Dad lifted his arm, resting it over my shoulders. “Hey, sweetie, your uncle Darin and I have a question for you.”
My position with the Coopers was vice president of stadium operations and marketing. With my BA in sports management and an MBA, I anticipated that when I came to the Coopers, I was fully prepared. It turned out that while an education was nice and the degree looked impressive on the office wall, it was no substitute for getting dirty in the trenches. Over the last eight years, I’d learned more from my coworkers and assistants than I ever learned in a classroom. For the record, stadium operations and marketing had nothing to do with football operations, Aunt Rachel, Uncle Darin, and Royce Beasley’s side of the Coopers. In other words, as a VP, I had no say in which coaches or players the Coopers drafted, signed, fired, or interviewed.
With a smile pasted on my face, I asked, “What’s your question?”
Uncle Darin turned toward me with a light beer in his grasp. “Do you remember a player named Griffin Graham from when you were at Kentucky?”
“He goes by Fin,” Royce said.
“That name sounds familiar,” I replied, keeping my voice from giving away any emotion. “My internship didn’t start until my junior year. I think he had transferred by then.” I shrugged. “I don’t know where he went.” That was a lie.
“Tennessee,” Dad said. “Graham’s had a successful career. He was a second-round draft pick by Atlanta where he played out his rookie contract. Other than his rookie contract and six years with Green Bay, he’s moved around a lot.”
I scrunched my nose. “He’s getting old, isn’t he?” I knew his age, two years older than I—his time in Division II. Mentioning his age was subjective. A thirty-six-year-old man was hardly old as in geriatric. However, for football, he was approaching the end of his career.
Royce laughed. “At seventy-four, I’m old. Fin has aged like a fine wine.”
“Why are you asking?” I asked. “Is there a problem with Dennison?” The Coopers acquired Troy Dennison in last year’s draft. He was a first-round draft pick and a rookie from Alabama. Last year, he’d taken us to the AFC championship. We’d extended his four-year contract and tripled his salary.
“Dennison is good,” Dad said. “And Simpson is still strong. We’re discussing a third-string quarterback. The other teams will be gunning for Dennison after last year. We need reliable backups.”
I stifled a laugh, recalling Fin’s ambition for greatness. “You want to sign Fin as a third string?”
“Or second,” Royce said with a shrug. “We’ll see how the boy plays. I’ve been watching him this last week at practice. He used to play with Downing”—heturned to me—“our first-string tight end, when they were both at Green Bay.”
My fake smile returned. I wanted to interrupt Royce and inform him that I was aware who Downing was, and I could name the rest of the team and their positions if he wanted, with the obvious exception of a recent hire. Sometimes, it was exhausting wanting the respect others received so effortlessly.
We turned as Uncle Darin’s son and my cousin Grant joined our conversation. “Are you telling Vee about Fin?”
I met my cousin’s gaze. “Seems everyone knew about his hire except me.”
“But you know him, right? Lip and I were trying to remember. Didn’t you date him?”
His question was a kidney punch. “Who did you date in college, Grant? Do you remember every one of their names?” Grant was a confirmed bachelor. Given his position with the Coopers, my cousin was probably one of Kentucky’s most eligible bachelors.
Grant’s lips quirked. There was a twinkle in his eyes. “Definedate.”
“See, I remember Griffin Graham. Dating?” I pursed my lips. “I don’t think that happened.”
Dad tapped my shoulder. “We can talk about this later. It’s about time for the national anthem.”
I smiled and looked out on the field. There were nearly one hundred high-school football playersunfurling a mammoth flag that would dominate from twenty-yard line to twenty-yard line. I’d been the one who worked with the different athletic offices to arrange these students’ opportunity to be on the national stage.
As the crowd cheered, Leigh came up behind me. “Can I steal you away?”
I spun, my smile blooming. “Please and thank you.”
CHAPTER 3
Vee
Fourteen Years Ago
The house off Burley Avenue reeked of stale beer, marijuana, and sweat. I moved my feet, my sandals sticking to the kitchen floor from the runoff of the keg. Or maybe it was from spills, no one seeming overly stable. Every square inch was occupied, people standing against walls while others sat on the dirty sofas and even on the questionable carpeting. During my one trip to the bathroom—which was disgusting—I saw bedroom doors open and others closed. Scanning the faces, there were few I recognized. The music blaring from hidden speakersand shaking the walls made my temples pound. I was half expecting the Lexington police to be the next guests through the door.
With my wildcat t-shirt sticking to my skin and perspiration dripping down my back and between my boobs, I reevaluated my current life choice. Emma, my roommate, had spent the better part of last week talking about a great off-campus party, one we couldn’t miss. She’d been told about it in her economics lecture.
Honestly, that should have been the first red flag. It wasn’t like economics majors were known for their epic parties. The sheer number of cars required us to park multiple blocks away.
