First Position

by Prescott Lane

  As they came upon the hotel, his phone rang. “So what did Dr. Lewis say?” Steven asked.

  “It’s healing -- slowly. I need to do some therapy and see a specialist in Charlotte. Still can’t throw.”

  “He’s looking out for you. Being careful. You need to do what he says.”

  “Whatever,” Mason said, opening the hotel door for Emory. “When are you and Olivia coming to Charlotte?”

  “Sunday late afternoon, and leaving Monday evening after the press conference.”

  “Cool, that works. Looking forward to seeing Olivia, and having her meet Emory.” She walked into a gift shop near the hotel entrance.

  “By the way, I told Mom about the Panthers.” Steven cleared his throat. “She’s pretty disappointed you didn’t call her yourself.”

  Mason looked at Emory through the gift shop window. He already had his hands full starting over with her and ending his relationship with Alexis. He couldn’t deal with yet another woman. “I know I should call her,” Mason said, “but all she wants to talk about is Alexis, and hoping we get back together, which is not happening. I just can’t deal with that shit right now. You didn’t tell her about Em, did you?”

  “Of course not, but she suspects something is up.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. I think she just does. She was telling me the other day she hoped you took the best deal out there because it could be your last.” Mason ran his fingers through his hair. “So you need to deal with Mom. I’m not getting in the middle of any more of your shit.”

  * * *

  Emory rarely spent more than fifteen minutes getting herself ready for a night out. She didn’t need to. She’d been blessed with porcelain skin and rose-colored cheeks and lips. She typically used only a dash of lip gloss and mascara, and on rare occasions, went for some eye liner. That was all she ever needed. But on this night, she took some extra time to prepare. Perhaps it was the thrill of being in a different city, or a new energy because Mason’s sling was off. She wasn’t entirely sure and didn’t care. She was just excited to go out and wanted to make sure she looked her absolute best for whatever Mason had planned. She wondered if it was maybe another ballet, or Stone Mountain, or a dance club, or just a romantic dinner on Peachtree Street. She had no idea, which made it difficult to know what to wear, and Mason hadn’t given her a single hint.

  She emerged from the hotel bathroom in a gray pencil skirt with a white silk top, wearing the black stilettos he’d bought for her. She had a smokey eye and nude lip, and her blonde hair, curled loosely, cascaded down her shoulders.

  Mason shut off the television and stood up, wearing a blue, buttoned-down shirt and khaki dress pants. “You look fantastic!”

  “Is this OK?” she asked nervously and made a slow twirl.

  “Absolutely,” he said, sizing her up. Black thong?

  “Can you tell me what we’re doing now?”

  Mason winked at her. “We’re not leaving the hotel.”

  “What? Why did I get all dressed up?”

  “I didn’t say we were staying in the room, but we could just that, if you want.”

  Emory smirked at him. “Please tell me what we are doing.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Emory followed Mason out of the room and down to the lobby, eyeing him curiously. In the hotel? Mason sensed he had Emory all confused, enjoying teasing her. They walked through the huge lobby holding hands, through various corridors branching out from the main area. Emory looked around, all turned around, unsure where they were going and what was going on. She loved Mason’s surprises but didn’t like to give up control -- especially after a long day when she was hungry.

  Mason turned a final corner towards an upscale steakhouse. “I thought we could have an early dinner.”

  She kissed him on the cheek. “And after dinner?”

  “One thing at a time,” he said cautiously, opening the door, Emory noticing his change in tone.

  A young hostess politely greeted them. Mason informed her they had a reservation, then she scanned some papers on her podium. “Yes, party of three.”

  “That’s right,” Mason replied.

  The hostess responded quickly. “The other guest is already here. Please follow me.”

  Emory stared up at Mason, confused again. “Who’s the third wheel?” He didn’t answer her, relishing yet another tease and also nervous the moment was upon them. He swallowed hard, as the hostess led them through the foyer, around a corner, and into a large dimly-lit room, with mahogany walls and tables and leather chairs, perfectly polished silverware and huge steak knives and candlelight on each table.

  Emory saw the third wheel across the room, sitting alone at a table by a window. She walked quickly to the table, leaving the hostess and Mason behind. John Claire stood up, his daughter leaping into his arms. “Daddy!”

  Mason and the hostess reached the table but stood back, giving Emory and her father some space. The hostess advised Mason their server would be with them shortly, then left.

  “Oh my God, what are you doing here?” Emory stepped back to look at him, his strong body, as usual, appearing in good health. John gave a nod to Mason, still a safe distance away. “You called my dad?” Emory looked at Mason in shock.

  “Yes.” Mason said, gingerly approaching. He hadn’t seen John in years and wasn’t sure what to expect from him. But he knew if he was ever to work out his past and go forward with Emory, he had to smooth things over with John. It would take time. Dinner was only a small first step.

  Emory raised her eyebrows. “That must have been an interesting phone call?”

  “There were a lot of apologies from me. A bit of cursing by your dad, which I completely understood.”

  “I’d say so,” Emory said, kissing her dad on the cheek.

  Mason gave John an awkward smile, then extended his hand. John shook it, but not without returning a mildly disapproving look. John appreciated the invite but wasn’t about to let Mason off easily. He had hurt his baby girl -- breaking up with her and quickly getting with Alexis -- to the point that Emory fled to Europe after graduation, causing John to miss out on years of his daughter’s life. Mason, in truth, had missed John as well. They’d spent hours talking football, watching film, running plays in John’s backyard, and dreaming about the NFL draft. He filled a significant void in Mason’s life after his own father left, even accompanying Mason to a father-son awards dinner in college. Mason had missed that relationship.

  Mason pulled out a chair for Emory and sat down next to her, with John on the other side of the table. Emory sensed the tension coming from her father and could feel the anxiety dripping from Mason himself. She held Mason’s hand, feeling his sweaty palm, and rested it on the table. Dad must have really threatened him.

  The server handed them menus, telling them about the dinner specials. After the server left, Emory told her father about her job and Wesley, and his recent break-up with Tomás, and John shared with her some more ideas about his new defensive scheme. Mason occasionally interjected with a short comment, but for the most part, just listened to them talk, trying to relax himself. I need to settle into the game. He tried to reassure himself the evening was going better than expected.

  He found himself getting a bit more comfortable and stretched his arm out behind Emory, wrapping his hand around her shoulder. John stopped talking to his daughter and glared at Mason’s hand, then into his eyes. Mason quickly withdrew his hand and took a drink of water, swallowing hard. Emory kicked her father under the table, eyeing him to calm down and engage Mason in polite conversation. The server returned to take their orders, spelling John for the moment. Emory ordered a cowboy ribeye, and sides of onion rings and garlic mashed potatoes for all of them to share. Her father beamed, taking pride in her aggressive order and seemingly endless appetite. The men both ordered steak as well. When the orders were finished and the server left, John decided to try to make his daughter happy.

  “Mason,” he
said, “that was one helluva hit you took.” Emory nodded her approval to her father. “How’s the shoulder?”

  “It’s coming along.” Mason appreciated John’s concern, even if he was faking it. “The doctor said I can’t throw just yet. Have to do some PT first. Thanks for asking.”

  “Well that’s good to hear,” John replied. “Must be nice to have your sling off, too.”

  “It really is. You forget how important both hands and arms are, until you lose one.”

  “As long as you just use your hands on the field and not on my daughter, we’ll be fine.” Mason responded with a nervous laugh, and Emory flashed her father a side-eye. Mason was an enormous presence -- a tall, stout NFL player -- but upon hearing those words, and the seriousness in John’s voice, he felt like a young, pimple-faced teen showing up to take a girl to their first school dance, and being warned by her father, at threat of death, not to get into trouble or miss curfew. But Mason wasn’t exactly sure whether John was serious or just jerking his chain. Mason took another drink. “Of course, I’m only kidding,” John said with a crooked grin.

  Mason exhaled and showed both sides of his hands. “I promise these haven’t been on her.” He patted Emory on the back. “We’re taking things slow.”

  “Yes, we are,” Emory assured her father. “It’s only been a few days, and there’s lots to sort out.”

  “I’d have to agree,” John said, staring daggers at Mason. “If you hurt my daughter again, I’ll fuck up both of your arms. And then I’ll kill you slowly. I’m not kidding about that.”

  “Daddy? I mean, come on . . . .”

  “Did I say something wrong?” John asked.

  “No, it’s OK.” Mason patted Emory’s hand. “He told me as much on the phone, and we came to an understanding.”

  Mason was used to coaches becoming unhinged -- he knew all coaches, deep down, were type-A crazy people, working long hours with little sleep under incredible pressure, practically living in their offices. They were prone to blow their stack. During their call a few days earlier, John screamed at Mason, like he had just thrown a pick-six in the fourth quarter of a playoff game. John had waited for that moment for six years and held nothing back when Mason called. In all his years of football, Mason had never heard such vitriol from a coach -- or any human being. He could feel John’s rage. Mason half-wondered if John simply had gone senile, perhaps from too little sleep, or too many hours in the Georgia sun, or too much time around snot-nosed high school students believing they knew the first thing about football. Or, maybe the intensity of coaching for so long in the deep South, where football was king, had driven John over the edge. Mason, however, knew deep down it was none of those things. John was the same as ever -- a great guy and a devoted father who, rightfully so, was ultra-protective of his daughter.

  “We did come to an understanding,” John told his daughter. “I just wanted you to hear it, too.”

  “I suppose if my two favorite guys are good, then I am, too.” Emory shrugged her shoulders. “I’m starving. Where’s our food?”

  The three large steaks that arrived, in melted butter on piping hot plates, provided a welcome diversion. So, too, did the potatoes and onion rings, making dinner more relaxed. Mason discussed in general terms his decision to play for the Panthers, and that he looked forward to the press conference Monday in Charlotte. John told many of the same stories Mason had heard years ago, several involving Emory on the sidelines under the Friday night lights, and even recalled some of the elaborate plays he and Mason designed in his backyard.

  All the while, Emory worked on her ribeye. She couldn’t help but eye her father’s filet and Mason’s porterhouse. As the men talked football, she seized the chance to swipe a bite from each of their plates, moving so carefully, like a stealth ninja, they didn’t even notice. Mason and John looked at their plates, seeing their steaks looked slightly smaller, but no idea why.

  Throughout dinner, John saw the attention Mason paid to Emory, the same connection they used to have -- the tenderness, the thoughtfulness, the love -- and wondered how it was even possible. Emory is more forgiving than me. John knew all about that connection; he’d seen it in his wife’s eyes when she looked at him. But that was a long time ago. He missed it -- a look only shared between soul mates. He was happy to see the look again, this time from his daughter. I don’t want her to lose it. She looks so much like her mother.

  Mason picked up the check, and when they left the restaurant, he gave Emory and her father some space, walking outside to have the valet pull John’s car around. Mason saw Emory hug her father for a long time in the lobby.

  “I love you, Daddy. Thanks for playing nice -- for the most part.”

  “I’m doing my best. You look very happy. He better keep you that way this time.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Mason and Emory returned to the suite and plopped down on the bed fully dressed, gazing at each other, their heads resting on soft pillows. Emory played with Mason’s thick, brown hair, as he closed his eyes, thankful he’d survived dinner.

  “It’s so nice just to relax in this great room with you,” she said.

  “I’m actually getting a little tired of hotels and living out of a suitcase. When we get back, I think I’m going to look at houses.”

  “You are? Well, good for you,” she said, choosing her words carefully.

  “Want to come with me?”

  “Uh, I’m not sure because . . . .” Mason put up his hand for her to stop, not wanting her to stammer or be uncomfortable, regretting he had brought it up.No sex yet, but you bring up moving in together? Fucking idiot. “Maybe I’ll just rent a condo for a few months. Either way, I’ll be close by.” Emory gave an apologetic smile, and he changed the subject. “I’ve been wondering something. You told Eric you wanted to be married before you had sex again. Is that true for us?”

  “Houses,” she teased, “and now are you thinking about marrying me?”

  Of course! “No, I mean, um, no, I mean, not now. I guess I should at least get divorced first.”

  “Probably so. Plus, it’s only been a week.”

  Mason looked down. I’ll just be honest. “I’m thinking about sex.”

  “Of course you are. I do, too, sometimes. I didn’t sleep with Eric for a lot of reasons, and none of them apply to us.” She paused for a moment, smiling. “You know, I like the sound of that -- ‘us.’”

  “Me too.”

  She grabbed his hand. “Look, I’m not having sex with you because we only just found each other again, and I want to get things right this time.”I also haven’t been honest with you. “And you’re still married.”

  Mason leaned over her and placed his hand on her cheek. “It’s over with Alexis. You know that, right?” Emory nodded. “I waited for you once before, and I’ll wait again.”

  His phone rang.Ring! “Shit, it’s my mother!”

  “Kathleen!” Emory shivered. Ring! “Lots of parent issues tonight.”

  Ring! Mason rubbed his eyes. “I don’t want to deal with this now.”

  “Go ahead and answer. I’ll go soak in the tub.” Ring!

  Mason patted her booty, as Emory walked into the bathroom. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Mason, honey, I haven’t heard from you.” Kathleen sat on her front porch, sipping a glass of wine in the Texas heat.

  “It’s been pretty crazy lately,” Mason said weakly and got up from the bed.

  “I had to hear from Steven about the new contract.”

  Mason rolled his eyes. “Sorry, Mom. I should’ve called.” His mother was not a woman to be ignored or forgotten, particularly by her boys she’d raised on her own. The least Mason could do was keep her apprised of significant events in his life. Mason took a seat on the sofa in the living room, knowing this wasn’t going to be easy. He turned on the television.

  “How are you, baby?” she asked, a twinge of concern in her voice.

  “I’m fine, Mom.” Mason flipped between channels, hoping
to find something interesting to keep his attention and distract from his mother.

  “You sound different,” she said, taking a sip of wine.

  “Maybe it’s because I got my sling off today?”

  “You did? Why didn’t you tell me that either?”

  Mason raced through more channels. “I just did.” Is anything on TV?

  “OK, dear.” Kathleen twirled the wine in her glass. “Have you talked to Alexis?” She always had an affinity for Alexis, her beauty and bubbly persona, and was struck by how well Alexis and Mason photographed together and worked a room. As far as Kathleen was concerned, they were right out of central casting -- a perfect fit for each other.

  “No, Mom. I haven’t talked to Alexis, and I don’t want to.” He paused his channel surfing on a nature show, where a mama bear was attempting to protect her cubs from a ferocious mountain lion. The irony.

  “Dear, do you think there’s any way for the two of you to work it out?”

  “No, Mom, I don’t. I’ve told you that so many times before.” Mason loved his mother, but she had no idea what a successful marriage looked like.

  “But if you don’t talk to her, then how do you know?”

  “Mom, the fact is -- as I’ve told you before -- I don’t love her.” Mason watched the eager mountain lion circling the cubs, preparing to pounce, the mama bear showing her teeth. “I never did. Not much else to say.”

  “Marriage isn’t always about love, Son. It’s a contract. You should be familiar with those. It’s a deal between two people for a common goal. For some people it’s children, and for others, it’s a career.”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “Dammit, Mom, I just . . . .”