First Position

by Prescott Lane

  “I can’t believe it either,” Mason joked, then weaved quickly into the valet lane. “We need to hurry. The hallway was fun, but it’s making us late.” Mason led her towards the entrance and presented their tickets to an usher who escorted them to their box seats.

  Emory squeezed his hand. “How did you get these amazing seats?” Mason just smiled back at her, as the house lights went down. Being an NFL quarterback -- even a journeyman -- had its perks.

  Mason leaned back in his seat, while Emory leaned forward, resting her hands on the ledge, mesmerized for the next two hours. At times, she couldn’t help but move her arms and hands to the music, pointing and flexing her toes for good measure. Mason, as always, enjoyed watching her move, and it helped distract him from the ballet itself, which he found ridiculous, especially the male dancers in make-up twirling around in tights. Do these dudes call themselves ballerinas? That would be unfortunate. It also helped distract him from the audience, young and old alike, stuck-up and overrefined, dressed in their finest black tie, silently enraptured by the absurdity unfolding on stage. He was used to a different stage -- a stadium filled with 70,000 screaming fans wearing jerseys, weathering the elements along with the players, hurling cheers and insults, feasting on beer and brats.

  But he tried to harness his contempt tonight. It was this contempt, he regretted, that made him cast aside Emory’s dance career. So to keep himself in check, Mason kept his eyes fixed on Emory. He was proud to be with her. He was proud of himself, too -- for spending two hours of his life this way. It was torture -- but in a good way -- and he figured he deserved it. This is what I’m supposed to be doing with my life. Making Em happy.

  Mason occasionally glanced at the stage. There was one particularly weird scene where two guys and a girl -- he had no idea who the characters were -- were skipping around for some reason. His mind flashed back to the first time he met Wesley, a week or so after he began dating Emory.

  He’d arrived at the college theater, unannounced as usual, to watch Emory practice, but she wasn’t alone this night. A shiver went down his spine, as a young man pressed his body against hers, his hands sliding around her hips, legs, and waist, her leg draped around his body. Her leotard rose up, and his hands dropped lower and lower. “What the fuck is this?” Mason yelled, charging down the center aisle from the back of the theater, hurling himself onto the stage and tackling the man to the ground. “I’m going to kick your fucking ass!”

  Emory screamed, as she pulled Mason off the man. “Jesus Christ, what the hell are you doing?”

  “What am I doing?” Mason paced the stage, circling his victim as she tended to him. “What were you doing?”

  “Dancing, asshole!”

  “Looked like you two were dry humping! Like porn ballet or some shit!”

  “For the love of God, Wesley is my dance partner!” She pushed on Mason’s chest. “You’re such an idiot!”

  Emory helped the man from the floor. He dusted himself off, and extended his hand. “I’m Wesley. Emory’s told me a lot about you.” Mason glared at his hand, angry Emory hadn’t told him she had a partner, and even more pissed this guy just groped his girlfriend in places he hadn’t even touched. An awkward silence fell between the men and Emory, and Wesley decided to put them all out of their misery. “I’m gay.”

  “Oh?” Mason’s heart sank, feeling like the complete idiot Emory said he was. “Well, uh, in that case, it’s nice to meet you.” He shook Wesley’s hand, then apologized profusely.

  The house lights of the Blumenthal Performing Arts Center came on, Mason thankful he’d survived all the skipping and twirling around, as Emory thanked him for a wonderful evening. He kissed her nose and forehead. “The night’s not over.”

  * * *

  An eager maitre d’ in a trendy downtown restaurant approached Mason and Emory. “Good evening, sir and madame,” he said with a slight bow. “Please follow me. We have everything ready.” Emory, surprised by the greeting and high service, looked approvingly at Mason, then both followed the maitre d’. He ushered them to the “cheater’s booth,” isolated from other tables, and opened the curtains for Mason and Emory to walk inside. “I trust you’ll find everything to your specifications.” Mason gave a nod, and he quickly excused himself, drawing the curtains as he left.

  Emory’s eyes sparkled, surveying the assortment of desserts on the table. “Dessert first tonight!” he said.

  She kissed him on the cheek, then removed her coat and sat down, Mason sliding across the booth next to her. “I can’t believe you did this!” She grabbed her fork to dig in. “I don’t know where to start.”

  Mason chuckled, picking up a strawberry. He dipped it in cream, and placed it softly in her mouth. She moaned, thanking him with a slow suck on his fingers. As she did, the server called out from outside the curtains, asking for permission to open them. Emory giggled, as Mason slid his fingers out of her mouth, Emory gliding her tongue along her lips, taking in all the cream. After she made her last lick, Mason granted permission to the server, who then took their drink orders and promised to return quickly, closing the curtains behind him.

  “Did you enjoy the ballet?” she asked.

  He took a bite of cheesecake. “It wastremendous.”

  “Liar.” She carved off a piece of key lime pie.

  “Let me rephrase,” he said. “It was tremendous being with you.”

  “I put on a pretty good show,” she said suggestively. “I’m sure you remember.”

  Mason raised his brow and leaned in to kiss her. “Will there be a private show tonight, maybe? We could just use this booth.” No underwear. “You could just hike up your dress a little.”

  Emory blushed. “I’m sure that would work out well with the server coming in and out.”

  “I think so. We could entertain him.” Mason took a bite of chocolate cake. “It would be instead of a tip.” The server returned with their drinks, and Emory granted permission this time, getting a thrill being in total control. He dropped off the drinks and left. “Seriously,” Mason said, kissing the tip of her nose and forehead, “I could stay at your place tonight, and then we head off to Atlanta in the morning.”

  Emory waved her fork at him. “Or you could pick me up for the airport in the morning.”

  He kissed her neck. “Or you could come stay with me at the hotel tonight.”

  “We’re going slow, remember?” She gently shoved him away, trying to control her own desires. “I think separate beds are better tonight.”

  “OK,” he said, grabbing another strawberry. “I’ll try another day.”

  “I know you will. Now pass me the bread pudding.”

  * * *

  From his bedroom, Wesley heard the front door open and close. It was nearly midnight. He figured it was Emory, but had expected her much later, or not at all. He wondered whether Mason was with her. He shut off the television in his room, picked up his popcorn bowl, and walked into the den, finding Emory with her eyes closed, leaning against the front door, smiling broadly, her hand resting over her heart.

  “Is that sex afterglow?”

  “No. Just happiness, I suppose.” Emory floated into the den, removing her heels along the way. She fell onto the sofa, and Wesley took a seat beside her.

  “So you had a good time?”

  “He took me to the ballet,” she said, her head still in the clouds.

  “Mason took you to theballet?” Wesley cocked his head and gave her a side-eye. “He must have wanted to nap.”

  She delivered a gentle elbow to his stomach. “I forgot to tell you. I’m going to Atlanta in the morning with Mason to see his doctor.”

  “How long are you going to be gone?” he asked, with a hint of anxiety.

  “Just tomorrow, Friday night.” Emory patted his leg. “And I promise, you and I will spend Saturday night together.”

  “What about Mason?”

  “Mason doesn’t change what you and I have, Wesley. Just like Eric and Tomás didn�
��t. I’ll always make time for you. Mason knows that.” She stood up from the sofa and pulled him up. “At least he better.”

  Wesley smiled mischievously. “There’s a Charles Bronson marathon on. Want to watch with me?”

  “Let’s put Charles on in my bedroom while you help me pack.”

  Wesley stretched out on her bed and turned on the television, while Emory plucked various outfits from her dresser and closet. But she reached a point that stumped her. “I don’t know what to do.” Wesley shoved popcorn in his mouth, watching Charles destroy three bad guys at once, each with a different weapon. Emory waved her arms in front of him. “Hello? You are supposed to be helping me, remember?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Wesley sat up. “This was just a really good part. What’s wrong, babe?”

  “I’m not sure what to pack to sleep in.”

  “I’m sure Mason would prefer you pack nothing.”

  “Maybe I should text him and see what he has planned?”

  “No, that’s lame. If he has any surprises, he won’t want to tell you.” Wesley walked to her dresser and opened two drawers, pulling out a pair of boxer shorts and a cotton shirt. “This will do.” He folded them in her bag and resumed his position on the bed, extending his arm for her to snuggle.

  “I love you, Wesley,” she said, getting into bed and patting his chest.

  “I know.”

  Emory heard her phone ding and reached for it on her nightstand. She read Mason’s text to herself. Thanks for a great night. I love you.

  Wesley looked at her face, as she looked at her phone, obvious to him who sent the text. “You should tell him you have another man in your bed.”

  “Not if you want to live.”

  “Probably right. Let’s keep our snuggles between us.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  They sat in the small examination room waiting for the doctor to arrive. They’d waited over an hour. Emory was tired of waiting and tired from her late night with Mason and Wesley and the early morning flight to Atlanta. Mason fidgeted with his phone and paced the small confines of the room. He took a seat on the examination table.

  Emory patted him on the back. “Nervous?”

  “No,” he fibbed, wiping his hand on his pant leg. “More nervous about what I have planned for tonight.”

  “Oh, really?”

  Emory leaned towards Mason and gave him a kiss, interrupted by a knock at the door. A middle-aged, pudgy-faced nurse entered with a disapproving look. She approached Mason and removed the sling from his arm. He stretched his arms in the air and flashed a huge smile. Freedom! The nurse didn’t seem to care and advised Dr. Lewis would be in shortly. Before leaving, she told Mason to remove his shirt and extended another disapproving look for good measure.

  “What was her problem?”

  “I don’t know. They’re always real hard asses here.” Mason captured Emory with both arms. “Forget about her. Now I can use both my hands. You’re in so much trouble.”

  Emory giggled and planted a quick kiss on his lips. Mason removed his shirt, giving Emory her first real look at his scar, several inches long and discolored with purple and red blotches. Her face quickly changed, and she stopped giggling, stunned by what she saw, slowly tracing a finger along the outline of the scar, then kissing his shoulder.

  “I had no idea it was this bad.”

  “It looks worse than it is,” he said, suddenly aware he hadn’t prepared Emory for what she was going to see or hear.

  “How much pain have you . . . .”

  The door flew open, and Emory quickly took a seat in the corner of the room. Dr. Lewis walked in and sat in a swivel chair in front of Mason. He was an old, crusty man, with a pointy face and long delicate hands, draped in a white lab coat covering a tie and pocket protector. He lacked any kind of bedside manner, but athletes throughout the country sought him out to rehabilitate and revive their careers. They didn’t give a damn about his charm or good company. Dr. Lewis was the foremost orthopedic surgeon in the Southeast.

  “How are you feeling?” Dr. Lewis asked, ignoring Emory.

  “Much better now that the sling is off.”

  He flipped through Mason’s chart, then examined the scar. “Looks like it’s still healing. Discoloration is normal.”

  “Really?” Emory asked, surprised.

  It had been almost eight weeks since his injury, and in her lay opinion, it looked awful -- like it happened two days ago. Dr. Lewis gave a sideways glance to Emory. He’d never seen this woman at any other appointment and wondered what she was doing in his examination room.

  He moved Mason’s arm into various positions, asking for a pain level. Mason said he felt no pain each time. “When can I throw a football?”

  Dr. Lewis paused before answering, flipping again through Mason’s chart, Emory looking at Mason with concern in her eyes. “Well, you need a few weeks of physical therapy before you try that.” Mason shot Dr. Lewis an angry look, fed up being told what he could and couldn’t do -- by his brother, NFL teams, Alexis, and now Dr. Lewis. “Let me take a look at your latest MRI.” He held up several pictures to the light, then scribbled some notes in Mason’s chart, as Emory feared something was wrong. Dr. Lewis closed the chart, leaned forward, and looked directly into Mason’s eyes. “Have you been following my instructions?”

  “Yeah. Of course.”

  “My limited movement instructions?”

  “Oh, those, well, I, uh, I’ve been doing my best with that, but I’ve had to travel some, so . . . .”

  Dr. Lewis put up his hand, not interested in hearing rambling excuses. “I figured as much.” Mason peeked at Emory sitting in the corner, one leg crossed firmly over the other, her top foot shaking rapidly. “I know I made it clear that you had a grade 4 separation and taking it easy was part of the healing process.”

  “A minute ago, you said it was healing, right?”

  “You’d be further along now, if you had listened.”

  Emory rose from her corner seat and took a step towards Dr. Lewis. “I’m playing catch up here. Has Mason done further damage to his shoulder?”

  He turned to her, wrinkling his nose. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Emory,” she said, as if it was obvious.

  “And?” Dr. Lewis pressed, expecting to receive more than a first name.

  “And what?” Emory retorted, in no mood for snotty questions. She didn’t like the doctor’s attitude, or that of his nurse, and was pissed Mason hadn’t taken care of himself. Dr. Lewis narrowed his eyes and scratched his head, at a loss for how to deal with this woman.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Lewis,” Mason said, trying to avoid a stand-off between Emory and his old-school surgeon. He patted Emory’s hand. “She’s just concerned.”

  Dr. Lewis placed his hands on Mason’s chart, trying to re-focus himself. “Your friend over there asked about further damage. It’s really too early to tell. We won’t know until you’ve completed PT and tried to throw a ball, and ultimately try to take a hit. This was always a 50-50 proposition.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Mason said confidently, then Emory slipped her hand from his, retaking her seat in the corner.

  “You won’t have any chance at all unless you do what I say. But you do what you want. It’s your career. I get paid either way.” Mason hung his head to the floor, feeling Emory’s eyes burning into him. Dr. Lewis sensed the tension between them and wasted no time wrapping up the visit. He provided Mason with physical therapy instructions and the name of a specialist to consult in Charlotte. He shook Mason’s hand, ignored Emory, and left.

  Emory moved from the chair and sat on the table next to Mason. “How could you not take care of yourself? How could you not tell me how bad it is?” Is he hiding anything else?

  “Em, I . . . .” Mason started, then stopped, his eyes still fixed on the floor.

  “A grade 4 tear, Mason? A 50-50 chance you may never play again?”

  Mason knew the seriousness of it all -- so did A
lexis, and she left. “I didn’t want to worry you,” he said in the sweetest, softest voice he could muster.

  But it wasn’t good enough. “Maybe I should have just Googled it! I would’ve gotten more information that way.”

  “I just wanted us to be happy, and to move forward together. That’s all.”

  The pudgy-faced nurse knocked on the door, Emory glaring at her as she entered. “Will you give us some privacy?”

  “We need the room for another patient,” the nurse said.

  “They can damn well wait!” Emory snapped. The nurse took a deep breath, mumbling something about NFL quarterbacks and their high-maintenance women, and shut the door.

  “I wasn’t trying to deceive you. I just wanted to protect you from all my shitty baggage, like my shoulder.”

  “So you thought it was better to lie to me?”

  “I didn’t exactly lie.”

  “Mason, if this is going to go anywhere, we can’t hold back. We need to talk about things -- like Alexis, like your arm.” She felt a twinge in her stomach, as if her own secret was attacking her body. You are such a fucking hypocrite.

  “After all this time, can’t we just be happy?”

  “We can,” she said. “But it can’t all be surprises and new cars.”

  Her words struck a chord. He’d been so caught up with Emory, starting over again with her, that he’d done his best to ignore reality. If he wanted to move forward with Emory, he knew he needed to open up and face the consequences of his past. “I want more than that, Em. I do. I’ll do better. Starting tonight.”

  * * *

  The doctor’s office was only a few blocks from the hotel, where they’d already dropped their bags earlier in the day. It was a crisp, clear afternoon in Atlanta that seemed more suitable for a walk back to the hotel than a short cab ride. They held hands as they walked, Mason feeling energized and free -- not just that his sling was gone and that he could use both arms, but he felt he finally was putting his troubled past behind him, or at least was willing to make some effort to deal with it. Mason noticed Emory, too, walked with a spring in her step. It was as if the improvement in his arm, though still on the mend, provided her with an extra jolt. A few passersby noticed Mason on the street, and asked for an autograph, Mason delighting in teasing them about how much he hated the Falcons.