Hard to Score

by K. Bromberg

  Our life has been turned upside down for the past few weeks—press on our lawn, rumors going crazy, my dad suspended—and now he’s telling us that’s it?

  Just like that?

  “You’re just going to walk away?” I shove up out of my seat, fury suddenly in my veins, and disbelief owning me. “You said you didn’t do anything wrong. If you didn’t do anything wrong, then why aren’t you fighting it? Why aren’t you—” I run a hand through my hair and pace from one side of the room to the other.

  Not only is football his identity, but it’s also been mine for as long as I can remember. He’s Gary Bowman, the star quarterback, and I’m Gary Bowman’s son. The one who’s going to follow in his footsteps.

  It’s all I’ve ever wanted to be.

  It’s all I’ve ever planned for despite my parents telling me I have to go to college first.

  “This can’t be real,” I mutter, but when I turn back around and look at the people in the room—my mom, my dad, my sister—I feel like I’m at a funeral. Everyone looks so glum.

  He meets my eyes and nods like a scolded puppy and there’s something about the sight that eats at me. “Sometimes in life, Drew, what’s best and what’s right aren’t always the same thing.”

  I stare at him, then my mom sitting idly by, and I shake my head, hands fisted. “But you told us to always fight for what’s right. And you didn’t do this!” I shout, confused when the past few weeks have been confusing enough. “Why are you walking away? You’re breaking records and will be in the Hall of Fame and I don’t understand . . . Why aren’t you fighting?” My voice breaks as I step toward him, needing to look into his eyes, wanting to understand.

  Needing to understand.

  “Drew.” He reaches out to touch my arm. I yank it from his reach as the anger bubbles over and the disbelief keeps rising. “I know it will be an adjustment for all of us, but it’s for the best.”

  “You said they were wrong!” I scream, his lack of a reaction only adding fuel to my fire. “You told me it was a lie and you didn’t do it, and yet you’re just walking away? What are people going to think—”

  “That’s enough!” His voice thunders through the room and sucks all of the oxygen from it.

  My head spins. My heart races. Everything in my orbit tilts off its axis, and I can’t find my balance.

  “I wanted you to hear it from me before you catch wind of it from the press. And after we leave this room, we’ll never speak of it again.”

  “But—”

  “Goddammit, Drew!”

  His words startle me. Almost as much as his fist pounding on the TV cabinet beside him. They knock me back into the moment, into a reality I can’t comprehend nor do I want to.

  “Did you throw the game, Dad? Did you?” I scream, not caring about respect or that he’s my dad. How is this happening? How is this possible?

  “Son.”

  “No.” I back away at the word, head shaking, mind not wanting to believe. My dad isn’t someone who would risk everything, risk our safety. He’s strong, he’s loyal to his team, his friends—He’s loyal to his friends. He’d do anything for them . . . No. Surely not. But what else could it be? Fuck. “It was Kenyon, wasn’t it?” I grasp at straws. “I heard—in the Keys. You guys were drinking and you were talking about betting on games. I thought . . . Oh my God.” I pull down on the back of my neck as my feet move, eating up space to abate my anger. “He did it, didn’t he? He did it and you’re taking the fall for it. That’s why you refuse to talk to the press about it. That’s why you’re slipping away quietly. Claire Kincade died and you’re going to take the fall for him, aren’t you?”

  There’s a worried glance that my mom gives my dad. The look every kid knows that means you’ve caught them in something and she’s warning him to not speak.

  Their eyes hold for a beat as Maggs looks over to me, tears welling in her eyes. She saw the look too. She knows something bad happened too.

  “Dad, don’t bullshit me.”

  “Drew!” My mother shouts—definitely at my cursing and defiance—but I don’t care.

  “It was Kenyon, wasn’t it?”

  “Drew! Do not mention his name in this house ever again,” my mom says sternly, her eyes meeting my dad’s briefly but I’m too amped up, too confused, and only feel like it reinforces what I’ve just said.

  I’m in his face again, my chest bumping his, wanting a reaction out of him—needing a reaction from him. Needing to know that I’m right. “You would never do this. It’s not possible.”

  But instead of him responding like I need him to, he turns his back to me and walks toward the windows. The ones that have their blinds closed to prevent the prying eyes of the press, who have been camped out in the front yard for the past few weeks.

  They’re as hungry for an answer from my dad as I am.

  “There will be some changes going forward,” he says when he finally speaks. “A new life for our family. Adjustments will have to be made.” And he continues on and on, but I stop listening, because he’s not saying the things I need him to say. The things I need him to explain.

  And when he walks from the room, leaving us there with absolutely no answers, both my sister and my mom remain while I jog after him.

  “Dad.” Desperation is in every thread of my voice and when he turns to face me, where he’s standing in the hallway, he’s framed in a way so there is no mistaking how beaten down he is.

  Tears fill his eyes as our gazes meet. He offers me a somber nod, an apology without giving one, before turning his back and walking down the hall.

  And it hasn’t been discussed since.

  BREXTON

  “SO THINGS WERE FINE AND then they all of a sudden weren’t?” Dekker asks from where she stands in the doorway. The sun reflects off her engagement ring and sends prisms all over my office, as I silently chastise myself for saying anything at all.

  Of course, she was going to grab hold of that tiny morsel of information and demand a whole feast.

  So much for me and my mouth. When am I ever going to learn?

  “Brex? Don’t you dare be close-lipped on me now. You know you offered the info up because you’re dying to tell someone about him. I’m that someone, so give me the deets, woman.”

  “It was nothing. Never mind.”

  “Ha.” She crosses her arms over her chest and levels a stare at me. “So either tell me what happened or I’ll go tell Dad and then you can tell him the juicy details.”

  “There are no juicy details. And Dad? Really? Can’t you be more original than that?”

  “You know as well as I do that keeping a secret from Dad is next to impossible.” She shrugs. “So it’s me or him.”

  I hold her gaze and know she’s right. I’m dying to tell someone and telling our dad right now isn’t really an option. When it comes to him, questions lead to more questions and I’m nowhere near ready to go into full confession mode.

  My sigh is my answer and her smirk tells me she knows she’s got me.

  “So things were fine and then they weren’t?” she asks, picking back up to where we left off.

  “So to speak. We were standing in his kitchen in that suspended moment when you’re holding your breath because you think you’re going to be kissed—”

  “You’re the only person I know who’d ever say those words out loud.” She laughs and lifts her eyebrows. “You sound like a romance novel.”

  “And there’s something wrong with that? It seems you found your happily ever after with Hunter so how can you tell me they don’t exist?”

  “Touché,” she murmurs with a gloating grin. She’s so damn cheerful since finding and falling in love with Hunter, it’s nauseating. But in that good, I’m jealous but happy for you, kind of way. She plays with the rock weighing down her ring finger and even though I roll my eyes, it’s all for show. I’m more than thrilled for her. “So? You thought he was going to kiss you and then what?”

  “The doorbell ran
g. He disappeared and dealt with it, and when he came back the mood was gone.”

  “Who was at the door?”

  I have to stop myself from saying her name. “His sister.”

  “Buzzkill.”

  “Yeah, but it was more than that. They were arguing about something and . . . I don’t know, the mood was gone.”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t gone, gone.”

  I snort. “He made sure to drop the friend term as he saw me out.”

  She hisses in response. “Ugh. That sucks.” She plops down in the seat in front of me. “What was his name again?”

  “I’d prefer to not say,” I say nonchalantly and shrug before leaning back in my chair to stare at the city streets below. Kincade Sports Management is fifteen stories up, dead center in Manhattan. There’s always plenty to look at outside of its walls, especially when you want to use it to avoid answering your older sister.

  “Ooooh,” she says, her ears perking up with a sudden interest. I mentally chastise myself because once again, I’m just drawing her in further. “That means I know him,” she says in a sing-song voice with a clap of her hands.

  “I never said that.”

  “You didn’t have to. I know you better than you do. So . . . how’d you meet him?”

  “Work,” I deadpan without batting an eye. She was the oldest kid between our two families and, was more times than not, the ring leader with Drew when it came to planning all our shenanigans. Hell, she probably played with Maggs more than I did now that I think of it. She’d probably remember even more about the sequence of events leading up to Gary Bowman’s scandal. The last thing she needs to know is who it is or that I camped out on his doorstep.

  “Amusing. Dare I ask if he’s a client or not?”

  “Why?”

  “It’s just a question,” she says coyly.

  “Please spare me any lecture you’re conjuring up about not dating clients. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.” I snort considering Hunter was her client and clients technically should be off limits.

  “So it is a client.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Simply trying to narrow down the field so I can figure out who the mystery man is.”

  “He’s not a client. That’s all I’m going to give you.”

  “Why the secrecy, then?” Her brows narrow and I can see the cogs of her mind turning as she tries to figure it out.

  “Because you guys are assholes,” I say. I’m more than used to their ribbing about the revolving door of my love life. The sad thing? I wouldn’t want it any other way.

  Not that I’m ever going to admit that to her.

  “And your point is?” She grins.

  “I stopped telling you about love interests years ago. The teasing got old.”

  “Oh, come on. It was all in good fun. I mean, can you blame us? Your love life is like a soap opera.”

  “Like you’ve ever watched one.”

  “You know what I mean.” She waves a hand my way. “You love to be in love.”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  “Me. Lennox. Chase,” she says, naming my sisters.

  “Don’t be a hypocrite, Miss-Madly-In-Love.” Sarcasm owns my tone.

  “It’s different.”

  “Of course, it’s different. Is this when you pull the first-born card?” I tease, hating how rules always seem different for her than they do for me since I’m younger.

  “I’m not pulling any card. I’m simply saying you’re just built differently from us so we don’t understand it.”

  “No need to try to understand seeing as I’ve sworn off men.”

  “Doesn’t seem like it by the topic of this conversation and the supposed Mystery Man.”

  “Well, I have. I’m sick of getting hurt.” I give a resolute nod as if that’s going to convince both my sister and my heart of the oath.

  Dekker’s expression softens and she leans forward in her chair. “You and Micah ended things over four months ago. Are you still upset over—”

  “Yeah, well . . .unlike the rest of you cold-hearted bitches, I ended up with the soft one.”

  “Cold-hearted?” She laughs the words out. “I’ll remind you of that the next time you’re looking for a sympathetic ear.” But as soon as the words are out her smile softens, her voice even more so, as she kicks into big-sister and chief-consoler mode. “Are you going to see him again?”

  My sigh fills the room as I meet her eyes. “That’s the real question, isn’t it?”

  “This is the part where I remind you that you swore off men.”

  “I did. I have. Completely,” I admit, knowing she’s right. I did swear off them. I now need to forget that silly crush I once had on a man I don’t really know anymore. “So obviously the answer to that question is a moot point.”

  “I bet it is.” She shrugs and offers a coy smile. “Maybe you should invite him to the McMasters’ wedding. You replied with a plus-one for Micah and now there is no plus-one.”

  “Not even remotely funny.”

  “Why not? There’ll be fancy suits and alcohol and a romantic atmosphere. I mean—”

  “First off, the best way to scare off a man is to take him to a wedding, and second, I’m perfectly fine attending it on my own. I may love being in love, but I do not need a man to go with me. I’m perfectly comfortable with flying solo.”

  “I think you should bring him. Find out what his true character is.”

  “I’m serious, Dekk. The last thing I need right now is a man.”

  “You do need one. You—”

  “Oh my God, you’re infuriating. I don’t need one—”

  “Justin Hobbs,” she says, bringing the conversation full circle to what she came into my office for in the first place. “He’s the man you need.” She smiles and bats her lashes. “Correction, he’s the man we at KSM need you to need.”

  “He’s an arrogant ass.” I snort but welcome the change of topic.

  “You knew that going in to recruit him.” She chuckles. “Besides, isn’t that the norm these days? If you’re a hell of a player then you have to be a dick? Arrogant or not, keep the eye on him as the prize.”

  “Jesus. Now you’re starting to sound like you love Justin as much as Justin loves Justin.” I roll my eyes.

  “That bad?”

  “He pulled the old, oops, I dropped my towel trick.”

  “Of course, he did,” she says with a shake of her head.

  Being women in a male-dominated industry, all four of us have been subjected to the towel drop. To an athlete’s need to put us in our place or sexualize our interaction in one way or another.

  While we may be used to it, it’s in no way acceptable.

  “Was he at least worth the towel drop?” she asks.

  “Dekker.” I spit her name out.

  “C’mon, you know you noticed.” She laughs.

  I laugh. She’s right. I did notice. “Pretty average.”

  “Maybe he’s a grower and not a shower.” She rises from her seat. “Let me know if you need any help with him. He may be average and arrogant, but I hear he’s a difficult one.”

  “Thanks. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

  DREW

  “GREAT PRACTICE TODAY, BOWMAN.” I glance over to Coach and nod.

  “Thanks,” I say the word, but know it doesn’t matter how great my practice is because I won’t touch the field in the game this weekend.

  I’ll get suited up. I’ll warm up. And I’ll sit and watch the game from beneath a set of football pads on the sidelines without ever getting to step in between them.

  But there’s been something about Brexton’s words from the other night that have gotten stuck in my craw. Honest comments about the amount of talent I have that’s being wasted.

  Comments I’d like to take at face value and not read into . . . but struggle doing.

  I know I’m good.

  I know I have the work ethic and the drive.

 
I know I’m damn talented.

  And yet other than my one shot with the Tigers in my early years with the NFL, I’ve been relegated as the backup quarterback in this league ever since without ever really being given a chance to prove myself.

  Sure, I’ve gotten some time in when the starting QB is hurt or we’re winning by a ridiculous margin, but it’s typically in a game where whatever I do doesn’t really affect its outcome. It’s almost as if there’s a clause in my contract that says “second string only.”

  And sadly, until Brexton said those words to me, I didn’t realize how much I had grown to simply accept that fate. I’d bought the line I kept telling myself. The one that told me I was still an asset to the team, still vital in preparing my teammates for game day.

  I’d talked myself into accepting this norm because between Maggs’ disfunction and my father’s disease, while I might not be taking center stage on Sundays, at least the position allows me to be near my family. And if I were starting QB, it would most likely be elsewhere—another city, another state—since Hobbs is here. With my current family situation, that would make things more difficult.

  So is that why I haven’t fought harder? Haven’t been more vocal? Haven’t demanded my agent help fight for me?

  Or is it all of that along with the fact that after what happened with the Tigers, I decided maybe less is more. Maybe I convinced myself that if I’m in the spotlight for too long, another accusation will be made and tarnish everything I’ve worked for.

  The admission, even if just to myself, is hard to hear. Hard to acknowledge.

  When did I become the coward? The guy who didn’t fight for what he wanted because he was afraid? I bulldozed my way into the NFL and then one situation, one incident, and I allowed myself to disappear into the shadows much like my father did.

  The facts don’t sit well with me.

  It weighs heavily in my gut, much like my thoughts weigh on my mind during my shower, and well into the time I’m about to head home.

  I have a zoo date with Charley. One of those perks I get to have by living here in New York. My normal in the crazy family of mine.