by J Santiago
But, since she’d gotten home, her head resembled a minefield. Trigger points surrounded her that, weeks before, had been innocuous events and items. Like Jamal Jeffries who had merely walked into her office to ask about his scholarship check, wearing Tank’s number. Or reviewing some footage on a young quarterback who feinted sideways, a step vaguely resembling a trademark Tank Howard evasion. Last Tuesday, she’d turned on the TV in her office to find it on the NFL Network, replaying some footage of the AFC Championship Game. Helplessly drawn in, she watched Tank, resplendent even during an ass-kicking. He was suddenly everywhere, and she didn’t even have the shield of her anger to provide protection.
She stopped briefly at the desk of her administrative assistant. Lauren faced outward, so her back was to the door of Amber’s office. She was more gatekeeper than anything.
“I’m about to head out to practice. Anything I need to handle before I go?” Amber asked.
Lauren looked over at Amber from her computer. She picked up an envelope on her desk and handed it to Amber. “This came from Miss Eva. She said they’re the dates Whitey wanted to run by you for the speaker.”
Amber grabbed it and nodded. “I really wish he would learn to email,” she said, shaking her head.
Lauren laughed. Whitey’s technology aversion was something of a standing joke among the staff. “He would save some trees.”
“Truth.” Amber unwrapped the string on the campus mail and pulled the paper out. She handed the envelope back to Lauren and looked over the dates. Turning the paper so that Lauren could see, they both chuckled at Whitey’s scrawl. “Seriously, a whole piece of paper to write down two dates. He could have texted me.” Amber dropped it on the desk and leaned over to better see the computer. “Can you pull up my calendar?”
Lauren quickly clicked through a couple of screens and brought up the requested information.
After a quick scan, Amber nodded. “Okay. Go ahead and add this to the players’ calendars, and set up text reminders for their phones for twenty-four hours and another for one hour and fifteen minutes in advance.”
“Got it.”
Amber grabbed the paper, crumbled it up, and shot it into Lauren’s trash can, holding her pose. It dropped in, and Amber threw her hands up, walking backward, as she made the goal sign. “All right. I’m on the field if you need me.”
“Do you know what this is about?” Lauren asked, tossing her head in the direction of Amber’s makeshift basketball hoop.
“I don’t. Some speaker. Whitey was kind of vague.”
“Okay. I’ll just put Speaker on the calendar.”
“Perfect.” Amber turned and walked through the outer door of their office space.
The Football Operations area was separate from the offices, which was why Amber spent a lot of her time in the meeting room, directly in the hub of their world. They’d obviously redesigned the building before she arrived. She would have directed them to do it differently. All the coaches’ offices had a wall of windows, so their view opened up to the practice fields. The regulation-size turf surface boasted state-of-the-art video technology, so the coaches could record practice and analyze plays. At the far end was an indoor facility for stormy weather. It made scheduling practices predictable and her job easier. But it didn’t stop her from marveling at the money invested in their program.
She took the elevator down to the ground floor that housed the locker and training rooms. Everything around here was locked down. The outside doors and players’ locker room required thumbprints for access. To enter Whitey’s office suite, the iris of your eye had to be authenticated. They didn’t use codes because those could be given out, like secrets on the black market.
Amber placed her thumb on the reader and entered the hallway leading directly to the field. She blinked against the blast of sun as the door opened. Hastily sliding her sunglasses into place, she made her way to the field.
Even with unlimited access and being around the sport all the time, there was something about that first whiff of the air around practice. She couldn’t claim turf had a smell—if it did, it probably held the sweat of all the previous players—but some scent always permeated the space around her when she was on a football field. She was sure it was more about the collective hopes and dreams of the players and coaches, but whatever it was, she craved it.
Most people, when asked to conjure their safe place, would come up with beaches or blankets, people they loved, or places they wanted to go. The gridiron was her safe place. Maybe it was the memory of her time as a kid, standing with her father, completely confident of her place in the world. When she’d come here three years ago, she’d needed it without knowing why.
Amber meandered around the field, watching the drills, taking note of what she saw.
When the coaches met later in the day to recap, she liked to have her own impressions. She wouldn’t share them because it wasn’t her place. But, in her head, she’d compare what they said to what she’d observed. And she would keep track.
She found herself watching the receivers who were working with one of the promising quarterbacks and Steele. She enjoyed his coaching style. His explanations to his players were spot-on. He encouraged them while correcting them, and he understood how to capitalize on their strengths. She didn’t know if he would ever master the political piece of being a head coach, but he had the player-development part of it down to a science. He glanced up and inadvertently met her gaze. He offered a tentative smile and then turned his attention back to his players.
Since Atlanta, their relationship had suffered. Steele had vacationed from there, and when he’d returned last week, their interactions had been strained. He’d say she was acting like a girl and imagining it, but she knew she wasn’t. They still hung out, but the ease of their friendship seemed to be stuck on the corner of Peachtree Street and Oakhurst, jammed up in the traffic of a kiss and a stroke. She didn’t regret either action, but she definitely regretted the lack of chemistry.
Nicky came up and tapped her on the shoulder, ducking to the left when she looked right.
“You are such a child.” She laughed when she got him to stop messing with her.
“You love that about me,” he responded.
“I do.”
She absolutely did love her some Nicky Stone. He was a good ole Southern boy from Mississippi who loved to hunt and fish. The gentle giant had been a bone-crushing linebacker, which always struck Amber as odd because of his easygoing nature. He’d been working for Whitey for two years when Amber joined the staff. They’d become fast friends as the youngest members of Whitey’s elite group, and then they had adopted Steele when he joined the ranks.
“Where’s the boss?”
Amber looked around, confused. “He’s not here?”
“Nope. During our meeting, he told us he’d be late, but I thought he’d be here by now.”
Amber lifted her phone and tapped on it, searching for a text or an email from Whitey’s administrative assistant, Miss Eva. She didn’t find anything but a missed call from Franco, which she ignored.
“Did he say why he was going to be late?”
Whitey didn’t clear his schedule with her, but he normally kept her in the loop.
Nicky shrugged and then began to back away from her, on his way to his guys. “He was meeting some VIP and wanted to show him around. Gotta go. Catch up later?”
“Yeah. Day one tradition,” she responded as he bounced away from her, as eager to be back on the field as she was.
Amber took one more look around, searching for Whitey. She glanced back at her phone, noting the time. She wanted to stay and watch, but she also wanted to know what Whitey was up to. Turning, she made her way back toward the locker room entrance, acknowledging the trainers and other random staff with nods as she passed.
She pulled open the heavy door and stepped into the hallway. She quickly ditched her sunglasses, sliding them up onto her head, pulling her hair back with it. She didn’t often do
this because it left her scar exposed, and while she was fairly comfortable with it, she didn’t like to draw attention to it. But the hallway was dim and deserted. The door at the other end opened, and Amber recognized Whitey’s voice before her eyes fully adjusted to the interior light.
“What is so important that you are late to practice?” she chided.
Whitey laughed before stepping back and holding the door for someone. “I told you she keeps me on my toes,” he joked.
Amber hadn’t realized someone was with Whitey, and immediately, she regretted calling him out. She was always brutally honest with him but was also respectful enough to know when to give him shit and when to hold back. Typically, in front of other people, mum was the word. Her cheeks colored with embarrassment.
She closed the distance between them. “I apologize,” she started, offering her hand in greeting.
“No worries.”
The familiar voice washed over her, and her eyes snapped up to meet his.
Tank fucking Howard.
She looked between Tank and Whitey, clearly shocked to see the two of them palling around together. A litany of sentences was poised on the tip of her tongue—questions, accusations—but she remained mute, merely staring at Tank.
“Tank Howard, this is Amber Johnson, my Director of Operations. Anything you need, she’s your girl.”
The smile widened on Tank’s face, making his stupid dimples pop. “Perfect,” Tank murmured, his gaze locked on her.
“I’ve got to get to practice, but we’ll talk tomorrow. Remember, anything you need, total access. Amber will handle everything.”
She watched helplessly as Whitey flew out of the corridor, the clank of the door handle releasing snapping her from her stupor.
“What are you doing here?” she managed to say.
Tank smirked. “I know people.”
Amber and Tank remained in the corridor, appraising each other. Tank continued to smile cheekily at her—a big, fat, happy Cheshire Cat grin. Amber’s stomach rolled with both awareness and anticipation.
And his response? “I know people.”
She’d thrown the same expression at him when they first met, using her anonymity to her advantage.
She couldn’t help but smile back at him when the three words penetrated the haze of surprise.
“Ah, you remember,” he stated.
She fought against the heady giddiness of the shared memory. “I do.”
“Good.”
She couldn’t help her reaction to him. He was dressed casually in jeans, a T-shirt, and sneakers. He had graced a number of magazine covers with his football regalia, but looking at him now, there was no doubt he could do justice as a model.
She glanced away to get a handle on her thoughts. “Uh, so Whitey mentioned full access. What do you need from me?”
“That’s a loaded question,” he said, chuckling softly.
She took a step back, searching for more distance between them. She needed some space. Clearing her throat, she tried again. “What exactly are you doing here?”
“Training. Off-season training.”
“Why?” she blurted.
He rubbed his hand over his head. Amber had seen him do that hundreds of times when he got nervous or anxious or if he didn’t know quite what to say.
He’s nervous. “I mean, why would you come here to train?”
“Change of scenery.”
“Whatever,” she said, suddenly impatient with him. “So, you need access to the weight room and training room?”
“Whitey said he could get me a locker, too.”
“Of course.”
“And the practice field.”
Her eyes widened at the access he was being granted. “Okay. Let’s head upstairs and see what we can do.”
She led the way to her office. They didn’t speak as they entered the elevator or when they exited. As he followed her, he remained silent. Most people asked questions or commented about the facility. Tank said nothing, for which she was grateful because her mind was whirling in too many directions for her to hold on to any one coherent thought other than the question flashing like a grand marquee in her brain.
What the hell is he doing here?
Opening the door to her office, Amber led Tank through the reception area. When Lauren looked up at them, her eyes widened in disbelief.
“Lauren,” Amber said, stopping in front of her desk, “this is Tank Howard. He needs to get set up with access around the building. Are you available to take him around?”
Amber needed a moment, or ten, without his presence. Lauren looked at Amber with a smile one might expect a lottery winner to wear.
“Oh, of course,” she stuttered before standing up and coming around the desk. She held her hand out, and Tank took it. “Pleasure to meet you,” she cooed.
Amber had to fight to keep from calling her assistant out on her fangirling. They had Hall of Famers in here all the time. During football season, it was like a parade of the famous, but Tank Howard had managed to throw Lauren off her game.
“Nice to meet you,” Tank responded. If being pawned off surprised him, he didn’t show it.
“Uh, right this way,” Lauren said.
Amber refused to watch them as they strode through the outer doors, instead turning and beating a quick path to the sanctuary of her office. She sat down heavily and stared at the blank screen of the computer in front of her.
What is happening here?
She toyed with the pen on her desk, twirling it around in an endless circle, her focus on the aimless spinning.
Unthinkingly, she turned on the TV. An image of Madison Shepard dominated the picture. Her hair was perfectly coifed, and her eyes shimmered with glib mischief. The volume muted, Amber could only stare at the woman involved with Tank. That she was so beautiful hurt a bit. That she seemed to be fun and cool hurt more. That she’d thrown a kick-ass engagement party for Amber’s best friend…well, that dug the hurt a little deeper. She wanted to turn the TV off, but she continued to study the woman on the screen. Amber had never really envied anyone for anything. She always accepted what she had and who she was and embraced it. But faced with the seeming perfection of Madison Shepard, Amber found that she could indeed want what someone else had. Acknowledging that pissed her off, so she punched the off button with a little too much emphasis.
She had plenty to keep her occupied, a hefty to-do list waiting for her on her computer. Tapping the mouse, she brought it to life and attempted to busy herself with work instead of pointless imaginings of Tank. She opened her summer camp folder and started going through the minute-by-minute schedules, looking for possible unintended breaks or hard-to-meet timelines. For fifteen minutes, she pretended to be concentrating before she gave up and closed the file. She reached for her cell phone and pulled up the contact before she could think better of it.
Tilly answered on the first ring. “Hey. You okay?”
That he opened with this might have been a red flag, but since she rarely called him, she didn’t even flinch.
“Yes, everything’s good. How are you?”
“Fine,” he said after a slight pause, telling her he was confused by the phone call without having to say a word. There was dead air before he asked, “What’s going on?”
“Uh, Tank Howard showed up here today.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry. What?” Tilly finally responded.
“So, you didn’t know?”
Another pause. “No.”
A sigh escaped her.
“I’m assuming you talked to him?”
“Of course. I mean, Whitey ordered me to get him full access to the facility. So, yes, we talked.”
“What?”
“Apparently, he’s going to be training here.”
Then, Tilly began to chuckle.
“This is so not funny.”
“Oh, yes, it is,” he managed to say between laughs.
“No, it’s really not. Wha
t is he doing here?”
Tilly finally controlled his laughter. He took a deep breath. “I have no idea. He didn’t say a word to me. Did you ask his partner in crime?”
Amber couldn’t help but roll her eyes. Tilly and Tank were best friends, but Tank was also really close to Steele. For whatever reason, Tilly and Steele didn’t mix. Both of them acted like little girls who were sharing a best friend. Normally, she loved to tease them about their stupid little rivalry, but she wasn’t in a joking mood.
“No. He’s at practice.”
“Well, I bet he knows what’s going on.”
“You’re ridiculous,” she muttered.
“If he didn’t talk to me about it, I’m pretty sure he talked to Steele.”
“Yeah, probably,” she responded. Right now, talking to Steele about Tank was about as appealing as talking to Tank.
“You all right?”
“Yeah, all good.”
It was late.
Nicky and Amber sat at a high table in the corner of their favorite sports bar. Steele had neglected to join them. His absence didn’t faze Nicky in the least, but Amber was starting to think Steele was deliberately avoiding her. And more and more, she was regretting the kiss they’d shared. Their curiosity wasn’t worth the price of their friendship.
“So, wait, why did he say he couldn’t make it?” she asked again.
Nicky barely glanced from the wall of TVs to answer her, “He must have partied too hard on his vacation because he’s got his head stuck where the sun don’t shine.” Nicky’s little Southern witticisms barely registered anymore. He pulled his attention away from the basketball game they were watching. “So, who you got this year?”
“You seriously think I’m giving you any of my secrets?”
“Your streak is ending.” He threw his hands in the air, a victory sign. “This year, I will be the king.”
“Such a sore loser.” She laughed. “If we could actually bet money on March Madness, I’d be rich.”
Nicky snorted. “Two years in a row, and you’re too big for your britches.”