First Step Forward

by Liora Blake

  I reach over to give the dial another turn. “That’s the max. Don’t melt into a puddle or anything.”

  Whitney grabs my hand, placing it on her thigh. “Yes. It’s getting even better now. Can we sleep in this thing?”

  She slouches lower in the seat and the adjustment draws my hand higher on her leg. I grip the soft flesh and let my fingers trace tiny circles on the inside of her thigh. Between the feel of my pinkie finger skimming her core and the warmth radiating from that spot, I’m about one more moan of hers away from turning the truck around and going back home. The fucking co-op has to be open all day. Plenty of time to prove all the ways that what I have to offer beats the hell out of any heated seat. But when she starts to quietly give up another giggle-moan, I decide not to make this something else because she’s blissed out and happy, which is good enough for me.

  Just as we pull into the co-op parking lot, my phone rings with a call from Austin. I debate letting it ring over to voicemail but Whitney tells me to take it, then unbuckles her seat belt to scamper into the store. The sight of her—all of her—headed the wrong direction from my hands is motivation enough to keep the call short.

  Austin’s update isn’t particularly surprising. My knee injury means the split clause isn’t going anywhere, and Austin admits that I’m probably going to have to get used to this new reality, the one where I’m no longer a young gun or a sure thing. Instead, I’m the veteran player. The guy who is supposed to be a fountain of wise advice in the locker room and a steady rock of hardscrabble experience on the field.

  Unfortunately, anyone who has met me would know I’m not a fountain of anything. As for hardscrabble and steady? Maybe. I’d just have preferred to wait a few more years before taking on this new role.

  I shut the truck door harder than necessary and head into the store. The co-op is dusty but organized, with fluorescent lights that cast a yellow glare on the worn linoleum floor, and the entire place is practically a carbon copy of the seed store in my hometown.

  With one exception.

  Behind the front counter, talking a little too animatedly with my girlfriend, is a dude who doesn’t look anything like the paunchy, burly old-timers who work back home. Instead, it looks a little like country music star Chase Rice stumbled into the co-op and decided to stick around. And I’ve met the real Chase Rice a few times, back when I played against him in college. He was a solid linebacker who probably should have ended up on somebody’s pro roster, but Christ, the fucking guy smiles too much.

  The Hotchkiss version is just as bad. A big grin and puppy-dog eyes, sporting a camo ball cap on backward, with a few hunks of light brown hair sticking out from around his ears. When he leans forward to chuckle at something Whitney says, I have to consciously breathe deeply and steadily. All to avoid going over there and doing something stupid, like pissing on Whitney’s leg or knocking the big grin right off Chase’s face.

  “—Braden and I duck hunted in the morning, then I went to my mom’s for dinner. She’s over in Grand Junction, so the drive sucked, but the pie was worth it. How about you, Johnny Appleseed? Big turkey day for you?”

  Whitney shimmies a little in place, claps her hands together. My eyes instinctively drop to her ass and Chase’s seem to land on her tits. My hands curl into loose fists. Deep fucking breaths. Don’t be an asshole.

  “It was practically a Hallmark special. We watched football all day and ate all the traditional stuff. Except stuffing. The stuffing was problematic.”

  “You watched football? And ate a traditional dinner? High-five, sweetheart.”

  He raises his hand and Whitney slaps palms with him. Five seconds and I’m going over there, close enough to let my pheromones do the talking.

  “I figured you were going to say you spent the day in silent protest and meditation to all that is Thanksgiving. If I’d known you were going to act regular, I’d have invited you along to hunt ducks on the slough. Who’s we? You invite over some Pilgrims?”

  There’s my opening. It takes less than five seconds and I’m behind Whitney, pressing my fly to the roundest part of her ass and slipping one arm around her waist.

  Chase immediately looks confused. He darts a glance between us, then takes a better look at me, and recognition dawns as he puts the pieces together. His mouth drops open a little.

  “Oh! Garrett, this is Cooper Lowry. He’s the we part of my Thanksgiving,” Whitney explains.

  Garrett nods slowly, then one of those grins—and, they’re nice, I’ll admit that—takes over.

  “Thought I was seeing things there for a second. Explains the football watching.” He extends a hand my way and I latch on, finding his grip is as strong as mine. “Nice to meet you, Cooper.”

  Up close, I can see that he’s younger than I first thought, so I’m able to dial down my initial insanity to claim Whitney with a fireman’s carry out of here, while grunting the word mine over my shoulder. Still, he’s got a good handshake, a killer grin, and puppy-dog eyes. Now I’m worried about a daughter I don’t even have yet. Because this guy would be the main reason I’d keep her in the house as much as possible.

  “You probably still won’t get her into a duck blind. It was a ninety-minute conversation just to get her into my Dodge this morning, so there’s still work to do.”

  Garrett laughs as Whitney takes worthless swipes at both of us, one hand shooting out toward his bicep and the other floating back to swat ineffectively at my side. Garrett ducks her jab and shakes his head.

  “Come on, you’re still my favorite tree hugger. But I’m guessing if anyone can bring you over from the hippie side”—Garrett holds up his index finger and thumb, keeping them close together—“just a little, it’s this guy.”

  A quick shift of his eyes to mine, and there’s no ego or subtext in what he just said. I grew up with lots of guys like Garrett: honest, humble, and uncomplicated. Raised to do the right thing, always. Which means they bide their time and wait their turn—in everything. Even if it means that life sometimes leaves them behind.

  He saunters into the back to grab the two jugs of dormant oil that Whitney needs to treat her trees, and when he comes back, he hefts them onto the counter and gives the tops a tap.

  “Want me to carry these out for you?”

  My alpha ego roars to life again, unbidden and unruly. I carry her stuff. I drive her wherever she wants to go. I give her orgasms. I do all of it.

  Jesus Christ. Who am I? No other woman has ever inspired this obnoxious, over-the-top instinct to ensure that I’m the one who takes first position in everything she needs. Not that I ever considered otherwise, but polygamists are crazy, because I can’t imagine loving more than one woman this way. It’s fucking exhausting.

  My hands thrust out and I tug the bottles forward. “No need. I’m here now.”

  Whitney’s hands freeze as she digs deep into her wallet for a fifty-dollar bill, turning all her suddenly peeved attention my way. Garrett smirks a little and lifts his hands away emphatically.

  “Got it.” A few clicks on his cash register. “You two coming to the booster party tonight?”

  Whitney looks up and relaxes her posture. “Is that tonight? I totally forgot.”

  “Yup. Starts at six. You guys should definitely come.” He thumbs in my direction. “People will swallow their tongues when they see this guy. Bonfire, deep-fried foods, all the usual stu—”

  Whitney thrusts her hands up and smacks them over Garrett’s mouth. “Gah! Stop. Don’t say anything else!”

  Garrett’s brows shoot up and he immediately looks my way, his expression making it clear he wants me to see that this turn of events is not his fault. She pats his mouth with her fingers and pulls away. Garrett visibly releases an exhale through his nose while still keeping his mouth tightly shut.

  Whitney shifts from foot to foot, in a playful tap-dance shuffle of sorts. “Not another word. I want it to be a surprise. Yes, yes, yes. We’ll be there.”

  Despite her excitement ove
r the booster event, as we walk out to the truck I’m on edge, waiting for the inevitable browbeating I’m sure she’ll eventually remember to give me. Whitney does not disappoint.

  “Just out of curiosity, was that necessary?”

  “What?”

  I drop the tailgate on my truck. I know exactly what she’s talking about, but this feels like the kind of moment when you play dumb for as long as you can.

  She won’t understand. She can’t possibly understand what it feels like to be a guy, fall for a woman harder than a box of rocks off a skyscraper, and hate having any other man within a three-state radius of her. It isn’t about trust or lack thereof, it isn’t about thinking she isn’t capable of handling herself—she can, because she’s amazing. And, all her amazingness is part of the problem. Amazing women are amazing. Men like amazing.

  She sighs. “The whole I’m here now bullshit. Garrett’s a good kid. I emphasize the word kid. There wasn’t any need to stick a flag in the ground next to my feet and proclaim my body to be a sovereign state recently claimed by you and your man-parts.”

  I set the dormant oil in the bed and close the gate, then gesture for her to move around the side of the truck.

  “I’m sure he is a good kid. But he’s also thought about bending you over the front counter in there and giving you his own personalized seed report, babe.”

  As I open the passenger-side door for her, she freezes and screws her face up. “There are so many things wrong with that statement. ‘Seed report’? Gross. He hasn’t ever thought about that.”

  “He’s a guy. You’re a beautiful, interesting woman who, I guarantee, is totally different from what he’s used to. Different and unique fascinates us—and intrigues our dicks. So he’s absolutely thought about it.”

  I sweep my hand toward her seat to urge her to get in the truck. She narrows her eyes and pins her gaze on me. I sigh. “What?”

  “You’ve been such a Neanderthal over the last few days. First, the no-riding-shotgun thing, and now this. That’s also the third time you’ve called me babe. And I can’t quite figure out how I feel about that.” She takes a step forward, putting one foot on the running board, but doesn’t climb in. “I think I should hate it, but I’m not sure. Say it again.”

  I lean forward. “Get your cute ass in the truck, babe. I’ll turn your seat on.”

  “Shit.” She climbs in and shakes her head. “I think I kind of like it. Look at me. Sitting in this ridiculous truck, just thrilled at the prospect of you turning on my heated seat, and my belly all topsy-turvy because you called me babe. Get me home. I feel a sudden need to burn some incense and renew my Sierra Club membership.”

   21

  (Cooper)

  Despite being in a small town in southern Colorado, the Hotchkiss booster party could have easily been held in my hometown. The night air would likely be a bit warmer there, but nearly everything else feels interchangeable. As in so many other small towns, high school football is more than just recreation here. Instead, Friday night games are a gathering place, a touchstone, and the only entertainment around.

  Whitney’s small hand is clasped in mine as we crest the short walkway from the parking lot, and between holding hands with my girlfriend and the nostalgia of the scene, I’m waiting for a soundtrack of radio hits from my senior year to start blaring over the PA system. When we near the field, we see Garrett and he gives us a wave. Carrying a large box in his arms, he awkwardly tries to adjust his grip on it before heading our way.

  Whitney peeks in the box, then flops her hands over the top, obscuring the contents. “I’m so excited about this, Garrett. I can’t even tell you.”

  He chuckles and nods in my direction. “I just hope you haven’t set this up as some sort of a big deal to Cooper. We’re just a bunch of rednecks out here, so his expectations should be in line with that.”

  “I’ve set up nothing. He’s in the dark, completely.”

  Whitney takes a glance my way and the look on her face is nearly as giddy as when I turn on her heated seat. Behind Garrett, another guy saunters up, carrying a similar-looking box in his hands. He’s wearing a State Parks and Wildlife jacket over a khaki uniform shirt, with army-green cargo pants, a wool skullcap tugged on over his dark brown hair. Broad shouldered and big, he could easily be mistaken for one of my teammates, maybe a tight end, because he’s clearly stout enough to take a real hit but probably still has the agility to get the ball down the field. His scruffy beard does nothing to obscure the tight set of his jaw. He clips Garrett’s shoulder with his own to get his attention.

  “We’ve got a ton of shit left to do, Strickland. You need a hot cocoa, cupcake? If not, let’s get over there.”

  He narrows his eyes to take me in but doesn’t show any particular reaction. If he knows who I am, he doesn’t care, not even a little bit. Whitney gets a quick nod in acknowledgment, but nothing else. I like this guy already.

  “Relax, dude. Your face is going to freeze like that. And I already had a hot cocoa, thank you very much. I’ve been properly fueled by Swiss Miss.” Garrett gives us a broad grin.

  “Braden does not like waiting. Or people. Or fun, really. That’s why he’s so good at his job. He’d issue citations for too much fun if he could. But game wardens aren’t exactly known for being a barrelful of giggles.”

  Braden mutters a few curse words and walks off. No parting words, not even a cursory chin jut in our direction. I officially decide that he’s my new best friend in Hotchkiss.

  Garrett heads in the same direction, walking backward.

  “You hunt, Cooper?” I nod. “You should jump in the blind with us some morning. You and Braden can brood silently while I try to make one of you laugh. It’s probably a near impossible endeavor, but so is duck hunting sometimes.”

  Watching Garrett walk away, the idea of making a life here suddenly seems like a picture I could draw in my mind, without having to erase certain parts or play with the shadows.

  So many years in Denver, separated from the honest life I grew up in, made my world smaller somehow. My career only did the same. Because once you drop the people you can’t trust, avoid the women who only want you for your contract, and close ranks to stay focused on training, there aren’t many folks left.

  Whitney must have noted the change in my body language, because she gives my hand a squeeze to get my attention. When I look her way, the expression on her face is curious, and I nearly end up grasping her cheeks in my hands and telling her everything I’m thinking. Every scary, wild, crazy, confusing thought that’s rattling around in my brain about my future and the two of us.

  Enter Tanner Euland.

  I could thank him or curse him for his timing, but when he strolls over with a gaggle of teammates in tow, he’s prouder than a rooster when I greet him by name. We talk about their season a bit and before I know it, a few of the guys have whipped out their phones to show me clips of the last game, asking what I think they should work on. Because to these kids, I’m Yoda. They may also think I have the Holy Grail stuffed in my back pocket and a fucking unicorn in the truck. In reality, I’m just a guy with a bum knee who can’t guide them any better than their coach already does.

  One of the guys replays a clip, pushing the phone closer. I lean in to get a better look.

  “You guys are spending too much time clustered up at the line after the snap. You need to work on firing out more. All that time wasted leaves the QB exposed and receivers losing potential yards.”

  They all nod. A few grumble in agreement, as if they knew that was the problem and I’ve just proven them right. Tanner starts in with another clip, but a shorter, older version of him appears at his side before he can press play.

  “Tanner, go help your mom. She kicked me out for being heavy-handed with the mini marshmallows.”

  Whitney, the only woman in a cluster of testosterone for too long, spies an opportunity.

  “And you think sending a teenage boy to assist your wife is a good solution,
Kenny?”

  Tanner’s dad grumbles, then shoves his hands in his pockets with a huff.

  “At this point, all I know is that she’s in the weeds. By way of hot cocoa and apple cider. And a booster mom losing control of the concession stand isn’t a pretty sight.”

  Whitney tugs until I reluctantly release her hand. “Let me help. I’m sure I can handle the proper application of mini marshmallows.”

  She gives a little wave as she heads off toward the concession stand and my insides start to hammer and thump, watching her walk away.

  OK, I need to go find Garrett and Braden so we can talk about duck hunting or debate shotgun loads. Anything that might restore my testosterone to proper levels and offset the insane urge to follow Whitney to the mini marshmallows.

  On second thought, that bonfire looks a little weak. Maybe I can chop down a tree or some shit, then toss on enough fire starter to send the flames ten feet into the air. If I can just source an ax, I’m all over that.

  Twenty minutes later, Kenny Euland has introduced me to the head coach of the football team, the mayor, and the Exalted Ruler of the local Elks lodge. I even meet the commander of the volunteer fire department, who happened by on his way to wrangling Garrett and Braden, two of its members. I’ve probably shaken more hands than I did on draft day. I’m also up to date on all the current political dramas that inevitably plague a small town.

  Just as the mayor begins breaking down the details of this year’s municipal budget, the PA system crackles to life with a loud pop.

  “OK, folks, the concession stand closes in ten minutes—last call on apple cider from Burkeville Orchards. Our fireworks show, so kindly put on by our local volunteer firefighters and sponsored by Grand Valley Ford, starts in fifteen minutes, so find your seats and settle in.”

  Fireworks.

  I slowly swing my gaze toward the concession stand. Whitney is standing there, looking my way and grinning with two thumbs up, her eyes wide with excitement.

  She’s wearing a black V-neck sweater that shows off her perfect rack and a slim little scarf around her kissable neck, she’s rosy cheeked from the cold, and if I could, I’d snapshot this moment in time, just to know I’ll always remember exactly what this feels like.