First Position Page 3

  “I’m not so ‘big time.’ Perennial back-up. Shoulder fucked-up.”

  Clive rolled a toothpick between his teeth. “So what you need courage for?”

  “To dial a phone number.”

  Clive gave a sinister grin. “A woman?”

  “From college -- one who got away.”

  “Give me your phone,” Clive said, eagerly extending his hand.

  “What?”

  “Give me your damn phone. I’ll dial this college woman.”

  “That’s very nice of you, Clive, but. . . .”

  Clive raised his eyebrows. “You want to talk to the bitch or not?”

  Mason put up his finger. “Yeah, but she’s not a bitch.”

  “Relax, I meant it in a good way. Give me the damn phone.”

  Mason was buzzed -- the double had done him in -- and also a little scared of this strange bartender. He surrendered his phone and told him the number. Clive dialed, then held the phone to his ear, tapping his fingers on the bar, the toothpick between his teeth.

  “Give me the phone if she answers,” Mason whispered.

  “No, she needs to hear from a brother first!”

  Clive was out of control. His palms sweaty, Mason heard a few rings, then heard Emory answer. Clive started mumbling something, and Mason reached over the bar, wrestling the phone away from him, and quickly raised it to his ear. Clive roared a mischievous laugh.

  “Uh, Em?”

  Emory recognized the voice immediately. Only one person calls me that. “Mason?” She sat on the floor of her tiny bedroom surrounded by camera equipment. “What’s going on? What was that strange noise?”

  “Just a friend I met at the hotel,” Mason answered quickly. Clive pounded his chest in approval, then moved on to another patron.

  “Oh, OK.” Emory rose to her feet, and began moving through her ballet preparatory positions.

  “Did I catch you at a bad time?” Mason feared she may be busy, or worse, that she was with some guy. He looked in front of him, and saw Clive had refilled his glass. Is this a triple? He didn’t care and slammed it.

  “No, I’m just getting ready for a photo shoot tomorrow in Freedom Park.”

  Mason exhaled. No date on a Friday night. Good. “So you’re a photographer now?”

  “I am.”

  “Good for you. What time will you be finished tomorrow? I’d love to see the park. I can meet you there.”

  Emory sat down on her bed. Did he just ask me out on a date? No. But now I have to meet him, or I’ll sound bitter. She didn’t want to give Mason any reason to believe she was unhappy or lonely. She wanted to project an image of a happy, successful woman who’d left the past behind. “Meet me at 11 by the bridge. I should be done by then.”

  “Great. I’ll see you then.” Clive looked over at Mason and pumped his fist.

  “OK.” Emory said awkwardly.

  “Good night, Em.”

  “Good night.” Emory collapsed down on her bed, delirious with nerves and confusion to the point she felt sick to her stomach. She stuffed her face in her pillow.

  Mason stood up from the bar, beaming with pride, and slapped a high-five to Clive.

  * * *

  Emory tried to sleep but couldn’t stop her mind from racing. What the hell is going on? She wondered what Mason was up to -- why he would call, why he wanted to see her, what he expected in Freedom Park tomorrow, whether he was still married, whether he had feelings for her. All of this made sleep impossible. She considered waking Wesley to discuss her latest drama but decided not to bother him. He had taught for hours and deserved to sleep.

  She had no answers to her many questions, other than that she still loved him, and was worried about spending time with him -- that it could be a painful reminder of a love that was lost -- and lost to Alexis -- and she hadn’t come close to finding again, certainly not with Eric. But she wondered whether this was a sign -- perhaps from God -- that she needed to confront her past and divulge her secrets. She tried to push that thought aside, telling herself that bumping into him in a bar was nothing more than a chance encounter. But then she thought of the Gospel of Matthew. There is nothing covered that shall not be revealed; and hid, that shall not be known.

  The uncertainty made her stomach churn, but she couldn’t control her heart fluttering with excitement, too. She’d missed Mason -- his smile, confidence, and the way he made her feel. She missed sharing her life with him. She wondered whether spending time with him after so many years would feel the same as before. She was exhausted by her thoughts, but was afraid to sleep. She didn’t want her memories -- and her own secrets -- to haunt her dreams, as they sometimes did.

  She remembered their last days. I should have seen it coming. There were hints in their senior year, but she ignored them, choosing to believe everything was fine. It was easier that way. The NFL draft loomed in April, and Mason was under incredible pressure, with seemingly endless obligations ahead. He had to work on his flexibility and arm strength, shave precious tenths off his 40 yard dash time, deal with media questions and scrutiny, travel to the combine with countless other prospects, and hold a private work-out on campus for prospective teams.

  His teammates encouraged him as he prepared for the process but ribbed him about Emory. They thought Mason should play the field -- a different girl for each week of the NFL regular season. They had no idea he’d only ever had sex with Emory. She would hear some of the comments from his teammates, but never felt threatened, believing Mason was loyal and loved her, and that he wanted, in the near future, nothing more than a stable marriage. She knew Mason never considered divorce an option, having suffered through his own parents’ divorce at a young age. Their plan was to marry just once.

  In the midst of his preparation, and with the draft only a few months away, Emory made a trip to Texas to visit his family over New Year’s. She was battling bronchitis, hopped up on antibiotics, but went along to keep family relations running smoothly. Most of all, she didn’t want to disappoint his mother, Kathleen, a Texas divorcee, beautiful and imposing, with big blonde hair and a Southern drawl, who’d made it on her own as a successful interior designer. She owned every room she entered. Business was her primary focus, and she pushed her boys to do the same. It wasn’t as if Kathleen looked forward to seeing Emory during the trip; she simply liked appointments kept.

  Over dinner, Kathleen, Mason, and Emory discussed college life, and highlights from Mason’s senior season on the field, then speculated about what round Mason might be drafted in, and by which NFL team. It could be a team in the Northeast -- where they would need to get used to cold weather -- or a team out in California -- where they would need to learn about earthquake insurance and surfing. Or it could be some place in between. The future was unknown and exciting, Mason and Emory dreaming about the endless possibilities.

  Then Kathleen put a stop to it. “Emory, have you considerednot auditioning for that New York dance company?”

  Emory stopped her dreams cold, Kathleen turning them into a nightmare. “Did you saynot audition?”

  “Yes, dear.” Kathleen said.

  Emory looked over at Mason, slumped in his chair. A few weeks earlier, she’d told him she was invited to audition with the American Ballet Theatre in New York, the premier dance company in the United States, if not the world, during their final semester. It had been her dream to dance professionally, and she planned to shoot for the top. Only a few applicants each year were even selected. She didn’t mind that Mason told his mother but couldn’t believe Kathleen would suggest she give up the opportunity. She wondered if he’d expressed some concern to his mother.

  “I plan to audition,” Emory said boldly. “It was quite an honor to be asked.”

  “Well, dear, it would just be so much easier on Mason if you were not in New York, and you moved wherever he is drafted and just danced there.” Mason slumped further in his chair. “Unless, of course, a New York team drafts him, but as we all know, we can’t be su
re of that.” Emory glared at Mason, urging him with her eyes to confront his mother. She believed he always had supported her passion for dance -- that it was what first attracted him to her in the dark theater.

  But Kathleen had her and her son on the defensive. She wouldn’t have his NFL career jeopardized by ballet and quickly went in for the kill. “Don’t you think so, Mason?”

  Mason squirmed to sit up in his chair, then cleared his throat, looking down while fidgeting with his fork, with obviously no idea how to respond. The question lingered while he delayed. Emory turned to him, her eyes begging that he stick up for her, but he could only grimace under the glare of his mother. “Em, I guess that’s something we can talk about?”

  Hell no! But sick and in hostile territory, Emory took a deep breath and gently reminded Mason, as they’d discussed before, the career of a dancer is short -- like an NFL player -- and her time was now or never. She then tossed her napkin down and excused herself from the table.

  Over the following weeks, Mason dropped hints that he hoped they could live together wherever he played, and that a long-distance relationship would be difficult. Emory chalked it up to an overbearing potential mother-in-law and the pressures of the draft, figuring Mason eventually would come around. Regardless, she wasn’t going to let him or Kathleen get in the way of her dance career. In mid-February, two months before the draft, she traveled alone to the American Ballet Theatre in New York. She gave a flawless audition and received encouraging feedback from the instructors but knew it was still a long shot. She was competing against the best dancers in the world.

  To her surprise, after a few weeks, she received an invitation in the mail to join the company. She jumped up and down, her heart bursting out of her chest. The years and years of practice and late nights had paid off. Is this really happening? She needed to tell Mason for it to seem real. She tried to call him, but he didn’t answer, then remembered he was lifting weights at the football training facility. She raced across campus, with the wind at her back, running faster than she’d ever run before. She didn’t want to waste a second to tell him. She reached the facility and flew open the doors, rushing down the halls screaming his name. She darted up a flight of stairs and burst into the weight room, all empty except for Mason.

  She ran to him, and leapt into his arms. “I did it! I did it! I got in!”

  Mason placed her on the ground slowly. “Wow. That’s great,” he muttered.

  “I know!” She hopped up and down, her face beaming brightly. “I can’t believe it!”

  Mason looked down at the weights resting on the floor in front of him. “What’s wrong?”

  “I didn’t think you’d be so happy to leave me.”

  “What?” She reached for his hand. “I’m not excited to leave you. I’m excited I gotaccepted.”

  “Does that mean you have to accept?”

  Emory couldn’t believe what he was saying. She’d dreamed about this opportunity her whole life, and thought Mason of all people would understand. “No one turns this down.” She grabbed his other hand. “It’s like being drafted and refusing to play.” She searched his beautiful eyes, but saw only sadness, and perhaps a touch of anger. She felt light-headed, releasing one hand from his to hold her head. She took a deep breath and sat down on an exercise bench.

  “Are you OK, Em?” he asked tenderly.

  “Just a little dizzy, that’s all. I’ll be fine.”

  Mason bent down to rub her back. She wasn’t sure what had come over her, but assumed it was just a bad mixture of so many strong emotions at once, on the heels of her campus run. She didn’t want to make a big deal of it and decided it was nothing. Mason sat down next to her on the bench, hanging his head.

  “I know it’s going to be hard to be apart,” she said, “but there are weekends and holidays. I can travel to where your games are. We can make it work. Maybe a New York team will draft you!”

  “What if I don’t want you to leave me?” he asked sadly.

  Why is this all about him? “I’m not leaving you, Mason! I’m following my dream!”

  Mason rose from the bench and grabbed his weights from the floor. “Your dream doesn’t seem to include me!” He began to curl, veins bulging in his arms.

  “Aren’t you proud of me? Can’t you be happy for me? Support me?” Emory waved her hands wildly in the air. “Your girlfriend is one of the best ballerinas in the whole world. Do you realize that? This is the fucking Super Bowl for me!”

  He dropped the weights, a loud clang echoing through the room. “Supportyou? What about me?”

  Emory rose from the bench, her heart heavy and mind spinning. These were the moments they’d talked and dreamed about together. But Mason had turned it into a wrestling match over whose career was more important, and Emory didn’t understand why they both couldn’t have their careers and each other. She tried to compose herself but couldn’t hide her anger any longer. “Is that you or your mother talking?”

  “Don’t bring my mother into this!” he barked.

  “How about this -- just defer football for a year and follow me to New York?”

  Mason stared at her. “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard!”

  “What’s stupid is you telling menot to go to New York. I mean, you knew I was auditioning. What did you think was going to happen?” Mason lowered his head, then she realized what she never thought possible. “Oh my God, you hoped I wouldn’t get it.”

  He brushed her off. “I’m not discussing this anymore. It’s time that you decide. Is it me or ballet?”

  “Mason, that’s not a choice. Either way, I am losing something I love.” She took a step towards him, hoping to end this fight she didn’t want. “Can we at least go celebrate tonight and deal with the details later?”

  “I don’t feel like celebrating you leaving me.” Mason turned his back to her and walked away, returning the weights to the shelves.

  “Let’s just give it a few days,” she said hopefully. “Nothing needs to be decided now.”

  Ignoring her offer, Mason grabbed his towel from the floor, and Emory began to cry. The best news of her life was leading to the loss of the man she loved. Mason walked towards her and kissed the tip of her nose and forehead. For a moment, Emory felt peace, as if he finally understood. But then he turned his back again and walked towards the exit.

  “Mason, Mason,” she cried out, “please don’t do this! I love you! Please, please. . . .”

  When he reached the door, he turned back to her. “Bye, Em.” And he was gone.

  Emory sunk to the floor, tears streaming down her face, clutching her stomach, feeling she could throw up. She curled into a ball on the floor in the weight room for hours, late into the night, hoping Mason would come back to her, but he never did. Her life, her love, was gone. She pulled out her phone. “Wesley, I need you to come to the weight room right now.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  She’d hardly slept when the alarm clock blared. Emory rolled her head under her pillow, as if that would stop the noise. She threw the pillow off her and smacked the alarm clock to shut it off. It was already morning; the night had passed quickly. She shuffled into her bathroom and looked at her puffy eyes. I can’t look like shit again. She only had an hour to get ready for her photo shoot in Freedom Park and needed every minute of it -- not only to perk up for her two little clients but also to look her best for her date later that morning. No, not a date! An appointment! A meeting! Just two old college friends catching up.

  After a bowl of cereal, she quickly applied a dash of blush, mascara, and lip gloss, then threw on her skinny jeans, brown knee-high riding boots, and a camel colored cowl-neck sweater. She pulled her hair into a high pony tail and raced out of her room with her camera bag.

  Wesley, holding his coffee mug, greeted her with a cat call. “What’s the occasion?” Emory never pulled herself together for photo shoots. Her infant and child clients didn’t care what she looked like, and neit
her did she, spending half the time on the ground taking pictures, and the other half wiping snotty noses. A t-shirt, cargo pants, and tennis shoes were her typical uniform, so Wesley knew Emory was up to something. Shouldn’t she still be upset, in flannels, looking like hell over Eric?

  “I’m meeting Mason after my shoot.”

  “Mason called?” Wesley sipped his coffee. “You left out that little fact last night.”

  “He called after you left to teach. Wants me to show him around town.”

  “I bet he does,” Wesley teased, raising his eyebrows.

  “And I thought I’d just show him what he missed out on, too.” She shook her booty at him.

  This was the girl Wesley loved -- sweet and spicy, rolled into a pretty little package. “Go get you some!” He slapped her booty, as she waltzed out the door.

  * * *

  Mason ordered a cab with the hotel valet and was off to Freedom Park. He’d slept well. It was the first time in a long time his arm didn’t hurt in the morning. He had a slight hangover from Clive, but it was well worth it, proud of himself for making the call and both thrilled and relieved she agreed to meet him. But he still had butterflies in his stomach, too -- Emory always gave him butterflies -- like he did before a division game on Sundays. Is this adrenaline or nerves? He didn’t know what to expect.

  He wondered whether she still had any feelings for him other than anger, and if she would soon take the chance to unload on him. He also wondered whether she may be in a good, committed relationship with another man, and knew he wouldn’t handle that news well. He could only imagine Emory with him. Don’t get your hopes up. She was still a knock-out and could have any man she wanted -- and probably did.

  The cab dropped him at Freedom Park about twenty minutes early. Mason paid the fare and made his way towards the bridge, drenched with sunlight, as if he was walking towards a pot of gold. As he drew closer, his pace quickened; he couldn’t wait to see her again. On a field below, he spotted Emory, laying on the ground with camera in hand, facing two small children, her long, blonde hair glistening in the sunlight. He leaned against a tree, far enough away so she wouldn’t spot him, watching her work -- as he had so many times before in the dark theater -- and couldn’t help but notice how her jeans perfectly framed her tight, little ass. Did she wear those on purpose? He adjusted his pants.