Playbook (The Holland Brothers 2)

Friday morning I’m in a staff meeting, struggling to keep my eyes open. Once a month we have these big department-wide meetings with management and members of the executive team. It always feels a little like they whisk in totally unprepared and hurried, as if this is just one of many meetings on the docket for the day and we’re clearly not the most important.

My boss, Wayne, is standing in front of the conference room going over all the projects we’re currently working on.

“And finally, the T-shirt design for the picnic next month.” On the large screen in front of us, the mock-up of the shirt displays.

One of my coworkers, Shane, glances over at me and smiles. The whole team pitched concepts to Wayne, but he picked mine. A surprise since he hadn’t shared that with me or anyone else as far as I know.

My design is simple, really. It says Channel 3 in the same style and font that is used on all the branding, but I made the inside of the letters a red and white checkered design to fit the whole picnic theme.

I’m pretty proud of it actually. I don’t get to use a lot of creativity on the other projects I’m given. It’s all consistency and following the style guide.

I glance around the table to gauge the reaction of management, and they’re all smiling and nodding. Not in a super excited way, but in what I like to think of as the executive nod of approval. It screams “that’ll do.”

The VP of our department is perhaps the most impressed. She sits forward and turns her gaze to the three other executives. “I think it’s quite good. Any objections?”

There are none, and I allow myself to feel a little excitement. The entire company is going to be wearing T-shirts I designed. It’s sadly the coolest thing that’s happened since I started working here.

“Great job, Wayne.” She beams at my boss. “You have a wonderful eye for design.”

My cheeks heat with the compliment she doesn’t even realize she’s giving me, and I wait for Wayne to correct her assumption that he did it.

He doesn’t.

“Thanks,” he says instead. “I thought it had a nice, simple but sophisticated, fun feel to it.”

That’s exactly what I had said to him when I submitted it.

The meeting adjourns and everyone is quick to leave. I hang back to talk to my boss. When he sees it’s just the two of us, he offers me a small smile. There’s no hint of remorse on his face or even embarrassment like I would expect from someone who just publicly claimed my work as theirs.

“You went with my design,” I say, trying to keep my calm.

“Yeah. They loved it.”

“Why didn’t you correct them when they assumed you came up with it?”

“Ah, you know how the executives are,” he says, casually gathering up his laptop and notebook. “It looks better for the whole team if it comes from me.”

“But it didn’t come from you.”

“You work for me, so in a way, it did.”

I don’t know what to say or even feel. I’m angry and hurt. I feel betrayed, but then silly because it’s just a dumb shirt design.

He starts to walk out of the room, but turns with his hand on the doorknob. “Oh, and I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your raise.” Wayne’s mouth turns down at the corners. “Human Resources has put a freeze on raises company-wide. I’m sorry.”

After work, I swing by to get my mail and have another letter from Brogan. I must have read the last one a dozen times. Did I spend an embarrassing amount of time wondering how he wanted to make it up to me? Yes. But there was no way I was replying. I don’t want to be another woman sending him embarrassing mail.

London,

I don’t know if you got my last letter. Someone should really invent read receipts. Anyway, I feel really bad about not forwarding my mail sooner. Also, I’m not really into collecting panties—used or clean. How about dinner or drinks this weekend?

Brogan

His number is scrawled along the bottom. Dear god, the man gave me his phone number. Does he really think I’m going to call him up like he’s just some normal guy? I try to picture what it would be like to go out to dinner with Brogan, and laugh. It’s too ludicrous to even imagine.

I stuff the letter into my purse and head home. Alec has been gone all week to some big weatherman conference or something, so I order takeout and pour myself a glass of wine.

I flip through the channels while I eat and drink. I have a few new projects that I need to work on, but I’ve found that I’m able to be more creative if I take a couple hours break between jobs to reset.

There’s nothing good on and I’m about to turn off the TV when I see his face. Brogan. His and several other Mavericks players’ team photos are lined up, and the sports announcers talk about their expectations for the season.

I pull out his letters from my purse and reread them. They’re sort of oddly sweet. He does seem sincere in his apology. He’s just misguided in thinking I need him to take me out like I’m some sort of fan. I feel like I’m getting a pity invite or something. Or worse, he’s just trying to have sex with me. I don’t need a relationship or anything serious from a guy, but I don’t think I’m cut out for casual with a guy who is used to women throwing themselves at him. I know guys like that. They’re only interested until they feel like they’ve “won.”

Either way, something tells me he’s going to keep sending me letters until I make it very clear that we’re all good and that I’m absolutely not sleeping with him.

That’s the only rationale I can come up with when I find myself pulling out a piece of paper and writing him back.

Dear Brogan,

I received your letters. Consider this your read receipt. My box being panty and perfume-free is all I need, so thanks, but no thanks to the dinner or drinks. Might I suggest you invite one of your other pen pals?

London

It’s the weirdest letter I’ve written in my entire life, but I don’t take time to rewrite it. Instead I fold it and rummage around until I find a stray envelope that probably went with a greeting card I never sent. Once it’s addressed and stamped, I feel better. Sayonara, Brogan Six.

The following Tuesday, I get another letter. My surprise and annoyance quickly turn to amusement as I read. He’s funny. I don’t remember that about him.

Dear London,

Would you believe me if I said I’ve never written back to any of them? Well, none that sent panties. There are occasionally other types of mail I get. Just the other day I got a letter from Conner in Missouri. He said he was my biggest fan, so I sent him a jersey and a signed photo. Wait. Does that make me sound cringe? I hope not, but honestly sometimes it feels cringe. It’s still weird to me that people want my autograph.

Anyway, I know you said it was fine but I feel like I need to make it up to you. Since I’ve forwarded the mail, I’ve gotten an idea of what you were dealing with and I’d say that deserves a drink or maybe I should just buy you an entire winery? Let me know.

Brogan

Brogan,

An entire winery, wow. Okay, fine. I want that. In case there aren’t any good wineries looking to sell, I sent something along. Now we’re even.

P.S. It’s a little cringe, but also nice? Please tell me the signed photo was from your underwear modeling ads?

London

By Friday, I’m opening my mailbox with so much anticipation and excitement hoping for another letter. I’m enjoying this letter war entirely too much. I don’t know what that says about me, but when I spot his now familiar handwriting, I am downright giddy. He’s different than he seemed in person. Though to be fair, I didn’t give him a lot of room to say much when we talked at the bar.

London,

What kind of pervert do you take me for? Actually, don’t answer that. I definitely didn’t send a child a picture of me with a sock stuffed in my underwear.

Speaking of underwear, I was delighted that you sent along your grandmother’s. I can only assume that’s who these belong to? I haven’t seen good quality white cotton like this since my second-grade teacher came back from a bathroom break with her skirt tucked into her underwear.

No, I’m afraid we still aren’t good. I’ll keep an eye out for wineries for sale. Do you prefer something small—a hillside mom and pop, multi-generational operation where college kids go on the weekend to get drunk—or something more upscale where people dressed in suits say things like “this has a hint of oak”?

In the meantime, I’m sending tickets to assuage my guilt. Hopefully that’s not also cringe. If it is, then sell them and buy yourself a nice bottle of red. At least then I’ll have bought you the drink I owe you.

Brogan

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” I mutter to Alec, and then give my apologies to everyone already sitting in their seats as we shuffle past them to the center of the row. We’re late. We were in line for drinks at kickoff, and now that we’re finally down here, people are leaning right and left to see around us.

I’m still clutching the tickets in my hand. Honestly, I keep waiting for someone to stop us and tell us the tickets are fake or we messed up the seat numbers.

“I can’t believe I had to talk you into this.” Alec sits first. His eyes are big, taking it all in, and his smile is huge. “These seats are incredible.”

“We’re so close,” I say, stomach flipping. The Mavericks players not on the field are in front of us, their blue and red uniforms lined up down the sideline. Look, I know Brogan Six isn’t going to run by on the field and happen to look over at the fifty-yard line to check if I’m here, but we’re close enough that he could. And that makes me nervous. I didn’t want to accept the tickets, but once Alec found out, he wouldn’t hear of me not using them.

He had his own selfish reasons, of course. He’s a huge sports fan and turning down good seats to a game is like blasphemy.

“I could spit on the field,” he says.

We’re ten rows up, so yes, technically he probably could, but at the risk of hitting someone.

“Please don’t.” I let my gaze roam over all the blue jerseys. I don’t even know what position Brogan plays or what number he is, so looking for him in the sea of blue feels futile.

Alec chuckles and then leans back, taking a drink of his beer. “Do you think if you get more mail for him, he’ll get you more tickets? I mean, it’s not such a bad trade. You bring him his used panties and I get to go to games for free.”

“Whatever plan you’re concocting, don’t. I am here because I’m a fabulous roommate, but don’t push it.”

Alec’s warm laughter continues.

I’ve only been to one other game, several years ago with Chris. Our seats were so high up. This is a completely different experience. Like Alec, he’s a big fan. He’d be so jealous of me right now.

“There he is.” Alec nudges me.

Since I’d been thinking of Chris, that’s who I’m looking for, but instead it’s Brogan Six I find.

My face grows warm as I stare at him. He jogs off the field with his helmet dangling from one hand. He’s not smiling like he was at the club. Instead he has a serious, almost stoic expression. He’s still the hottest person I’ve seen in real life.

Brogan turns, giving us his back. I smirk when I see his name and number. Six is number six. Cute.

My nerves settle by halftime. I stop worrying about being spotted, though I’m not sure why I was worried in the first place. Not once has Brogan looked up in the crowd for me. He gave me the tickets as an apology, and I accepted. Nothing else needs to transpire between us. We are even.

Though, admittedly, I am enjoying his letters and might even miss them. He’s funny and a little self-deprecating, and there’s just something about receiving a handwritten letter. I might need to get a pen pal. Do people still do that? Probably not twenty-four-year-old women.

Not quite as exciting for him, I’d imagine, since he receives approximately one million a day.

Alec keeps me updated on the game. I know the basics, as in a touchdown is worth six points and a field goal is worth three, but the yardage and whether or not a play is good is harder for me to grasp.

I eat my weight in buttery popcorn and then wash it down with too many beers. In the last minute of the game, I’m buzzed and happy and into it with the crowd as the Mavericks try to take back the lead. They’re down by three points, lined up at the sixty-yard line on a third down. I continue to be bad at keeping track of the downs, but Alec is currently whispering, “Third down, boys, come on.”

We all get to our feet as the ball is snapped. The quarterback surveys the field. My eye is drawn to Brogan. During the course of the game, I’ve learned that he is a tight end. He runs, pushes people around, and tries to get open for the ball and some other things that Alec said, but I stopped listening after he started going on about how it’s an important position with a lot of responsibility.

When I find him, he’s down the field with defenders in front and back of him. I glance away to see if anyone else is open, but the other team is doing a good job on defense—something I also got from Alec.

The crowd gasps when the quarterback gets rushed and is forced to throw a long pass down the field. Then everyone goes quiet as the ball sails toward Brogan.

“That’s the game,” some guy in front of us says and then groans. He takes off his Mavericks hat and whips it down to his side as he starts for the aisle.

Brogan jumps into the air, both of the defenders do the same, but the Mavericks rookie’s hands reach just above theirs, and somehow he comes down with the ball.

He’s hit on either side and the three of them crash to the ground in a tangle of limbs, but when the referee raises both hands indicating a touchdown, the stadium goes nuts.

“Holy shit!” Alec yells, jumping. He turns to me, then quickly back to the field.

Brogan stands with the ball and then does a backflip in celebration. His teammates run to him, and all the while Mavericks fans are still screaming their heads off. Me and Alec included.

It feels like it takes us forever to get out of the stadium. My beer buzz is nearly gone by the time the Uber pulls up to our apartment.

Alec downs Advil and a glass of water before heading to bed. I have no idea how he manages on so little sleep. He has to be at the station by four for hair and makeup.

I should go to sleep too, but I’m too wired. After I wash my face and brush my teeth, I sit down on my bed with my laptop. My ears still ring from the noise of the game. I check email, then scroll through reels for a while. Eventually though, I’m too antsy to even sit still.

I get up and go to my desk. The letters from Brogan are stacked next to my laptop. I pick up one and reread it. Then do the same with the others. Writing letters is an intimate thing. Even when you don’t exchange any personal information, it still tells you so much about the person. Like, he’s considerate and cares about his young fans. He’s witty, and I like his sense of humor. Writing to him, I let myself get caught up in the fun. I got caught up in him. But he’s a professional athlete with literally thousands, if not millions, of fans.

I wonder if he knew I was there. Can he check that the tickets were used? I roll my bottom lip behind my teeth as I think.

It would be rude not to at least let him know I accepted his apology tickets. Grabbing my phone, I type in his number and save it to my contacts. I have Brogan Six’s number. It sends a little rush through me even if I never plan to use it again.

Me

Thank you for the tickets. We are now officially 100% even.

It was a great game. Nice catch.

I hit send, then reconsider everything I wrote. Nice catch? Is that what you’re supposed to say to someone when they get a touchdown? I have no clue. Oh shit, I realize he doesn’t have my number.

Me

It’s London by the way.