Under the Bleachers: A Novel

by K. K. Allen

  There’s silence while Trevor switches gears. I can almost hear them churning. “Okay, then. Good. Next order of business—”

  “You’ve got four minutes.”

  “The camp.” He jumps in without missing a beat. “We’ve locked down a location. Bigger than the last, as discussed, but we need branding and a theme. And I don’t think you’re going to get by this year without getting some big sponsors involved—not with the number of sign-ups we’ve gotten already. We’re looking at hundreds, dude. We’ll need the help. Marketing, sponsors, creative. The works.”

  I perk up a little. Now this is a subject I don’t mind talking about. “Good thinking. Let’s get that ball rolling. Have you talked to Sandy?”

  “The broad from BelleCurve? I have not.”

  I roll my eyes. Trevor is such a schmuck sometimes. “Yes, but don’t call her a broad, please. You know she’s like family to me. Set up a meeting with her two weeks from now. Her team can help with sponsorships and marketing. I have a few other ideas too. Just keep on the venue and get notifications out to the schools. We don’t necessarily need anything branded until closer to the event.”

  “Shouldn’t Meredith be doing that?”

  I pause at the obvious annoyance in Trevor’s tone. He’s referring to Meredith Greene, my publicist. He’s slowly coming to the end of his rope with her, and I don’t blame him. “I trust you two to work out those details.”

  There’s a brief pause. I know Meredith is a handful. And maybe she gets sidetracked by personal agendas more than I’d like, but she’s been my publicist for three seasons. That type of knowledge and trust is hard to replace.

  “You got it. Glad to get some of that off my plate. Your endorsement offers are looking great too, kid. You’re going to have one hell of a year. Just sign the deal for Coach and enjoy your vacation. But Zach, answer your phone next time I call.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’re a good man, Trevor. Thanks, bud.”

  By the time I send back the signed contract and step outside, the sun is sinking through hues of oranges and purples that paint the sky.

  Desmond’s finishing a call of his own, so I sit back in my lounge chair and memorize this moment as my senses hum with all things tropical. A fresh, salty breeze washes over my skin as scents of plumeria and pikake flowers infiltrate my nose. I need more of this. So does Desmond. I turn to my friend.

  “Calling your lady friend from last night?” I tease Desmond as soon as he gets off the phone.

  “Screw you,” he quips. Then he smiles that goofy, dimply smile of his that seems to work well for the ladies. “As a matter of fact, I was. That one was hot as hell. I might have to bring her back tonight, if you don’t mind.”

  I make a face. “Did you just ask for my permission to screw a local? This is our vacation. Do what you want. Just bag it. The world isn’t ready for mini Desmonds to run rampant. It’s already crazy out there.”

  “Har har. What about you? I haven’t seen you on the prowl for a while now.”

  I move my hands through my hair that’s been salted by sand and surf and let out a laugh. “I got rejected at the beginning of the season, man. Still licking my wounds from that one.”

  Desmond makes a face like he’s truly in pain. “That bad, huh? Sorry, dude.”

  I shrug. “I could have pressed her a bit more. There was something there, but with the season starting and the pressure from the league, I wasn’t in the right headspace.”

  “Wait. Is this the girl you brought to the kitchen?”

  Nodding, I try to remember when I told him about Monica. It was during preseason. There was one night Desmond and I hung out, celebrating a successful month of business. That night was the last time I drank more than a single beer in one sitting until this vacation, and that was all it took for me to tell my best friend everything.

  “You’re still thinking about her, huh?”

  Shrugging seems like the safest response. “It’s not like I’ve had anyone else to distract me.”

  “Well, let’s fix that!” he enthuses. “We’re in Maui, for fuck’s sake. Let’s go out! Find you a distraction.”

  When Desmond winks at me, I’m blasted with unease. We’re two different types of men when it comes to dating. He’s looking for the one for right now, and I’m … not. At least not anymore.

  “Count me out tonight. I’m here to relax, not party. But you should go. Bring the girl back if she’s willing.”

  “Oh, she’ll be willing,” Desmond jokes. “So what were all those calls about? Trevor hounding you again?”

  I throw him a knowing look. Desmond’s all too familiar with Trevor’s constant need for urgency. “It was all good stuff. I signed the four-year extension, and he’s setting up a meeting with the agency to discuss the football camp over spring break. You should get involved this year, man. Maybe cater it or something.”

  “Can’t. I’ll be in Texas for a couple weeks visiting my old man.” He sits up, his dark blonde hair falling into his eyes. He pushes it back before slapping his hands to his knees. “I forgot to tell you. Mrs. Peterson invited me to speak to her Food and Nutrition class while I’m in town.”

  I laugh. “Let me guess. You still have the hots for her.” Desmond’s fascination for older women was sort of a problem when we were younger. He’s like a permanent toddler who will break the rules just to spite them.

  The dimple that sinks into his cheek tells me all I need to know. “You know what?” I hold up a hand like a shield. “Don’t answer that.”

  If you had told me four years ago that I would have gone into business with the dude who made my life a living hell throughout my early teens, I would have never believed it. Then again, if it weren’t for Desmond, who knows if I would have had the drive to beast it up in the gym to show him I wasn’t someone he wanted to mess with. Without that push, I may have never found the bleachers. Or played ball. Never would have gone on to play in college, never would have entered the NFL draft, and never would have scored a phenomenal deal with Seattle.

  Desmond put me in the position to use my good fortune to help him. Not that he needs my help anymore. He’s turned his life around and has paid it forward in other ways—most notably through the charities we jointly support. Sometimes all a person needs is an opportunity to break the negative cycle. Desmond is living proof of that.

  “You gonna come around the kitchen this off season?” he asks. “The regulars keep asking about you.”

  “I’ll stop by some time, man. Just don’t go announcing when I’m coming. We don’t need any distractions.”

  I don’t need to elaborate on my reasons for staying away during business hours, although Desmond disagrees with them. Some of the regulars know about my position with the company, but they also know to keep it to themselves. I want the business to succeed for the right reasons. No need to turn the place into a hotspot for paparazzi and hopeful fans. Desmond, on the other hand, wants exactly the opposite.

  He barks with laughter. “You mean your Wifey Club? Let ’em come. You know I’ll entertain them just fine.”

  Annoyance gets the better of me. “Why do you always bring them up? They’re just fans.” I sigh. “Excited fans.”

  Over the past few years, Desmond has seen my fan base grow—and he’s been more than happy to reap the rewards. When my publicist, Meredith, suggested starting a social media group to give my female fans a place to congregate, I had no clue it would blow up the way it has. And it’s only been live for three months. I almost had the entire thing taken down when I found out what they called it: The Wifey Club.

  Desmond flashes his pearly whites at me, and a boulder sets down in my stomach.

  He’s practically cackling now. “I created a fake profile. It’s hilarious, dude! These women go nuts for you. You should read some of the stories—”

  “I don’t want to see any of it.” I could kill him for even joking about that club. In my opinion, it’s been
the worst move made by my PR team, but they disagree. Supposedly the goal is to boost my popularity in a safe place where they can monitor traffic and conversations. So far, it’s just been a trainwreck of a group that needs to be policed constantly.

  He shrugs. “Oh, calm down. It’s entertaining, that’s all.”

  “You know what? If you’re going to be on there, I don’t want to hear about it. I’m tempted to demand Meredith take it down.”

  “I’m honestly surprised you haven’t. You seem all bent out of shape about it.”

  “I wish I could, but Meredith had a good point. What if another one gets created in its place? Then we can’t delete posts or monitor the information being passed around. At least this way we can stir up positive gossip. Talk about the organizations and not my dating life.”

  He clears his throat. “Lack of dating life.”

  “Seriously, dude?” I warn.

  “What? It’s like you have your own personal dating site! Just pick one.” He smirks. “Or two.”

  I slam my arm into Desmond’s chest. “You’re making me wanna drink. More.”

  “Good. Drink. And then let’s go find you a distraction.” He winks, and I shake my head. Desmond will get it one day when he meets the right one. The kind of distraction he’s talking about, passing the time, isn’t something I’m interested in.

  But maybe that’s my problem. A distraction from Monica is probably the perfect cure for this slump I’m in. Then again, how much of a distraction would it actually be if I’m going to see her again in two weeks when she’s forced to greet me as I walk through the agency doors?

  Truth be told, I don’t think anything will distract me from Monica—the girl who rejected me. Who didn’t return a single one of my messages or acknowledge the tickets I sent her.

  The one who didn’t just get away. She ran.

  When I arrive at BelleCurve, Richland is waiting in my office with a fresh bouquet of flowers. In my office. I feel like a freaking queen. He congratulates me on the promotion with a hug and a doorstop disguised as a fuchsia patent leather pump. We share a laugh, because this is Richland. Serious about work, but there’s a goofy side to him too that not many people get to see. I’ll have to work on bringing that out of him more.

  He rushes off back to work, leaving me with some standard orientation packets to read that take up the rest of the morning. I glance around at my little box of an office, big enough for a large wooden desk, two cushioned chairs, and a bookshelf. My inner interior designer is already at work planning the décor.

  It’s quiet in the suite today. No clients, no shoots. Richland tells me these are the days he treasures the most. He gets to spend time reviewing potential work to bid on, working in the editing bays, or storyboarding with the production crew. He’s with a group of illustrators right now, reviewing final sketches for a government PSA project.

  Since I’ve basically been Richland’s only assistant for nearly three years, I don’t need to ask how to keep busy. I tidy up the main room, restock the break room, take inventory of supplies, and start prepping for tomorrow’s shoot.

  The morning flies by, and when lunch rolls around my stomach is growling like a starved lion. I pull up my chat window and type a quick message to Chloe.

  Monica: My first day is officially half over! You are now the friend of a production assistant. You’re welcome. Now take me to lunch to thank me.

  Chloe: Nice try. I took you to lunch last week.

  Monica: Gasp! That was BEFORE I started. This is huge, Chlo Chlo.

  Chloe: Fine. Give me 15 minutes to wrap up and I’ll take you to the corner store for yesterday’s hot dogs.

  Monica: Yummmm.

  I smile. Richland might be my favorite person to work with at BelleCurve, but Chloe’s quickly turned into my favorite friend. From the moment I met her, I could tell she was genuine. She’s the type of person that bleeds raw emotion. Truth be told, she looked like she could use a friend like me. Someone who wouldn’t let her hide in the corner. Turns out, I needed a friend like her too.

  I don’t have to worry about Chloe lying or gossiping behind my back like I would with Trinity and Gracie. Chloe works hard, like me. She loves hard, like me. And she’s real, like me. Basically, I’m friends with myself.

  I try to tell her we’re sisters, but she won’t take the bait. Says we’re too different to be sisters, and I guess that’s true too. While she’s on the quieter side, I’m unafraid to be the life of the party. Maybe that’s why we gel so well together. I’m her entertainment, and she’s my chill pill.

  While I wait for Chloe in the front lobby, I smile at Jessa, the new office manager, who has the phone glued to her ear. She doesn’t notice me, so I use the opportunity to scroll through my social media accounts on my phone. Lots of loves and likes and a few comments to my latest selfies, but I don’t stop to check them.

  Chloe’s flying down the hall to greet me. She looks extra done up today, rockin’ a chic black pant suit that reminds me of the genius Yves Saint Laurent’s “Le Smoking Suit” campaign, with a fitted, white button-up blouse and matching patent leather heels.

  “Dang, girl,” I call, giving her my approval rating with two hands up in the air. “You’re a total ten. But it’s just lunch. You didn’t need to dress up for me.”

  Chloe huffs and clomps past me to open the door. “Client meetings all morning,” she says briskly. “Let’s go get you fed, woman.”

  “Good. I’m hungry.”

  “What’s new?”

  We fall into step once we reach the busy downtown sidewalk lined with corporate high rises and high-end retail shops. I give her the side eye. The one I give her when I’m afraid to turn to face her completely. Serious Chloe can be scary. “Man, what crawled up your butt?” I ask.

  She groans. “Nothing, sorry. I was up late with Gavin. He left for Cali this morning.”

  “Again? Weren’t you two just there?”

  “Yup.” She doesn’t appear to be too happy about the fact that Gavin is traveling again. “Mastermind asked him to move there. They want him in the studio.”

  My jaw drops. “No! Worst news ever. Take it back.”

  She shakes her head, waving off my shock. “He told them no. He would never leave Washington, not even for an awesome job. But he does love working for them. He’s worried he’s going to lose everything now that he turned them down. So he decided last night that he would fly there and try to work something out.”

  “There’s no way they’ll let him go, Chlo. He’s too important to the campaign.”

  She sighs. “That’s what I believe too, but he’s stressed over it.”

  “Then do your job. Be his stress reliever.”

  She laughs. “Why do you think I’m tired this morning?”

  I gasp. Chloe did not just toss me a sex joke. “Wow. I’m impressed.”

  “Shut it!” She pushes open the door to our favorite French café, Belle de Jour, and holds it so I can walk in behind her. So chivalrous.

  The restaurant is casual and quaint, packed with the usual crowd of business professionals. Each wall is warm with beige tones, contrasted by the blueberry-splashed, wide arched windows that face the sprawling courtyard fountains.

  “Hey, you should come over tonight,” Chloe offers as we stand in line to order. “Girly movies, wine, and popcorn?”

  “Can’t.” I make a face. “We have an early shoot tomorrow. You should come to my place instead, that way I can kick you out at bedtime or you can crash there. But you’ll have to take the couch. I’m not in the mood for a late-night cuddle session when you start dreaming of Gavin again.” I shudder at the memory.

  She laughs. “You’re no better. Last time I slept on your couch you moaned out Zach’s name a few times.”

  “Liar!” Even as I say this, my heart does a little flip at the sound of his name. It’s hard to think about Zach and not recall our night together—not to mention the disappointi
ng way it all ended.

  The air is thick with tension. Rain spits against the passenger window, and I know its aggression is aimed at me. Yes, I think the rain hates me. I think I hate me. Even this barely eaten triple chocolate cake that sits between me and Zachary hates me.

  Zachary parks his Jeep in the Melrose Market lot beside my car. I don’t get out yet, biding my time and caressing the red, leather-trimmed seats. There are many words that remain unspoken, and I’m not sure if any are meant to be shared.

  His jaw is set, expression pointed forward. I think he’s contemplating something, but I’m afraid to look at him for too long for fear that my willpower will completely dissolve under his spell.

  This has been the best night of my life. Why am I sabotaging it?

  That’s the million-dollar question.

  There’s a rustle of fabric and then a thump on the headrest as Zachary leans back. The thick cloud of intensity permeating the air has dissolved some, thank God.

  “Did you have a good time tonight?” he asks.

  “The best.”

  A hand crosses the space between us and takes mine. “Then I’m not going to pretend I’m okay with ending things like this. I like you, Cakes.”

  I turn my body to answer him, but his eyes trap me, catching me off guard. They’re filled with hope. Hope I have no right to give him.

  “Zach.” My head falls forward, and I remove my hand from his. I have to tell him something, even if it’s not the whole truth. This isn’t fair to him. “You’re leaving tomorrow and you’ll be gone for a week. You’ll come back busier than ever with practice and games. Then you’ll go out of town again. I know how this works. Realistically, how can we get to know each other when you’re traveling and consumed with football?”