The Keeping Score Box Set

by Tawdra Kandle

  “Very funny.” He wiggled his fingers. “Seriously, let me see it. I need to let Martin know that I’m going to be late. And tell Gretchen that I’m stuck here.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You think you can magically make it work?”

  “I think I can try. Come on, don’t be so mule-headed.” He cocked an eyebrow at me.

  “Mule-headed? Me? How can you even say that with a straight face? For almost two months, you’ve been the stubborn son-of-a-bitch who doesn’t have the common courtesy to return a message or an email or a telephone call, and I’m the one who’s mule-headed? You’ve got some set of—” I stopped, suddenly remembering to whom I was talking. As the defensive coordinator, Jeff Hayes wasn’t in my chain of command, technically. He wasn’t even on the same side of the organization as I was, since he was part of the coaching staff, and I was in operations. But still . . . he had the ear of Martin Dunwood, the owner, as well as the general manager.

  With a smothered sigh, I pressed my lips together and handed over my phone. “Fine. Look at it. See for yourself that you’re not going to make any call out.”

  He squinted down at the screen, touching it and scrolling. I watched with pursed lips as he opened the dial pad and tapped in some numbers, then held it to his ear. For a few seconds, I held my breath, waiting . . . until he lowered the phone again and shook his head.

  “Okay, you’re right. There’s no signal. Nothing’s going out or coming in, apparently.” With a somewhat rueful expression, he returned it to me.

  “I won’t say I told you so.” Dropping the cell into my bag again, I stooped to collect the papers that were still at my feet.

  “Thanks for that small mercy. Here, let me give you a hand.” Jeff lowered himself to his haunches, too and began to reach for the print-outs . . . the ones that I’d intended as proof of his lack of response to my attempts to do my job.

  “That’s okay.” I scrambled to snatch the pages before he could see what they were. “I’ve got these.”

  But it was too late. He was already frowning over what was on the paper in his hand. “What’s this? You have . . . what, a file on me?”

  Heat diffused over my face. “I . . . these are . . . I was heading up to meet with George. He wants a status report on how all of our social media accounts are doing, and I get to explain to him why our defense isn’t posting or tweeting or doing any kind of sharing. No status updates. Nada. Zip.” I tugged the page away from Jeff’s hand. “You might remember that managing social media is my job. Because our new DC hasn’t been very cooperative, I have to tell my boss that I’ve failed to perform one of my responsibilities.”

  Stacking all the papers, I shoved them back into the folder and slid the whole thing into my bag before I stood up again, crossing my arms over my chest. Jeff rose, too, still scowling at me.

  For the beat of several moments, an awkward silence hung between us. I stared at the floor, thinking absently that whoever was in charge of maintenance and decorating should consider replacing the carpet here. Of course, if we ended up plunging to our deaths, that would probably become a moot point.

  “It’s ridiculous.” Jeff’s words, bitten out with frustration and bitterness, broke into my reverie.

  “What’s ridiculous?” I tossed back at him. “My job? The fact that I’m going to tell my boss about you? Being stuck together in this elevator? Please, narrow down the options. Enlighten me.”

  “Fucking social media,” he growled. “I understand publicity. I know that the team has to spin things, play up rivalries and players and shit. I get it. I’m not an idiot.”

  “All evidence to the contrary,” I muttered. If Hayes heard me, he pretended that he hadn’t.

  “But the tweeting and posting and blogs and all that . . . it’s stupid. It’s one thing for people like you, who do it for a living, but that’s not my job. My job is football. It’s helping to put together and train and condition the players to be at the top of their game each week, every week. I don’t have time to do anything else, and I shouldn’t be expected to do it.”

  I drew in a deep breath. “I understand what you’re saying, and maybe twenty years ago, you would have been justified in feeling that way. But that’s not the way things are anymore. Sorry. I don’t have to tell you that football is a big business. The game is poetic, it’s beautiful and at its heart, it’s almost artistic, but the truth is that in this day and age, it’s so much more than that. It’s every Thursday and Monday night and all day Sunday during the season, with ads and the sponsors and merchandising . . . it’s the stadiums and tickets and vendors, the television and radio coverage, and now, of course, live streaming, too. And at the core of all of that? It’s the fans.”

  “You don’t have to sell me on the fans, Ms. Baxter.” His tone was ingratiating. “I know who pays my salary, when all is said and done. I work for the Rebels, but I’m fully aware that it’s the people who buy the tickets who are my real bosses.”

  “Good.” I folded my arms over my chest and turned to face him more fully. “So you know, too, that now more than ever, those same fans are no longer content to just read the weekly stats in the newspaper or listen to commentary during the game. They want more than the occasional interview with a player or coach. They’re invested in the game and in the players. It’s why ESPN has multiple cable and radio channels.”

  He grunted, and the sound was so maddening that it spurred me forward again.

  “Not only that, but I’m sure you’re aware, aren’t you, Mr. Hayes, that over half of today’s football fans are women? And women, even more than men, prefer to get their sports news via social media. They’re hungry for more than just numbers, too. They want the inside story on their favorite players. Beyond that, they’re invested in the teams they support. They want to know what the DC is doing to get ready for Sunday. They want updates on who might not be playing because he’s injured his hip or broken his collarbone. They want to see a tweeted picture from practice. They want your feeling on how ready the defense is for the next game, or why you’re convinced our guys are going to dominate the field.”

  As I spoke, I watched Jeff’s eyes. They’d been wide and skeptical when I’d started, but when I made each point, I noticed that his brows were drawing together. The bright blue eyes clouded slightly. He was actually listening to me, and I had a hopeful sense that maybe I was getting through to him. Seeing that, I softened my next words.

  “I don’t know you, but you seem like you’re passionate about football, and that gives you immediate respect in my book. I want to work with you. I understand you don’t see the value in what I do, but I promise, I know what I’m talking about. I know what I’m doing. I know, for instance, that I could take all those accounts I set up for you and do the tweeting and posting myself, as you, but I know it wouldn’t work, because people see through that crap. They want the genuine feeling that will come through if you’re doing it.” And since I felt as though maybe I as making headway, I added, “It’s not like you have to be on social media twenty-four/seven, and you don’t have to reveal anything about yourself. A few tweets a week. A couple of posts, and I can supplement those with pictures and stats. All I’m asking is that you meet me halfway.”

  His shoulders sagged, and he ran one large hand over his face. “It’s not that I don’t see the value in it. It’s just . . . it feels intrusive and false.” He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze to the floor, just as I had a few moments before. “The thing is, I’ve seen what this shit can do to people. And that’s one reason I was so, uh . . . resistant to it when I first met you.”

  “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘hostile’,” I suggested helpfully.

  The barest hint of a smile touched his lips. “Maybe. It wasn’t you, really. See, I have a niece. And she’s in high school, and like most girls, I guess, she shared a whole lot on-line—stuff she should’ve kept private. It came back to bite her in the ass. She was targeted by a bunch of teenaged bitches, who made her li
fe a living hell for months. It got so bad, she took a handful of pills and tried to kill herself.”

  “Oh, no.” I lifted my hand to the base of my throat. “That’s horrible. I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah, well . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s okay now. Thank God, her mom found her in time, and she didn’t do any real damage. But I saw enough to realize that this social media shit can be dangerous.”

  “Right.” I nodded. “But Jeff, you’re not a teenaged girl, looking for attention or affirmation or anything like that. This is part of your job.” I hesitated a second. “Look at it this way. Let’s say we were friends, you and me. And if we were, you’d know that I have a deep and abiding love for this game, which is why I have the job I do. So imagine that knowing that, every so often after practice, you stopped by my office to tell me how it had gone. You might say, damn, Ruperts got in some killer hits today. Or maybe, we looked so tight today, I can’t wait to see how we shut down New England’s offense this week.” I lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “You might even have taken a picture or two of your guys in action. Or maybe someone else did and sent them to you.”

  He inclined his head. “Yeah, I guess I could see that happening.”

  “Okay, then. Imagine that instead of just me, there are thousands of people like me out there, and that’s all you’d be doing—just sharing some of your passion for what you’re doing. For what the team is doing.”

  That same tic jumped in his cheek again. “When you put it like that, I can understand it. It makes sense.” He paused. “But I’m not sure how great at it I’m going to be. It still doesn’t feel like a priority. And I’m pretty sure I’d manage to fuck it up more often than I’d get it right.”

  “That’s where I come in.” I grinned up at him. “I have an idea. We’ll call it . . . a compromise. You commit to stopping by to see me after practice a few times each week, and I’ll help you put together your posts and a couple of tweets. After a while, you’ll get the hang of it, and you won’t need me anymore.”

  “A compromise, huh?” This time, his smile was genuine, and his eyes almost twinkled. “I see what I get out of it—I don’t have to figure all of this crap on my own. You’ll be my tutor. But where’s the benefit for you?”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say that getting to see that smile a couple of times of week was plenty of benefit, thanks very much. But I managed to refrain from giving away too much too soon.

  Instead, I raised one hand, flipping it over. “I get the satisfaction of knowing that I’m doing what I’ve been hired to do. I don’t have to go to my boss and tell him I failed. Plus, I’d never turn down the chance to hear how my team is doing. I don’t get down to watch practices as much as I’d like.”

  “That sounds like a win-win, then. Okay. It’s a deal.” Jeff stretched out his hand toward me, and I slid my much-smaller one into his grip. His fingers were warm as they enveloped mine, and I felt our connection all the way down to my toes . . . not to mention a couple of other key points in my body.

  He released my hand and took a half-step back, glancing away from me. “So . . . that’s settled. I guess now we just sit back and wait to be saved.”

  I shrugged. “Guess so.” I leaned against the back wall and eased my way to sit down on the floor, being careful to bend my knees so that my skirt didn’t inch too far up my legs. I was conscious of Jeff’s eyes on me, and while there was a certain recklessness within my soul that was tempted to give him a little show, professionalism won out over flirting.

  The silence between us this time wasn’t as awkward as it was . . . charged. I squirmed a little, wishing I could think of something to say that was witty and flirtatious without crossing too far over the line that said it wasn’t cool to come onto someone who worked with me.

  Jeff sighed and sat down, too, a scant few feet from me. He was a big guy, although he was lean, too. I wondered if he’d played football before he’d decided to focus on the coaching side of the game. I’d avoided snooping into Hayes since he’d joined our team, even when my curiosity about his avoidance had been at its height. But now . . .

  “Did you ever play?” I heard myself speak before I’d really decided to do it.

  One side of his mouth quirked up. “I’m assuming you mean football. Yeah, I was a defensive end in college, and I was with Indianapolis for a year after I graduated. Took a bad hit about half way through the season, and I decided I’d had enough. The truth was, while I love the game and loved playing it, I knew I was never going to have what it takes to be in the league long-term. I had my shot, which is a hell of a lot more than most guys get.”

  “Do you miss it?” I rested my head against the cool wall of the elevator and regarded him.

  He blew out a long breath. “My stock answer to that is no, I love what I do. And that’s the truth, because most people who get out of the game don’t have the same opportunities I did. I was lucky. But if I’m being honest . . .” He smiled ruefully at me. “And if you can’t be honest with the person who’s stuck in an elevator with you, who can you? If I’m being honest, then yeah, sometimes I do miss it. I watch the guys run out there to face the other team, and sometimes I can feel what they should do, you know? I have to keep myself from physically moving my arms and legs the way I know they should. I’d give a lot to play again for the love of it.”

  I absorbed that, thinking about how hard it must have been for this man to make the choice to walk away from something he loved. “Did you stay with Indianapolis?”

  He nodded. “For a few years, and then the assistant DC position opened up in Denver. My sister lives in Boulder, and her husband had just been diagnosed with cancer. I knew she could use some help, so I decided that the time was right to make a move.”

  I was impressed. “You must be pretty close to your family.”

  He lifted one shoulder. “My sister, my brother-in-law and their kids . . . yes. My dad died when I was a teenager, and my mom remarried. I don’t see much of her anymore. My sister and I stuck together when there wasn’t anyone else for us, and time hasn’t changed that.” He fiddled with a loose fiber on the carpet. “So now you have my history. What about you? How does a beautiful and talented woman end up working in professional football?”

  Laughing, I rolled my eyes. “If I had a dollar for every time I heard that one, I’d retire to Fiji.”

  “Hey, it’s a legit question. No sexism intended.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I shifted a little. The floor was damn hard, and my tailbone was beginning to hurt. “I always loved football. I grew up in a household where the world revolved around games from Thursday through Monday. Both my parents were huge fans in Baltimore, and they taught my sisters and me the finer points. I knew I wanted my career to be connected to football in some way, and public relations fascinated me, too. So I combined the two interests and went to work for the team’s publicity and promotions department in Philadelphia right out of college. I stayed there until I was recruited down here to Virginia, and I’ve been with the Rebels ever since.”

  “It’s a good organization. I’ve been impressed with everything so far. It almost feels as if the whole ‘we’re a team and a family’ schtick is the real deal.”

  “That’s because it is. We all have each other’s back. We’re intensely loyal, and sometimes, we’re kind of obnoxiously protective of the team and the staff.”

  “That’s not a bad thing,” Jeff observed.

  “No, it isn’t,” I agreed. “I know I’m biased, but I think our players are the finest in the league. From the veterans to the newbies, I love them all like brothers.”

  Jeff cast me a quick speculative glance. “Just brothers? There’s none of them who bring out a different kind of feeling?”

  “Oooooh, well . . .” I drawled. “I mean, I’m not blind. Gideon Maynard is one of the finest specimens of maleness out there.”

  “A little aloof, though. I don’t work with him, of course, but still—he seems . . .
” Jeff hesitated. “As though he keeps himself slightly apart.”

  I nodded. “You’re not wrong. But once he thaws, Gideon’s just as sweet and loyal as the others. And have you gotten to know Corey Iverson and his wife? Or the Taylors? I was lucky enough to be here before Leo and Quinn were even married, and let me tell you, it was like one of those real-life love stories. Still is. He looks at her as though he can’t believe he actually has her, and she’s fathoms deep in love with him.” I allowed myself a small sigh. “Makes a girl want to believe in things like true love and happily-ever-after.”

  “And why wouldn’t you?” His voice had dropped a notch, and the huskiness there made me shiver. “Why shouldn’t a gorgeous woman like you, with your passion and your personality, believe that she can find that same happy ending?”

  Jeff reached toward me, touching my cheek with just one tantalizing finger. I sat motionless, hardly daring to breathe. My heart was pounding again, and I just wanted to be a little bit closer—

  At that moment, the elevator rocked again, and I was thrown to the side, my motion stopped by the hard, muscled body next to me. Jeff dropped his hand from my face and caught me by the upper arms, his hands sliding around my back to pull me against him, protecting me as the entire car swayed. Terror that we were about to fall warred with the sensation of feeling all of him pressed into me, a heady sensation that I never wanted to let go.

  When the movement stopped again, I expected him to pull back, to re-establish some distance between us. But he didn’t. Instead, he lowered his face to look down into mine.

  “Hi,” he murmured, his mouth barely moving.

  My heart was beating so wildly that I was certain he must’ve been able to feel it against his chest. “Hi,” I responded. The tip of my tongue darted out to run over my lips, and his eyes tracked its path.

  “You know, I told you about my niece—that was one reason that on the day we met, I was . . . what did you call it? Hostile?”

  “Yeah.” I breathed out the word. “Was there another?”