by Zoë Lane
Sean raced the remaining yardage to the goal line. He and I might never get along, but he was one of the best running backs in collegiate history, and despite our teams’ rivalry, his skill would match the league’s elite right now. I jogged to the goal to congratulate him and then sprinted back to the coach.
“Great work, team,” Coach Hicks said after we gathered around him. “Defense, we’ve got some drills we’ll have to work out in the next week, but I’ll be giving the owner a positive report card this evening. No extra workouts since we’ve got practice again tomorrow. And before you give me a hard time, you’re getting a three-day weekend starting Friday.”
My teammates and I slapped each other on the back and immediately started making plans when the coach interrupted us.
“Guys, don’t start thinking about the weekend. Keep your focus on the next day, and the next day only. That’s how we’re going to win games. Not dwelling on past mistakes, not thinking about how much time’s left on the clock, but playing our hearts out minute by minute. One after the other. We need to be dialed in or we’ll lose sight of the goal. Understood?” We nodded and vocally acknowledged him. “Good. All right, hit the showers. Don’t forget to sign a few balls on the way out. We need as many people on our side as we can get. Game one is next Thursday.”
I felt that punch to my kidney. Coach Hicks didn’t meet my gaze, but it didn’t matter. I knew he was referring to me, and so did the rest of the team. After this weekend, what did it really matter? I was always really focused during the season; there were rules. Three that I followed the night before a game—no exceptions. No heavy carbs, no television, and definitely no sex. My body had to be in peak condition, with energy to perform on the field, and my mind centered on the goal. No distractions.
Unless it was a holiday, or something where there was a really long weekend.
I flexed my ab muscles to relieve the stress of Coach’s verbal assault. The last year a rookie team had debuted in the NFL was 2002. The Houston Texans, with a franchise fee in the high hundreds of millions. Neither the GM nor the coach would tell the team how much money was riding on us, but my agent had speculated the cost to be at or over a billion dollars, a pool split between incredibly wealthy, incredibly private individuals.
That’s how much we were worth. Untested, unproven, unsung. Coach did his best to keep his criticisms upbeat and his speeches of encouragement zeroed in on our goals, but his career—our careers—were riding on a billion-dollar blow-up ball with laces.
No athlete with this amount of tension built up would be able to resist some release, even if it was just his hand and a magazine. And ever since Lacey had arrived, my stress-level had skyrocketed. Was she doing homework or cleaning out my bar?
Just over a week until game day.
My thoughts centered back on Lacey as I headed back to the locker room. I was always able to tell when something bothered her; like a gut feeling. If I didn’t see it in her eyes when we were hiding in the closet, I could hear it in her voice on the phone, calling me to leave my shift at McDonald’s early and come back home.
“Landyn! Landyn!”
Oh, right. Autographs.
I barely looked at the guy calling my name and dragged my feet over to the bleachers. Another dad wanting me to sign a football for his son who hoped to be a QB someday. I wondered if he’d told his kid the odds of him making it to the NFL, or hell, even starting on a college team. They had a better shot at gaining a bit of weight and being a lineman. At least they’d be on the team.
I reached for the football, almost mechanically, and snatched the pen from the man’s hand.
“Thanks, son.”
My lungs petrified, the muscles in my body nearing atrophy. My neck strained under the weight of my head as I lifted it, squinting against the light of the evening sun to look into the face of the man I’d sworn I’d kill the next time I saw him.
My father.
Carter Gallagher grinned, showing a row of straight white teeth. Hmm, probably fake. As much as he drank and how often he went to the dentist—never—the man’s mouth should’ve rotted away by now.
He wore a baseball cap with our organization’s logo and rhino mascot, shielding the sun from his tanned skin. His salt-and-pepper goatee was something new; while on the police force, he’d almost never had facial hair due to department policy.
“Carter?” I heard the disbelief in my voice, as well as something else. Something that I hadn’t felt since I’d left for college. The sounds of laughter and voices in conversation around us faded, and I recognized the sound of myself as a ten-year-old. Fearful, almost hopeless, afraid that if I wasn’t strong enough for my sister, I wouldn’t be able to protect her and she’d die. I could handle the beatings; I was ten. She was only six, and tiny for her age.
Carter’s grin waned a bit. “No ‘Dad’? I’m your father, son.”
My teeth gritted, the anger flowing through me bringing life to my muscles. “You’re nothing to me,” I hissed.
“After all I did for you? And look at you now! My son, an NFL quarterback. A starter. I couldn’t be more proud.”
“Proud?” I scoffed. I could feel the football deflating beneath my grip. My right thumb clicked the top of the pen to eject the writing instrument. I could stab the man in the neck with it.
Easy.
Over in two seconds.
“That’s why I’m here, Landyn.” His tone weighted, matching his crestfallen expression. “A lot has happened since your sister was taken—since you went away to college. Changes were made. I changed.”
That’s when I saw the thin, gold band on his left ring finger. How could more air physically be sucked from my shriveled lungs? “You’re married?” I asked so loudly that pairs of eyes trained on us.
Carter smiled shakily. “Yes. Yes, that’s one of the things I wanted to mention.” He held up his left hand so the ring occupied my entire vision like it was something precious. “I got married,” he chuckled.
“But…Mom…”
“She left, remember?” he said so sharply I took a step back, the sound of his voice triggering a flight response in me so familiar my eyes darted for places to hide.
“Anyway,” he continued, “no one’s seen her since she left. I was able to divorce her.”
“How…how could you do that to another woman?” I seethed. Here was a man who drank and beat my mother so much she ran. Ran and never came back. Not even for me and Lacey. At times I’d wished she were dead too.
“Like I said, Landyn,” he began in a low, yet steely tone, “I’ve changed. I’ve come here not to get a lecture from you. I’ve had my fair share from therapists over the last four years. Don’t get me wrong, they were right, but I’ve moved forward. Condemnation doesn’t do any good. I’m staying positive and looking to do good for the rest of my life.”
My teeth were chattering so hard I lost the ability to use my jaw. I couldn’t move because I was shaking. The periphery of my vision clouded to a hazy reddish color.
“When I heard you were drafted and coming home, I thought this was a sign that I had to come and do this in person. To ask for your forgiveness and a fresh start. I’m not going to lie, I’d love season tickets,” he chuckled. He fucking chuckled. “We’re all so excited about the team. But I know…baby steps.”
Forgiveness? Season tickets? Baby steps? “You’re kidding?”
Carter shook his head. “Dead serious, son.”
“Don’t call me son!” In my head I roared it, but the faint lift of Carter’s brows told it me it came out less like a lion and more like a cub.
“I know I can’t change how you see me today, but in my eyes you’ll always be my son. You are my son. I know I have to prove to you that I’m a new man and that our relationship will be different—better—from now on. I’m prepared to do that.”
“I’m not.”
I dropped the football and pen and sprinted toward the locker room. I’d pat myself on the back for it later.
/>
Twenty-six.
That was the number of ways I saw myself killing my father with that pen. Then I thought about the team and how they’d be without a quarterback next Thursday—no way I was going to count my backup. The image of Rose and how her brown hair would be stringy and greasy, stuck to her sweaty forehead as she worked to spin the homicide of a local fan by the three-time Heisman Trophy winner into a positive for the franchise.
Not worth it.
Although the satisfaction I’d feel seeing the man’s lifeblood drain out onto the ground, the fear of death in his eyes; my life—and my sister’s—would be over. We’d die with him.
And I wouldn’t give that bastard the pleasure.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ROSE
“Have a seat, Rose.”
My throat involuntarily gulped, my cheeks twitching as I tried my best to smile confidently. I set my briefcase next to the chair in front of Rochelle’s desk and slowly descended into the chair. It was a paradox; the longer it took for me to settle, the more time I had not to hear what I knew she would say. On the other hand, the longer it took for me to settle, the more time would drag until I could get out of here and go back to doing my job.
If I still had a job.
Without sitting back in the chair, I kept my shoulders straight, back arched, and I took a deep breath, clasping my hands in my lap. If I looked the part, I’d be the part.
Rochelle hadn’t returned my smile nor mirrored my body language. Instead, she sat hunched over some newspaper, her brows meeting in the middle, her mouth tipped downward.
Oh, no. Not the Richmond Bugle. It was the only paper that had run a photograph from an unknown source. I figured it had to be from someone’s cell phone. Yes, I worked for the largest and most trusted crisis management firm in the Mid-Atlantic, but we didn’t go around stealing people’s phones. Did we? This wasn’t Scandal.
The GM cleared her throat and met my eyes. Mine widened.
She was less than pleased with my work. I had known it the moment I’d heard her voice on the other end of the line, asking to meet with me in person, saying the issue shouldn’t be discussed over the phone to avoid misinterpretation.
Great. “The tone of the article was very upbeat. It painted Mr. Gallagher in a very positive light. Yes, the photograph was not from any vetted photographer, but every summer camp needs a food fight, right? The kids loved him, Ms. Hardison. My firm would agree that this is definitely a win.” I smiled again, hoping she wasn’t offended that I had taken control of the meeting. I had to. I was part of MacCallister, Wembly, and Poach, dammit.
“I understand kids will be kids.”
“They will,” I rushed to say.
“And that this was a summer camp visit. It’s supposed to be fun.”
“Yes, and it was.” And I started the food fight. No, it wouldn’t actually help to say that.
“However, it’s not the article that has me concerned.”
“Oh?” Did I just sound like I didn’t know what was happening? Well, I didn’t. And maybe I should, being the fixer and all.
“I received a phone call about an invoice the camp wanted to send to Landyn because of a food fight? Something about clothes and other items being damaged.”
Yeeaahhh. “Um, yes. That was agreed to prior to us leaving the camp. Although the kids had an excellent time, Landyn did feel responsible for…the change in activities that the camp had already outlined for the day, namely a food fight not being one of them.”
I sounded like a lawyer. I should’ve gone to law school.
“I just want to be sure that we’re on the same page with the goal that we’ve set for Landyn. We want him to be seen as a franchise quarterback. Not someone who can’t handle the pressure of leading an NFL team.” Her eyes narrowed, not viciously, more…introspectively. “Am I making myself clear?”
“Ah, yes, ma’am. Very clear. I’m—”
“Then you’ll have to forgive me, but I’m going to need you to explain to me again about spending time at a summer camp.”
That familiar twinge of insecurity put the right side of my stomach into knots. It would gradually make its way to the left at a very uncomfortably slow pace. My father always told me to focus less on how people viewed me and more on what I knew to be true about myself.
I just wished I didn’t have to remember to be confident all the time.
The color of my hands paled with my tight grip. I forced my hands to part, splaying my fingers over my thighs. “Kids are a massive demographic in football’s fan base. The merchandise that’s bought every year, and that the parents of these kids will buy to show their loyalty to the team. Think of the pictures of babies and other kids you see on Facebook. Those parents will dress their children in Richmond Rhinos gear. We want to portray Mr. Gallagher as a role model, which is only one facet of being a leader. When you have the respect of children, you’ll have the wallets of parents.”
“Money isn’t all we care about, Ms. Mackleby.”
“No, but a lot of money has been invested in Mr. Gallagher. I wanted to point out the two-pronged benefit of the choice to start reframing his image by connecting him with children.” That wasn’t me. That was definitely Helena…or Helena’s influence. Whatever it was, I couldn’t let it get away. “The research is still coming in, but preliminary findings show a marked uptick in popularity for Mr. Gallagher, as well as the franchise. Media moves very quickly. Pictures of him falling out of clubs will be forgotten. Coupled with the new branding initiative my company is working on with your marketing department, by the season opener, ESPN commentators will be talking less about the franchise’s ability to perform, and more about the possibility of you reaching conference playoffs.”
Oh, yeah. I was born for this.
Effortlessly, I slid back into the chair, allowing my body to relax and my breathing to slow to a pace slower than a hummingbird’s. Rochelle nodded, but the stress lines in her face meant I hadn’t sold her completely with my speech. I opened my mouth to continue, and then shut it. I had to let it simmer, as Helena would say. Sometimes what we did was an acquired taste. After all, if people didn’t screw up to begin with, they wouldn’t need to take the difficult steps of having us fix their mess.
“Okay, okay,” Rochelle said with a sigh. She rubbed her hand over her forehead and dragged it back to catch a few wisps of her hair, placing them behind her right ear. “You made your case, and I know you’re right.”
“I appreciate that.”
Rochelle locked eyes with me. “There is…a lot of money riding on this. A lot.”
I nodded. One point five billion, to be exact. I felt ill; all these people…their jobs, including everyone working in the newly remolded—expensively remodeled—stadium. The fans. An entire city—no, the state of Virginia. People were eager to see if this team could match, or surpass, the Washington Redskins. The new franchise was an instant rivalry to the team that had long held the loyalty of fans in D.C. and the Commonwealth.
One person would make it a laughingstock. What’s worst is, he doesn’t seem to care! He’s got his money, even though he could lose it, but he thinks he can just ride on his talent and good looks. Doesn’t he know that teams don’t want to deal with the drama? If he gets cut, he might not work again!
Why I cared, I didn’t know. Watching Rochelle’s expression slowly go from tense and exhausted to I-have-no-choice annoyed me.
“We’re so close to the start of the season. We shouldn’t be having this issue,” Rochelle said quietly. I figured she was contemplating out loud and had forgotten I was still in the room. I sympathized; this territory was new to her as well.
“It’s being handled. I’d focus on anything else that you’ll need to accomplish before next Thursday. Let me worry about Landyn. I promise you, it’s already taken care of.” I stood with my briefcase to add finality to what I’d promised. “Please don’t hesitate to call me again if you need to discuss the agreement.” A firm nod and a s
mile, and I walked confidently out of her office, without being dismissed.
The door shut behind me, I leaned against it and closed my eyes. Whoa. I really was made for this. Maybe I should’ve minored in theater or something, because I felt like I’d just given a performance worthy of some award. I guessed part of this job was about appearances—even for the fixers.
I took my time walking the hall to the staircase at the end of it, admiring the sleek lines of the decor, the pictures of great football players from Virginian universities; it really was a beautiful facility. How many people did Landyn’s stunts affect?
“Are you stalking me?”
I don’t know how I didn’t see him coming, but Landyn stood in front of me, in sweats and a shirt that hugged way too many ab muscles, his hair still wet and tousled about, making him look like he’d just rolled out of bed and I was watching him.
Except he wasn’t smiling because he was happy I was lying there with him. In fact, he looked really pissed to see me. Of course I wasn’t stalking him! Why the heck would I need to stalk a man who’d easily be found in the nearest club?
In my most professional tone, I responded, “Landyn. I was just in a meeting with the general manager.”
“Is this about the summer camp?” His voice rose a notch. “Did you tell her you started the food fight?”
His hands moved to his narrow hips, and I tried not to keep my stare there, nor notice the massive bulge in his sweats. That’s the thing about sweatpants: they left little to the imagination. My cheeks burned, so it didn’t really matter if what I said next was to his face or his crotch, since by now he knew what I was staring at. “Landyn,” I said, raising my eyes to meet his; I had dignity to maintain, after all. “The GM and I just wanted to make sure we remain in sync with the goals. The organization has full confidence in me, and I expect nothing but continued cooperation from you.”
He pointed to his chest. “You have expectations for me?”
“Me and the countless other people who work here, whose jobs depend on this franchise not failing.”
