Hard to Score

by K. Bromberg

  With each grab of a football, he dances backwards a few steps, arm cocked back with the football in hand, and then fires a rifle straight into the target.

  I take in his red T-shirt, gym shorts with a towel tucked in the waistband that he dries his hands on after every couple of throws, and the white of his helmet.

  “Well color me impressed,” I murmur to myself, surprised to see him out here, but so very pleased that he is. “Justin Hobbs is the real deal.”

  I can’t tell you the last time I saw a professional athlete finish a game, be unhappy with his performance, and then head straight to the field to improve it.

  Now this? This is a man I can represent and sell.

  One after another he hits his target with both natural talent and finesse that’s astounding. This is what Justin was missing in the game tonight. Sure he’s skilled, but there’s an instinctual confidence about him right now that he needs to translate to the field or else I fear it’s going to be a rocky year for him.

  That is what I didn’t tell him to his face.

  Those are things you reserve to tell people when they’re your contracted client, not when you’re trying to win them over.

  But there is a massive glimmer of hope in what I’m watching and that, in and of itself, is worth me standing out here in the summer night air instead of driving myself home.

  I don’t know how long I observe from the fringes of the parking lot, awed by Justin’s talent and contemplating why he’s not making use of the lights that tower above the practice turf, but it’s long enough for him to run through the cycle of throws three times.

  It’s only when he jogs to the side of the field, takes a seat on the bench with his back to me, and takes his helmet off that I walk through the open gateway in the fence.

  He turns when he hears the click of my heels at the same time that I speak. “I’m impressed. Practicing after a game? Not many players do that these days.”

  “What . . .” The word falls from his mouth at the same time his eyes meet mine, but the man with a rifle of an arm isn’t Justin Hobbs.

  Not in the least.

  No, the eyes that meet mine are a mixture of blue and green and are the same ones that stopped my heart many times in my teenage years.

  Recognition flickers in his just as quickly as his expression falls before a slow, reminiscent smile spreads on his lips. “Well, if it isn’t Bratty Brex.”

  My heart jumps in my throat at his voice and a thousand teenage dreams about my first crush come flooding back. My heart feels like it just turned over in my chest in a way I haven’t felt in forever.

  But my own smile remains steady even if the ground beneath my feet feels like it just trembled.

  “If it isn’t Dreadful Drew,” I repeat the childish nickname of our youth while remembering the secret ones my girlfriends had for him later in our teens. Sexy Drew. Dreamy Drew. *Sigh* Drew.

  “God, I haven’t heard that in forever.” The second string quarterback for the New York Raptors chuckles softly and angles his head to the side to take me in.

  I study him in turn. His dark, short hair is wet with sweat and going every which way from him running his hand through it. His skin is tanned from being out in the sun, and those eyes of his are unrelenting as they meet mine again.

  “What? I mean—why—or rather how come…” I shake my head as nerves I shouldn’t feel tinge the edge of my voice.

  How have we avoided each other this long?

  How are you?

  How have we been in the same industry for so long and our paths never crossed until now?

  “Probably because of the same reasons as you,” he says when I don’t complete my scattered thoughts.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “You always struggled to complete your thoughts when you were flustered. I always thought it was cute.”

  “I’m not flustered. Or cute.”

  “You’re right. I was wrong. You’re not cute at all.” Drew’s tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. “You’re gorgeous.”

  There’s a brief beat where I simply stare at him, eyes blinking to make sure I heard him properly, before I burst out laughing. This is not something Dreamy Drew would say to me.

  This is something I might have dreamed and wrote in my diary that I wish he would say, but it’s not something I know how to process . . . so I laugh clumsily.

  And luckily he does too, because there’s a sudden awkwardness between the two of us—two kids whose parents were best friends, who vacationed together . . . and then acted like the other didn’t exist after scandal hit.

  “Thanks. I mean . . . yeah, thank you.” I shift on my feet and try to look anywhere but at him. “Why are you out here? Why don’t you have the lights on? Why—”

  “You still ask a million questions, don’t you?”

  I pretend I’m not melting inside at his shy smile and playful tone. But I totally am.

  “And you still get annoyed by it,” I say, waving a hand at the field in front of us. “What are you doing out here in the dark?”

  “Doing the same thing I do after every game.”

  “Which is?”

  “Putting in a full game’s worth of passes by myself since I didn’t get to touch the field today.” He nods. “I’ve got to keep my skills sharp in case I’m called to play.”

  I’m impressed with his response.

  Even more so with his dedication.

  “Are the Raptors too cheap to turn the lights on for you?”

  He laughs. “No, I don’t want them on. Lights mean people look and I don’t want people to look.”

  “Why not?” It’s a legitimate question, but perhaps I’m a little overzealous in the way I say it, because Drew’s head jostles at the words. “From what I just saw you’re every bit as good as Justin is. In fact, I’d put my money on your accuracy percentage being higher. I don’t know your other stats but I’m not exactly sure why you’re complacent with sitting second string here when you could be starting with so many other teams.”

  “Humph.” It’s all Drew says as he rises from his seat and gives a sharp shake of his head. “That’s the same question I’ve asked myself for years. Wonder why that could be?” Sarcasm laces his tone and every part of me stills at the words.

  “Do you really think it’s because . . .”

  “I’ve been contracted in the NFL for seven years, four of which have been with the Raptors. I find it interesting that numerous people have said the same thing you just did—that I’m good enough to be a starting quarterback—and yet backup is all I’ve ever been.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “Don’t try to. The mental gymnastics is exhausting, and you never reach a definitive answer.” He looks over to the person helping him. “You good, Steve?”

  “Yeah. We should be set to go again in a few minutes,” Steve says.

  “’Kay.” Drew turns back to face me. “It was good to see you again, Brex, but I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Yes. Sure. I . . . it’s great to see you too.” We stand a few feet apart, eyes locked, with a sudden unease taking hold. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I thought you were Just—”

  “Justin Hobbs. Yeah, I figured that’s who you thought I was.” There’s a trace of annoyance in his voice as he pulls his helmet back on. “For the record, Justin never puts extra time in. If you’re here to recruit him then you should know that.”

  “Who said I’m recruiting him?” I ask, suddenly wondering why I haven’t set my sights on Drew.

  “Everyone.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

  “Thanks for the tip,” I say and take a few steps back, hesitant, almost as if I don’t want this conversation to end—despite its sudden awkwardness. I feel like there are so many things I want to say, and yet, I haven’t seen this man for almost ten years. In fact, the last time I did, he was wearing board shorts with floppy surfer-style hair and I was watching him from afar, wishing he’d notice
me as someone other than a family friend’s daughter.

  “I’m sure I’ll see you around,” he says and then jogs back onto the darkened field without another word.

  I stand and stare after him for a moment, stuck in the weirdest feeling of indecision. Wondering how a conversation that started out so playful and fun ended up giving me a sour taste in my mouth.

  “Well . . . okay then,” I mutter to myself as I kick an imaginary rock with the toe of my shoe and head off the field the way I entered.

  As an agent, I know better than to annoy a player when he is practicing. I do. Then why is it so damn hard to make my feet move one in front of another and walk away from him?

  I slide into the driver’s seat of my car, turn my key in the ignition, sit there, and stare at the darkened lights towering over the practice field where Drew is.

  Maybe I lost track of him on purpose. Surely we’ve crossed paths before at some point considering we work in the same industry. Of course, there are thousands of athletes and agents, but perhaps us missing each other wasn’t just a coincidence.

  Maybe just like his life had been turned upside down when the shitstorm surrounding his dad happened, mine did too when my mom died two weeks later. Did he feel the same way? Like a part of his life—his innocence—was over, and everything he’d known as normal had changed? Was it easier for him to walk away and never look back?

  Then again, maybe he’d already broken my heart way back when without ever knowing it, and therefore I avoided thinking about him, my first unrequited love.

  One thing is for sure . . . the teenage boy I used to have a massive crush on ended up growing into an incredibly handsome man.

  A man who seemingly doesn’t care about time lost.

  And yet, there’s me, the woman who can’t stop thinking about him as I drive street after street on my way home.

  DREW

  YOU’RE GORGEOUS?

  I pick up the football from the kicking tee and shuffle back a few feet on my heels, arm cocked back, eyes on the farthest target.

  You’re gorgeous?

  I release the ball and it sails two feet wide.

  “Fuck!” I bark at no one. Steve stops midstride and looks my way before being cut down by my glare. He throws his head back and laughs at my miss, and I grit my teeth.

  I’m never distracted. Never. And one fucking chat with Brexton goddamn Kincade and now I’m missing my mark?

  What the hell, Bowman?

  I run a cadence through my head before grabbing another football and going through my paces again. I hit the top of the target and the ball falls to the side of the catch net instead of inside of it. Fucking missed again.

  Why would you say something like that to Bratty Brexton? Why would you tell her that she’s gorgeous after everything that happened? After everything . . .

  “Christ.”

  I lift my face to the night sky and take a deep breath to clear my head. But all I see are her mile-long legs, knockout body, and stunning face.

  It’s true. She is gorgeous. It took me a second to process she really was Brexton Kincade because my memories of her are gangly limbs, a gap-toothed smile, a flat chest, and unruly hair.

  It’s almost as if my mind has purposely skipped over that last summer we spent together. Like it never happened.

  But that was a fluke.

  That was two teenagers caught in a peer-pressure moment.

  That was something I’d convinced myself never happened.

  Until now.

  Now she’s that. All woman, all desirable, all . . . Jesus Christ. This is Brex, we’re talking about here. I can’t be thinking about her like that.

  I can’t be wondering how to hit on her when we used to run around like lunatic kids chasing fireflies in Allegheny on family summer vacations.

  And I sure as shit can’t act on it.

  Not after what happened.

  Not after my life was turned upside down at the hands of her father.

  And as another pass sails wide, I grunt in frustration.

  Get any ideas out of your head, Drew.

  You need to stay as far away from her as possible.

  Her last name alone should tell you that.

  BREXTON

  I FEEL LIKE A STALKER.

  Or rather, I am a stalker. How can I not be as I sit across the street from Drew Bowman’s house with the determination I had more than an hour ago now waning as reality sets in. As I wonder what exactly he’s going to think when he opens the door to find me on his doorstep.

  But I can’t let this go.

  Not the incredible talent I saw two nights ago or the notion that he’s sitting second string, when I know so many teams who would kill to have his arm behind their offensive line.

  And while that’s all true, it’s also a huge lie. Major. Maybe I’m sitting here like a crazed fangirl because . . . I really want to see him again.

  He was the boy’s face I pretended my pillow was when I “practice-kissed” it every night before I went to bed.

  My first real kiss.

  The boy I had wild fantasies about—holding hands, Homecoming dance date, college sweethearts.

  All those things died a quick death when our lives irrevocably changed.

  Maybe I never laid them properly to rest and right now I feel like if I see him again, I’ll know if I’m just manifesting something that doesn’t exist.

  Besides, he called me gorgeous.

  The hopeless romantic in me sighs at the words, at the soft smile on his lips when he said it, and ridiculously wonders if this chance meeting was meant to be.

  But when it comes to matters of the heart, nothing good has ever come from my romanticism. Just a whole lot of heartbreak that had me swearing off love the last time it happened—a whole four months ago.

  Good thing when I looked him up I found out he wasn’t married. Even better when I asked his teammate, my client, about Drew, he let it slip that Drew didn’t have a girlfriend.

  Let’s hope that’s true or this might be super awkward.

  Nonetheless, I shake my head and force myself to get out of my car. I’m here, I might as well follow through. The spiel I practiced in my head over and over—the one about how I’d be interested in representing him if he wasn’t happy with his current agent—Ari Longmire—is on repeat in my head as I put one foot in front of the other and cross the street.

  His house sits in a quiet upper-class suburb across the Hudson. Mature trees line the street in front of perfectly manicured lawns. Drew’s house is large but not flashy with a ledgestone front and a massive wooden door. It sits back from the street on a large lot with perfect landscaping and stonework.

  I’m not sure why this picture of suburbia surprises me. Maybe I expected a sleek condo overlooking Central Park for him, but I welcome the surprise.

  Regardless, I’m standing here staring and shouldn’t be surprised if any of the neighbors in this high-end neighborhood have called the cops on the woman loitering on the curb.

  That puts my ass in gear and has me walking up the long pathway to the front door where I ring the doorbell.

  A dog barks somewhere down the street as my resolve wavers with each passing second.

  A muffled, “Just a second,” can be heard from inside. My heart jumps in my throat and the stupidity of what I’m doing kicks in.

  The lock turns.

  The door rattles.

  And when the door swings open, Drew Bowman is standing before me in a pair of Raptor sweatpants and nothing else.

  I struggle to speak. I mean, no sane woman would blame me for my complete loss of intelligible thoughts if she were looking at the eight-pack of abs on display in front of me. I try not to look, I really do, but how can I not glance down when he’s there looking like that?

  “Brex? What—how did you—what are you doing here?” Drew asks as he leans against the doorframe, casual as can be, and crosses his arms over his chest. And crosses them in the way that their sculpted
firmness is innocently displayed.

  “I don’t know. It’s a long story,” I finally spit out before I sigh and point at him. “You. You said the other day, ‘probably for the same reasons as you.’ What did you mean by that?”

  So not what I had planned on saying . . . but it’s out there nonetheless, and now I’m stuck standing behind something that he might not have remembered but that rooted itself firmly in my brain.

  “You mean why our paths never crossed until the other night?”

  I shrug as he angles his head and studies me for the longest of beats. “I guess.”

  He chuckles. “You guess? And yet you thought it was an important enough question that somehow you found out where I live and are now standing on my doorstep?”

  “You do have a point.” I bite my bottom lip, in that state of awkward limbo. I didn’t chicken out but of course, now I don’t know what to do. A sigh falls from my lips and I throw my hands up. “Honestly? I don’t know why I’m here. I know that I saw you the other day and since then I haven’t stopped thinking about when we were growing up and I don’t know . . . thought maybe we could catch up for old time’s sake.”

  His stare is unrelenting and then a slow smile ghosts over his lips. “I was just about to throw a steak on the barbeque.”

  “I couldn’t impose.”

  “Good. I wasn’t going to share my steak with you anyway. I just thought you’d prefer to sit and watch me eat it.” My head startles as his words hit my ears and then he belts out a laugh. “You’re still easy as hell to rile up, Brex. Time sure as hell changed a lot of things about you, but it didn’t change that, now did it?” He takes a step back into his house and opens the door wider. “I was joking. I have plenty. Stay?”

  “I wasn’t looking for you to invite me in.”

  “No? If you’d prefer to keep stalking me, that window right there has a clear shot to the kitchen if you press your face up to it. But then again, that might call attention to the neighbors, and I’d think coming in through the front door would be a better time for you than being led off in handcuffs as a peeping Tom.”