by Allison Parr
But I didn’t know what else to do.
She blinked twice, and turned around and reentered Howard Johnson’s office.
Oh, God. I’d ruined everything. I’d known Gretchen might say no, but I’d expected her to brush me off and wash her hands of me. I hadn’t expected her to march right back into my new employer’s office and have him rescind my job offer. I’d really screwed up this time.
I stood in the open doorway while Gretchen walked forward. “Howard,” she said firmly. “Can you get Rachael a press pass for the Leopard’s game this Sunday? She needs to go make up with her boyfriend, and if you do she’ll probably get you Ryan Carter’s autograph.”
Howard Johnson’s eyes just about bugged out of his head. “You’re dating Ryan Carter?”
I laughed, my hands shaking slightly from the release of wound up tension. I couldn’t believe that had just worked. Thank God for nice people. Thank God for people who appreciated love stories. “Yes. And Mr. Johnson, if I can have a badge, I’ll get you an autograph from every player on the team.”
* * *
That Sunday, I mostly followed people with cameras.
They entered the stadium at a different point then the rest of the mob, and I tried to slip in behind them. Two men stopped me, and asked for my name and ID.
“Rachael Hamilton.” I tried to sound as though I belonged here. “Press.” I held up my Maple&Co ID.
One of the men checked my name against his list. “Go on in, Ms. Hamilton. Enjoy the game.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as I entered. Howard Johnson had presented me with a press badge, but I’d half expected to be thrown out, anyway.
Eva had been highly skeptical when I told her my plan. “Why didn’t you just ask Dylan or Abe to sneak you into the player’s box?”
I’d paused as I’d pulled on my boots. “Because then they’d know I was there, and I’d be surrounded by all those wives, and it would be uncomfortable.”
“Uncomfortable,” Eva had repeated. “More uncomfortable than asking your new boss for press passes? Admit it, you just didn’t think of it. In fact, you should have just had the guys ask Ryan to meet them at a coffee shop, and then you’d be there instead.”
“Ryan’s been anti-social lately.” I’d picked up a scarf with green notes that matched my dress. “Besides, this is a grand gesture, okay? You should appreciate those.”
“I do,” Eva had said flippantly, and then she’d caught sight of my face in the mirror. She’d jumped up and placed her hands on my shoulders. “Hey. You are going to be wonderful. Ryan loves you. You two are great together. It’s going to be okay, all right?” She’d wrapped her arm tightly around me, and I’d leaned into her.
And the first step had worked. Good. Now I just had to find the media lounge.
Keeping the pair with cameras in sight, I trailed after them, admiring the sleek, pale wood, the high glass windows opening into the stadium, the low, curved chairs. The cameras climbed higher, and I followed, until we were all outside the door of another room, with a discreet little sign that read “Press Lounge/Box.” We all showed our IDs again. We were all waved inside, even me and the butterflies housed in my stomach.
The lounge was high ceilinged and bright with light pouring in from the stadium far below. People gathered, chatting and laughing in low voices, all dressed in suits and shiny shoes. I swallowed hard. Okay. Where could I station myself so that I wouldn’t look entirely out of place?
“Don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
A fifty-something man was grinning down at me with a very, very full head of hair and gleaming, clacking teeth. A sports announcer? I put out my hand to shake his and put on my best professional voice. “Rachael Hamilton. I’m here with Maples&Co. We’re putting out a line of YA books about the Leopards.” Was that too much information? Didn’t they always say the best liars barely said anything? Babblers made the worst liars.
“Good to meet you, Rachael Hamilton. I’m Eddie Bruge. But you already knew that!” He laughed heartily. I laughed a little, too. Definitely some famous sports announcer.
Eddie Bruge wanted to tell me all about the Leopards. It irritated me. Fine, I didn’t know every last rule of football and the statistics that went with each player, but that was because I’d grown up a book person, not because I was a twenty-three-year-old female. While his superior manner grated, I managed to nod and smile. I wasn’t interested in putting people in their places right now. I just wanted to keep a low profile and get to the end of the game.
After about fifteen minutes, a tall, statuesque brunette came and rescued me. “I see you’ve met the famous Eddie Bruge.” She smiled tightly at the announcer. “And he seems to be keeping you from meeting anyone else. I’m Tanya Jones. I write for Sports Today.”
“Nice to meet you.” I was relieved to find another woman. Besides Tanya, I’d only spotted two others and the lack of them surprised me.
With Tanya around, Mr. Bruge backed off on his rather overbearing manner, but he still lectured on the finer points of the game. Tanya’s face pinched, her lips narrowing, and I felt put out on her behalf. It was one thing to condescend to a newbie half your age, but quite another to act as though another professional didn’t know her own work.
“He’s impossible,” Tanya said when everyone finally meandered out into the box, a long room filled with computers and cameras and overlooking the stadium proper. “One of those men that will never admit a woman can know sports as well as he does. He might be a good reporter, but he’s a lousy human being.” Still muttering, she strode to her station.
I took a seat at the side of the box, pulling my chair close to the windows so I could watch everything. Soon enough, the music started blasting, the fog pluming, and the players jogged out onto the field accompanied by screams and cheers of fans.
I could feel my heart fall onto that field.
There he was, number 7, raising one hand to wave and then streaming across the green.
The thing was, it didn’t matter if I sometimes started thinking about a novel in the middle of a game. It didn’t matter if I didn’t understand all the rules, or know what a squib kick meant or what a cutback referred to.
What mattered was Ryan.
Because of Ryan, I could watch this game for hours. Because of him, I wanted to know the rules, to understand, to be able to share it with him. And even now, where I still confused positions and missed vital plays—I wanted to watch.
As he ran, as he threw, caught, passed, crumpled to the ground with the football tucked securely against him. He made this beautiful. I could watch him play football, or cook dinner, or laugh with fans, forever. I wanted to watch him, and to talk to him, and laugh. I wanted to curl up against his side and talk about the world, and I wanted to ride on the carousel. I wanted to listen to his bad singing and hear his bad jokes and travel and go home with him.
I just wanted him.
“Got your eye on one of them down there?” Eddie Bruge chuckled at me during halftime. “I heard you sighing.”
Well, that was awkward. “Oh, I’m just—watching.”
He winked at me. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and catch one of them in the locker room later. Shouldn’t take much for a pretty young thing like you.”
“Leave her alone.” Tanya Jones shot an irritated look at Bruge. “She’s working, not here to catch a boyfriend.”
“Then she oughta be careful about how she dresses.” When Tanya glared even harder at him, he laughed and backed away. “I’m just sayin’...”
“What’s he saying?”
Anger deepened the lines in Tanya’s face, but she drained it away with a sigh. “There’s been some fuss about women in the locker rooms. We go there after the game,” she explained. “So we can get interviews out as quick as possible. But occasionally, there’s some backlash against women going in, because the guys sometimes holler. And then they don’t get blamed, but the women do, for wearing inappropriate clothing.”
I was shocked. “That’s ridiculous. I mean—are guys allowed in the equivalent? What about gay guys? Are they allowed in?”
“Men are allowed in the WNBA locker rooms. And there are parts of the locker rooms that are hidden from sight, for those who want privacy when showering and dressing.”
I would definitely want privacy. I wouldn’t want people shoving microphones in my face while half dressed and still digesting the outcome of a game. Especially not when I lost. I bristled on the guys’ behalf.
The Leopards were six points behind when the third quarter started, and I watched with furrowed brows and white knuckles, my fingers clenching my pen. Ryan played with a raw energy and recklessness I hadn’t seen before, and when he slammed into the ground, his legs twisting in the air like a rag doll’s, I bit my lip until I tasted blood.
I turned to Tanya. “What’s he doing? He’s not usually so crazy.”
Tanya tapped her fingers against the desk. “I don’t know. He was like this last week, too. Could be he’s letting his personal life interfere with his game, though he’s usually better than that.”
I straightened, startled. “What about his personal life?”
She shook her head. “There’re rumors he has a girlfriend. But he’s never let anything affect him before.” Her expression was cool, analytical. “He’s made some great long passes, but he’s acting unpredictably.”
I swallowed and stared down at him. It shook me, the idea that I—that what we had—could affect something this large, a game that so many others depended on.
“Do you think they’ll win? I mean, not just this game, but—how far do you think they’ll go?”
Tanya considered this. “They won the AFC Championship the last go-around, though they had Danvers and Gutierrez in that line-up. But after they bounced back from that crash, they’ve been steady, and they still have Carter and Lindsey. Krasner’s a good change—he’ll get Rookie of the Year, no doubt.” She shrugged. “I’d peg them for the division winner, at least.”
I nodded, and we went back to the game.
By the end, my stomach had tied into a knot. I watched a kick-off that pulled the Leopards even in the last ten minutes, and then, in the last three, watched Ryan pass the ball one last time, ridiculously, impossibly tipping into Malcolm’s hands. As everyone around me cheered and wrote and clapped each other on the back, my entire body trembled from stress. When Bruge’s thick hand landed on my shoulder, I almost jumped from sheer nerves. “Showtime, darling.” He smiled his white smile. “Let’s go meet the Leopards.”
We flowed downstairs, a mass of badges and cameras and recorders. Then we stopped, in front of the locker room, waiting the requisite ten minutes that the players stole for privacy.
When the doors opened, I filed in with the rest. By then, some of the players were already dressed in street clothes, but many more were in various states of undress. They lumbered about, laughing and snapping with energy, knocking into each other and pulling on pants. I saw more of Keith and Dylan than I had ever expected to see, and more back hair in general than I’d realized existed. The room smelled like sweat, and damp jerseys were still being whipped off by the slower players. There were towels and skin and tape; lots and lots of athletic tape, crumpled and sticking to things, all over the place.
Eddie Bruges immediately latched onto Malcolm, who grinned and laughed, beaming with happiness. The other reporters started angling for a player, or lining up behind particular guys. I craned my neck, trying to find Ryan, but I couldn’t see him anywhere.
Fine. This would be a total loss if I just went home now. Since the guys I knew were out of range, I stepped over to a couple of half-dressed strangers. “Excuse me. I’m looking for Ryan.”
They looked at each other and laughed, and then leered at me. Oddly, I didn’t feel uncomfortable. I guess I was used to this particular football leer by now. One of them winked. “It’s a good thing you found me instead.”
Tanya was by my side in a moment, narrowing her eyes at the player. “Shove it, Garza.” Then she turned them on me. “I wouldn’t start with Carter.”
I smiled a little awkwardly, appreciating her temerity but also wishing she would disappear. This was difficult enough. “Thanks. But I need to.” Turning back to the guys, I asked, “Where is he? Can you get him?”
“You’re wasting your breath,” the second one said. “Carter has a girlfriend.”
Beside me, Tanya perked up with journalistic interest. “What’s her name?”
I scanned the room impatiently. “Ryan!” I shouted, unable to wait. “Ryan!”
A couple of the other reporters eyed me censoriously.
My gaze caught on a trim goatee. “Keith!”
He turned and frowned. “Rachael?” In a minute, he had reached me, and glared at Tanya before refocusing on me. “What are you doing here? You should have come before the press.”
“I sort of came as press. Is Ryan here?”
Tanya studied me with uncomfortable intensity. “You know Carter?”
Abe bounded forward. “Rach! Was that a great game, or what?” He looked ready to pull me into a headlock or something, but I deterred him with a hug, laughing despite myself at his energy.
“Yeah, it was great.” I disentangled myself. “We’ll have a celebratory picnic or something, later. But right now, I’m trying to find Ryan.”
“How do you know Carter?” Tanya pressed.
“Oh.” Abe threw an uneasy look at Keith. “Malcolm!”
And then Malcolm was there, pushing through the crowd and frowning down at me. “You all right? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said in a small voice. “I just wanted to see Ryan.”
Bruges pushed his way forward in Malcolm’s wake. “What’s going on here? You bothering the little lady?”
The little lady?
Both Keith and Abe’s echoes sounded shocked. “The little lady?”
“Is he here?” I asked Malcolm, who looked worried and unhappy and concerned. “Please, Malcolm.”
Malcolm just smiled sadly and stepped aside.
At first I thought he was refusing to answer me. I thought I had been abandoned to the news critters at my sides, jabbering away, even as Keith, and now Dylan and one or two of the other Leopards who I had only met a time or two started telling them to back off. But then I saw a shadow, and then a foot, stepping out from what must be the private area of the locker room. He rubbed a white towel through his messy blond hair before slinging it around his neck. His chest, bare and newly washed, still gleamed with one or two droplets that had escaped the towel.
He robbed the breath from my lungs, and I had to fight to fill them again with oxygen. “Ryan,” I said, just a whisper, but it cut through the sudden silence like a shout. Ryan’s head jerked up, and his face, flushed with exertion and excitement, paled, making his eyes stand out even more. This time, they made me think of the Arctic sky. I licked my lips, unable to think of what to say.
And then the reporters burst out talking. “You’re not dating Carter, are you?” Tanya demanded, while Bruges kept stuttering, sounding outraged at having missed out on the news. There was a camera at my shoulder, a microphone in my face, and then Keith was yelling at the reporters and Dylan wrapped an arm around my shoulders, dragging me forward while Mike warded off people on my other side. I stumbled blindly as they pulled me toward Ryan. Part of me wanted to dig my heels in and resist; I didn’t want to move an inch toward Ryan. I didn’t want to be the one to make the first move.
But I already had; I had set all of this in motion, I had made the press badge, I had lied and snuck and ended up here. And now I was a foot from Ryan, and the others were retreating, forming a wall against the reporters.
“Hello,” I said stupidly.
He blinked, long gold lashes sweeping against his cheeks. “What are you doing here?” His voice was low, but not, thank God, emotionless.
My mouth hitched up. “Well, you wouldn’t answer my cal
ls. And your doorman turned me away. So I figured this was my best chance of seeing you.”
“And why would you want to?” he asked harshly, and then he blinked again, and his face resettled with cold calm. “I’m trying to make this easier for both of us.”
I opened my mouth, and then closed it. “What does that mean?”
He groaned and raked a hand through his hair. “Rachael. Do you honestly think we could have a clean cut? Us? No, we’ll yell and scream and break each other down and rip our claws through whatever’s left. And it will hurt like hell. And I don’t want to go through that again. So the best thing to do is to just call it off without the messy fight.”
I took a deep breath. “But I don’t want to call it off.”
His face tightened for a half second. “What?”
I stared at the floor for a good, long moment, and then forced my gaze to his. This was the kind of thing you looked into a person’s eyes to say. “I love you.”
“What?”
I hurried on. “And I know we’re really good—too good—at ripping into each other, but I think it’s because we’re both defensive and don’t really know what we’re doing—” I stopped, wincing. As a profession of love, that pretty much sucked. “At least I don’t.” I shook my head and stared at our feet again, at my little black boots and his big woodsy ones. “I don’t know how to do this, and I get hurt sometimes, and then I want to hurt you back and since I know your weak spots it’s really easy, but I honestly don’t think you’re a dumb jock, I think you’re one of the most intelligent people I know, and I love that you play for the Leopards, and I’m so proud of you, and even though we fight, I don’t know, I still want to be with you even if we have to spend half our time trying to figure out what we’re doing—which I don’t think we will, because I think once we air this all, hopefully we won’t be on tenterhooks so much—”
“Rachael.”
