Touching Down by Nicole Williams
After a few minutes’ debate, Charlie went with the classic foam finger. After I paid and helped her put it on, we continued our journey to the owner’s box at the very tippy-top of the stadium.
Grant had gotten us a couple of special badges to show security when we got up there, but I didn’t pull them out of my purse until we were closer. In case anyone thought they recognized my face, I figured the VIP lanyard would confirm it. As it was, I’d tugged on a Storm stocking cap and braided my hair back in hopes of looking more “disguised.”
After Grant’s and my date a couple of nights ago, pictures of us had spread across the city. From newspapers to online platforms, it felt like everywhere I looked, there was a photo of Grant Turner and his “mystery” woman. As far as I knew, no one had linked us to our pasts, but that would change. It would happen, and when that was unearthed, it wouldn’t take long for people to figure out who Charlie was and who her father was.
Once that happened, there’d be no winding through a packed Storm auditorium without a team of security.
After slipping one of the lanyards around Charlie’s neck, I put the second around mine as we approached the box. The man stationed outside of it barely gave the passes a glance when he saw us coming. Instead, he smiled and gave Charlie a high five, unlocking the door to let us in.
“Enjoy the game,” he said.
“Oh, we will,” Charlie replied emphatically, rolling through the door without hesitation.
“Charlie . . .” My hand dropped to her shoulder. “Remember . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, Mom, I do.” She glanced up at me, waving her foam finger like a pendulum. “We’ve gone over it a hundred thousand times. I won’t say anything about that.”
Winking, I followed her inside. “Good girl.”
After letting her know that we’d get to go to Grant’s football game, to which she’d lost her mind, and telling her where he’d gotten us seats, to which she lost everything that was left, I told her she couldn’t tell anyone about her being Grant’s daughter. At least not yet.
For now, I was happy to remain the woman Grant Turner had just started seeing, and Charlie was just my daughter. I figured the less we gave the public, the more time we’d have to figure out how we wanted to tell them. The more time I’d have to figure out a way to tell my daughter about my Huntington’s before she found out from a third party.
Stepping inside the owner’s box was a totally different experience than bustling around the stadium. Everything looked different; everything smelled different. Even the people looked different.
“Holy . . .” Charlie’s mouth fell open as she gaped at the impressive room.
“Your very first football game and you’re sitting in the owner’s box. How do you rate?” I gave the ponytail sticking out of the back of her autographed ball cap a shake.
“Well, I am—” She stopped herself promptly, giving me a sheepish look. “Your daughter.”
“Well, you are.” Shaking my head, I moved us inside the room.
Both of us were moving hesitantly, like we weren’t sure we belonged here. About a dozen people were staggered at the giant front windows, chatting, drinks in hand, and a few had plates stacked with fancy-looking hor d’oeurves. Reminded me of the same kind of food Grant and I had scratched our heads at at the French restaurant the other night.
From the silver trays lined up along the side wall and the cards listing what was inside, I could tell this wasn’t the place to come looking for a hot dog, nachos, or soft pretzel.
No one noticed us until we were almost at the chairs lined up front, but when they did, they all seemed to notice us at once.
“Miss Hale,” the older gentleman with a full head of silver-white hair greeted me, setting down his plate and steering toward us.
“Oh my gosh,” Charlie whispered beside me, “that’s . . .”
“Ralph Fontaine.” He smiled, holding out his hand toward me. “Glad you could be here today.”
“Thank you for having us. This is really special.” I shook his hand and returned the smile, feeling like a fish out of water. Charlie and I were decked out in head-to-toe Storm gear, while everyone else inside the room was in wool sports coats and tailored slacks. I felt like we’d just been dropped into a country club in the Hamptons or something.
“Quite welcome. When your big gun makes a request, the team owner doesn’t balk. Unless it’s a twenty-percent pay increase.”
Mr. Fontaine chuckled, but for some reason, I felt like he’d just paid me a sideways insult. Or maybe I was just being extra-sensitive, feeling like such an outsider in this room. I was a girl from The Clink—what in the hell was I doing in the owner’s box at Storm Stadium?
“And this must be your daughter.” Mr. Fontaine held out his hand for Charlie too, which she clearly thought was quite the honor.
“Charlie,” she said in her most mature voice.
Mr. Fontaine motioned at the line-up of food and drinks. “Please, help yourself, and if there’s anything you need, just let me know.”
His gaze fell on me, something in his brow suggesting he was studying me. Just enough confusion for me to realize that he couldn’t figure out what this perfectly ordinary girl who came with the “baggage” of a child could be doing with his top player.
Grant Turner belonged with the stereotypical beauty that hung off other players’ arms—tall, leggy models or showy, voluptuous Playmates. I could almost hear Mr. Fontaine’s thoughts as he tried to fathom what his precious number eighty-seven saw in the petite, non-leggy, non-curvy, very-epitome-of-average woman standing in front of him.
I had one middle finger that could answer that question for him.
But I refrained since Charlie was here. I’d rather set a good example for her than prove a point with Mr. Elitist.
“Those two seats on the end are still free if you’d like to place dibs.” Waving at the end of the row, Mr. Fontaine got back to his fellow navy-sports-coat-wearing cronies on the other side of the room.
End of the row. Other side of the room. It was clear we didn’t fit in, and it was just as clear no one was interested in crossing the bridge to make us feel welcome.
And so the hell what?
It was my daughter’s very first time as a spectator at the game she loved and getting to watch her father dominate the field. I wasn’t going to cry over a bunch of stuck-up rich people.
“Hungry? Thirsty?” I nudged her, waggling my eyebrows like the world was our playground.
She didn’t even glance back at where the food and drinks were. She made a beeline for the chairs at the end. I followed her, smiling as she stared down at the field like it couldn’t be real. She even rubbed her eyes a few times just to make sure.
“How’s that for a view?” I came up beside her and stared down at the field and the fans. It looked like an ocean of grey and black surging up the stairs of the stadium.
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” Charlie pressed her hands onto the glass, her face following. “There he is!” She stabbed her pointer finger into the glass, bouncing. “There’s—”
My hand clamped around her shoulder just in time. Charlie was still getting used to calling Grant Dad, but she was calling him that more often than his name. I knew we’d gone over our plan to keep her paternity a secret a “hundred-thousand” times today, but she was a seven-year-old. An easily excitable one who was insanely proud of the fact Grant Turner was her father.
I wasn’t sure if we’d make it through the entire game without everyone in this room finding out about our secret. At least one of them.
My chorea had been better over the past couple of days, but I never knew when that would change. I just hoped it could hold off for a few more hours. Grant had offered to have someone close by I could fire off a quick text to and be escorted out of the stadium quickly, but I’d thought that was overkill. Nothing like knowing a security guard was pacing close by, waiting to come in and save the day, to tempt fate. If I
Teams were lining up for kick-off, so Charlie and I, along with a few others in the room, slid into our chairs. Most of the others looked content to stand, have their drinks refilled by the server milling around the room, and glance at the field every few minutes.
A knock pounded on the door as the Storm started its charge down the field, but I was too busy watching the field to be distracted by whoever or whatever was at the door. Charlie couldn’t stay sitting in her chair with all of the excitement and noise roaring through the stadium. She resumed her place at the window, foam finger, face, and hand pressed against the glass.
“Miss Hale?” A server came around in front of me with his arms balancing a tray loaded with food and drinks. Proper football-game food and drink. He managed to maneuver a little table in front of me before setting down the tray. “Compliments of Mr. Turner.” The server winked then handed me a folded piece of paper before leaving.
You’re welcome.
That was all the note said, but it had me smiling like an idiot. The perks of dating a guy you’d known most of your life was this kind of thing—sending up a tray of real Sunday football food, instead of the fancy finger foods in silver trays behind me. I didn’t care what hot dogs were made of—I’d take one any day over an organic chicken breast.
“Hey. You.” Charlie hadn’t noticed the feast arrive, so I tapped her arm with a wrapped hot dog. “Food.”
She took it absently, refusing to be distracted from the game. I should have known.
Me, on the other hand? I’d sat and cheered at plenty of Grant’s games back in high school, and even a few in college when I’d been able to make it. Plus, I was hungry. Or at least I was now that I had something edible in front of me.
He’d even remembered to have the condiments delivered on the side—relish, onion, mustard, and ketchup—which made me smile again. Like an idiot. For someone who’d been adamant about keeping distance between us, I’d sure failed that task.
But damn. After that kiss. After those words he’d said. After that “incident” up against the wall on his front porch. How did a person keep her distance from someone like that? How did two people who’d loved each other for most of their lives pretend to be mere acquaintances?
I’d just finished prepping my hot dog and was diving in for my first bite when I noticed someone settle into a chair behind me. Taking my bite, I twisted around to see who it was, figuring they hadn’t appeared because this was the best seat in the house.
“Hello,” the women behind me said pleasantly, smiling just as pleasantly.
I was still in the middle of chewing, so I returned a smile and waved, feeling even more confused. Why had this woman chosen to come sit by me when she clearly fit in with the wealthy, well-dressed people in the room better?
She was also the leggy model type . . . but wasn’t exactly lacking in the curves department either, which was just downright unfair. You should either have been allowed the tall, willowy frame or the curvy, voluptuous one. Not both. That was just wrong.
“I’m Sophia Fontaine, Ralph’s granddaughter.” She folded a sleek sheet of ice-blond hair over her shoulder, holding her smile like the girls in The Clink held their pocket knives—close and proficiently. Girls like her, who’d grown up in privilege and money, used their smiles as weapons, crafting them to either piss off or berate their enemies.
“Ryan Hale,” I said, lowering my hot dog. The sight of it seemed to be making her nauseated. Or maybe it was the smell.
She nodded conventionally then tapped at the outside corner of her mouth. When my head tipped, she did it again. “Mustard.”
“Oh.” I wiped at my mouth, finally getting what she was alluding to. “Thanks.” Plucking a big red straw from the tray, I tore off the wrapper and plunked the straw into the big blue Icee Grant had remembered to send up. If I couldn’t eat my hot dog without feeling judged, at least I could slurp my Icee.
“So that’s your daughter?” Sophia’s light eyes moved to Charlie, who was still clutching the foil-wrapped hot dog like she’d forgotten about it entirely.
“I suppose I’ll claim ownership today. She mowed the lawn and didn’t say anything too profane.”
When Sophia’s expression dropped, I realized all measure of joking would be lost on this one.
“Joking,” I added before sucking up a stream of Icee. “Yeah, Charlie’s my daughter.”
Sophia continued to study her. “She’s a beautiful girl. And she’s already a hit in this room because she clearly loves her football.”
I waved at my plastered-to-the-glass daughter. “Obviously. And thank you. She is a great kid.” I was just telling myself to cool down and stop being so bitchy-judgey, when Sophia sniffed.
“Who’s her father?” She asked her question with a smile, but damn, I’d never seen a blade more dangerous looking than that smile.
Working out my reply as I worked on my Icee, I returned her version of a smile. “Her father,” I answered with a shrug.
She gave the briefest of laughs, leaning back in her chair and crossing her knees. The position made her legs looks extra long, almost like they were as long as I was tall. “Grant and I go way back. Well, at least ever since he came to the Storm a few years ago.”
If she thought that was way back, I guess Grant and I had met in the Jurassic period.
“How long have you known him?” she continued.
My eyes drifted to the field, where Grant had just caught the ball at the twenty-yard line. Charlie let out a whoop that rocked the windows, making a few people jump. Yeah, because a fan cheering at a football game was such a novel notion.
“A while,” I answered, setting my Icee down so I could clap with Charlie.
Sophia was clearly getting irritated at my vague answers—it was her eyes that gave her away—but she held that smile like she was a former Miss Congeniality. “What’s it like dating one of the biggest names in the game?”
I struggled for an answer to that. Not for how it was like being with a guy like Grant, but how I wanted to answer this woman I knew nothing about. “It’s nice,” I settled on at last.
She blinked at me. “Dating the Grant Turner is ‘nice?’”
“It’s really nice?” I reached for my Icee again, like it was a safety blanket, and conjured up a smile.
“Well, it’s not really nice all the time, right? I’ve dated my share of players to know all about that,” she exhaled, tinkering with the gold bracelets on her wrist.
I assumed she was getting at something, though I wasn’t sure what. My raised eyebrow must have cued in her.
“You know. The reputations. The rumors. The stories.” Her eyes roamed to the field. “The secrets.”
The way she said secret, I knew this was the point she was really getting at. My head shook. “Grant doesn’t keep secrets from me.” He never had—he never would.
Because Grant might have been hot-headed and stubborn, possessive and intense, but he’d also been trustworthy. Always. I knew that quality had transferred into the present.
Sophia looked at me from under her long dark lashes. “You don’t believe that, do you? No matter how well you think you know a person, all men have their secrets.”
And this conversation was going nowhere. If she thought this little warning was enough to make me tremble in my Cons, she didn’t have a clue what type of woman she was trying to intimidate.
“Not Grant.”
She watched me for a minute—studying me as though she were trying to see if I truly believed that or if I only wanted her to believe I believed that. I held her stare, unblinking.
I believed it. I didn’t care a rat’s behind if she did.
“Your daughter’s so beautiful.” Sophia’s expression changed, along with her tone. “Those big dark eyes, pretty chestnut hair, and that easy smile . . .” Sophia’s gaze cut to mine as she rose from her chair. “It’s like she’s got a bigger,
Her gaze moved to Charlie, who was wearing a jersey with Turner stamped across the back beneath her overalls. A sculpted brow lifted before Sophia walked away.
Awesome in-person first game. On the bright side, it couldn’t get any worse.
THE STORM HAD owned the game, a certain number eighty-seven playing at a new level. I guessed it had something to do with knowing his daughter was glued to the plate-glass window in the owner’s box, cheering on the Invincible Man. Aka, her dad.
Watching him tonight, I’d almost believed the claim that he was, in fact, invincible. Of course I knew better, but those few hours of that game made it easy to believe nothing could bring down Grant Turner.
After Sophia’s and my “chat,” Charlie and I had been left alone for the rest of the game. Other than the server who made a few passes to see if we needed anything, and Mr. Fontaine lifting his fifth gin and tonic at me the time we made eye contact, I hadn’t had to suffer through mingling. The experience hadn’t been too bad—it could have been worse.
Plus, I’d had a heap of processed, sugary goods to keep me happy and an awed daughter who hadn’t left her perch at the window, not even during halftime. At least I’d managed to get half a hot dog down her, but she couldn’t even be talked into a bathroom break. I’d had to take two thanks to the super-sized Icee.
As soon as the game ended, I started to gather up Charlie’s and my things, ready to breathe free air again. After thanking Mr. Fontaine and luring Charlie out the door with a Red Rope dangled in front of her like a carrot, I was finally free of the owner’s box.
First time. Last time.
I didn’t care what kind of security detail Grant put on us, Charlie and I were sitting in the stands from now on.