The bell rings for the end of my freshman history class, and the students grab their books. I gather my things, my head still thinking about Nova—
“Coach!” Bruno, Milo, and Toby fill up the room with their shouts as they rush to my desk. All three are wearing jerseys for spirit day, their faces sweaty. It’s Friday, our bye week.
I raise an eyebrow. “I’m headed to lunch—”
Toby’s face is red, his usually kind eyes hard. “Someone’s snuck on campus and left us a message in the stadium. The maintenance person just saw us in the hall and told us. We ran out there and checked it out, then came here.”
I frown as I come around the desk. I was just at the stadium this morning before I came inside. I’ve heard of pranks from opposing teams in the past—toilet paper, cows let in, trucks that tear up the field . . .
“What is it?”
“You have to see it for yourself to get the full picture. Words don’t do it justice. I mean, it’s unacceptable,” Bruno calls out as he slams his fist into his palm. “They’re messing with our heads! Literally!”
“I see.” I grab my clipboard and whistle. “All right, show me.”
Skeeter joins us in the hall, and I fill him in as we muscle through the lunch crowd, leave the building, and head to the stadium. We enter and step out on the grass.
The sun is high in the sky, and I squint at the field. Holy shit . . . “Are those stuffed animals?” There are hundreds, from one end zone to the other, bits of tuft and mangled bodies covered in fur, red splatter dripping.
“Yep,” comes from Skeeter. “Mutilated.”
I put my hands on my hips and stalk out to center field, where our mascot is painted. There’s a life-size stuffed bobcat lying on top of it, decapitated and covered in red paint. Its jaw is open with a note crammed in. I take it out and unfold it.
Bobcats are dead meat. We will tear you apart piece by piece on the field just like we did these animals. We beat you last year and we’ll beat you again. You’re not good enough to make it to state. And Coach Smith is a loser. He’s only there until he can get a better job. Go fuck yourselves, dickheads.
“Well. That’s uncalled for,” I mutter.
The trio has followed and is trying to read it over my shoulder, but I tuck it into my pocket. No reason to fan the flames.
“This is a squirrel head!” Bruno grouses, jerking one up off the field and waving it around. “And here’s a tiger. Stupid fuc—I mean jerks. They didn’t even use the right animal!”
“I found a teddy bear!” Milo calls from the end zone.
Toby’s mouth tightens. “They must have had to go to every Walmart in the state to get this many stuffed animals.” He kicks one of them, and it sails through the air.
I grit my teeth. Last year, our team had a hill to climb, and we were the underdogs but ended up with a good season, but now that we’re slated as one of the top teams in the state . . . “Who did this?”
Toby gives me a steely look. “My bets are on Huddersfield.”
“That game isn’t for weeks,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. They’re vicious.”
I whip my hat off and slap my leg. “We don’t have a million-dollar stadium for nothing. Let’s check the cameras.”
We march to the control room upstairs, but before we get there, Toby stops us, his tone bitter. He’s got his phone in his hands. “Huddersfield has already claimed it. They posted on Instagram.” He shoves a phone at me, and I stare at a picture of our field littered with red-splattered animals. They must have been up in the stands to get this pic. Fuckers.
“Who is this person?” I ask.
Toby takes his phone back. “A fake account by the looks of it—which means they’ll get away with it.”
Bruno grabs it. “Dude! It’s got over five hundred likes and all kinds of comments.” His shoulders heave as he points out to the field. “This demands revenge.”
Bruno can be a hothead, Toby is the peacemaker, and Milo just goes along, but Toby nods his agreement. Skeeter does, too, and I frown. No, Skeeter . . .
We check the cameras and see a white SUV pulling up and three masked figures getting out, all dressed in black and carrying garbage bags. They seem to be guys, but it’s hard to tell with the view. The license plate is covered in paper. Well planned.
“They knew our schedule,” Toby murmurs.
“They’re watching us,” Bruno says, looking over his shoulder. “They could be right now. Maybe hidden cameras.”
I keep the eye roll in. “More than likely, they got lucky and moved fast. They scattered those toys in less than ten minutes.” I heave out an exhale. “Probably athletes.”
“The players,” Toby says grimly.
“Yeah, they won state last year, and now they’re worried about us,” Bruno snaps. “Trying to fu—I mean mess with us.”
“Back in my day, we’d get them back and make sure everyone knew,” Skeeter mutters.
“That’s what I’m saying! We can’t let this go,” Toby says.
“Where are we gonna get stuffed rams? They have the stupidest mascot. I mean, they keep a live goat in their stadium and pretend it’s a ram. Idiots,” Bruno grumbles.
“That poor goat, all tied up. No family or friends,” Skeeter adds. “Animals deserve to live in the wild.”
“Steal the goat! It’s been done before!” Bruno shouts. “That’s it, Skeeter!”
“Yeah!” call Toby and Milo as they fist-bump each other.
Skeeter starts, then gives me a wild look. “Nah, nah, Coach, I wasn’t suggesting they—”
I cross my arms. “No one is stealing anything. We’re going to let this go.”
The boys gape. “Coach, if we don’t, then we’re pussies,” Bruno argues. “Bobcat pride means something.”
Toby and Milo nod in agreement.
I shake my head. “This team is about integrity. We dress up for games, we use polite language in front of others, we try our best in class, we work our bodies, we practice, and we prepare our hearts. Win the heart, win everything. You can’t do that if you’re consumed with getting back at Huddersfield. That’s what they want. It’s a ploy.” I put my hands on my hips. “Besides, just like on the field, it’s the second person who gets caught. They’d be waiting on you. Don’t stoop to their level. Be better.”
There’s a long silence, the guys not meeting my eyes. Skeeter shuffles his feet, a mumbled “Yeah, what he said” coming from him.
I look at Skeeter. “Get maintenance on this, stat. We need it cleaned up before practice. Call the office, and have someone call the principal over at Huddersfield and see if they had any students absent today. I doubt it will help, but we can see. Also, see if we can get that Insta account down.”
I take in the sullen faces before me. “You three walk with me back to the school. I want you to keep this between us and the team. There’s no need to go half-cocked into the school and start spouting off. It will only make things worse and make fans angry. Got it?”
“But those poor stuffed animals—” Bruno starts.
“No buts,” I say.
He lets out a gust of air. “Yes, sir. My lips are sealed. Can I tell my girlfriend? She and I share everything. She’s a cheerleader, super hot—”
I inhale. “We all know your girlfriend, Bruno. This is just for the team. We can use this as an opportunity. If you see a Huddersfield person out somewhere, be nice, pretend like it never happened, that it didn’t make a blip on your radar. That’s the ultimate revenge.”
They give me doubtful looks.
Bruno’s shoulders dip. “Are you going to give us one of your Art of War quotes?”
“No, Toby is. He’s your captain. Toby?”
I turn my gaze to him, waiting for the leadership I know he has inside him. I’ve heard him repeating our mantras at practice and on the field. He’s my best player, the most dedicated, the one who has a lot to lose if he doesn’t get a scholarship. That thought makes me pause, the idea of leaving him next season; then I push it away. Whether I’m here or not, I’ll make sure Toby gets his education.
Toby straightens his shoulders and paraphrases one of the quotes. “Ponder before you make a move. Think about your enemy and where he’ll be waiting. If you think they’re laying a trap, they are.”
I nod. “Tell them what we should do.”
“Ignore it. They did this to piss us off, hoping we’d have a knee-jerk reaction, maybe get caught and have to sit out a few games and ruin our winning streak,” he says.
Pride soars inside me, and I slap him on the back. “All right. Now, do you mean it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want a promise from each of you that you’ll let this go,” I say.
“We promise,” they say.
We exit, and by the time we get back to the building, we’re talking game strategy and workout routines. Crisis averted. No goats stolen on my watch . . .
“Thank you for my birthday at the Roadhouse. The cake was so good. Chocolate’s my favorite,” Bonnie, Toby’s mom, says as we walk into their small house. It’s on the south side of town, a more run-down area, the houses built in the fifties, the yards small. Toby holds the door open as we head to the den.
Toby settles her gifts and balloons on the counter. Lois picked her out a bedazzled jersey with the number fifteen on it, Toby’s, and a gift card to a ladies’ store in town.
Bonnie and I end up in the den, and I turn on the TV so she can watch a previous game where Toby threw three touchdown passes. She couldn’t go because she was sick.
“What are you having trouble with?” I ask Toby as I come in the kitchen for water. He’s at the table, scowling over his notebook.
He pushes his hair back and groans. “Algebra two. I’ve kinda hit a wall. It’s solving quadratic equations . . .”
I settle down next to him. “Let me see it.”
We huddle over the textbook and go through the problems, step by step. Bonnie comes in and puts the cake and gifts away, asking if we need anything, but we say no and keep at it.
When I was in high school, I focused on my studies, terrified my athletic talent wasn’t enough or would be snatched away from me. Between school and work and taking care of my sisters, I barely had time to do anything else.
“I think I have it,” Toby says a few minutes later. “You can go.”
“You sure? I’m not in a hurry. Trust me. No plans.”
He chews on his lip.
“What’s up?”
“Nothing. I think Mom’s ready for bed, and I haven’t talked to her much,” he says hurriedly, standing up and taking my glass to the sink.
I frown. “Is this about the field today?”
“No, sir. It’s nothing. I swear.”
I study him for a few seconds. I hear him. He wants some alone time with her. Or perhaps something is eating at him, and he isn’t ready to talk.
I clap him on the back. “You’ve got my cell if you need me, ’kay?” I point at the books. “If you get stuck, give me a ring, and we can work it through FaceTime, yeah?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“See you Monday.” I leave for home.
After changing into joggers and an old practice shirt, I head to my office. Dog trots behind me as I grab my guitar and sit in one of the leather recliners. I learned to play from Tuck. I’m not as good as he is, but the more time I spend alone, the more I pick it up.
Dog settles at my feet as I strum a few lines to warm up, then play the opening to “Hurt,” by Johnny Cash, a cover from a Nine Inch Nails song.
I’m humming the lyrics when the door opens, and Nova enters my office. Dog raises his head, yawns, and then plops back down. I give him a glare—Thanks for noting the intruder.
My french doors must have been cracked from when he went out.
She’s wearing shorts, a green tank top, and those boots, her hair up in a high ponytail that reminds me of her in that Leia outfit. It makes my cock twitch. There’s a lightsaber in her hand, and she waves it around, then sets it on my desk as if it’s a king’s scepter.
I keep playing, restarting the song as she approaches.
Her head bobs, fingers tapping the rhythm against her leg; then she starts to sing.
Her voice startles me with its purity, the lyrics clear and spine tingling. It’s a different perspective from Cash’s woeful ballad, her voice sweeter. A memory flies at me, one of her singing in my hotel room. I tug my eyes off her and focus on the guitar.
A quietness fills up the room as the song ends. The hair on my arm is raised, and I drape my eyes over her hungrily and admit, fuck, that the fake kiss in the bookstore was total bullshit. I wanted to kiss her. And yes, I asked her to pretend date, and yes, I cleared it with HR first. What was I thinking?
“Another one,” she says. “It helps me relax.”
Sweat beads on my forehead, and my fingers feel numb as I switch to “Jolene.” She laughs under her breath and belts it out, adding a country twang to her vocals.
“You sing like an angel,” I say after the song as I settle the guitar at my feet. “Did you ever pursue music?”
“Not really. I’m all right, I guess; it was my talent in pageants.” She exhales a long breath, her lips twisting. “So. How long have you known who I was?”
Ah, so that’s why she came over a day early . . .
And here it is.
The part where I need to explain about that night in New York . . .
“It was the day I brought Sparky over. Something about . . .” Our electricity . . . “Anyway, I called Tuck for your name.”
Her eyes glitter. “Ah. My buddy. He can talk a girl into anything.”
My lips flatten. “He said something about offering you a fee—”
She frowns. “Hold on. I never agreed to the money.”
“So why did you do it?” I ask gruffly.
She mutters under her breath.
“What was that?”
She glares at me. “I wanted to meet you, you big doofus.”
“You wanted to meet a washed-up, drunk former quarterback in an outlandish outfit—”
“Tuck presented the idea, and I . . . I . . .” She waves her hand.
“Yes?”
A gust of air comes from her. “I love football, and you played it better than anyone ever had. There. I’ve complimented you.” She shrugs elegant shoulders. “It was a fan moment for me. I didn’t show up to have sex with you. Please. I have sex because I want to.”
Relief washes over me. I smirk. “So. You are a crazy fan.”
She rolls her eyes. “Not anymore—as you know.”
“Right. That night was . . .” I lift my brows, waiting for her to finish.
“You clearly don’t remember what happened—”
“I recall most of it.” I chew on my lip. “It . . . it was a hard time in my life.”
“I see,” she says, her blue eyes softening.
I glance away from her, not prepared for her gentle tone. I recall the state I was in that night, how grief ate at me, and it wasn’t just Whitney I mourned; it was my career, my life. One moment I’d been about to start my tenth year in football and get married—then it had blown up in my face. Something inside me died. My dreams. My faith in my ability to take care of people. My desire to love.
The morning after was a turning point for me; the realization that I was on a path of self-destruction reached a crest and tipped over. I’d hit rock bottom, and Nova was the stepping-stone that pushed me out of that dark pit.
“I was celibate when we met,” I say quietly. “I was rehabbing at first; then later, I just didn’t have the heart to be with anyone else; then you showed up . . .”
A rueful smile rises on her face. “Your teenage fantasy in the flesh. I’ve already forgiven you, Ronan. It was a long time ago.”
But I need her to know. “I knew it was you. I swear.” I shift around. “I’m sorry. The car wreck wouldn’t get out of my head . . .”
She pauses. “I knew her. Not well,” she adds at my inhale. “She did the photography for the kids’ yearbooks once a year. I shared half of my BLT with her once when she forgot her lunch. You kept your private life under wraps, and I didn’t realize who she was, not until the papers wrote up the accident. She seemed really sweet.”
“She was.” I met Whitney at a photo shoot for the team. We dated for nine months, then got engaged. She was petite with blonde hair, and I fell in love with her laugh, her bashfulness, the way she curled her hand around her face at night.
There’s a long silence as we gaze at each other.
“Done. Fresh slate,” Nova murmurs, breaking our gaze. “I brought the lightsaber—found it in Sabine’s old toys—as a gift. It’s completely worthless, but I thought it was cute.” Her chest rises. “And perhaps it will soften my answer: I can’t be your fake girlfriend.”
