Something More Than This

by Barbie Bohrman

  When I get through the throng of parents and other local sports journalists as well as the Barracudas’ school reporter, my phone is ready to record so that I can ask the head coach a question or two.

  “Coach Monroe, was there a key play that made the game a win for you?”

  The coach swivels his head around to see me waiting with phone in hand for his sound bite. His smile turns almost sickly sweet, and in a condescending voice, he says, “Little lady, it’s something called a touchdown.”

  While he chuckles, my face is an unflappable mask as the blood boils in my veins. This is certainly not the first time I’ve encountered a man who thinks I’m just some hapless girl who can easily be dismissed, and it certainly won’t be the last. But I still struggle with the fact that being accepted will never be easy as a woman in this field. No matter how many times I prove to others that I know what I’m talking about, people like Coach Monroe will always be there to remind me that I have to keep fighting.

  As much as I try not to let it show that his answer bothers me, I decide to ask a follow-up question with a hint of warning behind it so he’ll know that I’m not to be treated like this in the future. “Obviously the touchdowns, but I want to know if there was a specific play that turned the game around for you and the team? For example, finally realizing at the start of the second half that the Knights consistently lined up in a nickel defense. And as a result, drawing them off the line to get that big offsides penalty late in the third quarter to put the Barracudas in the red zone and ultimately scoring to take the lead for good?”

  His smug smile was replaced by a slightly shocked expression, followed by a quick gulp of air. I can tell that he’s trying to reconcile the “little lady” image he sees in front of him with the fact that she knows what the hell she’s talking about. And when Coach Monroe struggles to respond, I suppress the laughter bubbling in my throat by coughing a little.

  “Excuse me,” I tell him, clearing my throat one more time and putting the phone closer to his mouth. “Can you please say that again?”

  My face is neutral regardless of the triumph I feel while I record his answer, which confirms my suspicions: that the Barracudas did in fact draw that penalty on purpose to put them in scoring position.

  When I draw back my phone from his mouth, I say, “Thank you, Coach.”

  “You’re welcome, Ms. . . . ? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Ms. Lewis, from the Florida Observer,” I say as I’m already backing away from the group of people surrounding him. “I’ll be in touch if I need anything else from you.”

  And with that, I separate myself from the remaining crowd and from the moment. Because I don’t want what happened to ruin the rest of my night. I’ve set him straight, and going forward he will treat me with the respect I deserve . . . hopefully. If not, well, I’ll figure something out, I’m sure. By this time the players have left, including the star receiver I was hoping to interview, which sucks, so while I’m still in my work zone and waiting for the parking lot to clear out a bit, I sit on the sideline bench so that I can begin typing on my iPad the actual article that I have to submit by midnight. Articles on the Barracudas don’t take me that long to do, usually; it’s the perfecting part that puts me in the precarious right-up-to-edge-of-my-deadline position. My cell phone starts to vibrate, but I ignore it since I’m in the midst of working. When it rings again almost immediately, I decide to answer.

  “It’s almost ten o’clock, where the hell are you?” Mimi whisper-yells into my ear.

  “I—”

  “Wait. Don’t answer that. Just tell me that you’re on your way here right now.”

  I look up to find that only the officiating crew is left on the field and then check behind me to see that the parking lot has a handful of cars left.

  “Um, yeah, I was just leaving.” After I gather up my belongings, I start walking toward my car, which Simon would be so pleased to learn is parked underneath a streetlight.

  Mimi’s voice is so quiet that I can barely make out what she says next. “Okay, because this Conner guy is here, I think.”

  I stop in my tracks just a few feet away from my car. “What? Oh my God, he really showed up?”

  “That’s the thing. I don’t have a goddamn clue what he looks like, but I think this guy must be him.”

  “Why do you think it’s him then?” I regain my composure long enough to walk the rest of the distance to my car and unlock the door. “What does he look like?”

  “Well, for one, he’s gorgeous,” she says. “Kind of tall, built, light brown hair, and ridiculously perfect hazel eyes. I mean, from where I’m standing they look like they could also be green, I guess, I don’t know.”

  “That doesn’t prove anything,” I say, even though I’m fairly certain she’s right.

  “And two,” Mimi adds, ignoring me. “He arrived just before nine thirty and has been watching the front door like a hawk every time it swings open.”

  The nerves in my stomach start to bubble, and I swear my feet and arms go numb. Which I’m pretty sure are the beginning signs of an anxiety attack, which is making it more difficult to operate my car. I have to take a deep breath to calm my nerves when my right foot steps on the gas pedal to start driving the ten or so minutes from here to Mimi’s job.

  “Okay, I’ll be there in a few minutes. Let me get off the phone so I can concentrate on the road. And by the way, yes, I’m still mad at you for doing this.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just hurry up,” she whispers.

  Of course the drive over to the restaurant takes me a little longer than expected since I hit every single red light on the way. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, because it allows me a few extra minutes to gather my thoughts. For instance, where has he been, what has he been doing, and finally, will he bring up the letter and how we left things between us?

  If he does, I’ve already decided that I’ll play it off like it was all just some silly little crush. Because that’s exactly what it was. I’m older, wiser, and not at all interested in pursuing anything with anyone right now in my life anyway.

  As if.

  “Jeez,” I mumble to myself and turn into the parking lot of Canyon Café. When did my life turn into something that requires Cher Horowitz–type commentary?

  I flip down the visor to look at myself in the mirror. Tucking some flyaway strands of hair behind my ears, I look surprisingly calm even though my brain is off flying in a million different directions. But at least I have regained the feeling in my extremities, so I have that going for me, if all else fails.

  Inside the restaurant, I see Emily, the hostess, first. She says a quick hello, and then I look to my left to scope out the bar area. Mimi’s attention is focused on a couple of women at the far end of the bar, so her back’s turned to me. There are a few other patrons here and there, which is the norm for a Friday night. I coast over every male customer until my eyes stop on one particular guy . . . no, that’s not right . . . a man. A very good-looking, fully grown-to-perfection Conner with his gorgeous hazel eyes staring right back at me. The corners of his mouth tip up in a warm, inviting smile when he recognizes me.

  My feet are stuck to the floor, but that’s of no consequence, since he stands up from his bar stool and looks like he’s going to walk over to me. I watch in rapt attention as he puts his beer bottle on the bar, then wipes his hands on his jeans. When he does this, his biceps flex underneath his plain white T-shirt, hinting at the muscular body that has developed really well since we last saw each other. His wavy brown hair, which seems lighter than what I remember, looks like it needs a trim from the way the ends flip up a little. Then again, it always seemed as if it needed a trim, but that look always worked for him.

  When Conner is finally standing within arm’s reach, I almost don’t believe that it’s really him. But when that smile turns into the very familiar smirk from my past that I came to love and know well, there’s no doubt it is.

  “K
aty,” he says.

  “Conner.”

  He hesitates for a moment before stepping forward and wrapping his arms around me in a big hug. As I bring my arms up to reciprocate, he tilts his head a fraction so he can place a friendly, quick kiss on my cheek. My eyes close when I feel him squeezing me tighter, like he doesn’t want to let me go. Or maybe it’s just my overactive imagination where he’s concerned.

  That’s when I hear him say in a low voice, “It’s been too long, Shadow.”

  And just like that, I’m transported to that day on the playground so many years ago when we first met.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Fourteen years ago . . .

  The unfortunate thing about being a girl with two older brothers and living in a neighborhood with no other girls around your age is that you’re predestined to be a tomboy. If I wanted to go out and play, or do anything for that matter, I was a slave to whatever my brothers and their friends wanted to do. And I followed them around like a lost puppy dog, never quite knowing my place, always feeling somewhat out of the loop on everything, and certain that I was the butt of all their jokes.

  So there I was on the top of the slide, feeling too old to get away with using it to begin with. My long legs were impatiently kicking out in front of me, looking for purchase on the slippery surface before gripping the sides, and with one final push, I let go. I slid down and came to a body-jarring stop before tumbling onto the ground, a move I had been perfecting over the course of the summer that saved me many a scratched or bruised knee. Instead of climbing back up the way I came, though, I stayed at the bottom of the slide, dragging my feet through the sand to make silly swirls and figure eights until my oldest brother, Simon, yelled out my name.

  By now, my brothers had gathered a mostly familiar crew of boys from the playground, and they were all in a circle formation with a light buzz of energy floating in the air around them, as if they were going to perform some sort of religious ritual instead of throwing the pigskin around for an hour or two.

  “Everyone,” Simon announced when I reached his side. “Katy’s my pick for running back.”

  A low rumble of disapproval could be heard from all the other boys. This wasn’t the first time that I’d experienced this, so I was more than used to it. Instead of being intimidated, though, which was exactly how an eleven-year-old girl should feel when facing the firing squad of older boys, I stood there defiant. My hand was on my hip and the tiny chip on my shoulder was growing by the second as I looked at all of their faces, which didn’t hide at all how unhappy they were that a girl was going to be playing with them.

  All except for one unfamiliar face.

  He stood off to the side, partially obscured by another boy, but not enough that I didn’t detect the smirk on his mouth. And he was beautiful. The most beautiful boy I had ever seen in all my life, which at eleven years old wasn’t saying much. But to me, he was perfect.

  He had chestnut brown hair that was in need of a trim because of the way the ends flipped up underneath the snug New York Mets baseball cap he was wearing. His eyes glistened in the sunlight: a warm hazel that made my heart melt. But it was that look, the one that said to me that he thought I wasn’t good enough to play with them, that did me in.

  This was the first time I had ever seen him at the playground.

  I made sure to pay attention when he introduced himself. “Conner,” he said, his voice like a melody playing just for me. And for the very first time, I was nervous of looking like a fool in front of all these boys. Well, not all of them, just him, really.

  Before I knew it, a quarter was tossed, teams were lined up, and Simon was handing off the football into my eager hands as someone from the other team yelled out, “One Mississippi.”

  By “two Mississippi” I was darting around the left side of the makeshift offensive line, my small feet running as if my life depended on it, down the sideline and clutching the ball to my chest like it was the Holy Grail. By “three Mississippi” I had made it halfway to the end zone and could see no opposition. By “four Mississippi” I heard the other team groaning and my team cheering me on to score a touchdown.

  I didn’t get to hear “five Mississippi.”

  That was because I had been tackled out of nowhere and was lying flat on my back.

  At first, the shock of landing so hard caused tears to well up in my eyes. I squeezed them tightly shut and willed myself not to cry. Because even though I was obviously a girl, I didn’t want to be “like a girl” in front of all them. Once I had that under control, I noticed that it was eerily quiet. This playground that was usually bursting at the seams with activity had come to a complete halt. Then I registered a heavy weight across my legs, which was keeping me tethered to the ground. Its grip on me started to loosen, and that’s when I sat up and looked at what—or rather, who—had its hold on me.

  Conner.

  He was beaming with a smile as he let me go completely and stood up. It made his already beautiful face almost angelic to me. I couldn’t help myself; I goofily smiled back. And that’s when I knew I was in trouble.

  A second later and ruining this very perfect moment, Jonathan arrived by my side, crouching down to make sure I was okay by checking and rechecking every one of my limbs until I shooed him away and reassured him that I was fine. Then Simon appeared. He stepped in front of Conner and shoved him hard until he fell to the ground, the smile now wiped clean from his face.

  If it had been anybody else, I probably would have let my brother continue to berate him in front of everyone. To this day, I don’t know if it was because Conner played by the actual rules and tackled me rather than abiding by some unspoken rule that I was not to be touched. Or maybe it was all as simple as just the way he smiled at me afterward or the look on his face when I first noticed him. Whatever it was, I knew I didn’t want Simon to hurt him.

  “Stop it!” I yelled. “Leave him alone!”

  I stood up and brushed the dirt from my backside, then gathered up the courage to step in front of Simon.

  “Get out of here, Katy,” he said. “I’ll handle it.”

  He tried to sidestep me but I blocked him again.

  “He was just playing the game,” I said. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Are you serious? He could have really hurt you and you’re sticking up for him?” he asked incredulously.

  I kept my chin up and stood my ground once more. This was going to be the one time that my brothers were not going to get their way, if I had anything to say about it.

  “But I’m not hurt. The tackle was fair and square. And I’m fine. Honest.”

  Simon looked over my shoulder to Conner and said to him, “You’re done. Go home.”

  Before Simon turned around to walk back on the field, I said, “Then I’m not playing anymore either.”

  “Katy, don’t be stupid.”

  “You’re the one being stupid.”

  There was a collective “ooh” from the crowd that had formed around us. They had never heard me talk back to either brother, and I found myself gaining more confidence with every uncomfortable second that passed. Simon gave Conner one last disgusted glance, then turned on his heel as the crowd parted to let him walk away.

  “Suit yourself,” he muttered under his breath.

  Not too long after that, the other boys followed him back onto the field.

  No surprise there. Wherever Simon went, people just naturally followed.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” Jonathan asked, walking backward to join the rest of the boys.

  I nodded and gave him a reassuring smile, which seemed to appease him since he left me and Conner alone.

  Turning around, I immediately put my hand out to help him up.

  “I didn’t need your help, you know,” he said and refused my outstretched hand.

  “I know you didn’t.”

  “Then why did you do that?”

  He was standing up by now. The baseball hat had been pushe
d back farther on his head, revealing more of his handsome face. It was so difficult to get my mouth to actually move and form words. They were all bottled up in my throat as I stared at him up close, taking in every detail of his features and committing them to memory.

  “Never mind,” he said and started to leave.

  I couldn’t let him get away, so I ran up behind him until we both settled for walking side by side at the same pace. To his credit, he didn’t tell me to go away, nor did he walk any faster to lose me. Instead, he looked over at me and smiled shyly before quickly looking ahead again.

  When we reached the entrance to the park, he said, “Listen, I’m sorry that I was mean to you before.” He jerked a thumb behind him toward where the other boys were playing again. “Thanks for sticking up for me back there.”

  “That’s okay,” I said.

  “You know, you’re pretty fast . . . for a girl.”

  I beamed with a smile from ear to ear from his praise. “Thanks.”

  The unforgiving summer sun was beating down on us as we awkwardly stood in silence. I dared to sneak a peek at him once more when he removed the baseball cap and ran a hand through his hair.

  Conner pressed the button on the crosswalk, and then he pulled the cap back on tightly. “So, I was just going to go across the street and get a Gatorade or something.”

  My stomach lurched in disappointment. That was my cue to get lost. Even at a young age, I knew when a boy wasn’t interested in me. “Oh, okay, I’ll just walk back by myself.”

  He grinned and said, “You’re not gonna come with me?”