by Tracey Ward
May 4th
Charles Windt Stadium
Los Angeles, CA
I smell bacon. It’s in the air inside the stadium. Maybe the concessions are cooking up hotdogs or maybe I’m having a stroke, but it doesn’t matter why I smell it, the problem is it’s making me so hungry I can hardly think straight.
We’ve been training all morning. Four straight hours of running, rushing, and being extra careful not to touch each other so we don’t get fined, and I’m ready to collapse. But there’s no time. I have to rush from here to the KBC studio for rehearsals with Sutton.
She and Eric showed me around yesterday. They introduced me to the crew and the other teams paired up for the show. I didn’t know a single one of the players, a fact that surprised Sutton.
“You seriously don’t know any of them?” she whispered to me when we were lined up around the stage. The choreographer, Clara, was in the middle, explaining the basics of the opening number for the first show.
I didn’t understand a word of it.
I shook my head at Sutton. “There are fifty-three players on every team and thirty-four teams in the league. You do the math.”
“You do it. I want to see if you can.”
I cast her an amused/offended frown. “Are you calling me dumb?”
“That depends. Can you do the multiplication?”
“One thousand eight hundred and two players,” I rattled off from memory, not math. “I know maybe two hundred of them by name.”
“All of these guys knew your name when you walked in,” she pointed out quietly.
“Because I got ejected from the Super Bowl. I doubt you knew every dancer on Broadway but if they shit their pants on stage during Wicked, you’d know their name.”
Sutton laughed, drawing Clara’s attention. We were scolded, we said we were sorry, but I don’t believe for a second that either of us honestly was.
Sutton is a tough one to pin down. One minute she’s sour as a lemon and the next she’s light as air. She’s warm as a summer breeze, and I can’t figure out how to make that girl stay. She’s never around for long. As far as I can tell, the default setting for Sutton Roe is annoyed. It’s not always at me but I’ll probably take the brunt of it while we’re working together.
“Step it up, Lowry!” Coach Bailey shouts at me. “Five more minutes! Don’t you dare let up now!”
I push through the burning in my legs and lungs to run at full speed when what my body wants more than anything is to collapse on the cool ground and pass out. I’m in a herd of men thumping their feet against the ground in a disordered drum beat that I feel in my heart. It’s screaming. It’s propelling me forward because I refuse to be the slowest beat. I’ve never been and never will be the weakest link on this team. I’ll leave that to the fat asses on the defensive line.
When the five minutes are up and Coach Bailey blows a shrill whistle to stop us, it feels like it’s been an hour. I stop slowly, pacing to keep my body moving so it doesn’t cramp. Everyone around me does the same – all thirty-eight of them. We’re missing rookies not allowed to train with us yet and the injured guys still healing up for the new season, but the field looks full with so many bodies on it after a long drought. It feels good to get back at it.
It feels good to be home.
“Listen up,” Coach Allen commands. He doesn’t raise his voice. He makes us quiet down to hear him. “You’re off for the weekend. Enjoy it but don’t get crazy. Remember you have four days of this to look forward to next week, so rest up and don’t do anything stupid.” He points at me with a small smile on his old, puckered lips. “I’m looking at you, Lowry. Remind that TV show they’ve got you on loan. I want you back in the same condition you’re in now. No injuries.”
I nod, sweat dripping down over my eyes. “Yes, sir,” I huff.
“All of you go get cleaned up and then hustle back out here. We have a surprise for you.”
I hurry to the locker room with the rest of the team, but I don’t fight for a chance at the showers. I don’t have time. If I hesitate I’ll be late and there’s not a chance in hell I’m evening the score with Sutton like that. Her showing up late to the park is the only upper hand I have. Judging by what I’ve seen of her so far, I’m going to want to hold onto that. I stink of sweat but she’ll have to deal with it. All I can do is spray a cloud of deodorant and cologne to walk through, and I’m out the door. I leave men gagging on the mixture behind me.
“What the fuck, Lowry!?” Sam shouts after me.
Tyus coughs roughly, trying to wave away the scent with his hat. “My eyes are watering. Is that teargas?”
I ignore them, bolting through the door with my duffel bag slung heavily over my shoulder. The sound of my feet thumping through the tunnels echoes like a drumbeat; the same one I was playing on the field. I don’t see a soul as I make my way toward the exit, but the smell of bacon is getting stronger. My empty stomach grumbles greedily in anticipation of nothing.
When I round the corner to the backdoor, I run right into Sloane Ashford. She’s in a long, loose dress that hangs like yellow flower petals to her knees. Her blond hair is tied into a smooth ponytail that shows off a pair of simple pearl earrings. She’s barely wearing an ounce of makeup. Not a single piece of jewelry besides the pearls, and it hits me how soft she looks. That’s unusual for her. She’s beautiful, no doubt about it, but she’s also tough as steel. Sloane is what my mom calls a spitfire. You don’t cross her. Not unless you’re looking to get burned.
She stumbles back a step, her hand coming up to press against her stomach. “Shane, you scared me,” she breathes.
“Sorry.” I reach out to take her elbow to steady her. “I figured people would hear me coming and get out of the way.”
“I should have. I wasn’t thinking.”
“Are you okay?”
She waves me away, taking a step back. “I’m good. Thanks.”
“Are you sure? You look kind of pale.”
“Are you leaving already?” she asks, sidestepping my question.
“Yeah, I’ve gotta get to KBC in the next thirty minutes.”
“Oh, that sucks. You’ll miss the party.”
“What party?”
Sloane drums her fingers gently on her stomach with a small smile. “The baby shower.”
“Whose?”
“Shane,” she laughs, looking down pointedly at her stomach.
“Holy hell,” I mutter.
I fall back a step to look her up and down, taking in the whole picture. I feel like an idiot that I didn’t notice before. I mean, I noticed that she’d put on a few pounds recently but you don’t say anything about that to a woman. Not if you want to live to see tomorrow. But now that I know, I can see it in the slight bulge under her dress and the softness in her skin. She has that glow they say mothers get when they’re pregnant. Coach Bailey’s wife looked the same way a couple years ago when she was expecting, only she was huge. She could barely sit down without a forklift to get her back up. Sloane just looks like she’s had a big meal.
“Congrats, Sly,” I tell her with a smile. I tug at my shirt that’s stuck to my body by a thick layer of rapidly drying sweat. “I’d hug you but I smell like shit and I don’t want to drip on your dress.”
“You always have been the thoughtful one,” she laughs. Her hand goes back to her belly and I think it’s an unconscious, protective thing.
“Sorry I’m going to miss the party. And that I don’t have a present for you.”
“No, it’s fine. We don’t want anyone to give us anything. We did it as a surprise so no one would have time to buy a gift. We just wanted to do a meal together as a family.”
“Now I feel worse that I’m leaving.”
Sloane smiles encouragingly. “Don’t. It’s good that you’re doing that show.”
“It’s for a good cause.”
“It is, but you could write a check to them any day of the week. I think it’s good you’re going to be a contest
ant.”
“Why? Have you been dying to see my sweet dance moves?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“I’m glad because they need a jumpstart and you’re the kind of guy that could give it to them. That show has gotten too boring to watch.”
I laugh. “My mom wouldn’t like to hear you say that.”
“Tell Lynn I’m sorry,” she chuckles. “But it doesn’t mean I’m wrong. They know it, too. I did my research before bringing it to Colt when they called. Their ratings are way down. People aren’t watching like they used to because it’s the same old shit every time. To spice it up, they tried manufacturing drama. This dancer doesn’t like the other dancer. So-and-so doesn’t get along with their partner. They made a big deal of injuries that were nothing. All for the ratings and none of it has been helping. It’s why they’re doing this charity special. If it doesn’t get viewers back, the show is finished in three seasons. Maybe less.”
“Damn,” I mutter. “I wonder if Chris knows all of that.”
“He’s a good agent. I’m sure he did his homework. It’s our job.”
“Is all of that why Trey said no when they offered it to him?”
“No, I told Trey to do it. He’d be great PR for them. If they could get brand name faces on the screen they might be able to save themselves, but Trey was thinking about me and the baby. I’m due while you’re filming and he didn’t want to miss anything.”
I hesitate, my eyes instinctively going to her stomach again. “You’re due in under ten weeks.”
“About six, actually,” she confesses quietly. Her face is serious and drawn, and for a second she looks tired. Maybe even scared. It’s hard to tell. I never imagined Sloane Ashford could feel fear. “He’s small. Really small.”
I have no clue what to say to that. A ‘really small’ baby doesn’t sound like a good thing. It sounds dangerous, and the tightness in her shoulders tells me that it is. She’s afraid, and my pity isn’t going to do a damn thing about that. Nothing can. If I can’t help, the least I can do is not make it worse.
“You’re naming him after me, right?”
Sloane chuckles, shaking her head. “I might have to. We’re having trouble agreeing on a name.”
“Shane is classic. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I’ll run it by Trey. I promise.” She gestures over her shoulder toward the door. “There’s a food truck outside with a roasted pig in the back. Ask them to fix you a plate to take with you before you go.”
I touch her arm to lean in and kiss her cheek. “You’re a saint.”
“I know.”
I drive like a bat out of hell to the studio with the top and doors off the Jeep. A big white to-go container of deliciousness sits pretty as anything on the seat next to me. It almost slides off and out onto the street when I take a hard left toward the KBC gates, but I grab it just in time. I’d legit cry if I lost it. The people in the truck were an older Hawaiian couple and they fed me like family. My plate is heaped with BBQ pork, fresh coleslaw, homemade sweet bread, and some kind of paste in a weird gray color that I’m scared of but excited about too. I’ll try anything once.
When I spot Sutton’s Fiat parked in front of the studio with an empty space next to it, I slide right in. With the two cars side by side like this, I get an even better idea of how small hers is. I’m ninety percent sure you could fit the Fiat inside the Jeep, like a mom and her baby. If the Fiat’s mom was an American made badass with fatty tires and a snorkel.
I walk through the door to the studio right at noon. Inside the first door there’s a guard. He checks my ID against the list on a worn-out clipboard before letting me through to the second area. It’s bigger than the first but emptier. The floors, the walls, and the ceiling are all black. It feels like a giant coffin. Despite its size, I feel claustrophobic when the doors close me in. Yesterday Eric told me it’s to let people in and out of the studio during filming without allowing daylight to ruin the show. Both doors are never open at the same time and they’re engineered to open and close soundlessly.
I’m relieved to pass through the second door and into the main studio area. The space explodes from a black box to a massive ballroom. There’s a dancefloor in the middle surrounded by a stage for an orchestra and a staircase that leads to nowhere. On every side there’s seating. Tables with unlit candles in the center are closest to the dancefloor, but in front of it, where the view is the best, are rows of chairs lined up like in a theater. They rise up and up to a second floor. Then a third. Balconies all around the room are lit up with bright white lights that make it all feel more garish than I imagined. Maybe they dim them for the show. Maybe it’s a trick of photography that makes it look softer on TV. I don’t know. Even after my tour yesterday and an afternoon full of explanations on the show and how it works, I don’t feel like I understand all of it. I’m out of my element. That should bother me but it doesn’t. It gets me excited; the feeling turning in my stomach like a living thing inside me. Or maybe that’s the hunger.
Dammit, I’m starving.
I pop the top on the box in my hand to pull a piece of bread from the corner. It’s warm and wet with condensation from the pork next to it. I’m tempted to dig my fingers into it to get a taste, but I satisfy myself with the bread for now. One bite destroys half of the roll and my cheeks are full with it when I turn the knob on the rehearsal room.
There’s a brass bar running across a wall of mirrors on the east side. The floors are light wood, the walls red brick, and the ceilings are high and exposed. I can see every fixture and wire running wild overhead. Yesterday, Eric told me that there are offices above us. His and his assistant producer. The director. The choreographer. On this first level, behind the rehearsal rooms, is a doctor’s office with someone on hand at all hours, in case of emergency. A kitchen is next door to the infirmary to make sure we’re well hydrated and fed. There are green rooms for the posher contestants, but none of us NFL boys have claimed one. Eric told me to make use of any of them in my downtime to watch TV or take a nap on a couch that’s barely long enough for Sutton to catch forty winks. I’d be lucky to get my torso to fit on one.
She’s in the rehearsal room waiting for me. Of course. Her back is to the door but she can see me in the mirror behind the gold bar she’s stretching on. Her leg is up high, reminding me how flexible she is. Her hair is pinned high on her head, exposing her serious face. Her clothes hug her body tight as a second skin in blushing pink and heather gray. She’s barely showing any of her natural skin, but her clothes leave me wanting for almost nothing and everything at the same time. Her body is beautiful packaging wrapped around a sour candy, and I can’t decide if I want to lick her slow or spit her out.
“You’re late,” she tells me in the mirror.
“Hello to you too.”
“Hello,” she replies drolly, adding, “You’re late.”
“By a minute. I was in the building on time.”
“On time is late.”
“Sorry, Boss.”
She frowns at the box in my hand, slowly switching legs on the bar. “What is that?”
“My lunch.”
Her frown deepens. “You can’t eat in here.”
“Is that your rule or the studio’s?”
“Would it matter to you?”
“Not much.” I drop down onto my ass in the middle of the floor with my legs crisscrossed in front of me. I pop the top on the box and dig out a massive sporkful of pork. It dissolves in a savory-sweet breath on my tongue. “Dammit, that’s good,” I mutter happily.
“It smells disgusting.”
“Does that mean you don’t want to share?”
“Fuck no,” she replies emphatically.
I laugh, digging into the coleslaw. “Your loss.”
“That’s what you said about the croissants and I’m still standing.”
“Let me guess. No carbs and no meat?”
“I’m a vegetarian, yes.”
&nb
sp; “So what do you eat, anyway?”
She bends her body flat over her leg, grunting, “Nothing, if I can help it.”
“Sounds miserable.”
“It has its perks.”
“Like what?”
She doesn’t answer me. Her forehead is pressed against her knee, her arms stretched out to curl her fingers around her foot. Her body is incredible, and I think that’s her answer. That’s the perk of not eating anything but lettuce. She looks good, yeah, but she could use a little extra meat on her bones. She’s so thin it’s almost scary.
I eat as she stretches, both of us listening to the soft classical music that fills the room.
“What song is this?” I ask her between bites.
“It’s Fantasia,” she answers, her voice muffled and small. “Mozart.”
“Like the Disney movie?”
“Sure. Yes.”
I smile as I try a bite of the gray pudding. It tastes like glue. “I like it.”
She turns her head to look at me incredulously. “You like Mozart?”
“I definitely wasn’t talking about this shit.” I hold up a load of the viscous nasty for her to see. It slips off the spork and plops back into the box. “Whatever the hell it is.”
“It looks disgusting.”
“Tastes it too.”
“And smells it.” She wrinkles her nose, dropping her foot to the ground. I watch with interest as she makes her way over to me, the disgust on her face deepening. “My God, Shane. You stink. What is that? Pig flavored body spray?”
“It’s BBQ pork in the box and a mix of CK One and Old Spice on my body.”
“And sweat. You definitely smell of sweat.”
“You weren’t supposed to smell that through the CK One and Old Spice.”
“Well, I do and it’s awful.” She turns her back to me, going to the other side of the room. “When you’re finished feeding, go take a shower. There’s a big one in the greenroom closest to the exit. You might fit inside.”
I nod, turning back to the remains of my lunch. “I would have showered before I left the stadium but I didn’t want to be late. I was sure you’d give me a hard time about it.”