Page 19

Chapter 19

Andy

I hop off the plane and my feet touch the tarmac of the small private terminal at the Green Bay airport.

I hoist my overnight bag higher on my shoulder and pull down the brim of my ball cap, shielding myself from the wind as the driver in the black sedan opens its back door for me.

“Mr. Burke.” He nods at me and tries to take the expensive designer leather duffle the quarterback of our team gave everyone as a holiday gift last year.

“I got it. But thanks.”

I slide in, and he closes the door behind me, shutting me in so I’m in the back seat alone with my thoughts.

Was this a bad idea?

I immediately regretted contacting Green Bay for a meeting; what fucking business do I have coming here? It wasn’t part of my original plan, and now I feel like I’m being a bit of a psycho, coming to Harlow’s hometown to ambush her.

Dex’s words keep repeating over and over in my head the same way they did on the short flight here—a flight that was surprisingly smooth considering the wind.

Don’t most women like grand gestures?

I can’t think of a single one who wouldn’t want a man to sweep her off her feet after our whirlwind time together. We had a great time; doesn’t it make sense that she would be stoked to see me again as a surprise?

The driver glances at me in the rearview mirror, his eyes flickering back to the road once he catches me catching him looking at me. I smile, turning my face to gaze out the window at the fields, overcast skies, and the occasional bank, school, and fast-food restaurant.

We drive past a ranch-style house painted green and gold, with the team’s logo painted square in the center of its garage door.

“You’re in Packers country, now, sir,” the driver says. “My name is Sam if you need anything.”

“Nice to meet you, Sam. I’m Andy.”

Landon.

Landon Michael Burke.

Andy rarely slips off my tongue anymore; like I said, not many people call me Andy, except my parents and family. My agent calls me Landon, and I signed with my first team as Landon—my teammates obviously call me by my last name.

Sam seems pleased to be on a first-name basis with me—pleased to be using a special nickname—I can see it in his eyes through the rearview mirror. He’s young and eager and no doubt is going to be texting all his friends once he’s dropped me off at the rental.

A house rental, actually. My agent didn’t think the hotels in this area would adequately house me for the night—his words, not mine. I’m not so big a snob that I wouldn’t stay at a Good Nite Inn or a motel.

Then again, Trent wasn’t sure a house rental would provide me with enough privacy or security to get me through the night without a bunch of Sam’s friends showing up on the doorstep or camping out on the curb to get photographs when I have to step outside.

It is what it is.

My meeting with the team management isn’t until tomorrow. I want to see Harlow first since she is the main reason I’m in town, although I would admit that only to Dex.

I’m tempted to video chat him again, but I have a feeling he’s sick and tired of listening to me go on and on about a woman he’s never met and that I barely know. In Dex’s mind the whole thing with Harlow is a bad idea, and he’s reminded me in the simplest terms. Daily.

The last thing I want to do is admit to my best friend that I chartered a flight, had my agent contact Green Bay after I told him I wouldn’t, and now I am holed up in a rental for twenty-four hours with the sole purpose of knocking on some chick’s door and surprising her with my presence.

Yeah, I won’t be giving him a buzz.

I pace around the living room of this family home in downtown Green Bay, probably wearing a path in the carpet with my pacing back and forth in front of the sofa.

I’m so fucking nervous.

“Turn the TV on, and watch something to get your mind off it,” I tell myself.

Dude, chill.

Just go over to her house, man. She’ll be excited to see you.

“She thinks you’re unemployed,” I remind myself out loud in an attempt to talk myself down off the ledge.

“Well, what the hell were you planning on doing then, you moron, if you’re going to fly all this way, and just stand here with your dick in your hand?”

I feel like there are only two things I can do at this point:

Call my mother and tell her about Harlow, how we met, that we slept together, and get Mom’s opinion on the matter—she is bound to have one. On the other hand , she’s going to tell me I’m a fucking idiot (not in those exact words but something close) and that I should meet with the team and get my ass home without seeing Harlow. I can hear the lecture already ...

Look up Harlow’s address and head over. Wouldn’t be hard to find—how many Harlows could there possibly be?

One more lap around the room and my phone is in my hands, and I’m dialing my mom, hoping she’s available but also hoping she’s busy and doesn’t pick up.

I’m not that lucky.

Mom answers on the second ring, and I can see she’s in the grocery store, an aisle behind her, fluorescent lights above.

Shit.

She’s pretty well known, too, and if anyone overhears us chatting ...

“How’s my favorite son?”

Ha. I’m her only son. “Good.”

She’s pushing a cart, arms leaning on the handle, balancing her phone and probably a shopping list.

“You don’t look good. What’s on your mind?” She squints at the camera. “Where are you?”

“Um.” I shuffle my feet. “Uh. Not Ohio or Seattle?”

“Is that a question? I thought you were at the gym.”

“Ma, I’ve been gone two hours.”

“What’s your point?”

I don’t have a point. “I’m in Green Bay.”

She stops pushing her cart, halting in the middle of a pasta aisle, jars of bright-red spaghetti sauce lining the shelves behind her.

Mom waits for me to say more; she knows me and knows I called for a reason and that I’ll say what I need to say when I’m ready for it to come out of my mouth.

“I ...” Let’s see, how do I put this? “It’s complicated.”

“Are you there to meet with the team?”

Eh. This is where it gets tricky. “I’m multitasking.”

She furrows her forehead. “What does that mean exactly?”

“This probably isn’t a good time for me to be laying this out for you because I have to give you some background information.”

Mom pulls her cart off to the side and looks around, this way and that—most likely for other shoppers—checking to make sure she’s out of earshot so nothing we say has a chance of getting overheard.

She is not.

“Give me a second, and I’ll go out to the car.”

I nod.

It’s not like we’re normal people in a normal family and can have normal conversations. I have the sort of life where my mother has to walk back outside in the elements, return to her car just to take a simple phone call from her son, so no one hears what we’re discussing.

There are eyes and ears everywhere.

Once my mother is back inside her vehicle—the one I bought her last year for Christmas—she gives me a look that tells me she’s ready to listen and that I should start talking and start talking fast. It’s a look I’ve seen one million times (but we won’t get into that). Let’s just say my mother is the boss of the family, regardless of how famous or wealthy I’ve become.

I am the child.

She is the parent.

Mom stares, waiting.

“So last week when I was in New York City, I was in Central Park minding my own business at one of those food trucks, and this young woman was behind me ... and she was basically heckling me, and I wasn’t sure how to take it, but she obviously didn’t recognize me because she was giving me shit about ordering chicken.”

Whoa. That was a lot of word vomit.

I’m definitely babbling and giving too much information, but on the other hand, this is need-to-know information so she can give me an educated, honest opinion based on facts.

“Long story short: I ended up seeing her at the elevators of my hotel later that day, and, Mom, I was, like, about to shit my pants or puke or whatever, and she’s just standing there watching me.”

At the mention of puke and shit, my mother cannot mask her surprise. And although she still hasn’t said anything, I’ll go out on a limb and assume she’s thinking, Why didn’t he tell me any of this when he got to the house after his trip?

Her face says it all.

Her mouth moves into a straight line.

I can almost feel the disapproval, and she doesn’t even know the direction this story is going to take yet!

Shit.

“I should mention that while we were standing in line and I was ordering chicken, she told me not to, and that it was a terrible idea, but I did it anyway. She bet me that I would get sick—and I did.”

“She bet you?” my mother asks, expression neutral.

“Bet me that if I got sick over chicken—which I did—I would have to take her to dinner.”

Mom purses her lips. “That sounds cheeky of her.”

It does sound rather cheeky, but Harlow is sassy—not that I’m going to tell that to my mother. I don’t want her getting any preconceived notions about the kind of person Harlow is. Because she’s wonderful, and not at all like anyone I’ve ever met before.

“It sounds worse than it actually was,” I amend. “Since I lost our little bet, I told her I owed her dinner, but we got breakfast instead.”

Mom nods, lips still pursed.

“So I get back to my room and write her a note, and when I tell you I shouldn’t quit my day job because I’m total shit when it comes to writing, I’m not exaggerating.”

I’m trying to lighten the mood, to no avail.

Mom’s silence is an indication that I need to keep speaking. “So I write out this note and call up room service and have it sent to her room. Did I mention we were actually staying at the same hotel?”

“You don’t say,” Mom deadpans. “And she had no idea who you are?”

I can tell by the tone of her voice that she doesn’t believe Harlow had no idea who I was, not for one second.

But it’s her life’s work to be skeptical and protective; she’s been fighting dragons on my behalf since I was young. Always has, always will be until she draws her last breath.

“She had no idea who I was and still has no idea who I am. I mean, she knows my name is Andy ...” Instinctively I want to defend Harlow— a total stranger —to my mother, but I still have more story to tell, and by the look on my mother’s face, she isn’t going to like the rest of this cute little fairy tale I’m spewing.

I regret calling her.

Should have figured this out on my own.

“She was in town for work,” I tell my mom, hoping she’ll let me finish the story without that expression on her face.

It’s distracting as fuck.

“What kind of work?”

I should have known she would ask.

“She’s a designer.” Close enough.

If I tell Mom that Harlow designed and created a dating app, that will launch one hundred more questions, which will lead to more questions, which will no doubt have her judging and deciding that I should stop speaking to Harlow—let alone fly to the city she lives in to surprise her.

I don’t elaborate and go on with my story.

“So we go sightseeing and have a blast, right? It’s been a really long time since I’ve done anything like that—I actually can’t remember ever bumming around town to have fun. Every time I do go somewhere, it’s always for work, and I can’t really go out in public and do whatever I want.” I can’t stop babbling. “This time I was wearing a disguise, and then she put one on, too, because she thought it was goofy and I was doing it to be cute—she had no idea I slapped on a mustache so no one would recognize me.”

Which barely worked.

Listen to me, oversharing to create a bit of sympathy on Harlow’s behalf so my mother won’t be too critical when I give her the actual reason I’m in Green Bay.

“What kind of disguise?”

“Hat, a mustache, and sunnies.”

Mom narrows her eyes. “You thought running around New York with a strange woman and wearing a hat and sunglasses was a good disguise?”

“Uh, yes?”

Mom’s blank expression is all she needs to say.

“It’s not easy to find disguises in the middle of New York City, Mother. I guess I could’ve gone out and gotten a wig, but wouldn’t that have drawn more attention to me?” I give my head a shake. “No harm, no foul—no one recognized me, and we had the most kick-ass day.”

Mom blinks.

I keep talking. “Harlow is just a really down-to-earth girl. She’s actually from the Midwest, too, and quite honestly, I can’t remember dating anyone from here. Not even in high school, I don’t think—I never had the time to commit to anyone.”

She isn’t convinced about the facts. “Didn’t you date that cheerleader in college?”

Why does everyone keep bringing her up?

“But that was college. It wasn’t serious, and I knew I wasn’t going to marry her.” She just wanted a husband to pay for everything and buy her expensive shit. I look at my mother. “You never liked her, admit it.”

“Her skin was orange.” She says it so matter-of-factly, I laugh.

“Fair enough, her skin was orange.”

“Now that you have me sitting in the grocery store parking lot—spit it out. Please explain to me how you ended up in Green Bay, Wisconsin.”

Valid question. “Oh, Harlow—that’s her name, Harlow—and I really hit it off.”

“Yes, you’ve already said that.”

Crap. I’m pretty fucking nervous. Confessing all this to my mom, one of the people I respect most in this entire world—alongside my father and my agent (who, I will admit, has his moments).

I trust him but only, like, 85 percent.

“I spent a bit of quality time with Harlow after we went sightseeing, and I feel like she’s the type of person I could find a good friendship with.”

Oh my God, why did I just say that?

Good friendship?

You do not fly to a city you have no affiliation with after having sex with a woman because you think you’ll find a good friendship with her.

“Andy, seriously?”

I mean it’s mostly true. I feel like Harlow is definitely the type of girl who would make an amazing friend and lover. For me to tell my mom we’re good friends is absolutely ridiculous because that’s not what I’m looking for, and my mother knows it. I am a midwestern boy through and through, born and raised, with Midwest values. A guy who wants to settle down, as crazy as his life is.

She knows it, and she’s been trying to protect me.

I feel like Mom is staring into my soul right now. She knows I had sex with Harlow; she can see it in my eyeballs as I look at her through the phone.

She definitely knows there’s more to this than what I’m telling her ...

“Okay, so I might have fucked up the phrasing. I didn’t mean friends. I meant ...” I meant ...

“Landon, what are you trying to tell me? What are you doing in Green Bay?” my mother finally asks point blank. “Stop beating around the bush. My cart is just sitting inside, and the frozen pizza is probably unthawing.”

She called me Landon.

I can’t remember the last time she used my real name when addressing me , and that includes when I was little and would get into trouble, and she’d scream my entire name out the back door until I came running.

I almost smile at those memories.

“I think this one might be different, and I want to see for myself whether or not that’s the case.”

Mom is quiet, listening but not responding. Then, “Where does Harlow live, Landon?”

Shit.

The full name again, and I hadn’t even answered her other question.

Do I lie or do I tell her the truth?

“Here.”

The word slips out, and I want to hide from it behind this stiff sofa that’s in the rental Trent got me, the way I used to hide from my mom when I was a toddler. Only this time I’m an adult, and although she can’t ground me or scold me or put me in time-out, I dread whatever she is about to say.

“I see.”

That I wasn’t expecting.

I see.

What does she see?

How could she?

“What, Mom?”

She shrugs, the light from the sun almost blinding her and causing her to squint. Mom pulls down the visor before responding.

“I see.” She hesitates. “I understand how it’s been difficult for you and how someone a little more down to earth might hold a certain appeal.”

“Damn, Mom. Since when do you sound like such a politician?”

“How do I sound like a politician?”

“You said— someone a little more down to earth might hold a certain appeal ...”

“I know what I said.” Mom is stone-cold sober and not joking around.

“You don’t think that part of the reason you’re interested in this Harlow young woman is because she has no idea who you are? I’m not saying she’s not a decent person or that she’s not attractive and smart and whatever qualities you think you’re looking for in a woman—what I’m saying is maybe that’s the one reason you’re interested.”

“I’m not interested in her because she doesn’t know who I am. I’m just saying, that’s one of the reasons I find her fascinating.” No, that came out wrong. I rephrase myself. “I’m not interested in her because she doesn’t know who I am. What I’m saying is I really like the fact that she is normal.”

Wait, that doesn’t sound right either. What does normal even mean anymore?

I’m muddling this entire conversation, regretting calling. I should have gone about my business because I am a grown-ass man and can make my own grown-ass decisions.

“I think if you find something unexpected when you’re least expecting it—that thing falls into your lap—you should take advantage before you lose the opportunity.”

There.

I said it.

“I’m a grown man,” I tell her as if I need to tell her. “I’m twenty-nine years old.”

“I’m fully aware of how old you are,” Mom says with a smirk. “I gave birth to you.”

“Then why do I feel like I have to defend myself and my decisions?”

“I don’t know, Andy. Why do you feel like you have to defend yourself and your decisions?” Mom asks.

I wish she would stop doing that.

“I don’t know. Because I fucked up so many times, and I know that you were disappointed in some of my partners.”

“You did not fuck up so many times. You were just blinded by love—or what you thought was love.” She’s quiet a few seconds, gathering her thoughts, before saying, “I’ll admit that, yes, your father and I didn’t think that some of your previous partners were a very good fit for our family. But at the end of the day, who you decide to spend the rest of your life with, or not spend the rest of your life with, is not our choice, it’s yours, and if you wanted to continue seeing Paisley, you would have. You’ve always done what you’ve wanted in the long run, regardless of what your dad and I want for you.”

Funny how I hadn’t mentioned Paisley’s name and yet she knew exactly to whom I was referring, which kind of proves my point.

“That is not true,” I say. “Literally not true at all. For my entire life I’ve always considered what you and dad may or may not approve of, and that always weighs on me.”

She looks surprised, as if she hadn’t known that. “Don’t blame your father and me for the breakup with your girlfriend—that was your choice.”

“I’m not blaming you. But I am saying that it drove me crazy you didn’t like her.”

From the moment my mom met Paisley, she thought she was using me for clout. But the thing was, Paisley didn’t need me for clout—she had enough of her own. For whatever reason, however, she did think I was good for her image, but for all her beauty, she was insecure about it and always wanting more. More surgery, more Botox. She wanted me to take her on more trips, buy her gifts, take her to restaurants to please her.

Sure, she was demanding.

Yes, she was spoiled—beautiful but spoiled— but what woman in Hollywood isn’t?

So I tolerated the behavior and at times actually found it endearing.

The tantrums? Eh, I could tolerate those, too, because the sex was that good, and most problems could be easily solved with a new bracelet, a new purse, or tickets to a concert.

We both loved being photographed together.

Paisley was beautiful and social and was always ready to be seen in public on my arm.

Unfortunately, Mama Burke had seen enough.

Unfortunately for Paisley, when Mom has me doubting the decisions I make in my personal life, I’m likely to take her advice.

She rarely steers me wrong.

The thing was, she disliked Paisley the second she saw her holding court in the suite I bought for the Super Bowl—as if she were the hostess and my parents were there like everyone else, present to dote and fawn all over her.

Worse, the media picked up on the story, spreading it all over the internet, social media apps, showing the same videos over and over of my mother scowling across the suite at my girlfriend—it was written all over her face, and they had photographic evidence.

God, Mom was fucking furious after that game.

But it wasn’t as if I had any control over it!

I couldn’t help it if my girlfriend was a WAGzilla! I was down on the field playing a game; I couldn’t have predicted Paisley was going to piss my parents off by committing the ultimate sin: looking down on them .

It also embarrassed Mom when Paisley would show up to my games in stilettos or high heels or some kind of sequin outfit, and always with a squad in tow— as if she could invite anyone she damn well pleased .

My fault, yeah? I never said anything.

Paisley drew attention away from my game when she showed up in the box like that, hanging over the glass partition, always waving at fans, camera hungry from the start.

When it became apparent she was there for the cameras and not to watch my games, my mother gave me an ass chewing like she hadn’t since I was a teenager trying to skip football practice.

That was the end of Paisley Blue.

I simply could not handle the pressure of my parents’ censure, but if we’re being honest about it, there is a chance I might still be dating her today had it not been for their role in showing me her true colors. I wouldn’t have discovered them on my own; I was too busy to look that deep.

Paisley Blue. Ha. What a stupid fucking name, hey? Didn’t bother me at the time, of course.

I’d be lying, though, if I said I didn’t miss her sometimes. She was a firecracker, and I was the fuse that set her off—she loved what my mother calls toxic arguing —but at the time I didn’t see it that way.

“Andy—she wasn’t with you for the right reasons. All a parent wants for their child is someone to love them unconditionally so that when we’re no longer on this earth, they’re taken care of.” She runs a hand down her face, groaning. “I cannot believe we’re having this conversation in the parking lot of the Shop ’n Save.”

Yeah, me either, but that’s the way the rubber ball bounces.

“What do you want me to say right now?” Mom says. “I’m hearing about this girl for the first time today. I can’t say one way or another whether I think you’re making a mistake.”

True.

“What do you need from me, Andy?”

I don’t know what I need from her; part of this conversation is too late. I’m already here, in Wisconsin—like an idiot, begging my mommy for her stamp of approval.

“You know we love you. No matter what you decide to do, or who you decide to date ... in the end, we will accept her, no matter what. Even if she’s pretty to look at, but not so pretty on the inside.”

“Ouch, Mom, low blow.”

Her jab at my ex-girlfriend is a direct hit, and considering she rarely speaks about Paisley anymore—hasn’t mentioned her in months—this is surprising to me.

“So what’s your plan?”

“I don’t know. It’s probably horrible, but I was basically going to look up her address and surprise her?” Pause. “Or is that a bad idea?”

For a short moment my mother looks stunned at the idea of me showing up on someone’s doorstep. Or maybe she’s just constipated?

“Mom, say something.”

“You’re just going to show up unannounced? By now the media knows you’re in town. I’m sure it’s probably on the news, but of course you probably haven’t checked. How are you going to go anywhere without someone seeing you?”

Great point.

I don’t know.

“I’m going to assume you’re also going to take a meeting with the general manager and coaching staff the way you took a meeting with New York and Baltimore.”

“Yes, actually, I am. Business is business.” And I want to switch teams. Have for the past year. “If you don’t think I should show up there unannounced, what do you think I should do? Shoot her a text?”

“I have no idea. I have no idea how your generation does things.”

“What does that mean?” I roll my eyes. “You’re not a hundred years old.”

She shrugs. “You kids do things different, that’s all I’m saying. You slide into each other’s DMs and comment on social media instead of meeting people the old-fashioned way.”

I state the obvious: “Times have a way of changing how we do things.”

“It’s nice meeting a gal by bumping into her at the grocery store or being set up by a friend.”

“Bumping into a gal—like, say, in Central Park?” I grin. “See? You just proved my point.” I’m getting excited all over again. “That’s how I met Harlow, and instead of text bombing her and doing everything on social media—or through agents, the way I’ve done that shit in the past—I’m actually ... you know, showing up. In person and being present.”

“Landon Burke—you are in the middle of going to a new team. You do not have time to start a new relationship, let alone go gallivanting around the countryside, popping up at unsuspecting young women’s houses.”

Gallivanting. Ha!

I sigh. “I won’t be young and healthy forever, Mom. My career could end tomorrow, and the last thing I want to keep doing is going home to an empty apartment. I can’t even have plants, they all die.” I hesitate. “What if I break my leg or collarbone or tear something? Then what? I’m done. The best I can hope for is a career anchoring a commentary show.”

Mom thinks this through. “You’re right.” She’s nodding, which I take as a good sign. “You’re absolutely right. I’m just ... scared, I guess. You’re larger than life, and we just want someone to appreciate that about you. Who wants you for you and not all”—she waves her hands around—“the stuff.”

“Ma. I met her in the park, and I’m about to show up on her doorstep. Let’s just hope she doesn’t think I’m a complete fucking nutjob and call the police—’cause that would be a real pisser.”