The Game by Vi Keeland by Vi Keeland

Long story short, I proceeded to send the screenshot to Miller through our employee DM chat, where we had a lengthy discussion about whether balls could grow that big. I even did things like google conditions that could cause testicular swelling and then searched the guy on social media to see if his profile picture had been distorted somehow or if he really looked like that. Needless to say, I hadn’t actually disconnected, so Mr. Big Balls had watched everything I’d done on his screen before he called my boss. Miller and I were both fired, and my very first day became my very last.

“What could you have done that’s worse than Mr. Big Balls?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe mistake the best quarterback in the league for the pizza delivery guy and then give him a lecture on sexual harassment in the workplace.”

Miller’s eyes flashed to me and back to the road. “What the hell happened?”

“Drizella happened.”

“But how can you not recognize him? You memorized the statistics of every player on the team.”

“You know me and faces don’t mix well. I memorized his numbers, not his appearance—which, by the way, is breathtaking. The man’s jawline could make a sculptor weep.”

Miller shook his head. “I hate to tell you, but you’re not building algorithms anymore. You’re going to have to start paying attention to people. Use the tricks you’ve always used when you had to put faces together with names.”

I pouted. “I’m not a people person. I’m a mathematician.”

“Not anymore, princess. You’re a billionairess who owns an NFL team.”

“I think I want to go back to my old job. I’m done peopling.”

Miller chuckled. “You’ll get better at it. I promise.”





CHAPTER 2




* * *



CHRISTIAN



“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in. Took ya long enough.”

I walked over to Coach and automatically went to extend my right hand, but caught myself at the last second and offered my left. Coach’s right side had been impaired since his stroke a few years back. It was also the reason he used a wheelchair.

We shook. “How’s riding the bench treating you?” he asked.

I patted him on the shoulder with my free hand. “I like it about as much as you like riding this chair, old man.”

Coach chuckled. Marvin “Coach” Barrett and I had been busting balls as far back as my pee-wee football days. He’d been my first football coach, but he was also the father of John Barrett, one of the greatest football players of all time and the owner of the New York Bruins. Well, John had been the owner until he passed away from pancreatic cancer two years ago. Now the organization was apparently being run by a woman who thought I was the pizza delivery guy and lectured me on sexual harassment.

“So what’s going on? How’s the recovery?” Coach asked.

I’d had surgery to reattach a torn ligament to my knee a month ago, after being injured in a game. “I feel good. I’m killing it at physical therapy, and my knee hasn’t been this limber since my college days. But Doc won’t sign off for me to come back for at least three more weeks.”

“I’m sure they know best. Remember that time you cracked two teeth in the third quarter of a game in middle school? You didn’t tell anyone until the game was over because you were afraid they would make you sit out the last eight minutes. And if I remember correctly, your team was up by more than twenty points, too. You had to get nine stitches because you cut up the inside of your mouth so badly. It looked like you ate a razor blade. Doctor’s right for not trusting you to make the decision yourself.”

I waved him off. “You want to go outside and get some fresh air?”

“Yeah, why not? Walking around with you is better than walking around with a puppy. All the ladies want to stop and coo, and I get a good visual from where I’m sitting—right at chest level, if you know what I mean.”

I chuckled. “Still a dirty old man.”

Outside, Coach and I walked around his little neighborhood. After his stroke, he’d moved into a continuous care retirement community. He had his own townhouse and lived pretty independently, but there were healthcare workers and others on staff to provide extra support from time to time. We walked around the lake and into the park, where we often played checkers when I visited.

“Should I kick your ass again today?” He snickered.

“You got lucky last time. I was still on painkillers, so don’t let it go to your head. Besides, even a blind squirrel finds a nut sometimes.”

Coach cackled. “Still a sore loser, I see.”

“You want to put your money where your mouth is?”

“Okay, but I don’t need your money. If I win, you’re bringing me a pastrami on rye from Katz’s deli.”

“Fine.” I scratched my chin, thinking about my wager. “When I win, you’re going to wear a T-shirt with my face on it and sit in the visiting team’s bleacher seats at the next home game.”

“That’s just cruel.” He grinned. “I like it.”

I positioned Coach on one side of the concrete checkers table and set up the board. “Age before beauty. You go first.”