Keeping Score

by Cathryn Fox

  “You…you would kill someone?”

  “In my world, I either fight or fuck, and if I can’t fuck, I’d have no choice but to fight.”

  I brace both hands on the table, my brain and body too fired up to respond, and he casually turns my computer his way, and carries on like he hadn’t just been talking about…fucking.

  “Stats giving you trouble?”

  “What…huh?” I blink, and try to unscramble his words in my brain.

  “Stats. You were cursing at your computer when I came in remember?”

  I shake my head. “Yeah, I just…it’s not my thing.”

  He links his fingers and cracks his knuckles. “Lucky for you, it’s mine.”

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I take in his half-naked body.

  “Let’s do this first. Then I have to go for a run and you have a phone call to make.”

  He grabs the pen and paper in front of me, and jots down the equation. I stare at his big, scarred hands. “Phone call?”

  “Sure, you have to break it off with Cochrane for the next month.”

  “Break it off? You said you didn’t want me to talk to him, not to break it off.”

  Without missing a beat, he starts solving the equation, and says, “Changed my mind. If you’re going to pay off his debt, it means no contact with him, at all, and you have to come to my games to cheer me on, and hang out with me instead.”

  “Rocco, you can’t do that. I’m…we’re supposed to get engaged after college, supposed to go to Harvard Law together…supposed to…”

  He angles his head, and my heart races. Oh, God, why is he looking at me like that, like he can see right through me?

  “You have it all planned out, I see.”

  “Well…sort of.” I shift, uncomfortable under his close inspection. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’m some sort of big joke.” He might not be looking at me like that and I could be projecting. I’m in business, and I feel like a fraud as I struggle through it, knowing it will take my parents’ pull to get me into law school—the path they expect me to take.

  “I don’t think you’re a joke, Reagan. Not at all. It’s great that you have a plan, that you know what you want, and are going for it. It’s not always easy to know what we want at our age, and it’s admirable that you do, and have this whole plan set out.”

  “That’s the second time you said you admired something about me.”

  “I guess it must be true,” he teases. “I like that you know what you want, that’s all.”

  “Don’t you know what you want to do?” I ask, twisting the subject before he delves in a little bit deeper, and I end up spilling secrets that are lurking in my darkest corners. He is not the kind of guy I’d tell my hopes and fears to.

  “Yes, I want you to break it off with Cochrane for the next month.”

  He’s knows I’m talking about the future—his future—but he’s circling back around, and backing me into a corner.

  I blink slowly. Cochrane is going to lose his mind. He should have considered the consequences last night. “Is that what you want?”

  “For now.”

  I shake my head, my ponytail swishing over my back. “You must really hate Cochrane,” I say, mostly to myself.

  “Yeah,” he responds, his gaze dropping to my mouth and another thought hits. Maybe he doesn’t hate Cochrane as much as he likes me. A ridiculous quiver goes through me. I don’t want that and of course he doesn’t like me. He might not hate me, but he doesn’t like me—or want me. We don’t really know each other. Sure, I know things about him. Rumors run crazy on campus, but this…this is all about getting back at Cochrane. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I wet my lips, and meet his eyes, to find him staring at my mouth, like I’m the lamb he’s about to slaughter.

  I sit up a bit straighter. “So…statistics.”

  “Okay, here’s how to solve this—”

  I hold my hand up to stop him. “Talk slowly, like I’m a baby with a cookie.”

  He laughs. “I take it Dr. Seth is your prof.”

  “How did you know?”

  “He’s a brilliant man, but not only is he hard to understand, he talks a million miles an hour. When I had him my freshman year, he told us we all had to go home and spend the weekend musuring.”

  “Musuring?”

  “Yeah, exactly. It took me forever to realize he was saying measuring. Brain blown.” He puts his hands on his head and pulls them apart, mimicking an explosion. I laugh out loud and whack him, instantly wishing I hadn’t when my hand connects with a wall of hard muscles.

  Rock and a hard place.

  “You’re making that up,” I blurt out.

  He laughs and shakes his head. “True story. Scout’s honor.”

  I snort. “Yeah, right, like you were a scout?”

  “You don’t know my life,” he teases and I take a breath, a new lightness and ease blossoming between us.

  “You’re right, I don’t.” I shrug easily, like it doesn’t matter one way or another, although I’m not entirely sure I really feel that way.

  He winks at me. “Like I said, one month together will rectify that.”

  I nod, and although I can’t quite figure out what kind of game he’s playing or what he’s out to prove, I have to say one month doesn’t seem quite as bad as I thought it would be.

  You have to break up with Cochrane.

  Right, there’s that.

  He spends the next half hour going over my homework questions, and I sit there in awe of his teaching skills and his intelligence.

  “If you don’t make it in football, Rocco, you’d make a great prof.”

  “Thanks. I had a great coach in high school, and he told me I should always give back when I could.” He nods, but a frown tugs down the corners of his mouth.

  “What?”

  “Why did you wait until fourth year to take stats?”

  I shrug. “I hate it.” I glance at him, and I have no idea why, but I confess, “I hate business.”

  His frown deepens. “Then why are you taking it?”

  “I’m…it’s expected.” Oh God, what am I doing? Why would I say that? He goes quiet, too quiet, and I realize I might have crossed a line into the personal and maybe he doesn’t want to hear that.

  “I’m sorry, Reagan.”

  I shut my computer and blow out a breath. “I have no idea why I just told you that. I shouldn’t have.”

  “Your secret is safe with me.” He smiles to reveal that one crooked front tooth. The funny thing is, it makes him who he is, and it doesn’t detract from his looks, it enhances them. Who would have though imperfections could be perfect if they were on the right person?

  “It’s not like me to do that.”

  “I guess you must trust me.”

  “Trust? I don’t know about that. Trust doesn’t come easy to me.” I grew up privileged and I appreciate all I was given, but I never knew who wanted to be my friend because of what I had or because they liked me.

  “Me neither. I guess we have that in common, and you probably shouldn’t trust a big scary motherfucker.”

  Heat flashes across my cheeks, and I cover my face with my hands. “You heard that.”

  “Yeah.” He takes my hands and slowly removes them from my face, and the second my eyes lock on his, catch the warmth in his eyes my breath stalls in my lungs.

  “I don’t want you to be afraid of me, Reagan. Your boyfriend, yes, I want him to shit his pants when he sees me coming, but not you.”

  “Okay.” I swallow. “I’m not much into shitting my pants.”

  We both laugh, and it quickly dies off. A second passes, and then another, and it’s like the oxygen has been sucked out of the kitchen because I can’t seem to breathe. I finally break the silence and say, “I owe you an apology.”

  “We all make judgement calls.” His eyes narrow in on me. “Our first impressions are ba
sed on our experiences and upbringings, whether they’re right or wrong.”

  As I take in his intensity, I can’t help but think he’s talking about himself, and that he might have been judging me in return. What must the boy who came from nothing, and secured himself a football scholarship, think of the girl born with a silver spoon in her mouth? Maybe that’s none of my business.

  “I’m sorry I accused you of cheating.” I toy with the hem of my T-shirt and pluck at a string. “That was wrong of me.”

  “It’s okay.”

  He’s wrong. It’s not okay. I never should have accused him of cheating. To be fair, none of this is his fault. This is on Cochrane. He’s the one who thrust us together because of his gambling problem, and then what does he do? Warns me not to fall for Rocco. Unbelievable! Never in a million years is that going to happen.

  Totally ludicrous, right?

  5

  Rocco

  It’s Monday afternoon, and I’m on the football field for practice. I scan the bleachers and find Reagan sitting there with her roommate, both with their laptops open, but they’re not working. They seem to be in deep conversation, and from the looks of it, a very intense one. I wish I could hear them, but I’m too far away. Yesterday, and again this morning over breakfast, I sensed that Miranda wasn’t a fan of Dick, but I could be wrong.

  As if feeling my eyes on them, they both turn my way and we stare for a long time, until Levi hits me in the gut to get me moving as the team takes position for our mini-scrimmage. I walk across the field, and take up position opposite Levi, our offensive lineman, and he gestures to the stands.

  “What are you doing with Cochrane’s girl?” Everyone on campus knows Dick. His grandfather funded the new wing many years ago. Cochrane is the kind of rich you don’t fuck with. Then why am I fucking with him?

  “Hanging out,” I say and give a casual shrug. I like Levi, he’s a good guy, but the less people know about the illegal games at Wolf House, the better.

  “He doesn’t look happy about it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I turn my head just as the coach blows the whistle, and Levi pushes past me, taking me to the ground. Coach Myers blows the whistle again, and I jump up and pull myself together. I should have been ready for that, instead of letting Cochrane distract me.

  “Get your head in the game, Rocco.”

  “You got it, Coach,” I say, and tamp down the rage welling up inside me as Cochrane stands in the bleachers, hovering over Reagan. We all line up again, and this time I channel that rage into my play and take Levi to the ground. I smack his helmet and grin at him as the play continues on around me, then I jump up and rush down the field as our running back cuts toward an opening in the defense. He’s chased down and gets tackled by Joshua and Coach blows his whistle. I lift my head and find Cochrane glaring at me, and I glare back. He stands there for a second, then stomps off.

  Coach calls us all over as Reagan and Miranda get up and leave. I jump around, shake my hands and work to block everything from my mind and get my head into the scrimmage. We have a big game coming up, and we need the win.

  “What’s going on with you?” I turn to Alistair, my closest friend and roommate as he stretches out his legs. “You didn’t come home last night.”

  “Sorry, Dad,” I snicker, and he smacks my helmet and laughs.

  “Are you in some kind of trouble?” He looks me over. “You actually look like you want to murder someone.”

  My gaze strays to the stands, where Cochrane was only moments ago. “I’m good.”

  Alistair follows my gaze, but it comes up empty. “You sure about that?”

  “I’ll explain it later, okay?”

  “Sure.” He grabs my helmet and gives it a little shove into my midsection. “Head down, buddy. Nothing or no one is worth blowing your scholarship over and fucking up your career.”

  “You’re right.” He is right, and as I put my helmet back on, I realize it’s not the first time I’ve asked myself what kind of stupid game I’m playing with Reagan. I honestly don’t know the answer. If that’s a lie and if I do know the answer, maybe I just don’t want to examine it.

  We spend the next couple hours doing drills and I’m exhausted, and hungry by the time I finish. After we shower, I walk back toward our off-campus place with Alistair. I lift my face to the late day sun as my stomach grumbles.

  “Talk,” Alistair says, and I grin at him.

  “You’re not going to believe it.”

  “Try me.”

  As we stroll home, I fill him in on everything. As I talk, the line in his forehead gets deeper and deeper, and I can’t help but think I’m also getting myself in deeper and deeper. I should have bailed Sunday morning. Hell, I should never have gone to her place Saturday night. But it’s a little too late to turn back now and let Cochrane win this thing—whatever it might be—between us.

  “One month.” Alistair rubs his face as he slowly shakes his head. “You’re fucking crazy, you know that?”

  “No other explanation.” I laugh.

  “Keep it in your pants, Rocco.”

  “I’m not going to fuck her,” I shoot back as my dick twitches, wanting to be the one calling the shots.

  “Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that.”

  “This is just payback. Cochrane had it coming, and don’t forget he’s the one who sold her out, not me.”

  “Just be careful. I hate that fucker as much as you do, and I just don’t want to see anything happen to you.”

  “Yeah, I know,” I agree, unease eating a path through my gut. “What can he do? He was at the game, he sold his girlfriend out. He opens his fucking mouth, and this is on him.”

  “It should work that way, but…”

  He lets his words fall off. He doesn’t need to say anything else. I get it. The rich live by different rules than the rest of us. When I get a big NFL contract, I’m not going to be an asshole like the rest of them. Guaran-fucking-teed. I’m going to do good things with my money and fame, mainly help the kids with no one to turn to.

  We reached the house and I forage through the fridge, looking for something to eat. I shove some leftover chicken into my mouth, and pack a bag full of fresh clothes. After a quick shower, I stop outside Alistair’s bedroom door, about to knock, when I hear giggling. I grin, leaving him to whichever girl crawled into his bed. It’s not unusual to come home and find our beds occupied, and I have to say I’m glad mine was empty today. Maybe everyone sensed my shit mood during practice and decided to steer clear.

  “Later, bud,” I call out and take the stairs two at a time. Outside, I hike my bag up, and the sun is still high in the sky this late October day as I make my way to Reagan’s house closer to campus. I left my bike at her place earlier, parked beside her bright red Volkswagen bug, and jogged to the football field, since it was so close to her place.

  As I walk, the hairs on the back of my neck begin to stand on end, a familiar sensation when trouble is about to find me. I rub my neck and slowly turn to find a sports car back a bit, driving slow, like it’s following me. I do a quick scan, and I’m pretty sure there are four guys inside.

  Not a fair fight, but what in life is fair, right? I consider calling Alistair for backup. He’d be here in a heartbeat, but I think I’ll give it a minute to see how it plays out first. I drop my bag onto the sidewalk and turn to face the car. My fingers curl into fists at my sides, and while I can’t see the occupants’ faces, as they all have ballcaps pulled low—Kingston rowing team caps, actually—I’m pretty sure it’s Cochrane and the members of his rowing team. They’re big, strong, but I’m sure to get in a few good punches.

  The car slows to a stop, and I take a few deep breaths, waiting… But chicken shits that they are, they press on the gas and speed by. I hold my hand up and give them the middle finger.

  “That’s what I thought,” I yell, and pick up my pace. I want to know what Cochrane said to Reagan today. Worry worms its way throu
gh my veins. Maybe I never should have put her in that position. What if Cochrane got angry with her, or threatened her somehow? Shit. I jog all the way to Reagan’s house, and hurry up the stairs. The door is unlocked, which surprises me. Maybe they were waiting for me to return. They haven’t given me a key yet. Inside, the house is quiet, the lights low as evening settles in, and I set my bag down, and head to the kitchen, my nose following all the delicious smells.

  The second I enter and glance at the kitchen table, my heart squeezes tight, a kind of warmth I’ve never before experienced, flooding my bloodstream. I swallow, and pick up the note. I don’t really know what Reagan’s handwriting looks like, but this can only be from her.

  * * *

  Dinner is in the fridge.

  * * *

  Isn’t it crazy how five simple words can mean so much? Fuck, I have no idea why they hit me harder than my father’s fists, sending me backward a little with the force. This hit hurts, but in a different way. In a way I’m not equipped to deal with. I set the paper down, and the house is so quiet, I find myself tiptoeing to the fridge. Where are Reagan and Miranda? The more important question is, why did they make me dinner? A guy could get used to this. I sure as shit shouldn’t.

  Inside the fridge, I find a white bowl with ravioli, and not the kind you need a can opener to eat. I take the plastic off the bowl and breathe in the delicious smells. A quick two minutes in the microwave, and I’m headed up the stairs to eat in my room. I walk slowly past Reagan’s room, and her door is slightly ajar. Yeah, her room is off limits, but I’d like to thank her.

  “Reagan,” I say quietly, and nudge the door just a bit with my foot, just enough to give me a peek into her private space. What the fuck? All around her room she has artwork, paintings of flowers, scenery, and a few of people. I call out to her again, and a movement on her bed draws my attention. My God, is she under some makeshift blanket tent? Like I used to make in one of my foster homes? Her blankets lift, and I take in the flush of her face as her eyes meet mine.