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Zoe

T he next morning I’m mostly awake, at least one eye watching for Bronco’s pre-dawn attack. Before he can really get the slobber going, the screen on my phone lights up from its place on my nightstand.

I squint at it out of one eye and then yank the blanket over my head. Bronco growls low in his throat but then lets out a little howl like I’ve woken him up.

Turnabout’s fair play, buddy.

I want to fall back asleep. I really want to. But maybe I shouldn’t have taken that two-hour nap yesterday. Because my brain is wide awake. And demanding to know who texted me at—I poke my head out of my cocoon only long enough to glance at the giant red numbers on the alarm clock—5:03. In. The. Morning. What even is this time?

Okay, it’s not like I haven’t had early call times before, but come on. This is ridiculous. No one I know would be texting at such an hour.

Unless.

My stomach twists hard.

Joe.

No. He wouldn’t text me. Why start now? He hasn’t reached out since unleashing the giant fireball that destroyed my career.

Unless . . . it’s not from him, but about him.

I don’t want to know. I don’t care. If it has to do with him, it has absolutely nothing to do with me. Not a single thing. Not even half a thing. And I couldn’t give less of a hoot.

Even if he wanted me back, I wouldn’t give him the time of day.

And I don’t care. And—

Rats.

I snake my hand out from under the covers and jerk the phone to my face. One text message. From Caro. Who knows me well enough to start with an apology.

I’m sorry. I know it’s stupid early there, but you need

That’s all my lock screen shows, and I punch at it until the crazy thing opens up. I have not one but five texts from my best friend.

I’m sorry. I know it’s stupid early there, but you need to get your hands on this script.

I’m serious. The buzz on set is crazy. I guess the script leaked, and it’s got Oscar-bait written all over it.

I heard Jen Lawrence is going for it.

Margot too.

But this role is made for you.

I have absolutely no idea what she’s talking about, and I don’t care. She, of all people, should know that my career is over. Down the toilet. Fully flushed.

I’m not hiding out in Colorado Springs for my health.

Not the way Nan serves up pasta and garlic bread. And dessert.

Though I’m not complaining.

But I can’t keep my thumbs from starting a quick question in response. Because I used to work in the industry. It’s natural that I’d be a little bit curious about a script that everyone’s talking about.

Before I get more than a couple letters typed onto my phone, a bowling ball jumps on my stomach. “Oof!” I jerk upright and swing my blanket down so I can stare into droopy eyes.

“Morning to you too, Bronco.”

He gives a little wiggle, dancing from one of my thighs to the other, his pointy little paws announcing that it is clearly time for a trip outside.

“We are not making a habit out of this,” I grumble as I wrap a blanket around my shoulders and slide into my conveniently located slippers. I’m not going to make that mistake again.

I’m pretty sure the chances of running into Grant Reddington and Fluffy two days in a row are as good as me winning the Lombardi Trophy. And since I’ve forgotten Bronco’s leash in the kitchen again, I let him out into the yard, promising myself I’ll stay close.

But the dog only has one move. And it’s sniffing everything.

He sets off for the same bushes he had to inspect yesterday morning, and I give in to the insistent question about the script pounding in my brain.

When I call Caro, she answers on the first ring. “Did I wake you up?”

“Yes.” I conveniently leave out Bronco’s role in getting me out of bed. She’ll pretend to be sorry, but I know she’ll actually be pleased with herself.

“Well, it’s gonna be worth it. Don’t you think?”

“Don’t I think what?”

Caro sighs dramatically like no one has ever vexed her as I do. “The script! Everyone on set is talking about it. Ev. Ree. One.”

We met on the set of my first film. I was seventeen. Caro de la Cruz was twenty-one. My dad owns a football team. Hers worked nights to put her through cosmetology school. And there’s no one else I trust with my hair and makeup on set. After that first film, I asked for her on my second. It didn’t take long for us to become a package deal.

After three blockbusters, four indies, two psychological thrillers, and countless hours in her chair, we can almost read each other’s minds.

But not this morning.

“Are you trying to be obtuse?”

She smacks her gum, a familiar sound in my ear. “You haven’t heard about it?”

“I’m in Siberia, remember?” I take in the quiet neighborhood street and shiver against the damp morning air. All right, it’s not exactly Siberia, but it might as well be for all the jobs I could get here. And it’s nearly as cold.

“I’m pretty sure even the people in actual Siberia have heard about it. Hang on a sec.” The conversation on the other end is garbled, and I’m sure she’s covering the microphone on her earbuds while her actor asks for more coverage. She’s done that a million times with me.

I march up and down the uneven walkway from the cement steps to the sidewalk and back again, always keeping Bronco in sight. He’s moved on to Nan’s empty flowerbed but looks no more decided about where to take care of his business.

Apparently, I’m the only one who wants to get things moving this morning.

And honestly, I just want to move back in the direction of bed.

Suddenly Caro’s voice is back in my ear. “I have to run. Our lead just set her wig on fire.” I expect her to hang up, but instead I get the fastest movie pitch I’ve ever heard. “Underdog high school football team without a coach. Cortez, Texas. True story. Look it up. And call Cyndi.”

“But I don’t—” Caro hangs up before I can tell her that football is not in my repertoire. Nor is playing a high school boy.

I’m clearly not the right fit for this movie. It doesn’t sound like there’s a role for me to audition for anyway. Even if I wanted to.

“Working on a magician movie?”

I stumble over a crack in the concrete as I spin toward Grant’s voice. Two days in a row. “What?”

He jogs to a stop at the edge of Nan’s property, pulling out one earbud as Bronco waddles over to sniff his big toe. “You look like a sorcerer or something, waving your cloak around.”

I freeze and then immediately scoop my blanket around me in some sort of robe. Couture it is not. But at least I have a barrier against the biting wind, which is more than I can say for the quarterback.

“Not all of us can run around in—in—” I wave my hand in his general direction but can’t find anything to criticize. The man really is annoyingly attractive.

I’ve worked with some of the most handsome men in Hollywood—even played opposite People ‘s reigning Sexiest Man Alive once.

But Grant Reddington is a different kind of handsome. There’s nothing pretty about him—like so many of today’s leading men. He’s all broad shoulders and muscly forearms, his gray sweatshirt shoved up almost to his elbows. His chest is flat, and I’ve never noticed how trim his waist is. It’s probably because, most of the time, he’s on the field wearing plenty of protection around his ribs.

I look up at the five-o’clock shadow dusting his jaw line and scowl. Why is that so appealing?

My gaze finally makes it up to his shadowed eyes and dual raised eyebrows, and I realize that I haven’t finished my critique. I spit out the only word that comes to mind: ”—shorts.”

He grunts, clearly not impressed with my assessment.

Well, that makes two of us, mister. But the sun isn’t up yet, and I haven’t even smelled my first cup of coffee, so I can’t be held responsible for my wit—or lack thereof.

“So, where’s Fluffy?” He’d be hard to hide, and I assume Grant is on a solo run today—except that his left arm is tucked against his side at an odd angle. Almost like he’s carrying a football. Is the man seriously carrying around a ball on his run? I fight the urge to roll my eyes.

Suddenly a little head with two pointy ears pokes out from the crook of his arm and gives me a little yap.

“Rico,” Grant says with a nod to the tan Chihuahua.

I clap a hand over my mouth, not wanting to laugh at the dog—caring less about his owner. Finally, I manage around a chuckle, “So Rico doesn’t get to run with you?”

Grant lifts one shoulder and one side of his mouth. “He did for a little while, but his legs get tired.”

“So, he gets a free ride?”

“He likes fresh air too. Plus, he keeps me warm.” With that, Grant is off, running down the sidewalk.

And I don’t watch him jog away, despite the urge.

I clap my hands in a self-five. Sometimes you have to celebrate the little victories.

A few hours later, I’m staring at my phone again. Then my computer, which is sitting on the two-person dining room table. Then my phone. I snatch it up. Then set it down. Then pick it backup again.

This is ridiculous. But everything Caro said was right.

And now I know exactly why Jen and Margot want to be part of this project. It’s all the stuff the Academy loves. It has all the things audiences eat up.

I read the Times article about it again, and I can’t help but smile at the picture of the Texas State Champions lifting their coach high on their shoulders—their very female coach.

In 1980s Texas, where Friday night lights ruled and everything came second to God and football, Cortez High School suffered a terrible tragedy. On a trip to a continuing education seminar, the entire coaching staff was killed two weeks into the school year. But without a school sponsor, the rag-tag team—half the size of most Texas high school teams—couldn’t play. Enter Evelyn Simpkins, an English teacher with zero knowledge of the game but a fierce love for her students.

With a lot of grit, determination, and support from their community, Cortez began to win. Until wealthy schools began trying to get the team of mostly Hispanic players to drop out.

What’s not to love? It’s the American dream. An entire team—most of them children of immigrants—making good in an arena everyone said they had no business being in.

My chest feels warmer just reading about it.

This story is begging for a film adaptation. And if the writer has an ounce of talent, I can’t wait to sink my teeth into it.

Except, Cyndi told me I need to take a break.

Actually, it was more like, “There isn’t another producer willing to take a chance on you.”

I let my face fall into my hands and scrub my cheeks. There has to be someone. Somewhere.

I didn’t blow up my last set. It was not my fault.

Okay, I could have been more diligent in my research. But when a man tells you he’s single, when he asks you to go out with him every day for two weeks, when he waits outside your trailer begging for a chance . . . Well, at some point you start believing him.

At least I did.

Stupid mistake.

But that doesn’t change the fact that I love my job. And I’m good at it.

Even if the world at large thinks I’m a homewrecker. The studios think I’m a liability now, and I don’t know if I can prove them wrong.

“Morning, sweetie.” Nan shuffles past me and presses her hand to the top of my head, as though she knows it feels like it’s about to fly off. “Sleep okay?”

“Mm-hmm.” I haven’t told her about Bronco’s unpleasant morning routine. Or bumping into Grant. And I’m not going to.

“What are you reading about?”

“Nothing.” I quickly close my laptop but not before Nan looks over my shoulder.

“The 1982 Cortez Commanders, huh?”

I spin around in the metal chair. “You’ve heard of them?”

Nan opens the pantry door and pulls out a canister of oatmeal. “’Course I have. That was big news at the time.”

I bite my tongue, not sure if I should tell her about the movie. More afraid to reveal my interest in it and get her hopes up.

“Are you going to audition for it?”

My head snaps in her direction. “How did you . . . what do you know?”

Nan sets her water to boiling and measures out a scoop of oats. “You’re clearly researching a role. What was her name? Evelyn something?”

Whoever said that mental sharpness slows down with age never met Agatha Peebles. Her poofy white hair and polyester track-suit is no indication of her acuity.

“Yes.”

“So, are you going to call your agent?”

I pull my feet up on my chair and hug my knees to my chest. “That door has closed.”

She doesn’t even bother to look over her shoulder. “Have you knocked?”

“But what if they say no?”

“Then you’ll be exactly where you are now. It’s not like you’ve never been turned down for a role before.”

I know she’s right, but it doesn’t change the violent twist in my stomach. Or the strange hope bubbling in my chest. I snatch up my phone and trot to my room before I can talk myself out of it and hear Nan mumble something that sounds a lot like, “Good girl.”

I dial Cyndi on my way, closing the door on Bronco just as she answers.

“Zoe, doll. How are you? Where are you?” Her voice is chipper if throaty. She may have kicked her pack-a-day habit a few years ago, but the damage was done, and she always sounds like a Boston fisherman.

I don’t bother answering her questions—mostly because I don’t think she really wants to know the answers. Instead, I plow forward. “I heard about the Cortez football script. I want to audition.”

Cyndi snorts. “Oh, Zoe. You know that’s not going to happen.”

“Please. I can do this part.” I’ve never had to beg for a role in my life. Not even my first one. I’ve auditioned and either been selected or not. And a few times I’ve been given the part because the director asked for me personally. It smarts that I can’t even get in front of the casting director.

“So can a dozen other pretty actresses. Ones not shrouded in scandal.”

That stings worse, and I let out a breathy grunt.

“Honey.” She tries to soothe her statement. “It’s just not going to happen. They need someone likeable, someone like Reese or Jen. Someone audiences want to root for.”

I used to be that actress. If not America’s Sweetheart, at least her best friend. Now all anyone wants to know is the very worst about me.

But I know I have more to offer than that. Nan knows there’s more, too. And I’m pretty sure that even Bronco knows that mistake is not the sum total of who I am.

Only I need a chance to prove it.

“You have to find me a way to get another chance. I need that script, and I need an audition. That role is made for me.”

“Because of your dad and the football team?”

“No.” I take a stabilizing breath. “Because I’m the underdog now, and I won’t stay down.”

“Whoa.” I can hear the smile in Cyndi’s voice. It’s probably because I sound as plucky as she does. “All right. But if I can call in a few favors and get you the audition, you can’t blow it.”

I won’t.

I just need some help to get ready.