Playbook (The Holland Brothers 2), page 6
Anyway, I know you said it was fine but I feel like I need to make it up to you. Since I’ve forwarded the mail, I’ve gotten an idea of what you were dealing with and I’d say that deserves a drink or maybe I should just buy you an entire winery? Let me know.
Brogan
Brogan,
An entire winery, wow. Okay, fine. I want that. In case there aren’t any good wineries looking to sell, I sent something along. Now we’re even.
P.S. It’s a little cringe, but also nice? Please tell me the signed photo was from your underwear modeling ads?
London
By Friday, I’m opening my mailbox with so much anticipation and excitement hoping for another letter. I’m enjoying this letter war entirely too much. I don’t know what that says about me, but when I spot his now familiar handwriting, I am downright giddy. He’s different than he seemed in person. Though to be fair, I didn’t give him a lot of room to say much when we talked at the bar.
London,
What kind of pervert do you take me for? Actually, don’t answer that. I definitely didn’t send a child a picture of me with a sock stuffed in my underwear.
Speaking of underwear, I was delighted that you sent along your grandmother’s. I can only assume that’s who these belong to? I haven’t seen good quality white cotton like this since my second-grade teacher came back from a bathroom break with her skirt tucked into her underwear.
No, I’m afraid we still aren’t good. I’ll keep an eye out for wineries for sale. Do you prefer something small—a hillside mom and pop, multi-generational operation where college kids go on the weekend to get drunk—or something more upscale where people dressed in suits say things like “this has a hint of oak”?
In the meantime, I’m sending tickets to assuage my guilt. Hopefully that’s not also cringe. If it is, then sell them and buy yourself a nice bottle of red. At least then I’ll have bought you the drink I owe you.
Brogan
“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” I mutter to Alec, and then give my apologies to everyone already sitting in their seats as we shuffle past them to the center of the row. We’re late. We were in line for drinks at kickoff, and now that we’re finally down here, people are leaning right and left to see around us.
I’m still clutching the tickets in my hand. Honestly, I keep waiting for someone to stop us and tell us the tickets are fake or we messed up the seat numbers.
“I can’t believe I had to talk you into this.” Alec sits first. His eyes are big, taking it all in, and his smile is huge. “These seats are incredible.”
“We’re so close,” I say, stomach flipping. The Mavericks players not on the field are in front of us, their blue and red uniforms lined up down the sideline. Look, I know Brogan Six isn’t going to run by on the field and happen to look over at the fifty-yard line to check if I’m here, but we’re close enough that he could. And that makes me nervous. I didn’t want to accept the tickets, but once Alec found out, he wouldn’t hear of me not using them.
He had his own selfish reasons, of course. He’s a huge sports fan and turning down good seats to a game is like blasphemy.
“I could spit on the field,” he says.
We’re ten rows up, so yes, technically he probably could, but at the risk of hitting someone.
“Please don’t.” I let my gaze roam over all the blue jerseys. I don’t even know what position Brogan plays or what number he is, so looking for him in the sea of blue feels futile.
Alec chuckles and then leans back, taking a drink of his beer. “Do you think if you get more mail for him, he’ll get you more tickets? I mean, it’s not such a bad trade. You bring him his used panties and I get to go to games for free.”
“Whatever plan you’re concocting, don’t. I am here because I’m a fabulous roommate, but don’t push it.”
Alec’s warm laughter continues.
I’ve only been to one other game, several years ago with Chris. Our seats were so high up. This is a completely different experience. Like Alec, he’s a big fan. He’d be so jealous of me right now.
“There he is.” Alec nudges me.
Since I’d been thinking of Chris, that’s who I’m looking for, but instead it’s Brogan Six I find.
My face grows warm as I stare at him. He jogs off the field with his helmet dangling from one hand. He’s not smiling like he was at the club. Instead he has a serious, almost stoic expression. He’s still the hottest person I’ve seen in real life.
Brogan turns, giving us his back. I smirk when I see his name and number. Six is number six. Cute.
My nerves settle by halftime. I stop worrying about being spotted, though I’m not sure why I was worried in the first place. Not once has Brogan looked up in the crowd for me. He gave me the tickets as an apology, and I accepted. Nothing else needs to transpire between us. We are even.
Though, admittedly, I am enjoying his letters and might even miss them. He’s funny and a little self-deprecating, and there’s just something about receiving a handwritten letter. I might need to get a pen pal. Do people still do that? Probably not twenty-four-year-old women.
Not quite as exciting for him, I’d imagine, since he receives approximately one million a day.
Alec keeps me updated on the game. I know the basics, as in a touchdown is worth six points and a field goal is worth three, but the yardage and whether or not a play is good is harder for me to grasp.
I eat my weight in buttery popcorn and then wash it down with too many beers. In the last minute of the game, I’m buzzed and happy and into it with the crowd as the Mavericks try to take back the lead. They’re down by three points, lined up at the sixty-yard line on a third down. I continue to be bad at keeping track of the downs, but Alec is currently whispering, “Third down, boys, come on.”
We all get to our feet as the ball is snapped. The quarterback surveys the field. My eye is drawn to Brogan. During the course of the game, I’ve learned that he is a tight end. He runs, pushes people around, and tries to get open for the ball and some other things that Alec said, but I stopped listening after he started going on about how it’s an important position with a lot of responsibility.
When I find him, he’s down the field with defenders in front and back of him. I glance away to see if anyone else is open, but the other team is doing a good job on defense—something I also got from Alec.
The crowd gasps when the quarterback gets rushed and is forced to throw a long pass down the field. Then everyone goes quiet as the ball sails toward Brogan.
“That’s the game,” some guy in front of us says and then groans. He takes off his Mavericks hat and whips it down to his side as he starts for the aisle.
Brogan jumps into the air, both of the defenders do the same, but the Mavericks rookie’s hands reach just above theirs, and somehow he comes down with the ball.
He’s hit on either side and the three of them crash to the ground in a tangle of limbs, but when the referee raises both hands indicating a touchdown, the stadium goes nuts.
“Holy shit!” Alec yells, jumping. He turns to me, then quickly back to the field.
Brogan stands with the ball and then does a backflip in celebration. His teammates run to him, and all the while Mavericks fans are still screaming their heads off. Me and Alec included.
It feels like it takes us forever to get out of the stadium. My beer buzz is nearly gone by the time the Uber pulls up to our apartment.
Alec downs Advil and a glass of water before heading to bed. I have no idea how he manages on so little sleep. He has to be at the station by four for hair and makeup.
I should go to sleep too, but I’m too wired. After I wash my face and brush my teeth, I sit down on my bed with my laptop. My ears still ring from the noise of the game. I check email, then scroll through reels for a while. Eventually though, I’m too antsy to even sit still.
I get up and go to my desk. The letters from Brogan are stacked next to my laptop. I pick up one and reread it. Then do the same with the others. Writing letters is an intimate thing. Even when you don’t exchange any personal information, it still tells you so much about the person. Like, he’s considerate and cares about his young fans. He’s witty, and I like his sense of humor. Writing to him, I let myself get caught up in the fun. I got caught up in him. But he’s a professional athlete with literally thousands, if not millions, of fans.
I wonder if he knew I was there. Can he check that the tickets were used? I roll my bottom lip behind my teeth as I think.
It would be rude not to at least let him know I accepted his apology tickets. Grabbing my phone, I type in his number and save it to my contacts. I have Brogan Six’s number. It sends a little rush through me even if I never plan to use it again.
Me
Thank you for the tickets. We are now officially 100% even.
It was a great game. Nice catch.
I hit send, then reconsider everything I wrote. Nice catch? Is that what you’re supposed to say to someone when they get a touchdown? I have no clue. Oh shit, I realize he doesn’t have my number.
Me
It’s London by the way.
SEVEN
“That was the luckiest fucking throw I’ve ever seen,” Hendrick says as we sit around the bar. He has one arm around his wife, Jane, and the other is draped on the table, fingers around the beer bottle.
Knox and his girlfriend, Avery, are across from them, and Archer and I sit at the ends. They all drove up for the first home game of the season. It was a trip knowing they were in the stands tonight. Sure, they came to lots of our college games, but this was different. It was special. Family making time for family.
I glance at Archer to see if he feels that too, but I can’t read his expression tonight. He’s not even trying to keep up with the conversation like normal. Because of his hearing loss, he usually watches closely to read lips or we sign for him. But he’s not watching for either. He’s been battling an ankle sprain all week and didn’t get the minutes he wanted tonight. I think he’s disappointed, but it’s just the first game. There will be lots of opportunities for him.
“The throw was lucky, but the catch was all skill. I’ve got good hands,” I say with a smirk, signing too, just in case Archer looks up.
The entire table laughs. Knox rolls his eyes. “I didn’t think your ego could get any bigger. Guess I was wrong.”
“A nationwide underwear ad will do that to a guy.” Jane leans forward on her elbows, but angles her face so Archer can read her lips. “Tell the truth, did they make you stuff your crotch?”
“You cannot ask other guys about the size of their dick, wife,” Hendrick says, then to me, “Don’t answer that.”
I keep my mouth shut until he looks away and then mouth to Jane, “All me.”
She giggles good-naturedly. She’s about as interested in my dick as Hendrick is, but she’s fun. I miss her. I miss all of them.
“How’s Flynn?” I ask. It’s his first week of college classes. It feels weird without him here.
“Good,” Knox answers. “Or that’s his standard answer when I ask anyway.”
Baby Holland has never been that talkative, which I’m sure is annoying the shit out of Knox now that they’re a thousand miles apart.
“Yo, Ave. Did you catch that backflip in the end zone?” I ask Knox’s girlfriend, and then take a long gulp of my beer. I swear it tastes better tonight after catching the game-winning touchdown.
“I sure did,” she says, smiling. Her blue eyes sparkle with pride.
She’s a gymnast, and when I got drafted by the Mavericks, I asked for some tips on perfecting my touchdown celebration. It was between a backflip and a little dance I choreographed myself. I guess my dance moves left something to be desired.
My phone is buzzing in my pocket. It has been nonstop since we got here.
“I’m gonna grab another beer. Anyone else ready for another?” I ask, glancing around the group.
Archer is the only one that raises his hand, and I slip off to the bar to get our drinks. While I wait, I pull out my phone.
Unknown
Hey, it’s Sabrina again…
That uneasy feeling claws up my spine. What the hell does this girl want? Her texts, what I’ve read of them, don’t read flirty, but I have no idea why else she’d be so insistent to talk to me.
Not for the first time, I consider replying and asking…shit, I don’t even know what. Who are you? How’d you get this number? What do you want?
It probably doesn’t say a lot about me that I assume it’s something bad. Since I got drafted, nearly all random emails, calls, texts, and even snail mail have been bad news.
Sure, a few friends from high school have reached out to say congrats or ask for tickets to a game. That, I don’t mind. It’s the people who I know don’t give a shit about me and still think they deserve something from me that make it hard to trust some random stranger reaching out to chat.
I close out of the text from Sabrina and navigate to another unknown text as the bartender hands me my beers.
“On the house,” he says. “Great game tonight.”
“Thanks, man.” I dip my head to him in appreciation and shove all the cash in my wallet in the tip jar. I used to bartend back in Valley while finishing college. It was a cool job. I liked chatting up people and the energy on a busy night when The Tipsy Rose was the place to be.
I’d say I miss it, but nothing is as cool as getting paid to play football.
As I carry the beers back to the table in one hand, I return my focus to my phone. I stop in my tracks as I read the two texts from London.
I damn near trip over my chair as I reread them, shuffling back to my seat.
“Walk much?” Knox asks dryly, catching my chair before it topples over.
“Shit, sorry.”
My smile grows as I take a seat.
When I finally look up, everyone is staring at me.
I slide Archer his beer and he shoots me a puzzled look. “Georgia?”
I’m glad to see him engaging in conversation a little even if he still looks bummed. “No. You remember that chick from the club?”
“The one who thought you were buying used panties?”
“One and the same,” I say with a wince.
“Gross, really?” Jane asks with a look of horror on her face.
“I don’t,” I clarify. Then I explain the situation with the PO Box. I got it after the underwear ads started popping up. I started getting a lot of mail and didn’t love the idea of people having my real address. Archer and I had a good laugh over a few of the letters from women who asked for a lock of my hair or detailed out the things they’d like to do to me (or me do to them), but then I just stopped opening it. It was too much.
Arch and I moved shortly after and I closed the PO Box and started using my agent’s address on my website and other public sites. He forwards a few things. Letters from kids that want autographs or who say that I’m their hero. I hadn’t given the rest of it much thought since then. Until London.
“Wait.” Avery holds up a hand. “People send you their dirty panties?”
“Oh yeah.” Arch answers for me. “And that’s not even the weirdest thing. One woman photoshopped images of them together. It was pretty convincing.”
“That’s weirder than crusty undies?” Jane asks. “I’ve received some strange fan mail, but that’s just nasty.”
Jane was a child TV star. She has this amazing voice and a flair for the dramatic.
“They were naked photos,” Arch says, one side of his mouth pulling up in a smile.
“Oh, that’s creepy.” Knox shakes his head and grimaces. He pulls Avery closer to him. It still catches me by surprise sometimes when I see him all lovey-dovey. I never thought he’d fall so hard for a girl, but Avery is perfect for him. She takes no shit, and Knox…gives a lot of shit.
“Why is she texting you?” Jane asks, bringing me back to the texts on my phone.
“I sent her tickets to the game as an apology.”
“Smooth, bro.” Hendrick nods his approval, grinning.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t think she was there. I looked for her right before the game started and didn’t see her, but she texted to thank me for the tickets and said nice game.”
“Is she hot?” Jane asks.
“He wouldn’t have sent her tickets if she weren’t,” Knox pipes up.
“That’s not true. I felt bad.” I still do. I messed up by not forwarding my mail and I wanted to own that. Also, I really don’t like being on anyone’s shit list. Not Billy Boones’ and especially not hers.
“She’s hot,” Archer confirms.
I glare at him. I didn’t tell him I thought she was hot, so those are his words. I feel a little hit of jealousy, which is absurd. She’s about as interested in me as Jane is in my dick size. At least according to her letters.
But still…she came tonight and she texted.
“What does she look like? I need a visual,” Avery says.
Knox laughs. “Are you tired of me, princess?”
“What? No, of course not. I just need to live vicariously through other people now that I’m off the market.” She refocuses her attention on me. “Hair color?”
“Brunette,” Archer answers.
“Dark brown, just a hint of red to it,” I clarify. Brunette sounds too boring to describe anything about London.
“Long or short?” Avery is leaning forward, taking in all my answers.
“Long-ish.” It came down past her tits is on the tip of my tongue. Instead, I motion to about where it hung.
“Eyes?”
Hendrick laughs. “Do you have a picture? Might be easier.”
“Sorry I didn’t think to snap one while she was yelling at me. And her eyes were this stunning shade of green. Like a four-leaf clover.”
