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

by Mariah Dietz

  Rose shakes her head. “Was everything okay?”

  I pull out my phone and open the damn rumor site. “I made the mistake of checking my phone when I woke up this morning to take a piss, and several people had sent me this.” I show her the screen.

  She nods. “I saw it. Olivia showed me.”

  “I was trying to find out if I could get it removed. If Cooper had an email address or anything I could reach out to.” I rake my hand over my hair again, my anger tangling with my regret. “It’s so fucking stupid.”

  Rose’s gaze is soft, patient, but also curious. “Your dad had mentioned his name. When we went to the owl sanctuary, he mentioned you and Dustin saving an owl.”

  I nod, only marginally surprised she remembers. “Dustin was my best friend. He’s the whole reason I got into football.”

  “What happened?”

  “High school happened. Girls happened. Parties happened.” I lean my head back and look up at the ceiling, an avalanche of memories threatening to break free. “He was the best goddamn football player at our school. Hell, if he were here, there’s no way I’d be the middle linebacker—it would have been Dustin. Freshman year, he was like a celebrity at school because he blew everyone’s mind even as a freshman. He was invited to every party, every bonfire…” I shake my head again. “Dustin liked to have fun, and if he had a bad night, he liked to blow off steam.” My thoughts cut to the memory of that night. “It was fun at first, but then it kind of lost its appeal on me, but Dustin hated being at home. His mom worked all the time, and his dad rode his ass constantly, so for him, every excuse to be gone was an escape. But those parties got crazier and crazier. Cops started to show up, one kid nearly drowned, and my interest turned cold.”

  I swallow, feeling the regret climb up my throat in the form of bile. “We’d had a bad night. Everything about our game had gone wrong. I’d invited him over, but he wanted to go party, and I knew I should have gone with him to keep an eye out, but he said he’d call me if he needed a ride, and I was so glad I didn’t have to go that I accepted his lie.”

  Rose places her hand on my knee and scoots closer to me on the couch. “He drove a girl home, and on the way, wrapped them around a tree. They both died at the scene.”

  “Oh, Ian.” Rose runs her hand over my back, a gentleness that is both comforting and welcomed when I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. “I’m so sorry.”

  “The timing of this is just insane,” I say, shaking my head. “Yesterday, Luis was talking about how you have this short window to be open about who you are and things you like and don’t like, and it got in my head, and then I woke up to this. I wasn’t trying to keep this from you. I wanted to tell you. You had been so open about your mom with me, but then summer came and…”

  Rose shakes her head. “First off, I’m so sorry for your loss. That’s tragic and awful, and I hate hearing that you carry that guilt. And I really hate that this stupid rumor person posted something so horrifically offensive.” She grasps my hand with both of hers, and the action begins to calm some of the uneasiness still coursing through my body. “But as for Luis, I mean, I know I’m a novice here with dating. Most of my understanding is from the past nine months and involves Arlo—and we both know that’s not foolproof.” She pauses, a wide smile on her lips. “But, Olivia and Arlo are still learning things about each other because they’re still learning things about themselves. Their dynamic has changed with football, and I’m sure it will continue to grow and change just like I expect ours will.

  “I want to know things about you—I want to know everything about you—but I think if we put a window on this informational period, then we’re going to block ourselves from growing both independently and together.” Her gaze lifts to mine, a small crease between her eyes as she silently asks for my thoughts.

  I lean forward and kiss her like I wanted to when she arrived, without judgment or secrets holding me back. My fingers tangle in her hair as I sweep my lips over hers, kissing her thoroughly.

  When I pull back, her eyes are still closed, the corners of her lips curling. She slowly blinks, her stare meeting mine. Neither of us speaks—we don’t have to. Rose and I have always communicated with our eyes, saying things that are far too complex and important for words to spoil. She leans forward and kisses me again, and then leans back. “We should start on your article. This entire week is dedicated to the football team.”

  “I’m probably the worst choice to include in these,” I tell her. “I suck at this shit.”

  Her green eyes brighten with amusement. “Suck at what shit?”

  “Interviews. Coach Harris thinks it could be a detriment to my career, so he’s been trying to make me practice, but this is truly one of the things I can’t stand. I’d rather do snakes, mat drills, lines, anything but interviews.”

  “What don’t you like about them?”

  I think about what makes my palms sweat, and my words to all seem so rudimentary. “Everything.”

  Rose laughs, the sound filling the space. She has a great laugh, bold and genuine, but like the smiles that reach her eyes, they’re scarce, which only makes receiving them more rewarding.

  “It’s all posturing,” I tell her. “No news source wants to hear about my thoughts for an upcoming game—hell, the fans don’t either. They don’t want to know that I have concerns or that I’m worried that one of our guys might not be able to pull off stopping a play. They want to hear how we’re going to win, and how we’re the best, and how our competitors don’t compare to our skill level.”

  She tilts her head, her plush lips stained a light red and so distracting that I wonder if she notices I’m staring at her mouth instead of her eyes. “I’ve seen your confidence first hand, and it’s not lacking.” She rubs her lips together, and her gaze slides to my mouth and then meets my stare.

  My blood warms as my cock hardens. With Rose, it’s a single look, a single smile, a single laugh that makes the rest of the world seem dull. “Trust me, it has nothing to do with confidence. I know I’m capable, especially where it counts.”

  Her front teeth catch her bottom lip, toying with the flesh of her lip as she stares at me. “You don’t think your confidence translates during interviews?”

  “People mistake confidence for arrogance. I know our team is faster and stronger than any team in the league, but I’m not arrogant or naïve enough to believe that outliers couldn’t change the outcome of a game. Last year we lost Arlo at the end of the season, had that occurred now, our entire season’s projection would change.

  “Until I hit the field, my mind is running in a thousand directions, considering any change-ups and potential strengths and weaknesses from their team and ours. Then, once I’m on the field, that’s when everything becomes silent, and I can focus. It’s like what that woman was telling us about the owls at the sanctuary, about how they’re true predators, and it’s impossible to distract them from their prey. I get like that, locked on, and everything becomes about the win.”

  Her eyes narrow like she’s thinking about something, then she sits up a little straighter. “What about after your games? You don’t seem to enjoy speaking with the press then, either.”

  I don’t. But I do enjoy hearing that she pays attention to me enough to know this. “As soon as a game is over, there’s like a fifteen-minute window where I’m feeling the high of the win, and then my mind starts dissecting the game and where we could have tightened things up and taken advantage of our speed and our size.”

  She moves so she’s sitting on her knees, and her hair slides forward. I reach forward and brush my fingers over the strands, tucking them behind her ear. I see her pulse flutter in the tender, exposed skin of her neck. I love that she feels so much from a single touch, just like I do.

  “Let’s try to channel those fifteen minutes after the game. I’m going to record our interview again, but just like last time, they’re my personal notes, and no one will hear them. Maybe I can help up your confidenc
e.” She pulls out the small recorder and a couple of pages of notes that she sets on her lap. “So, the theme of this series will be the men behind the jerseys, and we’ll have you guys do a photoshoot to offer some of the eye candy that I think is garnering most of the attention with the other sight, and then your interviews—allowing people into your lives—that will be the icing on the cake that will lure them in.”

  This seems impossible, though I’ve argued it isn’t. We want to talk about the parts of our lives that make us more human and relatable, and this other site is doing the exact opposite, and people are eating it up and begging for seconds.

  “What got you into football?” Rose asks.

  “Dustin,” I tell her. “He was obsessed, and I realized when we were in the fifth grade that if I wanted to remain friends, I had to learn to play.”

  She grins. “And it turned out that you were an all-star player?”

  Her compliment has me chuckling. “Not even close. I was terrible for the first couple of years. I grew up with my mom being fully opposed to organized sports, my dad who only ever golfed, and my sister who never roughhoused, and suddenly I was on this field being told to tackle people.

  “That was my rude introduction to learning the difference between arrogance and confidence because I was taller and bigger than half the kids out there, which made me erroneously think I had the advantage. Trust me when I say that they put me in my place … fast.”

  This embarrassing trip down memory lane earns me a smile. “But you continued.”

  I nod. “I continued. Dustin and I spent our weekends watching football games and running extra practices with kids on our street, and in the offseason, we continued playing every day, even on the rare snow, we’d play.”

  “When did you first dream of playing in the NFL?”

  Her question catches me by surprise and completely off guard like most questions during interviews. “Dustin was always talking about going pro. He had big dreams, but the NFL seemed like a given to him rather than a dream. He was insanely fast and didn’t have an ounce of fear in him, so he’d charge down the field like he was chasing the dogs of hell right back into the flames. I never took it that seriously. I liked to play, and as I got better, I liked it more. And yes, I’m aware of how that blurs that arrogance line.”

  “As long as you’re aware.” She tinkers with a small laugh. “You didn’t dream of going pro when you were younger?”

  I shrug. “I liked school and was decent at it. I always thought I’d grow up to be a guy who wore a suit and worked in an office for nine-to-five like my parents did.”

  “What changed that?”

  I flash a grin. “I learned what confidence was.”

  “And Coach Harris says you can’t be charming.”

  I chuckle. “He isn’t lying.”

  “You’re more charming than you think. You’re just quieter than guys like Hoyt and Arlo who can turn on the charm in a second.” She snaps her fingers for emphasis.

  “So you’re saying I’m uptight and boring?”

  “Maybe?” She raises her brows as though daring me to object.

  Instead, I release another low chuckle. “I can be,” I admit.

  She laughs openly, freely. It’s times like this when she’s fully relaxed that I realize how composed she is so much of the time. “I gave you the perfect stage to talk yourself up, and instead, you called yourself boring.”

  I shrug. “I’m okay with boring. I like drip coffee, and my favorite pair of sweats are five years old, and I read books over watching TV, and I’d rather have pizza with a couple of close friends than be at a party with a couple hundred.”

  “Those are endearing qualities, not boring ones. But, now the question begs to be asked if you hate parties, why have you been throwing the most notorious parties at Brighton?”

  “You realize those parties only existed for like six months, and they only became notorious because I don’t have neighbors to bitch and call the cops, right?”

  “I’m pretty sure it was the stuffed mushrooms,” she says.

  I grin. “At least we can both agree that it was a variable that can be bought.”

  “Then why host them?”

  I stare at her.

  Her eyes shift between mine, her discomfort growing as pink stains her cheeks.

  “I’d heard you didn’t date, and I knew Arlo was starting to spend time with you and Olivia.” I shrug. “I thought under the right circumstances ... you might show up.”

  “I was your Daisy Buchanan?”

  I grin. “Thank fuck, no. She was married. You were always mine, and I was playing with the endgame in mind.”

  Her gaze dances between mine. “I can’t believe you threw parties on the off chance I’d come.”

  “You left an impression, and it wouldn’t fade.”

  She smiles shyly. “So did you. I remember when I’d made that comment about staring at my boobs and how you seemed almost offended by the suggestion.”

  “I was so intrigued by you,” I admit.

  She grins. “And then you learned I’m actually quite boring.”

  “The more I learn about you, the more intrigued I become.” My gaze travels to her breasts that are covered in a black tee that reveals only the hint of cleavage. “In all of you.”

  “I kind of like it when you’re not a gentleman,” she says. “But first, we have to work on this article. It needs to be perfect.” She stands up and moves so that several feet rest between us. “What do you like to do outside of football?”

  I pull in a breath. It already feels like I’ve uncovered and exposed so much of my life that the fingers of exhaustion are beginning to wrap around my lungs. “My schedule for the foreseeable future includes finding the best mocha in Seattle, classes, football, and making you orgasm in every way possible.”

  Her lips purse, and she shakes her head. “You have to be serious. I need to get this done.”

  I shake my head. “Forget about it. I don’t give a shit about these lies they keep writing. Let them sow doubt. Eventually, people will tire of reading these insane accusations and stop or realize it’s all a bunch of bullshit.”

  “My mom used to say that about reality TV, and it’s still around.”

  I tip my head back and groan. “You’re going to have your work cut out for you with my damn interview. I don’t want to blast Dustin’s name and make him sound like the villain, and I don’t want to sound like fucking Gatsby.”

  Rose smirks. “Is that really what you think I’d write about you? This is just us, having a conversation. I already told you that I’d show you the article before it goes to print. You have to trust me with this. I know that’s hard and uncomfortable, but—”

  “That’s the thing. It’s not,” I say, interrupting her. “With you, it’s not hard or uncomfortable, and that scares me shitless because when it comes to you, it’s easy to fall into stories and tell you about…” I shake my head. “Everything, and I don’t want to invite all of Brighton into my life.”

  Her gaze softens. “I know. I understand, and I will not be writing this as a tell-all. I promise. You had mentioned maybe talking about your art when we were brainstorming…” she glances at her notes and then back to me with a gentle shake of her head. “I had no idea you were into art.”

  “I’m going to regret this.” I stand up, taking my drink with me, and lead Rose over to the spare bedroom. I push open the door, and the scents of paint and the paint thinner leak out of the space, activating that side of me that loses all sense of time and obligation. My fingers itch to reach for a paintbrush and paint until my mind is clear and something finally feels accomplished.

  “Ian,” Rose says, wandering past me to look at one of the three easels set up. “This is amazing.”

  “It’s for my mom.”

  “It’s the Roman Forum,” she says. “I’ve been here. This is so beautiful. It’s like looking at it in real life. The colors and the shadows and the light … it’s stunni
ng.”

  “My mom doesn’t outright say it, but I know she misses being there.”

  Rose continues to stare at the picture. “Why do you think they gave it up and moved back?”

  “Because it’s my dad’s dream. He was happy to take the backseat and slow his career when hers accelerated, and now she’s doing the same for him. She’s putting off her ideal retirement so my dad can achieve his dreams.”

  She turns her head to look over her shoulder at me. “That’s kind of badass. It makes even cynics like me believe in romance.” Her attention resumes to the painting I’ve been working on, a picture of the Deception Pass Bridge, with this fog covering much of the straight that usually appears dark green. “His PR team should lead with that story.”

  “I’ll let them know.”

  Rose smirks like she knows that I’m lying. “I think your paintings would make a great focal point for your interview. You don’t have to discuss what inspires you or anything personal. Just make it all about facts—like talking about a football play.” She turns to look at the next easel. “When did you start painting?”

  I shake my head, trying to recall when I first picked up a paintbrush. “When I was seven, maybe? My sister used to get all of these craft kits from our grandparents, and there was a big storm that came through and closed schools and most of the city, and my sister started pulling all of her art stuff out, and I chose the painting kit because it was the least girly thing, and the rest is history.”

  “Were you good at it right away, or was it like football where you had to learn?” She moves to look at the third easel, which is nearly blank except for the outline of some large pine trees in the distance.

  “It just sort of clicked. I could see something, and it was like my mind, and my fingers knew how to replicate it. Sometimes it would drive me crazy because I wouldn’t be able to sleep because I needed to get the image out and onto the canvas so I could stop imagining it.”

  “I bet it’s difficult to find the time, now.”

  I expel a sigh through my nose. “That’s the thing about art, though. It doesn’t matter if I’m the best or if I don’t pick up a paintbrush for a month, it’s still here.”