Ace: Sports Romance Novel

by Alexa Reign

  “At least now you know you could always fall back on opening up a restaurant if you ever get tired of this gig.” Ace licked the crumbs off his beard greedily.

  “Thanks.” I grinned at him. “If you want, you can come over to watch that Vikings and Packers game next week. I'll grill us up some ribs. I make a mean honey-hoisin sauce.”

  “Yeah, alright. Sounds like a plan.” Ace leaned back in his seat and cracked open one of the beers he'd brought over. “You always know you wanted to get into sports broadcasting?”

  “I mean, I know a thing or 2 about football.” I reached for the pitcher and poured myself a glass of cranberry juice. “It seemed like a good fit, and the money's nothing to complain about.”

  “So what do you really wanna do?”

  “Might seem like a long shot, but I'd like to make a documentary of my own someday.”

  “Oh, yeah? That's dope.” Ace looked up at me as he fixed himself a second bowl. “I'm pretty big on satirical documentaries myself. It's been over 35 years, but 'This is Spinal Tap' is one of those masterpieces that just stays timeless. What kind of genres are you into?”

  “Agreed!” My words were picking up speed in my excitement. “I'm far from Rob Reiner's biggest fan, but that was just –”

  The intercom buzzed.

  “Be right back.” I walked over to intercom and pressed down on the white button next to the speaker. The monitor came to life, with Mr. Larson's nose taking up most of the screen. “Yes?”

  “Sorry to bother you, Ms. Vaughan, but an item's just arrived for Ms. DiCarlo, and you're going to have to come down and sign for the package.”

  “Okay, I'll be right down.” I released the button, looking back at Ace apologetically. “Sorry, I'll be back in 3 minutes.”

  “Which way's the bathroom?”

  “Um, go ahead and use the one in my bedroom.” I didn't want Rosaline knowing I'd had anyone over. “2nd door on the left.”

  I hurried down to the lobby, signed for the package, and lugged the bulky box all the way back up to the apartment.

  But as I got closer to our front door, I frowned. The door was hanging slightly ajar. That was weird. I could've sworn I closed the door when I left.

  Brushing it off, I kicked the door open and slid the box onto the island.

  “Hey, you wanna come check out this $20,000 espresso machine Rosaline just ordered?”

  Silence.

  “Ace?”

  I circled around the apartment and checked all 3 bathrooms, but found nothing. It wasn't until my eyes settled on the empty spot next to my laptop that it finally registered. My blood went cold.

  The cryptic letters. All the post-its of my notes with Ace and his wife's name scrawled all over them. It was gone. All of it.

  “Crap. No, no, no...”

  I ran out of my living room and threw the front door open, stumbling out into the hallway.

  “Victoria, child, are you alright?” Mrs. Tuttle from 10-D was standing outside her door. She pulled on her orange pashmina, her forehead crinkling. “You look awfully pale –”

  “I'm – I'm fine,” I panted, wetting my lips. “You haven't seen Ace around by any chance, did you?”

  “Why, yes, dear. I just saw him leaving your apartment. He was in a real rush – skipped the elevators and took the stairs. It sure looked like he had somewhere to be!”

  “Aw, shit.”

  I raised my arm. Watery cheese dripped off my elbow. My clumsy ass had knocked over the plate of nachos, too. Grunting, I snatched up a towel on the floor. I wiped the sticky crap off my elbow, scooped the nachos back onto the plate, and started rubbing the cheese off the bed.

  Turns out, mopping it up just made a bigger mess. I stared at the giant yellow stain and crushed nacho crumbs on my white sheets. The sheets had just been changed, and it had managed to accumulate red sauce, beer stains, and pizza crumbs in 2 weeks.

  “A change of speed, a change of style.

  A change of scene, with no regrets.

  A chance to watch, admire the distance,

  Still occupied, though you forget...”

  As Ian Curtis' gloomy vocals droned from the speakers, I evaluated my surroundings.

  Week-old Chinese takeaway boxes and microwavable containers were stacked up on the desk, nightstand, armchairs, and the foot of the bed. Beer cans and bottles were laying around, so much of them you could hardly see the floor around the bed and study desk. There was this strange musk, like an old bologna sandwich. Thing was, I didn't know where it came from, nor do I remember ever making myself said sandwich. I had to remember to give Mrs. Weatherly an extra tip when she comes over this weekend.

  Ding.

  I glanced to my right. Half my phone was sticking out from under the pillow, the screen lighting up with a new message. My hands balled into fists. After debating with myself for a few seconds, I turned off the music and reached for my phone.

  “Ace, please. I can explain.”

  Victoria's strangled voice played on speakerphone. I knew what was coming, but hearing her words colored my vision red. She breathed loudly between her sentences, like she was trying to keep her voice steady.

  “You haven't been returning any of my calls, and I get it – you want to be left alone, so I'm going to keep this short. You have every right to be mad – if I were in your shoes, I'd be livid, too. But if you'll just give me a chance to explain myself –”

  I turned off the speakerphone and threw my phone aside. This chick was wasting my time. Fuck her excuses. I needed answers.

  I kicked the takeout boxes off the foot of the bed and yanked off the covers.

  The contents of the open manila folder fluttered across the bed. 3 red letters and a black envelope were kept in 4 separate plastic folders. Sticky notes were plastered across each folder. Inserted between those folders were articles surrounding Brooklyn's death, cryptography, and Biblical passage translations. Most chilling of all were the biographies and transcripts of interviews on me over the years, with every mention I've ever made of Brooklyn highlighted.

  Someone had really done their homework.

  I picked up the folder with the random letters on it and propped my back up against the headboard.

  “TBCLXBCDETWWBCLWTGPBCYZBCETXPBCEZBCPIAWLTYBCJZFBCSLGPBCECFDEBCXPBCTBCLXBCTYBCECLFMWPBCTBCYPPOBCJZFBCTQBCJZFBCHLYEBCEZBCDPPBCXPBCLRLTYBCXPPEBCXPBCLEBC17725BCCZNVLHWJBCMWGOBCTYBC2BCHPPVDBCXTOYTRSEBCNZXPBCLWZYB.”

  Victoria had highlighted every “BC” on the folder's clear plastic cover. There were 5 notes stuck onto the sides of the folder. The first note read: “BC = Brooklyn Cunningham???” Brooklyn's name was underlined 3 times. The other 4 notes listed possible ciphers – pigpen, transpositions, half-reversed alphabets, and the Caesar-shift.

  I grabbed my tablet from the nightstand. My own notes filled the screen. The last pad I had open had a red line that trailed off to the corner, from when I'd dozed off in the middle of going through the codes.

  My eyes darted between my tablet and the folder, my temples throbbing.

  Fuck. I needed a hint. Anything. Whatever the hell this was – if there was even the slightest chance this could tell me anything about Brooklyn... I needed to know. I needed to know who took my wife from me.

  My phone rang. I turned my head slowly, glaring at the screen. Victoria Vaughan is calling you... Swearing under my breath, I rejected the call and pitched my phone across the room. The phone hit the frame above the fireplace with a sharp thwack.

  The cover of the phone flew off and landed next to some old socks next to the hamper. But as I lifted my eyes to the frame, my back bounced off the headboard. A crooked crack ran down the middle of the glass, right over the bold white “15” printed on the back of my jersey.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  My mind was racing. I leafed through the articles and pulled out the one detailing the Caesar-shift. How the hell was I just seeing this now?

  With sweat dribbling down the sides of my face, I deciphered each let
ter, scrawling out the message on the tablet screen. By the time I got it down, I was jotting the words down so fast, the tips of my fingers were burning from the friction against the screen. I got closer towards the end of the message, my chest heaving.

  “Ace, I am still alive. No time to explain. You have to trust me. I am in trouble. I need you. If you want to see me again, meet me at 17725 Rockaway Blvd in 2 weeks. Midnight. Come alone.

  Brooklyn.”

  PART 2

  Chapter One: Ace

  “Aw, shit.”

  I raised my arm. Watery cheese dripped off my elbow. My clumsy ass had knocked over the plate of nachos, too. Grunting, I snatched up a towel on the floor. I wiped the sticky crap off my elbow, scooped the nachos back onto the plate, and started rubbing the cheese off the bed.

  Turns out, mopping it up just made a bigger mess. I stared at the giant yellow stain and crushed nacho crumbs on my white sheets. The sheets had just been changed, and it had managed to accumulate red sauce, beer stains, and pizza crumbs in 2 weeks.

  “A change of speed, a change of style.

  A change of scene, with no regrets.

  A chance to watch, admire the distance,

  Still occupied, though you forget...”

  As Ian Curtis' gloomy vocals droned from the speakers, I evaluated my surroundings.

  Week-old Chinese takeaway boxes and microwavable containers were stacked up on the desk, nightstand, armchairs, and the foot of the bed. Beer cans and bottles were laying around, so much of them you could hardly see the floor around the bed and study desk. There was this strange musk, like an old bologna sandwich. Thing was, I didn't know where it came from, nor do I remember ever making myself said sandwich. I had to remember to give Mrs. Weatherly an extra tip when she comes over this weekend.

  Ding.

  I glanced to my right. Half my phone was sticking out from under the pillow, the screen lighting up with a new message. My hands balled into fists. After debating with myself for a few seconds, I turned off the music and reached for my phone.

  “Ace, please. I can explain.”

  Victoria's strangled voice played on speakerphone. I knew what was coming, but hearing her words colored my vision red. She breathed loudly between her sentences, like she was trying to keep her voice steady.

  “You haven't been returning any of my calls, and I get it – you want to be left alone, so I'm going to keep this short. You have every right to be mad – if I were in your shoes, I'd be livid, too. But if you'll just give me a chance to explain myself –”

  I turned off the speakerphone and threw my phone aside. This chick was wasting my time. Fuck her excuses. I needed answers.

  I kicked the takeout boxes off the foot of the bed and yanked off the covers.

  The contents of the open manila folder fluttered across the bed. 3 red letters and a black envelope were kept in 4 separate plastic folders. Sticky notes were plastered across each folder. Inserted between those folders were articles surrounding Brooklyn's death, cryptography, and Biblical passage translations. Most chilling of all were the biographies and transcripts of interviews on me over the years, with every mention I've ever made of Brooklyn highlighted.

  Someone had really done their homework.

  I picked up the folder with the random letters on it and propped my back up against the headboard.

  “TBCLXBCDETWWBCLWTGPBCYZBCETXPBCEZBCPIAWLTYBCJZFBCSLGPBCECFDEBCXPBCTBCLXBCTYBCECLFMWPBCTBCYPPOBCJZFBCTQBCJZFBCHLYEBCEZBCDPPBCXPBCLRLTYBCXPPEBCXPBCLEBC17725BCCZNVLHWJBCMWGOBCTYBC2BCHPPVDBCXTOYTRSEBCNZXPBCLWZYB.”

  Victoria had highlighted every “BC” on the folder's clear plastic cover. There were 5 notes stuck onto the sides of the folder. The first note read: “BC = Brooklyn Cunningham???” Brooklyn's name was underlined 3 times. The other 4 notes listed possible ciphers – pigpen, transpositions, half-reversed alphabets, and the Caesar-shift.

  I grabbed my tablet from the nightstand. My own notes filled the screen. The last pad I had open had a red line that trailed off to the corner, from when I'd dozed off in the middle of going through the codes.

  My eyes darted between my tablet and the folder, my temples throbbing.

  Fuck. I needed a hint. Anything. Whatever the hell this was – if there was even the slightest chance this could tell me anything about Brooklyn... I needed to know. I needed to know who took my wife from me.

  My phone rang. I turned my head slowly, glaring at the screen. Victoria Vaughan is calling you... Swearing under my breath, I rejected the call and pitched my phone across the room. The phone hit the frame above the fireplace with a sharp thwack.

  The cover of the phone flew off and landed next to some old socks next to the hamper. But as I lifted my eyes to the frame, my back bounced off the headboard. A crooked crack ran down the middle of the glass, right over the bold white “15” printed on the back of my jersey.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  My mind was racing. I leafed through the articles and pulled out the one detailing the Caesar-shift. How the hell was I just seeing this now?

  With sweat dribbling down the sides of my face, I deciphered each letter, scrawling out the message on the tablet screen. By the time I got it down, I was jotting the words down so fast, the tips of my fingers were burning from the friction against the screen. I got closer towards the end of the message, my chest heaving.

  “Ace, I am still alive. No time to explain. You have to trust me. I am in trouble. I need you. If you want to see me again, meet me at 17725 Rockaway Blvd in 2 weeks. Midnight. Come alone.

  Brooklyn.”

  Chapter Two: Victoria

  “And BAM! Gallagher greets the ref with an upper hook and body slams him into the ground.”

  At the same time, Ace and his co-anchor, Keith Eisen, leaned back in their seats with their fists over their mouths. They paused, shaking their heads at the clip on the green screen. A linebacker in a purple-and-white jersey pounced on the referee. The referee face-planted on the turf, holding his arms over his head as the lineman punched at his sides and stomped on his back. 3 seconds later, 5 other Vikings jumped Gallagher and forced him off the referee, wrestling him to the ground.

  “Ooh, that's gotta hurt!” Keith clucked his tongue loudly. “Sammy Baker, a veteran ref with over 23 years experience, suffered a broken nose and a cracked rib, but was patched up with a couple of stitches and back on the field in time for the next game.”

  “In spite of Gallagher's public apology, Baker is looking to press charges. 3 days after the incident, Vikings team owner, Amit Verna, and team coach, Larry Tyson, announced Gallagher's dismissal. Fans and naysayers have been battling it out on social media platforms over the last week...”

  I shifted away from the paper tray poking me in the hip. I was fully aware of how creepy it was to be lurking behind a copy machine, spying on Ace from afar when he was so clearly refusing to talk to me, but screw it. All I wanted was a chance to get my side of the story heard, and if he still didn't like what I had to say, then so be it.

  Letting things go was never my strong suit. Like Ma always said, it's better to say something and feel uneasy in the meantime than to say nothing at all, and feel the regret for a lifetime. Little Susie Park from Tucson would tell you the same.

  While Ms. Flores narrated The Berenstain Bears Go to Camp in the front of the room, I saw Susie twiddling with something under the table. Frozen in horror, I watched as she snapped all 3 of her pencils in half, then proceed to break out bawling. When Ms. Flores asked her what was wrong, the little brat claimed I'd stolen her pencil box and broken all of her pencils, which was why she couldn't finish her worksheet. The old bat instantly sided with Susie, reprimanded, and banned me from recess that day.

  Outraged by the second-grade-classroom injustice, I tormented Susie on the playground every recess. I shoveled sand into the back of her dress and taunted her with nicknames like “Sneaky Susie” and the less-clever “Stupid Susie.” Of course, Susie told on me. And when
Ms. Flores asked her why I was hounding her, Susie slipped up and admitted everything. Susie got what she'd had coming all along – no recess and homework detention for a whole week. I mean, I was back in that detention room with her, but 7-year-old me felt like all was right in the world.

  “And, CUT!”

  Ace and Keith got up from behind the news desk. Both anchors exchanged a few words with each other and parted with a fist bump. While Keith made a beeline for the snack table, Ace made his way to the water cooler, his head hanging.

  I started towards the water cooler myself, but before I could get to Ace, he was intercepted by one of the teleprompter guys.

  “Hey, Mr. Warner.”

  Ace looked over his shoulder at the tubby guy in a black Misfits shirt, blinking.

  “Oh, hey. Toby, right? What's up?”

  “Great job out there,” said Toby nervously, scratching his nose. “You're a natural. Listen, I'm sorry about the prompter jumping – the system was starting to lag, and there was nothing I could do about –”

  “What?” Ace's forehead wrinkled, looking genuinely confused. “It's all good, brother –”

  “'Cause I really need this job – I got a kid going off to college, and my dad's been in the hospital for about a month now. The bills are rackin' up fast –”

  “Yo, take it easy.” Ace patted Toby awkwardly on the shoulder, nodding at him. “It's fine – people fuck up, and to be honest, I didn't even know anything was wrong. You're doing a great job. And good luck with your family. Let me know if there's anything I can do for you.”

  Toby lowered his hunched shoulders. Relief swept across his face. He mumbled something about Kauffman and thanked Ace again before rejoining the rest of the crew.

  As Ace pulled out a paper cone from the dispenser, I took a deep breath and approached him.

  “Hey.”

  The broad shoulders of his indigo suit went rigid. Still facing away from me, he filled the cone to the brim. The 5-gallon bottle glugged, filling the silence. I fingered the last button of my blouse, clearing my throat.