Eligible Receiver: A Second Chance Romance Novella

by Haley Pierce

  Idiot. It’s hardly October; the Super Bowl sounds a little presumptuous, and it’s not just my glass-half-empty view of life speaking. College oaf is so busy doing a celebration jig that he doesn’t realize he’s doing it on my toe. “Hello?” I say again, grouchier this time, pulling my foot away and giving him the stink-eye.

  Nothing. I’d have a better response if I were a fly buzzing around their ear, because maybe then, at least, one of them would swat at me. They all continue to celebrate, tossing back their artsy craft beers, rejoicing along with the rest of the bar.

  One by one, their eyes turn back to the screen and they settle back into their chairs. I think that maybe this in my in, and I can finally get their orders taken, so I say, “Okay—”

  “What’s going on?” one of them says, eyes glued on the television. “What’s—”

  “He’s down. Tackled after the whistle. That’s a flag.”

  “Flag nothing. He’s not getting up,” another says. “Look, they’re calling for the stretcher.”

  The room falls into a stunned silence. I manage a glance toward the screen. Sure enough, the coach is standing in front of a huddle of bodies, motioning frantically toward the sidelines.

  I swallow. “Who?” I whisper.

  Goatee looks at me, seeing me for the first time. “Who do you think?” he grouches, taking his disappointment out on me. “St. Clair.”

  “Is it . . . is it bad?” I ask. No one answers me, because I’m sure it’s too soon to know, but the thing is, as much as I’ve worked to separate myself from him, I know. It must be. Silas had gotten battered pretty badly in high school, and he always, always walked off the field. Even when he’d broken his ankle once, he’d practically jogged to the locker room.

  Billy finds the remote and ups the volume on the television so that the announcer’s voice blares through the silent bar. “Things are not looking good for our hometown golden boy, Silas St. Clair.”

  A chorus rings out all over the bar, a total one-eighty than the fevered celebration from a minute ago. This time, it’s a collective, depressed, “Shit.”

  “It’s his ankle,” the guy with Penguins cap says, removing it and running his hands through craggy black hair. “Well, that’s it. There goes the season.”

  His ankle again? Memories flood back. Silas St. Clair, trying to impress me during our study sessions, doing tricks with his crutches, pretending one of them was an electric guitar. Back then, he’d made like it was nothing but a little nuisance. But now? Now I knew it meant a lot more.

  Maybe even everything.

  Hope he chokes. That’d been the last thing I’d thought before the snap. My heart skips anxiously. Had I done this?

  “Don’t worry, baby,” Chuckie says behind me.

  “Oh, I’m not,” I murmur absently, tucking a stray hair behind my ear. I break my eyes from the screen, realizing Chuck’s looking at me in a way that makes me think he’s putting the pieces together, that maybe he’s remembering how, once upon a time, Silas and I had been a couple, the envy of Union High School.

  Back when I was someone. Back when I stupidly thought that wherever life took me, Silas would be by my side.

  But Chuckie just leers at me and says, “If you want a hot football player to drool over, I’m right here.”

  And then he reaches over, wraps his fat hand around my ass cheek, and squeezes so hard it pulls tears from my eyes.

  Silas

  One week later

  The girl with the A-name wastes no time.

  It’s Ashley. Or Alicia. I forget. Doesn’t matter. The only thing that’s important is that her big, luscious lips are as good as they looked. By the time I pull into the parking lot of Billy’s, she’s already sucking on my dick, going up and down like I’m her favorite flavor of lollipop, her head bent under the steering wheel in a way that can’t feel good.

  But I feel good. Damn good. I thought I’d need a few stiff drinks to manage this homecoming, but this works, too.

  She takes me all the way into her mouth, making slurping sounds like she’s actually enjoying it despite being turned at an awkward way that has her big tits smashed up against the center console. This isn’t the girl’s first rodeo. But I guessed that when I picked her up hitchhiking on the side of Route 268. At first, in her old sneakers and bare shoulders despite the frigid early October temperatures, I thought she looked as sorry as I felt, which was why I stopped to let her in. But when she saw the ring on my finger and recognized me, she told me she wanted to give me head. Just like that, in the way you’d offer up a spare granola bar. After the month I’d had, I felt entitled.

  I fight just long enough to pull my F250 to a juddering stop in a parking space and try to look casual as a couple walks past. I don’t know them—and in this town of seven-hundred I used to know mostly everyone—but this is a trucker place, so it gets lots of new faces, and who knows? Four years might’ve been enough to change this sorry town. Doubtful, though.

  I can tell by the double-take and the shit-eating grin the guy gives me that even though I’ve never seen him before, he knows me.

  He elbows his girl and whispers something to her, and her eyes widen.

  Now, they’re both staring at me. She mouths something like Are you sure that’s him? He nods, so thrilled with his find that now he’s scanning the rest of the lot for other people to tell.

  Shit. Just what I need, a welcoming committee.

  I look around. The lot is otherwise empty so there’s no crowd to pull. Ok, no big deal.

  I’ve had this happen enough that it doesn’t faze me. I once did an entire phone interview on Sports Radio while fucking a cheerleader in the bed of my truck. It’s all a matter of shifting and channeling the right amount of concentration to each task, something I have been known to kick ass at. They don’t call me the Ice Man for nothing, the kid who stays cool under pressure.

  When I come, I keep my face rigid, natural. I thread my hand through her fried brass-colored hair to make sure she stays there to finish the job. But I don’t need to. Ashley or Alicia, or whoever, wraps her lips around my dick, sucking up every last drop.

  And . . . The couple continues to stare at me admiringly through the windshield.

  I give them a smile and a salute, which I realize is a mistake the second I do it, because the ring is visible now. They start walking toward the open driver’s side window of my truck, the woman digging in her purse for something. Probably a piece of paper and pen for an autograph.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  I shift in the seat, throwing my jacket closed over A’s crazy, frizzed-out hair as they come closer. I hook my arm out the open window nonchalantly and lean forward, trying to signal for A to move away. Maybe she can just look like she’s searching for a contact lens on the floor or something. She doesn’t get the hint, because she stays there, on my lap, like she wants to build a summer home there.

  “How’re you doing?” I say.

  The man is speechless, something that odd enough, happens to men all the time around me. The woman opens her mouth to fill in the blanks. I know what she’ll say. “My husband loves you.” “You’re amazing.” Some bullshit like that. I will nod humbly, fork over the autographs, pose for selfies, and all will be right with the world.

  But that’s when A lifts her head off of my lap, startling the woman so much that she jumps back against the rusty Pontiac Firebird I’ve parked next to.

  I can probably explain this away. I’ve been told I got do-no-wrong dimples. All I need to do is flash them.

  “Mmmm,” my passenger says, licking her lips as she lifts her head. “I love the taste of cum.”

  All right. Probably not now. A has a dreamy look in her eyes as they settle on the woman, who’s now as flustered and speechless as her man. They both stare at me like mutes.

  The only one who has no problem speaking is A. She says, “Oh, hi,” and smiles, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Way to be subtle.

  The woman’s sur
prise melts into a frown of disgust. Grabbing her guy’s arm, she yanks him toward the front of Billy’s.

  As they leave, I fasten my ball cap down over my ears and look at the girl I’d picked up. “Wow. Great timing, girl.”

  She gives me a confused look, then looks out the window at the neon Billy’s Barbecue sign, complete with a smiling fat pig, wearing a checkered napkin bib. “We stopping for lunch?”

  I shake my head. “End of the line for me. You can find a trucker to take you further down the road here, though.”

  She wrinkles her nose, looking pissed, but I can’t say I give a shit. Truth is, I’ve been craving Billy’s burgers ever since I’d made the decision to come back home. Billy’s famous burgers, the one and only thing I was looking forward to returning to in this town. And the sooner I drop this girl, the sooner I can haul my ass inside and blow my strict athlete’s diet with a Rolling Rock and a double with a giant stack of onion rings.

  “You’re not even going to buy me lunch?” she asks.

  I reach into my wallet and pull out two twenties, which I toss into her lap. “Buy your own lunch.”

  Her jaw drops. “I’m not a prostitute.”

  I shrug. “Fine. Then consider it charity. I don’t give a shit.” Just get out of my truck.

  I’m grateful when she reads my mind, grabs her jacket and bag and pushes open the passenger side door in a huff. “You’re a real asshole, Silas St. Clair,” she says, slamming the door as if it’ll hurt me.

  A real asshole. I’ve heard that one before. Now, I take it as a compliment.

  I zip up my jeans and push open the door to my truck, letting in the bracing Allegheny mountain air. The temperature here, an hour north of the city, is always ten degrees cooler than in Pittsburgh, and most of the leaves have already fallen and are kicking up in the stiff wind. I take a deep breath, remembering how the guys and I would sit in the back of our pick-up trucks in this lot, drinking Rolling Rock. Back then, I ruled this town, and it was only a matter of time before I took on the whole damn country.

  Just another few weeks, and I’ll be back there.

  Willing myself to stop thinking that, I do my best to hop out of the truck on my good leg, but the massive boot on my left leg catches on the frame of the truck and I have to grab the door to steady myself.

  Fucking boot.

  I limp toward the door and pull it open. It’s not a game day, so it’s pretty dead. But other than that, it’s the same old shit. Round tables with red checkered plastic tablecloths. Peanut shells all over the floor. Fried food grease thick in the air, like a curtain. Billy planted on his stool behind the bar, doing a find-a-word, because the lunch rush is over. Nothing in this town ever changes.

  Billy looks up at me and grins. “Well, if it isn’t the Golden Boy.”

  Billy doesn’t move much, so I must be important, because he lifts the hinged section of the bar, steps out from it, and envelops me in one of his big-ass hugs. He grins at me, then looks down at my boot. My fucking boot.

  “Fuck,” he says, regarding it with disgust.

  My thoughts exactly.

  “The last game was brutal without you. You out for the whole season?” he asks me.

  “Hell no,” I tell him, as he returns behind the bar and I navigate to a stool. I think about what the doctors told me and shove it away. “Hell. No. Not if I can help it.”

  “Good man,” he says, and maybe I’m mistaken but is there doubt in his voice? He points at my hand. “Let me see that thing.”

  I’m used to taking it off to show around. I slip off the ring and hand it to him.

  “Wow. Fucking. Wow,” is all he can say. He inspects the intricate carving, the World Championship symbols, the jewels encrusted on it. “Heavy.”

  He hands it back to me, and I slip it on again. I never was a jewelry person, but I don’t go anywhere without my Super Bowl ring anymore. He pushes a menu over to me but there’s no need.

  “Just a double. Onion rings. And a Rolling Rock.”

  Billy grins, clearly impressed. But it ain’t rocket science. Not a weekend went by that the team didn’t hang at Billy’s, back when we were kids. His was the only bar in Bradys Bend that didn’t card.

  “I’ve been craving this shit since I left,” I explain, looking up at the giant television. It’s tuned to ESPN but they’re talking ice hockey, not football. Thank fucking god. I don’t think I could take another “expert” discussing my shit situation. “So what’s new?”

  Billy smirks. “Since you left? Not much. We got a new dishwasher.”

  I grin. Same old, same old. The dishwasher is big news here, something that was probably a full-page feature in the Brady Times, the local rag newspaper. I reach over and grab a handful of peanuts, crack them open, throw the shells on the floor. They’re stale, just as I remember, and exactly the way I like them. “Awesome.”

  “Holy shit,” a breathless voice says behind me.

  I spin around on the stool and smirk. If it isn’t the legendary Abigail Lovejoy, looking just the way she had four years ago, when I blew this town—cropped black hair tied in a bandanna, short denim skirt, and belly exposed. She’s always reminded me of a slinky little feline, small and lithe and constantly plotting. She’s giving me the same look she always used to . . . like Here comes trouble.

  “Hey,” I say to her, as my eyes instinctively trail the way they always used to . . . behind her, to her shadow, her best friend.

  Except she doesn’t have one now.

  I didn’t expect Genevieve to stay in this town. But I still feel shitty about her not being here. And I can’t say I hadn’t, somewhere in the back of my mind, hoped . . .

  But that’s how this town is. Here, Abby was always the headliner, and her best friend used to hide behind a pile of books. Of course, I always knew Genevieve Wilson would get out eventually, and get her due.

  Abby sidles up to me with that sexy sway of her hips, placing her tray on the bar. “Have a nice welcome home party out there?”

  I raise an eyebrow at her.

  She motions to the couple in a booth at the side of the bar. They’d been looking at me, but when I raise my eyes to them they pretend to be really interested in their menus. “Those folks told us all about how Silas St. Clair was in the parking lot, being . . .” she leans in and winks. “serviced.”

  I grin at her. Abby Lovejoy was well known in our high school for servicing half the football team. “Just availing myself of the local hospitality, baby,” I say to her, grabbing the green can of beer that Billy places in front of me and downing half of it in one gulp. “You work here, now?”

  She shakes her head. “No, I just parade around here in an apron hoping to pick up lost Steelers.” She leans in and whispers, “You gotta be lost, darlin’. I never thought I’d see your ass back here.”

  I shrug and point at the boot. “Just back until I can get this fucking thing off.”

  “Great. And you came in here for . . .”

  She sounds like she’s fishing for something. I don’t get it. I can’t stop in at my old home on the way back to Pittsburgh? And she has no reason to be pissed off at me. Maybe her best friend and I didn’t end on the best of terms, but it’s all water far under the bridge, now. I’ve moved on to bigger and better, and Genevieve did, too. I’ve no doubt that she’s probably successful, wherever she is. We’re both too headstrong to dwell in shit like a bad high school relationship, which is why the second we said goodbye—No, fuck that, we screamed it and threw stuff in each other’s faces—we never tried to get in touch again.

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean? I came here for a burger,” I answer, as Billy pushes the plate across to me. “Is that against the law?”

  “Yes,” she says. She looks over her shoulder, toward the door to the kitchen, and when she looks at me, her lip is curled in a snarl. What is up her ass? “Can you finish that and get the hell out in the next five minutes?”

  I stare at her. Okay. Now I really have to
ask. “Why?”

  She rolls her eyes like it’s obvious. “You were always so thick, St. Clair,” she mumbles. Then she leans forward. “She will be back in five minutes. She just went to the bank for Billy.”

  I stare at her. I’ve known a hell of a lot of she’s in my life, but right now, she can’t be talking about . . . it’s impossible that she means Genevieve. “What? Who?”

  Her eyes narrow to slivers. “You forgot? You’re disgusting,” she spits out, disbelieving. She shakes her head at me. “Genevieve Wilson, only the girl you were practically engaged to, before you became a big deal. And she works here, too.”

  She’s got to be wrong. She’s got to mean some other Genevieve Wilson. Because the Genevieve I knew had so much going for her, wanted to be accepted to the Ivy League, dreamed of studying journalism. She had potential. She wouldn’t still live here. Work in a place like Billy’s. There’s no possible way.

  I must be staring at her, mouth open, because Abby nudges me. “EAT,” she commands, pushing the plate toward me.

  It’s then that it sinks in.

  Fuck. Genevieve.

  Genevieve’s still here.

  My pulse speeds up. I’ve got to see her. Maybe she saw my Super Bowl win. Maybe she’s seen me on television. I’ve got to . . .

  I stop, look around me. But not now. Not when . . .

  My eyes trail over to the couple sitting in the booth. They’re still sneaking looks at me. All Genevieve needs to do is find out about that, and then . . .

  Then I look down at my sorry-ass boot.

  Yeah, definitely not now.

  I shove a giant onion ring, whole, into my mouth, then start feeding myself with both hands, hardly tasting my first Billy’s Burger in four years. Because yeah, I’ve got to go. “Nice talking to you,” I mumble, mouth full, at Abby, who turns on her heel and leaves without saying goodbye.