A Deeper Blue

by S. E. Harmon

  CHAPTER 12

  Blue

  AFTER BEING at Kelly’s sexual mercy for several hours, I barely made it to the hotel in time for curfew. But I stripped the comforter off the double bed and fell onto cool, crisp sheets with a smile on my face.

  I woke up feeling positive and energetic—determined. I zoomed through breakfast and made it back downstairs in time for the early bus to the facility. The bus was pretty empty as I headed down the aisle, earbuds firmly stuck in my ears, and I had my pick of seats. I passed a couple of vets who looked as focused as I was, and the rookie from Arizona State—Carson, I thought his name was.

  He looked pretty nervous, which was normal—if not from the pressure of playing, then from fear of what punishment the vets would come up with next. They stuck him with a room service bill the week before that pretty much equaled his first month’s pay. Ivanovich and I split the bill and warned Carson to keep his mouth shut about it. We’d all been rookies once, and that shit sucked. The unfortunate side effect of that move was that Carson seemed to have developed a little case of hero worship I was trying to discourage.

  I avoided looking at his full head of black curls as I passed, and I pretended I didn’t know he wanted me to sit with him. If my memory served me correctly, it was haircut day. When I was a rookie, they shaved the middle of my head like a fucking crop circle.

  I sat a couple rows back and tried to get in the zone as I reviewed my playbook. I needed time to get in the right frame of mind and put last week’s loss firmly in the past.

  When the bus finally rolled into the underground garage, I wasted no time getting off and headed for one of the practice rooms. Beyond the frosted-glass doors, turf spanned the entire floor. The walls were painted to resemble the outside but fell a little short. The overall effect kind of felt like we walked into a movie set of what a park was supposed to look like. It would’ve worked too, if you’d never been to an actual park.

  Eight performance-enhancement specialists milled about, working with people and recommending stretches. As I started to work with one of them, Warner popped his iPhone in the speaker near the door, and God help you if you didn’t like hard-core rap. Luckily for him and me—mostly him—I did.

  I started with some conditioning sprints as one of the specialists rolled a ball at me while I dodged it. “Higher knees, Blue, get ’em up.” Sometime around the twenty-minute mark, right on time, I could feel my muscles start to warm up and get loose. A couple reps of isolation holds with dumbbells made me feel even better. By the time I headed for the locker room to change, I had my head in the game, where it belonged.

  Most of the guys had arrived on the middle bus, and the air was filled with a sort of amped-up energy that was neither positive nor negative—just pure pregame tension. Yelling, laughter, and joking rang through the room—bawdy, brash, and loud. Some players had learned how to tune out the noise and were engaged in quieter activities—praying, reading, meditating, or sometimes all three. Ivanovich seemed oblivious and lay prone on a bench, towel over his face. I had to grin as I came up and stood beside him.

  “Stop staring at me,” he said without moving an inch. “Woosah.”

  “I didn’t even say anything.”

  “I could feel your presence. You’re interrupting some sacred shit right now.”

  I chuckled. Didn’t I know it. Every player had their own pregame ritual they swore by, and I was no different. I had to tie my cleats a certain way, or I was pretty sure the whole game was fucked.

  “We have group stretch in a few minutes,” I said. “You can do that ohm shit later.”

  “Why am I not surprised your spiritual side is completely devoid?”

  I kicked his leg. “Get up, E. It’s too late to pray for actual talent. You don’t have that kind of time.”

  He huffed a laugh that sent the towel fluttering off his face. “Go fuck yourself, Montgomery.”

  Our old lockers had been pretty rickety—just square wooden structures with our names written on a piece of masking tape above each section. After the renovation, we came back to a lounge that wouldn’t be out of place in a hotel lobby, with gleaming mahogany wood partitioning off each locker section and a little marquee board above each to put our names in. I stared at the block letters that spelled out Montgomery on the electronic board.

  It would kill me not to suit up.

  I stared at the block numbers. Seventy-five. It had been my number since college. I was briefly sixty-four when I first got to the Outlaws, but two years later, I was finally able to buy my number off another player.

  I’d dressed out so often it was hard to count, but every time still felt like the first fucking time. Just seeing my name up there on that board and my jersey hanging up, all fresh and clean with my numbers on the back… well, it made me feel a certain way. If I could just bottle that feeling, maybe Kelly would understand. He’d get it—why all the pain was worth it, why I risked life and limb just to keep playing the game I loved.

  But it was a high price to pay.

  Despite what Kelly thought, I understood that. My jaw tightened. It wasn’t the right time to think about the argument we had at camp and all the things he said. I stared at my name some more. All the things he said that I didn’t want to make sense, things I didn’t want to hear—the words resonated in my head and bounced around like a virtual pinball machine.

  Damn him anyway. If he could just see it the way I did, maybe he’d stop thinking all that irrelevant shit, things like… well, my personal health and physical longevity, having a future with me. Stupid shit like that. My shoulders sagged a little.

  “You okay?”

  I glanced over my shoulder to find Ivanovich looking at me. He wiped his face with his “woosah” towel. “Fine,” I said. “Why are you in my biz?”

  He grinned. “I don’t want to be anywhere near your biz. But I do need to ask you something.”

  “Whattup?”

  “Is Kelly going to be up in the box today?”

  “I don’t know. Since when do you worry about where Kelly’s sitting?”

  “My wife wanted to know.” At my look, he shrugged. “Autumn wants to watch out for him.”

  “There’s nothing to watch out for.” I lowered my voice after a quick look around. No one seemed to care what the hell we were talking about, thank fuck. “No one other than you and Dane knows. And we’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Hey, Kelly is the one who made friends with my wife. She likes him. A lot. And now she wants to welcome him into the Outlaws’ family.”

  I stared at him silently and watched as his expression turned equal parts frustrated and embarrassed. I waited until his cheeks were good and ruddy. “What the fuck are you doing to me right now?”

  “It was all my wife’s idea. When Autumn gets her teeth in something….” He glared at me. “If you learn how to say no to that woman, show me how.”

  I gave him one last warning stare and then turned back to my locker. I muttered under my breath as I yanked my shirt over my head, mostly vile threats about Ivanovich. And to think there had been a time when I was relieved that he knew about me and Kelly. Now I was kind of wishing he’d never guessed and I’d never confirmed, but there was no cramming the genie back in that particular bottle.

  I put on compression tights and a dark blue compression shirt—long sleeved, because who needed turf elbow? I had just pulled on my pants when my phone buzzed. Even though I knew if Coach caught me answering random calls or texts before the game, he’d probably stuff my phone somewhere I wouldn’t like, I leaned over and grabbed it. Kelly’s message made me grin.

  Go out and crush something!

  I keyed back, Do you even know what I do?

  I stared at the blinking dots for a sec before a reply appeared. Crush things?

  You need to watch more ESPN.

  What do I need ESPN for when I have you?

  My fingers flew over the keys, fat fingering everything, but my iPhone fixed it all pati
ently. Are you going to be up in the box?

  I dunno. I’m running late, and I have to still pick up Connor.

  I was about to warn him about the Autumn welcoming squad when I heard stupid little kissy noises over my shoulder. “Aw, Blue, you got a sweet message from your girl?”

  I glanced up from my phone to see Bjorn giving me a little grin. Like me, his pants were as far as he’d gotten, and his compression shirt was already dark with sweat. His pregame ritual usually involved free weights, jogging, and giving people a hard time.

  I looked at him with narrowed eyes.

  Bjorn tried to swipe my phone. “Is that the bitch from the party? You got some naked pics?”

  I pulled it back. “None of your fucking business, that’s who this is.”

  “I know it’s not Carly Taylor, ’cuz I’m the one who’s tapping that shit now.”

  “Good for you.”

  “So it’s not gonna be a problem?”

  “Nope.” I tucked my phone back in my bag. “I’m happy for you both.”

  “She said you wouldn’t care.”

  “So?”

  “So I’m trying to understand what kind of fag would turn away a fucking supermodel.”

  I was constantly surprised that some of these guys found women to tolerate them. Yeah, Bjorn might be well-built, but he had the personality of a braying donkey. Not to mention he cheated on his wife as though he were getting paid for it.

  I curled my lip. “You wanna get out of my fucking face?”

  “Touchy, touchy.” His eyes were cold. “I don’t suppose Kelly’s going to be up in the box tonight, is he?”

  He better be. I was damn sure catching enough flak for it. “I have no idea.”

  “Maybe that gay shit is catching. You takin’ it up the ass now, Blue? That why you couldn’t get it hard for Carly?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Before I forget, how’s your chlamydia coming along? I heard getting rid of STDs can be a real motherfucker.”

  Tank made a disgusted noise from the locker next to mine. “You two want to break it up? Get your fucking heads in the game?”

  “Fuck you, Tank.” Bjorn was clearly in his element. Getting his game face on pretty much meant being a fucking douche to everyone in sight until he’d built up enough rage to take on some defensive linemen.

  He shadowboxed a little too close to my face, and I rolled my eyes. I could see what he needed, so I gave it to him. I shoved him hard and sent him crashing into his locker. He wanted to get hype? Try that shit on for size.

  He growled and came back at me, and Ivanovich stepped between us. “Fuck. What is wrong with you knuckleheads?”

  Nothing a few hours on the field won’t fix.

  I ignored Bjorn’s trash-talking behind me about punkass bitches who like to sucker punch and finished putting on my uniform. It was a struggle to make everything as tight as possible, but I managed. The last thing I wanted on the field was someone grabbing loose fabric and costing me a play.

  Just as I was about finished, Carson stormed out of the equipment room, helmet under his arm and a thunderous expression on his face. His hair was shaved down into a pair of curly horns on either side. Dane strolled out after him with an electric razor in his hand and a grin on his face. I sank my teeth into my lip hard and struggled not to laugh. Jesus. And I thought the crop circle was bad.

  Despite all my pregame-focus talk, I was distraction personified. I barely heard Coach’s pregame speech, but judging from the applause, it was something inspirational enough to make Lombardi proud. I listened to group prayer with one ear, too busy running through plays in my head. Then we were done with that warm-up crap, and we ran out onto the field.

  The stadium was rocking with some pumped-up pop hit I couldn’t quite put my finger on, some shit Kel would love dancing to in those skinny-ass jeans he wouldn’t stop wearing. The crowd was going crazy on all sides up in the stands, and I realized that no matter what I had to go through to get there, I loved this game.

  I didn’t know how many seasons I had left in me—and whatever that number was, it decreased every time Coach Maxwell decided I needed to fuck my receiver duties and use my body like a battering ram. But in that moment, I loved the game in a crazy, indescribable, unbelievable way, and hell to the fucking yes, it was some Any Given Sunday kind of shit.

  “Blue,” Coach Maxwell screamed. “Get your ass in gear!”

  I looked around to see I was lagging far behind the rest of the team, caught up in my thoughts. I jogged to catch up, and as I passed, he said, “I see you daydreaming again and I’ll bench your ass. You got that?”

  I tried not to smile, but my mouth twitched a little. We hadn’t even started the game, and he was already threatening to bench me.

  “Get your head in the game,” he demanded.

  I nodded, and he held up a fist for physical confirmation. Coach Maxwell had never met a fist bump he didn’t like. Instead of telling him that there was a place that could help him overcome his addiction—Fist Bumps Anonymous—I went ahead and slammed my fist against his. “I got this, Coach.”

  Kelly was just going to have to get used to it. We had plenty of time to do all those things I visualized for our future—retirement and maybe rehabbing some properties and the two kids he wasn’t sure about, whom I already had tentative names for. I’d played football long before we’d gotten together, and nothing had changed.

  Football was my life.

  Is. I shook my head at the strange slip. Football is my life.

  And I wasn’t ready for that to change.

  CHAPTER 13

  Kelly

  GAME DAY.

  It was impossible not to get caught up in the energy that surrounded the stadium like an impenetrable force field. Connor and I did a little tailgating and a little chitchatting, ate barbeque, and drank beer with complete strangers before we made our way into the stadium.

  The ATS—Atlantic Trade Stadium—was relatively new and renovated, a beautiful creation of glass and steel. They had renovated the building four years earlier to the tune of a cool two hundred million, and it now had a retractable dome for inclement weather. They might share the building with the local baseball team, but everyone knew it was the Outlaws’ stadium. I got caught up in the energy as we went through security and headed down the long hallway that led to the skybox elevator.

  I had yet to decide whether the perks of the skybox were worth putting up with the WAGs. There was a reason I usually sat on uncomfortable, blisteringly hot stadium seats. When I joked about it with Blue, he was actually offended—hurt, even. Color me surprised. Our team is like a family, Kelly. Maybe you’d like them a little better if you actually tried. So there I was, trying.

  I looked longingly at the seats out in the fresh air, but at least I had Connor with me, and the spread of delicious food certainly didn’t hurt. Neither did the fully stocked bar, which we immediately migrated to. A friendly bartender fixed us both a drink, and I took a sip as we walked away.

  “Oh man,” I muttered as I took another long sip and my tongue dallied with the ice cubes. The flirty blond bartender was obviously a fucking genius. He better get used to my mug, because he was going to be seeing it a lot.

  As we sank down into the plush, cushioned seats, Connor reached over and gripped my arm. “I think I’ve died and gone to football heaven.”

  Guess not everyone shared my disdain for the skybox. “I didn’t know you were such a fan.”

  “I wasn’t when I had to watch the game down there like the peasants.” He sent me a mischievous smile. “Now that you’re a WAG, we’ll have to come up here more often.”

  “You wanna lower your voice?” I sent him a glare. “And if you call me WAG again, you’ll be drinking that cocktail with a straw through your wired jaw.”

  “Kelly!” I glanced up to find myself eye to eye with a perfect set of double Ds in a low-cut blouse. I looked up farther to find Ivanovich’s wife, Autumn, giving me a warm smile. Her hazel-brown
eyes were soft and welcoming. “I haven’t seen you in a little while.”

  She proceeded to acquaint my face with her cleavage as she squashed me in a hug. “I’ve been a little… busy,” I finally gasped as I emerged on the other side of perky perfection.

  “Oh God. Don’t I know about that. Between the kids and the hubby and teaching and the team, I feel like I don’t get an extra moment to breathe.”

  Hearing someone else’s schedule sometimes made me feel like a lazy bum, but I murmured in assent as though I too were just too busy to breathe. I’d always vibed with Autumn more than anyone else who sat in the skybox, probably because we were both teachers—even though I taught at university level, and her preference was the little tykes. Our love of teaching bonded us and always gave us something to talk about. She propped her butt on the seat in front of me as we yammered on about our classes and school and summer plans.

  One of the other WAGs came over and stopped to give Autumn a quick hug. She’d obviously decided to double down on being tall and wore strappy high-heeled stilettos. I thought she might be some type of model, and I squinted and tried to place her. Maybe I’d seen her on some Clinique ad. She smelled like expensive flowery perfume.

  She brushed back a wealth of perfect and loose curls and smiled. “You’re not sitting back here, are you?”

  “No, I’ll be up in a minute.”

  We both watched the statuesque beauty walk away, and Autumn turned and beamed at me. “I hate to end our conversation so abruptly. You’ll come sit with us?”

  She pointed, and I glanced obediently in the direction of her french-tipped finger. Her empty seat was directly in the middle of four women whose faces had clearly been carved from the same beautiful stone. From the looks of things, admittance to their club required a handbag that cost more than my car and a chronic case of resting bitch face.

  I glanced back at Autumn’s genuine, friendly smile and tried to hide my abject horror. “God, that’s so nice of you, but—”