Wide Open (2 page)

KURTIS

April 10th

Charles Windt Stadium

Los Angeles, CA

“Good morning, Mr. Matthews.”

Crystal greets me with a practiced smile from behind the half-circle reception desk. The black top gleams under the myriad of pot lights in the high ceilings. Every floor of the Kodiak executive offices are built like this. These rooms were designed with athletes in mind. Wide doors, vaulted ceilings, inspiring artwork. Beautiful women.

Crystal is no exception with thick, brown hair and dark chocolate eyes. A perfect, pert nose. I used to flirt with her relentlessly when I first signed up with the Kodiaks. I’d go behind her desk like I owned the place, parking my ass on the surface next to her and looking down her shirt. I shouldn’t have done it. I know that now. It was sexual harassment and I had plenty of girls coming at me from every direction. I didn’t need to have sex with Crystal too. And I didn’t. But it wasn’t for lack of trying.

Now that I’m back I feel weird when I see her. Like I owe her something. An apology probably, but I’m not good at that. I can never find the right words, not even when I mean them.

“Hey, Crystal.” I put my hands in the pockets of my jeans, stopping a couple feet short of her desk. “I’m here to see Coach Allen.”

Her smile grows, becoming affectionate. It makes me feel even worse because she knows me. She remembers me and the way I was. Why I was always here. “I figured. He has another appointment but I’ll let him know you’re here.”

“Thanks.”

The waiting area is painfully modern, covered in glass top everything and couches that slither across the room in fluid, yellow arcs. The space is empty except for one white chair with a uselessly low back. A woman is perched on it, her back perfectly straight, a small, tattered paperback held loosely in her hand. Her hair is long and smooth, a rich black color that matches her skin. Her face is a perfect oval, her lips a pouting heart. Her body is an hourglass storing spare minutes in her breasts.

There are a lot of beautiful women in L.A. So many that you get desensitized to them. You pass them on the street, you wait in line behind them for coffee. You get déjà vu when you meet them because they all start to morph together in your mind. But every once in a while there’s a stand out. A woman with a spark of something extra, something unexpected. You’re not even sure what it is that sets them apart from the crowd, but it’s exciting when you see it.

This woman has that something. She has that spark that feels more like a flame. A heat radiating from her center that mesmerizes me like campfire at night. 

She looks up as I take a seat on the serpentine couch across from her. I smile subtly. She casts me a polite grin in return before turning back to her book. Her mossy green eyes are gorgeous and round. And checking me out over the top of the pages.

“Hi,” I say quietly, calling her out.

She grins again, this one lingering on her lips. “Hi.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Uh, sure,” she chuckles in surprise.

“Birthday cake. It’s overrated, right?”

“That’s not really a question.”

“Sure it is.”

“Not the way you phrased it. The way you’re asking, giving me your own conclusions on the subject and asking me to agree, tells me you’re insecure about the topic. You’re looking for allies in your fight.”

“Against birthday cake?”

“Maybe against birthdays in general.” She leans forward slightly, lowering her book. Giving me her full attention, the full force of her eyes. “Tell me what the bad holiday did to you?”

I chuckle as I sink into my seat, throwing my arm over the back of the couch. “Not a thing. Birthdays have always been pretty good to me.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“They’ve gotten me this far, haven’t they?”

“That’s another plea for me to side with you. You’re not sure you’re happy with where your birthdays have gotten you.”

I run my tongue along the inside of my teeth, considering her. She stares back at me without flinching. “You’re clever.”

“You’re dodging.”

“Dodging what?”

“Your own question. You’re offering me a compliment, redirecting my attention.” She gestures to my casual posture with long, elegant fingers. A ring glistens in the light, and I catch myself double checking if it’s on her right or left hand. I feel an odd sense of relief that it’s on her right. “Plus you’re pulling away. You leaned back into the couch. You’re distancing yourself from the subject. You don’t want to talk about birthdays anymore.”

“Do you?”

“Redirecting.”

I laugh, lowering my arm from the couch. I make a show of sitting forward with my elbows on my knees. “You’re a hard person to have a casual conversation with.”

“I could say the same thing about you,” she says with a slow, flirtatious smile.

“Want to start again?”

“We’ll only end up right back here.”

“Not if I rephrase the question. How do you feel about birthday cake?”

Her eyes dance like starlight on water. “It’s overrated.”

I laugh again, hanging my head in defeat. “I give up.”

“You concede?”

“I do. You win...” I look up at her questioningly, letting my sentence fade out.

She offers me her hand. “Harper.”

I sit forward, stretching my arm across the distance between us. “Kurtis.”

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

The scent of her perfume wafts over me; citrus and sweet. Her fingers feel delicate against mine. Her skin is impossibly soft, but her grip is firm.

I release her reluctantly.

She settles back into her seat, giving me an appraising look over. “That’s a pretty slick opening line you’ve got there.”

“You like it?”

She looks at me silently, reminding me what I’m doing. Telling me she knows it.

“Force of habit,” I confess with a smile. “Yeah, it’s a good line. It has a high success rate.”

“Until today.”

“Especially today.”

“I dismantled it,” she protests on a laugh.

“But we’re talking. You’re laughing. I call that a success.”

Harper chews on that for a second. “I guess you’re right.”

A silence draws out between us as the conversation lulls. She doesn’t pick up her book. I don’t reach for my phone. Neither of us looks away.

It should be awkward, but the weird thing about it is how natural it feels. How comfortable I am under her stare, intuitive and intelligent, tearing me down and digging deep. I don’t let people look at me this closely. I’m always dodging, always weaving, an indistinct blur they can’t get a read on. But now, with Harper, I feel pinned by her eyes. Settled in a way that’s utterly unsettling.

“You have beautiful eyes,” I tell her honestly.

She grins. “So do you.”

“If you like those you should see my feet. They’re spectacular.”

“I bet your calves are better.”

“That’s a fool’s bet. I’d never take it.”

“I’ve seen your calves. I’d bet the farm on it.”

I smile. “When have you seen my calves?”

“Any given Sunday,” she sings lightly.

“Now that right there feels like a dodge.”

“You should know. You’re the expert.”

“And another one.” I eye her shrewdly. “What brings you here today, Harper?”

“Business.”

“Lawyer?”

“No.”

“Agent?”

“No.”

I blatantly rake my eyes over her body; from her plain white Adidas three stripes to her perfectly styled hair. “Cheerleader?”

She snorts derisively. “No.”

“Jehovah’s Witness?”

“Do you have a moment to talk about our Lord and Savior, Tagalong?”

“You’re a Girl Scout leader?”

She smiles slyly. “No.”

“That was misleading.”

“It was a real question.”

“You really want to know how I feel about Tagalongs?”

“I’m on the edge of my seat.”

I grin. “They’re overrated.”

Harper laughs, the sound rolling over me in a warm wave that gives me chills. The sound is so sexy, setting something off inside me because I did that, I made her laugh. It’s a primal response and I don’t give a shit. She does something to me. It’s not just her body that has me hooked. It’s her mouth. Her mind. Her words and her intelligence emanating from her eyes. She’s the whole package, a gift from fate that I never knew I wanted, but dammit do I want it. I want
her
.

“Can I get your number?”

She calms, her smile fading but never disappearing. Not entirely. “That’s a bad idea.”

“Why?”

“It just is.”

“You have a man?”

“No.”

“My calves aren’t pretty enough?”

She chuckles despite herself. “No. They’re gorgeous.”

“Then why is it a bad idea?” I press.

“It’s, uh—“

“You didn’t say ‘no’. A ‘no’ I could take and walk away from, but ‘it’s a bad idea’? That was designed to make me curious, wasn’t it? You meant for it to slow me down but keep me swinging.”

Harper shuts her mouth firmly but her eyes are wide open. They’re watching me closely. “You’re pretty clever yourself, Kurtis.”

“Ms. White?”

I turn in my seat to look back at reception. Coach Allen is standing behind the desk next to Crystal.

He hesitates when he sees me. “Kurtis, Crystal told me you were here. I have a meeting with Ms. White, but if you stick around I’ll have time for you after.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

“Everything okay?”

“It’s great.”

“Good.”

Harper steps past me, leaving her citrus scent in her wake. She slows to look down at me. “I’ll see you around.”

I lift a skeptical eyebrow. “Will you?”

“More than you know.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

She smiles sadly. “Try to hold onto that feeling.”

I watch her walk away with Coach Allen. She’s taller than I thought she’d be, probably only a few inches shorter than me, and that hour glass is storing more minutes than I imagined. Her ass is round and high, taunting me as it disappears from view. I’ll remember it, though. I’ll remember her every curve, every sound she made, every word she said, whether I want to or not. I know without a doubt as I sit back in my seat, rubbing my hand up and down anxiously along my neck, that Harper is going to haunt me.

HARPER

“I see you met Kurtis Matthews,” Mr. Allen comments as we cruise down the long hall together.

His pace is remarkably brisk for a man his age. When I first saw him I thought he looked weathered, frail, but his handshake was firm, his eyes sharp and calculating. I remind myself that looks can be deceiving. That I’ll need to stay on alert when I’m with him. Mr. Allen is not a man to be underestimated.

Neither am I.

“I did, yes. He seems very nice.”

He looks at me sideways. He’s taking note of my stiff reply, processing it. Processing
me
. “Did you tell him who you are?”

“I told him my name.”

“But not why you’re here.”

“No,” I admit halfheartedly. “I didn’t tell him I’m with the documentary crew.”

He releases me from his gaze. “That explains why he was nice.”

Not just nice,
I think to myself.
He was charming.

So charming I didn’t want to tell him who I was. I should have right away. I know that. But I didn’t because I liked the way he looked at me. I liked being able to look at him without suspicion. Without walls. I’ve watched interviews he’s done in the past and the man in the videos is a night and day contrast to the man in the waiting room. I wasn’t ready for how funny he is. How casual. I definitely wasn’t ready for the way he looks. The way he feels. With his thick, dark hair and brown skin I wonder if both his parents are white or if he has something else mixed in. Italian or Greek maybe. A dash of Adonis. Whatever it is, I like it. I like the laughter in his cerulean eyes. The rumble of a chuckle in his chest. The size and strength of his hand around mine, imposing and gentle.

The bottom line is that I like Kurtis, very much. And when he finds out who I am, he’s going to hate me.

When we reach Mr. Allen’s office he offers me a seat and a water. I accept both, taking the bottle he produces from a mini-fridge behind his desk. The label on the outside is Kodiak yellow and orange, their logo of an angry, roaring bear proudly displayed in the center.

It’s menacing. My water is menacing me.

I turn the logo to face the coach.

“Did you bring your list?” he asks me brusquely.

I pull the printed sheet from my bag. “This is everyone we’d like to spotlight. Of course we’ll want to speak to other players as the season goes on. Someone who has a particularly good game. Anyone who gets injured. Really anyone that has a narrative the audience will want to follow. This list is a jumping off point, a baseline, but the process is very unpredictable. It could change in an instant. I want to make sure you understand that, Mr. Allen.”

“Coach Allen,” he corrects patiently, glancing up from the list. “I understand I’m not your coach, but it’s a title like Doctor or Officer. We have our own culture here in American football. I’m sure you can understand that. And respect it.”

“Of course, Coach Allen.”

He grins with alarming warmth. “Should I call you Director White?”

“No,” I chuckle. “Harper will be fine. Or Ms. White if that’s what you prefer.”

He picks up where he left off scanning the names on my list. His grin disappears by degrees, like a setting sun. “This list is very offense heavy.”

“Your offensive line is why the NFL thinks you’re going to the Super Bowl this year. It makes sense to focus hardest on them.”

“Do you watch much football?’’

“Me personally? No. I don’t. I know the basics, but that’s not saying much. Travis, my producer, is our expert.”

“Not Ms. Kelly?”

I stiffen reflexively. “And Ms. Kelly as well. They work very well together.”

He peers at me over the ridge of the paper. “What about you and her. Do you work ‘very well’ together?”

I hesitate before admitting, “Maybe not
very
well.”

“But well enough?”

“Let’s hope so.”

I feel relieved when he grins. It’s fleeting, barely there before it’s gone and his eyes are back on my list, but it’s strangely supportive.

I get the impression he and Carmen Kelly don’t always see eye to eye either.

“It takes more than an offense to make it to the championships,” he comments, continuing our conversation.

“I’m sure Travis and Carmen would agree with you.”

“And did they agree with you that you should spotlight Tyus Anthony and Kurtis Matthews.”

“Tyus, yes. Kurtis, no. Carmen was a vehement no, if I’m being honest.”

“And are you?” he asks, leveling me in his gaze. “Being honest, I mean.”

“I definitely try to be. As often as I can.”

“That’ll be a refreshing change.”

“From who?”

He ignores the question completely. “Why did they disagree with you about Kurtis?”

“For the same reason I think you’re about to. They said he’s standoffish with the press.”

“That’s being generous. He doesn’t acknowledge the press.”

“I think his story could be worth telling.”

“Which story?”

“Does he have more than one?”

“Every good man does. Which one are you planning on telling the world?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Coach Allen sighs. “Do you know the most efficient way to make someone want something?”

“Tell them they can’t have it,” I answer immediately. I see where this is going.

“Exactly.” He lays the list down on his desk. “Kurtis has become his own worst enemy dodging the press the way he does. He almost makes a show of it, an act of defiance. It makes them hunt him harder than they should.”

“Are you saying we can’t spotlight him?”

“I’m not allowed to say that. But what if I said this instead; there’s not the story there that everyone thinks. It’s nothing but a man and his own demons. His own struggles with himself. If I told you that, if I promised you there’s nothing worth finding, would you take him off your list?”

“No.”

Coach Allen nods solemnly. “I thought so. But do me one favor. Give a little peace of mind to an old man.”

“What’s that?”

“If you find what you’re digging for and it’s not what you expected, do the decent thing.”

I hesitate, choosing my words carefully. “I don’t know that we have the same definition of ‘decent’.”

“I don’t either,” he admits, handing back my list. “But I have hope.”