by Kira Ward
I glance at him right before catching the ball that’s been thrown back to me. “She didn’t like the idea of going out with me?”
“I know that’s a new concept for you, the idea that a woman doesn’t want to date you, but this woman doesn’t want to date you.”
“Did she say why?”
“She thinks you’re conceited.”
I laugh as think about our cocky wide receiver doing jumping jacks and dance moves every time he scores a touchdown. “Of course I am. All professional ball players are.”
“Not all.”
I consider dropping names, but I know it would be pointless. “So I make this donation and she’ll go out with me?”
“Yeah.”
“Fine. Do it.”
“I will. But she wants you to call her yourself. To arrange the date.”
I fire the ball into Odell’s chest, then turn and look at Frank. “Why can’t you?”
“It’s what she wants. And considering how you’ve turned her simple life upside down and that she’s willing to go along with this, I think it’s the least you could do.”
I reach for Odell’s toss, pulling the ball out of the air. “Okay. After practice.”
Frank turns, his shoulders slumped as he walks off the field. I watch him, wondering how many agents would fly all the way to Texas just to talk to some teacher for one of his clients. But then I remember that all this was his idea in the first place. I didn’t ask him to do this, and I never suggested that I might be interested in seeing that woman again. Cricket Monahan. That woman had a lot of nerve talking to me the way she did back there at the hospital. She was lucky I was even willing to stoop to her level and take her out to dinner.
I toss the ball at Odell again, green eyes suddenly filling my thoughts. She was pretty. I couldn’t really deny that. Not the kind of over sexed pretty that I tended to gravitate toward at bars and parties, but pretty in a girl next door sort of way. In a high school English teacher sort of way.
I’ve never imagined myself being attracted to someone like her. When I was in high school and my football coach started telling me that I’m talented, that I might have a chance at the NFL someday, I imagined myself marrying some sort of actress. In college, it was models I found myself thinking about. When Tom Brady married Gisele Bundchen, I knew that was the life I was going to have.
But I am attracted to her. The idea of seeing her again is sort of exciting. Maybe I’m just bored with the women I’ve surrounded myself with the last few years. Maybe a few dates will cure me of this thing. Until then, I find myself kind of looking forward to seeing her again.
It’s after nine in New Jersey when I finally have some time on my hands. I settle back on the couch, silence the television, and pick up the phone. Frank has programmed her name and number in my phone for me, like he doesn’t trust me to actually make this call. I haven’t called a girl up cold and asked her out in a long time. Is it stupid that I’m a little nervous?
I drag my fingers through my damp hair and wait as it rings on the other end. I can almost picture her, curled up on a couch of her own, grading papers with glasses perched on her nose. The image is almost homey.
“Hello?” She sounds distracted. And there’s noise in the background, like she’s not at home.
“Cricket? This is Magnus Fuller.”
“Oh.”
Oh? “I was calling to see if you’d like to go to dinner with me sometime.”
“Mr. Pierce told me you’d call. When do you want to do this?”
I frown, feeling more like I’m scheduling a doctor’s appointment than a date. “Monday?”
“The sooner the better.”
“We’re playing at home this weekend, so I can be in Dallas midafternoon.”
“I don’t get off work until after four.”
“I can pick you up at seven.”
“Great. But I need to be home by eleven.”
Short date. “No problem.”
An awkward silence falls. Then she clears her throat. “I’ll see you then.” She disconnects before I can respond.
This is going to be a little more complicated than I imagined. I almost feel dismissed, like some high school nerd scoring a date with a cheerleader only to discover her motivation was only help in passing a trig test.
I’m not sure how to feel about all this. But I am determined to make it work in my favor, however that might be.
Cricket Monahan will not get the better of me.
Chapter Eight
Cricket
Is it stupid that I’m nervous?
I dig through my closet, searching for something suitable. I’m not as much interested in impressing Magnus Fuller as I am interested in not looking like a frumpy English teacher on the internet tomorrow. I know there will be paparazzi. Probably lots of paparazzi. If I were his agent, I’d make sure every photographer from here to Timbuktu is outside the restaurant tonight.
I finally settle on the first thing I tried on, a black wraparound dress that hugs my curves but keeps everything covered. It has three-quarter sleeves and a slender skirt that falls below my knees despite the split down the center made by the wraparound design. Simple, but attractive. I pull my hair up into a casual French knot and hang a delicate gold chain around my neck to match my gold hoops. I finish it all off with a pair of black heels that make me three inches taller than my usual five-three.
I step back and look at myself in the mirror, turning this way and that to make sure there aren’t any unflattering bulges anywhere. I’m not quite sure I’m satisfied, but the doorbell rings. No time to change now.
He dominates my front stoop, wearing a dark suit without a tie, his white shirt just gaping open at the throat. He holds a long stem rose, a charming smile on his handsome face. “Evening, Cricket.”
My eyebrows rise. “Are we on a first name basis now?”
He frowns slightly. “I just assumed…”
“You should never assume.” I take the rose from him and set it on a side table just inside the door. Then I step around him, tugging the door closed behind me. “Let’s get this over with.”
I can feel him watching me as I stride quickly down the walk. The idea makes my knees shake a little, my heart pound. I don’t know why I care that Magnus Fuller is watching me, but I clearly do. Even the palms of my hands are a little sweaty. I tell myself that it’s about the reporters, the fear that my parents will see something unflattering about me on the news while they’re lying in bed tonight. But deep down I know it’s more than that.
A limo sits at the curb in front of my house. A tall chauffeur who looks as though he’s about the same age as my father holds open the back door. I slip inside, sliding easily over the leather seat. Magnus follows a moment later, hugging the end of the bench seat that’s closest to the door like a teenager suddenly afraid of getting cooties from a member of the opposite sex.
“Where are we going?” I ask as the car pulls into the street.
“Dakota’s Steakhouse.”
My eyebrows rise. “Yeah? That’s a nice place.”
“Frank made the arrangements.”
He’s dismissive, as if he’s as unhappy being in this situation as I am. That seems to make things a little easier.
I settle back, crossing my legs as I stare out the window and watch my familiar neighborhood dissolve as we cross the city into the business district. We don’t say two words to each other the entire drive. I stare out my window, he stares out his. I couldn’t think of anything more awkward, unless it was taking a sibling to a school dance—if I had a sibling.
As I predicted, there is a group of paparazzi waiting for us across from the restaurant. The driver opens the door and Magnus steps out. The moment the photogs see him, they rush into the street, ignoring the traffic attempting to cross in front of the establishment. Magnus reaches inside to help me. I reluctantly take his hand and allow him to pull me out. The moment I’m on my feet, he slides his hand along the small of my ba
ck. I stiffen almost involuntarily.
“Try to act like you want to be here,” he whispers near my ear.
The thing is, his touch isn’t as unpleasant as I thought it would be. I kind of like the way his hand fits across the entire small of my back, like I’m a football he’s preparing to toss. As we move closer to the entrance of the restaurant, he tugs me even closer, his hand moving briefly over the curve of my hip. But then we step through the outer doors that lead to the elevator that will take us to the basement restaurant and he abruptly lets me go.
I miss a step, nearly falling flat on my face as I stumble into the elevator.
“Graceful,” is his only comment.
The maître d is all smiles as we step off the elevator in the outer lobby of the dining room.
“Mr. Fuller,” he says, coming right over with two menus in his hand. The menus suggest he knows I’m there, but he literally ignores me as he fawns over Magnus. “So happy to have you visit our humble establishment. I can’t tell you what an honor…”
I stop listening as I follow the two men into the dining room. It’s rather simple, humble. But beautiful. And the faces I see…there are a few politicians, a couple of very well-known businessmen, and an actor or two. It’s crazy. I never imagined I share this city I’ve lived in all my life with these kinds of people. But, again, these aren’t the kind of people who would visit my part of the city. I am more like a visitor in their city.
Magnus does the polite thing and pulls out my chair. But then he pushes me so close to the table that I have to adjust my seat as he takes his own just so I can breathe.
“May I recommend the house wine?” the maître d asks.
“I don’t drink,” Magnus immediately announces. “Just water, please.”
“Of course.”
No one bothers to ask me what I want.
I pick up the menu and study the list of entrees, my mouth beginning to water as I peruse the amazing cuts of meat that are up for grabs. At least I’ll get a decent meal out of this thing. I decide on the ribeye, in part because it sounds amazing, in part because I know it’s probably one of the most expensive cuts on the menu.
“You don’t drink,” I observe after our orders are taken.
Magnus lowers those smoldering eyes on me. “Not during football season. Alcohol is dehydrating.”
“What about caffeine?”
“I avoid soda and coffee, too.”
“What about tea?”
He tilts his head slightly as though he thinks I’m teasing. “I’ve been known to drink a few herbal teas.”
“Me, too. I like a good mint tea first thing in the morning.”
His eyebrows rise slightly. “Yeah?”
“Goes well with the breakfast cereal. You should try it.”
“I might.”
I look around the room, trying to identify the people around me. It’s so weird how many faces I recognize even when I can’t remember a name. There’s a city councilman and his wife across from us. A state senator behind them. And I think the guy in the corner is someone important, but I can’t quite figure out who he is.
“You ever been here before?”
I shake my head. “Can’t really afford a place like this on a teacher’s salary.”
“What about a date? I’m sure you don’t just date your colleagues.”
I glance at him. “No. But teaching also doesn’t really allow a lot of time to go out and meet some stranger who might or might not be an ideal date.”
“Oh, yeah, summers off. All those holidays, spring breaks—“
“Teachers put in more hours than you’d think. I spent my last spring break at a conference in Houston learning about the techniques some teachers back east are using to help kids identify with characters like Romeo and Juliet despite the archaic language.”
“Sounds exhilarating.”
“Teaching is an important profession. A lot more important than tossing a ball for three hours once a week.”
Thunderclouds suddenly appeared in those dark eyes of his. A muscle appeared in the corner of his jaw, flexing like he was grinding his teeth. He might have been grinding his teeth the way he was glaring at me.
“My dad is a football coach,” I say, trying to defuse his anger for reasons I wasn’t terribly clear about. “I get the passion. What I don’t get is how someone like you, with such influence over young people, could be so conceited and uncaring.”
“Uncaring? What makes you think I’m uncaring?”
I snort, a very unladylike sound that draws the attention of a couple a few tables away. I lean forward so that only he can hear my voice. “How about spitting on players between plays? How about blaming everyone but yourself for mistakes you made? How about ignoring kids who waited for hours in the rain for you to come by and sign a few autographs?”
His eyes narrow. “First of all, all players spit on each other. They all punch each other and pull each other’s hair. They all grab each other’s balls and do whatever they can get away with to distract each other from the play. That’s the game. And second, I don’t blame anyone as much as I blame myself when a mistake is made. I just don’t feel the need to make that public. And third…I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never purposely ignored my fans.”
“Oh? Like you rushed right to the hospital when your ball slammed into the side of my head?”
“As I recall, you were sitting on the Cowboys’ sideline.”
We glare at each other for a long moment. Then he sits back and lifts his water glass, but he doesn’t actually drink from it. He just studies it for a minute.
“I know I can come off as conceited. Especially in the advertisements I do for my endorsements. That’s the persona I’m paid to put out there. It’s what sells products.”
“And that’s all that matters.”
“To my employers, yeah, that’s all that matters. This is a highly commercial world, Ms. Monahan.”
The waiter brings our salads and we ignore each other for a few minutes. I pick at mine, not as hungry as I was a few minutes ago. It’s beautiful, the greens such a bright green that they seem almost unnatural. I just don’t feel it like I did before.
“This arts program…it’s important to you?”
I look up. He’s watching me, his dark eyes slightly hooded like he’s afraid I’ll yell at him for asking such a question. Like he’s one of my students, or something.
“My friend, Amelia, runs the drama department at the high school where we work. They cut the budget over the summer, taking away all the money she’d been counting on to buy new costumes and scripts and material to build the props for the spring production of Cyrano de Bergerac.”
“Cyrano de Bergerac? That’s—“
“It’s a play where a handsome man convinces a man with an abnormally large nose to speak for him to the woman he loves.”
“I know. Singing in the Rain is kind of a play on it, right?”
I’m surprised, but I nod. “The movie with Steve Martin, Roxanne, too.”
“I had a drama teacher in high school who was a fan of that play. She spent a whole nine weeks working with us on it.”
“You took drama?”
“Surprised?” He smiles softly. “I wasn’t always this charming. I was actually quite an awkward kid in high school.”
“That’s hard to imagine.”
He sets down his fork and pushes away his half-eaten salad. “My mom took off when I was six. My dad did the best he could, but raising a kid all alone on a working man’s salary wasn’t the easiest thing in the world. Especially when he had his face hidden behind a bottle ninety percent of the time.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I got out, as you continuously point out. A lot of kids don’t get out.”
“That’s true.”
“I was lucky enough that I had a couple of teachers who took an interest in me. My seventh grade English teacher—“ he glanc
es at me, his eyebrows cocked slightly “—was the one who pushed me toward sports. And then my high school drama teacher encouraged me to widen my horizons, to take the time to study and get an education despite the easy ride my athletic talents were giving me. She was the one who sat me down and reminded me that it could only take a second for an injury that could change everything.”
“Smart lady.”
“They were both very smart ladies.”
“Is that why you waited until graduation to enter the draft?”
Amusement lifts the corner of his mouth. “You follow my career?”
“My dad follows everyone’s career, especially those who kick ass against the Cowboys.”
“Sure,” he says, drawing out the syllable. “That is why. I wanted to make sure I had my degree so that if I was injured in the first year or two of my NFL career, I’d have something to fall back on.”
“What’s your degree in?”
He lifts his water glass again. This time he takes a long, deep gulp before he focuses on me again. “Literature.”
I laugh. “You’re kidding!”
“It’s the only thing I really enjoyed in high school. Math sucked and science was as much math as it was anything else. That just left business, computers, or literature. And literature seemed like less work.”
“Liar. I bet you did it so that you could sit around and read novels without someone accusing you of not doing your homework.”
“Yeah, that’s it exactly.”
We both laugh, our laughter mixing in the air around us. His whole face changes when he laughs, becomes less startlingly handsome and more human. But still beautiful in a chiseled, masculine sort of way. But more approachable. I want to stare at him for the rest of the night, just sit there and enjoy the way his cheeks flood with color and his eyes seem too bright, become less intimidating. But then the waiter arrives with our entrees and I realize we picked essentially the same meal.
“What was your discipline? American Lit? British Lit? Or did you do something of a combination?”
“British Lit.”
I nod. “Me too.”
“I got a kick out of studying the King Arthur stuff. You know, the Green Knight and all those symbolic stories from before Shakespeare’s time.”
