The General Manager couldn’t afford to have this happen again. His job was on the line. He needed a proven quarterback who could enter a game in a pinch and keep the team afloat if the starter went down. This type of player -- the journeyman quarterback with proven ability and some fuel left in the tank -- was always in short supply. Quarterbacks in the NFL typically were either very good -- the starters and franchise players -- or not very good at all -- untrustworthy rookies, draft busts, or over-the-hill veterans. The journeyman quarterback was in a category all his own.
When the season ended, the General Manager targeted Mason as a possible back-up. He compiled binders on Mason’s career, his five-year stint in the NFL marked by occasional highs and lows. He started some games and played well, then played poorly in others. In other games, he came off the bench to rally the team to victory, but sometimes he entered a bad game and made it even worse. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason why Mason played well at times and poorly other times. But he was experienced and had the potential to carry a team for a few games, seemingly what the Seahawks needed. His arm was a concern, though. The General Manager didn’t want to substitute an unproven rookie with an uncertain arm. It’s why he insisted on a thorough medical examination, including an MRI.
Steven and Mason sat across a large conference room table from the General Manager and Head Coach. The General Manager held the medical assessment in his hand. It was full of uncertainty, the doctors not knowing whether the joint was healing properly and whether Mason’s arm strength would ever return. It was not the news the General Manager had hoped for, but Mason perhaps could still fit in his plans, though at a reduced price.
The General Manager got straight to the point. “We have real concerns about Mason’s arm.” He held up the paperwork and slid it across the table to Steven, who reviewed them, then whispered something to Mason, signaling he had things under control.
“We don’t,” Steven replied firmly, looking the General Manager straight in the eye.
“Of course you’re going to say that. All agents say that.”
Steven smiled and leaned forward. “So what are we doing here?” Mason looked out the window, raining again.
“Well, we are interested in Mason, but concerned.”
“Of course you’re interested. You flew us out here. Nice hotel. You need a dependable quarterback. Mason fits the bill. There is no one else on the market like him.”
“Right, no one in a sling.” The General Manager paused, letting that sink in. “And he’s been a bit up and down in the past.” Mason turned his eyes from the window and locked onto him. I left Emory in Charlotte for this shit.
“Maybe you should draft another rookie in April?” Steven suggested. “That worked out real well for you last season.”
The Head Coach rolled his eyes, having heard enough. “Mason, I don’t like all this bullshit talk. You and I like football. I think you are a real good quarterback with a lot of potential. I followed you in college and in the NFL. We’d like you to be a part of the team. We wouldn’t have flown you out here otherwise.”
“That’s nice to hear, Coach,” Mason replied. “Thanks.”
“That doesn’t mean we don’t have concerns, of course,” the Head Coach said, the General Manager nodding in agreement.
“I can tell you, Coach, no one is going to work harder than me to come back from this and play well for you.”
“And he will,” Steven added.
“But it’s not just the shoulder,” the General Manager said. “We know you recently separated from your wife. Presumably going to get a divorce. That kind of instability at home can bleed over into the locker room, even onto the field.”
Mason’s eyes turned fire red, and he clenched his jaw. I’d like to make you bleed, asshole! “Like my shoulder, I’m working through that, too,” he said, biting his tongue.
“You certainly have come prepared,” Steven said, “and we’ve come prepared, too.”
“I’m not surprised,” the General Manager said. “I’d expect nothing less from an agent, especially one who has a brother for a client.”
“The fact is that we’ve already received offers from two teams. Just this past week. Substantial offers over several years,” Steven bluffed. “They don’t share your concerns. Not at all. They are planning on Mason starting next year.”
Mason had always known his brother to be a terrible liar. Steven could never get away with anything with Olivia or their mother. But Mason saw that Steven, as a lawyer and agent in a conference room, could take his lies to a different level. He was a professional liar, saving his best lies for business.
“Well, that is certainly good for you,” the General Manager said to Mason, then turned to Steven. “Who are these teams?”
“You know we’ve been talking to the Panthers. I’m keeping the other one close to the vest. If Mason signs with that other team this week, you’ll find out on the news. Or it may be the Panthers. I don’t know. And I don’t really care.” Mason was beyond impressed now; he was stunned. Steven was a master of bullshit -- a true artist -- firing off world class lies. “We’ll go where the money is, and where the best fit for Mason is. But if you keep dicking around, wasting our time, you’re not even going to be in the game. You’ll be drafting another rookie in April.”
The General Manager adjusted his body in his chair, and the Head Coach made clear he’d heard enough. “Give us a chance to talk, and we’ll be in touch. OK?”
“That sounds fine,” Steven replied. “We promised the other teams we’d get back to them the day after tomorrow.”
* * *
Emory didn’t feel like cooking dinner and also didn’t feel like going out to pick up something. She thought about ordering a meat-lovers pizza for delivery, but chose instead to call Tomás, inviting him to cook dinner for Wesley, still teaching downstairs. She also wanted Tomás’ help to convince Wesley to attend his sister’s wedding. Tomás agreed to come over, and within thirty minutes, was at the apartment carrying a bag of ingredients to make Wesley’s favorite dish, shrimp pasta. Emory greeted him with a glass of wine and took the bag to the kitchen. She boiled water and poured a cup of heavy cream. Tomás deveined two pounds of shrimp and chopped fresh garlic and shallots. When the water began bubbling, she dropped in angel hair pasta.
As they cooked, they discussed a strategy for Wesley. Tomás wondered whether he simply shouldn’t attend the wedding with Wesley -- perhaps Emory should go with him, which could make Wesley more comfortable in front of his family. Emory considered the idea but suggested it would do more harm than good for Wesley to pretend to be someone he’s not. They talked some more, and as they finished the dish, Emory told Tomás the details of her plan, Tomás keeping the dish on very low heat.
“Damn, it smells good in here!” Wesley walked through the door. “You cooking, Emory?” He reached the kitchen and saw Tomás and Emory plating shrimp pasta, knowing exactly what they were up to. “You two think you are so sly.” Wesley put his nose down to the frying pan and took in the delicious aroma of garlic and shrimp and shallots.
“Oh, come on, Wesley. Don’t get all cranky,” Emory said. “We made your favorite.” They brought the plates to the table and sat down.
“I’m not ruining a wedding.” Wesley lifted his head from the pan.
“Oh, shut up, sit down, and eat,” she scolded, “before you ruin everyone’s appetite.”
Wesley scooted to the table. “This looks great, and I’m starving. Thanks you guys.” He pecked Tomás and Emory both on the cheek. Tomás offered a quick prayer of thanks, and they dug in. There was silence all around, except for the clang of forks against the plates, and the occasional slurp of a noodle and sip of wine. Tomás spoke first, telling them about a new project in a five star hotel, where he was tapped to create a contemporary painting for its opening in a few short weeks. Wesley offered a toast -- to his new project and exquisite meal. But Tomás deflected all praise, giving his assistant full credit.
Emory told them about her long day -- four photo shoots in three different locations, and one cranky baby who threw up on her. She found time to squeeze in an occasional text with Mason, who was bothered by the tone of the Seahawks meeting -- he didn’t like to be doubted and hated having his divorce thrown in his face. Wesley said that was good news -- it was unlikely Mason would end up there -- but Emory couldn’t help thinking it was still a possibility. How would that work?
Towards the end of dinner, Emory gave a nod to Tomás that it was time to execute her plan. He agreed, but was nervous, hating even the possibility of conflict. Emory handed the phone to Wesley, who looked at her curiously, then looked over at Tomás. Emory again nodded to Tomás, urging him to proceed.
“We think it’s time you call your parents,” he said.
“What?” Wesley cried.
“We think it would be for the best.”
“Oh, you do?” Wesley looked at both of them. “They disowned me!”
Tomás, unsure what to say next, looked to Emory for help, and Wesley saw the exchange. “Tomás, why are you looking at her?”
“Well,” Emory started softly, “remember at the club the other night when I told you I would get you back?”
“Yes.”
“It’s payback time now.” Wesley had no idea what was going on. “I had a long conversation with your mom this afternoon, and. . . .”
“You did what?” Wesley narrowed his eyes at Emory and turned to Tomás. “Did you know about this shit?”
“Not at the time,” Tomás replied softly. “I just found out while we were cooking.”
Wesley turned his venom back to Emory. “This is crossing the line, girl. Way over the fucking line! Obliterating the fucking line! How could you do that?”
Emory calmly placed her hand on his. “I did it because I love you, and guess what, so does your mother.”
“Give me a fucking break.” Wesley pulled his hand away.
“She said it.”
“She loves me so much, she never calls.”
“She wants to.”
Emory explained that his mother felt terrible about how she and his father had treated Wesley, and desperately wanted forgiveness, but felt in no position to ask for it. Nor did she think she deserved it. She assumed after the way she behaved, Wesley never wanted to talk to her again, and so she never called. She cried the whole time on the phone, saying how much she loved and missed her son, asking that Wesley call whenever he was ready.
Wesley took a deep breath. “And my father?”
Emory shook her head and looked down at the table, again offering the phone to Wesley. “Drink a little more wine, then call her.”
Wesley took a big gulp, then picked up the phone. “I’m still very pissed at you.”
Emory gave Wesley a hug and left for her room. Tomás could take it from here.
* * *
Emory closed her bedroom door and checked her phone -- nothing from Mason. But there were multiple texts from Eric, begging for her to call.I guess Molly sucked in bed. She walked to her bathroom and drew a bath, pouring in some bubbles, easing herself into the warm water, resting her head on the back of the bathtub. The warm water relaxed her muscles but could do nothing for her racing mind. Should I bring up the possibility of Seattle? Should I move there, and give up my photography business in Charlotte? Would he dump me again if I didn’t? She dunked her head in the water, hoping it would clear her mind. She heard her phone ring and quickly jumped out of the tub, bubbles and water dripping from her body. She raced to her bedroom for her phone, praying it was Mason.
“You sound a little out of breath. What were you doing?” Mason kicked off his shoes and reclined on his hotel bed.
“I was taking a bath.” Emory returned to the bathroom for a towel.
“So you’re telling me you’re naked and wet?”
“It seems I’m always wet with you.”
“Is that so, baby?” Mason smiled broadly.
Emory flopped down on her bed. “I was talking about the rainwater and the barbecue sauce.”
“You’re such a tease.”
Sensing his disappointment, she cupped the phone with her hand and lowered her voice. “Since you know I’m naked, why don’t you join me?”
Is she serious? I’ll play along. He tried to unbutton his shirt quickly, but his right shoulder made it difficult. He struggled, quietly cursing his sling and that he was right handed.
Emory heard the groans and muffled curses. “Mason, are you OK?” He didn’t respond, still struggling to remove his sling. She heard straps unbuckling and realized what he was doing. “Daniel Evan Mason, don’t you dare take that sling off!”
Mason froze. “Just undoing my belt buckle, baby.”
“You’re such a liar! You can’t risk your arm for a little phone sex!”
“Well, don’t answer the phone naked then!”
Emory busted out in a huge laugh, and Mason slipped his sling back on. This is going nowhere.
“When do you get the sling off anyway?”
“I see my surgeon on Friday and then start physical therapy. Maybe we can start the physical therapy tonight?”
“If we ever have sex again, we’re going to be together. Not across the country.”
If? Mason sighed. Emory rose from the bed and got a brush in the bathroom. “Want me to come with you Friday?”
“It’s in Atlanta.”
“So?” Emory brushed her hair.
“I know you have work.”
Emory smiled. He’s thinking about my career. Maybe he has changed? “I could move a few things around.”
“That would be great.”
“I suppose it comes with being your, uh. . . .” She stopped brushing her hair, unsure of the right word. I’m not saying girlfriend.
“Yes?” Mason teased.
Friend isn’t right either. “Your phone sex partner.”
“I wish,” he said, then took a risk. You don’t get to be an NFL quarterback without taking some. “How about the love of my life?”
Emory dropped her brush. Did he just say he loved me? A married man? “Slow,” she whispered, believing he’d feel differently if he knew her secret.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Wake up.” Wesley shook Emory’s leg hanging off the bed. She groaned and pulled a pillow over her head, desperate for more sleep. “Wake up!” He urged more forcefully this time, moving the pillow.
She rubbed her eyes, the morning sunlight beaming through her window. “What do you want?”
Wesley sat down on the bed, his face drawn. Emory took one look at him through her sleep-deprived eyes and sensed something was wrong. She rubbed his back, and he began to cry, dropping his head in his hands, his whole body trembling. “Tomás just left me.”
“Oh my God!” Emory threw her arms around him and pulled him close, gripping him tightly. “Why? What happened?”
Wesley sobbed into her shirt. “I couldn’t do it, Em. I just couldn’t bring myself to call her. And Tomás just didn’t get it. He said he couldn’t be with someone who couldn’t face his own family being proud of who he was.”
Emory patted his head and ran her fingers through his hair. “I can’t believe Tomás said that.”
Wesley looked up from her shirt, tears flowing. “He thinks I’m embarrassed by him. He said to call him when I decided to really come out.” He buried his head again.
“I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have called your mother. I shouldn’t have put you under that pressure.”
“I know you were just trying to help. But I’m just not ready,” Wesley said, trying to gather himself. “Why can’t Tomás just understand that?”
“He will. He loves you.” Wesley shrugged his shoulders, not so sure anymore. His boyfriend left when Wesley needed him most. “What can I do to help?”
“Can you teach for me later today? I decided to go visit my sister.”
“Of course, I’ll cover it.”
“Thanks. I’m leaving now.” He pointed to his suitcase on the floor by her bed. “Should be in Asheville before lunch. I’ll be back for classes tomorrow afternoon.”
* * *
A young teenager looked at the clock in the viewing area, bored waiting for his little sister to finish Emory’s class. He stole an occasional glance at Mason, then whispered something to his mother. He did this several times, his mother offering encouragement, but he was nervous. Mason noticed the boy, hoping he would find the courage to come over.
Mason, too, looked at the clock, exhausted from the long flight and time change. The time dragged. He’d waited all day to hold Emory -- to feel her soft skin, touch her flowing hair, and kiss her sweet lips. He’d missed everything about her, and now all that remained between him and her were a dozen little ballerinas. Mason watched her work with them. She had their full attention, demonstrating certain steps and twirling them around. It seemed she’d surrounded herself, surprisingly enough, with children and babies. Had she always been so good with them? Emory caught his gaze through the window and gave him a shy smile. He smiled back, then looked again at the clock on the wall.
The boy whispered again to his mother, seemingly more determined this time. The mother pulled a pen and scrap of paper from her purse and handed them to her son. The boy swallowed hard and took a few careful steps towards Mason. “Excuse me, sir?”
Mason offered a huge smile. “Hey.”
“Are you Daniel Mason?”
“Sure am.”
“Could I get your autograph, please?”
“Of course.” The boy handed Mason the pen and paper and looked back to his mother, his face beaming. Mason bent down on one knee to scribble his name. “Do you play football?”
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