Challenging the Center (Santa Fe Bobcats)

by Jeanette Murray

  Kat counted anyway, each second that Michael didn’t get up seeming to take a year off her life. There was some pushing and shoving of upright players while Michael and the Seahawks player disengaged their legs from each other, appearing to fight about a flag that was thrown on the play. Then he finally—finally—stood on his own two feet, one of the other offensive linemen helping him up. He shook his limbs out before rolling his shoulders and walking to the new line of scrimmage.

  “They got the first down,” Aileen said.

  Kat then realized she hadn’t even been watching the ball or any other action on the field since the moment Michael stepped onto the green and white turf. Oh God, she had it so bad.

  “I… have to go to the restroom.” She stood, feeling sweat accumulate on her upper lip. Aileen reached for her, but she shrugged. “Just gonna go before the lines get long at the end of the period.”

  “Quarter,” Aileen corrected quietly. “Do you want me to show you where they are?”

  “No, I’m good. Really, I am. I just need a second.” Kat hurried up the stairs, not looking behind to see if Aileen followed. For someone who understood the thrill of competition, the physical labor involved in a sport… The brutality of the game had taken her by surprise. She’d thought she would be impressed, even interested in the way Michael played.

  Instead, she found herself terrified by the thought of him getting hurt. Which was insane because he was just a guy who was supposed to be keeping an eye on her. Mentoring. Babysitting.

  After splashing water on her face in the bathroom and a quick mental pep talk to suck it up, she walked back out toward the seating. And stopped at the entrance. She wasn’t quite ready to go back down yet and be down there with all the women and families who apparently knew the drill and thought nothing of watching their loved ones get knocked around like bowling pins.

  But she needed a minute to get her mind off the fact that she was watching someone she probably shouldn’t care about—but did—being pummeled on the regular.

  As she stood at the mouth of the aisle, she watched both teams come back to the benches for the end of the first… quarter. Music began to blare, and she watched as the Bobcat cheerleaders ran out onto the field to do some little jiggle-dance number.

  Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned around to apologize for being in the way. Then she smiled a little. Hello, distraction…

  Michael took his helmet off and grabbed a bottle of water as the tray was passed by. The helmet was a sauna, and he winced as sweat rolled into his eyes. His butt perched on the edge of the bench with a few other guys from his line. Every one of them was leaning forward, in anticipation, in aggression. They were up by only three, and now was definitely not the time to get comfortable, even on a break.

  Then one of the guys beside him laughed and elbowed him. “Check out Benny.”

  Why the hell would he give two shits about where Benny the Bobcat mascot was during a game? Michael shrugged it off and squirted more water into his mouth, then over his face to cool him down.

  “Lambert, check it out.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. “What?” he growled, looking up as his teammate pointed to the jumbo screen above the end zone.

  And found Kat, doing a booty-shaking salsa with Benny the Bobcat at the top of the aisle to Metro Station’s “Shake It.” She laughed and kicked her leg out as he spun her around and dipped her old-Hollywood style. Then he let her go, and she shook her ass and whipped her hair around in abandon, as if she had no clue she was being filmed at all and thousands of people were watching.

  Several guys looked up from the sidelines, smiling and nodding along. A few imitated her moves with each other, causing uproarious laughter from not just the other guys on the team but the crowd nearby.

  Something flashed on the bottom of the screen, and suddenly her name popped up, alongside “Pro tennis player” and what he assumed was her current ranking.

  “How do they do that?” he hissed. The guys on the team—or some of them—knew who Kat was. Kristen, Caleb, a few others in the front office. But how would the guys in the control booth know…

  Did she tip someone off? Was this all a setup?

  “Dude, your face could scare small kids.” Josh Leeman, the Bobcats’ backup quarterback, sat beside him. “I’m not sure what’s going on with all that,” he added, gesturing to his own face and then pointing at Michael’s, “but you better clean it up before a camera finds you and suddenly the story is you and I are in a major fight over a girl.”

  “We aren’t fighting over a girl. You found yours.”

  “I did.” Looking like a smug asshole about it, Josh settled back on the bench, his preferred spot. “And it only took me twenty-seven years to figure it out.”

  “Why don’t you go annoy Trey on the quarterback bench?” Michael suggested icily, watching as the camera panned to other spectators doing a similar booty-shaking dance. At least they weren’t focusing on Kat’s ass anymore.

  “Trey’s in his own world again, like normal.” It wasn’t said maliciously or even in an annoyed tone. Everyone on the team just knew that if Trey was playing, he had his nose in the playbook and was reviewing options. Trey was one of the most social guys Michael knew, but on game day, he was all business.

  The screen cut back once more to a shot of the back of Benny Bobcat and Kat, both of whom were shaking their, er, tails.

  “God damn it,” Michael muttered to nobody, then tore his eyes away from the screen. When they got home later, Kat would know exactly what he thought of her midgame ass shake.

  Chapter 13

  Kat’s cell phone rang even as she hit the button for the elevator of the apartment building. Michael wouldn’t be home yet, not for another hour or two by Aileen’s estimation. But she hadn’t wanted to wait around. Her stomach was still in knots from the game, and she needed to get out before she did something ridiculous like go around the stadium to find one of the Seahawks’ defense, push one of those three-hundred-and-fifty-pound linemen on the shoulder, and yell, “Stop hitting him!”

  Sanity would need to return before she would be ready to see Michael’s face again.

  But even as she toed off her shoes, she felt the vibration of her phone in her pocket. She dug it out and sighed at seeing her old coach’s number on the screen. “Hello, Peter.”

  “What the hell is the matter with you?” her coach demanded in his thickly accented broken English. “Do you think we sent you out there to middle of nowhere to get samba lessons from a saber-toothed tiger?”

  “Okay, Peter, first off… it was a bobcat.” She held the phone away from her ear as she listened to her coach go off in Russian. You’d think, after over four years with the man, she’d have learned more than just a few Russian curses… but no dice. When he seemed to finally calm down, she tried again. “And secondly, I didn’t know the cameras were filming the crowd. Why would I know that?”

  “Because anyone who has watched five seconds of American football knows they do these things? Have you not heard of a Kiss Cam?”

  She was getting lectures about American football now from a Russian. Oh, how screwed up her life was. “Peter, I was blowing off steam. I don’t know why this is even a big deal. I danced with a mascot for a few seconds. I didn’t take my top off and breastfeed an adult male greased up with pig fat while riding a Slip ’N Slide. Perspective, maybe?”

  “You are a party girl. You aren’t being serious. We sent you out there for calming influence, and instead, you are making a fool of yourself.”

  “I was off duty.” God, her teeth were going to crack from the clenched jaw she was sporting. “I wasn’t exactly mooning the queen of England on the greens of Wimbledon.”

  “Not yet,” Peter said darkly.

  Jesus. “Okay, you know what? I have to go. I’m getting a call from my second job. Phone sex operator. Shift’s about to start. Bye, Peter,” she added, hanging up on the Russian tirade.

  And immediately groaned
when the phone rang again. “Yes, Sawyer?”

  “I’m not sure what to do with you, Katrina.”

  “Sell me to gypsies.” Flopping on her couch, she covered her eyes with a forearm. The whole Bad Kat act was getting old. Which, she supposed, was her own fault.

  “You get a job in a bar, for fuck’s sake, and a wild one at that. You go to a football game and draw attention to yourself shaking your ass with the mascot. Let me tell you, there are already a dozen or so lovely puns on sexy pussy and Kat Kelly floating around.”

  “I wasn’t wearing a name tag, you know. I didn’t hold up a sign asking people to look at me. I was having a bad moment, there was an opportunity for fun, so I took it.” After a moment’s hesitation, she added, “The bobcat started it.”

  Sawyer’s silence was frightening.

  “Sawyer, I get that this is potentially costing me some connections, but—”

  “You got an offer for a dance workout video.”

  That made her sit up. “A what?”

  “Your little hip-sway dance with the ball girl during the last tournament caught the eye of some made-for-home DVD production company. Maybe the dance with the mascot was the icing on the cake for them since they called about thirty minutes after halftime. They’re expanding to more streaming videos and need more personalities. They asked if you’d be interested in doing some athletic-stylized workout videos… essentially choreographed dance routines with some workout moves thrown in.”

  It wasn’t quite up her alley, but it wasn’t exactly a shitty offer either. “I don’t think that’s for me, to be honest, but that’s an interesting concept. Please tell them thank you but no.”

  He said nothing.

  “So you’re saying sponsors aren’t shying away from me because I’m not the strong, silent type.”

  Still nothing.

  “That maybe the sex tape”—which I had nothing to do with—“won’t kill my career.”

  More silence.

  She had a sinking feeling. “Sawyer, have there been other endorsement offers?”

  He grunted.

  “Sawyer. You’re my agent. You can’t hold those secret from me.”

  “Just bullshit stuff, nothing you want to be attached to.”

  “Like?”

  “Office supplies, a few websites for shit, and some rip-off energy drink that hasn’t even been FDA approved and likely won’t, given the ingredients. Who thinks jet fuel is a good idea to ingest?”

  Yeah, not the pick of the litter. “And they don’t care that I’m not ranked in the top twenty.”

  “They care that people are starting to know who you are. For all the wrong fucking reasons,” Sawyer reminded her once more. “Win something, and the offers will roll in. People forgive winners.”

  Oh, if only I’d thought of that. Just go out and win a Grand Slam. Yes, I’ll put that on my to-do list, right after solving world hunger and ending terrorism. Priorities, after all…

  “Sawyer, I—”

  “Quality over quantity, Kelly,” he said quietly, cutting her off. “Quality. I’m looking out for your interests, believe me. Your priority is getting yourself in top shape so you’re ready to attack the Australian Open in January. It isn’t looking cute or learning new dance moves or being auctioned off to the highest fucking bidder. Which reminds me, what the hell have you done with Lambert?”

  Kat glanced around her apartment. “I’ve got him tied up in a kitchen chair, ball gag in place, wearing women’s underwear and covered in whipped cream. Why do you ask?”

  “I ask because my most trusted, most reliable mentor has suddenly had a complete lapse of judgment with regards to mentoring. Maybe he’s lost his touch.”

  “No, he hasn’t,” she defended without thinking. “Don’t say that. He’s good at what he does. He’s tried hard. I just… things just keep… stuff happens, you know?”

  “Uh-huh.” There was a long pause, then, “Maybe you should come back.”

  “No.” It didn’t escape Kat’s notice that she was now arguing to stay somewhere she’d, only a week earlier, fought so hard against coming to.

  “If you’re just going to waste the time while you’re there, serving beers and getting into trouble again, then—”

  “I’ve got a new trainer.” She cut him off, seeking anything to make the suggestion of coming home stop. “He’s got a lot of great ideas for me and ways to work around my problem spots so I don’t exacerbate anything I’ve hurt in the past.”

  “Which is everything.”

  Basically. “And I’ve got a new coach.”

  “Who is batshit crazy, from the way Peter talks about him.”

  “Whose side are you on anyway?”

  “Yours. Whose side are you on?” Sawyer ended the call with that little gem.

  She hadn’t called, hadn’t texted, hadn’t even left a sticky note on his door. Nothing.

  Michael received confirmation from Aileen she’d been dropped off, and the front desk swore she hadn’t left since coming in. But for some reason he just wasn’t quite ready to see her yet. And so, he’d stopped just short of knocking on her door.

  His temper had long since burned off. The Benny Dance Off had ended up being a nonissue for the rest of the game, and though he tried his hardest to keep his eyes on the field or his teammates alone, he couldn’t help but let them drift over to the section where she sat with the rest of the families. Though he couldn’t actually pick her out—too far away—he wanted to feel like she saw him, tracked him, knew where he was.

  Cheered for him. Acknowledged that he played a damn good game.

  Pathetic.

  After changing out of the suit he was required to wear each game day, he slipped on some gym shorts and a T-shirt and forced himself to go knock on her door. It was quiet in her place, but he doubted she was asleep.

  What he wasn’t expecting was a bleary-eyed Kat, hair mussed, to answer the door looking like she’d clawed her way up from the depths of hell just to greet him.

  “What?” she asked, her voice raspy.

  “I— Did you just wake up?”

  “I fell asleep on the couch.” She glared through already-narrowed eyes, as if the light from the hallway was painful. “I had a phone call that knocked me on my ass. Two, actually.” Kat turned and left the door wide open, walking into her kitchen. Michael shut the door behind him and locked it.

  “Who called?”

  Instead of answering, Kat began looking through cabinets, shutting each one before it was even fully open.

  “What… what are you… Kat.”

  She didn’t even pause in her total self-destructive path.

  “You’re going to rip a cabinet door off. What are you looking for?”

  “I’m hungry. I didn’t eat dinner. Didn’t want to spend twenty-four dollars at the stadium on a lukewarm hot dog and flat soda someone probably— Oh, yeah. Here we go.” She pulled something out of a top cabinet, giving him a good glimpse of the smooth skin of her stomach as she reached for it. And brought down a box of Honey Nut Cheerios.

  Michael watched as she hopped up on the counter and opened the box, digging in with a hand and tossing it in her mouth. “Remind me to never eat breakfast over here.”

  “Don’t judge. They’re good for you. Look.” She took a second to peruse the box, then thrust it at him. “Good source of fiber,” she said proudly.

  “Could be worse,” he admitted, setting the box back down. “Could be Cocoa Puffs.”

  She watched him for a moment, then without looking, reached behind her for the same cabinet the cereal came from and pulled down another box of… yup. Cocoa Puffs. “Just for you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll skip this time.” He set them beside the Cheerios, then bracketed his hands on either side of her hips on the counter, caging her in. “What’s going on, Kat? Talk to me.”

  “Is this you doing the ‘mentoring’ thing?” She put quote fingers around the word, and her tone said exactly what she thought of his
mentoring.

  Which stung a little because she’d only one day earlier told him he was good at it.

  “This is me giving a damn about you and your self-destructive behavior. How about that?”

  “I’m a job. Hard to forget.” Her eyes were looking at her hands now, as if she weren’t sure she could meet his gaze. “I let myself forget for a little bit, but that’s why I’m here. I’m here to be fixed.”

  Michael forced himself to take a few deep, calming breaths. “Kat, who called you?”

  “Hmm?”

  “The two phone calls that knocked you flat on your ass. Who called?”

  “Oh. Sawyer and my coach from Florida. Peter.” She looked up then, a false smile full of teeth and phoniness plastered on her face. “Apparently, I can’t do anything right. My job is to sit down, shut up, and play tennis until I’m too broken to do it anymore. End of story.”

  “Coaches aren’t always right.”

  She snorted and looked over his shoulder.

  “And agents aren’t always perfect.”

  She huffed.

  “And sometimes mannies are in it for more than the paycheck.”

  “You’re getting paid?” Her eyes widened then.

  “No.”

  “Oh.” She sighed and leaned back against the cabinet. “They asked me to come back to Florida.”

  Michael’s hands went to her hips automatically, clenching around her in possession. “No.”

  One side of her lips tipped ever so slightly. “Funny, that’s what I said too.”

  The vise that had clenched his lungs released marginally. “Did they insist?”

  “Well, funny thing about being twenty-six.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I get to call the shots in a lot of things.”

  “And if Sawyer drops you for disobedience?”

  “Then I guess I’m on my own.”

  “And if your coach drops you?”

  “Peter and I were already not seeing eye to eye. Maybe it’s time for a change.”

  For some completely unexplainable reason, that lit something up inside him. “A change, huh?”