Him: How come u haven’t noticed you’re missing a pair? Or do u leave a trail of them everywhere u go?
Me: You know very well I’m not that kind of girl!!!!
He sends me back the shrugging emoji.
I blame post-coital confusion. It’s hard to remember my own name when Ace is done with me.
“Bryant, you paying attention?”
I jerk my head up. Guiltily, I stare at my daddy, trying to remember what he’d been talking about. Oh, right, alumni.
“Yes, Daddy. You need me to do some work today?”
“I’m concerned about you, Cub. You seem real distracted lately.”
I stare at my hands, away from Daddy’s overly perceptive examination. He says that being coach is one part motivator and one part counselor, so the ability to read minds is one of those skills he’s perfected over the years. I throw up a flimsy shield and force myself to meet his eyes. Not looking at a person is an automatic sign of guilt. I couldn’t get away with anything as a child, and while I’ve learned a few defense mechanisms, he can mostly read me like a book.
“It’s the start of a new season,” I say, “and I’m just getting back into the groove of things, you know?”
“I know you try to make everyone around you happy without paying much attention to yourself.”
“Daddy, we had a mani/pedi night at the AO house last night. I had plenty of attention. You’ll see when the bill comes in.” I wave my nails, which are painted crimson red with a black French tip. My pinkie has the AO symbol on it.
He shoots me a disappointed look and shoves an envelope across the desk. “If you’re done bullshitting me, mind taking this over to the Mansion? Bubba Wasserly asked for another field pass.”
I hesitate before sticking the white envelope into my purse. “Sure thing. I’ll take it over right now.”
“Thanks, Cub.” He gets to his feet and meets me over by the door. “I know you don’t like Bubba, but until I catch him doing something wrong, I can’t exactly tell a man whose name is on our practice facility that he and his guests aren’t welcome.”
“His name is the one at the bottom of the list.” Wasserly is one of those donors who gives just enough to get into the VIP events, but not enough to have naming rights to his own building. He bought a brick or five in the last build.
“A name’s a name, and if not for the Wasserlys of this world, we wouldn’t have this posh place.” Daddy’s reproving tone makes me feel bad.
“I know. Sorry. I love you.” I push up on my tiptoes and give his scratchy face a quick kiss. He gives me a big hug in return, letting me know everything’s good between us.
The Mansion is this huge old southern plantation home. At one time, this small Tennessee town was mostly owned by one family. After the War of Northern Aggression, as my Gamma still calls it, the place fell into disrepair, but it was eventually revived when the city fathers convinced the state to build one of its university extensions here. Harper City is just close enough to Nashville to provide most of its residents with all the citified pleasures they need, while still maintaining its quaint small town feel. The large university keeps the whole place bustling.
The main residence was bought by the city back in the ’80s, and then was sold to a developer who turned it into a grand hotel that is now known as the Mansion. Harper City is considered one of the nicest places in the South to visit, and the Mansion is the jewel of the this place, so everyone who’s anyone stays here during the season, including Bubba Wasserly.
Wasserly’s a man with a lot of money, but there’s dirt smudges all over it. Daddy suspects that Wasserly has given things to some of our players under the table, but it’s not anything we have proof of.
We’d like to say that all our players are angels, but the fact is that many of them come from really awful home lives. Football is their path away from a tragic finale that claims so many of their friends and family, and since our players don’t get paid, it’s not surprising some take the money to help their mommas pay rent or buy food.
Daddy struggles with that all the time, and I know it’s unbearable when one of his boys comes begging for help, and Daddy has to turn him away.
Still, it’s not legal and if anyone gets caught, the whole program goes down, taking the bright future of those kids with it. It’s a balance. Life’s always a balance. There are bad people out there. People who’ll hurt the ones you love. After Ginny passed, I figured it was my responsibility to inject my own form of balance. Find a guy who laid waste to a lot of girls and try to get him to see the light.
Wasserly’s beyond hope. Ace, on the other hand, is salvageable. Hearing him talk casually about how his friend stabbed him in the back, his daddy hurt him, and his momma unthinkingly insults him struck me hard in the stomach.
A soft spot for Ace is developing in my heart. He might be the first one to leave a mark on me, but I can handle it. I know I should back away, gain some space, but I can’t deny myself. He’s temptation incarnate and works me with more skill than a carny spotting marks at the county fair.
The good thing is that I don’t fall in love with men. Or rather, it’s more appropriate to say that I love everyone the same. It’s the sex, I decide. Sex always complicates stuff. The body convinces you that you have stronger feelings than you really do. I merely need to shift the focus, concentrating on excavating his heart from that thick exoskeleton surrounding it instead of dwelling on my own silly one.
Feeling decidedly better, I whip into the portico in front of the hotel. The valet helps me out of my car. “Thank you, Ferris,” I say, reading his nametag.
“My pleasure, miss. Welcome to the Mansion.”
The lobby makes me think of what the interior of a museum would look like if someone lived in it. The white paneled walls are dotted with crystal sconces. From the lobby doors, you can see all the way to the huge east lawn. To the right is a massive staircase big enough to fit sixteen debutantes standing shoulder-to-shoulder. I know the precise number because this is where I had my debutante ball at the age of sixteen. Prissy Shore fell off the stairs because she pre-gamed too much. Her boyfriend and daddy had to carry her out the double doors while her momma ran ahead of them in horrified humiliation. I don’t know who I felt worse for—Prissy or her momma.
My own mother still refers to Prissy as “Prissy, bless her heart, Shore.” After high school, Prissy left to go to college up north, somewhere in Chicago or maybe even Michigan. I don’t think she’s ever coming back.
Ginny lost her virginity during her post-deb party. She later learned, and warned me, that the escorts have bets on who can turn the white dress red. I spread that little tidbit around as far and wide as I can. Somehow one of the organizers heard about it and killed the post-deb party dead.
I wasn’t at all sorry about that. I’m still not.
To the left of the lobby and down a couple marble stairs is the Club House. Decorated in mahogany and dark leather, the place looks—and smells—like somebody’s den.
From inside the bar, I hear my name called.
“Bryant Johnson, you bring your pretty self over here and give Bubba a kiss hello.”
I slowly turn to my left and raise a hand in greeting. Gritting my teeth behind a pageant-worthy smile, I make my way toward the short, stocky man with the bad toupee. Go bald, I want to snap at him. Or do a comb-over. Do anything but wear that expensive but awful looking animal pelt on the top of your skull.
I lean in and kiss the air next to his cheek, careful to avoid any contact with that thing on his head, while he grips my upper arms too tight and presses a wet smack on my skin.
“Lord, Bryant, you’re getting prettier every time I see you.” Bubba’s drawl is so thick I need a paddle to help me wade through it. Bubba’s the type of southerner who exaggerates his roots for effect. I peek around and spy his guest still seated. Northern man, I’d guess. A southerner would’ve been standing, as Bubba is now.
“Thank you, Mr. Wasserly. You’re
too kind. You are looking especially fit as well.” I slip out of his grasp and hold out the sideline pass. “My daddy said you were needing this for someone.”
“Call me, Bubba, darling. You’re not taking off,” he objects, wrapping a paw around my arm. Good thing I’m wearing a long-sleeve blouse so there’s a small barrier between my skin and Bubba’s sweaty palm. “You need to have a drink with us.” He waves his free hand in the air, hailing a waitress before I can decline.
Stifling a sigh, I take a chair, scooting it close to the table so Bubba isn’t overcome with the urge to feel me up under the pretense of adjusting my chair. “I’ll take a white wine spritzer,” I tell Darla, our waitress. “Heavy on the spritzer.”
Darla gives me a knowing look, which tells me that Bubba and his Yankee friend have been boozing it up long enough to be pills. Now that I’m sitting down and closer, the friend looks vaguely familiar. Frantically, I search my memory bank for this man’s name. I hate forgetting people. Shoot. I should’ve taken a look at the pass. It would’ve had his name on it.
“Bryant Johnson, this is Joe Anderson.” It’s a testament to my momma’s training that my surprise is only conveyed through the widening of my eyes, because my jaw wants to drop open. This is Ace’s dad! “Joe, this is one of the treasures of the South, Roby Johnson’s daughter.”
I lean forward and offer my hand. Mr. Anderson takes it and gives me one of those limp shakes that some men give to women because they think we’re too weak for a real one.
“Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Call me Joe.”
Call me Joe.
I’m named after my dad.
I guess Ace’s first name is Joseph. I wonder if I could wrangle out Ace’s middle name. I also wonder what Ace’s momma looks like, because there’s only a little of his daddy in him. The height is there, I suppose, looking at Mr. Anderson covertly under my lashes, but where Ace is sharp angles and smoldering intensity, his father is rounded corners and flushed geniality.
“Your son is a real asset to the team. We're so thrilled to have him be part of the Southern U family. You, too, Mr. Anderson.”
“Ace is a chip off the old block,” Mr. Anderson declares. “I'm not surprised he's having success here. His old school is a bunch of losers.”
I hide a wince. That statement reeks of sour grapes, considering that Ace’s old team won two National Championships during a time when Southern won none.
“Well, we believe in Ace. He's amazing. There are definitely hidden depths to him. In all the time I've spent with the team, I don't know that I've seen someone with so much potential. You must be so proud.”
I don't know if it was something I said or a facial expression, but something gives away the fact that Ace and I have enjoyed a certain closeness, because Mr. Anderson's face sharpens and his eyes take on a thoroughly speculative look.
“So you're spending a lot of time with Ace? I hope that's not interfering with his production. He needs to focus on the field, making big plays so that scouts get their heads out of their asses and put him on their draft boards.”
I fold my hands primly on my lap. “Ace is a fine player. He doesn't need to make big plays to get noticed.”
His dad snorts. “That's nicely put bullshit, but anyone who knows football knows that you need a better arm than he's been showing lately.” Mr. Anderson shakes his finger. “Since you're there all the time, how does your dad plan to use him? What's the percentage of pass plays versus run plays the offense will run? I don't want Ace doing too many option reads anymore. They don't run that in the pros.”
“I can't comment on my daddy's plays.” I slide a quick look to Bubba to gauge his reaction, but he's busy ogling a waitress.
“But you are around the team a lot, right? Bubba tells me that you practically live in the practice facility,” Mr. Anderson says. His eyes flick to my chest and back up to my face, telling me exactly the type of things he thinks I'm doing there.
“It's an internship of sorts,” I reply as nicely as possible. This is Ace's dad, an athlete's parent. I'm expected to treat them with respect and kindness, even if it kills me. “I plan to go into public relations after college. Working with the athletic department allows me the opportunity to see real professionals in action.”
“She's underselling herself,” Bubba interjects, his attention back on us. “This girl hosts a mean alumni party. Your attention to detail is unparalleled. I'd try to hire you away, but I think your daddy's going to keep you.”
“I love the team,” I admit, “but I'm interested in looking at other opportunities.”
“Like the Titans?” Bubba says with a twinkle in his eye.
It's no secret I love football and that working PR for a pro team is an ultimate dream. “I may have applied there.”
“Don't want to leave all that easy access to those athletes,” Mr. Anderson guesses. “At least until you can get a ring on your finger.”
Neither Bubba nor I smile at the ugly accusation of being a jock chaser. Even if Bubba thought it were true, and no doubt there are some men who do, he wouldn't call the daughter of a man he respected a whore, no matter how many football players I’ve supposedly taken to my bed. We like our criticisms to be couched in niceties and bracketed by “Bless her heart” and “I'll pray for her” platitudes.
Bubba would've stood up for me, but I don't give him a chance. I lay a hand on his arm to stay his comments and lean toward Mr. Anderson with a smile laden with so much syrup, I should be crowned the Pancake Queen.
“I think anyone could learn a lot from being around division one football players. It takes a special kind of dedication to get up every morning, even on the weekends, to be at the practice facility before the roosters crow. Those men are required to balance nearly a forty-hour work week of practice, playbook studying, weight training, skill exercises, while also maintaining a NCAA-mandated GPA. They're impressive students, and I'm sure proud to call several of them my friends. If that's what you're asking, Mr. Anderson.”
Bubba laughs a little too heartily. “Hear, hear. That's why I support the Southern U Renegades. It's a good, clean program with a high graduation rate.”
Thanks to Momma's good training, I don't roll my eyes at Mr. Wasserly's bald-faced lie. He's one of those who wants to turn this thing upside down, if he can.
“In my opinion, girls and locker rooms don't mesh well,” Mr. Anderson can't help but interject.
I ignore him again and address to Bubba instead. “Daddy's built a wonderful program.” I tap the envelope. “Here's the sidelines access pass. It's only good until the team goes back into the tunnel, but you'll want to watch the game from your box anyway. It's too hard to keep track of anything on the sidelines.” In other words, don’t stay with this Yankee jerk or my daddy won’t be happy. “I hate to run, but my momma’s expecting me.”
Bubba slides the envelope into his suit coat and then rises to give me another wet kiss on my cheek. “Give your momma my love and tell your daddy thanks.”
“My pleasure, Mr. Wasserly.” I nod toward Mr. Anderson, who still hasn't gotten to his feet. “Mr. Anderson, you have a nice day, too.”
Ace's dad gives me a very brief nod goodbye. Apparently, we're at odds, which leaves me vaguely unsettled. Even if my heart is dangerously enamored with Ace, I can’t jettison him now. After meeting his dad, I feel like Ace’s going to need me more than ever.
Ace
The minute I get the text from my dad, I'm in my truck and on the way to the Mansion. It takes thirty-five minutes, ten of which are spent looking for a goddamned place to park because I'm not paying some pimply teen ten bucks to park my truck.
The same pimply teen who gives my shit-kickers, jeans, and Southern sweatshirt a disdainful onceover. I shove my hands in my pockets so I don't flip him off or accidentally smear my fingertips all over the glass and brass inside the fancy hotel.
Inside the lobby, I make a beeline for the bar. If Dad's here, he’ll be by the booze. S
ure enough, I find him in the middle of the joint, with a glass of whiskey in front of him.
“Ace!” he cries, waving me over. “How's my famous quarterback son?” He thumps me on the back. I wish my sweatshirt had a hood I could hide behind.
“Nice to see you,” I mutter, giving him a light embrace in return before taking a seat. I wait for him to bask in whatever glory he seems to have conjured by yelling out my name, but when he does sit down, I hiss, “What are you doing here? I thought you couldn’t afford it.”
Dad picks up the drink menu and hands it to me. “What are you drinking tonight? Don't worry about the costs. I'm picking it up.”
I take a look. Everything on the menu, including Coke, is more than ten bills. I toss the menu back on the table. “No, thanks.” This place smells like money. It could be the leather and the cigar smoke, but I think it's from the actual cash and plastic that's lining the pockets of the suited guys sitting in the ultra-plush leather chairs. Neither I nor my old man belong in this sort of place. “How are you swinging this?”
Dad toys with his napkin, refusing to look me in the eye. “Friend put me up.”
“Fuck me, Dad.” This is an NCAA violation waiting to happen. “I’m outta here.” I get up and run smack into a stocky gentleman wearing a suit over a red and gold Southern U sweater.
“Ace Anderson. Nice to meet you, son. Bubba Wasserly. I'm sorry I wasn't here when you arrived. Had to run to the gent's room.” Bubba shakes my hand vigorously and then holds out a hand toward the chair I’d vacated. “Sit down. Sit down. Your dad and I were enjoying a drink. He's my guest for tomorrow's game.”
I drag a hand over the back of my head and look around. Is this a sting? Since no NCAA investigator jumps up from a nearby table and points an accusing finger at me, I take a reluctant seat. “Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Wasserly.”
Downed (Gridiron #3) Page 11
