”

  “What’s up?” I inquire.

  His pale green eyes, same color as mine, are apologetic as he says, “I’m sorry to bother you during the morning rush. I know it’s always crazy in here before noon. But it’s something kind of important that I need to talk to you about.”

  “Kind of important, huh?” I wipe my hands down the crisp, white apron I’m wearing over my teal uniform. “And that requires you to not be in school, young man?”

  Paul is clutching a thick packet of papers. Holding them up, he says, “It’s all good, sis. I’m not cutting. The principal let me out early so I could talk to you about what’s in these papers.”

  “Oh no.” I sigh. “Did you get into trouble again at school?”

  “No, no,” he’s quick to respond. “It’s nothing like that, I swear.”

  “I hope not,” I warn.

  Since our dad passed away last year, my fifteen-year-old brother has been having a hard time. He’s been busted so far for drinking and smoking weed, and that’s just this year. He received suspensions for his transgressions, but hasn’t thus far been expelled.

  I worry that’s coming next.

  Thank God it’s almost summer break. He’ll be out of school.

  Then again, maybe that’s not so good.

  I shouldn’t be wishing for Paul to have more time on his hands.

  Ugh, this kid really needs something positive to focus on.

  Paul, not missing the look of concern on my face, promises me again that he’s not in any kind of trouble.

  I rub my forehead and ask, “Okay, so what exactly does the principal want you to talk with me about?”

  Holding up the packet of papers again, he says, “A lot.”

  “Are you sure you’re not in any kind of trouble?” I double-check.

  “Yes, I’m sure. And stop asking me that. It’s nothing bad this time, I swear. Besides, the school would call you if I were in trouble, right?”

  He does have a point.

  “That’s true,” I murmur.

  I haven’t received any calls from the school, and I’d definitely be notified if Paul had broken any rules, seeing as I’m his legal guardian. Since our dad is no longer around, I inherited that role.

  Our mother is gone too. Not dead, though. At least I don’t think she is. I wouldn’t know since she took off when Paul was three and I was only ten.

  She’s never kept in touch. Dad had to work two jobs just to keep us afloat after she left. That meant I became more of a mom than a sister to my baby brother.

  Paul’s a good kid, though, despite his recent transgressions. He’s an amazing artist too. He hopes to someday be famous for his paintings.

  And you know what? He totally could. He’s that damn good.

  “Okay,” I begin, sighing, “enough with the suspense. What’s up?”

  “I’ll tell you in a sec,” Paul replies. “But first…” Brushing away a swath of auburn hair from over his eyes, he looks around and says, “Can we go somewhere more private?”

  The diner is a little less busy and under control for the moment, so I nod. “Yeah, sure, just give me a sec. Let me clear it with the boss.”

  I scan around for Brad. Though not nearly as hectic as before, we’re still moderately busy. He’s not going to be happy that I want to take a break, but this is my brother we’re talking about here. When he needs me, I’m there. Nothing stands in the way of that.

  At last, I catch sight of Brad and hail him over to where Paul and I are standing. I tell him I need to head out back for a smoke break and to talk to my brother about something important.

  “Important or not,” Brad warns, “you’d better be quick, Eden.”

  “Don’t worry.” I grab my big hobo bag from under the counter and assure him, “I’ll be super-fast.”

  Once my brother and I are out back, by dumpsters overflowing with trash—lovely—I rummage for the crumpled pack of cigarettes I keep in my bag for fake smoke breaks like this one.

  I’m not really a smoker. I just pretend to be one so I can take longer breaks, like other waitresses get to do.

  Once I locate the pack, I light up a cig, holding it out and away from me.

  When I scrunch up my nose, my brother cracks a smile.

  “Okay, so tell me again why you pretend to smoke while you’re at work?” he asks.

  “I have to, dude. You know that. This is the only way I can get more than a thirty-second break. Plus”—I wave the cigarette around in front of the dumpsters—“the smoke cuts the stench of reeking garbage. I’d rather take my chances with secondhand smoke than breathe in that putrid crap.”

  Paul, wrinkling his freckled nose, agrees, “It is pretty gross back here.”

  “Okay, enough stalling. What’s going on? You better tell me quickly. Brad wants me back soon. You heard him.”

  “Yeah, okay, hold up.” Paul opens the thick packet of papers he’s been carrying around and takes out what appears to be an application of some sort.

  Handing it over to me, he says, “The principal wants us to fill that out.”

  I raise a brow. “Us?”

  “Yeah, us, Eden. There are some parts only you can complete, seeing as you’re my legal guardian and all. Oh, and you need to sign the last page.”

  “What is this, exactly?” I ask, squinting down at the form.

  “It’s an admissions application for an alternative high school slash art school up in Mansfield. I told you about it a while ago. Don’t you remember?”

  “Hmm, I think I do,” I murmur.

  I do recall Paul mentioning an art school up north, one geared for troubled kids of high school age. But I also recall when I looked it up online that it was über expensive.

  Sighing, I say, “Paul, I don’t know…”

  “Aw, come on. Just look it over, Eden. If I can get in to that school, I could live on campus. There are dorms. And before you start griping, you wouldn’t have to worry. There’s a lot of adult supervision.”

  I concede, “Well, we’ll see. I’ll take a better look at this once I’m home.”

  I start to stuff the application into my bag, but Paul stops me.

  “Can’t you just take a quick look now?” he asks, looking sorrowful.

  The kid sure knows how to work my heartstrings.

  “Oh, okay.” I go to stub out my cigarette on the brick exterior of the diner and almost drop my bag. “Damn it. Shit.”

  “Calm down, Eden,” Paul says as he takes my bag so I can look over the application.

  “Thanks,” I reply.

  “No problem, sis.”

  As I peruse the application, as well as a glossy brochure Paul hands me, I remark, “Wow, this place really does look super cool.”

  “Right? It’d be so perfect for me,” my brother remarks.

  “Yeah,” I say, tapping the admissions criteria section, “And I think you’re more than qualified to get in.”

  Despite my brother’s penchant for finding trouble, he gets pretty good grades.

  “I think so too.”

  Paul is smiling confidently, looking really fucking proud. And that’s when it hits me, like a sucker punch to the gut. This is the first time in a long time—too long, really—that I’ve seen him look so freaking confident.

  Quietly, I ask, “Do you want to go here, Paul?”

  “Fuck yeah, I do.”

  Guess that settles it.

  I know he’d do much better in an environment like the one this school can provide. Not only would Paul have the chance to make real art that people could see, he’d be around other kids like him.

  My brother doesn’t have that many friends, at least not positive ones. And spending time alone in our little cramped apartment—sadly, it’s all I can afford—isn’t good for him, either.

  But how can I make this happen?

  “What about the c
ost?” I ask. “A school like this isn’t cheap.”

  “It’s not,” Paul agrees. “But the principal told me I’m eligible for the max on financial aid.”

  “Oh, are you sure?”

  Rustling the packet of papers where the application and brochure came from, Paul says, “That’s what all these other forms are for.”

  “Hmm…”

  I look back down at the admissions materials in my hand, almost keeling over when I see the cost of simply sending in the application for processing.

  “Shit, we better get those financial aid forms filled out pronto,” I mutter.

  “Definitely,” Paul agrees, chuckling.

  Then, in the softest, most heartrending tone, one I haven’t heard from him since our father died, he asks, “If I can get in, Eden, and if I qualify for the aid, can I go?”

  “Oh my God, of course,” I reply, knowing I sure as hell can’t tell him no now.

  Paul swoops in, grabbing me up in a big hug. Because he’s so much taller than me, he easily lifts me off my feet.

  “Thank you, thank you,” he sings happily as he spins me around.

  “Put me down.” I command, though I’m laughing and kicking out my sneaker-clad feet. “I’m going to throw up, Paul. I swear that I will.”

  Finally, he quits spinning and puts me down.

  As I find my bearings, I ask, “How’d you grow up so fast, anyway?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. It just happens, I guess.”

  “Yeah, I guess it does.”

  We share a sad smile, then I say, “You know I’m going to miss you like crazy when you go, right?”

  I’m trying not to cry, but Paul knows me too well.

  “If I get in, I won’t be leaving till, like, late August. That’s still three months away, sis.”

  “I know, I know. But still…”

  “Hey, I’m not stupid. I know it’s hard for you since it’s just the two of us these days.”

  “It is.” I sniffle. “But this art school would be really good for you.”

  “Here.” He hands me my hobo bag. “I’m sure you have a mound of tissues in there somewhere. You better grab one before you go back in with smeared mascara.”

  I nod. “Yeah, you’re right.”

  As if on cue, Brad pops open the back door just then and tells me, “Sorry, Eden, but break time is over. We need you. The second wave is heading in.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m coming.”

  Paul takes the application and brochure back from me, and after we say our good-byes, he leaves so he can return to school.

  Shit, I really do hate the idea of him going away. But I have to let him go out in the world and spread his wings.

  It’s just hard, is all.

  Everyone seems to leave me—Mom when I was ten, Dad last year, and even a guy I was dating casually a few months ago.

  I’m destined to be alone, I just know it.

  The tears well back up, and as I scour through my purse for those damn tissues, I realize the cigarette pack is gone.

  “That little shit,” I hiss under my breath. “He totally took them.”

  I’m not really mad at my brother. I just don’t want him taking up smoking at freaking fifteen.

  “Christ,” I sigh, running my hand through my long auburn hair. “The kid really does need to get out of here. It’d be the best thing for him.”

  I decide then and there that no matter what it takes—even if it means selling my soul—I’ll do anything to make sure Paul gets to go to that school.

  Two Months Later…

  Shining Like a Motherfucking Comet

  “Hut, hut, hut,” I call out. “Blue forty-two, blue forty-two, Arizona.”

  The play clock ticks down.

  And then, with a tenth of a second left, I’m hiked the ball.

  I fall back, scan the field.

  My receivers are in position but too well-covered.

  Fuck!

  The line isn’t holding the defense very well, either.

  Double fuck!

  Sure enough, the center gets beat and a linebacker heads up the middle, gunning for me.

  Shit, no!

  I’m so fucking done; I’m about to get sacked.

  But wait, no, maybe not.

  The safety on my right is wide open.

  So I lob the ball to him.

  Time stands still…until he catches it…and runs thirty yards for a touchdown.

  Hell, ye—

  I’m taken down.

  Ouch!

  That ice bath I plan to take later is going to feel so damn good.

  Achy or not, I’m happy with this outcome. My A-squad just won the scrimmage, and that’s all that matters. I need to make a good impression. It’s no longer May, it’s late July, and this is my final chance.

  It’s not mini-camp any longer, either. No, that time has passed. Oddly, nothing ever came of the time I spent here in May. And I still don’t know why.

  All I know is, after I returned to Las Vegas, I never received an official offer.

  Weird.

  If Jock knew why the Comets passed on me, he never revealed it. Though, truth is, we haven’t really talked much since then.

  That is, until Jock called last week. He wanted to let me know the starting quarterback position with the Comets was still open…and back on the table.

  I asked him what had changed.

  His response was simply to say that I needed to fly back to Columbus; the Comets were holding last-minute tryouts for positions they needed to fill before training camp.

  So here I am, playing in a scrimmage, my fifth of the week. I’m doing really well, but I haven’t been offered a contract, not yet.

  Hmm…

  There must’ve been something about me the Comets didn’t like back in May. Hope it’s not holding them back now. For the life of me, though, I have no idea what it could be.

  I shined at that mini-camp.

  But who fucking knows?

  All I do know for sure is that the contract Jock had been waving around that day on the phone, the one he faxed over to me, which I reviewed and was happy with, suddenly wasn’t on the table any longer.

  I was so humiliated that I never told anyone I’d flown to Ohio and tried out for the Comets. I felt like not only had the NFL forgotten about me, even the new league didn’t want me.

  But now they might.

  Shit, I hope I get signed.

  I like Columbus. It’s like a little bit of country, a dash of big city, and a whole lot of farm-y on the outskirts.

  Still, I think this place would be good for me, and so does someone else.

  After keeping my failed tryout a secret, I decided I had to let someone know what was up this time around.

  So I told Benny Perry.

  And he’s amped for me.

  “Columbus is cool,” he said during the call when I broke the news. “They have a hockey team, you know.”

  I chuckled. “Hell, guess it’s a done deal, then. I better get picked up by the Comets.”

  Turning serious, he said, “Hey, you will. You’re a damn good quarterback, Graham.”

  Not to brag or anything, but I am, I really am. And it’s just not that easy to find a “damn good” QB for the steal the Comets are looking to sign me for.

  That is, if this comes through.

  My teammates on the field come up to me, tearing me from my thoughts, and we celebrate our scrimmage win.

  “Good game, Tettersaw,” one of the guards says.

  “Awesome throw,” the scoring safety adds with a rap to my back.

  And a tight end named Caleb, whom I’ve really hit it off with this past week, tells me, “You got this, man. There’s no way the Comets aren’t going to sign you.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears,” I say.

  “I think you mean ‘from my lips to management’s ears,’” he corrects with a chuckle.

  “Yeah, right, them too. Put in a good word for me, yea
h?”

  Nodding, he teases, “I’m on it, man.”

  These guys are cool. I really hope I get this gig. It doesn’t matter about the money. If I’m offered the same contract I saw back in May, I’ll take it. I’d still be bringing in some decent bank. Not megabucks, mind you, but nothing to scoff at.

  I’m okay financially, anyway. I’ve saved and invested wisely, the gym in Las Vegas being one of those investments.

  Speaking of which, I already decided that if I’m signed, I’m going to turn the gym over to Chloe and Dylan so they can run it.

  As for some other loose ends, I spoke with Benny about him finding a new sponsor. I promised I’d put together a list of names for him.

  He’s cool with that. He just wants to see me succeed.

  Damn, I do too. I want to play football again so much that I can taste it. These practice scrimmages have me jonesing for the real deal.

  And then there’s my list to think of—playing football professionally is still the main goal.

  Well, I should know my fate soon enough. Today is the last day of scrimmages, then decisions have to be made.

  If the Comets want me as their starting quarterback, I know what my answer will be.

  No matter the terms, I’m signing on the dotted line.

  I don’t care what they ask of me.

  At this point, I’ll do anything.

  Desperate Times Call for Desperate Measures

  Paul is accepted into the fancy art school up north. And damn if he isn’t beyond pumped. He’s like a whole new kid.

  And that warms my heart.

  I haven’t seen my brother this happy since before our dad died. We never had that much money, but we always had a lot of love.

  “Sis, this is so lit,” he says when we sit down to talk about his getting in and what comes next.

  “It is,” I agree. “You’ve wanted this since May.”

  “I know. But it sure took them long enough to get back to me, right?”

  “It’s only July,” I remind him. “Two months for a response isn’t that bad, Paul.”

  “I guess not, especially since I did get in.” He pumps his fist in the air, hissing out a definitive, “Yes!”

  He is freaking beaming. And I’m amped for him. His enthusiasm is contagious.