Out of Bounds (4 page)

Plus, I’ve done well as an attorney, so I can manage the school bills.

As long as I don’t lose my job.

I drum my fingers on the counter. “I need to get to work, sweets. I have a ton to do today, and I don’t want you late for class,” I say, as she gathers up her books and jams them into her messenger bag.

As we walk to the door, she tugs gently on my hair, something she always did when she was little, “I can’t thank you enough for driving me. My car is asking for a knuckle sandwich these days.” She holds up her fist to demonstrate what she wants to do to her little Honda.

“You’re not that far away from me, and your class is on my way in,” I say, making light of it. Fact is, I’d probably do anything for her. She has that kind of hold on me. In some ways she’s always felt like
my
baby, and I definitely helped to raise her.

We head down the steps of her building and slide into my car. I pull out of the lot and into sluggish morning traffic. But my traffic app is the greatest thing since sliced bread, ice cream, and sex, so I manage to avoid the busy roads, darting onto side streets and dodging the snarls.

As I slow at a light, Ally hums.

Which means she has something brewing in her big brain.

With my right hand I make a rolling gesture. “Spit it out.”

She
screws up the corner of her lips, then looks at me, her blue eyes intense. “You
could
call him.”

I scoff by way of answer.

“You could, Dani,” she says, insisting.

“A minute ago you called him a dick,” I point out as the light changes and I hit the gas.

I still can’t believe I misread Drew Erickson so badly. I swore he was going to call. I was sure he’d be a man of his word. Sweet and snarky, and funny and sexy, and he said he would—those all made a phone call seem like a done deal. But more than that, his raging erection seemed like his collateral. That man had a fine cock working under those shorts, and I can only imagine what it would feel like to get my hands on it. Oh, wait. I did. That night I had pictured him as I slipped under the sheets. I imagined him sliding into me, and sending me soaring. The man made me come hard in my fantasies after he left, and I was damn sure I’d hear from him in real life that night.

Then the next day.

Then the next.

Then, I realized I’d been played.

Ally taps the dashboard. “Yes, I did call him a term for the male appendage, but seeing as I like said appendages, perhaps I meant it as a compliment.” She wiggles her eyebrows, a naughty little look in her baby blues.

I laugh. “Oh, that’s good. Your wordplay. You sound like the lawyer now.”

“I learned from the best,” she says wryly. Then she takes a beat and adds, “But I also trust your instincts. You really liked him, and you guys had a good connection. Maybe you could reach out to him. You could find his number in a heartbeat. You’re a confident, single woman,
and
you don’t need to wait for a man to call you. Besides, maybe there’s a simple explanation for him not calling.” She snaps her fingers. “Like he dropped his phone in the shower.”

I crack up. “Why on earth would he be using his phone in the shower?”

“Watching the news, obviously,” she says confidently. “He’s so worldly and concerned about the state of global affairs that he watches the news in the shower.”

“And then he slipped and broke his phone?”

“It was a very intense news story.” Her eyes widen with excitement as she weaves her tall tale. “Or maybe the phone shielded his fall!”

“Or maybe you’re hearing one too many crazy stories about falls in the shower in nursing school,” I say dryly.

“Look. Two-thirds of all accidental injuries occur in the bathroom. Things get slippery in the shower. All I’m saying is, it’s possible there’s an explanation for him not calling.”

“Explanations like that only happen in the movies. Real life consists of men saying they’ll do one thing, then doing another. Because the explanation is this,” I say crisply as I drive. “He’s a pro athlete. He’s used to miles and miles of women offering up their bodies on silver platters, and I didn’t offer mine. So the phone call he got on my porch was probably his ‘save my ass from a woman who won’t put out’ call from a friend.”

Ally shakes her head and whistles. “That was impressive. Seriously impressive. The way you just came up with that excuse.”

I flash a smug grin. “I’m talented like that.”

“Yeah, but is that even a thing? I’ve literally never heard of that kind of phone call, and I have a lot of friends who use Tinder.”

I
grip the wheel tighter, focusing on the road. “Look. It’s all for the best. I don’t have time for distractions like dating. It’s going to be a busy season. We have a lot of work to do, and the more I focus on doing my best at the office, and keeping the team out of the negative limelight, the better off we’ll be at getting you through nursing school.”

Last season was rough for the team. A few of our players dabbled in drugs, and by dabbled, I mean one totaled his Ferrari while coked up and the other trashed a hotel room doing speed and is in rehab. On top of that, our wide receiver, Chuck Romano, became a baby daddy for the fourth time and with a fourth woman.

But wait. It doesn’t stop there. Chuck Dip-His-Wick Romano didn’t spread his seed just anywhere. He went and knocked up the new nineteen-year-old cheerleader for the Knights, an adorable, perky, former gymnast named Bambi.

She’s now a former cheerleader, since she quit and moved back home to Oklahoma to raise the baby with her parents.

That whole situation was a nightmare for the press office. Lord only knows, the sports gossip sites had a field day with the Knights. The team served up a buffet of juicy news all year long, operating as anything but men in shining armor. Spin the roster like a lazy Susan and grab a drug or sex scandal when it stops.

You were virtually guaranteed one or the other.

I’m just glad I don’t do PR for the team.

Ally squeezes my arm. “Yes, I know you’re focused on me. But Drew Erickson is so freaking All-American cute.”

A memory of Andrew—Drew—and his dimple flickers through my mind. “He is cute. Cute, as in
young
. He’s twenty-six, which makes me four years older. He’s a baby.”

“He’s
supposed to be a baby. He’s a pro baller. They’re young.”

I sigh. “You’re relentless and adorable, but also you’re not going to win, because I’m not going to track him down,” I say when I reach her building on campus. “A few minutes ago you were ready to jump on him and beat him up for not calling me.”

“You’re right. I’m back to plan A. Totally going to beat him up.” She mimes punching someone.

I crack up. “Get out of here.”

She leans across the console, gives me a sloppy kiss on the cheek, and then grabs her bag and heads out.

***

I’ve always loved football. It’s been a part of my life as long as I can remember thanks to my dad. He’s not one of those fathers who was disappointed he had girls rather than boys. Instead, he picked up the ball and tossed it to me. We had some good chats and fun conversations throwing a football back and forth in the yard. He’d tell me his plans for upcoming games, and I’d pepper him with questions. My analytical mind wanted to understand every single detail about how football was played, fought, and won. I learned the formations, the types of coverage, when to go for a forward pass, a screen pass, or a play action pass.

Sometimes, he’d ask me what to do in a game, and I’d weigh in with suggestions, based on the opponent and their style of play—running, passing, defensive-minded, and so on.

He didn’t really need my advice. He had a winning record over thirty years as a high school coach. He just liked hearing what I had to say, and he wanted to foster a love of learning in me. He succeeded. That same love turned into my affection for law, for rules, for loopholes.
Being
a good lawyer isn’t that different—the job is all about strategy, and it lets me apply my questioning mind to something I love—the game.

Truth be told though, most of what I work on are contracts with vendors who we partner with at the stadium, as well as the local TV and radio stations. But Stuart Grayson, the head of communications, has asked me to review all the press releases and statements lately, especially with the heat the team’s been under due to the player fuck-ups in the last year.

That’s what I expect when Stuart raps on the door and strides into my office later that morning. I brace myself for news that a tight end is leading a cockfighting ring, or a linebacker put a bun in the oven of a teenager he met at the mall. “Did you hear about Sanders?”

My stomach drops. Please no. Not the quarterback. Dear God, I hope he didn’t become the next player to go for jailbait. “What now?”

Stuart taps his right shoulder. “His shoulder.”

Even though I’m confident his shoulder didn’t impregnate a high schooler, I’ve been trained to assume the worst, so my first thought is he shot himself accidentally in his shoulder. But then I realize Stuart means the trouble Sanders
had
with his shoulder the other day. He dislocated it during practice. “Right. He’s in PT isn’t he?”

Stuart shakes his gray-haired head. “
Was
in PT.” He mimes slicing a knife over his own shoulder. “Labral tear. Needs surgery,” he says, tucking his hands into his pockets and shifting back and forth on the balls of his feet. The man talks in phrases. He has an aversion to using subjects in sentences. “Out of commission for the rest of the season.”

“Ouch,” I say, wincing in pain, like I can feel what Sanders is going through. “That’s terrible. What’s next?”

“
GM made a trade a few days ago. Looks like he just wrapped it all up, so we wanted you to take a look at the release. Shouldn’t be anything out of sorts, but it’s good to follow our new procedures on everything. Gotta play by the rules.” Stuart slaps a few sheets of paper on my desk. Still warm. Fresh off the printer. “Back in ten?”

“Of course,” I say, as I grab the pages. This is an easy in, easy out scenario. I seriously doubt the release will require any lawyering, but when you need to fix a bad rep, you can’t cut corners, even on something as simple as a statement about a quarterback requiring surgery. When Stuart leaves I begin reading, but I’m still thinking about that other quarterback. The one who made me weak in the knees. Who sent butterflies swooping through my belly. Who turned me on.

Normally, I’m pretty solid when it comes to assessing situations. My radar is finely tuned, and I was so certain Drew would be dialing my numbers. Maybe Ally was right. Maybe something happened to him.

Setting aside the page for a minute, I take a quick break to check out the Bleacher Report to see how Drew is faring in the preseason. Fine, fine. I’m stalking him, but I reason it’s for my job. It’s good for me to know what’s happening in the league. Once I learn what Drew’s up to, I’ll give all my focus to this quickie news release on
our
quarterback.

I peer at the screen. There’s no info on Drew’s number today. No report on his preseason stats with the Anaheim Devil Sharks. Nor yesterday. That’s odd. I check the clock. Stuart will be back in five minutes.

Turning away from the computer, I return my focus to the release about the injury. All looks good. I flip to the next page.

The first paragraph makes me blink. Once, twice, three times.

The
words rise up from the page, beating, like they’re alive.

The Los Angeles Knights are pleased to announce the team has traded for Drew Erickson, a quarterback from the Anaheim Devil Sharks. He will likely start in the first game of the season for the Knights.

Chapter Four

Drew

Los Angeles is sharp.

Better than I expected given the team’s troubles in the last year or so. But they’ve weeded out some of the guys who were bringing them down. I firmly believe those kind of problems have a way of carrying over to the field. You just can’t fuck shit up, land punches, snort lines, and, well, knock up a teenage cheerleader, and then play like a pro when it’s time for kickoff.

Today marks the end of my first week with my new teammates. In the morning we run routes once more, so the receivers and I are in synch on the timing of the plays. The pace is light in the early hours, but picks up after noon with a long series of passing drills under the hot sun. By the time practice ends, my muscles are drained and I’m sweat-soaked, but I can’t complain. This is a good kind of exhaustion. The kind that seeps into my bones and portends a good night’s sleep.

That’s what I need to stay strong this season and injury-free. And that’s exactly what I intend to do this fall. Stay in top-notch shape and take the team all the way. As I walk off the field with Tony Elkins, our leading receiver, who sports a full beard and a long mess of hair, he claps me on the back. “Nice work, Erickson. Been a good week.”

“Thanks, man.”

“Keep that shit up and we can make it far this year,” he says, offering a fist for knocking. I reciprocate.

“That’s the goal.”

“Streak, baby. We need to get on a streak.”

“
Yeah? That’s the key?”

“I’ve already got my lucky socks planned. Soon as you start working that magic in the pocket, firing off beautiful bombs to your favorite receiver,” he says with a wink as he taps his chest with both hands.

I nod, long and playful. “As long as you catch ’em, man.”

He holds his arms out wide. “Always, baby. These arms were made to cradle the ball,” he says, and I like his brand of cocky confidence.

We head indoors, the blast of cool air-conditioning a welcome relief from the heat. I glance around the concrete hallway, still getting used to the look and feel of Los Angeles’s facilities.

Getting traded wasn’t entirely unexpected. The writing was on the wall when Anaheim drafted a Heisman winner in the first round last spring, and paid big bucks for his arm to the tune of a fat four-year contract for the Georgia graduate. Like a goddamn neon sign flashing that my days were numbered. It’s been tick-tock since then, as I waited for the call any second. Didn’t matter how good my last season was; my contract ends in a year, and the future of Anaheim rested on the new guy’s shoulders.