“Hi, Mom. What’s up?” I asked, hoping to avoid small talk. I had a ton of homework this week, and I was starting my new job tomorrow.
“Poppy! Finally. Have you been avoiding me?” My mom wasn’t one for small talk either.
I walked the few steps it took to cross my small studio apartment and collapsed on my bed, which also served as my couch, my desk and sometimes my dining table.
“No, Mom. I’m not avoiding you. I had two classes this morning, and then I had a lab this afternoon.”
She huffed out a breath and got to the reason she was calling. “We’re going to Buffalo to spend Thanksgiving with Rick’s family this year. I need to know if you’re coming with us. Rick’s sister needs a final headcount for dinner.”
Since moving out right after high school, I tried not to spend any extended amount of time at home. It’s not that I don’t love my family, because I do. But they drive me freaking crazy.
I get a lot of confused looks when I explain that I work two jobs so I can have my own miniscule apartment when my family lives a mere ten miles away. People always ask why I don’t live at home to save money. My answer is that I am saving my sanity by not living at home. And riding in a minivan for several hours with my mom, my stepdad and my four year old triplet brothers was my own personal idea of hell.
“I don’t think I can go out of town this year, mom. I have a couple of big papers due at the end of the semester, and I will probably have to work some over Thanksgiving break.”
“Okay, honey. That’s fine. The other reason I called…” I wasn’t surprised that she didn’t care that I wouldn’t make it for Thanksgiving, but crap. Two reasons for calling? Today is not my day. “Can you babysit for us in a couple of weeks? Rick has a work thing.”
I sighed and closed my eyes to regain my inner calm. “Sure, Mom. Just text me the details.” Rick had a “work thing” every other month. If my mom was just honest and said “my kids are hell on wheels and I need a break,” I might be more inclined to help her out. Maybe.
After hanging up with my mom, I unpacked my bag and turned on my ancient laptop. Just like my car, it was on its last leg. I prayed nightly that both would last just a few more months until I had enough money saved up to replace them when the time came.
While I waited for my laptop to go through the five minute boot up routine, I searched in my econo-size fridge and pulled out ingredients for a salad. Just as I was chopping a tomato, my phone beeped with an incoming text.
Brooke: I’m on my way up.
Oh, no. Not Brooke. Not tonight. I need to get started on my paper for my Public Health class, and homework was not something Brooke understood.
Before I can throw on pajamas, mess up my hair and pretend to be sick, there is a quick knock on the door. Knowing I sometimes forget to lock the door, Brooke opened it and walked right in. She was dressed in some semblance of a tiny black dress and extremely high black stilettos. Her bright red hair was curled and teased and topped with a black headband with black cat ears. And…is that a tail? Only Brooke could wear such a ridiculous excuse for a costume and do it with confidence.
Brooke is my landlord. Well, actually her grandmother is my landlord. Brooke was raised by her grandmother and still lives here with her. I rent the small studio apartment over their garage. Ever since I moved in here two and a half years ago, Brooke has made it her mission in life to corrupt me. Not that I’m a super goody-two-shoes, but I am too busy with work and school to go out and party all the time. Brooke does hair at the salon downtown during the day and spends her evenings searching for Mr. Right, although she only ever ends up with Mr. Right Now.
“What are you wearing?” She asked, eyeing me with barely concealed disgust. That was my question for her.
I look down at my faded jeans and black long sleeve t-shirt with a purple witch on it. My nod to Halloween.
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
Brooke breezed past me and set a large bag down on my bed. She started pulling out clothes and laying them out on the bed. “You cannot wear that to the party.”
“What party?”
She stopped unpacking and turned to me with an exasperated expression on her face. “The party. At The Last Call. Their annual Halloween party.” When I just stared at her blankly she threw her hands up in the air - hands that were holding a very small plaid skirt. “The party you agreed to go to.”
Realizing that the items she was laying out were the components for a slutty schoolgirl costume, I waved my hands in front of my face and backed away. Unfortunately, after a few steps I ran into the wall, and there wasn’t any place else to go except for the bathroom.
“No way, Brooke. I have a crap ton of homework, and I am not wearing that out in public.”
Brooke’s expression went from pissed to pouting in less than a second.
“Poppy,” she whined, dragging out my name so it sounded like more than two syllables. “You promised.”
“I don’t remember ever promising to go to this party with you,” I replied, attempting to stand my ground.
“Yes. You did. Last week when I was upset about Marty breaking up with me. I was complaining about having to go to this party alone, and you said you would go with me.”
Hmmm, that sounded vaguely familiar. I really should pay more attention when Brooke is crying and babbling. Brooke may be my polar opposite in all areas, but she is a good person and probably the best friend I have right now. If I needed her, she would be there for me in a second.
I sighed a dramatic shoulder slumping sigh. “Okay, I’ll go. But I can’t stay out too late. I have class in the morning and I’m starting a new job in the afternoon.” Brooke’s mega-watt smile was already back in place. “And I really just want to wear my jeans and witch shirt.” She just rolled her bright green eyes, and I knew I had lost this battle.
My mother often said I was too nice. A trait she played upon when she needed me to babysit. It’s probably true though. I’m not a total pushover; I do fight for the things I truly believe in and stand up for myself when necessary. Those occasions just don’t arise very often, which is why an hour later I found myself walking to the pub with Brooke and trying not to get hypothermia in my costume.
The tiny plaid skirt sat low on my hips, baring a strip of skin below the bottom of my equally tiny white button down shirt. At least Brooke let me wear a white bra instead of the black one I had been wearing earlier. My legs were bare down to the tops of my white knee highs, and covered in goosebumps due to the chilly October night air. I held onto Brooke’s arm as we hobbled along the sidewalk, my black high-heeled Mary Janes clicking on the cement. And the icing on the cake was that my long brown hair was styled into pigtails.
“I can’t believe we’re doing this. I look ridiculous,” I muttered.
“You look hot, Poppy. And trust me. The place is going to be full of people in costumes. You would have looked ridiculous in your jeans. Besides, you need to show off your body more. That yoga shit must really work…and who knew you had a drawer full of sexy underwear?”
“Shut up, Brooke,” I said without much force, glad the darkness would hide my blushing cheeks. It’s true I was in good shape thanks to teaching yoga five hours a week and eating right. And it’s also true I hid my sexy underwear underneath my normal college girl clothes. Keyword - hid. Buying lacy, silky, pretty underwear, on sale of course, was my only guilty pleasure. My secret guilty pleasure. Not for anyone else to know about.
Brooke giggled and pulled my arm. “Don’t get pissy. I just think you should show off what you have a little more.”
Thankfully that conversation was cut short, because we had arrived at our destination. Brooke was right about the sheer number of people in costumes, and most of the women were showing far more skin than me. That made me feel a little better. Right up until Brooke dragged me to the bar and tried to order a drink for me. The me who is only twenty years old.
Brooke hopped up onto a bar stool with
ease, while I struggled to perch myself while still maintaining my modesty. The pub was extremely crowded and noisy. Two of my least favorite attributes in a night out. Brooke tapped her fire engine red fingernails on the bar while she waited to be served. A low whistle escaped her mouth, and I turned to see what had captured her attention.
Oh, my.
The bartender was making his way down the bar toward us, serving the multitude of people, mostly women, lined up to give their orders. I assumed he was also dressed up for Halloween, unless he always tended bar as a shirtless cowboy. If he always dressed like this I was going to have to give up my healthy food for regular meals here.
His worn jeans hung low on his hips and his lack of shirt gave me and everyone else a great view of his lean muscular arms and chest. His upper body was completely free of tattoos, which I liked. Tattoos were never something that interested me. For example, the guy next to me had long blond hair and tattoos all over his arms. To me, he just seemed scary, but the pretty blonde girl whose ear he was nibbling on certainly didn’t seem to mind.
“Holy hotness,” Brooke whispered. I was used to Brooke constantly acting like a dog in heat. What I wasn’t used to was feeling the same way. Of course, I could appreciate an attractive guy, but this guy made me want to do more than just appreciate.
I hadn’t dated anyone since I broke up with my ex-boyfriend, almost two years ago. It was a small town, small college, and I spent more time working and studying than boyfriend hunting. And no one had caught my interest until now. Not that the ridiculously gorgeous bartender would even notice me. Especially not with the multitude of scantily clad, better endowed women here.
His head was down and the cowboy hat hid his face from us. I scoffed at my reaction to him and reasoned that he was probably really ugly. No one was lucky enough to have a gorgeous face and a great body. Then he lifted his head and started walking towards us.
Okay, I was wrong. This guy was lucky enough. I could see just enough of his hair under the hat to see it was light brown, and his eyes were a bright blue. Only babies and huskies should have eyes that blue. But the pretty color did little to tamp down the intensity blazing in his gaze. They were blue like the hottest part of a flame.
He reached us a moment later and asked for our order in a bored, dismissive tone. “What do you want?”
Brooke turned on her charm full blast, complete with eyelash batting and hair flipping. “Two Bud Lights, please,” she cooed.
His eyes flicked to me, and his mouth turned down in a scowl.
“I need to see ID,” he said.
Brooke reached into her bra and pulled out her drivers’ license and spoke before I could speak up and order water instead. “Here’s mine, but she left hers at home.”
The bartender glanced at her ID and said, “No ID, no alcohol.”
“Come on. She forgot her ID, but she’s definitely twenty-one,” Brooke said, leaning on the bar so her boobs were front and center. But he wasn’t even looking at her. He was too busy glaring at me like I just killed his dog.
Setting one beer down in front of Brooke, he kept his eyes on me and said to Brooke, “I’m not serving her without ID.”
I really didn’t want to cause a scene, and I didn’t even want the stupid beer. So, I tugged on Brooke’s arm and tried to get her to come with me. The way they were arguing about me like I wasn’t sitting right here was making me really uncomfortable. The couple next to us was watching the scene unfold with interest. I absolutely hated being the center of attention, good or bad.
Brooke leaned over and whispered, “I’ll just give you mine and come back for another.” Unfortunately she hadn’t really mastered the art of whispering, because the angry bartender heard her.
He slapped his palm down on the bar so hard it made Brooke and me jump.
“If I see you drinking anything other than water or soda, I will not hesitate to throw your ass out of here,” he growled at me.
This whole situation was exactly what I was trying to avoid by staying home. Brooke making me dress like an idiot, dragging me out when I should be home working on my paper, trying to illegally order me a beer. And now, this bartender, whose hotness alone was enough to make me nervous, was yelling at me. What upset me the most was that I could have avoided this if I wasn’t such a pushover.
I could feel the tears gathering in my eyes, so before I embarrassed myself further by crying, I gave Brooke’s arm a harsh tug and pulled her away from the bar.
“What were you doing, Brooke? That was completely humiliating,” I hissed at her.
She looked at me innocently, and I knew she truly didn’t understand what she’d done wrong. I shook my head and started for the door.
“Never mind. I’m going home. I never should have let you talk me into coming out tonight.”
I hurried to the door and out into the cold night before she could stop me. After a frigid walk home looking like a prostitute, I changed into a pair of flannel pajama pants and a sweatshirt. I packed up the schoolgirl costume and opened my door, intending to leave it on Brooke’s porch, but Brooke was walking up the driveway.
“I’m so sorry, Poppy. Don’t be mad at me,” Brooke said. It was obvious she was upset, because almost nothing could drag her away from a good party.
My shoulders slumped as I walked down the steps outside the garage. “It’s okay, Brooke. That’s just not my kind of scene, and I should have told you that earlier.”
Brooke stopped in front of me and hugged her bare arms around her waist. “No, it’s my fault. You did tell me you didn’t want to go, but I forced you. Next time we’ll do something you like to do.”
I handed her the costume bag and gave her a hug. “Okay, but you’ll probably be bored to death,” I joked.
“That’s probably a good thing. I think being bored might be good for me,” Brooke laughed.
When I returned to my apartment, I tried to work on my paper, but the events of the evening had me exhausted and my mind on other things. Like cowboy hats and icy blue eyes. Rolling my eyes at myself, I slipped into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. It’s not like I would ever see him again.
Chapter Two
Ford
Rolling over in bed I slapped my hand down on my phone that had been steadily chirping with incoming text messages for the last ten minutes. It was just after 9:00 am, and I needed to get up anyway to get my mom to the doctor for her 10:00 appointment.
I scrolled through my messages, noting they were all from Grady. Stupid fucker. They were all pictures. Pictures of me tending bar last night in a cowboy hat and no shirt. The last one had a message with it.
Grady: Good luck living this one down.
I replied with an equally friendly message.
Me: Fuck you.
It was his damn girlfriend’s fault I was wearing, or rather not wearing, that costume. Lindsay and I had made a bet a while back about whose life sucked more. She was the clear winner when she told me the secret she had been holding from Grady for the last five years. Thankfully it wasn’t much longer before she told him as well. I didn’t want to be the one to keep that from him. She won the right to choose my Halloween costume.
Granted, last night at the pub had been the best night for tips in a long time. As much as I hated holding up my end of my bet with Lindsay, her choice of costume certainly helped my tip jar. I needed to get up and going if I wanted to have time to stop by the bank and deposit my tips on the way to my mom’s appointment.
Scrolling through my e-mails, which were few and far between, I saw a new one from Coach Hawkins. I hadn’t seen Coach in person since the day I was released from the hospital almost three years ago, but he kept tabs on me with regular e-mails. Usually they were filled with updates on that year’s team and how the season was going. I rarely responded unless he specifically asked me a question. It was still too hard to even watch a game on TV, let alone discuss with my former coach how my former team was doing.
It was really st
upid, and I felt like a fucking pansy every time I had to turn away from the TV or avoid a conversation with a customer when it turned to talk of football. But I couldn’t help it. The entire sport, a sport I used to love, just brought up too many painful memories. Like I didn’t already have my mom wasting away in front of me to remind me that I had failed.
If only I had slid instead of going for the first down, I would be playing in the NFL right now and my mom would have the best medical care available. Instead, because of my stupid split-second decision, I was stuck in this small town tending bar while my mom was slowly dying of cancer.
This e-mail started out like all the others with a recap of the season so far and Coach’s thoughts on the matchups they had left. LSU was a powerhouse in the SEC, and I wasn’t surprised to hear that they would likely be in the national championship game again. Then the e-mail took an unexpected turn.
The real reason I’m writing is to ask you about your plans for the future - long term. We will have an opening on the coaching staff after this season is over, and I want you to consider a position as an assistant coach. The team always respected you and your opinion, and I think that you are a natural choice. Of course, there will be a formal interview process, but I will make the final decision. And, Ford, I want you. Think about it and let me know.
Fourth Down Page 2
