FIRST POSITION
By Prescott Lane
Copyright © 2013 Prescott Lane
First Edition: April 2013
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CHAPTER ONE
Emory Claire stared at the array of bridal magazines on her fiancé Eric’s dining room table, stifling an urge to throw up.
“What do you think about a winter wedding?” Molly, their wedding planner, eagerly suggested. “Colors silver and white? That could be absolutely gorgeous.”
Emory wondered how Molly, an unwed thirty-something, could become the top wedding planner in Charlotte, and why she had to be so damn perky all the time, to say nothing of her big breasts. Molly was so top heavy that Emory wondered how she didn’t topple over. And her voice, high-pitched and squeaky, made Emory sick, almost as much as the whole idea of a big wedding. She wished Eric hadn’t hired her. Emory wished she was anywhere but here.
“That could be nice,” Eric said hopefully, well aware of Emory’s hesitancy.
Emory wrinkled her nose, Molly sensing her discomfort. Eric, in his mid-thirties, was a big client for her. He was on the fast track to becoming the head of pediatric cardiology at his Charlotte hospital. He’d met Emory, a child and maternity photographer, while taking photos of newborn babies in the maternity ward. Eric seemed to have an uncanny ability to know when Emory was working; more than once he just happened to cross paths with her, then persisted in asking her out. Molly planned to make sure their wedding was in the social pages, which would only boost her own career, so she surely didn’t want to upset Emory in Eric’s house. Still, she had no idea what Emory’s problem was. She decided to switch gears.
“I have some fabulous connections in the Caribbean. Have you guys thought about a destination wedding?”
Emory flashed her eyes to Eric, signaling that may be the stupidest idea ever floated in the history of the world.
“A destination wedding might be difficult for our families and friends,” he responded, tactful as always.
Emory felt her face begin to sweat. She had her late mother’s soft features -- alabaster skin and slender body, with rosy cheeks and lips -- masking a tough core molded by her father, a high school football coach. Because of him, she could talk sports, play pool, and hold her own in a game of poker, all while looking like the angelic ballet dancer she once was. Few things rattled her. But her father hadn’t prepared her for this moment. She was twenty-eight and scared. Most women would consider Eric the perfect catch. What’s wrong with me? He was respectful and polite, not to mention a doctor who’d built his own home on a golf course in a posh gated community. His blond hair, green eyes, and lean muscular frame made him easy on the eyes and a favorite among the nurses.
“Are you OK?” Eric whispered to her.
“Yeah, I just need a drink.” Emory excused herself from the dining room and walked into the kitchen, quickly looking for something to calm her nerves, but then remembered Eric didn’t keep any alcohol in the house. She sadly settled for a glass of water. She’d been in Eric’s kitchen many times before, but for the first time realized just how organized it was -- the chrome fixtures polished to a shine, the hand towels neatly placed, the flour and sugar jars precisely filled. How did I get here? Everything was in order, just like Eric -- safe and steady. What their relationship lacked in passion, it made up for in security.
Eric followed her into the kitchen, then touched her shoulder from behind, startling her. “What’s going on?” She could feel heat rise to the surface of her skin. “Molly says we really need to pick a date in order to get the venue we want.”
She took a sip of water. “I thought we agreed to have a long engagement and take our time?”
Eric looked at her curiously, a twinge of aggravation in his eyes. “We’ve dated for over a year, been engaged for three months, and it takes at least a year to plan a wedding. Can you give me a month even?” She took another sip, hoping a quick stall would give her something -- anything -- to say, but there was nothing. “Can you at least give me aseason?” Emory shrugged her shoulders. Eric was perfect; his house was perfect; and he had hired the perfect wedding planner to plan the perfect wedding. But Emory felt anything but perfect. She didn’t want to hurt Eric, but knew this was not just normal wedding jitters. “Damn it, Emory! I think I’ve been very patient and understanding about all your commitment issues. I’m beginning to feel like you don’t want this wedding at all, or maybe it’s just that you really don’t wantme!”
Emory reached for his hand. “I love you, Eric.”
“Then give me something to work with here.”
“All this talk of dates and venues and flowers is just so overwhelming.”
“Overwhelming?” Eric threw up his hands. “This is so embarrassing. Molly is in the other room, and we need to. . . .”
“I don’t give a shit about Molly, and I don’tneed to do anything. This is the rest of our lives we’re talking about.”
“Didn’t you think about that before agreeing to marry me?”
It was a good question. “Yes.” And she had -- several times. It was why she’d turned down his first two proposals, fearing that what little spark there was between them would dwindle after the honeymoon ended and the dog-days of marriage began. But Eric was nothing if not persistent, and she finally accepted his third proposal, believing that he was certain about their relationship, and she should be, too. After all, he was a smart man. Emory chalked up her nerves about getting engaged to the broken heart she suffered at the hands of her college sweetheart, Mason.
“Because you agreed to marry me,” he said, trying to add some reason to the conversation, “we need a date to get married, right?”
Emory looked down at the oval cut diamond ring on her finger. “I can’t give you that today,” she said softly.
“Then there’s no reason for us to be engaged.” Eric held out his hand. “Give me the ring.”
“Eric, come on.”
“No, I want it back.”
“Think about what you’re saying.”
“Oh, I’m thinking. In fact, I’m thinking real clearly now. Give me the ring!”
Emory took in his words. She believed he was thinking clearly; he always did. She walked slowly to the sink and poured the rest of her water down the drain, setting the glass in the sink. She slipped the ring from her finger and gently placed it in Eric’s hand. “I’m sorry. I’m just not ready.” She walked out of the kitchen towards the front door, grabbing her purse along the way. She glanced back to Molly on her way out. “We won’t be needing your help for that destination wedding -- or any wedding at all.”
* * *
Emory sat in her car, as the sun set over Eric’s house on the gloomy Friday night. She put her hands on the steering wheel, wondering what had just happened. Rain began to fall. She looked at her left hand; it looked different without a ring. I feel lighter. She felt a calmness come over her, as if the rain, obscuring her view of the house, was washing away a prior life. As wonderful as Eric was, she was right to have rejected him twice before; she should’ve trusted her instincts a third time. She simply liked Eric more than she loved him, and that was no way to enter into a marriage.
She dialed the one person who always made her feel better, Wesley, her best friend and roommate. “Hey, girl, how’s your day?”
“Awful. Eric and I just broke up.”
“Holy shit! What happened?” He wal
ked into their modest apartment, after a full day of teaching dance classes in his downstairs studio.
“I had a panic attack in front of the wedding planner,” she said, putting her hand to her face. “So embarrassing.”
Wesley grabbed a large water bottle from the kitchen. “She’s just a big-breasted bimbo, so you shouldn’t be embarrassed.”
Emory sighed. “It was all just too much.”
“It’s just a sign you’re with the wrong guy.” Wesley chugged from the bottle and wiped his mouth. “And I’m gay, so I know men.”
Emory laughed. Wesley was always good for a laugh. They had become fast friends in college when they were made dance partners. She always knew he was gay, though she was the first person he told. It wasn’t some big surprise to her, but she pretended it was. She assumed he wouldn’t have wanted her to say it was obvious -- as obvious as the sun is hot. Emory helped him with the ups and downs of coming out, and even went with him to break the news to his parents, who thought he was bringing home a girlfriend. Were they blind or just stupid? His parents didn’t take the news as well as she did and kicked them both out of their house, leaving Wesley a complete mess for months. She did her best to comfort him. Years later, he returned the favor and was there for her when Mason broke her heart, and she broke her ankle, ending her dream of a dance career. It was the darkest time of her life, and Emory still hadn’t fully recovered. Her own mistakes and secrets, which only Wesley knew, continued to haunt her.
Her stomach growled. “Do you have plans tonight? I was thinking it might be a good night for take-out from Gus’ Bar.”
It always amazed Wesley how often Emory thought about food and how much she could eat and never gain an ounce. He always had to watch what he ate to keep his tall, slender frame -- back in college and even now -- but sometimes found himself giving into his own food cravings. But no matter how many buffets or combo meals Emory took in, she looked the same and never seemed to gain an ounce.
“Sounds great! Don’t forget to get extra sauce.”
Emory rolled her eyes. “Of course.”
* * *
Emory drove along the street in front of Gus’ Bar, cursing that there was no parking lot. She didn’t have an umbrella. She found a parking spot a block away, then ran through the rain, side-stepping puddles along the street. She reached the front entrance, finding some relief underneath a small awning. She wrung out her long blonde hair, drenched on her shoulders and back. This day has sucked. But good barbecue was worth braving the elements and the embarrassment of looking like hell.
She walked inside, still wringing out her shirt. Gus greeted her at the bar. “Hey honey, you’ve obviously had a rough one.” Gus had known Emory for years. He was one of her first clients when she moved to Charlotte after studying photography in Europe. She took pictures of his grandkids and was a repeat customer at his bar. Gus knew her mood from her order. It was a slab of ribs tonight -- which meant comfort food after an awful day.
“Not the greatest, Gus.” Emory frowned and flicked her wet shirt. “Could you put a little extra sauce in with that?”
“Already did, baby. It’s right on top.” He handed her a large sack. “Don’t know where you put it.”
She shrugged and smiled. Definitely not in my bra cup. She peeked in the sack while turning from the bar, then rammed into a hard body, the sack slamming against her chest, dumping sauce down the front of her wet shirt. The sack fell to the floor.
“Shit, I’m so sorry!” the hard body said, bending down to pick up the sack. “Didn’t see you there. Are you OK?” He placed the sack on the bar while Emory grabbed some napkins from a nearby table. The hard body looked at his victim, wiping her shirt in vain. “Emory Claire?”
She stopped wiping. She knew that voice anywhere but hadn’t heard it in years. She glanced up from her shirt and met familiar crystal blue eyes. “Mason?”
“Oh my God, Em, it’s you!” Mason flashed the most radiant smile. He couldn’t believe he was looking into her beautiful blue eyes after so many years apart.
Emory stared in shock. He looked better than she remembered, in an old t-shirt and jeans, his right arm hung in a sling. His dark brown hair was slightly longer than before, but his eyes were just the same. The guy who six years ago broke her heart and reduced her to puddles was again right in front of her. And I look like this. Seriously, can this day get any worse?
“Let me help you.” He grabbed some more napkins. While Emory cleaned herself, he cleaned the sauce on the sack and the floor.
He started talking about something, but her brain was struggling to keep up. What is he doing here?
“So good to see you,” Mason said, leaning in for a hug.
Emory backed away. “Oh, I don’t think you want to hug me right now.”
“You look great, Em, just the same.” His eyes softened as he reached to push her hair back from the side of her face. His touch, just as she remembered, ignited a familiar wave of heat through her body.
She deflected the compliment. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m in town talking to the Panthers about playing here next season.”
“Really?” Emory’s stomach clenched at the thought of Mason living in Charlotte. She had spent the last several years trying, unsuccessfully, to forget about him. Crap, now his face will be all over the place.
“Yeah, I met with them today. Trying to catch on with a new team. Do you live here?”
“I do. For about three or four years now.”
“Crazy that we would meet here.”
“I know.” Emory nodded and quickly glanced at his left hand. No ring? Keep it together; don’t come undone. “What happened to your arm?”
“I guess you haven’t been watching Monday Night Football lately.” They hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in years, but Mason felt disappointed that she hadn’t kept up with his career. Deep down, he always thought, or at least hoped, she was watching him.
“Not really.”
“I tore up my shoulder in the last game of the season in Miami.” He could still remember the brutal tackle. He prided himself on having good pocket awareness but never saw or even felt it coming. He’d dropped back to pass, a routine five-step drop, and cocked his right arm to throw, his receiver sprinting down the field on a fly pattern. He released the ball just before getting hammered by a ferocious pass rush off the edge, slamming him to the ground, as the pass fell incomplete. He stayed facedown on the field, the trainers racing out to him. They slowly rolled him over -- literally turning his world upside down -- and plucked grass from his face mask. Mason couldn’t move his right shoulder and was cut three days later when the season ended.
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. How is it?”
“It’s doing OK. But let’s hope the Panthers think so.”
“Well, good luck,” Emory said, feeling a sudden urge to escape, wanting her embarrassing night to end. She grabbed her sack from the bar.
Mason quickly glanced down at her ring finger. She couldn’t possibly still be single. He had more to say -- at least he thought he did -- and didn’t want this to be a fleeting moment between old friends. For years he regretted how things had ended; he’d wanted to talk to her, but assumed she wanted nothing more to do with him. “Would you like to catch up over dinner?” He didn’t want her to go so quickly. He wanted more, and she looked fantastic, even with the rain and sauce.
His question caught her off guard, wondering why he’d ask, and why she’d ever want to sit across from a guy who dumped her. Emory held up the bag. “I’ve already got dinner plans tonight.”
“Oh, right,” Mason said, unable to hide the hint of sadness in his voice.
“Yeah, and not just that. I’m kind of a mess. But good luck with the Panthers.” She walked towards the exit, hoping he hadn’t noticed how affected, and conflicted, she was.
“Maybe tomorrow?” he called out.
“Maybe so.” And she was gone.
CHAPTER TWO
Mason sat on the bed in his hotel suite, the room service tray beside him, his mind overwhelmed by seeing Emory again. He’d gone in for a drink -- to unwind after meeting with the Panthers -- and literally stumbled back into his past. His break-up with Emory was, without question, the biggest mistake of his life, and now he’d just seen her again. He munched on a cookie. Does everything happen for a reason? He wasn’t sure. All he was sure about was that his mistakes with Emory had led to other mistakes, and that his world once again had been turned upside-down. He knew he had to see her again.
He pulled out his cell phone and stared at her number. It wasn’t hard to find in the phonebook. It was much harder to find the nerve to call. Then suddenly his phone rang in his hand. Could it be Em? It was Steven, his older brother and agent, calling from his Texas law office, bombarding Mason with questions through his speaker phone.
“How was the meeting today? Any doctors present? Did they do a medical exam?” Steven was tall like Mason but had a leaner physique. He was the more sensible sibling who tried, often in vain, to steer his impulsive brother in a proper direction. Steven usually accompanied him to all team workouts and meetings to make sure Mason didn’t screw things up. But he’d just finished a week long jury trial, and his wife, Olivia, was expecting their first child, so he couldn’t make this trip, and re-scheduling was not an option. It was too risky. Given his injury, Mason needed to pursue any option available, at the convenience of any team, even if Mason had to do it on his own. Steven knew that was risky, too.
Mason put his hand to his head, still consumed by the sight of Emory. “Slow down, man. One at a time.”
“Sorry,” Steven said, taking a breath. “Just been an insane week in trial. And Liv is driving me a little crazy with the baby coming.”
“Everything went fine. Coach seems cool,” Mason said, taking another bite of his cookie. “Went through a quick physical with the doctors. They didn’t say anything to me. Got a good vibe.”
First Position Page 1