by Max Monroe
“Den.”
He swung a dramatic arm and made big eyes at me. “Well? What are you waiting for? Lead the way into the depths of hell.”
I gave his shoulder a squeeze and released him from my hold, heading down the long hall to the kitchen at the back of the house. It was big and stately with ceiling-high cabinets and tan-and-gold-flecked stone counters, and my mom stood in the center of it, twisting a pie that she’d just pulled out of the oven on a cooling rack.
The air smelled like apples and cinnamon.
Her short, blond bob was perfectly kempt, and a string of pearls fell into the hollow of her neck. She was thin—thinner than necessary, if I was honest—but keeping a trim figure had always been something that was important to her.
When Denver was born, I was already seven years old, and I could still remember the manic desperation with which she’d strived to be skinny again.
When I glanced over my shoulder, Denver was halfway through the doorway of the half bath, already going back on his word.
I scowled, and he jumped back out, pretending he hadn’t been caught.
“Quinn,” my mom greeted with a smile, her voice as soft as a vat of Paula Deen’s beloved butter.
“Hey, Mom,” I responded, rounding the island to pull her tiny body into my arms.
She hugged me demurely—formally, even—but for her, that was about as warm as her affection got. She didn’t scream or shout her excitement, and she didn’t bury her head in your chest to get a good smell. Her outfit was too prone to wrinkles, and her skin was the same. It was all to be handled with care.
My dad was the opposite, loud and rowdy and tough. He wrestled and shoved his hellos and felt the thing every growing boy needed most was a metaphorical ass-kicking.
Hard workouts, hard labor—anything that drenched your clothes in sweat and brought you to the brink of physical exhaustion.
Not that I ever liked to picture my parents together, but the logistics had always boggled my mind. Her so delicate, and him so…not. And yet, there were two of us, products of their very lovemaking that proved it was, in fact, possible.
As my mom turned back to the oven to put in another pie, I suddenly realized how weird this was. It was only six thirty in the morning, and my mom was fully coiffed and baking pies.
“What’s with the pies?” I asked her, scooting out of the way while she shut the oven door. Denver, silent and stalwart, took a seat on one of the stools at the island and started playing with a cloth napkin off of my mom’s stack.
“The town bake sale is tomorrow. I have twenty-eight more to bake.”
Twenty-eight pies? Holy hell. My eyes nearly bugged out of my head.
“Wow, that’s a lot of pie,” I remarked. A quick glimpse at Denver caught him in the middle of mouthing That’s what he said.
My mom, thankfully, didn’t notice.
“I volunteered you to be the MC when they do the bachelor auction,” she stated, and I shrugged. I never minded town activities. “And make sure to really talk up your brother when he comes up for bid. Bethany Logan has her eye on him, but her mother can barely afford to keep herself in facials. I’d rather Tiffany Lynn.”
Den’s smile was caustic. My chest squeezed. “Mom, maybe Den doesn’t need to be in the auction—” I started just as my father made his entrance. He had on his Boone Hills coaching gear and a pair of khaki shorts, his whistle already around his neck.
He didn’t pause as he pulled me into a rough hug and barked, “Horseshit,” at the same time. “This is a town thing, your mother’s worked hard, and both of you are going to do your part. If it weren’t for your schedule, you’d be up for sale too.”
I opened my mouth to protest again, but Denver cut me off with a hushed command. “Don’t bother, Quinn.”
My parents acted as if he hadn’t even spoken.
My father looked me up and down, and my mom stared blankly at her newest pie. “Get changed,” my dad ordered. “Both of ya. We’ve got tryouts to get to. If you’re not ready in five minutes, your ass can walk.”
If there was one thing that was a certainty in my parents’ home, it was that I wasn’t anyone to them but their son. Even after I’d gone on to win college football championships at Alabama and had been drafted to the Mavericks in the first round, they treated me like they’d always treated me.
I hoped that aspect of our relationship would never change.
It was things like that that kept me grounded, sane, and able to handle the constant spotlight I faced as a professional athlete.
“Beau,” my mom murmured. “Language, please.”
Déjà vu from the boy at the airport made my synapses misfire. By the time I shook off the moment, Den was gone from the kitchen, and my dad was hauling ass for the garage door.
I moved forward, gave my mom a quick kiss on the cheek, and made a run for my room.
Beau Bailey’s declarations were legendary. If I wasn’t there in five minutes, I would, indeed, be walking to the high school. And then when I got there, inevitably late, I’d have to run sprints to pay for it.
The instant I stepped into my childhood bedroom, I was hit with the comforting sense of nostalgia. My mother still hadn’t changed a single thing. It was like stepping into a time machine, everything just the way I’d left it when I was just an eighteen-year-old kid ready to find his place in the world and heading off to college.
Bag unzipped, I rummaged through it quickly, looking for my athletic shorts and a clean T-shirt.
My phone lay on the bed, forlorn.
I wonder if I have time to text Catharine really quickly?
I paused, just about to do it, when Denver’s knock sounded on my door. “Fucking hustle,” he whisper-yelled. “I’m not walking, and I’m not riding alone with Gary Goodtimes either.”
His face was pinched in pure misery, and any thought of delaying getting ready flew out of my mind. I couldn’t do that to him.
Finally finding what I was looking for, I pulled the shirt and shorts out of my bag and pushed my cargo shorts down off my hips. Denver leaned in my doorway watching, so with practiced ease, I stepped out with one foot and swung my discarded shorts up and into his face with the other.
“Quinn!” he yelled as I laughed, pulling on my other shorts and jamming my feet into my tennis shoes—as a Southerner, tennis shoes are what my northern friends call sneakers, whether they’re used for tennis or not. Hand between my shoulder blades, I reached back and pulled my shirt over my head, grabbed my deodorant to roll on a few strokes, and replaced it with my fresh T-shirt.
Denver straightened from my door when I made it to him.
“Boys!” my dad yelled from downstairs. “Thirty seconds.”
Neither of us said anything as we took off down the stairs at a run.
Denver worked with a couple of the quarterback prospects while I ran the offensive line through some drills with my dad.
Keeping them separated eased the tension in Denver’s shoulders and gave him the freedom to actually make a difference in some of these young guys’ training. Under the watchful eye of my dad, he never played his best. I, however, thrived under Beau’s brand of pressure.
Who knew why, but when he yelled and cursed and chased after me with a clipboard, it fed the monster inside me that knew it was better than that, better than him, better than any opponent in the game.
Originally, he’d wanted to run full game drills, but I wasn’t really into it. I didn’t think it was all that fair to pit me against a high school defense. I was a fucking professional quarterback, and some of these kids were fourteen years old. I knew what playing against a pro would have been like for me at fourteen, and trust me, it would have been nearly spirit-crippling. But working with the offense on timing was a different animal. It was fun and useful, and when I gave the kids pointers, they lit up inside.
No matter what, the game was always fast, whether at the high school level, college, or beyond, and as players of the game, we were always trying to keep u
p.
“Hut, hut,” I called, willing the ball into my fingers as a young freshman center did his best to do what I’d asked. He had potential, but he needed repetition. Hundreds and hundreds of practice snaps would have his mind throwing to the exact distance I needed without even thinking about it.
Honestly, it was amazing what you could train muscle memory to do with enough practice.
The line scrambled, blocking the pads in front of them with force and persistence. The running back did a sweep behind me where I pretended to hand it off, while both receivers broke off and ran their routes at full speed. I looked up and let it fly, putting the ball where the receiver was supposed to be—unfortunately, not exactly where he was.
As the quarterback, it was my job to put the ball where they were. But I knew my job, and they were still learning theirs. And as receivers, their job was to be where they were supposed to be.
It was essential to the viability of plays, to run them how they were choreographed and make it easier for the guy with the ball—namely, me—to find them.
My dad yelled and screamed, forever the bad cop in his coaching style. But today, I got to be the good guy.
Easy steps crunched in the semi-dry July field grass as I made my way over to the sophomore receiver and grabbed him right in the crease of his neck and shoulder, where I could get to flesh beyond his pads.
“Speed was good, route was accurate, but your timing was off. You gotta pay attention to your yard lines, and you have to have sideline awareness.”
He nodded, his “Yes, sir,” gruff with embarrassment.
I gave him a shake. “Hey,” I challenged. “Get over who I am, and focus on what I’m saying.” His gaze shifted quickly from the ground to my face. “Learn from this, don’t live in it. It was a moment, plain and simple. Even in games, you’re gonna fuck up. It’s how you move on from that, how you fight back against the failure. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” he said again, this time, with confidence.
I nodded. “Let’s run it again, then, okay? Know your route,” I coached. “Follow it, trust it. And when the time is right, I’ll put the ball right in your hands. Got it?”
His nod was sharp, and his eyes—they were life.
Sore and sweaty, Den and I climbed out of my dad’s truck and headed for the house in a rush. Den, I suspected, was running from any more time with my father, while I was just running from time.
I’d been focused all day on technique and timing and trying not to fucking roast in the southern Alabama summer sun. They’d all taken an expert level of concentration and a fair number of hours, and now that I was home, I just wanted to shower off and sleep for-fucking-ever. But first, I wanted to find my phone and try to touch base with the woman I’d met on a midnight train.
With Den no more than two steps ahead of me, I lunged toward him, grabbing at his hips to slam him out of the way as we made it to the door.
He fought back, of course, shoving me off of him and pulling the big wooden thing open with ease.
I stumbled but recovered easily, laughing as I yelled, “Den! Hold up, loser! I’m gonna kill you for that!”
“You have to catch me first!” he yelled back from the top of the stairs, already up them after taking them four at a time.
“Cut it out!” my dad yelled as he dropped his bags inside the front door and pushed it closed.
God, sometimes it was good to be home. Even with my dad yelling at us like we were still teenagers hopped up on hormones and testosterone, it felt good to be able to rely on that stability.
Hell, if anything, it probably only egged me on further to let loose and joke around with my baby brother like I’d done for so many years growing up in this house.
“Beau?” my mother called. “Are you home?”
“Yes, Dixie,” he yelled back, his voice a deep boom.
“Wash up, then, and tell the boys. Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.”
Ten minutes. Shit. I guessed sleeping wasn’t going to happen any time soon.
When it came to my mother, her dinner table was like my dad’s truck. You were at it on time, or there’d be hell to pay.
I picked up the pace to my room, hearing Den’s shower turn on as I passed his room, and quickly shut my door behind me.
My phone lay on my bed, exactly where I’d left it that morning. Desperate despite the crunch of time, I picked it up and lit the screen to try to touch base with Catharine. But the picture of Denver and me on my background may as well have had teeth, red bubbles and notices littering the fucking thing like a booby trap.
I had forty missed calls from my publicist and ten threatening texts from Jilly, and the stress of both made my chest get tight.
Determined to get past it, I clicked the button to draft a fresh message when it started ringing in my hands.
Nathan, my publicist, again.
Jesus Christ.
I dropped it like it was on fire and swept some clean clothes from my bag to head for the shower instead.
After dinner, I told myself. Surely, I’d have time after dinner.
Two full days and still no call, text, any sort of contact from him.
Trust me. I’d checked. With the way my senses were attuned to my phone, it might as well have been a bomb waiting to go off inside my pocket.
I kind of hated how consumed my brain was with the guy I’d spent only a few real hours with.
I shouldn’t have been surprised, though.
Quinn Bailey wasn’t some normal, average guy. He was freaking famous, and from what I’d seen on Google, there were hordes of female—and male—fans who professed their undying love to him on a daily basis. Some of them even proposed marriage through social media and blog posts.
But you’re definitely disappointed…
Silently, I reminded myself the lack of contact was just confirmation of what I’d already known the instant I saw a crowd of people standing outside the train station waiting for photo ops and autographs from the man I hadn’t realized was a football superhero.
He was a certified celebrity, and sports fans looked at him as if he were an actual god.
And let’s face it, I was a mere mortal.
Gods didn’t mess around with mortals.
Despite my better judgment, I looked down at my phone for what was probably the one millionth time in the past forty-eight hours, and every time, with the sole purpose of checking to make sure I hadn’t missed anything.
Still nothing.
Get ahold of yourself, Cat. This is starting to smell a lot like desperation…
All of this preoccupation was starting to make me feel a bit crazy.
I mean, he wasn’t Joe Schmo off the street.
He was Quinn Bailey, a flipping professional athlete, an NFL quarterback. You know, the guy that everyone loved, the one who threw the ball and made the home runs… Or is it baskets? Field goals? Touchdowns?
Touchdowns. That’s what it was.
He was the guy who threw the fucking touchdowns.
Obviously, I was completely clueless when it came to sports, but my internet resources told me he was a big fucking deal.
And he played for the New York Mavericks. They were a freaking dynasty, the kind of team you couldn’t go out in public without seeing people sporting their merchandise—hats, T-shirts, phone cases…it was an endless list.
I slid my phone into my jacket pocket and forced my focus to the tasks at hand—my job. I had another round of New York to Birmingham and Birmingham to New York flights to complete.
To the tune of Rhianna singing work work work work work in my head, I stepped into the galley kitchen and prepared coffee. Once I’d filled the machine and set it to brew, my eyes met the main doors of the plane. A line of people, holding their various versions of carry-ons, had already started to file in as Casey greeted them on board with a smile.
Before I knew it, first class was filled to the brim, every seat holding an expectant occupant. Seeing as this was
one of my usual flights, more than a few of the faces were familiar.
Row three, seat B: Older gentleman in a fitted navy suit and gray hair, otherwise known as one of our biweekly regulars, Mr. Phillip Johnson.
Word on the street said he was a multimillionaire who ran an investment firm. From what I’d gathered over the last few months, his family was in Birmingham, and his company’s headquarters were located in the prestigious Financial District of New York.
Mary Jane Matthews filled the spot in row six, seat C. She rode this flight weekly. Apparently, she was an up-and-coming, twentysomething vlogger on YouTube.
Why she needed flights to and from Birmingham was still a mystery I was trying to solve, though. Not to mention, how in the hell she kept her eyebrows so perfect. Every flight, homegirl’s eyebrows were never anything less than on fleek.
I had found out that her vlogs were directed toward fashion, and one overnight in Birmingham last month, Casey and I had sat in our hotel room and watched no less than fifty videos on her channel.
Fingers crossed MaryJaneFashion posts a tutorial on eyebrows soon.
Quickly, I glanced at my watch and noted the time. 5:55 p.m.
Shit. We’d be wheels up and in full takeoff mode in less than ten minutes. I had to finish my preflight prep or else both Casey and Nikki would kick my ass once they realized our onboard service of drinks, cocktails, and snacks was about thirty minutes behind schedule.
Time was of the essence when you were a flight attendant, which meant I didn’t have the luxury of sitting around and daydreaming about the New York Mavericks’ quarterback calling me or taking inventory of flight regulars.
I had shit to do, two flight attendant buddies to keep from strangling me, and a whole plane full of passengers to keep happy. You hadn’t seen pissed off until you were 30,000 feet in the skies, and your passengers realized you forgot to stock the cart with cookies.
During my first thirty days on the job, I’d let that happen once, and the overall response had been pretty close to a riot.
As I restocked my cart with cans of soda and juice, I glanced toward the back of the plane to see Nikki doing the same with her cart in the coach galley, and Casey assisting passengers with their luggage into the overhead bins.
