Under the Bleachers: A Novel

by K. K. Allen

  I try to focus on what we’re here to do and get started drafting the pre-production schedule. There’s a reason he came here today, and it wasn’t to sample the inspiration for his new scent. Although honestly, that idea does sound more appealing right now.

  “How was dinner last night?” I ask, thinking a change in subject is in order.

  “It was fine. My coach’s wife loves to cook and always makes way too much food.” He chuckles. “He tells me he had no choice but to marry her after he packed on all the weight from her cookin’.”

  I swallow my shame and a little bit of anger. Geez. Back to cooking again. It was a bad idea to invite Zach here.

  He excuses himself to use the restroom, and when he returns he must take it as some sort of cue when I keep my attention focused on my laptop, my fingers annihilating the keyboard.

  “Do you need me for this part?” he asks.

  “No,” I don’t look up. “Just let me get the dates into my production planner and then we can talk details.” Zach slaps his knees and stands. When I hear keys jingling and scraping denim, I look up. “You don’t have to leave. I’ll only be fifteen minutes or so.” Hopefully he doesn’t think I’m being rude. I just have nothing to add when it comes to conversations about cooking, and I really do need to get started on this schedule.

  “Take your time. I’m going to run to the store quickly so that we can have a decent meal.”

  Embarrassment claims me once again. “I’m sorry, Zach. I can order us something. Every place around here delivers.”

  “Nah, I’ll be quick. Keep working.” With a wink, he walks to the door and lets himself out.

  My breath releases in a gush. What is going on with me? I’m normally so composed. Men don’t fluster me. Ever. It’s me who ties men up in knots—sometimes literally—but I can’t do that with Zach. I can’t flirt. I can’t even sit near him without having the intense urge to straddle him.

  Ugh. I need to focus on this schedule. Putting my grinding fantasy to rest, I turn back to my computer and aim to finish what I need to before Zach gets back.

  When Zach walks through the door thirty minutes later, I’m finally saving the document.

  “You should lock that when you’re alone, Cakes,” he says as he brings his purchases to the kitchen. “Your neighbors are way too friendly. Some chick just let me walk right in behind her. Didn’t even need to buzz you.” It’s sweet how he doesn’t try to mask his concern.

  “You’re right. I just got caught up in work.” My mouth falls open when I enter the room and see what he’s brought back from the store. “Cookware? Seriously? You have to return those!” By the looks of it, he didn’t get a cheap brand either. What is he doing?

  “No way. Consider it a thank-you for helping me.”

  “I’m getting paid to help you. I can buy my own pots and pans, thank you very much.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Ten months. What does that have to do with anything?”

  He sets the box down on the counter and runs a hand through his hair. “Consider it a housewarming gift then.” His smile almost puts an end to the argument, but this isn’t right. What does a gesture like this even mean? Because it feels like it means a whole lot more than thanks for helping me with my football camp.

  “Zach,” I say louder this time, frustration intensifying.

  He tilts his head and takes a step toward me, causing me to step back against the counter. “Are you about to scold me? Careful, Cakes. I might like it a little too much.”

  Heat floods my veins, and I have to clench my thighs together. I shake my head and try to sound calmer when I speak again, but it’s almost impossible with him so close. “You know I’ll never use this stuff. I can’t accept it.”

  “Why not?” His eyes search mine.

  “You know why not.”

  “It’s a nice gesture. I think you should say thank you and stop being rude.”

  I move to place my hands on his chest to push him away, but I instantly know that will have the opposite effect. I set them against the counter behind me instead. “I’m not trying to be rude. We don’t buy each other things. We’re not even friends. You’re stuck working with me for a few weeks and then we both go back to whatever it was we were doing before.”

  It’s silent for too long because I’m a cold, heartless bitch. Daring a look in his direction, I’m met with the last expression I ever wanted to see on his face: hurt, plain and simple. It’s there and it’s quickly unraveling the skein of resistance I’ve been carefully winding.

  “Zach,” I try again in a much softer tone, but I can see the damage is already done.

  He takes a step back and looks at the gift for a second before shaking his head and walking out of the kitchen.

  “Zach, stop. I’m sorry.”

  He doesn’t stop.

  Fuck. Why didn’t I just say thank you?

  I follow him to the door. “What about the schedule?”

  “I’ll be in the office tomorrow after my workout, but you know that since you have my calendar.” His chilling tone rakes my spine. “I have a meeting with Sandy at eleven. She’s taking me to lunch, and then I’m free if you need me to answer any questions.”

  My heart is racing in a desperate sort of panic at him leaving upset. Slipping between the door and Zach, I give him a pleading look, hoping to catch his eyes.

  “Can you look at me for a second?”

  He does. “Do what you want with the gift, Monica. I’m not taking it back. I’m sure you’ll find a nice charity that will accept it just fine.” Reaching around me, he grabs the door handle.

  “You can’t leave like this. I’m sorry for reacting like that. It was a sweet gesture, and I should have just thanked you.” I grip the bottom of his shirt, careful not to touch anything else. “So, thank you.”

  His eyes soften. “You’re welcome.” He places his hands on mine and plucks them from his shirt. “But I’m still gonna leave. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  With one more pleading look, I realize there’s no winning Zach over. Not tonight. I step aside and let him open the door.

  With guilt climbing the walls of my chest I want more than anything to rewind the last five minutes. If Zachary Ryan wanted me before, he sure as hell doesn’t want me now. How do I fix this? Because I want to, even though I shouldn’t.

  It wasn’t until my senior year of high school that I earned my nickname, the Rocket. It hardly made any sense being that I was more launcher than rocket, but I didn’t think to point that out at the time. It wasn’t the nickname itself that mattered, but who gifted it to me.

  Practices were most intense over the summer—not just because of the scorching Texas heat or the grueling training exercises, but because the competition was fierce. Out of fifty guys, twelve were in the running for first string quarterback. We were all hungry, but only one would stand out. And that one would be me.

  Coach kept me in check the two years prior, denying me a starter position until I put in my time as third, then second string, and filling the receiving and tight end spots as needed. I never questioned him. He was the type of man that sniffed out success and challenged it until it rained excellence.

  So when he lined us up and announced me as starting quarterback, I knew I’d earned it, and so did everyone else.

  “What do you say, son? You ready for this?”

  With a smile so wide it could split me open, I shook Coach’s hand and let him tug me in for a hard pat on the back. “Proud of you, Rocket.”

  My throat thickened with emotion making it almost impossible to speak. “Rocket, sir?”

  He smiled. “You’ve learned a hell of a lot over the past two years. You’re born for this, but not just because of that rocket arm of yours.” I thought that was exactly why I was chosen. “You embody everything a great player should: leadership, maturity, intelligence… And the exhaust you manage to create with each throw
sure as hell helps.” Winking, he wraps a hand around my neck and squeezes. “I can’t wait to see where you’ll take this team.”

  That conversation is one that carried me through my years of college ball, and into the NFL draft. His words somehow helped to balance the pressure of it all. It helped validate that there was more to me than ranks and records. Rocket may have been my nickname in high school, but leadership has always been my secret weapon. And that’s the exact message I want to bring to light at camp.

  Under the Bleachers is the hot topic during my meeting with Sandy on Monday morning. She loves the theme, but I’m glad she doesn’t press me for more information. Monica and I didn’t get to talk about much else yesterday because of the pots and pans disaster. Not too sure what that was about, but I was one hundred percent certain it was time to leave.

  I don’t need to dwell on the fact that Monica is resistant to our connection. She was hurt by her father. I understand her hesitation when it comes to men, but it still pisses me the fuck off that I can’t break through those walls, which she seemed to build only after we kissed last summer. As much as I wanted to do it again yesterday—and I’m certain she would have let me—there was no way that was happening. I made her a promise, and I stand by my promises.

  Before Heroes and Legends, Monica was more than happy to flutter those pretty eyelashes and spar flirtatiously with me until we’d both grown dizzy from laughter. Our moments were addicting, and I always went back for more. Despite our history, I thought working one-on-one with her would be fun—in the sexually frustrated kind of way that might eventually lead to more. Her reaction yesterday was the reality check I needed to know this girl means business. There’s no fighting the word no, even if it’s served with a pair of Bambi eyes, stuttered breathing, and flushed cheeks.

  From now on, I’ll give Monica what she says she wants, even though I know she sure as hell doesn’t mean it. She’ll get my courtesy and professionalism during official meeting hours. We’ll only discuss the event when we’re together, and there will be no more off-site meetings.

  Monica will stay on her side of the field, and I’ll stay on mine. That is a rule I can follow.

  “We’ll need to get to the venue a little early.”

  We’ve been in Monica’s office for only ten minutes and it’s already too much. My restraint should earn me a straight pass to heaven.

  “It’ll give us a couple days to set up, gather B-roll, and get a bunch of interviews out of the way. We’ll be too busy the rest of the week to cram it all in. I also looked at your schedule, and you’re free that entire weekend. I thought we could leave early Saturday morning and have a full day and a half of pre-production time. You’re still bringing Seattle players to coach, right? You could use that time to review the schedule, you know, if you need to. If you’re cool with all that, I’ll run it by Richland.”

  I shrug, aware of how fast her speech comes when her confidence starts to dwindle. “Sounds good to me. I’ll have Trevor coordinate with the guys.”

  She eyes me a little longer than she should, likely assessing my attitude since I walked into her office and made sure to keep the door wide open. I even propped it open with a doorstopper disguised as a single pink heel.

  “Maps of the camp and field mockups would be helpful,” she adds. “I did some research on this place and they don’t have a football setup. Are you planning on marking the field and installing bleachers?”

  “Yup.”

  There’s another awkward pause as her fingers freeze at the keyboard. Her eyes dart to mine, then away again. From the moment I sat down, she’s been a true professional. She even dressed the part in a gray pencil skirt cinched at her waist, a black blouse that stretches a little too tightly across her chest, black rimmed glasses that I’m pretty sure she doesn’t need, and a fucking diamond necklace disguised as a tie. It falls perfectly between her cleavage just begging for me to look.

  “Okay.” She quickly finishes whatever she’s typing, clears her voice, and adjusts her glasses. “Now we just need a logo design and some starter copy so marketing can get to work on the fun stuff.”

  She clicks her mouse a few times. As she does, I take note of the m&m charm bracelet around her wrist and the sparkly ring on her pointer finger with the letter M at the center. Only Monica could make candy-inspired jewelry look classy.

  “I created some mocks last night just to get the ball rolling. I figure we can give some ideas to marketing to play with. There’s a dozen or so, but don’t worry if you hate these. I got inspired after our talk on Saturday and wanted to try something. I meant to talk through my ideas with you yesterday, but—”

  The laughter that follows is filled with nerves and insecurity. For a second, I want to reach across the desk, yank on that silver tie, and bury my mouth in her luscious neck. Instead, I scoot my chair closer to the desk and swivel the laptop to face me. I start to click through each design.

  “Honestly,” she cuts into my thoughts, “don’t tell me you like them just to be nice.”

  I ignore her and continue clicking from mock to mock. “You did this?” I ask just to make sure.

  “Yeah,” she responds tentatively. It shouldn’t bring me satisfaction making her sweat this one out a bit, but it does.

  I swipe through each graphic again, stopping at my favorite one to examine it closer. At least I think it’s my favorite one. They’re all incredible.

  Monica can’t stand the anticipation anymore. My face deliberately reveals nothing. She comes around, places a hand on the back of my chair, and leans in. The scent of wild strawberry and mint is so close my muscles immediately lock up.

  That’s too close, Cakes. Too damn close if you want to keep me from feeling like the world will explode without you.

  “What do you think?” she prods. “You won’t hurt my feelings, I promise.”

  That voice. She’s normally full of certainty, but she’s clearly off her game. It’s obvious she wants to please me, and I secretly love it.

  I look up at her sweet caramel eyes, and my heart tells me to give up the resistance. To fight a little bit harder for this one, because damn it, she’s worth it. But then I remember it’s not me in possession in the ball.

  Pushing these pointless thoughts away, I look back at my favorite design: the simplest one of the bunch. The words UNDER THE BLEACHERS, stylized with aging wood and chipped blue paint, rest above a simple script reading FOOTBALL CAMP.

  “I love them. They’re all good. Really good. But I think this is the one. It conveys the message perfectly. Interesting texture choice.”

  She sighs with relief and plops into the chair beside me, not flinching when her knee rubs against mine. “I used the photos I took at the field for the texture. It’s hard to tell a story in a graphic, but with the wood, I can show that it’s damaged but still sturdy. Still safe. Worn, but standing.”

  Her eyes brighten. “It doesn’t matter how many times you fell down, you know? You always got back up and kept moving. It’s your history, and when you look at history from the right angle, no matter how worn the film is, you can see the beauty in it. At least, that’s what I see.”

  My eyes dart up to catch the blush that forms on her cheeks.

  And there it is.

  The very reason why it’s hard for me to let Monica continue to fight our connection. She’s incredible. Smart. Funny. Beautiful. Creative. The cons list I created last night when I was trying to flush Monica’s sexy eyes from my system has self-destructed. No number of cons that can outweigh her pros, and I’ll do anything to make her see that. Even if it means keeping up this act of nonchalance for a little bit longer.

  The dynamic has clearly changed between Zach and me. It’s stiff. Formal to the point of discomfort. Every nicety seems forced, which is the exact opposite of who we both are. I’ve apologized for the way I acted last Sunday and he says it’s fine, but I don’t believe him. How can I when everything has changed?
/>   He only came by the office twice this week, and each visit lasted only as long as the meeting was set for. No extended banter, no stolen glances. Not even a fist bump when he approved an idea. The cut and dry version of Zach sucks donkey. And apparently I’m a pouter now. Chloe pointed that one out because she’s way too damn perceptive.

  The thing is, I’ve been beyond nice in every exchange with him. I’ve gone out of my way to recognize everything he does for me. Thanking him for the things I don’t even think he realizes he’s doing. Zach was raised to open doors for women and to take heavy items from their hands. He’s always on time, always polite, and always a gentleman. So, yeah, I thank him. A lot.

  I’ve dropped my defenses too. Not completely, but enough to allow myself some happiness. Resisting Zach wasn’t making me any happier. He was tired of being rejected. Hurt by my coldness. And strong enough to know he didn’t have to put up with any of it. You push someone long enough, and they might just leave.

  So I’m trying to put myself out there. To make things go back to the way they were before I rejected his so-called housewarming gift. Spending my entire Sunday working on that logo was my lame attempt to get back in his good graces. Not even The Walking Dead reruns could pull me from my funk, but my creativity came in handy in a way I didn’t expect.

  It feels good to do something for Zach, even if that something is camouflaged as doing my job. I know he knows the truth, because he’s always looking for a deeper meaning. That makes him intense, sure, but I don’t want him to stop looking at me with that intensity.

  For the first time in my adult life, I want to let this unfold—whatever this is—because every moment with Zach feels too good not to see it to the end. Is that selfish? To prolong the inevitable a little bit longer? To give myself a glimpse of what this could be before I lose it all?

  Rushing out of the building after work on Friday, I have no plan. Zach just left, so I’m hoping to catch up with him. I don’t have to look far. He’s walking toward his Jeep parked just outside the main doors.