Rough Play: A Football Romance

by Kira Ward

  “You can go now. I’ll be nice. If anyone asks, I’ll tell them you were very apologetic.”

  “Don’t do me any favors.”

  “I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for my students who think you’re all that for some reason.”

  I turn to leave, but I can’t make myself go. I spin on my heel and tower over her as I say, “I regret that a pass I threw was tipped off and hit you. Maybe you should have ducked or something.”

  “Next time I will.”

  “Good.”

  I storm out of there then, so filled with rage that I nearly slam my fist into the wall. I catch myself just in time, aware of the nurses standing down the corridor, giggling among themselves as they wait for me to acknowledge them. Frank gives me a look that does nothing to calm the rage, but I somehow manage to push it all down and approach the nurses with a charming smile in place.

  “Morning, ladies!”

  I spend the next hour signing autographs for everyone from the nurses to doctors to orderlies who come up from other floors just to see me. I want to march back into Cricket Monahan’s room and say, See? This is the reason I pull in the big bucks! But I don’t.

  What kind of name is Cricket, anyway? And how could a woman with such a stupid name get under my skin so easily?

  Chapter Six

  Cricket

  I drive up to the school Wednesday morning, sunglasses barely covering the black eye I woke up with. The bruise on my temple seems to spread a little every day. Yesterday it turned the lower part of my cheek a funky green. Today I have a black eye like the one I sported in junior high when I got into it with Tommy Wilson’s girlfriend, Marianne. Wouldn’t my students have a field day with this?

  The moment I step out of the car, reporters descend on me like locust on grass. I hadn’t even seen them when I pulled up. They come out of nowhere.

  “Ms. Monahan, what did Magnus say to you Monday morning?”

  “Ms. Monahan, do you know that people have posted a petition to get Magnus removed as quarterback of the Giants?”

  “Did you have a chance to flirt with Magnus, Ms. Monahan?”

  I bite back a groan, pushing my way through the crowd.

  One of the district cops who police the school comes to my rescue, forcing the reporters off school grounds and escorting me to my classroom. “I’ve been watching all the craziness on the television,” he says to me the moment we’re alone. “What was he like? Was he as rude to you as he is to the press?”

  I glance at the cop. “They’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing. Like him or not, Magnus Fuller is one of the biggest names in sports right now. I’d give just about anything to meet him even if it’s just to tell him how much I hate him.”

  “Well, maybe you’ll get a chance someday.”

  “Not likely. Those things don’t happen to a guy like me.”

  I watch him walk away, thinking I felt the same way less than a week ago. But now I had reporters mobbing me outside my place of work, sitting on the curb outside my house, watching everything I say and do. My dad assures me it’ll blow over after a while, but I’m beginning to wonder. Just this morning there was a story about it on the news, the reporter talking about how Magnus was still dodging questions about the whole fiasco. Like it was his responsibility to keep the press informed.

  Listen to me, defending the man. What is wrong with me?

  “You were actually in the same room with him!” Amelia had asked when she came to see me a couple days earlier. “Is he as hot in person as he is on television?”

  I blew off the question, but the truth is, he is definitely hotter in real life. And he smelled really good, like a cross between lavender and cedar. Very sexy. My fingers itched the whole time he was there to reach out and touch him, to see if his skin was as silky smooth as it looked. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. He’s arrogant and cruel and narrow minded, but so incredibly sexy. I can’t get him out of my head, even now.

  And it doesn’t help that everyone is constantly reminding me of him. As my students walk into the classroom for the first course of the day, they’re filled with questions.

  “What was it like?”

  “Did he give you anything?”

  “Did he invite you back to his house in New Jersey?”

  It takes me half an hour to get them to settle down. And that is repeated in every class throughout the day. By the time the final bell rings, I’m exhausted.

  Then comes Amelia again.

  “What do you think of this design?” she asks, holding up a piece of paper with scribbles all over it.

  “What is it?”

  “For the spaghetti dinner. We need to start raising money for the drama department so we can get new costumes for the spring production.”

  I almost forgot.

  “Yeah.” I say. “Are you sure you want to do a spaghetti dinner? What about something that doesn’t require a lot of expenditure? We could have a car wash or some sort of dance.”

  “Principal won’t allow it. It has to fit within the parameters of the district fundraising rules.”

  “True. It’s just every other department is doing a spaghetti dinner.”

  “But we’re the first. Hopefully that’ll put us out front.”

  I take the paper from her and study what she has on it. “Why don’t you let me work on this.”

  Amelia smiles gratefully. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  We leave together a few minutes later. The reporters apparently got tired of waiting. They’re gone. I stop by a restaurant on the way home and pick up an order of enchiladas, too tired to think of anything else for dinner. When I get to my little rent house, all but two or three of the reporters that had been hanging out there are gone. I grab the mail and duck inside before they can call out any stupid questions.

  I’m waiting for the bills to arrive from the hospital. I know it’ll take a while, but I still look. The guy who works for Magnus Fuller said to send them to him and he’ll see that they’re covered. But I don’t know if I trust him. I think I’ll pay them myself.

  Tucked into the stack of bills and circulars I find a plain white envelope with just my name and address on it. No return address. I tear it open and I gasp as two tickets fall out.

  They’re tickets to the Cowboys’ game against the Washington Redskins on Thanksgiving Day.

  Oh my God!

  And then I realize where they must have come from. I guess Magnus Fuller’s agent really wants to keep his reputation rosy.

  Maybe he should have thought of that before he took Magnus on as a client? There’s no cleaning up a character like that.

  I walk over to the trashcan and hold the tickets over it, determined to toss them out. But then I imagine my dad’s face when I show them to him.

  No point in wasting them…

  The press quickly lose interest in me. Before the end of the week, there are no more reporters, thank goodness.

  Can’t really say the same thing for Magnus Fuller. The press is ripping him up and down on every sports show, every sports website, even on some of the gossip rags. They call him heartless and unfeeling, insisting that he could have handled the whole thing better. They even drag up stuff about his past, things like some girl he dated in Boston who accused him of assaulting her after a game. I don’t believe it and I sort of feel sorry for him. Not a lot, but a little. He’s conceited and ruthless on the field, but he doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who would hurt someone for his own pleasure.

  I resolve to put the whole thing behind me. The bruise fades quickly, the pain gone by Monday morning. No point on dwelling on the whole thing.

  Then I’m at work on an ordinary Thursday afternoon. I watch as my students file out of the classroom, the last class of the day, dropping the essays we’d been working on all week on the corner of my desk. As I watch the pile grow, I find myself looking forward to a bottle of chardonnay I have chilling at home.
>
  “Ms. Monahan?”

  I turn and find myself looking into warm brown eyes. Vaguely familiar brown eyes.

  I groan. “Mr. Pierce. What can I do for you?”

  “If I could just talk to you for a minute,” he says, watching as the last few stragglers gather their things and prepare to leave the room.

  “Not really interested if it has anything to do with Magnus Fuller.”

  One of the students, a young man who plays backup quarterback on my dad’s football team, snaps his head up at the sound of Magnus’ name. “You know Magnus Fuller?” he demands of Mr. Pierce.

  “I do,” the agent says quite kindly. “Are you a fan?”

  The boy, a junior named Peter, glances at me before he answers. “I am.”

  “You play?”

  Peter nods. “I’m hoping to be quarterback next year after our current quarterback graduates.”

  “Why don’t you give me your email and I’ll have Magnus send you an autograph.”

  Peter’s face lights up. He quickly gives Mr. Pierce the information and he actually writes it down in his phone, asking Peter questions about football as he does. It’s pretty clear that Mr. Pierce is a fan of the game, too. I find myself wondering if he played at some point.

  When Peter’s gone, Mr. Pierce turns his attention back to me.

  I shake my head before he can even voice whatever he came to ask me.

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to have anything to do with this mess that Magnus Fuller has himself in.”

  “I realize this whole incident has been difficult for you.”

  I shake my head again, settling behind my desk and pulling up the emails I’ve been ignoring all day. Now seems like as good a time as any to deal with them.

  “Look, I know Magnus is a difficult man. But he’s really not as bad as the press paints him.”

  “No. He’s just an ass when he’s forced to come apologize to a patient in the hospital. A patient he put in the hospital.”

  Mr. Pierce sort of grunts. Clearly Magnus Fuller didn’t tell him exactly what happened between us. Not that I think he would have.

  “I apologize for anything he might have said to you that was offensive.”

  I glance at him. “And you can tell him that sending those tickets does nothing to change things.”

  “Tickets?”

  “I’m sure that was your idea. Just like the offer to pay my hospital bills. But I can handle that, too.”

  “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I look up at him, study his face for a second. He doesn’t seem to be lying, but that doesn’t really change anything. “I don’t want to be a part of this anymore.”

  Mr. Pierce comes around to the front of my desk, perching on the front of one of the student desks as he watches me. “Magnus is on the edge of renegotiating his contract with the Giants. He’d really like to stick with them. They drafted him right out of college and he likes the idea of sticking with the same team for his entire career.”

  “That’s a rare feat these days.”

  “I know. But it’s what he wants. However, his reputation—“

  “It’s not like he has the worst reputation in the league.”

  “Yes. But the Giants have had their fair share of problems with players in the past and they don’t want anymore. After having clean cut, pristine quarterbacks leading the team in the past, they really don’t want one with a reputation for partying hard and having an uncaring attitude toward anyone, let alone women or the fans.”

  “And it probably doesn’t help his endorsement deals, this whole thing.”

  Mr. Pierce’s eyebrows rise and I can see I’ve hit the nail on the head. “A few of the corporations Magnus represents have suggested he should try to clean up his reputation, yes.”

  I bite back a laugh as I click on an email sent by my principal. There’s a staff meeting tomorrow morning. “What is it you think I can do, Mr. Pierce?” I ask as I scan the rest of my emails.

  “If you and Magnus were to go out a few times—“

  “You want me to date him?” I snap down the lid of my laptop, staring at him with what I hope is a dark, angry look. “You’ve got to be joking!”

  “The press is focusing mostly on his interview after the game when he refused to discuss you and your injury. If we can show them that he cares what happened, that he cares about you—”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “It’s the only way.”

  “But it’s not my way.” I stand and begin gathering my things, shoving the essays that need to be graded into my bag along with the laptop. “This is Magnus’ problem, not mine. I don’t really care what happens to him.”

  “You’d really stand back and watch a man’s career ruined because of one, stupid incident?”

  “Now it’s just a stupid incident?” I look at him. “I have a concussion, Mr. Pierce.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Then what do you mean? That Magnus’ multi-million-dollar career is more important than some teacher’s health? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “This is not how I meant for this to go.”

  “I realize that.”

  Mr. Pierce steps up to my desk. I’m not sure what he plans to do, but as he does, a landslide of papers fall from my desk. He squats down to help me pick them up. When he picks up one of the new flyers for the spaghetti dinner I have yet to show to Amelia, he studies it for a long moment.

  “I’ve heard that the school district severely slashed the budget for most of the arts programs.”

  “They did,” I say, snatching the flyer out of his hand.

  “Cut them so severely that many schools in the district are shutting the programs down entirely.”

  “It’s shame. Students need the opportunity to be creative.”

  He stands again, watches in silence as I finish packing up my things and neatening the top of my desk.

  “I bet it would mean a lot to you if someone made a donation to the arts programs.”

  I can see where he’s going almost immediately. But I’m not really in the mood to play games. “You got that from one flyer?”

  “And the fact that your closest friend happens to run the drama department here.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “Done your homework on me, huh?”

  “Of course. I couldn’t encourage Magnus to go out with you if you had skeletons in your closet that would come back to bite him.”

  I snatch up my bag and head for the door. “I told you, I’m done with Magnus Fuller.”

  “What if an anonymous donor made a significant donation to the arts programs, district-wide?”

  I shake my head. “Too little, too late.”

  “By significant I mean enough to keep the programs running for the next five to ten years.”

  I pause in the doorway, glance back at him. “That would be a significant amount of money, Mr. Pierce.”

  “And what if the donor made a stipulation that a large portion of the money be directed toward the drama department of this high school?”

  I can already see Amelia’s face if she were to hear this news. A large donation—one big enough to keep all the programs running that long—would make a huge difference. Amelia would have the freedom to do all the things she’s been dreaming of doing since she came to this school from her little hometown in Ohio. I’ve been watching her dream for so long. To be instrumental in making that happen…being instrumental in watching the band department return to the glory it enjoyed when I was a student here, watching the choir department get out of the dreary robes they’ve been wearing every year since before my time, watching all the art departments get the supplies and things they’ve been needing for far too long…it would be amazing. And the students? It would be life changing for some of them.

  But at what price? “What exactly would I have to do?”

  Mr. Pierce smiles, clearly assuming he’s won. “Just a
few dates. In public where the press can see you together. A little hand holding. Maybe a few kisses. Nothing too PDA.”

  “And for that, you’d convince him to make that large of a donation to the arts programs?”

  “Yes.”

  I study him for a long second. “You must be truly desperate.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Okay,” I say softly. “Have him call me.”

  I turn and nearly walk straight into Amelia. She smiles, but there’s something in her eyes as she looks from me to Mr. Pierce and back again. She focuses on him for a long moment, her eyes coasting slowly over his frame. A high blush touches her cheeks.

  She thinks he’s cute.

  I turn and assess Mr. Pierce myself, really looking at him for the first time. He’s handsome, I suppose. Average height. Blond hair. Kind brown eyes. He’s wearing a well cut suit with a loose tie, a dark color that seems to compliment his clear complexion. He’s not hot like his client, but he’s not bad looking either.

  “Amelia, this is Frank Pierce. He’s Magnus Fuller’s agent.”

  “Mr. Pierce,” Amelia says politely.

  “Ms. Madison,” Mr. Pierce replies.

  They stare at each other for a long second, so long that I begin to feel uncomfortable. I reach over and snap off the lights in the classroom and walk away, leaving them to their adolescent flirtation. I have more important things on my mind, like that bottle of wine that’s now screaming my name.

  Chapter Seven

  Magnus

  “You want me to what?” I sling a football across the field and Odell catches it with ease.

  “It’s just money, Magnus. It would probably cost twice as much to get a fixer to make all this blow over.”

  “It’s my money. You should have asked me first.”

  “I had to think on my feet, Magnus. It’s the only way I could convince her to do this for you.”