Broken Play

by Tracey Ward

  I’m using him as a reason to stall. Even if he calls me back, he won’t be able to go in with me. Not in person. He’s back home in L.A. He had to stay for his kid’s birthday. Little dude is turning four. I sent him a custom built, black mini-Mercedes SLS with satellite radio and a sub in the back. Xander will have the illest whip in preschool.

  His dad can sell it to make his mortgage when I fire his ass for not calling me back.

  I grunt tiredly, rising to my feet. Every eye in the room watches me go. They stare as I walk out of the room like they’re not there. Things go quiet around me. They go quiet inside me. I find an elevator near the exit. It’s small and shining, the floor covered in the Pats patriotic logo. The skyboxes will be easy to find – they’re on the top floor.

  I close my eyes as the doors shut in front of me and I try to find quiet in the empty elevator. It should be easy to do but there’s a buzzing in my ears that’s louder than the motor above me. It hums harder and harder the farther up I climb, and by the time the elevator dings and the doors are opening again, I feel electric inside.

  I feel a million miles from calm.

  I sniff sharply and square my shoulders. “Easy, baby,” I mutter to myself. “Go easy. They don’t own you and you don’t owe them. Get in and get out. Whatever happens, happens.”

  I tell myself to move, but my body won’t listen. I’m cemented to the floor with the fat Patriots logo half hidden under me, the other side reading ‘riots’ to the sky. I can’t move. I can barely breathe. My heart is swelling painfully in my chest as my hands start to shake again, and all I can think is, This is the end of everything.

  I feel like I’m going to die.

  The doors start to close. I let them, mostly because I can’t stop them. But when a small hand shoves between them at the last second, I jump like a scared little bitch. The doors bounce back open. A girl is standing on the other side. Her eyes go wide when she sees me. Her heart shaped mouth drops open in surprise.

  “Hi,” she says softly.

  “Hey,” I answer on reflex. It feels good. It feels natural, and some part of me kicks back into gear. I flex my fingers at my sides.

  “You’re Tyus Anthony.”

  “Most days, yeah.”

  She grins, pulling red lips over snow white teeth. “You definitely were today. You won us the game.”

  “You a Kodiaks fan?”

  Her brow drops, her eyes following quickly after. She looks herself over, forcing me to do the same, and I realize how stupid that question was. She’s in full Kodiak gear. Head to toe.

  She’s young. Twenty at best. Hot as a house fire. She’s almost as tall as I am, whisper thin, dressed in dark jeans and a yellow sweater with the Kodiak bear big and growling on the front. It falls haphazardly off one sun-kissed shoulder; no bra strap. There’s an orange ribbon wrapped around her long, dark ponytail.

  “I’m kind of a fan,” she understates with a smirk.

  “Right, sorry. I’m, uh…” I slide my hands in my pockets, shaking my head. “I’m a little distracted.”

  “I can imagine. What are you doing up here? Where are you going?”

  The doors start to close between us. I snap my hand out to stop them. “Team owner wants to see me.”

  “He’s not here.”

  “He left?”

  My temper flares, my heart clenching like a fist in my chest. That motherfucker called me up here to jerk me around.

  The girl shakes her head. “The meeting isn’t up here. He’s meeting you down in the conference room. Anders didn’t tell you?”

  Did he? Fuck, I think anxiously. I can’t remember what he said.

  “No, he probably did.” I shrug like it’s no big deal. “I was barely listening.”

  “I try to ignore Anders whenever I can too. I think being a ghost is in his job description.” She steps inside the elevator, bringing her scent with her. I breathe it in deeply, savoring the island scent of coconut wafting out of her hair as she leans across me to push the button for the second floor. “I’ll take you down to the meeting.”

  “Thanks.”

  “It’s no problem.”

  As the elevator starts to hum, I look at her sideways. She’s slender and small. Her ass and tits are almost non-existent, but it works with her body. She’s skin and bone, delicate looking, but she’s not starving herself. I bet she’s one of those girls that eats like a trucker and can’t gain a pound. Other women hate her for it but they don’t understand what it’s like. They don’t understand that as hard as they work to lose weight, that’s how desperately hard she works to put it on. I get it. I live it. Muscle mass doesn’t come easy to me. I have to bust my ass all day, every day to maintain where I’m at, and I’m still smaller than half the guys on the field. People talk shit about my size all the time, but the trick is to let it feed you, not fuck with you. You gotta turn their hate into fuel that keeps you going. Keeps you running faster and farther than they could ever dream of going.

  “You Big Bill’s assistant?” I ask her.

  She chuckles. “No. Anders is. No amount of money in the world could make me work for D-” She stops short, clearing her throat. “For Mr. Greene. He’s a good guy but I don’t want that job.”

  “What job do you do?”

  “I’m sort of an intern.”

  “They got you sorta workin’ for free, you mean?”

  “Yeah, I guess. It’s worth it, though.”

  “Nothing’s worth doing for free.”

  “You would play football for free.”

  I laugh at her reflection in the stainless-steel doors. “Girl, I don’t get out of bed for under a million dollars.”

  “That’s cute, but you’re lying,” she tells me confidently.

  I laugh. “How would you know?”

  She shrugs. “I just do.”

  “You psychic? Reading my diary?”

  “Do you keep one?”

  “Wouldn’t tell you if I did.”

  She smiles at me sideways and it nearly knocks me back a step. It’s a wicked thing. Seductive in a playful and promising kind of way that makes me wonder if I got her age all wrong. Her eyes look older than twenty.

  “I’ll just have to wait and find out, I guess.”

  I snicker, looking away. Getting a grip. It’s not the time and definitely not the place to be fucking with some chick.

  “Are you nervous?” she asks suddenly.

  I shake my head. “Nah.”

  “I would be.”

  “I’m not sure I’m going in.”

  I’m also not sure why I told her that, but it’s the truth and it feels good to hear it out loud. Maybe that’s all the reason I needed. I couldn’t get out of the elevator when she found me on the wrong floor. What are the odds I’ll find my legs by the time we get down to the conference rooms?

  The girl abruptly steps into my space. Her hand smashes down the Emergency Stop button on the elevator. We slam to a halt, the jerky motion almost throwing us into each other. I grab her arms to support her, but even though I’m holding her up, she’s looking up at me with this attitude like she’s ten feet tall.

  “Why’d you quit?” she demands in a rush. “It wasn’t for a payout, was it?”

  “It’s never been about the money.”

  “You quit because they disrespected you.”

  “They humiliated me,” I clarify bitterly, grateful that she gets it. “They’ve been treating me like I don’t matter until they need me. They’re tryin’ to replace me with some rookie who can’t catch the damn ball, actin’ like it’s all okay, but it’s bullshit.”

  “It’s complete bullshit.”

  I let her go, taking a step away from her. “That’s what I’m gonna tell ‘em if I go into that meeting, but they don’t wanna hear that.”

  “No. They don’t.”

  “Then there’s no reason to go in.”

  “So you’re quitting for real?”

  My heart isn’t beating. My head is su
ddenly swimming. All that anxiety I felt on the way up is crashing down on me again.

  That’s it, right? I quit. I’m done.

  “You don’t want to quit,” she tells me quietly.

  I open my mouth to tell her she doesn’t know shit about what I want, but I can’t because she’s right. I don’t want to quit. All I want is to play football. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, and the idea of leaving my team makes me sick to my stomach. But playing for a man who doesn’t respect me doesn’t make me feel any better.

  I shake my head sharply. “They aren’t giving me a choice.”

  “They’re gonna offer you your spot back.”

  I clench my jaw tight to keep it from hitting my chest. “Are you for real? You heard ‘em say that?”

  “I heard them say they’re gonna play you until you’re broken,” she admits reluctantly, disgust in her eyes, “but yeah, they’re gonna start you. Ramsey is out.”

  “Fuck,” I whisper to myself.

  That’s a gamechanger. That’s what I wanted – what’s owed me. It’s what I’ve been asking for all year. But is it enough? Does it mean anything without an apology for the shit they pulled on me for months? I’m not sure it does. Then again, I’m not sure it doesn’t.

  “Fuck,” I repeat more forcefully. I run my hand over my mouth, staring at the blurry version of myself in the gleam on the doors. My eyes dart to her – the real her. The beautiful, hopeful, statue staring at me expectantly. “This is real? If I go in there, they’re offering that?”

  She nods once with absolute confidence. “Big Bill wants a Super Bowl. We’re so close he can taste it, but he knows we’ll never get there without you. Ramsey can’t handle the pressure. Not right now.”

  “But once I win them a Super Bowl and my contract is up, I’m gone, aren’t I?”

  “Probably. The reason they’ve been keeping you in the pocket is because of your injury. They’re worried it’ll take one ugly play to break you in half. That’s not going to get better by next year, is it?”

  I feel that familiar flood of panic whenever anyone mentions my ‘injury’, but I know she isn’t talking about my headaches. Colt and Kurtis are the only ones who know about that and they aren’t talking. I know this.

  “No,” I admit stiffly. “My back ain’t gettin’ better.”

  “Do the spasms hurt?”

  “Wouldn’t be a problem if they didn’t.”

  She looks at me silently for a long time. Longer than I’d like because I can see it in her face that she’s thinking. She’s young but she’s quick. Smart. She doesn’t like my answer but she’s not going to push it. Not right now. “No, I guess not. So, what are you going to do? Are you going to the meeting?”

  “Coach is gonna be there, right?”

  “He’s supposed to be. But so are you and you’re not going, so…”

  “What about you?”

  “Me?” she chuckles lightly. “No. I won’t be there. Unpaid intern, remember?”

  “Above your paygrade?”

  “A little bit.”

  I gesture between the two of us. “What about this? Where does this conversation fall?”

  She smiles big and bright. It gives me a weird sense of déjà vu, like I’ve seen her face like that before. Not before as in while we’ve been in this elevator, but before like a long time ago. A year or more, maybe?

  “This is definitely above my paygrade,” she confirms. “So far above it, in fact, it’d be great if you didn’t tell anyone what I told you. Or that you ever saw me.”

  “What’s your name?”

  Her smile falters. “Mila.”

  “Have we met before, Mila?”

  “No. Never.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’d remember meeting you, Tyus.”

  I smile slowly. I like the way she says my name – like she’s been doing it her whole life. “You a model?”

  Mila laughs. “That’s a shitty line. You’re better than that.”

  “It’s not a line. You look familiar.”

  “I’ve been in a magazine or two. A couple billboards. Some internet ads for cell phones.”

  “Okay, so you are a model.”

  “That’s still a shitty line. Throw it out of your playbook. Start working on something better, like ‘Hey, baby. You wanna see my Super Bowl ring?’”

  I laugh at the attempted deep timbre she gave her voice. It fell far short, her high, sweet tone not made for anything but being a woman. “That’s a better line?”

  “It’s terrible too, but at least it’s fresh.”

  “I’m not using that.”

  “Okay, how about this.” She straightens her face, casting me smoldering eyes that hit me hard as her smile did. She takes my hand. Hers is warm, small, and soft inside mine. “‘Tyus Anthony. Football star. Philanthropist. Super Bowl Champion, but all that shit doesn’t matter because tonight I’m not any of that. Tonight, I’m a man looking at a woman and hoping against hope that I can buy her a drink and get to know her a bit. What do you think? Can you help me be that man?”

  I grin in appreciation. “That’s not bad.”

  She curtseys gracefully. “Thank you.”

  “I’m hittin’ 171 with some friends tomorrow night. You wanna come be my wing man?”

  “Love to. Can’t.”

  “You got plans?”

  “I’m only nineteen.”

  I drop her hand instinctively.

  She laughs, unoffended. “Nice reflexes.”

  “Sorry. I hear ‘teen’ and I’m fuckin’ gone.”

  “I’m nearly twenty.”

  “Call me when you’re twenty-one.”

  “Are you going to wait for me, Tyus?” she teases. “Or are we going to still be in this elevator when that birthday rolls around?”

  “It’s starting to feel like.” I glance at my watch. I hiss in the back of my throat when I see the time. “I should make up my mind about this meeting.”

  “You haven’t already?”

  I look at her for a quiet minute, and in that time I realize that I have made up my mind. I don’t know when it happened but I do know it wouldn’t have gone down without her here. I’d be in an Uber on my way to the airport if it weren’t for her. I’d never play football again. I’d lose a couple million off my contract, I’d be blackballed from every team in the league, and I’d have to start thinking about what I’m going to do with my life long-term. I’m not ready for that yet. And, yeah, maybe I’ve only got a few more months to figure that shit out before my contract runs out anyway and I’m out on my ass hoping to get picked up by the Cleveland Fuck-Offs, but a few months is a few months. It’s time that I need. Time I didn’t think I had until right now.

  Mila reads me right, taking my silence as affirmation. “They’re going to offer you money,” she tells me delicately. “They’ll match your Super Bowl bonus of ninety thousand. They’re going to remind you of your contract too. They’ll bring up the money still owed to you on it and they’ll act like it’s a gift they’re giving you, but don’t listen to them. Don’t buy what they’re selling because it’s bullshit. The real prize here is getting your slot back. Getting your team back. Focus on that and try not to get too angry at the money.”

  “Why would I get angry at money?”

  “Because for someone as passionate as you, money feels like an insult. You want an apology for being disrespected and you have to accept that when you go into this meeting, that’s not going to happen. You and Coach Allen can handle that another time but today you need to let them throw money at you.”

  “You want me to take pay to play like a whore?”

  Mila smiles, amused. “Why would you get mad about money, right?”

  “Right,” I grumble, checking myself.

  “You have to let them do it because it makes them feel better. Money is binding to them. It matters to them more than anything, but you don’t have to care about it. You just have to accept it so they know you’re not going to
pull anything like today again.”

  “My agent is MIA. You sure you can’t go in there with me?” I ask, only half-joking.

  “I wish I could. I really do.”

  “Yeah. Me too.”

  “So you’re going to do it?” she asks with hope in her voice and a light in her eyes that looks like something else. Something like pride. “You’re going to keep playing for the Kodiaks?”

  “Looks like it,” I tell her before releasing the break on the elevator. We jerk into motion again, our eyes fixed steadily on each other. “Gotta get that Super Bowl ring, right?”

  “The line doesn’t work without it.”

  “I’d have to rely on my good looks and natural charm.”

  She smiles slyly. “And what woman in her right mind would fall for that?”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MILA

  When I was ten, a boy at school kissed me on the playground.

  Daddy had him expelled.

  When I was fourteen and tossed out my V Card, the guy who caught it was fired from the country club.

  And when I was seventeen, I had an affair with a married senator. He was forty-three.

  He’ll be nearly fifty by the time he gets out of prison.

  Daddy has a long history with the men I date, suck, or fuck. There’s a long line of guys that had their futures dimmed dramatically for having met me. Moral of the story is, Daddy doesn’t like men touching his daughter. Not unless he’s vetted and approved them, but by the time he does, I never want them. He wants me to date men on a path. Men who are going places and looking to take a pretty little wife along with them. He’s old school, convinced I’ll make a great mom someday.

  I offer the last eleven years of my life as evidence to the contrary.

  Those boys, more specifically that man in jail, ran through my mind like a stampede when I was standing in the elevator with Tyus Anthony. The man is sex in the flesh. The sight of him sent my stomach tumbling inside my gut like it was drunk on his smile, but the stronger the draw became, the more I knew I needed to pull away from him. I was very aware of the camera in the corner of the ceiling. Daddy has friends everywhere. If he suspected anything at all, even a passing interest from me, it would only take a minute for him to get the video evidence he needs to destroy Tyus’ life. And I went into that elevator to help him, not ruin him.