The Keeping Score Box Set

by Tawdra Kandle

  A combo of nerves and joy jumped in my gut. I wanted Quinn with me . . . and at the same time, I was terrified of fucking it up. Still, nothing said we couldn’t continue to take things slowly. It would just be a whole hell of a lot easier when we were in the same time zone.

  “I think that sounds perfect.” I risked brushing my lips over the top of her hair. “Have you been thinking about where you want to stay? And what you want to do?”

  “The housing part . . . I’m going to suck it up and go stay down the shore for a while. That house is sitting empty, and I’m afraid that if I don’t go back sooner rather than later, I might never feel comfortable there. I need to reclaim it. Make some good memories again, you know? I’ll invite the girls to come down and stay with me for a weekend, maybe.” She lolled her head back to rest on my arm. “And if you’re a very good boy, I might even invite you up to stay with me when you have the time.”

  “Baby, I’m really good at making happy memories.” I nuzzled her neck, breathing in her indefinable Quinn scent. “I’m down for that.”

  “As for what I want to do, I might have an idea. Kara and I were talking in the kitchen tonight while we were cooking. She asked me what I was passionate about, and I came up with two things: writing and football. Because she’s Kara, of course she has a friend who was one of the pioneers among women who cover men’s sports. Her name’s Marla Smith Long—have you heard of her?”

  I crinkled my brow. “Maybe. The name sounds familiar.”

  “Anyway, a few years back, she launched an on-line news outlet that covers sports, particularly football, which is apparently her consuming love. Kara says she’s just expanding into a new angle, covering the human interest aspect of football players and other members of the team—the coaches, the GMs, owners and so on. It sounds like something I’d love to do, so Kara’s going to set up a meeting for us.”

  “Wow.” I wasn’t sure if this was good news or not. “Would it mean staying in California?”

  A slow smile spread over Quinn’s face. “That would make for a very long commute, seeing as her headquarters is in Washington, D.C.”

  “Seriously?” My heart felt like it might thump out of my chest. “Babe, that would be excellent. Does it sound like what you want to do?”

  She giggled. “Why do you think I’d bring it up if it didn’t? It sounds more than exciting. More like absolutely perfect—exactly the kind of writing I’d like to do, in just about the perfect spot. Oh, and I wouldn’t have to live in D.C.—since everything is online, I’d only have to go up there once or twice a month.”

  I shifted, turning Quinn in my arms so that she was facing me more fully. “You said up. That implies you’d be living . . . south of D.C., right? Any particular city you have in mind?”

  She rolled her eyes to the ceiling, sucking in her bottom lip. “Hmmm. I don’t know. I’ve always thought North Carolina would be a great place to live—”

  Her words ended in a shriek of laughter as I tackled, tickling the spots I knew were her most vulnerable: on the sides of her ribs, just above her hips and the backs of her knees. Quinn curled into a ball, trying to get away from my fingers, and I took advantage of her position, pinning her shoulders to the sofa cushion as I held myself above her, my face close to hers.

  “Where is it you want to live?” I hovered there, with my mouth a breath away from touching her.

  She gasped, trying not to laugh, even though I could feel her trembling beneath me. “Ummm . . . Baltimore?”

  Lowering myself a bit more, until the tips of her breasts teased against my chest, I skimmed my lips along her jaw. “Baltimore isn’t south of D.C., babe. You need to brush up on your geography.” I found the sensitive pulse just under her ear and flickered my tongue there. “Now where is it you want to live?”

  She’d gone still, so silent that I could feel the thud of her heart in my own ribcage. When her lips parted, I heard the whisper of her answer float across my cheek.

  “Wherever you are. That’s where I want to live.”

  It wasn’t the reply I’d expected; it was so much better, so much more that I almost lost my balance. I found my center again staring down into her eyes.

  “And I want to be wherever you are. No matter what, Mia, you’re my home.”

  Before she could draw another breath, I crushed my lips to hers, meeting her mouth in a kiss that I’d been wishing for and dreaming about for the past three years. For a few seconds, I only reveled in the sensation of being linked with her again, feeling her move beneath me. When her lips parted and her tongue sought mine, I met her stroke for stroke, learning again the landscape of her mouth.

  I didn’t move my hands from where they braced on either side of her head, and Quinn kept her arms twined around my neck. As if by unspoken, mutual agreement, we knew that for tonight, this was enough. This kiss . . . it had been a long time in the coming, and it deserved its own place, not merely as a prelude to something more. I knew there was no way I’d be able to get on that plane tomorrow if I made love to Quinn tonight. I’d never be able to leave her here and go back to Virginia to survive training camp.

  But this . . . this lazy, intense, incredible meeting of our mouths, our lips and our tongues was more than just a tease. It was a promise that we were making to each other, a commitment that this time, finally, was going to be forever.

  Even More Mine by Rita Wilson

  When I was growing up, football was a regular part of my life. My dad took me to games from the time I was little, and then once Leo began playing, I never missed seeing him play, from grade school on. In high school, watching him play and then go off with a different cheerleader every time had broken my heart on a weekly basis, until that brief, bright few months in junior year when he’d been mine—and then football had been more than fun, it had been almost foreplay.

  During Leo’s years at Carolina, I’d been at as many of his games as I could manage. If I wasn’t there in person, I was devouring his moves on television. Watching him improve each week, find his own graceful rhythm, had been sweet while we were together and then bittersweet after we’d broken up.

  As I made my way into the Richmond Rebels’ stadium on the first Sunday of the season, I realized how much I had missed this. Football. I’d missed the excited chatter of fans ready to see their team play, the smell that was an enticing mix of tobacco, beer and football food, and the anticipation of a game and a season that was still so full of potential. Sighing in satisfaction, I consulted the text Leo had sent me with instructions on how to get to the seat he’d reserved for me.

  I wouldn’t have minded sitting in the stands, but Leo had insisted that I join the other team families in the box set aside for them by the Rebel organization. Consequently, I ended up flashing my pass and ID to a series of guards, each of whom passed me a little further along the way, until I stepped out of an elevator into a wide hallway. A woman with long dark hair wearing a gray knee-length skirt, black heels and a royal blue sleeveless silk blouse clicked over to me, beaming.

  “Quinn? Are you Quinn Russell?”

  I nodded, immediately feeling underdressed and unkempt. I’d worn jeans with short sleeve shirt and ballet flats, and my hair was in a low ponytail. It was the same kind of outfit I used to wear to games when we were in college, and it hadn’t occurred to me that the wives and girlfriends might have a dress code here.

  “I am so happy to meet you finally!” The woman pulled me into a quick, tight hug. “I’m Ellie Iverson, and you’re just as gorgeous as Leo told us. He asked me to keep an eye out for you and show you where we sit and so on. Come on, it’s this way.”

  Tugging me by the hand, she led me through a door, into a room whose opposite side opened out into the stadium. I blinked at the vivid green of the field in the bright sunshine, even as I drank in the sight of the Rebels warming up out there. If I’d been alone, I would’ve been craning my neck, looking for number twenty-two.

  “It’s not fancy, but it gives us a littl
e bit of privacy,” Ellie was saying. “We have our own restrooms, and there’s a beverage station and some basic stadium food. Corey’s only played for the Rebels, but I hear from some of the wives that other teams provide fancier boxes. But then again, there are a few who don’t give the families any special seating at all. So I’m not complaining.”

  “Okay.” I nodded. “Are there assigned seats down there, or can I sit anywhere? I don’t want to step on toes.”

  “Nothing is formally assigned, but you know . . .” She rolled her eyes. “There’s a seniority system. But don’t worry. Everyone is pretty nice, and if you’re in someone’s seat, she’ll just ask you to scoot. Stick with me, though, for today. I’ll make sure everything goes smoothly.”

  That sounded like a great idea and a good plan, so I followed Ellie down a few steps into the seats. There weren’t many people there yet, but the few who were seated greeted us, eyeing me with curiosity. Ellie introduced me each time as ‘Leo Taylor’s friend Quinn.’ There were more than a few arch expressions, but I pasted on my aren’t-I-glad-to-meet-you smile and soldiered on. I knew I was never going to remember all the names or faces, but I was good at faking it.

  By the time we found seats, I was relieved to sit and not have to worry about what to do with my hands and feet. I leaned forward a little, peering down to where the players were still warming up on the field. Richmond was closest to us, and the visiting team from Detroit was on the far end, doing their own pregame prep.

  “There he is.” Ellie pointed one manicured finger, and I followed the line of her sight to number twenty-two. As my heart began to beat a little faster, excited to see him, Leo turned his head, and although it was too far away for me to know for sure that his eyes were moving, I was certain that he was scanning this section. I resisted the urge to wave—but barely. I didn’t want to make a spectacle of myself on the first day.

  “Oh, he sees you. Look.” Ellie nodded down at the field, where Leo was jogging casually in our direction. When he reached the edge, he stopped, touched his fingers to his lips and raised them. It was a quick movement, and for someone who wasn’t looking for it, the gesture would have been meaningless, maybe taken for just a stretch or adjustment. But I knew what it was.

  “How sweet is that . . . he blew you a kiss.” Ellie beamed. “Now just about five men behind him . . . see there? Number seventy-five? That’s my guy.”

  I felt a tiny bit more settled now that I’d seen Leo and knew he’d seen me. I smiled at Ellie. “Leo talks about the two of you all the time. You’ve been very good to him since he came to Richmond, I hear. I appreciate that.”

  She waved her hand. “He’s a sweetie—so respectful and level-headed, you know. A lot of the college kids hit the pros and go wild—or keep going wild, as the case may be—but Leo’s kept a low profile and worked hard every day. We’re so excited about this charity he’s launching, too. A really wonderful idea, that.”

  “I know.” I nodded. “I think it’s giving Leo a sense that his friend Matt’s life won’t have been meaningless. It’s also been terrific for Matt’s girlfriend, Gia. She’s one of my best friends, and the last year or so has been a real struggle. I’ve been worried about her.”

  Ellie sighed. “What all of you have been through is staggering. Honestly, Quinn, I have tremendous respect for you. I know things haven’t been easy, but you seem to have it all together.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving.” I thought back to a couple of weeks before, when I’d landed in Philadelphia. I’d planned to get a shuttle to Mark and Sheri’s house, where my mother had left my car before she and Shane had taken off for Europe, and then drive down to the shore house. But instead, when I’d left the restricted area of the airport, Zelda and Gia had been waiting for me on the other side.

  “As if we were going to let you do this by yourself?” Zelda had cuffed me on the arm. “I’m pissed that you didn’t ask us to pick you up. Now come on, let’s get your bags. We’re going to stop for your car, and then Gia’s going to ride with you while I follow behind on the drive to the shore. We’re staying with you overnight, and then she and I will head back tomorrow afternoon.”

  And that was just what they had done. I’d been pathetically grateful for their presence, because coming home was harder than I’d expected. After months of living in peace in California, back in Eatonboro, even for a brief stop, meant that I saw Nate around every corner . . . and then, of course, Mark and Sheri were waiting for me at their house when I stopped for the car.

  The reunion had been awkward at first; I hadn’t seen the Wellmans since right after Nate’s funeral, and the entire time we stood in the front hall of their house, I was ultra-aware that one of the chief reasons I’d come home was to be with Leo. Although in my heart I knew I’d done nothing wrong, I was still uncomfortable.

  Leaving them and driving to the shore, then, had been a relief. Gia had chatted with me the entire way, which was a welcome change from the mostly-silent girl I’d left behind. It was only as we’d pulled up in front of the house that dread had clutched at my stomach. The last time I’d been here had been New Year’s Day, and in my mind’s eye, I could still see the black hearse that had parked in the driveway to pick up Nate’s body. I stood on the porch with the girls, both of them silent and watchful.

  It was Zelda who spoke first. “Do you remember the time the three of us came down here, when we were sophomores? Your mom was away, and we were so excited to sneak down to the shore . . . we had big plans for getting wasted and going to the boardwalk, maybe even going to Atlantic City for the clubs at the casinos.”

  Gia laughed. “You two were trying to cheer me up and distract me, because Matt and I had just gotten into a huge fight—as we usually did—and I was sulky. But then we got down here, put on our sweats . . .”

  “And we never left the house all weekend,” I finished. “We had pizza delivered, and we maybe drank a beer or two a piece the entire time. We watched movies—did we walk on the beach? I can’t remember.”

  “I think we did. God, we were lame.” Zelda laughed and so as we went into the house for the first time, it was with happy memories and laughter instead of dread.

  The girls allowed me one silent walk-through of the house. All of the elements of Nate’s brief occupancy had been removed long ago. The hospital bed that had dominated my bedroom was gone, as were the medicines and other equipment. I knew my mother had spent a weekend cleaning the place from top to bottom, with the help of Leo’s parents.

  “It’s as if he was never here. As if . . . almost as if that last year didn’t happen.” I touched a shelf in my bedroom where I’d kept all the booklets and paperwork from hospice, wondering where Jacey was now and what family she was currently guiding through loss.

  “But it did happen.” Zelda put an arm around me and pulled me to her side. “It happened, and you were marvelous and amazing, and now it’s time to move forward. You’ve more than earned that right.”

  After Gia and Zelda had left the following day, I’d determinedly not allowed myself to sink back into the gloomy inertia that had gripped me after Nate’s death. I’d talked to Leo at least once a day; although he was knee-deep in training camp still, he’d call me late at night or first thing in the morning, and we’d chat as long as we could. I was still planning to be in Richmond for opening day, and as if by unspoken mutual consent, we didn’t try to see each other before then. I knew he was crazy-busy getting ready for the kick-off of the season—literally and figuratively—and I needed a little time to find my center and clarity again.

  “I can’t believe you haven’t seen each other for over six weeks. Leo’s been bouncing off the walls, he’s so excited about you being here. He said you stopped for a job interview on the way down. How did that go?”

  I smiled. “It was more a formality than anything else. I’d had the real interview back in San Francisco last month, when I met Marla Long, so this was a confirmation and the usual personnel stuff—filling out paperw
ork and so on.”

  “It sounds like a wonderful opportunity.” Ellie shaded her eyes as she watched the players begin to straggle off the field and back down the tunnels into their respective locker rooms. “You’ll be writing about football, but with a different angle?”

  “Exactly. I’ll be covering it from the more personal perspective—how this game, this lifestyle, affects the players, the coaches and their families. Marla thinks women journalists in particular have the ability to handle this kind of story without being intrusive, you know? I won’t be writing about scandals or rumors. She’s very clear about the lines she won’t cross.” I shifted a little, facing Ellie. “Of course, though, if the player and his family are willing, we’d love to tell the happy stories, the ones that highlight the pro football players who are doing things right. Like for instance, the left tackle for the Richmond Rebels and the girl who’s been by his side for over a decade.”

  Ellie laughed. “Oh, honey, that would be downright boring for your readers. But sure, if you want to write about Corey and me, we’re open books. I’d love to talk with you about our lives. So many people think the pros are all about the guys making tons of money, partying and sleeping around. There are far more solid families like ours than most of the public realizes.”

  “Which is exactly the angle that Marla wants to promote. The bad news stories, the sensational stuff—they get all the press. We want to talk up the players who are showing up and getting the job done, without compromising their marriages and families.”

  “It’s not an easy life.” She flashed me an apologetic glance. “I know that your experience with football and being Leo’s girlfriend—Leo the football player, not Leo the man—hasn’t always been positive. And there are definite challenges. I’m fully aware that there are both players and staff who resent me. There are guys who give Corey a hard time about being a faithful husband. I know who they are, and you know what I do? I invite them over for dinner, and I don’t take no for an answer. I cook ‘em up my best recipes, and I try to introduce them to women who would be good for them . . . it doesn’t always work. Sometimes they toss all my hospitality and kindness right back in my face, and that’s their prerogative, for sure. But sometimes it really does make a difference.”