by Luis, Maria
Oh, boy. I should have known news would travel fast.
I find the source of the voice, then rack my brain for the accompanying name. Stuart. Stewart? Doesn’t matter. He was two years behind me in school and we played football together during his sophomore and my senior year. From what little I’ve seen of him on social media, he married his high school sweetheart and popped out a brood of dark-haired children.
A smile hitches to life on my face. “Stuart!” Stewart? Oh, my God, stop thinking about it. “It’s so good to see you! How’s Beth-Anne?”
His expression darkens to a veritable glower. “Dead.”
I—I . . .
There are a few snickers to my left. My heart threatens mutiny with a virtual white flag of surrender.
With empathy and humiliation warring inside me, I manage a hushed, “Stuart, I’m so, so sorry for your loss.”
More snickering.
The chair squeals again as I launch to my feet.
“Your beer is waiting,” Stuart/Stewart sneers, flicking his fingers toward the bar in a casual dismissal. “Wouldn’t want it to go flat on you.”
He doesn’t need to tell me twice.
I flee with my nonexistent tail tucked between my legs, hopping up on my recently vacated bar stool. Immediately, I snatch up my phone and shoot off a quick text to my younger sister, Willow.
Me: Beth-Anne is dead?!!
And even though she totally claimed to be too busy tonight to come out with me, Willow answers almost immediately.
Willow: Who the hell is Beth-Anne?
Me: Stuart’s wife!!! Stuart—football player, dark, curly hair, definite beer gut. He was in your grade. Remember your small penis theory?
Willow: Ohhh HIM. Yeah, I still stand by that theory. Husband #1 proved it.
Willow: Also, Beth-Anne?
Willow: Do you mean Annabeth?
Fingers flexing around my phone, I glance back, just in time to see Stuart sniggering into his beer. Considering I brought up his dead wife only minutes ago, the man doesn’t look perturbed in the slightest. No crease in his brow. No sorrow lines bracketing his mouth. No defeated posture.
Willow: Who told you Annabeth is dead? I saw her at the grocery store this morning when I was buying condoms.
Because, of course, my sister would ditch me to get laid. Who’s surprised? Not me.
Me: I think I’ve been played.
Willow: Welcome back to London, dear sister. We’ve missed you!!! Now stop texting me. I’m on a date.
I don’t know whether to laugh at finding myself alone in a place that should feel like home or whether I should go ahead and call it quits before I end up looking like an even bigger fool. I knew the transition to London life wouldn’t necessarily be a smooth one. With a population of under two thousand, tight-knit doesn’t even begin to describe our tiny coastal town.
Figures you’d only come home when it was time to take your dad’s old job.
Stuart’s words ring painfully loud in my ears.
Is that what everyone thinks of me? That the only reason I’m back is because I want to take up the Levi crown?
The false judgment burns like acid.
If they only understood how much of a “fairytale” life I had with Rick, they’d know that coaching the Wildcats is nothing but a salve on a festering wound. I took the job because it was offered to me and I’m good at what I do. Because living in Pittsburgh, a year after my divorce was finalized, felt just as hellish as surviving my marriage. And because I’d be a fool to move to a different state without a single source of income, especially since Rick left me high and dry in the divorce settlement.
When successful, powerful men like Rick Clarke sway a judge with the promise of some extra Benjamins, there’s no hope for women like me: washed-up college athletes who are long past their prime.
Ugh. Thinking like that is not doing me any favors.
Planting a hand on the bar to steady myself, I lift my gaze to the old Patriots game Shawn has playing. It’s nice to see that some things haven’t changed around here—for as long as I can remember, Golden Fleece management has always gone out of their way to record every Pats game. By 9 p.m., Monday through Friday, Londoners have claimed their booths and their booze in preparation of watching their favorite players storm the small screen.
And the game Shawn’s playing now? I remember this one oh-so-vividly, if only because Rick raged about it for weeks afterward.
Tampa Bay Buccaneers against the New England Patriots, circa 2015.
Rick had obsessed over recruiting Tampa’s hotshot player, Dominic DaSilva. MVP winner. Super Bowl champion—twice. Best tight end in NFL history, even topping out Tony Gonzalez who had 111 touchdowns to his name before retiring from Atlanta.
Pretty sure each time Rick watched DaSilva play, he popped an instant boner.
Until DaSilva refused to enter negotiations with the Steelers. Didn’t matter that he was a free agent at the time. Didn’t matter that he could have made more money playing for Pittsburgh than he did for Tampa Bay.
It pissed off Rick to no end.
Hadn’t mattered to me in the slightest. DaSilva played a big game but he talked big too. To the press, to other players. Guys like him might have the stats to back it all up, but a little humility never hurt anyone.
That’s what I try to get across to my players. You can be the biggest badass to ever step on the field, but if you’re an asshole off of it? No one’s gonna respect you for long. No one’s going to want to go to bat for you. No one’s going to want to take a chance on a player once the stats stop rolling in and the excitement bubbling around you dries up and all you have left is a big bank account and an even bigger attitude problem.
And I use Dominic DaSilva as an example of What Not To Do, each and every time.
I mean, the man went on a dating show, of all things, and proceeded to be the biggest douchebag of the season.
Not that I’ve been watching Put A Ring On It every Wednesday night when it airs—much.
Gaze locked on the TV, I sip what’s left of my Guinness. I’ll head home as soon as the game is over. Third quarter, three minutes left on the clock. Tampa Bay has the ball. They look a little too cocky, considering they’re trailing behind by a touchdown and a field goal, or maybe that’s just number twelve—DaSilva himself—radiating enough arrogance to power an entire electrical plant as he slicks his gloved hands over his thighs and drops into position.
Someone in the bar hollers, “Thirty seconds, guys!” to the cacophony of raucous laughter and requests for more booze.
I hope Stuart chokes on his beer.
Twenty seconds.
The whistle blows. Grown-ass men charge toward each other like raging bulls on speed. Helmets clang, bouncing ping-pong style. Shoulders work like cranes heaving boulders out of the way. DaSilva rounds the cluster, arms pumping fast, and the camera pans out for a better angle of him sprinting down the field.
Eyes glued to the TV, I tighten my grip around my empty pint glass.
Wait for it . . .
Wait for it . . .
Tampa’s quarterback finally makes the pass, and the football spirals through the air like a cannonball hurtling into enemy territory.
DaSilva cuts around a Pats player, dodging one way, then quick-stepping in the opposite direction. He twists his big body, and I swear there’s an arrogant quirk to his mouth as he leaps in the air, bulky arms raised high.
His hands connect with the football.
And then he comes down.
It’s all so, so wrong.
Players rush him from all sides, and even though I’ve watched this clip more times than I can count—it became Rick’s favorite after all the times DaSilva told my ex-husband to fuck off—I still grimace.
Because if you don’t feel an ounce of sympathy when a person’s bone tears through their flesh to wave Queen-of-England-style at the crowd, then there’s something intrinsically wrong with you.
Feeling my o
wn limbs clench in phantom pain, I hiss between my teeth. “Not even assholes deserve that.”
A big body slides onto the neighboring stool, seconds before that same big body rumbles out, “Deserve what?”
2
Aspen
My spine snaps straight with awareness as the stranger gets comfortable beside me.
I don’t even have to look at him to know that he’s massive in a way most men aren’t.
So tall that he can sit at ease with one foot planted on the floor and the other languidly parked on my stool’s footrest. Who needs personal space nowadays, anyway? Not me, apparently. His bent knee is flush with my left thigh, and it can’t all be in my head—tipsy brain or not—that I catch him angling his big body to face me.
Like he’s possibly intrigued by what I have to say.
Even though I don’t know him from a hole in the wall.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as he flattens one hand on his thigh. Casual. Confident. No jittering knees—guilty—or any sign of flushed cheeks. Also guilty. Thanks to the candlelight—and, admittedly, the beer goggles I’ve donned since round two—he’s nothing but olive skin revealed by rolled-up sleeves, a hard jawline dusted with dark scruff, and the crooked bridge of his nose.
The black baseball hat he’s sporting unfairly obscures the upper half of his face.
After taking a moment to flag down Shawn and order a Bud Light, he props one forearm up on the bar. Then the distressed bill of his hat—not that store-bought frayed look, but honest-to-God tattered—swivels unerringly in my direction.
Oh, boy.
I blame the Guinness for the way my heart feels like it’s trying out for Fear Factor, Adrenaline Edition.
Better to blame the beer than admit the truth: I don’t remember the last time a man other than Rick paid me any attention.
Don’t be weird. Act normal.
You can play it cool—
“Deserve what?” he asks again.
Here we go. I keep my gaze centered on the TV, where DaSilva is being carried off the field on a stretcher. “Having their tibia play peekaboo for the entire world to witness.”
Shawn shoots me a reprimanding glance at the graphic visual I offer, then slicks the Bud Light across the bar with an indecipherable grumble.
Who’s surprised when the stranger next to me catches the bottle with a cool flick of his wrist? Not me. He’s got the confident vibes of an athlete—and the bulky size to match.
I turn a little.
Just in time to watch him grasp the glass neck with three fingers. Full lips, the bottom one plumper than the top. They wrap around the bottle’s puckered mouth, then suck down the beer, his throat working smoothly.
Slow, precise movements.
For as Hulk-like as this guy is, he moves with a compelling grace.
Then he speaks again, and the idea of “grace” gets launched out the closest window.
“Happened to a guy I know. Hurt like a goddamn bitch.” Another deceptively nonchalant draw from his beer. “Can’t say anyone deserves a hit like that, asshole or not.”
Rough around the edges.
Gravel-pitched voice.
Clearly, he’s a fan of players like Dominic DaSilva, who retired from the league a few years ago. Much to Rick’s delight.
My cheeks warm from the embarrassment of being overheard. “You say it like you’re a hardcore fan.”
His bottle hesitates midway down to his knee. “Of DaSilva?”
I nod.
“The guy’s a goddamn legend.” That full mouth of his ticks up in a lazy grin. “Asshole or not, he knows the game inside and out. You can’t deny that.”
Sure, I can’t deny it. But knowing the game doesn’t give him a free pass for everything he’s done off the field. I mean, this is the same player who told my ex-husband that Rick could offer him all the pussy in the world, and DaSilva still wouldn’t consider taking the Steelers up on their multi-million dollar offer.
I’ve read the email.
DaSilva didn’t even bother to asterisk the heck out of the word pussy. Simply left it there—bold and brash and completely insolent. Just like him.
Feeling the Guinness-fueled adrenaline in my veins, I eagerly shift my weight to face the Hulk. Football has and will always be my kryptonite. Give me a chance to talk shop, and you’ll be begging me to call it quits within the hour.
But this guy sat down next to me—his first mistake—and Topher did suggest I hang out with people my own age. My boy knows me too well. He also knows that his good-for-nothing dad preferred to pretend that his “dear wife” was way too busy to be included in Steelers business.
Oh, my wife? I can almost hear Rick say to any number of his peers. Yeah, she couldn’t make it out tonight. Too much on her plate, the dear thing. Now, how about we grab a drink at that strip club you mentioned last time I was in town?
I’m not sure when Rick decided I was too much of a liability to bring around his fancy friends, but at this point in life, I don’t give a damn. He can take his holier-than-thou attitude and shove it where the sun hasn’t shined a day in his life, and I can . . .
Scrunching my nose, I survey the Hulk with a critical eye. Or as critical as it can be since I’m swaying ever so slightly and he’s swaying right along with me. On second thought, pretty sure I’m actually the only one swaying. Thank you, beer. “How old are you?”
He barks out a startled laugh. “Legal.” As if to prove it, he lifts the Bud Light and pointedly watches me as he takes a swig. “Does that count?”
Probably. As if I’m about to impart some big, crazy secret, I motion for him to meet me in the middle when I lean in close. “I told my son I’d come out tonight and get some adult conversation in. He thinks I need socializing.”
Another slow pull of his beer, and like a moth to a flame, my attention drifts to the way his bottle reflects the TV’s glowing screen. Focus. Nails scraping my pint glass, I look up at his face—or what’s visible of it, at least.
Even though I can’t see his eyes, I get the feeling that he’s studying me shamelessly. Elbow planted on the bar, the bottle hovering millimeters away from his mouth. When the curve of his lips deepens into a smirk, like he can’t help but find me amusing, I’m momentarily struck dumb.
“Socializing.” He draws out the word on the cusp of a dry, masculine chuckle. “Well, in case you’re concerned about corrupting a youngin’, let me tell you a little secret . . .” Lowering the Bud Light to the bar, he shifts forward until his mouth brushes the sensitive shell of my ear and a shiver shimmies down my spine. “I don’t have an innocent bone in my body.”
My breath hitches. “Not even one?”
“You sound disappointed.”
I blink. “Do I?”
“Nah, not even a little bit. But I don’t regret lying.” Warm lips graze my cheek. “You blush real pretty.”
Oh. Oh.
I jerk back, nearly teetering off the bar stool. “Hold on.” Tipsy me thinks it’s a grand idea to lift my hands, palms up, despite the fact that I’m on the verge of going ass-down to the floor. “Are you flirting with me?”
As though he’s used to putting up with the drunk and disorderly, he smoothly catches me with one of his mammoth-sized paws and hauls me upright. My naked bicep—thank you, universe, for creating tank tops—tingles at the warmth of his touch.
The physical connection lasts only seconds. One moment he’s saving me from absolute humiliation and, in the next, he’s sipping his beer again, cool as a cucumber. Slowly, he dips his chin.
Is he checking me out?
It certainly feels that way, especially when his chest inflates with a sudden intake of breath. In the year that I’ve officially re-entered singledom, I haven’t given much thought to dating. I revel in going to bed and not worrying about slamming doors or living with a man who has no concept of kindness. I don’t particularly miss sex, especially when my sex life with Rick dried up years ago.
He preferred t
he company of other women and, after the initial hurt of discovering my husband in bed with someone who was decidedly not me, I grew to treasure every moment that I didn’t have to fake my orgasm for the sake of stroking his ego.
But I think . . . well, based on the way I’m squirming on my stool and sneaking peeks at this man’s pouty mouth—to say nothing of the broad expanse of his shoulders or the hard pecs that stretch the fabric of his shirt—maybe I wouldn’t mind flirting.
At least, I don’t mind flirting with a guy like him. Whoever he is.
Finding a small seed of sexual confidence that has long lain dormant, I arch my brows and bait him for a response. Is he flirting with me? God, please let his answer be yes. “Well?” I ask boldly, going so far as to twirl a finger around a strand of my hair like the hot chick out of a romantic comedy instead of being, well, me.
“Old habits die hard.”
Come again?
I’m blinking so fast, I’m half-convinced I’ve developed a sty in the five minutes since he sat down and interrupted my otherwise boring evening.
Quiet.
I meant my otherwise quiet evening.
Snapping my head to the side, I press my hand to my ear in disbelief. “I’m sorry. Did you just say old habits die hard?”
What. A. Jerk.
It’s one thing to confess he’s not attracted to me, and another to go in for the moment—you know the one—the meaningful look, the throaty, sexy laughter that all but signals foreplay, orgasms, and expert make-out sessions—and play a game of takesy-backsies.
Takesy-backsies shouldn’t even be allowed once you’ve spotted your first gray hair in your pubes. And I’m five in, ladies. Five. Maybe more. I wouldn’t know, since I have my esthetician regularly wax the suckers out and call it a day.
Goodbye, evil age reminders.
I reach for my clutch by my empty pint and pop it open. I’m fully prepared to drop cash on the bar for Shawn and get the hell out of dodge when the Hulk grunts out, “Look. Listen.”
Hands clasped together, I turn to him, brows arched in expectation.
