“You think this is funny? Geez, this thing smells.”
The puppy cowered further into Ridley’s arms, and with one hand on the wheel, I reached into my rescue bag and procured more chicken.
“It’s okay, girl. You’re gonna be all right now. That brave Ridley saved you.” I smiled at my champion, but he just shook his head and muttered more words in Spanish. I was pretty sure he either called me a beautiful tropical flower or a raving lunatic. Sometimes I got my nouns mixed up.
“Why?” I asked. “Why did you risk that?” It was more than just wanting to protect the coach’s daughter.
Ridley lightly rubbed a finger over the terrier’s good ear. “Because I knew I could do it.”
“Because you know how to dodge bullets?”
“Because I know a drunk when I see one.” He worked the collar off the dog, revealing angry lesions in need of a vet’s care. “I might struggle with poetry analysis or quadratic equations, but I know someone that drunk can’t hit a moving target.”
“Thank you.” I couldn’t say it enough. He was underplaying what he’d done, because even an intoxicated old man could get lucky with a gun. At the very least Ridley could’ve been injured, affecting his ability to play football.
Ridley ignored my gushing appreciation. “This dog’s a mess. Is this gonna get fleas in my Jeep?”
“I’m sure all your ladies won’t notice.” I glanced to the backseat. “But for their safety, I’d recommend they keep their clothes on.”
He smiled. “What are you going to do with her?”
“She’ll stay at my house tonight. Then I’ll take her to the animal rescue in town. She’ll get medical care, get cleaned up, then nursed back to health.”
“Why would the shelter take your stolen dog?”
“Because I work there.”
“Like the coach’s daughter needs a job.”
“I volunteer.”
“That’s what I thought.”
His tone pinched. Grated. Of course Ridley thought I was some privileged, spoiled rich kid.
“What you did tonight . . .” My pulse had yet to calm down. “That might’ve been a little out of my league.”
“Nothing in your fanny pack to handle that?”
I reached out and scratched the terrier’s chin, letting her sniff my hand. “Ridley?”
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, his chest still rising in rapid huffs, the dog cradled in his strong arms like a child. “What?”
“I’ll tutor you.”
He stilled. “Is that right?”
“On one condition.”
He opened an eye. “I almost took a bullet in my near-perfect backside. You’re not really in a position to make conditions here, O’Malley.” The rain pattered harder, and I turned on the wipers.
“I need some help.” Oh, the humility. “Guy help.”
He shifted his body my way. “I suddenly find myself intrigued.”
I might as well spill it all. “I . . . I have no clue how to get a guy. None.”
“We’re not that difficult.”
I pulled my eyes back to the road. “I got no game.”
He laughed, a rich rumble from his rain-dampened chest.
“Flirting—I don’t get it. Witty banter? Cannot do it. And I have no idea how to read your Man Signals. Last year on a field trip to the museum, I thought Dalton Simpson was winking at me on the bus. So I winked back. Saucy winked back. Turns out he just had tummy issues, and two minutes later, the bus pulled into a McDonald’s so he could take care of business.”
Ridley faced the window and seemed to be contemplating the path of a raindrop.
“Andrew Levin now sits beside me in band. I have this gift of an opportunity three times a week, and I can’t screw it up. Nobody has ever made my heart”—I flapped a hand in front of my chest—“do this fluttery thing. I get around him, and I just want to throw myself right at him.”
“You could try that.”
“Really?”
Ridley tossed his head back and laughed. “I really have my work cut out for me.” His words were so true, yet they still smarted. “So you’ll help me with my classes, and I’ll teach you all about the ways of guys. Do I have that right?”
“You’ll tell me what to do, what to say?”
“Your Cyrano de Bergerac.”
I made a left turn, then eyed my partner in crime. “Did you just reference classic literature?”
He shrugged. “SparkNotes.”
This had all the makings of a disastrous ending. It hinted of humiliation and total pride shredding. Yet I was desperate.
He held out a hand like a used car salesman closing a deal. “We swap tutoring, plus you get me a meeting with your dad or the athletic director.” His dark head gestured to the dog. “I think I’ve proven myself tonight.”
I slipped my hand in his and gave it a shake. His fingers, warm and strong, surrounded mine.
“This should be interesting,” Ridley said.
“I don’t care about interesting.” I returned my attention to the road. “I just need it to be successful.”
Chapter Eight
Nothing is ever as it should be.
I thought a simple phone call to the athletic director, Chevy Moncrief, would be all that was needed to arrange a meeting for Ridley. Yet Mr. Moncrief had yet to answer any of my calls or messages today. Some people just did not respond well to harassment.
That stupid handshake agreement.
Now because of a weak moment last night, when I was drunk on puppy rescue relief, I had agreed to a farcical plan and had to deliver on my promise to Ridley.
It would be worth it when I had my first date with Andrew. When he kissed me. When he was no longer just Andrew Levin¸ but Andrew Levin, my boyfriend.
The University of Southern Kentucky athletic complex appeared in my sights, a behemoth of a building teeming with equipment, athletes, and sweat. I turned on my blinker and braked to let three college students jog the crosswalk before I pulled into the parking lot. Which was jam-packed with vehicles. Television station vans crowded the entire first two rows. CNN. Fox News. Local networks. A small group of students sat in lawn chairs in one parking spot, holding neon signs that said, “Third Year Freshmen For O'Malley.” I circled the lot, finally finding a spot for my Civic in the overflow across the street.
The automatic doors of the lobby paused before opening, as if trying to decide if I was friend or enemy. I walked into the newly redecorated space, and it spilled over with men in logo-emblazoned shirts. Reporters. Local, network, cable, radio, newspaper, magazine. Every news outlet was represented here, and you could smell their yearning for a good story, for more information. The university had been silent since Monday, and everyone knew the final chapter in this tale had yet to be written.
“Can I help you?” The frazzled receptionist behind the granite-topped front desk gave a weak attempt at an interested smile.
“I’d like to see Chevy Moncrief, please.”
“Do you have any appointment?”
It was a rhetorical question, as we both knew I did not. “No, but I think he’ll want to see me. I’m Harper O’Malley. Could you please just tell him I’m here?”
Her overgrown eyebrows lifted at the mention of my last name. “I’m sorry, miss, but Mr. Moncrief isn’t available. He’s in a meeting.”
I doubted it. I had timed this perfectly, leaving ten minutes after school and allotting twenty minutes for the drive. It was now four o’clock, Moncrief’s daily workout time—when his personal trainer visited his office, which was complete with a small gym. Dad had said Moncrief’s mostly-controlled OCD meant nothing interfered with his workout session.
Until today.
“Mr. Moncrief is a friend of our family,” I said. “It’s important I speak to him. Today.”
With a stiff smile, the receptionist picked up her shiny black phone and punched three numbers. “This is Cynthia. Is Mr. Moncrief available? Coach O’
Malley’s daughter is here to see him.” Cynthia, of the heavy bronze eye shadow and tea-stained Eagle polo, studied me as she listened to the voice on the other end. “Uh-huh. Yes. Okay, thank you.” She hung up and shook her head. “I’m sorry. Mr. Moncrief can’t see you this afternoon. He’s booked solid. But I can take your number and—”
“That won’t be necessary.”
Her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.
I turned to the assembled crowd of tired, bored reporters. “I’m just going to step over there and speak to some of those nice men. This whole ordeal has been really hard on me, and maybe I’d feel better if I just had someone to talk to, someone to hear . . . the rest of the story.”
“Let me try Mr. Moncrief one more time.”
What a helpful lady. “I’m feeling perkier all ready.”
Five minutes later, I rode up the elevator that emptied me out onto the top floor. I walked to the north wing, where another receptionist intercepted me. “I’ll show you to Mr. Moncrief’s office.”
I had been here a handful of times and certainly knew my way around. Moncrief’s office was immaculate, without clutter or trace of dust. No stacks of papers. He had hired a feng shui decorator, so everything in the room was in alignment, in perfect accord with symmetry and nature. It was supposed to give an effect of peace and tranquility, but I bet he wasn’t feeling that symmetrical today.
“Harper, hello.” Mr. Moncrief put down his twenty-pound hand weights. He wore shorts and a school T-shirt instead of his usual dark suit. “I was just starting my session with Miguel here.” His beefy trainer stood cross-armed, his face wrinkled in a scowl directed at the intruder. “It’s biceps and triceps day.”
Though I wanted to make a snide comment on the ridiculousness of caring about your arm muscle in a time like this, the shadows beneath Chevy’s puffy eyes told me that he, too, had spent some sleepless nights over my dad’s personal implosion. Eight weeks into the season, the Eagles had been poised to dominate the SEC but were now without a coach.
“I just need fifteen minutes.”
He glanced at his expensive gold watch. “It’s not possible today, dear. Get with Martha out front, and she’ll set up a time next week.”
“I noticed that 94 FM talk radio guy downstairs. The one that gives you and Dad so much trouble. He seemed . . . kind of lonely. I guess on my way out I could talk to him. Cheer him up. Give him some company. Some inside scoop might perk him up.” I adjusted my purse strap on my shoulder. “Thanks anyway.”
“Wait.” Chevy Moncrief’s voice halted me before I hit the door. “Miguel, give us some privacy.” He waited until we had the room to ourselves before nodding toward the seat in front of a desk so clean I could see my own reflection in it. “Please sit down. I assume you’re here to talk about your father, but—”
“Actually, I want to discuss Ridley Estes.”
Twin lines appeared between his brows as he thought for a moment. “Ah, yes, wide receiver from Washington High.”
For some reason it bothered me on Ridley’s behalf that Mr. Moncrief had to pause to recall his recruit.
“Ridley was your dad’s project. And also someone I shouldn’t be discussing with you.”
“I’m tutoring him. He’s a friend of the family.” That was stretching it. “He’s devastated to be cut.”
“Signing day isn’t ’til February, so technically it’s not possible to cut someone we hadn’t even signed.”
“He had a verbal commitment that says differently.”
“From your father.”
“Who represents the Eagles. So the university offered for him. Set up the expectation that Ridley would turn down any other offers and sign with you this winter.”
Mr. Moncrief steepled his fingers and leaned his elbows on the desk. “Harper, this young man was one red flag after another. Prior to your dad coming on as coach, we had five consecutive years of having more than one player arrested or in some sort of legal or personal mess. We’re a new team.”
Until their coach became the personal mess.
“Your friend is in jeopardy of not graduating, and at eighteen, he has a record. You know he was arrested just two nights ago, don’t you?”
The Romeo Football Wonder had not disclosed those details. I curled my fingers into my hands. “Ridley would like a meeting with you. Thirty minutes, tops.”
“Not necessary,” Mr. Moncrief said. “As you saw from the shark frenzy downstairs, I don’t have time.”
“But—”
“I haven’t seen my wife in three days. Yesterday was my mother’s eighty-fifth birthday. Do you know where I was? In meetings ’til midnight. Here. Tonight I’ll miss my youngest’s recorder concert, which actually works in my favor—”
“The recorder is an underused instrument that generates music appreciation and is simply misunderstood.” I cleared my throat and shifted in my seat. “Which is not relevant to the topic at hand, I suppose.” Music nerd detour.
“The point is,” Chevy said, “we’re in crisis mode here. This athletic department is under siege. It’s both a war and a circus, and who’s the ringleader and general?”
“You.”
“That’s correct.” He leaned back into his chair, his head relaxing against the leather. “I can’t help you or this young man.”
I lowered my gaze to my lap, watching the light flick through the small diamond ring on my right hand. My parents have given it to me for my sweet sixteenth. It wasn’t my actual birthstone, but the stone for my month of adoption. “I tutored your son last year.”
“I recall.”
“He had an F in senior English. Do you know what he had when he accepted his diploma, the one he was in jeopardy of not getting?”
“I believe it was a high C.”
“And the last two years, I’ve helped fifteen of your players.”
“I’m aware of that. You do a wonderful job.”
“They talk to me about more than the books, you know?” I speared him with my best Coach O’Malley Eagle stare. “Just because you haven’t had a player get bad press in the last few years doesn’t mean there hasn’t been trouble.” One of the perks of keeping a diary and recording every detail of my life was that I always had a record I could pull up at the touch of a button. “There was Jerrod’s cheating scandal. Interesting how his professor let that one go. Or that time when Martin crashed his SUV into the bridge. He told me how glad he was someone on the coaching staff picked up his five drunk underage passengers before the police arrived. The hotel room that got trashed last year. The player who—”
“Okay, I get it.”
“I not only help those guys graduate, I become their friends. And I listen to their every problem, every secret, every piece of team gossip that never reaches the ears of their adoring public. I keep those secrets, and I’ll continue to do so. All I ask is that you give Ridley Estes thirty minutes. You’ve taken away his dream for the future, and the least you could do is speak to him about it in person.”
Chevy Moncrief came to his Nike feet. “One meeting. That’s it.”
“Thank you, sir.” The meeting would probably change nothing, but I had done my part. “I’ll let you get back to your workout.”
“You’re quite the negotiator, Miss O’Malley.” He led me to the door and held it open. “Your father would be proud.”
I turned then. Looked right into the fatigued eyes of the man who had hired my father, been his boss, become his friend. “Did you know?”
I didn’t have to clarify. He understood exactly what I meant.
Mr. Moncrief slowly shook his bald head. “No. I had no idea.”
I saw the hurt flicker there, knew the same blade of betrayal had sliced us all.
“Your father is a good person, Harper. He just made a terrible mistake.” I breathed deep as his hand fell on my shoulder in a gentle squeeze. “He’s still the man we all know and love.”
But was he? I wasn’t so certain.
I th
anked Chevy, then punched the button for the second floor in the elevator. This was where most of the support staff had their desks, and I had one in particular I wanted to see.
The doors opened, and I stepped out into a maze of cubicles. Televisions hung overhead, some playing game footage, some on ESPN, some tuned into the news. I tried to walk confidently, like I was supposed to be there, and I passed by three desks where men wearing polos pressed phones to their ears and typed away on computers. I sailed past two more rows before I found my target.
Josie Blevins’s desk was immaculate. It housed her computer, a calendar, and a photo of her and a cute guy I assumed was her fiancé. Or had been. A furtive glance told me no one was paying attention to my snooping, so I crouched low enough to be hidden by the cubicle walls and get a closer inspection. The large desk calendar had the names of players penciled in for treatment. She had a doctor’s appointment last Tuesday, probably to check on the condition of her black heart. This Thursday was lunch with the girls. Guess she wouldn’t be making that. Unless that had been code for snogging with a married man.
I slowly eased open her top drawer and found nothing but three pens and an old mint. My hands closed around the handle of the next drawer, and when I pulled it toward me, there on top of some files was a framed photo. Of my dad at the last championship game with his arms around two people. One was a player. The other—Josie Blevins.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
I jumped up, shoving the drawer shut with a bang. “I was just—” I knew this face. “Marcus.” Relief was a Gatorade shower over my head. “You scared me to death.”
“I would hope so.” He crossed his arms over his chest, his face mirroring the strict granny who had raised him. “Are you crazy?” It was quite the talent to whisper through gritted teeth. “You can’t go through people’s desks.”
“This isn’t just any people.” I stepped away from Josie’s belongings. “It’s my dad’s girlfriend’s.”
He grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the nearest exit. “You got some twisted sense of private property. Stealing puppies, rifling through people’s belongings.”
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