Rough Play: A Football Romance

by Kira Ward

  I’ve worked hard to get where I am. God knows if I’d listened to my dad, I would be stuck working at some fast food restaurant or some factory, no college degree, no money, no hope. I probably would have knocked up some girl before I got out of high school and married her, had a half dozen kids by now. I’d be just like my dad.

  But I’m not. I worked hard to finish high school and despite his dubiousness, finished college. And now I’m a fucking star, my face on television multiple times a day. I often wonder what he thinks, that stubborn old man, when he sees my face on his television. Does he regret being such an ass to me? Or does he yell at the television, saying the same things he said to me when I lived in his house?

  “You’ll never make it. You’ll never shake the dust of this lousy town. You are your own worst enemy. You’ll ruin it all before you even know you have it.”

  Those are the things he always told me. Sometimes I wonder if he’s right, if I’ll end up like some of the NFL stars I’ve met, trying to make ends meet now that their careers are over and they’re no longer raking it in like they used to do. I’ve taken steps to avoid that, but you never know what the future might hold.

  And then there’s Cricket. She’s a distraction, a potential obstacle to the future I’ve so carefully mapped out for myself.

  I can’t let her distract me out of the contract I want with the Giants. Things have changed since I signed the first contract. I’m the first sting quarterback, the team captain. I’ve taken the team to a 7-2 record so far this season. If we go to the playoffs—even the Super Bowl—I should be able to ask twice what my current contract offers. Better pay, better benefits, better everything. I should be able to write my own ticket.

  But I can’t do that if I’m distracted.

  I walk off the field to grab a bottle of water while the offensive coordinator has his daily discussion with the receivers. One of the ball boys runs over with my cell in his hand.

  “Mr. Fuller?”

  I snatch the phone out his hand without acknowledging him.

  “What?” I bark, assuming it’s Frank on the other end of the phone. He’s the only one who ever calls during practice.

  “Magnus? It’s Cricket.”

  Her voice is a little shaky, like she’s upset. My head automatically goes to the party last night even though she knows nothing about it and couldn’t know anything about it yet. I can almost still feel strange hands on my back, sense the strange body pressed up against mine.

  “I’m in the middle of practice, Cricket. Can we do this later?”

  She hesitates. “I guess. I just…there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “I’ll call you later.” I disconnect the call before she can say anything else.

  So many distractions. I need to get my head on straight. Whatever she has to say, it can wait.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Cricket

  I wake late on Thanksgiving morning, my ribs sore from the unfortunate side effects of pregnancy that kept me up half the night. The doctor keeps telling me to eat small meals, to drink lots of fluids. It doesn’t seem to help. The morning sickness—or evening sickness as it seems to be in my case—comes on with a vengeance about an hour after dinner and sticks around until late in the night.

  This is going to be a lot of fun when school starts and I have to drag myself out of bed between six and seven every morning.

  I crawl out of bed and get into the shower, hoping the heat of the water will wash away the soreness. I think about Magnus, wondering what he’s planning on doing today. I haven’t really heard from him since Tuesday. We’ve texted a few times, but no phone calls. It’s odd because he normally calls me before bedtime every night. Not that I’ve been in much shape to talk on the phone these last few nights. But it makes me wonder if he’s decided that a long distance relationship is just too much effort.

  Now would be the perfect time for him to decide to move on. Would he even care what he was leaving in his wake?

  But that’s not fair. It’s not like I’ve told him.

  I have to admit, I’m a little nervous about telling him I’m pregnant. Magnus has a reputation as a womanizer. He said he wants kids someday, but he stressed that his career comes first. He doesn’t want kids now. Hell, I don’t even know if I want kids right now. Sometimes life just kind of happens when you’re not ready for it.

  I want this baby. And I’d like Magnus to be happy about it, to want to be a part of it. But I’m afraid that won’t be his reaction.

  I can almost see it from Magnus’ point of view. I’m some young, mousy English teacher from Dallas, a girl who caught his attention for a few minutes. But he’s ready to move on now. Telling him I’m pregnant will just look like a desperate attempt to catch his attention, to force him to dedicate the next eighteen years to me. He’ll think I did it on purpose.

  I didn’t do it on purpose. I forgot a few pills, but I didn’t think it was that important. If I’d realized how important it was…but there’s no point dwelling on the past, is there?

  I’m pregnant. Magnus needs to know. It’s as simple as that.

  I dress slowly, the ache in my ribs no less than it had been before. I put on jeans and a Dallas Cowboys jersey my dad bought me for Christmas last year. I pull my hair back in a ponytail and briefly consider a sweater, but decide against it. It’s been a cool fall, but the stadium will be hot and crowded. I don’t want to bring on the nausea because I’m overheated.

  My mom knows about the tickets to the game, but my dad doesn’t. She’s told him that we need to run a few errands. My dad invites all the single teachers from the high school over for Thanksgiving dinner every year and nearly a dozen usually show up. It’s not unusual for mom to need extra supplies. But this year Amelia will be helping her out, acting as sous chef and errand girl.

  I arrive at the house in my old Jeep Wrangler and find him standing on the front porch.

  “Nice jersey,” he says as I walk toward him. “I wonder who was smart enough to buy that for you?”

  “Some guy,” I say as I lean in for a hug.

  “Smart guy.” He tugs a piece of paper out of his back pocket. “Your mother’s list.”

  I take it and pretend to look it over. I want to laugh because she’s added odd things, like an extra turkey and ten cans of cranberry sauce. This list would take us all day if she was serious.

  “Okay,” I say, gesturing toward the Wrangler. “Let’s get out of here.”

  He doesn’t ask when I pass the grocery store on the corner. He doesn’t seem surprised when I take the interstate to the other side of town. But when I pass the Walmart down the street from the stadium, he suddenly straightens up.

  “Shouldn’t we be going somewhere with groceries?”

  I reach over and pop open the glove box. I hand him the tickets.

  “Maybe after the game?”

  He stares at the tickets, then at me. “You got us tickets to the Cowboys’ game?”

  “Magnus did, actually. He sent them to me not long after I got out of the hospital.”

  “And you never told me?”

  I smiled. “It wouldn’t be a surprise if I had.”

  He reaches over me and plants a huge kiss on my cheek. I laugh as he throws in a hug, nearly causing us to run into the car beside us. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my dad this happy.

  A woman is waiting for us as we walk through the entrance gates. She steps in front of me and holds out her hand.

  “I’m Melinda Short. I’m here to escort you to your seats.”

  My dad sort of looks at me.

  “I think we can find them,” I say.

  “You have to have an escort,” Melinda says. “The seats are in a special part of the stadium.”

  She leads the way into the building as my dad and I kind of exchange more looks. I hadn’t realized there was anything special about the ticket. But she leads the way to a private elevator and we find ourselves in a box above the field with one of the best
views of the entire field. And there’s food laid out—caviar and pate and things I don’t even recognize—along with a full bar that includes several kegs of beer.

  “Enjoy the game,” Melinda says as she leaves.

  My dad stands in the middle of the room and looks around before he finally focuses on me. “Your mother’s going to kill us.”

  I laugh. “I think she’ll understand.”

  My dad grabs a plate and starts loading it up. “Hope so.”

  When we both have a little bit of everything on the buffet table, we settle into chairs that are better than the Lazy Boy’s my dad has in his living room. I could go to sleep here and sleep restfully, a thought that is actually quite tempting. But my dad is so excited that he talks with a mouthful of food, pointing out everything all at once. And then the players come out on the field and he is clearly in paradise, leaning forward, staring down at the field like he can’t hardly believe we’re there.

  I find myself watching him, wondering how he’ll feel when he learns he’s a grandpa.

  “Remind me to tell your boyfriend what a great guy I think he is.”

  I glance at my dad and nod. “I will.”

  The game begins and I find myself watching my dad more than the game. My thoughts are all over the place, just like my emotions. I’m thinking how happy I am to be able to share this with him, but then I think that this couldn’t have happened without Magnus. And that makes me think about him and the baby and how he might react to the news that he’s going to be a dad. This heavy feeling settles in the center of my chest that won’t go away.

  Halftime comes and my dad gets up to help himself to some beer. “Since you’re driving,” he calls to me.

  “Have all you want.”

  “Do you want some? Just one shouldn’t last long.”

  “No, I’m good.”

  He comes back over, his plate once again loaded with food. He hands me a piece of chicken roasted with some sort of sweet pepper. I nibble at it, the heaviness in my chest taking away my appetite.

  The Cowboys come back on the field. My dad jumps up, nearly knocking his plate of his knee, when they score a touchdown with their first possession of the half. They win big over their rivals, the Washington Redskins. The final score is 42-10.

  It takes us a while to get out of the parking lot. By the time we get home, it’s well after eight-thirty. Mom must be frantic.

  My dad reaches over and lays his hand on my knee. “That was an amazing experience.”

  “It was.”

  “And no one was hit in the head with a ball.”

  I smile. “Hard to do that with all that glass.”

  “I want you to know that I’m glad that I got to have that experience with you. I can’t imagine going to a Cowboys game with anyone else.”

  I lean over and kiss his cheek. “Thanks, Dad.”

  We get out of the car—I had to park behind half a dozen other cars flowing out of the driveway and into the street—and make our way slowly toward the house, hand in hand. As we approach the front of the house, a tall, dark figure comes out of the shadows of the porch.

  “I’ll leave the two of you alone,” Dad says, kissing my temple lightly before he goes into the house.

  Magnus comes to me, taking both my hands as he tugs me close to him. “Hey, gorgeous,” he says softly.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I didn’t have better plans, and your mother was kind enough to invite me.”

  “She was?”

  “When I showed up on her front porch. I guess she might not have had much choice.”

  I shake my head, tears welling up in my eyes. He touches my face lightly, drawing me close to him for a kiss. “I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch. Things are getting pretty intense back in Jersey, what with the final five games coming up.”

  I slip my arms around his neck, just wanting to be close to him for a minute. He pulls me close, a sigh slipping through his body as he holds me. For that moment, the heaviness in my chest dissipates. For that moment, I believe everything will be okay.

  I hold on to that belief for as long as I can.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Magnus

  Thanksgiving at my dad’s house was always just a day off, an excuse to sit in front of the television and drink more beer. I didn’t know that other families had a big feast on that day until my college roommate invited me home for the holiday my freshman year. His family went to his maternal grandmother’s house and they had a massive feast that was lingered over as family from all over the country caught up on each other’s lives.

  This was kind of like that.

  Cricket’s mother set a huge turkey in the center of the table, apologizing even as the wonderful aroma filled the room. She was afraid it might be a little dry because it took Cricket and her father longer to get home than she anticipated. But when Cricket’s father cut into it, it was clearly very tender. Practically falling off the bone. And there was every side dish one could possibly think of, everything from stuffing to potatoes to green bean casserole and sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce and corn on the cob. I piled my plate high, joking with her father that I needed as many calories as possible in order to beat the Cowboys when the come to our home field in two weeks.

  I didn’t know any of the people sitting at the table, but Cricket introduced me as the meal progressed. I finally set eyes on the famous Amelia, the drama teacher to whom I’d donated a large portion of two million dollars. Then there was the history teacher, John, the biology teacher, Henry, and the P.E. coach, Philip. They all seem to be men and at least two of them had a crush on Cricket. I find myself watching them over dinner, watching the little looks and the almost feminine blushes when they see me looking.

  I slide my hand over Cricket’s knee under the table and she touches my hand, a warm smile turned up to me when our eyes meet. I want to kiss her, put my mark on her, but her father is watching. The last thing I want is to anger the most important man in her life.

  After dinner, I offer to help with the dishes, but Mrs. Monahan insists that I join her husband and the other men out on the back porch where they’re enjoying some Cuban cigars someone brought while the ladies enjoy a little gossip and some more wine. I do as I’m told, trying to be a respectful guest.

  “So, Magnus,” Mr. Monahan says as I step out the door, “I understand I owe you some words of gratitude for the game Cricket and I enjoyed today.”

  “Not really. I got the tickets for Cricket back at the beginning of the season. They were hers to do as she wished.”

  “But you bought them. And I assume the amenities in the suite were from you, too.”

  I incline my head politely. “It was the least I could do.”

  “Do football players get free tickets to games?” John asks.

  “We get a couple of tickets to our own home games.”

  “What about other stadiums?”

  “We have to pay for them just like anyone else.”

  “But with the kind of money you make…” Philip added.

  I move to stand beside Mr. Monahan by the rail, looking out over his backyard. “Have you lived here long?” I ask.

  “This house?” He shrugs. “Nearly thirty years.”

  “Cricket grew up here?”

  “She did.”

  That injects new interest into the backyard that I’m looking at. It’s a typical backyard, a little small, with a rusted old swing set in one corner and a nice rose garden in the other. But that’s the swing set Cricket grew up playing on and those are roses that have perfumed the night air during her summers. I try to imagine her as a child, playing out here, but I can’t really picture it.

  “There’s a place over there on the side of the house where we marked her height every summer,” Mr. Monahan says, almost as though he can hear the train of my thoughts. “Want to see it?”

  I follow him over, a little relieved that the others stay where they are. Sure enough, there’s a pla
ce on the yellow stucco that’s marked in spray paint with a date written in some sort of permanent marker. The marks stop ten years ago when Cricket was a good foot shorter than she is now.

  “My wife and I, we always wanted children,” her dad tells me. “We tried for years before Cricket came along and then the doctor said we probably wouldn’t have any more. So we probably spoiled her more than we should have.”

  I glance at him, wondering why he’s telling me this.

  “She’s my little girl. The most precious person in the world to me, next to her mother.”

  I understand then, my eyes moving back to the marks on the wall. I touch the top one, running my finger along the uneven line.

  “I like her. A lot,” I say.

  “I can see that. And I can see how much she likes you.” He’s quiet for a minute. “Cricket’s never really brought a man home before. I don’t think she’s ever met anyone she really cared to introduce me and her mom to.”

  I look at him again, wondering if he knows that Cricket didn’t invite me here tonight.

  “I’d hate to see my daughter hurt,” he says simply.

  “So would I.”

  Her dad looks at me for a long moment. “You have a reputation that I don’t really like. I know that there’s often more to the story than what the rumors suggest. And I’m hoping that’s the case with you. But if I’m wrong, if you’re only having a good time with my daughter, I want to tell you now that she’s in this for more than that. So you might want to walk away now before things get too messy.”

  I incline my head, my thoughts spinning. I hear my dad for a second, telling me I’m not good enough for this girl, for this family. That I should just get in my car and go. But then I see the look on Cricket’s face when she saw me on the porch this evening, and the voice goes quiet.

  Her father lays his hand heavily on my shoulder, then walks way without saying anything else.

  I like that. He’s a man of few words who gets right to the point. Admirable.