Under the Bleachers: A Novel

by K. K. Allen

  I love it.

  I love that she’s acting as if she has the upper hand when she’s already given in. I love the way she reacts when I hint at who really has control—as evidenced by the tiny bumps that rise on her skin every single time I speak into her ear.

  “Tonight has been a magical night,” booms a female’s voice through the speakers.

  The song that’s been playing fades into the background. Monica and I stop dancing and turn our attention to Sandra Spencer, the CEO of BelleCurve Creative, who’s just taken the stage.

  Monica makes a move to dash away, but I take advantage of the hand that still embraces her tiny waist, instinctively pulling her closer and tightening my grip. I’m not ready for her to escape just yet.

  She freezes, and I can feel her tense beneath my hold before relaxing back into her stance.

  “To everyone who made tonight possible, you should feel incredibly proud of what you’ve been a part of. I know I am.” Her eyes wander around the room, softening when they land on me. I give her a nod in return.

  Sandra, or Sandy, as I call her, is a longtime friend of my coach’s wife. When she found out I’d been drafted to Seattle, she contacted me immediately to congratulate me. And then with a simple phone call to a leading travel company, she helped me land my first endorsement deal. Before I knew it, BelleCurve assigned me a publicist, and they’ve been helping me ever since.

  It was a wild ride, that first year, being a rookie on a fierce but struggling NFL team. The worst part? Being doubted by so many. During my third year of an accelerated college program, I was on track to graduate early and decided to enter the draft. The naysayers didn’t stop me. Not even close. I managed to learn the ropes and set multiple rookie records.

  My second year only got better. I was technically considered a veteran at that point, but most of the team was new to the league—all hungry and very much naïve to the system. We pissed off a lot of people with our undefeated home wins and unprecedented crowd. It was a Division win that season, and a Conference Championship the next—but once we got a taste for winning, once we figured out a formula that worked for us, once we learned to trust in one another, we went on to win our first Super Bowl. We hope to do it again this year.

  Sandra leaves the stage after announcing they’ll play one more song before ending the night. When I turn to Monica, I can already see the rejection forming on her lips. With the amount of flirting we’ve done over the past month, I would have never thought I’d have to work so hard to keep her attention.

  But the truth is, I’ve never wanted to work so hard to keep a girl’s attention. It usually comes so easy. A simple look, a mutual smile—that’s all the confidence I need to ask someone out. But for some reason, Monica’s resistance only adds to the list of what intrigues me about her.

  “What time do you have to run off and save the world?”

  She looks confused for a second and then surprises me by laughing. She knows I’m referring to her Superwoman getup, complete with suspenders, a tight blue shirt with an S proudly displayed in the center, and a skirt that shows off the natural curves of her hips. “I should be heading home.”

  One look in her caramel eyes, and I know she’s bluffing. I see the war between her desires and her conscience. I’m trained to read my opponents, and right now I have no qualms about using that skill to my advantage.

  “Did you bring your car?”

  She nods, her eyes exploring mine as if she’s considering something. I don’t give her any more time to find an excuse to leave.

  “I’m hungry. And you never did get a chance to eat your dessert. If the way you were taking down that strawberry is any indication of your appetite, I think you should come with me. I know a place.”

  The way her cheeks darken a shade as I hold her eyes with mine fills me with need.

  “Is this your clever way of asking me out?”

  I cock my head, studying her. Does she want me to ask her out? Taking a gamble, I shake my head with mock arrogance. “Definitely not.”

  Her slowly spreading smile is all I need to know I’ve won this battle. “Okay, then,” she concedes. “Dessert first. And then dinner.”

  “No way!” I argue. “That’s breaking the rules, and my momma taught me better than that.” I deepen my drawl on purpose, knowing what it does to most women.

  She giggles, and I think I might want to bury my face in her throat just so I can hear that sound again. Then maybe I can get a whiff of that wild strawberry and mint body spray I saw on her desk at work.

  “What’s the difference?” she asks. “I’m having dessert either way.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “I don’t lie about food.”

  “In that case, dinner is definitely first. I’ll need the sustenance to handle watching you and your foodgasms.”

  Without a beat lost between us, I gesture for her to walk in front of me, guiding her toward the valet with my palm on her back. My black Jeep sits at the curb. When the teen at the valet booth sees me, he scrambles into the driver seat, starts it with the push of a button, and then hands me the key remote.

  I give him a tip, thank him, and help Monica into the passenger seat. “I’ll drive you to your car later.”

  “Are you sure?” she frowns. “I could meet you wherever we’re going.” Pretty silly of her to say this now that she’s already strapped into the passenger seat.

  I lean forward, my hands clutching the frame of my Jeep with my fingertips. I don’t miss the subtle way her eyes drift over my body. “Your car is safe here. But if you’d rather drive, you can follow me.” I make no move to let her leave, hoping she’ll take the hint. The last thing I want is to give Monica an easy escape. I’m going to need all the time I can get with this one.

  She hesitates for a few seconds and then leans back in her seat. “Parking around here is insane. One car is fine.”

  With a pleased smile, I pull back and shut the passenger door. Tonight, I finally make my move. Certainly the saying is wrong, because I fully intend on having my cake and eating it too.

  When Zach drives down Pine Street and parks just a block from Pike Place Market, my heart is racing. Where is he taking me? Pike Place is closed, and the only businesses open this late are nightclubs.

  “Is this where you take me into some dark alley and murder me?” I don’t really believe Zachary is capable of murder, but if I didn’t know him, I’d be clutching my heels between my fingertips by now. Fashion can be deadly if needed.

  Zachary chuckles and switches off the engine. He turns his body to face me. Even now, awash in a red glow from the neon Pike Place sign, he’s drop dead gorgeous. I hate him.

  Ugh. Not really. Not at all, actually.

  He’s looking back at me curiously. “I told you I knew a place. Do you trust me?”

  Yes. “Should I?”

  The corner of his mouth curls. “You should. I think you’ll appreciate where I’m taking you.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  Zachary steps out of the car, walks around to my side of the Jeep, and helps me out. I move back toward the door so my body is flush against it and take in the two-story building in front of us.

  “You seriously think I’m going to walk down a dark alley with you and into one of these buildings?” I’m still teasing, but the fear in my voice is playing off something else … another emotion that I consider just as dangerous: I like him. We’re alone. And I’m kind of nervous, which is strange because until Zachary Ryan came along, I was the one making guys nervous.

  He steps forward and reaches for my hand. “You’ll find out as soon as we walk up those stairs.”

  My eyes grow wide as I look around again, and then I dig my heels into the concrete. “Is this your apartment?”

  I never would have guessed Zachary lived here. Most ball players live on the outskirts of Seattle where there’s more land and privacy. They don’t live in popular t
ourist areas like this. It’s not adding up. And I certainly will not be entering his lair, even if he is the hottest QB to grace this state with his presence. I might be a flirt who dabbles in casual sex, but I’m not that girl—the one you can expect it from without even trying.

  He groans and tugs on my hand. “C’mon, already. It’s not my apartment. I’m not trying to sleep with you.” You’re not? “We’re hungry and I’m not in the mood to fight Alaskan Way traffic or risk being recognized right now. This”—he nods up to the top floor— “will have to do. Unless you’re not hungry anymore.” The way he raises a brow tells me he already knows what my response will be.

  “Okay, fine.” I roll my eyes and let him tug me along, down a narrow passageway and up a flight of stairs. We come to a stop in front of a door with a logo that reads:

  EDIBLE DESIRE

  Make it, bake it, take it.

  Interesting. In smaller script below there’s a message telling people to please use the front door.

  Zachary disarms the security code and uses a key from his ring to unlock the back door.

  “You have a code and key to this place? How?” I ask, already peering inside.

  He flips on a switch and the entire room lights up. I gasp. It’s one big open space, a lot like a loft, but it’s definitely not an apartment.

  There’s a massive kitchen on the other side of the room. Beside it, mini work stations fill the floor, each complete with an oven and a stove with stainless steel cookware hanging overhead. There’s a long wall of shelves housing cooking supplies and dinnerware. I’ve seen enough of those cooking shows to assume we’re in some sort of culinary school.

  To our right is an oversized living area with couches and a coffee table covered in cooking and entertainment magazines. And in the back corner is a massive dining area that could entertain thirty people, at least.

  “A cooking school?”

  Zachary nods. “That’s part of it. I like to call it a community. The space is used for all sorts of activities; instruction is one of them. We have workshops and classes, sometimes private lessons. We cater private events. And we’re in the process of creating one of those precooked meal programs—but instead of cooking the meals for our customers, they come in, cook the meals, and take them home.”

  “We?”

  He stares at me for a second. “I own it.”

  My jaw goes slack. This guy cannot be serious.

  He chuckles at my expression. “Well, I’m more like a silent partner for now, so don’t tell anyone. I own the space and materials and take care of the finances. My buddy, who’s also the chef, manages everything. I went to school with the guy. He just needed to catch a break, you know? It worked out, and he’s done a helluva job with the place.”

  Zachary walks to the kitchen as I take my time looking around. It seems like it would be a lively place during the day. I can imagine it housing an elegant party one night and a casual one the next.

  Vibrant lifestyle photos of prepared meals and fresh ingredients decorate the white walls. But one photo in particular catches my attention. It’s a close-up shot of a bundle of grapes beside a pair of hands that are wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. There aren’t many clues about who the hands belong to, but I recognize them right away as the same hands that engulfed mine earlier tonight.

  My cheeks heat when I hear Zach approach from behind. Thank God he can’t hear what I’m thinking.

  “White or red?”

  I flip around to find him holding two bottles of wine. Red always seems to take effect quicker than white. Red would be dangerous tonight.

  Meeting his eyes, I point to the red.

  “What made you want to open this place?” I ask, following him into the main kitchen.

  “I guess I have a thing for food too.” He winks.

  That’s all he gives me and I don’t push him, although I’m certain there’s more to the story than that.

  I watch him work with the corkscrew as he speaks. His sleeves are rolled up past his thick forearms now, and suddenly I’m picturing him in his element, muscles reacting as he sends the football down the field. The way this man goes to work on the field, dominating every play with precision and speed … sigh. I may not be a crazed sports fanatic, but I would have been blind to not catch Zach’s skills in a post-game highlight reel blasted all over social media.

  That pass in game six of the regular season when Seattle was down six points with three seconds left on the clock solidified it for me. He’s the best of the best. He knew just what to do, and when the ball flew from his hands, it was hands-down the most beautiful pass I’ve ever seen—a record-breaking Hail Mary that won the game. The man is magic on the field. Apparently, he radiates the same intoxicating energy in the kitchen too.

  “It just seems a bit odd,” I say. “Why would you want to start a business at the beginning of your football career?”

  “Honestly, Cakes, people don’t get it, so it’s not something I usually tell.” His words are strange, but his tone is genuine.

  “Maybe you should hand me that wine and then start talking. You dragged me here, so fess up.” I smile.

  He pours the wine and slides a glass across the table. I take a seat at the island and watch him reach into the refrigerator to grab one of the premade dishes. He moves to the oven and preheats it before taking a sip of his wine and leaning into the island opposite me.

  “Back home, my parents owned a restaurant. A small, fine dining, family establishment where we served American cuisine. My mom cooked, my dad tended bar, and we had a few staff members that did pretty much everything else. The locals loved us at first…”

  Something about his tone that changes for a second, but he quickly gets back on track. He smiles. “My brother and I would rush to the restaurant after school every day. Sometimes we sat in the corner and did homework. Other days we’d help bus tables or wash dishes. We’d even help my mom in the kitchen.

  “We were her taste testers. I think it was her clever way of getting us involved in the kitchen so we’d eat everything on our plates. It worked a little too well. My palette was so sophisticated by the time I was twelve, I couldn’t stand eating school lunches.”

  I laugh with him, ignoring the unexplainable discomfort in my stomach and picturing little Zachary snubbing the lunch lady’s cardboard pizza.

  His face loses its smile, and he clears his throat before looking at me. As his eyes search mine, I know there’s a bad end to this story, and I’m not so sure I want to hear it now.

  “The restaurant business wasn’t the most profitable for us, and it took up all my parent’s time. My mom loved it, but after a while I think my dad started to get tired of barely making ends meet. He started drinking more booze than he was serving, if you know what I mean.”

  I nod, understanding all too well how failed careers can change a person.

  “I was fourteen, a month shy of high school football tryouts, focused on my training to earn my spot on that team, when everything changed. One night after closing, my dad stayed late. Drinking, of course. We were all home asleep when we got the call. He crashed his car into a telephone pole.” Zach clears his throat again. “He died on impact.”

  My hand flies to my mouth to smother my gasp, but the ache that pricks my eyes can’t be hidden. “I’m so sorry,” I manage to choke out. After all the Zachary Ryan Googling I’ve done since meeting him, this story never came up. I knew his dad had passed, but not like that.

  “It was a long time ago,” he says with a shake of his head. “I didn’t want to upset you, but it’s all kind of part of the story.” He frowns for my benefit, and that only makes me feel worse. I place a hand over his and squeeze.

  He glances at me before moving his hand so that it’s covering mine on the island. I don’t know why this feels like the most natural thing in the world, us holding hands, but it does.

  “Fast forward to three years ago,” he continues. �
�When I was first drafted into the NFL, I wasn’t paid well in comparison to other quarterbacks, but it was still more than I ever anticipated making in my lifetime. It was always about playing football. The money was never the motivation, so when I got paid, I figured I could do something meaningful with it.

  “My mom was torn between moving to Seattle to be close to me or staying in Texas until my brother finished college. It seemed like the perfect opportunity to give back to my mom for everything she’d done for us, and selfishly, I wanted her here.” Zach laughs. “It was impulsive, but I went for it.”

  “You created all this for her?”

  Zachary nods, but his eyes are crinkled at the corners as he laughs. “She chose my brother. Can you believe it? The people she sold our restaurant to needed a cook, so they hired her on.” He shrugs. “She’s happy.”

  The thought of Zach doing all of this for his mother is so sweet, but I can’t help the laughter that rolls past my throat. “And you didn’t ask her first?”

  He wrinkles his nose. “It’s awful, I know. The most impulsive decision I’ve ever made. I could have sold it. Tons of offers came through once word got out that I was considering putting it back up for sale. But the location is prime real estate and I got a great deal. I couldn’t give it up.

  “Anyway, the buddy of mine I knew from school … he didn’t have much of a family. Got into some trouble in high school but decided to put himself through culinary school, even if it meant student loans up to his eyeballs. Said he just wanted to make something of himself. When my mom turned down the place, I called him up and asked him what he thought of partnering with me.”

  I tilt my head, my chest warm with compassion for this man who obviously does so much for others.

  Silence passes between us and I feel compelled to ask. “What’s his name?”

  “Desmond.” Zachary tilts his head at me and quirks a lip. “Why? You interested?”