FOURTH DOWN
A BEAUMONT SERIES NEXT GENERATION SPIN-OFF
HEIDI MCLAUGHLIN
© 2021
The right of Heidi McLaughlin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000. This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
COVER DESIGN: Sarah Hansen: OkayCreations.
PHOTOGRAPHY: RplusMphoto
MODELS: Michael Scanlon / Elizabeth Babcock
EDITING: Edits by Amy / Briggs Consulting
Created with Vellum
THE PORTLAND PIONEERS:
A BEAUMONT SERIES NEXT GENERATION
SPIN-OFF
Fourth Down
Fair Catch
False Start
THE BEAUMONT SERIES READING ORDER
Forever My Girl
My Everything
My Unexpected Forever
Finding My Forever
Finding My Way
12 Days of Forever
My Kind of Forever
Forever Our Boys
Holding Onto Forever
My Unexpected Love
Chasing My Forever
Peyton & Noah
Fighting For Our Forever
A Beaumont Family Christmas
Fourth Down
Contents
1. Autumn
2. Julius
3. Autumn
4. Julius
5. Autumn
6. Julius
7. Autumn
8. Julius
9. Autumn
10. Julius
11. Autumn
12. Julius
13. Autumn
14. Julius
15. Autumn
16. Julius
17. Autumn
18. Julius
19. Autumn
20. Julius
21. Autumn
22. Julius
23. Autumn
24. Julius
25. Autumn
26. Julius
27. Autumn
28. Julius
29. Autumn
30. Julius
31. Autumn
32. Julius
33. Autumn
34. Julius
35. Autumn
36. Julius
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Heidi McLaughlin
About Heidi McLaughlin
One
Autumn
As soon as the production assistant motions we’re clear, I allow my shoulders to sag, my face relaxes, and I don’t hesitate to pull my earpiece out. I exit the stage and head toward my dressing room, which in reality is a closet with a desk and a pocket door. I added a do-it-yourself vanity mirror so I could do my make-up with some decent lighting and managed to change the overhead light to something better. Honestly, anything is better than what was in here when I took the job as Channel 3’s Weather Girl, a nickname if you will, that some jackass producer branded me with during the promos the station ran before I started. I’ve tried many times over the past couple of years to get rid of it, but sadly, this is how people know me in Dickinson, North Dakota.
“Great show this afternoon, Autumn,” my assistant Parker says as I walk toward her. Her arms are full, and she’s balancing two bottles of water and two cups of what I’m assuming to be coffee on her clipboard, which is stacked on top of files filled with paper. I share Parker with three other anchors and have tried my best to make her job easy.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for one of the waters. I don’t want her to try and give it to me because I’m fearful she’ll spill the contents of what she’s holding all over the floor. Parker smiles softly and then sighs. She has a tough job, a demanding one. One of the anchors is a diva with an ego larger than Texas. A few of us wonder why she’s still here, broadcasting the news to some twenty-two thousand people. For me, this is a stepping-stone to something bigger and better.
I step into my pint-sized dressing room and pull the metal hook to slide my pocket door closed. It wobbles, sticks, and I’m forced to give it a hard yank. I finally sit down, and I swear my body sighs from exhaustion. I’ve been up since before the sun to cover for our morning meteorologist, who called out sick at the very last possible moment. Then, I had to hurry across town to an elementary school for an assembly. My neighbor is in third grade and asked if I would speak at career day. There was no way I’d pass up the opportunity. Afterward, I rushed back to the studio for my afternoon slot to tell the fine people watching that the sun is shining, but it’s chilly, and a sweater might come in handy.
Slowly, I pull my right leg up to rest on my left knee, and as gently as possible, slip my high-heeled shoe off. If toes could scream, mine would holler from the highest peak in pure relief. I do the same to my other foot, and as I lean back in my chair, I wiggle the digits that I’m so mean to. Heels are a necessary evil, a must. They elongate the legs and force us to stand tall. As much as I appreciate the good posture in front of the camera, it doesn’t mean I enjoy standing on the pointed spikes for hours on end.
I’ve been known to walk around the studio in my slippers. But as of late, I prefer my Birkenstocks. They’re comfortable, yet not fashionable at all. They’re also a major turn off to the single men who work here. I love it. I’m not looking for an office romance or a quickie against my vanity. I want something meaningful. I want a relationship that grows up from the bottom with dates and old-fashioned wooing. Where, if the guy is a gentleman, maybe he gets a kiss at night. As much as I hate to admit it, I want to be courted. Nowadays, it’s all about swiping right and people wanting to “Netflix and chill.”
My phone rings, and I groan. Not because I don’t want to answer it, but because doing so requires me to move. I hate feeling this way and sense that it’s my unhappiness at my job that is bringing me down. Usually, I’m cheery—the life of the party. I’m the one who can have a meaningful conversation with a wall and feel satisfied at the end of the night. As of late, though, I’m a Debbie Downer, and I think it’s because every job I apply for, I’m either passed over because someone is more qualified or I’m not the right fit. Still, I’m pushing the send button on my resume and highlight reel for every job that opens up at a new station.
My ex's name and picture take up the screen of my phone. We’re friends, better friends than we were lovers. I click to answer and press the speakerphone button. I’m too tired to put in the effort right now.
“If you’re somewhere tropical, I’m going to hate you forever,” I tell Camden as I close my eyes. We went to school together, both majoring in broadcast journalism. When we first started dating, I was smitten with him and decided to follow his path, minoring in meteorology. The weather was never really on my radar until I met Cam. There have been times over the past couple of years that I wish I had listened to my parents and minored in sports or something else. Don’t get me wrong, I love what I do, just not where I do it.
“Okay, I won’t tell you I’m in the Florida Keys.”
“Ugh, I hate you.”
“I know you do. Any luck yet?”
“No,” I say. I keep my eyes closed. “I’m giving up hope.”
“And the right market. I’m not saying I want to be the next Willard Scott.”
“No, that would be impossible. First, you’re not a man . . . thank god. Second, you want to be the first Autumn LaRosa. You don’t want to follow in someone’s footsteps but blaze your own path, which I fully believe you can do.”
“You know when you say things like this, I ask myself why we ever broke up.”
Camden chuckles. “Because we both want careers, and right now, they’re taking us in different directions.”
“You’re right.” I hate that he is, but he is. We’ve just always been better friends. The type who are very supportive of one another.
“Damn, woman, you have no idea what those words do to me.”
“Shut up,” I tell him, rolling my eyes. I sit up and glance into the mirror. At least I don’t look as hideous as I feel. “All right, I’m going to go. I had to cover this morning, and now I either need a nap or an early bedtime.”
“Keep your head up, Autumn. The right job for you is out there. You’ll find it.”
“Thanks, Cam.”
We hang up, and instead of changing back into my street clothes, I decide to check my email. Most of the notices are from the listserv I belong to. Numerous conferences are happening, some of which I’d love to attend, but it’s near impossible at the moment. I see one for Florida and mentally flip Camden off for being down there right now. I realize I never asked him why he’s there and make a mental note to check for any hurricanes or tropical storms forming in the ocean.
The one email that catches my eye is a job I interviewed for about six months ago. When I didn’t hear back—not even a “we’re not interested” response—I figured they were looking for someone with more qualifications than what I had to offer.
For some reason, I hesitate before opening the email. Knowing my luck, it’s spam, or they’re inviting me to their next cocktail event, not realizing I don’t work for them. My thumb hovers over the email as I look at the sender’s name. “This is stupid,” I say to myself. “It’s not like I’m waiting for test results or something life-changing.”
Hello Autumn,
We’re excited to offer you employment with our station, MCAX.
The rest of the email is a blur, and I have to read it repeatedly to make sure my eyes aren’t deceiving me. I get to the last line, the second most important line of the entire email. There’s a number to call if I want to accept this job offer. My thumb, the hesitant one from earlier, presses the phone number lightning fast.
“Leon Woolworth’s office. Sherry speaking.”
“Um, yes, hi. This is Autumn LaRosa calling in regard to the email I received.”
“Hello, Autumn,” Sherry says as she types. “Mr. Woolworth is expecting your call. Hold please.”
As if I’d hang up.
“Autumn, Leon here. How are you?”
“I’m well, and you?”
“I’ll be better if I know whether or not you’re bringing your talents to my station.”
“I am. I can’t thank you enough for this opportunity.” Holy crap, did I just say yes to a new job? Not just any job but one in a much larger market where I know I can thrive? My heart is pounding so much right now. I don’t know if I should close my eyes and practice some deep breathing or get up and dance until I can’t move anymore.
“Perfect.” It sounds like he’s clapped his hands or slapped his desk. “The evening team is excited to have you.”
Surely, I didn’t hear him correctly. “I’m sorry, but can you repeat what you just said?”
Leon laughs. “Autumn, we want you for our evening news. We think you’ll be a great addition to the crew. You’ll work with Aiden Marchetti, who does sports, and Selena Rich and Arthur Brentwood, who do the news. Lisette Maver is your assistant; she’ll reach out to you tomorrow to introduce herself. Once we’re done talking, Sherry will send your contract over. When can you start?”
“Two weeks?” I squeak out.
“Looking forward to having you on staff.”
“Not as much as I am,” I tell him before we hang up. I stare at my phone, dumbfounded. Did this really happen? I go back to my recent calls and press Camden’s name. He answers with a laugh.
“Did you know?”
“I had a feeling but didn’t want to say anything. I heard it through the grapevine that Leon kept putting your tape in front of the board. Originally, they went with someone else, and the public didn’t respond well, and Leon pushed for the okay to hire you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because.” He sighs. “In this industry, minds change like the wind speeds. If I had said something and you didn’t get the call, you’d hate me even more than you do now. Besides, you needed the excitement of speaking to Leon. I hear he’s one hell of a producer. You’ll do well in the Portland market.”
“Thanks, Cam.”
“Don’t mention it. Now, go give your notice, pack up that tiny dressing room, tell your roommate you’re leaving and get your ass to Portland.”
“This is the only order I will ever take from you. Thanks again.”
“You’ve earned it, now slay it.”
As soon as we hang up, I squeal and kick my feet up in the air. Unfortunately for me, my chair falls back, and so do I, hitting the ground with a thud. “This is par for the course,” I mutter as I lay there looking at the ceiling. “Holy shit, I got a new job!”
I bring myself to a sitting position and slowly get up, mindful of my now sore backside. I search the ground for my phone, finding it near the door. I don’t know whether I should tell my boss I’m leaving face-to-face or type something up. Maybe, I should do both. I go to put on my heels but think better of it and slip my aching feet into my Birks and head down the hall. The station is quiet. The lull happens between shifts where the afternoon team is in their rooms either finishing work from earlier or napping, and the evening crew is staggering in. I make my way down the hall to my boss’s office. I knock, but no answer.
“Letter it is,” I say aloud as I make my way back to my dressing room. I don’t even want to imagine what kind of space I’ll have in Portland. I just know it has to be better than this.
* * *
I stop at the hardware store for a stack of boxes, packing tape, and some bubble wrap on my way home. I also reserve a box trailer that I can pull behind my car. When I get home, I find my roommate curled up on the couch with a blanket.
“Hey,” I say as I walk in.
“Hey, what’s with the boxes?”
“I got offered a job. It’s in Portland and I start in two weeks.”
Her eyes go wide. She doesn’t move from the couch, not that I expect her to. The apartment is hers; I lease the bedroom. When I first moved in, we did a lot of things together. We hung out, had people over, but she's been distant over the last year or so. She doesn’t know I know she put the moves on Camden. He told me when it happened. At first, I was going to confront her but then figured nothing good would come from it. When this happened, she knew Cam was an ex. I never bothered to tell her that we hooked up occasionally when we’d visit each other. I suppose I could’ve told her, but I also never expected her to do what she did.
“I’ll pay for rent next month to give you time to find someone else.”
“Sure,” she says, never taking her eyes off the television, leaving me no choice but to retreat to my room.
Packing will be easy. Moving to a new place will be exciting.
Starting a new job—well, that’s downright terrifying.
Two
Julius
Everything in the room is white. The couch. The rug. The walls. Even the television has a white border around it. The mantel over the fireplace—white. Same with the picture frames. Everywhere I look, it’s all I see. The living room is supposed to be inviting, welcoming, and yet it feels stressful. I’ve never been the type of person who asks their friends
to take off their shoes when they come into their home. I find it rude, but I also respect it if my friends ask me. When you come into my house—well, my soon to be former home—your shoes must be off. Not only off but left outside.
I sit on the couch, with its white pillows, and rest my ankle on my knee. My shoes are on because I’m bitter and angry at the world, the situation I’m in, and my wife. Mostly her, which probably isn’t fair, but her actions have put us in this position.
Elena comes into the room and sighs heavily. I know why and I don’t care. I continue to stare out the window at the blue sky. Elena and I met in college. I was on a full scholarship at the University of Alabama, playing wide receiver, and she worked for my favorite clothing store. I wish I could say it was love at first sight, but it was fear that brought us together. I had been in her store when a tornado warning sounded. Everyone in the store took shelter, except Elena. She stood in the middle of the room with nothing but sheer panic on her face. Her co-workers tried to coax her into the back room, but she was frozen. I went to her, scooped her up, and carried her to the back. She clung to me until the warning was over. The entire time I just talked to her about my life, football, my hopes, and dreams. She told me she moved to Alabama to go to school, but her financial aid fell through, and she was too embarrassed to go home and ask her parents for money. They didn’t want her moving south to begin with, and told her she was making a mistake. She needed to prove them wrong.
Fourth Down: A Beaumont Series Next Generation Spin-off Page 1