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Raiders: 1 - 5
The Chiefs had won three games in a row. Now we were in third place in our division.
Andrew Stark stepped up to the locker next to mine wearing only a towel around his waist. “Hey, uh, Mr. Carter.”
I grinned. “I’m not that old, boy. Call my Brody.”
“Brody. I, uh, just wanted to say that I’m sorry for taking some of your snaps today. It’s not up to me, I just do what the offensive coordinator says…”
I shook my head. “No apologizing for playing well, partner. That’s what being a team is all about. You pick up the slack while I’m struggling, and vice versa.”
His eyes brightened. “You sure?”
I stood. “Hell yeah, I’m sure. Glad you’re stepping up when we need it. Just don’t get used to it, because I’ll be back to form real soon.” I punctuated the comment with a wink.
I considered myself a positive guy. When I was feeling down, I liked to act more encouraging around other people. My mom always said that positivity was infectious, and if I spread enough of it around, eventually it would come back to me. That’s why I acted so nice around Stark, even though he was slowly encroaching on what I considered my rightful spot on the line of scrimmage.
But acting positive around him made me remember just how much of a dick I was to Taylor.
The whole situation wasn’t her fault. Isabella was the one making things difficult. Taylor was in a shitty situation, and she had asked me to help make things easier.
And she had called Eric her ex.
I still remembered how intense my emotions were at that moment. Shock that she was no longer with that horse’s ass. Elation when I realized Taylor was now single.
Then rage. Pure, unbridled rage that I couldn’t be with Taylor without pissing Isabella off. And that rage spilled over when Taylor told me I couldn’t act friendly around her during the game.
If I can’t so much as smile at her, I thought, then how can we ever be together?
I hadn’t talked to her since that moment in the hallway. A couple of times, I tried to send her a text, but nothing felt adequate. Not for the kind of apology I wanted to give her.
But like I said: I’m a positive person. So I decided to do something positive, both because it was the right thing to do, and because it might eventually come back around to me.
And because T-Foxy is single now, I thought with a smile. And maybe, just maybe, we can figure out a way to make this work.
I bought two dozen roses and drove over to the University of Utah. I had to circle three times before finding a parking spot near the Department of Geology and Geophysics. According to Taylor’s schedule on the school website, she currently had office hours.
I was wearing my normal celebrity disguise: a sweatshirt with the hood up. But I still drew plenty of stares thanks to the bouquet in my hand as I searched for Taylor’s office.
Finally, I found her department up on the third floor. I opened the door and walked inside. There was a long hallway stretching out ahead of me, with individual office doors on either side. I slowly made my way down the hall, glancing at the names on each door.
At the end of the hall, I came to a T-intersection. To my left was another corridor with more offices. To my right—
I froze.
To my right was another, shorter hallway with more offices. But at the end was a glass conference room with a long table and chairs. The woman sitting with her back to me was unmistakable: I would recognize that auburn ponytail anywhere.
Standing next to her was a man who, unfortunately, I also recognized. Taylor’s ex, Eric, was leaning over her shoulder to look at something on the table. He reached out and put his hand on her back.
With any other two strangers, it might have been innocent physical contact. But with the context of their history, it had a far more intimate appearance.
Eric must have said something, because Taylor turned to look up at him. Her eyes narrowed as she laughed at him, and she gave him a playful shove. Eric’s hand returned to her back as the two of them shared whatever funny moment that was.
Behind me, a woman let out an excited noise. “Roses! Oh my, who are those roses for?”
I turned and saw a middle-aged brunette standing in an office doorway. The name on the door said: Prof. Elizabeth Throckmorton.
“Are you…” I pretended to squint at the flowers. “Beth Throckmorton?”
