First Position

by Prescott Lane

  “Good,” Steven said, relieved. “We have that meeting with the Seahawks tomorrow afternoon, and then we’ll go from there.”

  Mason shook his head. Oh, shit! I totally forgot about the Seahawks meeting. “That’s not going to work.” He wasn’t leaving Charlotte until he saw Emory again.

  Steven switched off speaker, and picked up the phone. “What the hell did you say?”

  “I need you to push back the Seattle meeting.”

  “What the fuck, Mason! You better get your ass on that plane!”

  “Just need a few days,” Mason said calmly.

  “We don’t have a few days! We are damn lucky we have two teams willing to look at your injured ass! Have you lost your fucking mind?” It was for times like this that Steven blamed Mason for his lack of hair. He was in his early-thirties and slightly bald, an unfortunate product, he believed, of Mason’s emotional whims.

  Mason took a sip of water. “Just fucking do it, OK!”

  “Not without a good reason.”

  Mason wasn’t ready to tell Steven about Emory. He wasn’t sure there was anything to tell, or how his brother would react. He knew Steven had loved Emory like a little sister, and was furious with him for screwing things up. But that didn’t mean Steven would understand his present situation -- that Emory, for some reason, had come back into his life. At least Mason hoped she had. “Well, I just want to tour the city. Charlotte’s a great town, and I want to check out the neighborhoods.” Mason took another bite of the cookie. “Maybe catch a Bobcats game.”

  Steven knew his brother was prone to crazy ideas but couldn’t believe he was acting this way now, with his career on the line. “The Bobcats suck! This is some bullshit. Now tell me the fucking truth.”

  Mason put down the cookie. “Look, bro, my shoulder’s sore. I don’t want to travel cross-country tomorrow. I need a few days.”

  Steven knew his brother was lying, but there was nothing he could do. “Fine. You rest, and I will handle Seattle. By the way, there’s something else I need to discuss with you.”

  * * *

  Emory pulled up to her apartment, finding herself still shaken by seeing Mason, or perhaps it was her unexpected break-up with Eric, or maybe it was simply that she was soaking wet and covered in barbecue sauce. She couldn’t decide which one it was, or if it was all of them. It had been a two-hour whirlwind. She walked towards the apartment. It was nothing fancy on the outside -- or even the inside -- but it was Wesley’s baby. His dance studio was below the small apartment they shared, and was where he spent most of his time, teaching little ballerinas to dance. Emory helped him open it when his own dance career came to an end, and she helped out with his classes when she could, in between photography shoots.

  Emory drew a deep breath and walked inside, up the flight of stairs. She found Wesley waiting for her. He looked her up and down and doubled over laughing, his strawberry-blond hair falling in his eyes. “Sweetheart, what the hell happened to you?”

  She placed the dinner sack on the small dining room table. “Glad I can still make you laugh, jerk.”

  “It’s just you said you had a bad day when you called, but I didn’t expect you to look like such a hot mess.” Emory stuck her tongue out at him. “Is that my dinner on your shirt?”

  She walked towards her bathroom, removing her wet, stained shirt. “We’ll talk in a minute.” She turned on the shower, and stepped in. The smell of barbecue sauce washed away, as the water rained down on her. She closed her eyes, and Mason’s blue eyes stared back at her. She shook her head to try to erase the image, rubbing her skin with the soap lather, more and more intensely, as if to cleanse her mind of the past -- and now her present. But it didn’t work. It never worked. Why am I thinking about him? I should be focused on Eric.

  * * *

  Mason could always tell when Steven was concerned. He rolled out his serious lawyer voice. Whatever else Steven wanted to discuss, Mason knew it wasn’t good. Steven cleared his throat. “It’s your wife.”

  “I told you to just make the divorce happen,” Mason barked. “I don’t want to talk about Alexis.” Alexis was a college debutante -- large breasts, sweeping hair, and perfect make-up -- always on the prowl for a husband. Her type had never appealed to Mason until he no longer had Emory. He often wondered why he ever married her.

  “She knows teams are looking at you and wants to get her claws back into you. She and her lawyer are threatening to challenge the prenup, saying I coerced her into signing it.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Mason walked towards the hotel suite window, opened the curtains, and looked out over the Charlotte skyline. He remembered turning to Alexis after his break-up with Emory in his senior year, just weeks prior to the NFL draft. He was heartbroken and scared, and Alexis was ready and willing, and seemed the perfect match for a rookie quarterback. Steven never liked her and never trusted her; Alexis was everything Emory wasn’t. Steven insisted Mason have a prenup and drafted it himself and ensured Alexis signed it. Far from any coercion, Alexis was thrilled she’d get $500,000 and certain other assets if they ever divorced.

  “I know you want to make this quick and get her out of your life,” Steven said, “but divorce doesn’t work that way. I can’t let her railroad you, just because you want to forget her. I wouldn’t be a good brother or lawyer if I let her take everything you’ve worked so hard for. We need to fight her.”

  “I’m through fighting with her. Our whole marriage was a fight. She got what she wanted when she married me. Poisonous little social climber!”

  Steven felt sorry for his brother, injured and alone in a Charlotte hotel. “So much for ‘in sickness and in health.’”

  Steven was with Mason when doctors told him weeks ago he may never play football again. It was, at best, a 50-50 proposition. There was no guarantee his shoulder would heal well enough for him to throw, let alone endure another sack. So when his injury threatened his paycheck, Alexis made it clear she was done. Steven had heard her say so -- if Mason couldn’t keep up his end of the marriage, she couldn’t keep up hers. What exactly was her end? Alexis married Mason to be in the spotlight, spend his money, and soak up his fame. Over his five seasons in the NFL, she cheered in the stands on Sundays -- not so much for him, but for herself and the cameras. Steven wouldn’t let his brother get hammered by her now.

  “Do whatever it takes to get rid of her,” Mason ordered.

  The brothers agreed to see each other in a few days in Seattle.

  * * *

  Emory came out of her room wearing flannel pajamas, her garment of choice when she needed to comfort her mind and heart. Wesley already had dug into the sack, made them both plates, and set the table. When Emory sat down, he put down the rib he was gnawing on. “Spill, no pun intended.” Emory recounted every detail about her fight and break-up with Eric, while the wedding planner, Molly, sat in the other room. Wesley listened intently, only occasionally interrupting to ask her to pass another rib or sauce. She didn’t mention Mason. “It seems like you’re OK about all this,” he said.

  “Marriage was never something I was after.” She reached for another rib. “Didn’t even mind giving the ring back.”

  “But it seems you lost Eric, not just the ring. Why aren’t you crying like a girl in one of those chick movies you make me watch?” Emory shrugged her shoulders, unsure of the answer. She assumed it was because of Mason but didn’t want to fess up. “You know, I always thought Eric was nice, polite, loyal,” Wesley said, taking a drink, “but no spark there. Not like with. . . .”

  “Don’t say it. Don’t go there, Wesley,” Emory snapped, in no mood to hear his name on the very night she ran into him.

  “Geez, hit a nerve! Don’t get bitchy with me.”

  “Don’t you. . . .”

  “Be quiet and eat!” Wesley took her hand. “Look, I know you don’t like to talk about that time in your life, but most of it was great. You were happy and alive and, yeah, it ended poorly, but you packed it all away --
good and bad.”

  “Enough!” Emory licked her fingers and rose from the table and went to the kitchen. “Not tonight.”

  Wesley looked at her, confused. He knew everything about Emory, especially when she was hiding something. And he knew she was hiding something from him now but didn’t want to push her. “Fine, let’s talk about something else. How did you get barbecue sauce on you?” Emory shook her head, not wanting to discuss that either. “Did Eric throw it at you?” he teased.

  Emory began to wash dishes in the sink. “I bumped into someone at the bar, and it spilled on me.” Damn, I shouldn’t have given him this opening.

  Wesley noticed a slight blush on her cheeks. “So who’d you bump into?”

  “Nobody.” Emory scrubbed the dishes with more speed.

  “Oh, come on!” Wesley cut a smile and waved his finger at her. “Don’t hold back on me!”

  Emory was no match for Wesley’s charm -- or pestering. He’d just keep asking over and over again, so she relented before he drove her crazy. “Mason,” she whispered.

  “Holy shit!” Wesley nearly choked on a rib.

  “Yep, my thoughts exactly.”

  “I heard he was coming for a tryout -- it was all over the papers, talking about his injury -- but I never thought you’d run into him.” Wesley brought his plate to the sink.

  It was now obvious why Wesley had brought up Mason at dinner. “You knew he was in town, and didn’t tell me?”

  “Don’t get so worked up, girl!” Wesley shut off the faucet and led her to the old sofa in the den. They plopped down together. “I didn’t tell you,” he said, patting her flannel pants, “because you always get upset when someone mentions him, and it’s not like I imagined you would run into him. I mean, Charlotte is a pretty big city. What are the odds?”

  Emory twirled her hair with one hand, massaging her foot with the other. “Well, you should’ve warned me. I looked like a total idiot, soaking wet, covered in barbecue sauce, not knowing anything about his shoulder.”

  Wesley leaned over and hugged her. “I bet he didn’t think you looked like an idiot.”

  “I wouldn’t take that bet.”

  “Fine.” Wesley released her, sensing any effort to pick up her spirits was hopeless. “I’m wondering -- are you more upset about seeing Mason or breaking up with Eric?”

  Emory glared at him and began to rub both of her feet. “I’m not answering that.”

  “Damn, OK.” Wesley tried to lighten the mood. ”Was he wearing a ring?”

  “As if I looked!” she replied abruptly. “Everything was happening so fast.”

  “You little liar!” He grabbed Emory’s hands and began to rub her feet himself. “Of course, you looked!”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. Lots of men don’t wear rings. I’m sure he’s very happy with Alexis.” The words burned her tongue. “This isn’t a romance novel, Wesley.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Alone in his hotel suite, Mason tried to rid his mind of Alexis. He had told his brother to handle his divorce and whatever property settlement, but Steven felt the need to provide updates. It aggravated him. Mason didn’t want to be burdened by the weight of details. He just wanted it over. He wanted his mistakes swept away. He pictured Emory’s face from earlier in the evening; it was the perfect distraction from Alexis. She looked the same as he remembered -- and she’d crossed his mind everyday for six years. He smiled remembering the first time he ever saw her.

  Mason was a junior in college, making his first start at quarterback in front of the home crowd. He felt the pressure to perform. He no longer was the back-up, pacing the sidelines while wearing a backwards cap and holding a clipboard. Now he had to prove himself and lead his team. Whether it was the magnitude of the moment, or the huge defensive linemen punishing him and his offensive line throughout the game, Mason suffered a horrible debut. He completed under 50 percent of his passes and threw three interceptions, a recipe for defeat.

  After the game, and the tongue-lashing in the locker room, Mason showered and walked out to nowhere in particular. He strolled aimlessly around campus, replaying the game in his head and the biting words of his coaches. “It was a mistake to offer you a scholarship” was one that kept ringing in his head. As he wandered, he heard classical music coming from an open door of the college theater. It wasn’t the kind of music that interested him, but he had nothing better to do.

  The theater was empty and dark, except for one light shining on the stage where a slender, tall girl in a pink leotard moved alone, her blonde hair pulled in to a bun. Mason stood at the end of the theater, unseen, transfixed by the girl’s grace and strength. He knew nothing about ballet but knew good footwork when he saw it. He envied the way she moved; indeed, he could have used it a few hours earlier to escape the pass rush.

  She finished her dance, as the music ended. She then replayed the music, performing the same dance again. Mason’s whole body reacted to her. She extended a leg over her head, and he imagined how her flexibility could benefit him sexually. Embarrassed, he tried to compose himself. Everybody likes a stalker in a dark theater with a hard on. He turned to leave but bumped a folding chair in his blind spot.

  The girl froze. “Who’s out there?” she asked nervously and turned off the music.

  “Shit, sorry,” Mason said. “I just heard the music and wandered in. I didn’t mean to interrupt. By the way, you’re amazing.”

  The girl searched the darkness for who was speaking. “Are you a dance critic, or just a guy with a line?”

  Mason stepped forward into the light where she could see him, and he could get a close look at her face. He had seen his share of cheerleaders and hot girls at college parties, but never pursued them, though they often threw themselves at him. Mason never took the bait; it wasn’t his style. He certainly talked a good game with his teammates, but was convinced he was the lone virgin on the team. But this girl mesmerized him -- her alabaster skin accented by pink cheeks and rosy lips, to say nothing of the way she moved. He just stared, at a complete loss for words.

  “I guess I got my answer,” she said, recognizing Mason as the quarterback. “A player, in more ways than one.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked playfully. This girl was more than a pretty face. She was a feisty ballerina commanding his attention.

  She grabbed a towel from the stage and patted her face. “You won’t be finding any action here.”

  Mason walked towards her. “OK, well, let’s start over.”

  She looked down at him from the stage. “I didn’t think we’d started at all.”

  He smiled. “It seems you know who I am, Daniel Mason, but everyone calls me Mason. What’s your name?” Mason reached the stage and stood right below her.

  “Emory Claire. Do you make it a habit of spying on ballerinas at night?”

  “Only after a tough game. It helps me clear my head.”

  She hopped down from the stage. “I’m not used to seeing football players here.”

  “I don’t think we get many ballerinas at the games, so. . . .”

  She cut him off. “I was there today.”

  “You were?” Mason asked, embarrassed.

  “Brutal loss.” Emory shook her head. “You’re fine when you’re in the pocket. You fall apart when you scramble because your footwork sucks. Need to get up on your toes.” She hoisted herself up on pointe.

  “I just heard all that shit from my coach,” he snapped. “Would rather not hear it from a girl in a leotard.”

  “Suit yourself. But my dad’s a high school football coach, so I actually know what I’m talking about.”

  Mason didn’t know what to say. He’d met his match, a beautiful ballerina with a football pedigree, correctly critiquing his quarterback play.

  She hopped up on the stage. “Well, it was nice to meet you Daniel Mason, but I really should get back to practicing if I’m ever going to get this right.” Emory turned on her music and returned to her
routine. Mason turned to leave, knowing something major had just happened, and for the first time in his life, it had nothing to do with football. He returned the following night, hoping she would be there. And she was, night after night.

  * * *

  Mason took one last bite of his cookie and grabbed his phone. He’d spent the better part of an hour dialing parts of Emory’s number but couldn’t find the nerve to complete the job. Hoping a change of scenery would do the trick, he walked down to the Atrium Bar in the lobby of his hotel. It was a slow Friday night, the heavy rain likely keeping away any crowd. He took a seat at the bar, and a couple patrons noticed him. Mason gladly signed a few autographs, as they wished him good luck with his shoulder and any contract negotiations with the Panthers.

  The bartender, an elderly black man with salt-and-pepper hair, approached Mason. His name tag read Clive. “What will it be?”

  “Vodka Seven to start.”

  Clive pulled a glass from a cabinet. He filled it with ice, poured the liquor and soda, and topped off the drink with a slice of lemon. He slid the glass to Mason, with a napkin underneath. Clive walked to the other side of the bar and grabbed a basket of peanuts, placing it in front of Mason. Clive saw his glass was already empty. “This part of your rehab, my man?”

  “Yeah. I have to do at least five reps. Faster the better.”

  Clive laughed, refilling the glass. “What you working towards?”

  “Courage.” Mason slammed the second one.

  “I doubled the vodka in that one,” Clive said, laughing.

  “Thanks.” Mason massaged his forehead, feeling the buzz coming on quickly. “I guess.”

  “I can triple the next for you, if you’d like.”

  “No, man.” Mason waved his hands. “Very generous, but that won’t be necessary.”

  “What you need courage for anyway?” Clive asked, leaning over the bar. “Big time NFL quarterback like you.”