Hard to Score

by K. Bromberg

  I bite my bottom lip. I know it seems unprofessional to bail on a few clients to go watch my boyfriend play, but then again, this was an unannounced visit. My clients are no worse for wear, and I have no meetings scheduled.

  Some things are more important than work, and that something is starting a game for the first time in what I’m sure seems like forever.

  Sure the traffic will be brutal, but I’m pretty certain I can get there by halftime.

  I know where I need to be.

  I know where my heart already is.

  Me: I’m on my way.

  I’ll move heaven and earth to get there.

  To be there.

  To cheer him on.

  DREW

  I’M EXHAUSTED.

  I’m amped.

  I glance up to the big screen on the opposite end of the stadium from where I stand in the huddle and know we’ve got this.

  The win.

  And a berth to the playoffs.

  The Panthers have been battling toe to toe with us all goddamn day. We get points, they get points. We turn it over, they turn it over.

  Like a damn seesaw.

  It seems this game will be won by whoever is the last to score.

  And time is running out.

  I glance over to Lonnie on the sidelines and get a nod, his words from minutes ago back in my head.

  “What are you thinking?” I ask Lonnie, who’s standing beside me with his arms crossed, that heart attack waiting to happen kept at bay for a little while longer.

  “I’m thinking they are wearing us down. They know our plays. They’ve got Donnell’s number,” he says of one of my offensive linemen. Pretty soon he’s not going to be able to stop them. “If that happens, you better hold tight to that fucking ball, because he’s a goddamn tank when he hits you.”

  “He won’t hit me.”

  “Funny,” he murmurs as the crowd erupts when Grandy sacks the Panthers’ quarterback in the backfield. “But that just helped some.”

  “So? What’s the game plan?” I ask.

  “I trust you to figure it out.”

  “What?” I ask, head whipping his way and away from our special teams running on the field to receive the punt.

  “I’m going to leave it up to you. You know the plays. You’re reading their field position well. They’ve recognized what we’re going to do a few times and it’s too late to change, so I’m leaving it up to you.”

  If that’s not the ultimate show of confidence in my abilities, I don’t know what is. I stare at him, at the man who has denied me time and again but who is now telling me he trusts me, and it takes me a second to fully grasp it.

  “Showtime, Bowman,” Lonnie says and smacks my ass as special teams come off the field.

  “We’ve got a minute left. A lot can happen in that minute,” I say, meeting each one of my guys’ eyes.

  “We need to score, man. They’re killing us in the backfield,” Muncy says, looking frustrated.

  “I know. I see it.” I find Fulton’s eyes and say, “Texas Fifteen.”

  His eyes light up. “No shit?” he asks as the guys start smiling. They know the Panthers are expecting a run. It’s been our pattern all damn night and now that I’m in charge, and not the guys up in the booth making the call, I’m going to play to what I know. To what I trust. My instincts and my arm.

  “No shit,” I say.

  His smile spreads. “Copy that.”

  “Let’s do this, boys!” I shout and then say, “Break.”

  We clap to break the huddle with a glance at the clock and a quick prayer to the football gods.

  This is my chance.

  My proof that I can start and finish a game strong. That I’m worthy of a starting position.

  “Texas Fifteen. Texas Fifteen. Hut. Hut. Hut.”

  I shuffle back in the pocket. Fulton runs in front of me where I hand the ball off to him. He runs to the right and sells the run as the whole field shifts and follows him. The offensive line holds just as Fulton dodges a tackle and lateral passes it to me. I have a millisecond to glance downfield where Muncy is wide open.

  The offensive line breaks. Number fifty-five is barreling down on me as I pull back and let the ball fly the fifteen yards to Muncy.

  He catches it, cradling it in his arms as the stadium erupts around us.

  But he’s not done.

  He turns and runs into a full sprint down the almost wide-open field and crosses into the end zone.

  My arms go up to match the referees calling the touchdown, and the roar in the stadium is deafening.

  There are hugs and pats on the ass, and I look over to Lonnie and catch his wide grin and the shake of his head over the Pop Warner-like play.

  But it worked.

  It fucking worked.

  And that’s all I keep thinking as we take our time wearing down the play clock. There are thirty-five seconds left and the game clock says twenty.

  A simple knee will do it.

  We don’t need the extra point after. We just need to take a knee and let the rest of the game clock tick to zero.

  And we do.

  When Stussy hikes the ball into my hands and I take a knee, the stadium erupts into a frenzy of deafening noise.

  We won.

  We fucking won, and it was with me at the helm from start to finish.

  With me leading this team.

  Tears threaten. The mental exhaustion and toll the last seven years have taken on me hits like a ton of bricks. Even when the clock runs out, I sit with the football in one hand, and my elbow on my knee with my head in my hand—and soak it all in.

  When my teammates keep slapping me on the back in congratulations, I finally look up at them and then toward the stands. Toward where my dad would sit when I was a kid and watch. I know he’s not going to be there, because he’ll never set foot inside a stadium again, and yet I look out of an old, irrational habit.

  And I startle when I see Brexton standing there, unbeknownst to her, right where he would have been. Her grin is huge, and she bounces on her toes in excitement when our eyes meet.

  In that moment, there is nothing else on my mind other than hugging her. Not the Raptors’ PR person waiting to guide me, not the media standing by waiting to talk on-air live, not my teammates waiting to relive a play.

  It’s just her.

  Just the girl I fell in love with all those years ago who’s waiting for me on the sidelines as if she knew just where to be.

  I push through the people with, “I’ll be right back,” “one second,” and “I have to do this first,” until I reach Brexton. She squeals as I climb up the rungs of the railing, and all but launches herself into my arms when I’m at the right height.

  I give no thought to the cameras or the media or the fans. All I can think about when I press my lips to hers is that she’s here.

  That she believes in me.

  And that I’m one lucky son of a bitch.

  DREW

  “YOU’RE GOING TO BE SORE in the morning.” Brexton glances at me over her shoulder where she’s putting food in bowls on the kitchen counter. “You took some hits today.”

  My body aches and my throwing shoulder needs to be iced again. “Nothing some beer and some of this won’t numb,” I say as I press my lips to hers in a slow, sweet kiss.

  I slide my hands down to her ass as my lips find hers again. She smells of soap from my shower and, just when I sink into the kiss with thoughts of a quickie on the counter before everyone gets here, she bats my hands away.

  “Uh-uh-uh. You’re the one who invited the guys over to celebrate, therefore none of that until later.” But in complete contradiction to her words, she fists her hand in the front of my shirt and pulls me toward her for another kiss. “You know how madly proud I am of you, right?” Her eyes light up with the smile I barely see because I’m too busy focusing on the emotion swimming there. “If there was ever someone who deserved today, who deserves this, it’s you, Dreadful Drew.�
�

  Her tongue flicks against my lips and it’s a no-brainer to let her take control for a beat. To let everything feel like it’s fucking perfect in my world for the first time in what feels like so fucking long, it’s ridiculous.

  “You keep teasing me like that,” I murmur against her lips, “and the only thing I’m going to be setting out on this counter behind me is you.”

  She chuckles against my lips and wiggles her body against mine. “Promise?”

  “Christ, woman,” I swear as I break from the kiss and step back from her and her glorious distractions. She just stares at me with the cutest pout before erupting into a fit of laughter.

  “Greet the guests with that,” she says motioning to my dick straining against my jeans, “and they’re going to think this is a whole different kind of party.”

  “Funny.”

  “I know.” She winks and then motions to the counter behind me. “Can you grab that bowl over there for me—”

  The doorbell rings and we both look at each other and laugh.

  “Would you look at that,” she says. “Good thing we held off. You said seven, right?”

  The clock reads six. “No doubt one of the assholes was hit too hard in the head today and can’t tell time. I’ll get it.”

  “You going to take care of that situation before you get there?” she asks, motioning to my crotch.

  “Always the comedian,” I say. She gives me a cheesy grin and wipes her hand on the dish towel as I head toward the door. No need to take care of anything, seeing as one thought of one of my teammates being behind the door has me back to normal.

  What an incredible fucking day.

  My grin is still wide and my sarcasm loud and clear when I swing open the door and say, “I said six o’clock, you asshole.” But my double take follows right behind it when I catch sight of who is standing there.

  “Mom? Dad? What are you doing here?”

  Have they come to congratulate me? They drove all the way over here to let me know they saw the game and they’re proud of me?

  But the thought is short-lived when my dad simply glares at me, his jaw clenched, and disbelief raging in his eyes.

  “Who was the woman?” he asks as my mom clings to his arm.

  “The woman?” And then it dawns on me. The press. The cameras. My kissing Brexton.

  “Charley pointed to the TV and said it was Brexton.” He looks at me with a fear I’ve never seen before. A fear that has me wondering what it is he’s so petrified of? Is he worried that maybe I’ve asked questions of the daughter, and maybe even the man, who he’s blamed all of this on? Is he worried this world he painted my family into might be coming undone?

  “Why?” I shrug, studying his every feature, not sure if I’m hoping he lets me down so I know I’m right or not.

  “A Kincade. Are you crazy?”

  “I’m sure her father would say, ‘A Bowman. Are you crazy?’ But he didn’t,” I all but taunt to get a reaction from them.

  “Don’t mention that man to us,” my mother says, voice cold, eyes full of fury as she stares at me with astonishment.

  All I can do is put my hands in my pockets and chuckle as I stare at the two of them in utter disbelief. If I doubted my father’s story before, the two of them just solidified it for me now.

  I don’t know why the thought crosses my mind but it’s there and it won’t go away. They didn’t drive across town to congratulate me on something I’ve busted my ass for. They came to make sure their lies stay intact and honestly, I’m not sure which one I should be more upset about.

  “Are we done here?” I ask with a raise of my eyebrows.

  “Drew.” My name is a warning from my father’s lips as his body starts to tremble, and by my mom’s quick intake of air, she noticed just as I did. “After everything that family has done to us? How could you?”

  Hasn’t this been my dilemma? How do I confront him without damaging his health? How do I look at my idol and tell him I no longer believe him? Hasn’t this been what I’d been stressing over?

  And now the moment is here. The rubber is about to hit the road. When I look at him, I feel all the love in the world but at the same time so much betrayal.

  So much loss.

  A decade of misplaced blame that makes no sense and yet happened.

  “Answer me, son,” he demands as I take a step back.

  “I think you’re the one who owes me answers,” I say quietly.

  “Drew? Who is it?” Brexton asks at my back. The widening of my father’s eyes shows me he has seen her over my shoulder. The tendons in his neck strain and his whole expression freezes.

  He stares at her long and hard. Studies her. Recognizes her.

  And then he looks back at me with narrowed eyes and lines etched on his face like I’m the one who’s betrayed him. Like I’m the one who has hurt him. His mouth is in a tight line as his hands tremor. My mom clings to him with determination like if she squeezes his arm tight enough, this will go away.

  “What have you done?” my mom asks, her voice barely audible but the accusation is there.

  “Nothing, Mom. Absolutely fucking nothing, but try to live my life out from under the web of lies Dad spun around us.”

  My dad’s chin trembles, and his eyes swim with so much emotion that I don’t know if he’s going to run or stay and fight.

  Let’s hope he loves me more than the game of football. Let’s hope he fights for me.

  “I did it for you.” My dad’s voice is all but a whisper, and I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t want Brexton to hear or because he’s overcome with emotion.

  “For me? You haven’t cared a day in your life about anything other than yourself, so don’t you dare turn this on me. Don’t you dare stand there and act so fucking pious. You turned our lives around because you were too goddamn weak to either fight for what you stood for or to admit you were at fault.”

  BREXTON

  MY HEART LURCHES INTO MY throat at the sight of a father and a son who look so much alike but who are at complete odds.

  I can’t tear my eyes off Gary. The man I used to joke with, play catch on the beach with, and consider an uncle. He’s older now. The years haven’t been kind to him, but I’m uncertain if that’s the illness or the stress of everything.

  The expression on his face is what holds my attention. I can’t figure out if he’s relieved and is masking it with fury or if he’s really as angry as he seems.

  Either one is heartbreaking when it comes to its consequences for the man I love.

  Then there’s Brenda.

  She’s clinging to Gary’s arm as if they’re one and the same person and it’s part pathetic, part what I could picture my parents being like if my mom were alive.

  Drew glances back at me for a moment and I note the intensity in his eyes that reflects everything about him in this moment. Defiance. Anger. Confusion.

  I feel completely out of place and uncomfortable and struggle with whether to go or stay. So instead, I just stand right where I am with feet that feel like they’re weighed down by lead.

  “She needs to leave,” Gary says to Drew, as if I’m a child he can’t stand to address.

  “She stays,” he deadpans without looking at me or asking if I want to be here.

  I don’t.

  Not in the least.

  While Gary may have somehow put the blame on my father, me being here is only going to complicate matters.

  “This is a private matter, son. It’s to be discussed among our family.”

  I see Drew tense from his words and hear his stifled laugh of disbelief. “This is my house. Are you fucking kidding me? You don’t get to stride in here and give me orders. I’ve lived by your rules my whole goddamn life and I’m done. Fucking sick of them. You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore.”

  “Don’t do this,” his mother murmurs.

  “Do what, Mom?” He throws his hands up. “Do what we should have done years ago but we w
ere so goddamn afraid to upset the precious fucking peace?”

  “Don’t you dare bring disgrace to this family,” Gary warns.

  “Yes, right. I forgot. I disgraced you by playing football when you told me I shouldn’t. I disgraced you by not being good enough for the Bowman name. And I fucking disgraced you by falling in love with the enemy. That’s right,” Drew’s voice thunders. “I love her, goddammit, and the two of you can go to hell if you don’t choose to accept it.”

  There is stunned silence in the house. One that’s suffocating and smothering. It makes me feel like I’m watching two cars in slow motion about to hit head-on and there is no amount of screaming I can do to stop it.

  I shouldn’t be here. This is between them and my presence is only going to make matters so much worse.

  I walk to the counter for my purse and grab it, needing away from this and wanting Drew to be free to say whatever it is he needs to say without fear of hurting me when it comes to my family.

  “Brex?” Drew asks after he hears the jingle of my keys when I walk back into the room.

  “I just . . . you guys need to sort this out. He’s right,” I say and Drew winces. “I shouldn’t be here right now.”

  He opens and closes his mouth. The tears that well in his eyes break my heart. But he doesn’t speak or try to stop me when I get the courage to walk out the front door and right past Brenda and Gary. I meet their eyes but don’t say a word. It’s so damn silent you can hear a pin drop.

  The calm before the storm.

  Too bad I have a feeling the minute I leave, the thunder that roars will be deafening.

  But as I pass by, no one says a word. No one stops me. And a small piece of me breathes a sigh of relief that even Drew doesn’t. I run from the house with the click of my shoes the only sound made.

  My hands are trembling as I open my car door and start the engine. I’m not sure why tears threaten as I drive down the street, but they do.

  A part of me fears what Drew’s about to go through. Fighting with your parents is never fun. The other part of me fears that this might be the last time I see Drew.