The proposal, p.2
The Proposal, page 2
My head dipped for a second before I turned to the woman peering up at me over the top of her glasses. She didn’t strike me as a football fan.
“What guy?” her friend unhelpfully offered, staring at me like a zoo exhibit.
My jaw clenched and I stared straight ahead over the heads of the four people in front of me.
“The guy who got wrecked last season by, like, three guys during the Super Bowl? Remember, we watched the replay ten or fifteen times?”
My fists clenched at my sides. “No, that’s not me.”
“Are you sure? There were so many close-ups on your face when they pulled you out of there on the stretcher.”
“I’m sure.” I glared at them before facing front, not needing to relive the unceremonious end to my career thanks to a nosy woman in line at the coffee shop. I’d learned over the past few months that my face had become much more recognizable in the time since I’d been booted from my team than it had been the whole three seasons I’d played for them.
It wasn’t like I blended in, though. Once, sticking out like this had been all I wanted; now fading into the background was what I needed.
The exit path for former players was a crash course in how not to live the rest of your life. People flamed out like an overworked engine reaching its breaking point or parlayed their experience into something more. Every waking moment had been layered over a football backdrop. Practices. Playbook reviews. Traveling for games. Recovering from games. For eighteen years, since pee-wee football began when I was eight, I’d devoted myself to the gridiron—what the hell was I supposed to do now?
Sports commentary was the only way to stay close to the game for me. My attempts at coaching had flamed out spectacularly. College hadn’t been my forte. My college transcript wasn’t winning me any coveted positions anywhere. My face wasn’t even recognizable enough to start up a car dealership like a lot of guys did when they left the pros. Besides, you need capital to jumpstart a business fast, and all mine had been sucked away with one signature on a dotted line.
My agent had worked out a deal with an accountant to protect me from myself. The money I hadn’t blown through while playing was locked up tight, only accessible in monthly payments of just enough to keep me afloat. The contract was ironclad. Waiting around for a check wasn’t my style and my skills were limited. Sports commentary was the only way to keep myself from going off the deep end, but no amount of resume sending had gotten me even a ‘fuck off’ in response.
Sam had said I could stop by at eight, and I wanted to grab him a coffee first. It was the least I could do.
He’d been pale and skinnier the last time I’d seen him and guilt bore down on me like a whole squad of offensive linemen prepared to take my head off. They should. It would hurt less than knowing how I’d let Felix down before he died.
Brushing past the sidewalk surliness, I went inside to get a couple cups of coffee, if only to have something to do with my hands when I showed up at Simply Stark.
A text rolled in.
Hunter: You’re still coming to the game this afternoon
Me: Of course.
August: He’s trying to get out of it.
Me: Isn’t that Everest’s job?
Everest: Fuck. Off.
Me: Shocking language from such a posh guy.
Everest: I have a few other choice words I can pull out of my hat, if you’d like
Jameson: Children! Focus! We have the court reserved for 6. Brady’s saving our booth until 7:30. The Wing Night Special ends at 8:30.
August: Thanks for keeping us on track, Jameson
Jameson: It’s what I do
Hunter: It’s settled then, everyone will be there.
A chorus of yeses happened right as I got to the counter.
Walking past the barista set-up after placing my order, my shoulders tensed. Eyes were on me. I could feel them with every step I took. This was what I got for not wearing my baseball cap.
“Leo Wilder. I knew it was you.” The woman from earlier in the line had her phone up to the side of my face, not taking my denial lying down.
My shoulders sagged. So much for a quick trip into a coffee shop.
“Can I have your autograph?” She clambered half-up onto the counter to grab one of the barista pens and held it out to me.
You’d think in Philly, they’d hate me forever for being a hometown boy who was playing for the opposing team that beat them at the Super Bowl, but five signatures in, no one seemed to mind. At least some things never changed. City pride over all else.
How many more months until these reactions were wiped away? The next season started in a couple weeks; there’d be a new clip played on repeat and I’d be another has-been peddling signatures no one wanted, instead of basking in the dying light of my former glory. I hadn’t even stood on the field when the confetti cannons had gone off and they’d hoisted the glistening trophy into the air. I’d been in a CT machine and a neck brace, not knowing my football career was over.
But everyone loved a recognizable face. I’d need it to kick start the next stage of my career. Being up in a booth talking about the games was nothing compared to being on the field using my body to gain one more inch for my team, but it was all I knew. Football was where I no longer felt like a mere mortal, so I’d get back to it the only way I knew how.
With my coffees, a hand cramp, and phantom flashes dancing in my eyes, I made it back outside. There was no sign of the woman other than a dried coffee splatter and remnants of her croissant on the sidewalk. Her seething anger hadn’t distracted me completely from how pretty she’d been—or would have been, if not for the sneer and need to jump down my throat. Too bad. With over a million people in the city, it wasn’t like I’d be seeing her again. I headed to Simply Stark.
“Look what the cat dragged in.” Phyllis tugged her horn-rimmed cat eye glasses down to the tip of her nose.
“Hey, Phyl.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Stranger, I’m surprised you remember my name.”
I pecked her on the cheek before holding onto both her hands and perching on the edge of her desk. “How could I not? If I was forty years older…”
She lifted an eyebrow and threw her head back, glasses sliding back into place. “Who said I’m not into younger men?” Pushing at my shoulder, she shook her head. “Laying it on pretty thick aren’t you, kid?”
“You know I love you. When will you finally accept my offer and run away with me?”
“Don’t let my husband hear or he’ll run you out of the state, but if I were forty years younger…”
“Then we’ll be sure to keep that our little secret.” I winked and she swatted at my leg. “How’s he doing?”
“As good as he could be, considering.” A hint of tenderness she almost never let show broke through. “Things have been rough lately.”
The desks in the small office behind her were all empty. The last time I’d visited, there had been flower display samples, mini tasting cakes, and brightly colored fabric all over the office. Their twenty employees had been either staring intently at their computers or gathering things up and rushing in and out of the office.
Now there was a dark void between Phyllis’s desk and the single office in the back with a faint light shining through the cracked door.
“It’s pretty quiet around here.”
“Did you bring him a coffee?”
“Yeah, although it’s stupid, he’s already in the office. He probably already has one. I didn’t want to show up emptyhanded.”
“Go back there. He’ll be happy to see a friendly face.”
The overhead lights flicked on as I passed through the vacant office. I tapped my knuckles against the partially opened door.
“Hey, Sam.”
Sam, my uncle by marriage, looked up from the stack of papers on his desk. There were bags under his eyes and his salt-and-pepper hair leaned more toward just salt these days.
“Leo.” He scooted back from his desk and hugged me tight. “You look good.”
“So do you.”
He motioned to the seat in front of his desk and took the one beside me. “You’re lying to an old man. I look terrible.” Raking his fingers through his hair, he sank back in his seat.
“I brought you a coffee.” A curl of steam wafted up from the mug on his desk.
“How thoughtful of you. Thank you. To what do I owe the pleasure of you stopping by?”
“It’s been a while. I haven’t seen you since… How are you holding up?”
“As good as can be expected.” His sigh was bone-deep weary.
“Where is everyone? What’s going on?”
“Your uncle…well you know how he was. But one thing I never thought he was great at was keeping secrets. He always had so many big ideas. It was so clear to him. And he painted big, beautiful pictures for everyone around him and you couldn’t help but follow along. Who wouldn’t want to?”
“He did have a way with all this.” I motioned to the swatches and sketches up on the wall.
“Reaching for the stars was his hallmark. He couldn’t stop himself, and when he was doing well and was here in the office everything worked smoothly. But all you need are a few clients to go back on their word and you’re stuck holding the bag—or the table linens and custom centerpieces.
“To execute his vision required a few loans. We had a few employees who needed advances on their salary, and even when I said not to, he put things on credit cards. Business credit cards. Personal credit cards.” He pulled off his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “The statements didn’t even arrive until after he was gone. I told him he was working too hard. I told him he needed to take care of himself. And he’d turn and pat me on the cheek and say that was what I was here for.” Sam’s voice tightened and he rubbed his eyes.
“He didn’t listen.”
“I told him we were overextended with the salaries going on and the events getting bigger. We had to front even more of the deposits ourselves. So I’m about to lose the house and I’ll lose this place.” He looked around at the walls covered in Felix’s inspirations and ideas. “And the five people I’ve managed to keep on part time will lose even that. What do I do, start over from scratch? Doing what?” He lifted and dropped his hands to the desk. “I have no idea.”
“Let me help.”
“There’s nothing you can do, unless you know an event planner willing to work for free for a while and salvage our biggest account.”
“Is that a real opportunity to save the business?”
“Winthorpe Hotels are forcing us to team up with Easton Events. They don’t trust us to pull off a few small, employee-focused events and—” He let out a weary sigh. “I don’t know if we can. I can sell the desks and other things around the office to see what debt I can cover.” His shoulders sank lower.
Felix and Sam’s birthday cards had always been well-stuffed and the presents exactly what I’d wanted. Throw in the catering trays of mini brownies and they’d been the best uncles in the world.
When I’d needed help putting together my college applications to make my football scholarships official and my dad had been an ass about it, Felix had come down and helped me. And once I was in college, he’d let me drop into events to serve as a waiter for some quick cash. My football scholarship covered almost everything, but two-a-day practices and traveling for games, on top of being a normal college student, meant without his help I’d have gone to bed hungry more than a few nights.
Felix had come to me. He’d asked me for a loan a few weeks after I’d gotten out of the hospital. And I’d had to tell him no. Not because I didn’t want to, but I couldn’t—not then, and not now. Locking my money away from myself had kept it away from him too.
A decision I had no idea how much I’d regret making.
Had the financial stress led to his heart attack? The weight of responsibility on his shoulders and on his heart? That stress hadn’t gone away.
I hadn’t helped him like he’d always helped me. And now Sam was about to lose possibly the last two connections he had to Felix.
“I can do it.” How hard could catering be? Order food, tables, chairs, beer.
“Help me sell things? That would be—”
“No, not help you sell. Help you salvage the account.”
“You have experience with event planning?”
Football parties, barbecues, I’d been to enough booster club events at college. It was food, some nice tablecloths, maybe an open bar if whoever it was felt generous.
“Absolutely. You think after all this time Felix didn’t rub off on me? I can do it and I can work for free.” At least for a couple months while I worked the Sports Center angle. Working here would keep me busy, push me into a business setting and I could help when I hadn’t been able to before.
Sam sat up in his chair. “Are you serious? You’d do that?”
“Give me the details and I can get to work.”
“Bill from Easton said he’s sending someone over at nine. If it’s his pain-in-the-ass daughter, you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
“Don’t worry, Sam. I’ve got it covered. There isn’t a woman I haven’t been able to charm.”
“Too right. Phyllis threatens to run most people over with her car on a first meeting, but she’s always had a soft spot for you.”
“I’m sure working with whoever they send over will be a piece of cake.”
3
Zara
In my office, I slammed my bag down and changed into my emergency work shirt. My supplies were dwindling low—this was my last spare.
Kicking off my heels, I sat at my desk and fumbled around with my feet. Target acquired. My secret flats were a soft, cool, and comfy release from my high-heel prison.
My desk lamp filled my dim office with enough light for this early in the morning. It had to—the overhead fluorescent light flickered and buzzed. No matter how many times I’d asked for it to be fixed, old blinky up there continued to let out a low, droning wail, driving me to the brink of slamming my head into the keyboard by seven pm.
I blinked hard, trying to clear the haze in my vision. The coffee I’d hoped to cherish during this early morning quiet had been stolen from me by an asshole with gorgeous eyes and a rock-hard body that were spoiled by his shitty attitude.
Somehow the walk from my coffee-and-croissant funeral to the office had refilled my inbox. The work never stopped.
I’d rushed the report to Bill’s office and sat back in my chair less than sixty seconds before Bill breezed past my open door without a sideways glance. Good morning to you too, Bill. Yes, I had a great night. Slept like a log after cleaning up all Valerie’s work she left behind at the gala last night.
Resting my head on my hand, I clicked through the nine hundred RSVPs one by one, since no one had thought to have them all imported into a spreadsheet to begin with.
Why do something efficiently when you can force me to do it at a painstakingly slow pace?
The names blurred together and my eyelids drooped like there were tiny eye-sized sandbags attached to them. Over four hours last night, I’d broken down the last of the flower arrangements and ensured the chair covers were returned. After hour two, I’d given up on the heels, but my feet still throbbed.
Who said event planning wasn’t glamorous?
My head dropped off my hand and my bangs brushed against my spacebar. Slamming the heels of my hand down, I saved myself from a keyboard facial.
“Sleeping on the job, Zara?” The nasally, grinding voice was accompanied by a flood of light.
Lifting my head, I squeezed my fists together.
Valerie stood in my doorway with her oversized purse and latte. She dropped her hand from my light switch.
“No! I haven’t had my morning coffee, Valerie.” I clenched my fists and cursed the giant asshole from this morning. Someone his size should be used to watching out for fleeing villagers lest he smoosh them. I wasn’t tiny by any stretch, I stood up to most men eye-to-eye, which hadn’t won me any flirty-girl-of-the-year awards. Sometimes I thought those genes had been deleted from me entirely at birth.
She examined the purple streak she’d added to her hair a few weeks ago. Was that allowed by the company dress code policy? No, but she did whatever the hell she wanted. Rules like those were only for peons who didn’t coast on daddy’s bank account. She glanced up like she’d remembered I was there, even though she was standing in my office doorway. “My dad needs to see you in his office in five minutes. Something about reports you prepared.”
My stomach plummeted as my indignation soared. I’d triple checked everything. I shot up from my desk, slipped my feet into my heels, wincing as the Band-Aids barely gave me enough padding for the blisters, and grabbed my blazer.
She looked me up and down, lips pursed, but I kept my shoulders straight, not letting myself shrink under her caustic gaze.
“Good morning, Valerie.” Andi walked behind her with a huge smile. She was one of the only friendly faces in the office and made coming into work less hellish every day.
Valerie’s gaze narrowed and she turned, hair flipping in the air, and walked off.
“Really nice use of the company copy machine last Friday,” Andi cupped her hands around her mouth with her coffee cup in her hand, amplifying her voice throughout the office.
I held my blazer in my teeth and grabbed a notepad and pencil off my desk.
“What did Cruella want?” Andi leaned against my doorway in her t-shirt, jeans, and sneakers.
“Telling me Bill wanted to see me and making small talk.” My longing for those comfy shoes knew no bounds as I struggled to get my arms into my sleeves and winced, nearly rolling my ankle in my office-approved heels.
“Oh, I didn’t know you spoke bitch. Have you been taking lessons?”
“You’re hilarious. I can have a mean streak when I need to.”
“You mean when you gently lay your pen on top of your notebook? Or maybe when you push back your chair angrily before neatly tucking it back under the conference room table?”
