First Position (25 page)

“I know.”  Steven took a long drink.  “You can blame me for some of that.”

“I sure as hell can.  What the fuck happened to attorney-client privilege?”  Mason flicked Steven’s ear with his finger.  “Does Olivia know about the Seattle offer?  I don’t want her blurting out something to Emory.”

Steven assured him Olivia didn’t know any details about the Seattle offer, but urged him to just come clean like Olivia had suggested.  It would avoid any problems.  The last thing Steven wanted was a huge fight before the press conference, and he wasn’t sure how long he could keep the details of the contract offers from being leaked.

“I’ll think about telling her,” Mason said, standing up.  “Let’s go back inside.”

Steven took out his phone.  “You mean you don’t want to check back with Mom first?”

* * *

“What have you two been talking about?”  Mason asked, concerned.

“I was just promising Olivia I would teach the next Mason boy how to play cards and dance, since you two can’t do either.”  Emory and Olivia giggled together.

“Wow, maybe we should’ve just stayed in the lobby?” Mason wondered.

Clive gave a wide smile.  “I wish you would have.”  He handed the men another longneck, and Mason dropped a twenty in the tip jar.

Olivia jumped in the fun.  “While you guys were outside doing whatever, Emory told me about the real gems that Steven brought to Mason’s games.  And by gems, I don’t mean Emory.”

A twinkle came into Mason’s eyes.  “I may have heard about them before,” he said, then turned to Steven. “But I need to be reminded.”

Steven threw his arms up in surrender.  He couldn’t understand how he’d turned into the laughing-stock of the evening
.
A sanction for violating attorney-client privilege
?
  But whatever the reason, it didn’t matter.  His wife was having a good time, and he hadn’t seen his brother this happy, this eager, this carefree, in a long time.  He saw Emory was different, too.  He’d seen her only once -- at college graduation -- since Mason stupidly broke up with her, remembering how she looked that day, a shell of the once happy-go-lucky girl, beyond thin, with her skin no longer shiny, hobbling around with her foot in a boot.  But the old Emory was now back.  She and his wife could tease him all night, and it would be fine with him.

“Apparently there was a real dorky girl who read her contracts law textbook for the whole game,” Olivia said.

“Such a nerd!”  Emory said.  “Didn’t say a word the whole game.  Weirdo.”

“Hey, she was a very nice girl.”  Steven retorted, but couldn’t help laughing.  “Very studious.” 

“And there was the one who dressed all in black to protest the brutality of the sport,” Olivia said, piling on.

Mason looked at Steven.  “Why did you bring her?”

“I don’t know.  It was a long time ago,” Steven said, shrinking on his stool.  “She looked really good in black, maybe?”

“She was a troll!” Emory blurted out.

Olivia elbowed her husband.  “I sure hope you think you’ve upgraded.”

“I have, baby.”  Steven kissed her cheek and rubbed her belly.  “First class now.”

Mason looked at the three of them, his three favorite people in the world, laughing and enjoying themselves.  Miraculously, and with the help of Clive, he now found himself with all of them in a hotel bar in downtown Charlotte.  For so many different reasons, this was unthinkable just a few weeks ago.

* * *

Tomás stood in front of a blank canvas in his art studio, surrounded by half-painted ones littered on the floor.  He looked over the myriad color choices at his disposal, but none seemed right.  In fact, nothing seemed right.  He held a paintbrush in his hand.  He’d tried to force various ideas, hoping that the mere act of beginning would stir some direction, but it hadn’t.  It only stirred more frustration and failure.

The hotel had forwarded him a significant advance for the painting, having made the request on short notice.  But the nice advance didn’t ease Tomás’ trouble -- it was beyond a mere deadline.  He was without ideas or imagination, his creative energy eroded.  He saw the wreckage on the floor around him and wondered whether Wesley had suffered, as he had.  He was surprised Wesley hadn’t called, but figured that he, too, wouldn’t reach out to a person who’d broken his heart.

As a matter of course, he’d always invite Wesley to review a painting or sculpture or other work before presenting the finished product to a client.  Wesley each time provided constructive criticism -- a different color here, or a different emphasis there.  Wesley made the art better, just as he made Tomás better.  But he couldn’t call Wesley now about the hotel painting, or any other lingering work.  It would be selfish and beyond awkward, and Wesley was not without pride.  He simply had no incentive to help anymore.  Tomás put down his paintbrush and worried about his deadlines -- and his own pride.

He walked into the small kitchen adjoining his studio, hoping that food would help spur some creativity.  He opened the refrigerator door and grabbed a hard boiled egg, placing it on a paper plate.  He cracked the egg and peeled the shell, staring at the pieces scattered on the plate, then the canvases on his floor. 
 
What a broken mess
.
  He looked at a picture hanging on his wall, a picture of him and Wesley visiting Sea Island last summer. 

Tomás shook salt and pepper on the egg, and took a tiny, unsatisfying bite, tossing the remainder in the trash.  He walked to a chair and turned on the television, flipping around until he found an action movie.  He curled up his legs and leaned his head against the back of the chair.  There was gunfire and blood.  He knew Wesley would love it, and wondered if he was watching.

* * *

Emory sat barefoot on the sofa in Mason’s hotel room, her legs tucked underneath her.  She twirled her hair with her left hand and watched as Mason turned on the fireplace.  She closed her eyes, still unsure if the whirlwind that had become her life was real.  She felt Mason sit beside her and saw him holding two glasses of wine, handing one to her.  She placed her glass on the coffee table.  “I think I’ve had enough tonight.”  Mason frowned and took a sip from his glass.  “Before you get even more drunk, tell me about Alexis.”

Mason shook his head, leaning in for a kiss, but she pushed away, smiling.  “OK, if we have to,” he said, “it might help if I drink some more.”

“We do have to.”  She took his glass and placed it on the table.  “I felt left out at dinner.  Everyone knew about the prenup but me.”

“I’m sorry you felt that way.”

“And I don’t even give a shit about the prenup.  Give her all your money, or don’t -- I don’t care.”

“If you don’t care, then why do we need to talk about this?”

“Because, Mason, that’s what people in relationships do.  They share things with each other.”

“I just don’t want our relationship to become about Alexis or Eric or anything else other than us.”

Emory took a deep breath.  “I understand that.  But if you really love me like you say you do,” she said, her voice cracking, “then I should be the first to know things, not the last.”

He closed his eyes and lowered his head, hoping his sullen demeanor would make her stop.  “It’s just a fucked-up mess.”

But Emory didn’t stop.  She lifted his head and stroked his cheek.  “You can’t keep things like that from me, OK?  I can handle it.”

Mason was tired and frustrated, and a little drunk, too, in no mood to fight or see her cry, but she was pushing him.  “Before I agree, how about you tell me about your nightmare?” 

She removed her hand from his face.  “That’s not the same.  That’s in the past, and Alexis is happening right now.”

“Bullshit, it was like two nights ago.” 

Trembling slightly, Emory knew he was right.
 
Just tell him.
 
Mason leaned close to her.  “I’m worried.  Just tell me, did someone hurt you?”

“Oh God, it’s nothing like that.  The only person who hurt me was me.”

Mason didn’t know what that meant, but it had been a good night, and he didn’t want to ruin it.  He also didn’t want her to come back at him with more Alexis questions.
 
Some things are better left unsaid
.
  He threw his arms around Emory and flipped her over his shoulder.  “I’m taking you to bed.”  He walked towards the bedroom door, kicking it open with his foot, Emory giggling and slapping him on the back.

“Mason, you neanderthal, put me down!”

He plopped her down on the bed, and leaned over her, his blue eyes filled with desire.  “Stay with me tonight.”

It was getting harder and harder for Emory to resist, but she stuck to her guns.  “I can’t because I don’t have my equipment for my shoot with Olivia tomorrow.”   Mason hung his head, and Emory couldn’t bear it.  “Why don’t you sleep at my place?”

“Sounds good to me.  Location is not important.” 

“I sai
d
slee
p
,” Emory emphasized.

“I know, I know.  I’ll be good,” he said, tickling her.

Emory wiggled around the bed, laughing and pleading for him to stop, his hands all over her body.  She couldn’t remember laughing so hard in years.  Overcome with happiness, she blurted out, “I love you,” then quickly covered her mouth with her hand, completely embarrassed, her face turning bright red.  She hadn’t expected to say that.  She had certainly thought it but never intended to say so out loud this soon.
 
So much for slow.
 
The alcohol, she knew, forced the words out of her mouth -- they just couldn’t be denied, or taken back, like her love for Mason.

He looked down at her, stunned.  He’d said the same thing on the phone a few days earlier, and she hadn’t responded, which worried him.  But now she’d said it, too -- the very words he longed to hear again.  There was no going back now.  “I know we have things to work through,” Mason said, holding her face in his hands.  “But I promise you, Em, this time I will be worthy of your love.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Emory sat between Olivia and Wesley, as three nail technicians worked on their feet.  “This is the best idea you’ve had in a while, girl,” Wesley said, wiggling his toes in the water.  “Thanks for inviting me.”  Emory pointed to Olivia giving her credit.

“She told me about Tomás, and honey, there’s nothing better for a broken heart than hitting the spa.”

“Thank you, Olivia, I’m feeling better already.”  Wesley leaned his head back, easing his mind.  “We’re not just doing feet, huh?”

“We’re doing it all!”  Emory said, giggling.  “Manis, pedis, facials, massages, and Olivia, you’re getting your hair and makeup done for our shoot.”

“We deserve it all,” Olivia said, “for all the shit we put up with from our men.”  Wesley and Emory nodded in agreement, but then Olivia turned serious.  “But what I really need is a wax.  Must be a damn forest down there by now!”  Wesley and Emory, along with the technicians, erupted in laughter.  “Was that inappropriate?”

“No way,” he said.  “I come here once a month to take care of that area.  They have this hard wax they use.  Hurts less.”

Olivia appreciated the tip.  “I might try that.”

“Too much information, Wesley,” Emory said.

“Whatever, it’s not like I said she should vajazzle herself.”

Emory hid her face, mortified, regretting she’d allowed Wesley to come, but Olivia was intrigued.  “Is that popular in Charlotte?  It seems all the Texas housewives are doing it.”

Wesley quickly asked, “Emory?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said, then apologized to the technicians for her friends.

“Oh, come on,” he said, “we ballerinas are all bare down there.  You can’t have more than a landing strip.”

“I prefer Brazilian,” Olivia volunteered.

Emory turned bright red.  “Someone help me!”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” Wesley assured her, leaning forward and winking at Olivia.  Emory knew she needed to get control of her company fast.  She needed something to distract them, like waving a bone in front of a puppy.  “The press conference should be on any minute.”  The spa manager turned on the television, and after flipping through some channels, landed on Mason, wearing his new Panthers jersey, #11, on stage next to Panthers management, dozens of microphones before them.  The room was overflowing with reporters and fans, but Olivia and Emory could still make out Steven in a folding chair in the back corner of the room, the bright lights shining off the top of his head.

Mason fielded questions with ease -- it was a good situation for him; he had moments where he’d wondered if he’d ever play again, but no longer; his recovery was going well, and doctors were optimistic; he didn’t know whether he’d be the starting quarterback, but would work hard to be; he looked forward to digging into the playbook and learning the offensive system; he couldn’t wait to meet his teammates.  And on and on it went.  He looked the part of an NFL quarterback and spoke with confidence, Emory watching him with pride.  “Doesn’t he look handsome?” she whispered to herself.  The Panthers management gave some concluding remarks, and then it was over.  Steven had worried, as usual, for nothing.