The Cheat Sheet: A Novel

I’m just about to walk into a meeting with our offensive line coaches when my phone rings. I’ve been waiting on this call all morning—ever since I showed up at the practice facility today and was ambushed by dozens of reporters (mainly of the gossip column variety) wanting me to comment on the video of my best friend declaring her feelings for me.

My gym bag fell off my shoulder and hit the ground with a thud. I didn’t bother checking social media this morning before practice, so I hadn’t seen the video and article yet. I didn’t comment on any of the reporters’ questions, but I’m sure my face said it all.

I hurried inside, practically sprinted to the locker room where I ripped out my phone and immediately found a video of a very drunk Bree brandishing a Tide-To-Go pen and telling some reporter I was secretly pining for her. I almost threw up at that part. But then…THEN she said she wished she could wipe all other women from my life, leaving only herself, and a fire ignited under my hot-air-balloon heart and lifted me right off the ground. My manager called me shortly after and asked if I wanted to make an official comment. I told him we needed to wait until I had a chance to talk to Bree.

So all morning my mind has been racing. Wondering. Hoping. Could this be it? Could this be the moment everything changes for us? Because I’m ready.

I look down at my phone and then up at my teammates who are filing into the conference room. “You guys go ahead. I’ll just be a minute.”

They nod, and then I’m alone in the hallway. I take one steadying breath before answering. “Bree, hey.” Did that sound normal?

“Hi! Nathan. Yep, it’s me! Hey.” Well, my response was definitely more normal than hers. It means she’s seen the video.

There’s no way on God’s green earth I’m going to be the first one to bring it up, so I fish a little. “What’s up? How are you feeling this morning?”

She groans. “Well, I was wondering if you knew of any places I could purchase a new head? I think this one is officially broken.”

I laugh and lightly touch the toe of my shoe against the wall. “Sorry, I think you’re out of luck.”

She laughs too, but it sounds nervous and stilted. And then there’s silence. I know what’s happening now. She’s also fishing. Waiting. Neither of us wants to be the first to bring up Tequila-gate. Maybe we should just wait and try to have this conversation in person?

One of my coaches peeks his head out into the hallway. “Donelson, we’re getting ready to start. You coming?”

“Yes, sorry. One minute.” He doesn’t look happy about that.

The NFL is very different from college. They don’t babysit us here, but they sure as hell fine us for being late, bench us, or trade us off the team when there are too many strikes. Nothing less than complete competence is expected when you play at the pro level, and that pressure is always pushing in on me, some moments more than others. Like now, I really need to talk to Bree, but I also need to go into that meeting. During the regular season, you forfeit your rights to a normal life. Everyone and everything other than football has to be put on the back burner. But I don’t want to put Bree on a back burner. I want to give her 100% of my attention so she feels valued. I also need to give my career 100% of my focus or I’ll fall behind. I just need to find a way to bring my capacity up to 200%.

I used to feel like I could balance it all so well. Lately…there’s just this feeling I can’t describe that follows me everywhere I go. It’s like everything is swirling around me at all times. There’s no way to make it settle down.

I don’t know…I’ll be fine. It’s probably just playoff jitters.

I look toward the conference room, knowing I need to get in there before I’m officially late. “Listen, Bree—”

“I DIDN’T MEAN ANY OF IT,” she shouts in a rush.

My lungs deflate, and I turn my back to the meeting I should be in. “Are we talking about the video?”

“Yes. And Nathan, I’m so sorry! You know how I get when I drink tequila. Drunk Bree is a territorial hussy, and I said a lot of crap about you having feelings for me and me stain-removing other women from your life, but it was the drink talking. It was all tequila’s fault.”

I can’t speak, because I don’t know what to say. A tumbleweed rolls across my thoughts.

I let myself dream too much this morning. I should have known better. Bree has been telling me for six years that she’d never want to date me. Why, after one drunken speech, did I think her feelings had changed?

“Right.” I force a small chuckle because I will not get weird and lose her over this. “I thought so. Don’t worry about it. It’s forgotten.”

“A-are you sure? Do we need to talk more about this? Do you need more convincing? Because we’re such good friends it would practically be incest if we dated! Can you even imagine?!” She laughs weakly.

My hand clenches at my side because, yes, I can imagine. And it looks nothing like incest to me.

I feel like I just stepped on a rusty nail while barefoot. I take in a deep breath and rub the back of my neck. “Seriously, we’re good, Bree. I believe you. But I’ve got to get into this meeting.”

“Oh right! Sure! So sorry to bug you. We can talk later.”

“Definitely.”

“Dinner tonight?”

“Yeah, I’ll text you when practice is over. Probably around 6:30.”

“Great!” she says in an overly peppy voice that grates on my shriveled nerves. “I’ll make veggie lasagna.”

I sigh at her obvious attempts to neutralize the situation. I’m so tired of neutral. I’m ready to provoke the hell out of something. “You don’t have to do that. We can just order takeout and I’ll pick it up on my way home.”

“No! I want to! It’s the least I can do after all of this. I’ll make lasagna and we’ll play Mario like normal and everything will be great!”

Yep. Completely normal.

Everything will be great.

I get home after practice to the smell of Bree’s amazing veggie lasagna and the sight of her buzzing around my kitchen and dancing to “Do You Believe in Magic?” Bree worked in the kitchen of a little diner after school from the time we met until she graduated high school. I tried to get a job there to spend more time with her, but my parents found out and made me quit. They didn’t want me focusing on anything besides my game, and since my parents were pretty well off, I never actually needed a job.

Bree’s parents, however, worked hard for every dime they made, and so did Bree. I don’t know how she did it all—school, dance, and work—but she did. Part of me was envious of her and the way she was able to work and save up to buy her own car. Oh man was it a beater, but it was hers. Everything was handed to me and even then usually spoon-fed. I drove a forty-thousand-dollar truck at age sixteen. Bree’s bumper was held on with neon green duct tape.

I can’t complain too much because my parents got me to where I am now, but something in me apparently hasn’t completely forgiven them for how hard they drove me to success since any time I see one of their names on my caller ID, I have to take a deep breath before answering.

All I wanted was football and neon green duct tape, and I always got the feeling that my parents looked at me and saw nothing but a way to ensure their financial security and status for the rest of their lives. Football was the only life they wanted me to live.

But enough about my parents.

Bree is an incredible cook, but I also know she hates cooking, which is why I feel bad watching her try to make up for what happened last night. Although, I’ll admit, she doesn’t look like she’s hating it currently with the way she’s swaying her hips to the music.

She doesn’t see me yet, so with a smile, I fold my arms and lean against the doorframe as I watch Bree lean over the island to drop a few dashes of parmesan in a salad bowl with a shimmy. Her hair bounces around her shoulders like it’s just as peppy as she is.

Suddenly, she becomes aware of me and her head flies up. Her cheeks only turn pink for a fraction of a second before her dancing becomes even more dramatic.

“You’re such a twerp standing there watching me!” she shouts over the loud music as she starts dancing her way over. She’s throwing out a fishing line and reeling me in. She’s taking me to the car wash. We’re grocery shopping.

I don’t say anything, just smile as Bree wiggles her arms like ocean waves all the way to stand in front of me. Bree is the most incredible ballerina, and to see her dance is truly magic, but oh boy, she’s an adorably atrocious modern dancer. Her hair is twisting and twirling around her, and she’s wearing a dark burgundy leotard with teeny tiny crisscross straps all over the place. I don’t know how she got into that thing. The back dips low, showing off a lot of skin as well as her black sports bra. Baggy grey joggers with the elastic band rolled down sit low on her hips. It shows off each of her curves and athletic form, and I’m hoping my tongue is not hanging out the side of my mouth.

Bree has stepped straight out of my dreams, the sensation only increasing as her dance moves turn more modern and she twerks in front of me like we’re in a club instead of listening to phrases like if the music is groovy. She’s trying to make me laugh, and I’m just trying not to stare like a perv.

I can’t hold it in anymore when she turns to face me, wiggling her hips dramatically and pretending to run her hands all over my body without touching me. Her expression is so over the top: scrunched nose, biting lip, and the most innocent song playing in the background. A laugh finally cracks from my chest, and I look to the side instead of letting myself put my hands on her hips and pull her up close to me so we can really touch.

Practically incest.

My expression must have changed because Bree stops dancing, a little out of breath, and reaches in her pocket to pull out the remote for the speakers. She cuts the music and the cheery sounds die. I realize my arms are crossed tightly.

She looks up at me and her smile fades. “Are you mad at me…for what I said in the video?”

Her face tears my heart in half. She thinks I’m mad about what she said?! I’m mad that it’s not true! No, I’m not even mad. I’m just pouting. I’m being a big pouty baby and I need to get over it. The way she feels about me is not breaking news. It’s always been this way.

I force my face to soften and form a smile. “Not mad in the least.” I step forward, taking a deep breath as I pull her into my chest. She wraps her arms around my waist and squeezes.

Smashed up against my chest, she looks up to catch my eyes. Hers are the color of coffee with a splash of cream. Just the way I take mine. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. How could I be mad knowing you were just trying to make everyone aware that my ding-a-ling is no one’s business?”

She groans and buries her face in my shirt, gripping it dramatically like she wants to claw her way inside it and die. “I did call it that, didn’t I? Pleeeease forget you ever heard that word come out of my mouth.”

“Fat chance. It’s so alluring, don’t you think? Women will come running when I call it that.”

It’s good to feel her laugh against me. I’ve wanted her in this exact position all day. Every day. Ughhhh just stop, Nathan. I need a few minutes to gather up my fractured feelings before I’m ready to get back to our “normal” friendship.

I let go of her. “If you don’t need any help, I want to change before we eat.”

She rubs a hand on her arm, probably still feeling my weird energy. “Yeah. No problem. I’ll scoop everything out onto plates.”

I go back to my bedroom to lick my wounds. There’s a giant canvas tote bag on my bed, stuffed with letters and packages. I’m just about to call out and ask Bree what it is when she appears in my doorway a little out of breath like she jogged back here.

“Oh! By the way! Your agent sent this over earlier. It’s fan mail.”

My eyebrows shoot up. I mean, I’m used to getting letters from fans, but not this many. “That’s…a lot of mail.”

She bites her bottom lip and grimaces. “Yeah. It’s…sort of…well, maybe you should just open a few and see.”

That’s odd. I start sorting through the pile, and the number one thing I see are tons of Tide-To-Go pens with little notes attached. “Wipe all the other women out and keep Bree!” The next three I open say something similar. A few other letters go on and on about how much they adore Bree—and I agree, but clearly they are taking that drunken video a little too seriously.

I whistle when I look in the bag again and realize there have to be about 100 stain-removing pens in here. I’ll never have an excuse for a stained shirt for the rest of my life.

“Are they all like this?” I sort through five more notes and toss them beside the canvas bag.

Bree walks up slowly behind me, like she’s afraid I’m going to turn around and bite her head off. “Yeah.” She whimpers. “I’m so, so, so sorry! I didn’t realize Kara was a journalist. But even if I did…I was so far gone I’m afraid I still would have said all of that craziness.” She groans again when she glances at the mountain of fan mail. “I’ve caused such a mess for you.”

I take her hand and squeeze even though I know I shouldn’t. “Hey, I said it’s fine, and I meant it. I’ll call Nicole and Tim later and get a statement together. I’m not worried about my image, I’m just a little worried about…” I look back toward the enormous pile of letters.

“The added work? Letting your fans down? Having to convince everyone we’re not really together?”

“You.” I look back at her. “I know you don’t like being in the spotlight, and I’m sure this is uncomfortable for you. Also…you’ll probably want to make your Instagram private now.”

“Oh, I already have,” she says, sounding weary in a way that makes my stomach twist painfully. She’s never wanted this life. “I woke up to 10k new followers. And when I went downstairs this morning to walk home, there were reporters waiting for me outside. Your sweet doorman snuck me out the back and gave me a lift home.”

Dammit. I didn’t even think about the fact that I drove Bree last night and she didn’t have her car this morning. Geez, I’m failing all over the place.

This is not good. Not only because I’m freaked out about Bree’s safety, but because I’m terrified it means she’s going to bolt out of my life. She’s been stern from the beginning about what she’ll allow in this friendship, and stardom was written in bold in the NOT ALLOWED section.

“How did this happen so quickly?” I ask while tossing a letter back into the pile.

“Kara’s sneaky video of me in the bathroom has gone viral, and because she used my full name in the article, everyone easily tracked down my account. These all showed up because there was a post going around this morning encouraging people who live in the area to drop notes off at your agent’s office so you’d get them. Can I just say that’s super creepy?”

“Even creepier that so many did it. They had to actually go out and buy a Tide-To-Go pen too.” I’ve never been able to get used to fandom. That’s one part of this job I despise.

“I don’t think it’s going to stop any time soon either. They’ve been tagging us both in video reposts and using the hashtag #TideGirl. Super flattering.” She scrunches her nose. “It’s a spin on something I said in the video.”

“You mean when you said you wished you could use a Tide pen to wipe all the other women out of my life?” I regret bringing it up immediately. Clearly she doesn’t want to revisit it.

Bree pulls her hand from mine so she can cover her cheeks. “Tequila, Nathan. Tequila made me say it!”

I laugh, hoping to ease her tension even though all I want to do is sink into a depressed ball on the floor. I’ll be better tomorrow when I can reset my brain and wake up without the hope of a real relationship with Bree.

“Alright, listen, I want you to lay really low until I can call Nicole and get her to do some damage control. No walking home alone, and if you have to go to the grocery store or somewhere public, I’ll send my bodyguard with you until all of this blows over.”

“Damage control?! I damaged you! Oh my gosh, I’m the worst friend.”

“Bree—the damage control is for you, not me.” I’m not the one who despises the spotlight. Or the idea of a romantic relationship between us.

Her shoulders relax. “Oh. Okay. Well, that’s a little better.” She pauses and looks at the pile of fan mail like she’s trying to harness magical abilities and send it all into another dimension. It doesn’t work. Her powers aren’t strong enough. “Can we just go eat and forget about all of this for a little bit?”

“Sure. I’m just going to change my shirt, because ironically, this one has a stain on it.”

We both laugh, and it lifts a little of the tension in the air. I pull off my shirt and walk toward my dresser to grab a clean one. That’s when I catch Bree’s face in the mirror. She’s still in here, staring at my back with her mouth slightly open. She’s not looking away. Her eyes are glued to me, and I have to work so hard not to flex. Wait, should I flex? No. That would make it ridiculously obvious that I see her checking me out, right?

But she is checking me out. There’s a spark in her eyes I haven’t noticed before. I mean, she’s seen me with my shirt off probably close to a hundred times, and I always thought she was indifferent to my body. Unimpressed. Now I’m wondering if she always looks at me like this when I’m not watching her…

Hope springs back up in my chest, and I decide to turn this into a little experiment of sorts.

I reach into a drawer and pull out a plain white t-shirt, stretching my neck side to side a few times like my muscles are just oh so tight. I lift the shirt over my head and tug it down in the sexy way I was made to do it in those Jockey commercials. I spread my shoulders wide and lift my arms, knowing full well it makes all my muscles bunch and ripple. Can someone get me some oil right quick? That would be great.

I’m not even sorry because this experiment is producing some very compelling results. Bree’s eyes are fixed on me, and she’s biting her lip almost to the point of drawing blood. Her eyelids are heavy in a way that says she likes what she sees.

That is not the look of a woman with sisterly feelings.

Not. One. Bit.

I turn around, and in that fraction of a moment, she’s looking away like she’s been an innocent little lamb the whole time. Her cheeks are pink though. Pretty ripe strawberries.

“Ready?” she asks in a high peppy voice. She can’t meet my eyes, and suddenly I’m wondering if maybe the tequila didn’t make her spout nonsense. Maybe it removed her filter. And maybe the guys were right.

Something inside me snaps. It’s possible I didn’t hydrate enough during practice today, or maybe I’m having an early midlife crisis, but suddenly, I feel like taking a big chance. Not thinking first, just jumping.

“Bree?” I ask, and my tone clearly says something big is about to go down.

Her eyes widen. “Yeah?”

I step closer. You’d think I would be at a loss for words, but I’ve rehearsed this in my head so many times that I know word for word what to say. “Listen, about what you said in the video—”

I’m interrupted by a loud knock on my front door.

Bree looks immediately relieved, and she practically bounces on her toes as she says, “Oh! Someone’s at the door! I’ll get it!”

Great. Just great.