Fair Catch - A Football Romance (10 page)

The last ten minutes of our trip, exhaustion takes over, and we hold hands and ride in silence. In the quiet car, flashbacks of our night together start to come back to me as the coast flies by outside my window.

A shiver runs up my spine when memories of how dominant and demanding River was in bed surface. I’m an independent woman, and I don’t like to be told what to do, but if River said jump, I’d ask how high.

He is a perfect amalgamation of sex appeal and jocularity, sweet and salty, playful and dominant, and he just showed up in my life and gave me things I didn’t even know I wanted.

How am I supposed to fit him into my regimented life? And how will he fit me into his when the off-season is over? He will be busier than me with practices and traveling all over the country for games. And if I’m accepted by the San Francisco Dance Company, I’ll be doing my share of traveling and working out.

It seems like a dream come true today, but down the road a few months, it could turn into a nightmare. I don’t see how this can go anywhere. I could go with the flow and have fun until we both get too busy for each other, but I’m afraid my heart is already in danger of being broken, and we’ve only had one night together.

“You’re thinking too hard,” he says, breaking the silence.

I loll my head to the left to look at him through tired eyes.

“How do you know?”

“You have this little wrinkle between your eyes, and your lip is poking out. You looked the same way the first day of ballet class, when you were choosing our music.”

I reach up and smooth out the wrinkle between my eyes and suck my lip between my teeth.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing.”

“Not true.”

“What makes you say that?”

“When I asked about it, I could see the gears stop. What’s on your mind?”

I might as well try to nip it in the bud now before my heart gets destroyed.

“I was thinking about this, whatever it is,” I say and wave my free hand over our joined hands resting on the console between us.

“Those are our hands. They call it holding hands. It’s an ancient tradition that started with monkeys.”

“Stop, you know what I mean.”

“What were you thinking about this, whatever it is, then?”

“That I don’t see a future for it with our careers.”

He is quiet for a moment, contemplating my statement.

“I’m interested in the fact that you’re already thinking about us down the line. We’ve only had one date, but last night, I found myself thinking the same thing. Why don’t we just take this one day at a time and see where it goes? I promise, I won’t ask you to marry me the next time I take you out. And no pressure to meet the family, cross my heart.” He briefly releases the steering wheel and makes a cross over his heart.

My thoughts are on tilt. He just admitted that he has feelings for me too, strong enough feelings to be considering a future with me.

I can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

“What if I fall for you?”

“Then that’s great,?” he says with confusion written all over his face.

“No, it’s not great if we are both jetting around the country, doing our own things, without being able to see each other.”

“Angel, if you want a full, happy life, you have to stop thinking of how it’s supposed to be and just let it be. If you only allow dance in your life, what will you have when you can’t dance anymore?”

“You sound just like Cat.”

“Well, Cat must be brilliant.”

“Yeah, she’s pretty smart, and I get what you’re both saying, but to be the best at something, you have to be fully dedicated to it.”

“That’s true, but there’s a difference between dedication and obsession.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Being obsessed is irrational. Being dedicated is rational.”

“You think I’m irrational?”

“I think anyone who lives their life for one thing and one thing only is irrational.”

Am I obsessed with dancing? Has my love for it morphed into something unhealthy? Am I so unbalanced that I’m chasing a dream that’s only going to burn me in the end?

“I’ll probably regret this, but okay, let’s try this one day at a time.”

He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses the tip of each one of my fingers. Then he places my open palm on his cheek and covers it with his hand.

“You won’t regret it. I promise.”

My heart is beating in my throat, and I’m swooning. I regret it already.

R
iver

I drop Angel off at the entrance of Mind Body Soul and park my car in an underground parking garage across the street.

We made great time. She isn’t going to be late, and my appointment isn’t for thirty minutes. I’m feeling overly territorial, though, so I’m going in to keep an eye on this Marcus guy she mentioned the first day of class.

I know firsthand how close an athlete can get to their physical therapist when they’re the opposite sex. I had a fling with a girl who was helping me with a shoulder injury a few years ago. I learned my lesson, though. When we broke up, it was uncomfortable seeing her at PT, and that’s when I started coming to MBS.

Inside the clinic, I check in at the desk and tell the cute brunette, whose tag on her very low-cut blouse says Kelly, that I’m just going to head back and stretch before my appointment.

I feel like a heel for spying on her. It’s not like she’s my girlfriend or anything. Not yet, at least. We had an amazing time driving back to the city. It’s easy between us, like an old couple except without the fizzled attraction and nagging. She’s funny and smart and sexy as hell.

I need to stop thinking about her, or I’ll be facing my physical therapist, Nicka, with a massive erection, and God knows, I don’t want to give her the wrong idea.

In the training room, I sit on a bench and take out my phone. Angel and Marcus are on a mat at the other end of the room.

I open the camera app on my phone and casually raise it in their direction. I can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s a total stalker move, but this possessive urge in my gut is short-circuiting any logical thoughts in my brain at the moment.

She is lying on her back in a pair of my sister’s black leggings and a long, filmy white blouse. I hadn’t noticed until now that she wasn’t wearing a bra. On the floor with the shirt flush against her breasts, it’s painfully obvious—painful for my dick, that is, and obvious for Marcus.

I’m seconds from getting up and throwing her over my shoulder and hauling her out of here like a cave man when Nicka approaches me from the side.

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she? I can set you up. I know her,” she whispers in my ear.

“Shit, Nicka, are you trying to kill me?”

“Sorry, saw you over here drooling, and I figured I’d put you out of your misery.”

“I’m not drooling.”

“You are, and with good reason. She’s hot.”

Nicka is gay, and I won’t work with a straight trainer anymore. It’s too tempting, or rather, it used to be. I can’t even think of another woman with the memories of last night fresh in my mind.

“She’s taken,” I say with more certainty and confidence than I have a right to.

“Really? She finally gave in to Marcus? He’s been hot for her for over a year now, but she’s always shut him down cold. I wonder what changed her mind.”

“Not by Marcus. By me.”

Nicka turns away from the couple with huge eyes and a slack jaw.

“No.”

“Yes. Is that so hard to imagine?”

I glance over to see Marcus’s hand on Angel’s thigh—high on her thigh—pressing her knee up to her chest.

“Uh yeah, she doesn’t date anybody. Like I mean, no-bod-y. Especially players like you.”

I look back at Nicka, shocked.

“Players like me? I’m not a player.”

“When’s the last time you had a serious girlfriend?”

I can’t help but look at them again. She’s like a magnet, pulling my attention away from Nicka.

“Um, I don’t know. High school, maybe?” I say with my eyes still on them. Jealousy is rearing its ugly head, and my patience is about to snap, along with Marcus’s neck.

“How many women have you taken home to Mama?”

“None. What’s this got to do with Angel and me, anyway?” I say with irritation oozing from my words.

“Wow . . . like, wow. You’ve got it so bad for her, don’t you? Shit, I’ve never seen you like this.” She places her fingers on my chin and turns my face to her.

“Dude, you okay? I think you should sit down before you go murdering one of our best therapists. He digs her, but he’s just her therapist. She’s always made that clear.”

“Does it look like he wants to be just her therapist?” I say, pointing to them. Marcus is squatting down with his ass resting on his heels, holding Angel’s foot in his hand and rolling her ankle in circles, first one direction and then the other. But between each set of rotations, he leans forward to stretch her hamstrings, and I swear to God, he’s pressing his dick against her. Fuck, I’m not watching this anymore. I stand to rush the filthy weasel and give him a taste of San Francisco Spark pride, but Nicka slides in front of me, blocking my way.

At five three, the beautiful black-skinned little scrapper is no match for me, and she knows it. She’s trying to reason with an unreasonable man. I’m going to kill that guy if he doesn’t stop touching her like that.

“Do you see this?” I say, hissing and pointing at them. A dozen other people in the middle of their sessions turn to see what the commotion is about. They quickly avert their eyes when I sweep the room with a death glare.

“Yeah, I do. Listen. If you go over there and sit down on my table, I’ll talk to him.”

I take a step forward, and she puts her hands on my chest.

“Please, man, don’t do this. Have a seat. I’ll take care of it.”

I look down into her dark eyes filled with genuine concern and decide to give her a chance. If he doesn’t knock it off, I can still handle it myself.

“Tell him to get his meat paws off her ass and to stop pushing his little dick between her legs.”

“Sure, okay, whatever. Just go have a seat.”

Turning away from her and walking in the opposite direction feels like I’m going against the grain in a million ways.

I’m not one to settle disputes with words. If you piss me off, be ready for a fist to the face. I inherited my hot Irish temper from my father. I defend my family and friends with brute force. It’s part of who I am.

I don’t go around looking for a fight or anything, and I’m not opposed to finding alternatives to bloodying someone’s nose or blackening an eye or two. But if I can’t get ahold of my temper in that initial few moments of anger when my eyes vibrate in their sockets and my mind goes white, you’d better duck and run.

I deep breathe all the way to Nicka’s table and turn around to perch on the edge of it when I get there. I watch as she squats down next to them, smiling and wagging a finger at Marcus like a mother does a toddler who’s trying to sneak out of bed after being tucked in for the night.

Marcus glances up toward the corner of the room and back at Nicka. Angel has moved into a sitting position with her arms wrapped around her bent knees. Her breasts are hidden behind her legs, no longer accentuated by gravity and her shirt, much to my relief.

The scene is all very buddy, buddy when Nicka stands to leave. Angel watches Nicka leave and catches my eyes. Her warm smile straightens into a straight line, and she tilts her head to one side as if to ask
what’s the matter?

I force the corners of my mouth into a smile and dig my fingers into the pleather cover of the therapy table. Keep it together, Kelly. You don’t want to scare her away. She’s the best thing to happen to you since you got drafted into the NFA.

She returns the strained smile, but her honey-colored eyes are rimmed with worry and maybe a touch of suspicion.

I hate that I’ve potentially caused her to feel either. I don’t want to complicate her life. I want to make it better. Losing my shit with that Ricky Martin lookalike over there would only upset her, but it would feel so good to smash his pretty nose.

“All cleared up, and there will be no hands or dicks anywhere near your girl in here ever again,” Nicka says and strolls around the table.

I look in Angel’s direction one more time and catch the tail end of my sister’s white shirt flowing behind her as she exits the room. Nicka pushes against my shoulder, and I lie down and stretch out. She starts right in with my range of motion exercises for my shoulder.

“What did you say?” I ask.

“I told him there had been some claims about trainers getting too touchy-feely and that he should watch it because they installed extra cameras to watch us from every angle.”

I turn to face her and frown.

“Is that true?”

I saw the camera she pointed at, but I have no idea if it’s new. I’ve never paid attention to it before today.

“Naw, they’ve been up there forever. They work, but nobody’s ever complained, and we don’t have any new ones. They laughed it off and said something about it being their last session.”

I look away from her and into the blinding lights on the ceiling.

“Good. If she needs PT in the future, will you take her as a client?”

She puffs air from her nose and chuckles.

“Yeah, sure, dude, but you do remember I swing her way and not yours, right?”

“She doesn’t, though,” I say.

“I can be very persuasive.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“You’re right, not if you’re involved. I’ve never seen a man so jealous before. That artery in your neck looked like it was going to explode. What is it with this girl that’s got you so twisted up?”

“I don’t know, Nicka, but that’s exactly what I am. Twisted up.”

A
ngel

I am being fought over. Me, Angel Marie Williams, the quiet, reserved, non-dating, non-drug using, non-alcohol consuming, dedicated dancer.

I was surprised at how forward Marcus was today. He’s always been interested, but today, it was like I was wearing a magic love potion around my neck. He pushed the boundaries of a physical therapist to the absolute edge.

I was trying to blow it off, considering this was our last session, but somebody else decided to take matters into their own hands.

River’s fury shot like daggers from his eyes, and it was clearly aimed at my frisky therapist.

The first time I noticed him, he was busy concentrating on Marcus and Nicka. He didn’t even notice me looking back and forth between them. The second time, he did an awful job of faking a smile.

So far in our forty-eight-hour-long relationship, I have learned that Mr. River Kelly isn’t a man who hides his feelings. He wears them on his sleeve, right out there for the world to see.

He was pissed, and if we were exclusively dating, I could honestly understand why he would be. Marcus was all hands today, and occasionally, another appendage that I’m trying to forget about. If I ever have another injury, I’m going to change therapists.

“Hey, Angel, wait up.” I hear Marcus call as I’m pushing out the front door. River and I hadn’t talked about him giving me a ride after our appointments, so I called for an Uber. It’s already waiting under the canopy in front of MBS.

Thank God I have a good excuse to leave. I’m not in the mood to talk to Marcus after all that.

“I have to get going, Marcus. I have to meet with Miss Valentina this morning.”

When he catches up, he places his hand on my upper arm, and I discreetly move away from his touch by waving at my driver.

“You left so fast. Is everything okay?”

I drop my arm when the driver sees me and stand up straight to look at Marcus.

“No, it’s not. What was that in there today? I was going to brush it off until Nicka came over and made it pretty clear that it wasn’t just me noticing your overly friendly hands.”

His hands slide into his pockets, and he bows his head.

“I’m sorry. I know I went too far. It’s just . . .”

“Just what?”

“I felt like it was my last chance to get you to notice me. Our sessions were ending, and you’re going to be accepted into the San Francisco Dance Company next week. I might never see you again.”

I sigh and slump my shoulders. Men are so stupid sometimes.

“Marcus, I’ve always noticed you, and we have talked a million times about why I don’t take you up on your offers. I don’t date. I have to focus on dance.”

He lifts his head, and his eyes are full of anger.

“Yeah, so you’ve said. How come there’s a picture of you and that pretty boy getting into a Benz last night on the front page of the
Sports
section this morning? That looked a lot like a date to me.”

More puzzle pieces from last night are falling into place now. Leaving the restaurant, paparazzi waiting for us, flashing cameras in the back window of the car.

I never gave River’s public life a second thought, and now, our date is plastered on the front of the newspaper where anyone can see us. Anyone, including Miss Valentina.

I whip my head toward the Uber and back to Marcus. I need to be early in case Miss Valentina has seen the photos, but I want to clear this thing up with Marcus too.

“It was a date. I won’t lie, but I don’t have time to talk about it right now. I have to go. I’ll call you.”

Before he can protest, I spin on my heel and make a beeline for my car and hop into the front seat.

“San Francisco Dance Academy, and hurry, please,” I say to the gray-haired old man driving the car, who nods as he pulls away from the curb.

I look out the window and watch Marcus become smaller and smaller as we drive away. How did this happen? How have I gone from being a boring loner to having my picture in the paper with a famous pro football player? How have I become the object of two men’s desires?

This is why I should keep my nose to the grindstone and my head down. Life is much easier when I keep to myself.

I’m climbing the stairs into the studio when my phone chimes with a text. It’s probably Cat asking about last night. I pluck it from my tiny handbag that I carried on our date last night and check the screen. It’s not Cat. It’s River.

River —
Did you call a car? I don’t want to leave until I know you have a ride.

Do I respond? He was kind of an ass, sending Nicka over to lie to Marcus and me about extra security cameras. On the other hand, his concern was valid. I’ll be brief and to the point.

Me —
Yes, called an Uber, thanks. I hear our date has gone public. I’m going into the studio to beg Miss Valentina not to throw me out on my ass.

River —
Dammit. I’m sorry, Angel. I didn’t think they got a shot of us until we were in the car, and the windows are tinted black. Where are the pictures? Maybe I can get them taken down.

Me —
It’s in the newspaper. Too late to do anything about it.

River —
Again, I’m sorry. I hope she’s not too hard on you. It was only one night out.

I roll my eyes. He has no idea what I’m in for, and neither do I. I’ve never done anything to upset her before.

Me —
Talk later, headed in to practice.

River —
Call me and tell me how it goes later, please. I’m worried about you.

Me —
I’m a big girl, don’t worry. I’ll text you later.

River —
I will be worrying. Text me.

I drop my phone in my purse and enter the changing room behind Stage One. The stress of the day vanishes from my body when the subtle smells and sounds of the backstage area hit me.

I take a deep breath and smell the familiar scent of sawdust and floor cleaner. The dim lights and the cool draft on my feet would be less than welcoming to anyone who wasn’t a performer.

In the shared dressing room, I shimmy out of my clothes and into a burgundy tank top and a pair of gray cotton bootie shorts. None of my leotards are clean, and I’d wear sweats, but Miss Valentina needs to see the lines of my body to critique.

She’s going to have a fabulous time picking out my inadequacies today. My belly is bloated. I have circles under my eyes and a bruise here and there from some of our rougher antics last night. Not to mention, my muscles hurt like hell.

I grab my ballet slippers and my pointe shoes from under my makeup table and hustle out to the stage. I’m fifteen minutes early. That ought to be enough time to start warming up and prepare what I want to say to her.

I open the side curtain, and a little bit of light cuts a sliver across the stage. There’s no one here to run the lights this early, but I can manage. I’ve danced on this stage so long, I could probably do it blindfolded and not fall off.

I slide on my slippers and stretch on the bar at the very back of the stage. It hurts like a mother, but I grit my teeth and press on through the warm-up. This is no time to start being a pansy. I’ve worked for this for twenty years. I won’t mess it up now.

“Arms stiff, form is wretched. Loosen up, get it together,” my mentor barks in her broken English from somewhere in the dark auditorium.

I should have known she would be here early. She’s probably seen the picture in the paper.

I lift my chin and straighten my spine before my next pass across the stage. I hear her clucking her tongue while she walks down the center aisle, but I don’t stop. I know better.

“So you have boyfriend now? You skip practice and I see picture of you on newspaper.”

I continue my routine, although sloppily and more distracted than I’ve ever been before.

“Stop!” she yells.

I have never heard Miss Valentina yell in all of our years together. She is strict and rigid, but never out of control.

I stop center stage, breathing heavily and sweating after only a few minutes of warm-up. Now I see why abstaining from all things fun is so necessary.

I feel like shit. I dance like shit.

“Did you meet him in class I make you teach?”

“I did.”

She groans and turns away from me. I watch her back muscles contract as she grabs the sides of her head. Long, white fingers thread through her silky black hair, and I hold my breath, waiting for her wrath.

She drops her arms, slapping her hands on her thighs.

“This is my fault. No more football class, only practice here with me, every day till audition.”

She’s been talking with her back to me to an empty auditorium until she turns to see if I will be agreeable to her plan.

“Yes, ma’am.” That’s all there is to say. I don’t tell her it’s not her fault, I don’t defend my actions, and I don’t even ask what time to be here every day because it doesn’t matter. What matters is that she hasn’t abandoned me. I will do whatever this genius prima ballerina asks of me from now on like I always have . . . until last night. This goes to show she’s always been right.

The next three hours are grueling as Miss Valentina claws the best performance possible from my weak, hung over body. She allows me an hour lunch break only because she has an appointment. I grab a sandwich and an apple from the little food cart out front and slip into the dressing room to eat and take a nap.

I set my alarm for fifty minutes and lie down on a musty prop couch with my robe stuffed under my head as a pillow.

I’m out within seconds of closing my eyes, holding my phone between praying hands to make sure the alarm wakes me.

Forty-five minutes later, it’s not my alarm that wakes me. Instead, a warm, rough hand rubs my shoulder gently, and I open my eyes and sit up, nearly clocking River in the forehead with my own.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, but I think Dictator Stalin just came back into the auditorium. I don’t want you to get into any more trouble.”

“What are you doing here? How do you know I’m in trouble?”

“I figured something was up when somebody else taught our class today. She wasn’t nearly as good with the guys as you are, by the way. I left before it was over and asked at the front desk if you were here. I sat in the balcony and watched you practice for a while.”

He tucks a strand of loose hair behind my ear and cups my cheek.

“You are incredible. My God, Angel, I had no idea you were this good. I mean, yeah, I knew you had some moves, and you’re a great teacher, but damn. What you do with your body on that stage is pure magic.”

“Thank you.”

He was watching me at my absolute worst, and he thinks I’m amazing. How ironic.

“You don’t need that hard ass bitch to insult you. You’ve got more talent in your pinky finger than she probably does. I don’t like the way she talks to you.”

“She does it because she knows she can bring out the best in me when she does. And I’ll never be as good as she is. She’s a famous Russian world-renowned prima ballerina.”

“So the hell what. You’re an American ballet prodigy, for crying out loud. Don’t you see that? These small thinking people are holding you back. You don’t need to be auditioning for the San Francisco Ballet Company. You should be in New York and touring Europe, not stuck in California.”

He speaks with such passion and encouragement that my eyes well with tears. No one has ever been so emotional and vehement with his or her encouragement.

Miss Valentina has always had a particular interest in me, but she doesn’t easily hand out compliments. My parents say ‘good job’ when they come to watch a performance, which isn’t often, and Cat tells me I’m talented, but not the way River just did.

What he might not understand is that the ballet is an art form full of history and tradition. People aren’t as open and accepting of a black ballerina as they are a white one. And my body isn’t your average ballerina’s body. I have muscles and breasts and an ass, and I’m proud as hell of all of them. The color of my skin and the shape of my body have always been an obstacle in the world of ballet. It’s something I’ve always dreamed of changing, but I never had the self-confidence and courage to do it until this moment.

My phone alarm goes off in my hands, and I swing my legs around to get up off the couch.

“I gotta go,” I say, wiping the tears that spilled down my cheeks when I stood up.

“Hey.” He takes ahold of my wrist and pulls me into a warm, secure embrace.

“Why the tears?”

“I can’t talk right now. I have to get back out there, but I could use a ride home later, if you want to come back.” Please let him have time to see me. This hug is the only thing that’s felt good all day, and I could use a lot more of it.

“I’m not leaving. You go back out there, and I’ll keep myself occupied. I’ll come back here when you’re done.”

I pull away and tilt my face up to his.

“It could be hours.”

“Do I look like I care?”

“Okay, see you later then.” I stand on my toes and press a quick, soft kiss to his lips before turning to leave.

“Oh, wait, can you toss my phone on the makeup table over there? She doesn’t allow phones backstage.”

“Of course she doesn’t,” he says, rolling his eyes.

I thrust my phone into his hands.

“Thanks.”

“No problem, Pretty Dancer.”

Something isn’t right in the world when a talent like that is suppressed.

I came to class this afternoon, and Angel had been replaced with a sixteen-year-old as our instructor. The poor thing had no idea how to handle a room full of brutes, and I felt sorry for her.

Not sorry enough to hang around and help, though. I wanted to find Angel and make sure she was all right. After reading the article that accompanied the front page of the sports section, I figured she would be having a bitch of a day, and I blame myself.

I crept into the balcony of the auditorium in the middle of an unusually harsh critique by Angel’s Miss Valentina. I wanted to jump over the railing, storm up the aisle and choke her out when I heard the things she was saying to her in her crappy English.

I made it past those first critical moments of anger, though, and watched as she handled it like a true professional.