Forgetting the Rules: A Second-Chance-Romance Sports Standalone Read online

  While I get dressed and ready for my day, I think about the conversation my parents had with me. It was one of the few times my mom refused to make eye contact with me, and I remember even then it had felt significant. That night, my anxiety felt like it took form, closing in walls and darkening each possibility the future held. I dedicated my night to researching everything about my mom’s diagnosis, determined to overcome my fears with rationality and fact. I even dared to go to the ugly and scary sites because I knew I needed to know our enemy to fight and beat it.

  The next day, I came out of my bedroom with my proverbial boxing gloves laced and ready with a long list of questions for my mom to ask her specialist and plans for what she’d need: rest, relaxation, healthy food, mint tea. I was prepared, and then my parents proved to me once again that I wasn’t when they told me they were getting a divorce.

  Cancer and divorce in neighboring days should never happen.

  Yet, they did.

  And everything else that shouldn’t happen—that wasn’t supposed to happen—did as well.

  My mom moved into a condo the next week. It was newly remodeled and close to the hospital where she’d be receiving treatments. Over the next few months, all of the willpower and determination I’d had for beating her cancer became anger and resentment toward my father for carrying out the divorce, and my mother’s doctors who told us there was little they could do except work to make her comfortable. What was left was distributed to my friends, who blissfully carried on with their lives, oblivious to how fast life can pull the rug out from under your feet.

  We buried my mom on a cold, wet day in January. She didn’t make it to see summer, her favorite season. She’d lost her battle, and so had I. I lost a lot that day, including my crown and cape, along with my dreams of being a hero.

  Two weeks later, while I was at one of my counseling sessions, which had begun shortly after my mom’s diagnosis, my therapist insisted we start talking about my dad. It had been a subject I’d aptly avoided, and one I had no desire to explore. Her insistence led me to quitting within a couple of weeks with the realization that rules established boundaries which I clung to.

  Arlo and Olivia have already left by the time I leave the apartment, my thoughts still heavy with memories of that period of time in my life. As I head to my car, I realize this is where Olivia comes into my story. Actually, she deserves to be mentioned several chapters earlier. Unlike many who talk about meeting their best friend when they were in diapers, I met Olivia our junior of high school after she moved from Texas to Seattle. She was my newest friend and one of the few who stuck around while I was quite possibly the worst version of myself. Somehow, she saw past my snark and scowls and loved me for who I was before I even realized who I’d become. She challenged me and provided me both hope and friendship—two things I was desperately starved for at that point.

  I started at Brighton University in the fall. It wasn’t my first choice—which had included at least a couple of thousand miles between my dad and me—but it was where Olivia was going. Though I’d lost too much during my senior year, including a boyfriend, a full family unit, and my mom, I’d gained a sister that year in Olivia and an entire set of rules so that if life served me another curveball, I’d be ready.

  I began focusing my energies on goals that could be measured. Rather than being in the middle of the action and making changes, I decided I’d be on the sidelines, writing the large checks like my father so I wouldn’t have to go through the messy red tape and failures that had already stripped me of my fight. And while taking steps to build my empire, I began to search for that same rush of adrenaline I got whenever I entered a room filled with people.

  Meanwhile, my love for words spanned beyond books. I’d grown up reading the news, which sounds strange, but my dad wasn’t fond of me bringing books to the breakfast table, so the next best thing for someone who loved to read was one of the many newspapers delivered to our house each day. My therapist had actually advised me to stop reading the news because it “only fueled” my anxiety, but by that point, I’d shelved my passion for fiction and focused on the realities of life. News stories have always felt more honest and informative than watching the nightly news where anchors delivered stories about war, famine, and crime with a smile, which led me here: Brighton’s college newspaper, The Daily Dose of Brighton.

  “Hey, Rose!” Janet Chu greets me as I step into the classroom where the newspaper comes to life. The familiarity of the space makes me smile and my dark thoughts to clear. The desks and bulletin boards and the tiny office in the back where our editor will sit and yell, pretending like we’re a real newspaper staff—because that’s how every editor we’ve had has acted in my three years at Brighton.

  “Hey. How are you?” I ask Janet.

  She nods, smiling as she tucks her chin-length black hair behind one ear. “Good, but it sounds like there are going to be some changes this year.” She scrunches her nose with distaste. “We’re going to have assigned seating this year.”

  I don’t tell her that this makes sense to me. Columnists and editors often rely on each other for insight and advice, and having them sit together, rather than yelling across the room like we always have, seems appropriate. I don’t mention this, though, because many people like the chaos and feed off of the energy. “Have they announced who the new editor is yet?” I glance in the direction of Amita Patel, a fellow senior who I have no doubts will be making headlines after we graduate for the engaging and often thought-provoking stories she writes about uncomfortable issues.

  Janet shakes her head. “Not yet.”

  The door behind us opens again, and Anthony Albright steps in, his same brown messenger bag over one shoulder and the same supercilious and arrogant smirk I’ve seen on his face for years. “Good afternoon. I know rumors are spreading about changes, and I want to take a few moments to clear things up with everyone.”

  Janet glances at me, her brows drawn low over her brown eyes that reflect the same warning bells that are ringing in my head.

  “Yes, we will have seating assignments this year, and we’re going to be moving up deadlines, so we don’t have to fill any blank spots with fluff pieces that detract from the credibility of our newspaper. As you may have heard, I’m the editor this year, and I’m going to be expecting more from you.” He runs a hand over his sand-colored hair as he moves his gaze to me, reminding me of how glad I am to not have slept with him sophomore year when I mistook his arrogance for intelligence.

  “Brighton doesn’t fund the newspaper,” he continues. “Our operating budget comes from ad revenue. Local businesses buy out space in each paper with the expectation that enough people will read what we write, see the ads, and make their way to our sponsors to cover their costs. Between the number of papers distributed and online traffic, we know that readership is down. With only four publications each week, we’re going to be working hard to make sure the Daily Dose remains relevant and grows in readers this year.”

  My frown likely reflects my disdain. Anthony made his way onto my unredeemable list after learning he was pilfering stories from his girlfriend who attended another local college and was bragging about the fact. Whoever voted for him to be our editor must have been drunk or coerced.

  Others are whispering and looking around with the same shared confusion. Clearly, many of us were expecting to hear Amita named as our editor, not this douche canoe.

  “Also, I’ve taken the liberty of assigning your columns. I’ll post the manifest outside of my office. If you have any questions, you can request to schedule an appointment with me via the calendar, but it will likely be a few weeks since I have a lot of new implementations I’m working on.”

  “Implementations?” Janet mouths. “What a tool.”

  I bite my bottom lip to stop myself from laughing.

  “What about the seating chart?” another senior asks.

  Anthony nods. “Already posted. You’ll find a copy of it on the bulletin boar
d that previously held article ideas and will now be a parking lot for updates. You’re all responsible for checking there before you come to me with questions.”

  Snickers and murmurs meet his announcement, which has his eyes narrowing. Since my stint with therapy, I’ve been a bit obsessive when it comes to learning about psychology. The subject is right up there with local restaurant reviews, economics, and woman’s rights—my dad used to have an approving smile when he referred to my thirst for knowledge, calling me a pantomath, a Greek word that basically translates to wanting to learn about everything. I simply consider myself well-rounded in my interests. Last year, after working at the desk beside Anthony’s for six months, I realized he checks every box for a narcissist, and this only proves how well that shoe fits him as he raises his chin and breezes past everyone’s confused stares.

  “Get moved into your desks. I’ll be posting your sections in ten.”

  Teddy, another senior, turns around to face me, shaking his head. “That guy needs to get off his high horse before he falls or someone knocks him off.”

  “Vile,” Janet says before expelling a deep breath. “Let’s see where we’re seated.”

  I follow her to the bulletin board, skimming over the names until I spot mine—in the corner, right beside the printer. I stare at the sheet and then at the desk. It always sits empty, used as a catch-all for things that people print and forget to collect. Apparently, Anthony doesn’t think so highly of me, either.

  “Where are you?” Teddy asks from over my shoulder.

  I stab my name on the print out. “No man’s land.”

  He chuckles. “What? Why did he put you over there? That makes no sense.”

  I shake my head. “He’s trying to get in my head. It doesn’t matter. I don’t do most of my work here, anyway.”

  “And less now,” Janet adds.

  I nod. “Exactly.”

  “If he doesn’t give me editing, so help me,” Teddy says, turning to eye Anthony’s new office. “Did you sign up for entertainment again?” he asks Janet.

  She nods. “It’s my lifeblood. If Anthony messes with it, I’ll help you spike his coffee with laxatives.”

  Teddy nods. “Deal.”

  Anthony opens his door as several students start arranging their desks, adding pens and sharpened pencils, and finding the right rhythm and balance to their workplaces. Without looking at anyone, he tapes a single sheet to the window outside of his office and then quickly escapes back inside, closing the door behind him.

  “I’m scared to look,” Janet says.

  I shake my head. “He’s power-hungry, but he’s not stupid. He wants the paper to succeed so he can take all the credit. He won’t assign people columns where they’re going to fail. His ego’s too big for that.”

  Janet’s brown gaze turns hopeful. “I hope you’re right.”

  I nod confidently, leading her toward the list of assignments. “Janet Chu,” I read her name. “Entertainment.”

  She releases an audible sigh. “Thank God.”

  “What in the ever-loving…” Teddy says, his gaze turning on me. “Since when did you want to write the sports section?”

  “What?”

  He taps the bottom of the sheet where my name sits beside my unwanted assignment. “I...” I shake my head, scanning over the rest of the names. “This is a mistake. It has to be.”

  “You didn’t put it as a backup option?” he asks.

  I swing my attention to him. “Do you really think I wouldn’t remember if I had? I know nothing about sports. I don’t know a thing about rugby or football or soccer. I don’t even know what the terms are or how they score or how much they score.” Panic is rising in my chest, pitching my voice.

  “You have to talk to him,” Janet says. “You know he’s doing this because you refused to go out with him.”

  “What a pain in my ass,” I mutter, marching toward his door. I wrench it open and take two steps inside. Anthony is sitting behind his computer, his attention on his cell phone.

  “Rose?” he says, setting his phone down and looking at me obnoxiously calm. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  I pull in a breath and count to three, working on sounding to sound far more diplomatic than I’m feeling. “I saw you assigned me sports, and I want to see if this was a mistake?”

  He shakes his head. “I made the list myself. There are no errors.”

  “I’ve been covering international news since freshman year.”

  He nods.

  “I don’t understand? I’ve had multiple articles get picked up by local news stations. A couple have even trended on Twitter and made national stories. I don’t understand why you’re assigning me sports when I know I won’t be able to do it the justice we strive for here.” I’m sucking up, and while it hurts a little because I’d far rather be strangling Anthony, it aligns with his narcissistic personality.

  Anthony leans back in his seat, and for a second, I see a flash of him twenty years in the future: his sand-colored hair thinning and his face filled out and pudgy, making his eyes seem even beadier and more predatory than they are now. It’s a sad fact that he’ll likely still be sitting behind a desk, holding far too much power because people like Anthony are somehow such good salespeople of their own attributes that others believe them. There’s no way he deserves or is qualified for this role, but everyone will repeat the same pitch he’d made with exuded confidence that made people falsely believe him.

  “Your roommate’s dad is the head football coach,” he says. “It makes sense. You have an inside connection that no one else here does. Use it.”

  “I have a tiny inside connection with football. That doesn’t help me with water polo or cricket or soccer or any of the other sports we have.”

  He shakes his head. “There’s no cricket team at Brighton.”

  “This is my point,” I tell him. “I have no idea what sports are here, and I know nothing about any of them. Someone else is certainly more qualified to write sports.”

  “If you want to stay on the paper, this is your assignment.” He tilts his head, staring at me.

  I see more flickers of his arrogant future self, abusing his power over some other unsuspecting victim who doesn’t know how to counter his attack.

  For a moment, I want to walk out and quit. After all, this extracurricular isn’t going to be a part of my future. I’m planning to build an empire centered around yoga and wellness, nothing near the realm of becoming a journalist.

  “Fine,” I snap, still unsure if my following words are going to accept this new assignment or refute it by quitting. Then I think about the time I’ve dedicated to the paper and the friends I have here and how much I’ve learned. Perhaps if I prove myself as a sports writer, Anthony will be bored of toying with me and will allow me to write what I’m passionate about. A battle of wills is likely all he’s looking for, and little does he know how far I’m willing to go in this fight.

  I turn on my heel, leaving his office without another word. Hopefully, he’s as clueless as I am about what I’m planning to do next.

  “How’d it go?” Janet asks as she follows me to my desk in the corner.

  “Apparently, I need to go home and start learning all about sports,” I tell her.

  She cringes. “I’m sorry.”

  I give a swift shake of my head. “I’m not. This is good—this is great. It’s going to push me outside of my comfort zone and force me to learn about something new.”

  Janet’s look of disbelief makes me want to admit how badly this is going to blow, but I’m determined to show Anthony up. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell her as I grab my bag and head for the door, attempting to hold onto that little bit of determination before it fades.

  The afternoon sun is round and brilliantly bright and warm. The maple trees on campus have the tiniest hints of yellow at the tips of their leaves, promises that autumn will be here soon. I’m not ready for the cooler weather, and I’m less rea
dy for winter because I’m basically solar powered—requiring the sun to help me stay motivated and warm.

  I’m still staring at the endless blue sky, with a silent wish that summer will stay longer this year when my shoulder connects with someone else’s, and my bag and my desire for an endless summer stumble to a stop as I come face to face to Ian Forrest. Seeing him causes my thoughts to blank and my heart to stutter in my chest as the dominos in my head teeter.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, bending to pick up my bag.

  “No. I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  He rights himself, a patient smile curving his full lips. “Neither was I. How are you?”

  I take my bag and slide it onto my shoulder, trying to smother the hope that inflates in my chest as his eyes dance between mine as though he’s trying to read more than just my expression.

  “I’m well. How are you?”

  He starts to nod but, before he can reply, a girl calls his name.

  I turn and see Isla Zimmerman speed walking toward us, her short floral skirt revealing her tanned legs, and her smile is so bright and flawless that I almost forget to feel jealous.

  Ian’s gaze cuts to me, his shock evident as his gentle grin begins to slip.

  “Hey,” Isla says, releasing a deep breath as she stands so close to Ian that their arms brush. “There you are.” Her attention turns to me. “Hey, Rose. What are you doing?”

  Seeing him with someone else stings more than I’d thought it would, and having it be Isla—a friend and one of the few people who knew that Ian meant something to me—makes it feel like a sucker punch. Still, I remind myself that this shouldn’t be half this strange or uncomfortable. After all, things between Ian and me barely even began before they ended.

  “I was just leaving the newspaper,” I tell her.