“Because you’re buying into the bullshit.” Her expression turns stern. “Your great-grandparents, they came to LA with nothing and made a name for themselves in Hollywood as screenwriters, didn’t they?”
“They did.”
“And your grandparents?”
“Pops put himself through medical school. Pegs had a leg up with her parents in the business, but she didn’t go into screenwriting. She became a set designer.”
“And their good fortune grew. Now you have the fruits of their labor. They could have sold this place. Your great-grandparents could have sold it. But they wanted you to have it. So don’t feel bad. Just think smarter.”
We fall silent. The sun warms my skin and sparkles on the surface of the water. I can almost hear the echoes of the past, the laughter of parties my great-grandparents and grandparents threw. The kids who played here. I learned to swim here, cut my knee open tripping on the rough limestone patio one day when I ran too fast. And Pegs sat me on her lap in one of the wrought iron chairs, cuddling me close as I cried.
“Monica?”
Quietly sipping at her cocktail, she looks my way.
“You’re a great motivational speaker.”
Her chuckle is low and satisfied. “So my man keeps telling me.”
“Well, listen to him. He knows of what he speaks.” My cheeks warm as I open myself up just a little bit more to the world. “You’re also a good friend.”
She looks at me thoughtfully. “I know how shy you are, and it’s difficult for you to open up. So what you say means that much more to me.”
God, my cheeks must be red. They burn hot, but I don’t lower my gaze. And she grins. “That’s the way. You’re a good friend too, Pen.”
“Well, then. Here’s to thinking smarter.”
“And while you’re doing that, consider giving your man a little break. I know he blunders in his zeal to fix things for you, but it’s obvious that boy is so in love with you he’s not thinking clearly.”
An unpleasant jolt hits my heart. He cares, but he doesn’t love me. The lies August and I are weaving tighten just a bit more. I want to brush them off like cobwebs, yet they’re too sticky. But this play between us isn’t forever. That doesn’t mean I can’t become more of who I want to be.
The last dregs of cocktail go down sticky sweet.
“I definitely want to see your house,” I tell Monica.
Likely she knows I’m desperate to change the subject away from August.
And she’s kind enough to let me. “Can you come over this weekend?”
“I can.”
Her smile is easy, and somehow just a little different than the ones I’ve seen her give in multiple performances. “You know, Pen, I just bought a beach house in Santa Barbara that’s in desperate need of some personality.”
Nice work if you can get it.
Setting my glass securely in the tray, I take off my sunglasses and sit forward. “Maybe we should go there too.”
“Oh, we will.”
With a grin, I slide off the lounger and slip into the cool clear water, letting it rise over my head.
August
Win, that’s what she told me. That’s what I do. One step at a time. Every game is a new opportunity. Every play is another push forward to the ultimate goal. It ain’t easy, but nothing worth having ever is. I swear I heard that line in a movie—most likely one of Penelope’s picks. She always chooses the ones that have lines to remember.
Winning at pro football, I’m beginning to learn, is more than a mind-fuck. I’m not in control of every player’s performance. Not possible. Defense has to deliver, and there’s shit-all I can do about them. But my men? The offensive line, the backfield, and the receiving core. Eleven of us are united in one main objective: forward momentum, score. It’s that simple. And that difficult.
On any given play, we can fuck up, including me. The trick is to mitigate those errors. First by playing without fear, hesitation, or flaw. And if I do fuck up? Pull it back together, and show my team that it’s all good, we still got this. My job is part actor faking out the defense, part director leading my guys downfield,and part performer getting that ball into the right hands by brilliant handoffs or perfectly timed and aimed throws.
