First Position

by Prescott Lane

  Emory at times peeked around the camera and made a funny face at the baby. There was an elegance to her work; it was fluid and quick, like her dance. She was happy and made the children happy. This didn’t look like work to Mason. Emory wrapped the shoot, then held the baby on her hip, the older child holding Emory’s leg. That could be us. No, that could have been us. Emory chatted with the children’s mother writing her a check. They left, and Emory gathered her equipment. It was game time. Mason walked towards her, his palms sweaty and legs weak, not knowing what to say first and wondering if this was a bad idea, worried this meeting was more important to him than to her. It occurred to him she wasn’t very friendly at the bar or on the phone. For a moment, he thought to turn back, but his heart wouldn’t let him.

  Emory looked up from her bags. He gave her a slight wave with his good arm, as he came down a small hill in jeans, a t-shirt, and a dark brown leather jacket thrown over his shoulder in a sling. Ugh, he’s early. Why does he have to look so damn yummy! She was so flustered last night at the bar she hadn’t fully appreciated his body -- the NFL had made him broader and harder. Her pulse quickened as he approached, but she caught herself. He’s just an old friend. An old, married friend.

  “Let me help you with all that, Em.”

  “You’re the one with the bum shoulder,” she said, zipping up the bag. “I do this all the time. It’s fine.”

  Mason picked the camera bag off the ground. “I still have one good arm.”

  Emory smiled but only made brief eye contact. “Just follow me to my car while I lock this stuff up.” They barely spoke on the short walk, other than for Mason to comment on the Charlotte weather and Emory to describe the layout of Freedom Park. The ease with which they once had spoken seemed lost. She could sense the tension between them and figured Mason felt it, too. Emory popped the trunk, and Mason loaded her equipment. For her own sake, she sought to put Mason in his place and make clear this wasn’t going anywhere. She closed the trunk and looked directly into Mason’s eyes. “Did Alexis come with you to Charlotte?”

  Her direct question startled Mason, his eyes opening wide. Why didn’t I plan what to say about Alexis? I’ve been too busy looking at your ass! He’d forgotten how tough and strong Emory could be, her sweet face so deceiving.

  “No,” he mumbled and changed the subject. “Why don’t you show me around the park? Show me some of your favorite spots to take pictures.”

  As they walked, Emory was proud of her direct question, and that it threw Mason off his game, but regretted she learned nothing from his answer. She realized there was no need for Alexis to accompany him to Charlotte for a meeting about a potential contract with the Panthers. Emory just assumed Alexis was at home in their mansion, with their fair-haired children. Mason placed his hand at the small of her back, almost out of habit, but quickly moved it away. Emory shivered at the brief contact, praying he hadn’t noticed.

  They wandered around Freedom Park for almost an hour. She pointed out her favorite spots to him. The conversation flowed somewhat easier, with Emory doing the bulk of the talking, which helped to calm her nerves. She rambled on about her job, describing how she loved to shoot in natural light, during the “magic” hours, and the beautiful children with whom she worked. She talked so much about her job she feared she was boring Mason; after all, he had dumped her because she wanted a career.

  But he didn’t seem to be bored -- at least he wasn’t showing it. He smiled and nodded along as she talked. He enjoyed hearing her voice -- it had been so long -- and was thankful he didn’t have to carry the conversation. Then her stomach suddenly growled loudly, interrupting her discussion of camera lenses that Mason was pretending to follow. He laughed at the noise. “I guess some things never change.”

  “My insides are bigger than my outsides.”

  “You know, almost every memory I have of us involves you eating,” he said, though his mind also conjured up sexual images, too, Emory stiffening at his fond mention of their past. “You used to get so moody when you were hungry.”

  “Still do.” She threatened with a smile.

  “Is there some place around here to grab a bite? I don’t want to see moody Emory.”

  She suggested a little Spanish restaurant on the outskirts of Freedom Park, a cozy place that only locals knew about, and they headed that way. Upon arrival, Mason opened the door for her, and when they were shown to a table, he pulled out her chair. Emory smiled, pleased the NFL hadn’t ruined his Southern manners. A waitress approached with menus and water, informing them of the daily specials, and quickly exited. Emory fidgeted with her water and stared at her menu, finding herself hiding behind it. This is so stupid. After a sip of water, she dared to look up, and for a moment, their eyes met, the moment lasting a little long for her comfort, relieved when the waitress returned to take their order.

  “I feel like I’ve done all the talking,” Emory said after the waitress left. “Tell me how the NFL and Alexis have been to you.” Emory didn’t care so much about the NFL but wanted the scoop on Alexis, and wanted to pretend she was fine he was presumably still married to her.

  “Well, considering my arm is in a sling, I would say not so well.”

  Why does he keep avoiding Alexis? Emory figured he was just uncomfortable talking about his wife with her, and she decided not to push it. “How’s your arm?”

  Mason grimaced. “Still have a ways to go.” The waitress returned with their drinks.

  “Well, the Panthers seem interested. Any other teams on the radar?”

  “I’m going to Seattle in a few days with Steven.”

  Emory’s face lit up. “Oh my goodness, how is Steven?”

  Mason bragged about his brother’s success in the courtroom and as a sports agent, and that Steven had married a few years ago and was expecting his first baby in a few months.

  “Married and a baby coming, wow! That’s just the best news! You must be thrilled to be an uncle?”

  “Yeah, it’s just great,” he responded, taking a big drink of water.

  “Please tell Steven congrats and hello from me. I just know he’s going to be a great dad.”

  “Will do.” This isn’t going well. She’s more interested in my douche bag brother than me!

  Emory noticed a hint of sadness -- or jealousy -- in Mason. She was surprised how easily she could still read him. She blamed his emotional swings on his shoulder, recalling how her own injury -- a broken ankle from one bad fall just weeks before graduation -- had ended her professional dance career before it even started. “When I broke my ankle and couldn’t dance, I thought my life was over. It gets easier over time.”

  The waitress brought out their food, as Mason kept his eyes fixed on Emory, listening intently, happy she was opening up. Maybe she’s not going to go off on me. It dawned on him how similar their lives were: two driven athletes with career-threatening injuries. And worse for Emory -- her career never even started.

  Mason picked at his food, moving it around the plate with his fork. “Don’t you like your food?” she asked.

  “It’s great. I was just remembering when you got hurt. Did you know I tried to visit you?” Even though Mason was already involved with Alexis, he did try to see Emory in the hospital, hoping that because her career was over, she would follow him to the NFL. How fucking stupid. It was just as well she refused to see me.

  “I knew you came.” Emory smiled. “I told Wesley to kick your ass!”

  Mason nearly choked on his food, laughing. Emory told him about Wesley’s studio, her part-time teaching, and their living arrangement.

  “I bet the kids love you,” Mason said.

  “I love them.”

  Mason decided since Emory twice tried to pry into his personal life, he’d do the same, but didn’t want to be too obvious. “Do people think it’s weird that you and Wesley live together?”

  “Not really.”

  “I mean, doesn’t everyone assume you’re a couple?”

  “W
ell, since Wesley has a boyfriend, I should hope not. That would make me a very loose woman,” Emory said, shooting a warning look to Mason, “which we both know I’m not.” She refused to be a quick fling during his short time in Charlotte. “But I just adore Tomás. He makes Wesley happy. He’s a fabulous artist, and most important to me, a great cook. They’ve been together about a year.”

  Mason’s subtle approach fell flat, learning nothing except some details about Wesley’s love life with some strange guy named Tomás -- all of which he never wanted to think about, ever. He decided to cut to the chase. “So Wesley has a boyfriend, how about you?”

  Trying to keep her face from blushing, Emory couldn’t believe he’d have the balls to ask her such a personal question. She considered lying, not wanting to appear lonely, desperate, or available, but decided to be honest. She had other secrets to keep. “No.”

  “Ever married?” he quickly asked.

  Emory pursed her lips. What the hell? What business is it of his? “No.” She needed to seize control of the conversation, bothered he now knew her history, but hadn’t come clean about his own. She had questions to ask but wasn’t sure she was prepared to hear the answers. “You haven’t talked much about Alexis. Do you two have kids?”

  Mason took a sip of water, wishing he had one of Clive’s doubles, knowing he couldn’t skirt the issue any longer. “No kids, and we’re getting a divorce.”

  Emory wasn’t prepared for that answer; it hit her like an atomic bomb exploding in a quiet neighborhood. She took a drink of water, trying to hide her surprise behind the glass, then stared at her food, gripping her fork tightly, now worried he was looking for more than a tour of Freedom Park and lunch, but also a rebound to ease his broken heart. “I’m sorry to hear that. I know divorce was never an option for you.”

  “It’s for the best. She loved the NFL player, not me. When the arm went, so did she.”

  Emory appreciated his honesty, and couldn’t contain her emotions any longer. “She always was a bitch.”

  Mason smiled broadly and nodded in agreement. There’s my sassy, angel-faced girl. Mason always loved how strong and tough Emory was.

  They cleaned their plates, and the waitress returned to clear the table, leaving the check. Emory grabbed it quickly, and whipped out her credit card, wanting to leave no doubt that this had been nothing more than a meeting -- an appointment. Mason began to object, but she insisted. “My city, my treat.”

  They left the restaurant and walked back to her car, Emory feeling a pull towards Mason she thought had long vanished. It made her shiver, and in one swift move, Mason took off his leather jacket and placed it around her, his fingers grazing her neck, as he pushed her ponytail aside. A familiar pulse of electricity shot through her body, and her mind betrayed her, thinking back to what he could do with just his fingers.

  Mason eyed her with amusement, seeing she was biting her lower lip, wondering if that still meant the same thing as it did in college. She’s thinking about sex! Hopeful, he reached over and placed his hand on her hip, pulling her towards him, an arm around her lower back and his nose to the top of her head, breathing in her scent, still fitting perfectly in his arms. This is more like it. Emory nestled her head in his chest and placed her arms around the middle of his back, melting into his body. Her fingers traced the outline of his muscles, and she felt a tear come into her eye, as Mason’s phone then vibrated in his pocket.

  She pulled away quickly like she was caught with her hand in a cookie jar. He pulled out his phone and saw it was Steven. “I’m sorry. I need to get this. It will just take a minute.” He answered the phone and told his brother to hold on.

  Emory felt the urge to flee, removing his jacket. “I should be going anyway. It was nice catching up. Good luck with everything.”

  She opened her car door, and he mouthed, “Don’t go.”

  Mason turned and walked a few steps away to talk. “Bro, you have the worst fucking timing.”

  “What’s up?” Steven asked, following Olivia around a baby store with an overflowing shopping cart.

  The car door closed, and Mason turned back around, seeing Emory drive away. “Shit! She’s gone.”

  “Who’s gone?” Steven asked. “Mason, what are you talking about?”

  Why would she just leave?

  “What the hell is going on?” Steven barked, Olivia turning to her husband and placing a finger over her mouth.

  “Huh?” Mason asked.

  “Huh?” Steven mocked, then whispered through gritted teeth, “Did you blow off Seattle for a fucking woman? I know you haven’t gotten laid in a while, but this is fucking ridiculous. Who is she?”

  He watched Emory’s car slip further and further away. “Em. . . .”

  Steven stopped the cart. “As in Emory Claire?”

  “Yeah.”

  A slow smile came across Steven’s face. “Now it makes sense, you staying in Charlotte.”

  Mason quickly brought Steven up to speed on Emory. He was happy for Mason but worried his brother’s mind was too far gone to focus on getting a new contract. Steven relayed the travel plans for Seattle, and before hanging up, gave out his last instruction. “Don’t fuck this up again.”

  I just did.

  * * *

  Emory drove home with tears streaming down her cheeks, feeling she’d embarrassed herself. Everything she’d suppressed for six years had just bubbled up to the surface. What the hell was that?She tried to convince herself Mason would be in Seattle in a few days, so there was no point getting carried away. You know he only wants one thing anyway.

  Emory arrived back at the apartment to find Wesley and Tomás hanging out in the kitchen. They saw her red cheeks and runny nose, and that she was shaking. They rushed to her side, unloading the camera equipment from her arms, Wesley leading Emory to the den sofa. Tomás ran to the refrigerator to fetch her a water bottle and snack, believing he could solve any problem through food.

  Emory sat down and pulled her legs to her chest, sobbing. Wesley sat next to her and took off her boots, rubbing her feet. Tomás brought water and some pretzels, placing them on the coffee table, then walked a few feet away to give Emory her space. The men exchanged a worried look.

  “What did that shit head do this time?” Wesley asked.

  “Nothing, nothing,” she cried. “I don’t want to talk about him.”

  “OK, we don’t have to right now,” Wesley said, pointing to the food and water. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

  “No, I’m just. . . .” Emory couldn’t complete the thought, lifting her hands to her face to hide her tears.

  “Tell me what happened, honey.”

  “Nothing. Nothing happened. He’s getting divorced.”

  Wesley raised his eyebrows. “And?” Emory shook her head, without any answers or explanations for her emotions. Tomás motioned to Wesley to offer her the food again, and Wesley gave him a snide look, then turned back to Emory.

  “Why don’t you go take a hot bath and lay down for a little while. You’ll feel better.” Emory nodded and rose slowly, walking to her room.

  When the door closed, Tomás asked, “What was that all about? She probably should have eaten something.”

  Wesley rolled his eyes. “Will you stop with the food? Isn’t it obvious? She’s still in love with him.”

  * * *

  A few hours later, Emory woke to her phone ringing but didn’t answer. She saw several missed calls, all from the same number. Eric! Her heart sank, hoping they were from Mason, but she could only blame herself. You left this time.

  Wesley entered her room and sat down on her bed. “Feeling any better?”

  “A little,” she said, “but Eric has called several times. I can’t deal with him right now. I’ll call him back in a few days.”

  “Good. Especially because tonight, we’re going out.”

  “Where?”

  “To the nightclub where Tomás has been painting that mural.”

  “The unveil
ing is tonight?”

  “Yep, and you are coming to celebrate with us.” Wesley smiled mischievously and gave her a wink. “Put on something hot.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  An hour later, they were in a a high-end, two-story nightclub welcoming Charlotte’s finest art patrons, there to see the unveiling of Tomás’ mural, an homage to the history of North Carolina. Tomás was a self-taught artist, having never received any formal training, but his talent and creativity were second to none, specifically chosen to paint the mural. He spent the evening receiving congratulations from one patron after another. Wesley and Emory passed the time together, drinking and laughing, though she sensed he was distracted in some way, his eyes scanning the crowd as a jazz band set up to perform.

  Wesley caught the attention of someone on the second floor. “Damn, I forgot I have these special passes to the VIP section upstairs.” He whipped them out of his pocket. “Want to go check it out?” Emory nodded excitedly, then walked towards the stairs together, arm in arm, flashing their passes to an attendant, and proceeded up. Emory got to the top step, and her mouth dropped. At a table on the other side of the room, in gray, pinstripe slacks and a white shirt with the top button undone, Mason sat alone.

  “You’re welcome,” Wesley whispered.

  “Wesley Charles Henderson, what did you do?” She dragged him a few steps down.

  “Helping you out. You obviously still care for him.”

  Emory poked him in the chest. “So what’s he doing here?”

  “He showed up at the studio today while you were napping.”

  “What?” Emory asked, shocked.