Forgetting the Rules: A Second-Chance-Romance Sports Standalone

by Mariah Dietz

  I raise my hands to the front of my helmet and blow into my palms to bite back my laughter. “Let’s get warmed up,” I yell. “Let’s make sure our eyes and hands up.” I fall into one of the two lines our linebackers form. Foley stands in the middle, clapping his hands to get us started.

  As I move to the front of the line, I stretch forward, resting my fingers against the turf. The chalk lines are sharp and bright white, painted fresh this morning.

  The whistle blows, and I lift my hands and face, pretending there’s an opponent in front of me as I jog forward. Unlike practice, we don’t push ourselves during warmups. It’s strictly to get loose and get focused. It’s the calmest time out on the field and one of my favorites when a thousand memories saturate my thoughts—all of them positive.

  “Forrest,” Coach Harris, our head coach, yells my name, calling my attention to where he’s standing at the fifty-yard line.

  I jog toward him, hoping he’s not going to tell me any news that will impact tonight’s game. “Hey, Coach.”

  He chews a giant wad of gum, wearing what he does to every game: a red Brighton sweatshirt and a baseball hat. “Remember how we were talking about how people think you come off a bit...” he winces, chewing his gum for a few long seconds as though he’s considering the right word. “Hell, I’ll give it to you straight. You come off like a pompous asshole sometimes. You don’t smile at people or apply any effort to make small talk. People outside of your circle think you’re rude, and it kind of works for you. You’re a defensive linebacker, you’re tough, and your teammates know you’re not a dick. But it’s going to be a handicap with your career. So, I’ve taken the liberty of making you our lead liaison for the team with the school paper. Head on into the locker room. One of their reporters is waiting on you.”

  I inwardly groan, but Coach Harris looks at me as though he can hear my displeasure. He grins. “I know you hate this stuff, but you’ve got to practice.”

  “I hate the camera,” I remind him. “All the press ever wants to do is twist everything we say.”

  He pats my shoulder again. “The school paper won’t. They worry about selling ad space, which requires readership, and that will mean making you look good. And you need to be thinking about your long game. With your skills, the media will want to talk to you once you’re in the NFL. This is a good opportunity for you to get your feet wet with someone who’s going to be wearing kid-gloves. It’s probably the same kid from last year. He knows football, and he’s probably just going to ask you for some quotes. It will be a cakewalk.”

  When I was a sophomore in high school, my parents talked about my younger sister and me taking courses with some private coaches on how to speak to the press and interact with others because my dad had been talking about making the jump from attorney general to the governor at the time. His ambitions were seemingly abandoned after they came into money and we went from ordering Italian takeout to traveling to Italy to eat fresh Italian food.

  I head into the locker room, already missing the field and the pre-game energy when the sight of Rose makes me come to an abrupt stop. Her green eyes flare with surprise as she uncrosses her legs and stands. “For the record, I didn’t ask for anyone by name. I had emailed Coach Harris and asked to interview a few members of the team. I assumed he’d send Paxton or Arlo. I didn’t … I mean, I wasn’t…”

  I stare at Rose, listening to her ramble—something I’ve never witnessed from her. I should probably tell her I know she didn’t request me and that this was entirely Coach’s decision, but call me a sadist, there’s something perversely satisfying about seeing her borderline embarrassed.

  She clears her throat and waves a hand in the direction of the bench she was sitting on. “This is good, though. It will give us a chance to catch up and hang out for a few. It seems like it’s been forever since we’ve done that.” She turns. “Would you like to take a seat? I’m supposed to have a photographer with me, but she’s late.” She twists her wrist to look at the white watch on her slender wrist with the shadow of a scowl.

  “Coach described you as a guy.”

  Her delicate eyebrows inch toward her hairline, but then she smiles dismissively, quickly regaining her composure and finding the confidence that follows her around like a shadow. “Olivia always said he skims emails. I probably should have sent it from my personal email rather than the paper’s.”

  “You write the sports column now? I had no idea you were such a sports enthusiast.”

  She lifts her chin and tucks her dark hair behind an ear, revealing one of the tiny tattoos that cover much of her skin like a treasure map. This particular pattern of ink makes up the silhouette of one small bird. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” Her smile is a challenge, one that serves to remind me of the many brick walls Rose has built around her that are nearly impossible to see or even sense because everything about her is warm and inviting and easy.

  Bitterness tangles with the annoyance I feel over missing the time and energy of the warm-up.

  Rose doesn’t sense it, or if she does, she doesn’t address it as she takes a seat and scans over her notes. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to record our interview. It’s only to help move our conversation along. Otherwise, you’ll be waiting for me to take notes after every question. She sets her phone between us and taps the screen. “How do you feel about this upcoming season?” she asks. “Is it intimidating to start with a previously undefeated season, or do you think it helps define the year?”

  I shrug. “I think everyone on the team would answer that question differently.”

  She traces the seam of her lips with her tongue and then smiles. “What about you?”

  I stretch my neck. I’ve had a knot sitting between my shoulder and neck for weeks now, refusing to submit to all the Epson salt, massage therapy, and stretching that the team trainer insists will help. “I think last year proved we have what it takes to be the best team in the league.”

  Rose’s smile is like a private secret, flashing in her green eyes. “Do you think that will change this year with so many new players on the team? More than half of the guys on your defense are freshmen this year. That’s a lot of play learning and figuring out how to work as a team.”

  “It can be a painful learning curve, or it can be a quick and easy one, and we always strive to make it as easy and smooth as possible, which is why we double our practices before the season starts and spend so much time together off the field. It’s imperative to build trust with each other so that when we’re out on the field, we know we have each other’s backs.”

  “As the captain of the defense, do you feel a lot of pressure riding on your shoulders?”

  I shake my head, annoyed with the question because each question feels more personal and more foreboding.

  Rose tilts her head, reading my annoyance. “How do you prepare for a game? Do you have any rituals or superstitions?”

  I glance toward the tunnel that leads back out to the field. “Yeah. I like to focus on my team, lead warmups, that sort of thing. I find the fewer distractions before a game, the better.” I pointedly glance back at her, but she’s staring at a list of notes and misses it entirely.

  “Which game do you think will be your greatest challenge this year?”

  “All of them.”

  She blinks slowly before gently shaking her head. “There’s not a particular game or team that you guys are preparing for most?”

  “Every game is a new challenge, and we have to prepare for all of them.”

  “How does it feel to be a senior? Are you ready for what comes after college football?”

  My thoughts begin to race as her question plays on a loop in my head. This year is the definition of bittersweet, yet, admitting that seems as ridiculous as it does juvenile.

  “We’re great at plugging backers. This season is ours, and we’re going to take it.”

  She seems to understand this is my attempt to end the interview, but I ta
ke things one step farther and stand up.

  “It was nice seeing you, Rose.”

  “Ian,” she calls my name after I’ve gained only a yard. “Off the record, I want to give you a heads up about something my editor received.”

  My interest is ice cold. My parents hammered into me to be smart. I don’t send nude photos or ask for them. I don’t even send scandalous texts or emails, knowing my words will forever live in cyberspace where some asshole could access them. I don’t pay for someone to do my assignments. I don’t do steroids—hell, I barely take Aspirin. If her editor has anything, it’s going to be laughable. Still, I wait as she walks toward me, flipping through her phone until she stops, a crease between her eyes that are filled with silent questions. She passes her phone to me.

  The first thing I see is the picture of Hoyt and too much of his wang that’s been going around. “I don’t know if you missed it, but this picture is everywhere,” I tell her. “Hell, look up Hoyt’s pages, and you’ll see he’s sharing and liking every post about it.”

  “I saw it,” she tells me. “But, whoever shared it has more pictures, and they’re not just of Hoyt.”

  I stop from where I was starting to inch forward again and glance from her back to the phone. “What are you talking about?”

  “They have more photos. They said they have something on everyone on the team, and they plan to drop one every day along with a secret.”

  I accept her phone again, looking at the pictures. “A secret?” I scoff. “Everyone knows Hoyt’s a player. That’s not a secret.” I continue to scroll through the short set of images, the last one of me. Anger builds in my chest. I hate feeling like I need to explain myself when I shouldn’t have to. Rose made it clear she wanted to be nothing more than friends, and yet, seeing this image of me touching and kissing another girl makes the excuses pile up faster than my concerns about others seeing it or this damn website. “Rose, this—”

  “It’s bullshit,” she says, interrupting me. “And I have no idea if anyone has or will see it, but they’ve clearly invested a lot of time into it.”

  “Who sent these?”

  She shakes her head. “I was hoping you might know. Whoever it is, they want this to be public. They sent these to my editor earlier this week.”

  “You knew Hoyt’s picture was going to come out, and you didn’t say anything?” Accusation sharpens my voice.

  “We haven’t exactly been on speaking terms,” she points out. “Besides, I had no idea if it was real or what they were going to do with them or even when.”

  “And now you want to write a story about it?”

  She shakes her head again, eyebrows drawn low. “This is off the record. Anthony wants a story because he’s desperate for readership, but I have no interest in being a tabloid columnist.”

  I consider why and how anyone could have these photos. The team is coveted and respected. The only one who would stand to gain something is someone looking to profit from a scandal. And if her editor knew about this and had these photos, is he involved? Is she?

  Rose draws her face back like she can read my thoughts. It’s not only unnerving, but it’s annoying as fuck because she reveals so little in her own expressions and less with her words. “I had nothing to do with this. I don’t know who sent them or why. I just thought you’d like to know since one of the pictures sent was of you.”

  “Did you share this with anyone?”

  Her eyes turn cold. “No. I didn’t. I was giving you a heads up. Thanks for your time, Mr. Forrest, and good luck tonight.” She moves to step around me.

  “Mr. Forrest?” is all I can manage to get out. When the fuck did I become Mr. Fucking Forrest?

  She pauses and faces me. “You clearly have no interest in doing the interview, so rather than wasting both of our time, you can get back out to your team, and I’ll finagle my way into the press room to hear the interviews after the game.” She gives me a final sweep of her eyes and then continues toward the tunnel.

  “You’re going the wrong way,” I tell her. “The door to the stands is back that way.” I point to the right.

  “I know exactly where I’m going. Thanks,” she says without looking back.

  I follow Rose out onto the field, where she finds Coach Harris and greets him with a smile and a hug.

  My thoughts comb over the information she just shared with me. How would someone have gotten these photos? Why would someone have these photos? And potentially the most important question: what’s their end game?

  6

  Rose

  “Do you want to leave?” Olivia asks as we tread deeper into the lion’s den. “We can go home and binge-watch The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel and order some pizza.”

  I’m tempted to say ‘yes,’ but instead, I shake my head. “No. We’re here. It’s the beginning of our senior year, and we’re going to have fun tonight.” I make the pledge to myself because, after three years of carefully crafted plans to have fun and make the most of my time at Brighton, things have been different—off, if you will—for the past several months.

  Olivia grips my hand in hers and sears me with an intense gaze. “If you want to leave at any point, just say the words, and we’ll go.”

  I hate that she senses my unease nearly as much as I hate the unease itself. “I’m not going to spontaneously combust. I promise.” Brighton just dominated with their first home game, and Arlo wants Olivia here to celebrate the victory. I might be feeling off, but I’m not going to let it drag my best friend away from a party she wants to be at.

  Her smirk says she knows how much I hate life right now, but her grip on my hand tightens as she leads me farther into Ian’s house. The living room has been transformed into a dance floor, and people are already grinding against each other. We keep going and see two ping pong tables in the dining room where a dozen other college students are lined up, playing beer pong.

  Of course, Ian is the main reason why being here has me feeling so unsettled—which has only been amplified by our interaction before tonight’s game. Obscenely rich, he lives in this giant house alone and has become notorious for his house parties, which are increasingly over the top with catered food, a staffed bar to ensure no one messes with the drinks, and the hottest and most exclusive DJs. But as appealing as those things are, many still attend the parties just to catch sight of Ian, with his perpetually messy dark hair and piercing eyes and that crooked smile of his that makes his six-foot-three frame seem almost approachable. And I hate admitting that I’m now one of them as I take a quick glance around the room, looking for his squared jaw and enormously broad shoulders. I sometimes attribute the interest he had in me last spring to pure fascination—as if he was convinced he could change my outlook and rules about relationships. Or maybe he had been genuine in his attempt at getting to know me, who knows. Regardless, the picture I saw of him on Anthony’s damned phone revealed he had no problem getting over me this summer.

  The problem is, this feeling is foreign to me. Before Ian, a boy hasn’t managed to hold this much real estate in my thoughts, but like too many things, he’s the exception. I’d begun to care what he thought, and what he liked, and about his past and future. I knew what he ordered at the coffee cart on campus and that he liked when I wore blue, and I’d started to care more about him and less about my rules.

  This shocking realization quickly faded when he shared the news with me that he was going to spend the summer abroad. Maybe I was terrified that he’d get bored of whatever we shared, or maybe my reaction was pure cowardice that had me defining our relationship. Whatever the case, his complete lack of communication paired with these photos has me realizing that it was the right decision.

  On our way here, I was prepared to find a rebound—stat. I wanted to forget about feelings and emotions and memories that had me recalling his favorite brand and type of cookie while I was grocery shopping and comparing him to every guy I meet. Moreover, I’d felt annoyed and jaded from him being so short with me wh
en I interviewed him, treating me like a stranger—a stranger he didn’t like. I came ready to return to last-year-me and embrace my single title that I’d neglected over the summer because those weeks with Ian bled into months with Olivia and Arlo and becoming friends with the team and many of their girlfriends. I spent the summer avoiding anything that resembled flirting. Instead, I focused on my new job as a yoga instructor at Zen Fitness, and trying to find the best mocha in Seattle—a feat considering we have a coffee shop on nearly every corner in this city I’ve called home for the past twenty-one years.

  “Incoming,” Olivia warns, her blue gaze closely tracking my features. Beyond her, Ian is making his way through the crowd like he’s parting the Red Sea. Crooked smile. Sexy mussed hair. And a dark stare that’s pinned on me.

  Shit.

  I swallow my nerves and lift my chin with a false sense of bravado that I cling to like the ledge of a mountain—assuming I knew how to mountain climb, which I don’t.

  He stops in front of us. “What’s up, Liv?”

  Only Arlo calls Olivia Liv.

  She pastes a smile on her face. My best friend is proficient at lying with that very smile. It’s a forgery that her sweet, Southern accent only accentuates when she says, “Hey, Ian. Nice game tonight.”

  Ian still doesn’t look at me. He nods as he stares at Olivia. “Glad you’re here.” He pats her shoulder once and then moves around her and past us.

  Olivia slowly turns to look at me, brow furled. “That was weird.”

  Everything about Ian has been weird this week.