“Congratulations, Autumn LaRosa.”
I spit my drink out, sputtering, and some kind person pats me on the back. I bend at the waist, trying to regain some semblance of composure. “Shit,” I mutter and stand upright, only to come face to face with Julius.
“Tell me how much so I can write you a check.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me, Weather Girl. How much did you bid? There is no way in hell I’m spending the day with you.”
At this moment, I realize my only mission in life is to make Julius Cunningham miserable. “I hope you like windows,” I say before turning and walking away. I may look confident on the outside, but my nerves are frayed. By the time I make it to the bathroom, I’m ready to hurl.
Ten
Julius
My weekend sucked. I somehow convinced Reggie and Roxy that we needed to stay in on Sunday. I kept the blinds closed, helped them build a blanket and pillow fort in the living room, turned my phone off, and laid under the tent with the kids watching movies. I may have taken a nap or two as well. Mostly, I laid there and allowed Roxy to climb all over me while I battled the demons in my mind. It’s funny how what I call demons are images of two women: my ex and the Weather Girl.
Weather Girl pulled a fast one on me the other night when she won the auction. I’m confused why she would even bid on me. It’s not like I want to spend time with her. Hell, I can’t even stand to be in the same room as her, and I don’t get it. I don’t know what it is about Autumn and why I’m so hung up on her. I just am, and I hate it. I hate that she’s on my mind. She shouldn’t be. Yet, each time I close my eyes, she’s there, smiling and doing a hair flip, even though I’ve never seen her do such a thing. Every time I see her, she’s poised and unaffected by my brutish behavior. Clearly, whatever subtle message I’m trying to send isn’t working, and I’m going to have to use the powers that be to let her know this, whatever the hell you call it, isn’t happening.
By the time I get to the practice facility, I’m in a mood. I’m not sure I ever came out of my funk, but nonetheless, I’m angry. At the world. My life. Everything around me. Usually, on a bye weekend, I use it to my advantage by taking the kids someplace fun. I should’ve bailed on the fundraiser and taken the kids to Disney or something, but then I’d have to see Elena. After her last trip here, I think it’s best we stay away from each other. Elena gave me some song and dance on how her father is considering pressing charges against me for shoving him. It’s so rewarding seeing your family members evolve over time. I go from being the best thing to ever happen to their daughter, to the worst. Good times.
As soon as I walk into the gym, the guys start catcalling me. Assholes. “I don’t know what you guys are doing, but stop,” I tell them as I step onto the treadmill.
“Where are you going on your fancy date?” one of the rookies asks.
“What date?” I start with a slow jog.
Chase Montgomery chimes in with, “The one with the hot reporter.” Weather Girl.
I ignore my teammates and push the button to increase my speed. Someone hops onto the machine next to me.
“She’s a knockout.” I glance quickly at the voice next to me and groan. Brandon Garrison, our running back and resident loudmouth starts jogging next to me. “You’ll have to take her somewhere cheap so the rest of us can shoot our shot with her. Why she thinks you’re worth it, I’ll never understand.”
“Feel free to take my date,” I tell him. “I’m not interested.”
His eyes widen, and his mouth drops. “Give her my number.”
I sort of shake him off and continue my run. Giving her his number isn’t an option because I don’t plan to spend any time with her at all. Brandon starts running, making me think I’m in the clear, but it’s nothing but a guise.
“Honestly,” he says while jogging next to me. “What’s going on with the two of you?”
“Nothing. I don’t even know her.”
“She bid on you and not the rest of us. Do you expect us to believe you’re not hitting that?”
I push the stop button and set my feet to the side until the belt stops moving. “I don’t know her, aside from an introduction at Noah’s. If you want to take her out, call her. I’m sure Noah can give you an introduction.”
“Julius,” the soft voice of Peyton rings out. I look toward her, and my insides drop. I expected Peyton to talk to me last week, but she never got me from practice or requested a meeting. Yet here she is. I swear, she’s like a principal or something. Anytime she shows up, we know we’re in trouble. The catcalls from earlier turn into heckling as I make my way toward her.
Peyton smiles when I’m near her. “Film time,” she says. To the outside world, Peyton is this tiny woman who doesn’t say boo, but to us, she’s this powerful female who knows more about football than the players. She never tells us we are wrong or makes us feel stupid. Her game film sessions are different. By the time she brings one of us into her office, which is a large room with a massive viewing screen, she’s broken our plays down and asks us to go over them with her. Her favorite question is, “What could’ve been done differently here?” Peyton never blames one person but the entire team.
I follow her to her office. The entire walk there, she keeps her head down, almost like she’s shy. I mean, I know she is, but she’s worked here for a few years now, and I’ve known her a bit longer. I remember when she would come to see Noah play. She would always spend time with us afterward, something that angered his girlfriend at the time, but Noah never cared. When Peyton walked into a room, Noah’s world changed. Before I really knew Noah, I had asked him how long he and Peyton had been hooking up. He was mad and confided that he had only been with her once but never got that night out of his mind. He was in love with her but was afraid of what people might think of him if he pursued a relationship with a teenager.
Peyton sits down at the conference table in her office and presses a few keys on her laptop. On her wall, the film from our previous week appears. A few more clicks and the screen changes to multiple boxes of plays, each one is showing me. I groan.
“Can I preface this by saying I know I had a bad game?”
She looks up from her computer. “You can, but it’s not going to change the outcome of the meeting.”
Ouch, nothing like getting slammed in the gut, but she’s right. I allowed my personal issues to interfere with my job, which should have never happened. I know better. I could easily blame Elena—I mean, it is her fault for showing up—but at the end of the day, the onus lies with me. I have a job to do, one which pays me very well to do it , and I need to get it done.
Play after play, Peyton breaks down what I could’ve changed, where I ran the route wrong, and where I took my eyes off the ball. Losing sight of the ball is the biggest issue. Peyton points out that I’m a second or two late in turning my head toward the pass.
“Something to work on in practice,” I say.
“Yes, I already gave my report to Bud,” Peyton shuts the screen off. I’m thankful I don’t have to stare at my errors anymore. “I do have a list of things you did well during the game if you’d like to go over them?”