Alpha Foxtrot_Offensive Line Read online

  “I’m ready when you are!” I shout to him happily.

  He hesitates, his eyes locked on mine. He’s not grinning anymore. He’s not frowning either. He’s just looking at me with a blank expression that boils my blood.

  Get it together, big guy. Cameras are watching.

  Shane clears his throat before stepping back to throw the ball. I’m ready for it this time. I’m not worried he’ll murder me with it, so when it sails toward me in a tight spiral, I scurry forward to catch it. It lands neatly in my open arms.

  “I got it!” I shout, jumping up and down with the ball tucked in tight to my chest. “Touchdown!”

  Shane chuckles mildly. He waits as I wind up to throw the ball back to him.

  It goes about ten feet before nosediving into the dirt.

  “Oh my God, I’m awful,” I blush, burying my face in my hands.

  He jogs toward the ball, shrugging. “It takes practice.”

  “I’m ready to work. Throw it to me again.”

  He does. Ten more times. And I fail ten more times; each one more spectacular than the first. Shane laughs now and then, but he bottles it up quick as though he’s catching himself. Like he forgot that this was all for show.

  To be fair, there’s a moment where I forget too. He’s running to get the ball back, never making me retrieve it, and as he leans down, his eyes meet mine. I’m still smiling from my last fit of laughter. He smiles back, grinning crooked and genuine in a way that makes my heart twist sharply in my chest. The sun is golden behind him. It shines in his brown hair like flax in the wind. His eyes are big and blue and so, so full. So real. It’s almost painful, the way he looks at me.

  But then, just as quickly as it happens, the moment passes. He turns his back on me and I’m left alone with my errant thoughts. With my traitorous heart.

  I won’t pretend Shane Lowry isn’t hot. He is. He’s hot as hell. He looks like a god on the field with the ball in his hands and the wind at his back. And that hug he gave me was so surprisingly tender it made my spine shiver with delight. But this isn’t The Bachelor. We’re preparing for an intense competition that I fully intend to win, and he needs to be on board with that. I don’t want to play around or flirt like I did with Jace. That shit won’t fly a second time. I’ll be seen as a slut who throws herself at every partner she gets.

  No, things with Shane have to be different. They have to go the way I planned for them when I was partnered with Tom. Professional. Clean. Tight. No gray areas. No hesitation. We’ll win because we’re the best, and I’ll make Shane the best by working his ass off. He can hate me if he wants. It doesn’t matter. This is my world and this is how it’s done.

  “That’s good,” Debbie shouts after the tenth bad throw. “That’s great, you guys. The light is shifting and we’re getting a lot of extra noise from the park filling up. Let’s have you teach him the Foxtrot, Sutton, and then we’ll say our goodbyes.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Whenever you’re ready.”

  I shake my hands out, taking a quick breath. I smile exuberantly as I slowly walk toward Shane. “Okay, I think I’ve been humiliated enough. It’s your turn, mister.”

  Shane gently tosses the football to the side. “Whatever you say, Boss.”

  I smile like I like the nickname, but inside I cringe. I writhe.

  He’s calling me bossy. I hate that. Why is an assertive woman considered bossy and an assertive man is proactive? A real go-getter? Why is it implied that to be a go-getter when you have a vagina is to be a bitch?

  I stop just a few feet from him, making sure we’re both well framed. “How much do you know about dancing?”

  He shakes his head. “Nothing. Not a single f—uh, thing. I don’t know a single thing about dancing.”

  Decent recovery, I think, trying to stay positive. That’s a good sign.

  “That’s okay. The Foxtrot is simple. We’ll try the box for today. It’s four-four timing. Two beats for slow. One beat for quick. Ready?”

  “All of that means nothing to me, but, yeah, I’m ready. I’m watching.”

  “These are your steps.” I point to my feet to draw his attention. “The man always starts on the left foot. Your right foot begins between my feet. And slow,” I glide one long step forward, “quick, quick,” one step to the right before bringing my feet together on the second beat, “slow, quick, quick, slow. Your steps should rotate you to draw a box on the ground. Got it?”

  “I think so.”

  “Let’s see how this is going to work.” I giggle lightly, motioning for him to open his arms for me. “You’re a foot taller than I am. It’s not ideal but I think we can manage.”

  Shane doesn’t answer. He’s focused on getting his hands in the right places. I help guide him where he’s supposed to be, showing him how to keep his arms tight. His hand is hot against mine. His palm on my back is like a blowtorch. I can’t ignore the places where he’s touching me, and I remind myself to breathe slowly to bring myself center.

  “It’s important to keep your form. All the way down to your fingertips,” I tell him gently. My voice hushed the second we touched, the way it always does. This is my church – the space inside his arms. The music in my mind. Dancing is like praying and I treat it with a reverence that I hope he’ll understand someday. “Stay tight but fluid. You want to be graceful but you don’t want to be sloppy.”

  “Be perfect but not on purpose.”

  I smile up at him. It’s the first time it’s been real all day. “Exactly.”

  Shane hesitates, his eyes on my lips. My eyes.

  My smile begins to falter.

  He looks away, clearing his throat. “Start with my right foot.”

  “Your left,” I correct quickly.

  “Yeah, right. Sorry. Start with my left foot and put my right foot between your toes.”

  “And try not to step on them.”

  “Luckily we’re on the grass. You’ll hardly feel it.”

  “You’re nearly three hundred pounds, Shane. I doubt that’s true.”

  He nods, looking down at his Nikes next to mine.

  “Eyes up,” I command softly.

  Shane looks up. He takes a steeling breath that I feel under my hand against his shoulder. He launches us into motion. It’s jerky at first. He’s counting the steps in his head. To his credit, he doesn’t mouth them the way Tom did.

  The cameras move next to us, in and out of my peripheral. I try to ignore them. Shane makes it easy. When they’re behind him, it’s like the sun in an eclipse. It’s like they’re gone and we’re alone and we’re graceful as a star skittering over the sky. I expected him to be rigid given his size, but he’s surprisingly fluid.

  He flexes his hand holding mine. It nearly hurts, but he stops just in time. “How am I doing?”

  “Really well,” I admit with a surprised chuckle.

  Shane smiles, taking the compliment greedily. “My mom will be proud. She loves the show.”

  “Do you watch it with her?”

  “No. I’ve never watched it before.”

  I feel my smile tighten with annoyance. I lick my lips to stretch it out, giving it a break. “That’s fine. I’ve never watched a football game before.”

  “You’re missing out.”

  “So are you.”

  He meets my eyes for a second. He lingers just a beat too long. “I can see that.”

  “Aaaaaaand good!” I tell him theatrically, coming to a firm stop. “That was it. You just learned the basics of the Foxtrot, Mr. Lowry. You’re a bit of a natural.”

  He releases me with a grin. “You’re a good teacher.”

  “I’ll have to be if we’re going to win.”

  “Do you think we have a chance?”

  “Are you kidding? We’re going to kill it.”

  I offer him my hand for a high-five. He claps his against mine firmly, careful not to leave an ounce of sting behind. In addition to being more graceful than I expected he’s also more i
n control of his strength. It’s clear he’s making a conscious effort not to be too rough with me today.

  “I can’t wait to work with you,” I gush. “I know you’re an athlete, but I’m not going to go easy on you. You better bring it every day.”

  “I’ll be there. And I’ll bring whatever you tell me to. Boss.”

  That’s a dig. He knows I hate being called Boss. He must have read it in my face the first time he said it. Now he’s throwing it out to try and shake me. What he doesn’t know is that it takes an earthquake of devastating magnitude to shake me, and his sweet little jab is nothing but a hiccup.

  I point at him playfully. “I want a mug on Thursday with that name on it.”

  “You bet.”

  I step into another hug with him. It’s the second of what will become many. We’ll embrace before performances, after performances, when we survive another round, when we get a good score. When I’m teary eyed and burying my face in his shoulder because we got a bad score. When we’re eliminated in the second round and I can’t face the world. I’ll need a place to hide, and that massive chest of his looks as good a place as any.

  “How long do we do this for?” he whispers in my ear.

  I start, shaking free of him. I wasn’t paying attention and now I have no idea how long I held onto him. The cameras do, though. They see everything. They remember everything.

  “Sorry,” I laugh. I brush my hair away from my face, rolling my eyes. “I was in my head choreographing our first dance. I have a lot of ideas.”

  Shane grins slyly, higher on one side than the other. His eyes are on mine and they’re full of knowing. “I can’t wait to see them.”

  “You will. Ad nauseam.”

  I wave goodbye over my shoulder. One camera follows me as I walk to my car. They film me getting inside. I wave one more time through the windshield to Shane.

  I drive away out of the parking lot, loop around the block down the road, and head back in. I’m gone for less than a minute but by the time I get back, the cameras are on their way to an unmarked van, along with most of the crew. As I park, I see a few people talking with Shane. No, not just talking. Laughing. Joking. I’m barely gone and they’re having a grand ole time. I doubt a single person has reprimanded him for knowing absolutely nothing about how this day was supposed to be shot.

  I’m out of my car and back on the field in record time. Debbie sees me coming. Her smile slips as she mutters to the rest of the group. As soon as they spot me, they disband, leaving Debbie and Shane alone.

  “What happened today?” I ask Debbie, feeling exhausted. I didn’t sleep well last night, for... reasons. I wasn’t ready for today, but I showed up anyway only to find out that the perfect match they found for me needs a crash course in TV Production 101.

  Debbie crosses her arms over her chest, shrugging. “I don’t know what you mean. I think it went great.”

  “Me too,” Shane agrees. His hands are in his pockets, the way they were when I arrived.

  They way he does when he’s copping attitude.

  “You were totally unprofessional,” I snap at him.

  He laughs at me. “I was unprofessional? Me?”

  “Yes. You.”

  “Maybe, but at least I showed up on time.”

  “What are you talking about? I was early. It’s not my fault you all got here even earlier.”

  “You got here at seven-forty.”

  “Yes, and filming was set to start at eight.”

  “Seven,” Debbie corrects.

  I blink at her. “What?”

  “Call time was seven. For everyone.”

  “No, but he told me eight.”

  “Who did?”

  Eric, I think viciously.

  Eric arranged the shoot. He made the times. He knows what they are in his sleep, and he definitely knew them at my apartment last night. But he told me eight. He did it on purpose to put me on the back foot.

  I shake my head. “I don’t remember.”

  “Well, whoever it was, they were wrong. And you’re wrong. Shane did great for a newcomer. He’ll get the hang of it. Right, Shane?”

  “Damn straight, Deb,” he agrees, his voice deep and quiet.

  I scoff. “You’re just renaming everybody today, aren’t you?”

  “It’s her name.”

  “No. It’s Debbie.”

  “No. It’s Deb.”

  “No, it’s not,” I laugh.

  Debbie frowns sympathetically. “Yeah, Sutton, it is. It always has been.”

  I fall back a step, stunned. “Then why have I been calling you ‘Debbie’?”

  “I have no idea.”

  I curse under my breath, looking up. Only ‘up’ is occupied now. ‘Up’ doesn’t get me blue sky and clouds like it used to. Now it gets me blue eyes and a smile that makes me feel like cotton candy inside; airy and sweet.

  “What about you?” I demand of him, sounding as hard as I can. “Is your name Shane or am I making that up too?”

  “Nope. I will today, tomorrow, and always be Shane Lowry.”

  “So I’m not a complete bitch.”

  “Not a complete one, no.”

  Maybe not, but I definitely feel like an ass. Eric has made me feel this way. I blame him for everything. For Shane and how unprepared he is. For the show slowly going under, taking all of us with it like the crew on the Titanic. I blame him for how tired I am. How jaded I feel. I blame him for that sick feeling in my stomach that aches like I ate poison because I did. Being with him was like drinking arsenic. I’m lucky to survive it.

  “You okay?” Shane asks gently.

  The soft sound of his voice shakes me from my inner rant. He’s caught me off guard for the second time today, and the way he’s looking at me scares me. It’s like he sees me. For real sees me and what’s happening inside me, and that thought is even more horrifying than Eric at my door.

  Seriously, how observant is this guy? Am I transparent? I don’t look at myself in the mirror much, but when I do, I’m pretty sure I’m not made of cellophane. I have skin and blood to cover my secrets. I have organs that shroud the pit of me where my demons lie. Where angels hide. But if that’s true, how is it that every Chuck, Fuck, and Larry out and about today is able to see right through me?

  I smile warmly like I don’t have a care in the world. Like I have no idea what he’s talking about. “I’m golden. Don’t worry about me.”

  Shane nods slowly, but he doesn’t believe me.

  Deb squeezes my arm wordlessly before leaving us alone. The crew is almost packed up, meaning the day is over. We can go home now.

  Then why are me and Shane standing here staring at each other in silence? He doesn’t move. Neither do I. Only our shadows do. They trace across the ground together as the sun moves slowly overhead, like they’re locked in a dance. Smooth and graceful. At ease with each other in a way their masters will never be.

  “I wasn’t talking just for the cameras,” I tell him suddenly. “You were quick to pick up the steps. You’re good. I think you’re going to be good.”

  He nods once. “Thanks.”

  “Thanks for stepping in for Tom.”

  “No problem.”

  “It was a shock when we heard what he’d done. I didn’t think he was that kind of person.”

  “Me either.”

  “I’m not a bitch,” I tell him stiffly. “I know I come across as one and people on the crew are going to tell you that I am one, but I’m not.”

  Shane’s lips twitch with a smile he keeps under wraps. “Okay.”

  “I’m passionate. This show means something to me and I hope it will mean something to you too. I hope we can work together toward our goal.”

  “Earning a buttload of money for the charity?”

  I hesitate, feeling like… well, feeling like a bitch because that’s not what I was thinking about. I was thinking about winning. I’m always thinking about winning.

  “You’re due at the studio on Thurs
day,” I remind him, sidestepping his question. “Seven sharp.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “So will I.” I grin, though I feel like growling with frustration. “On time. I promise.”

  “I’ll see you then, Boss.”

  Ugh, I think angrily. But I don’t let it show. I smile, wave goodbye, and head back to my car for the second and last time. I’ll leave for real, go straight to the studio, and lay into Eric for making me late.

  At least, that’s what I want to do, but I know I won’t. I can’t. There’s no way I can look at Eric today. Or tomorrow. I’ll be lucky if I can stomach the sight of him by Thursday for the first day of rehearsal. He’s a sickness in my blood. He’s septic. If I could find the piece of me that he infects over and over again, I’d cut it out.

  I’d gladly take a pound of my own flesh and leave it lying on the ground at his feet to be free.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  SHANE

  May 1st

  Palmetto Warehouse

  Los Angeles, CA

  Colt Avery is a handsome son of a bitch. I’m good looking, but Colt is great looking. It’s disgusting. I’d hate him if I didn’t love him.

  “Where are you taking her?” I ask him curiously.

  Colt stretches his arms to expertly tug his shirt’s white cuff out of the dark wool sleeve of his jacket. He’s wearing a muted blue tie and shining black shoes I’ve never seen before. His dark hair is combed to one side and held in place by a thick coat of gel that makes him look like an extra on Mad Men.

  Dude is dapper as hell.

  “Caprice,” Colt answers. “It’s new. I think Tom Hanks owns it.”

  “What kind of food is it?”

  “Big.”

  “Funny.”

  Colt smiles like a model on a runway. “I’m hilarious, man. You want me to bring you a doggy bag?”

  “Nah, I’m good. I’ve got leftover pizza in the fridge.”

  “You need any beer, help yourself to my stash upstairs.”

  “I already have.”

  “I’ll add the cost to your rent.”

  I chuckle because I know he’s lying. Colt never drinks the beer that companies are constantly sending him. He’s also not a miser. He’s letting me live in the loft below his, the one he normally rents out to tourists, for next to nothing. I had a place of my own but a couple of months ago when we found out the team was sold and the new owners had plans to move us to Las Vegas, I put my condo on the market. The team isn’t leaving L.A. until after this coming season, but I figured it’d take a while to sell the place. I was dead wrong. It sold in the first week, putting me out on my ass until Colt picked me up. Now all my shit is in storage and I’m living in a totally neutral apartment with too many pictures of the ocean on the wall. The only thing that’s actually mine is the wobbly ceramic fruit bowl on the island that my mom made for me when she was going through her pottery phase. Everything else you could probably find at any department store in town.