Chapter One
Joe
Joe Judd pulled his cigarette-smoke-infested rental minivan into a spot in front of the imposing brick building that represented an important slice of his formative years. His ties to the place ran deep; his liberal arts education, his adult education, his physical education, all happened in this very place, and the building before him was a symbol of the chapter in his life that paved the way for where he was now.
Where am I?
Right. Spring Fling weekend. Greenvale College. Go Jackets!
This was the first year he’d returned to his alma mater for this momentous occasion since graduating in 2008. Joe left Ayre Valley, Iowa in his rearview mirror fifteen years ago and his life had been all glitz and glamour ever since.
Okay, the minivan he was currently sitting in wasn’t glamorous. He couldn’t even pretend to be an old Hollywood starlet whose leading man lit his cigarettes for him. He’d quit smoking a long time ago, and the way this car reeked, it was a damn good thing he had. Everything else in Joe’s life was glitz and glamour, though.
And pain.
Ugh, the pain.
He turned off the ignition of the Chrysler and listened for the clunk clunk of the engine shutting down. The airport car rental place had given him their last available vehicle and charged him a premium since he’d wrongly assumed Kansas City, Missouri wouldn’t be so packed that he couldn’t land a nice Mustang for the two-hour drive up to Ayre Valley. The woman working the register let him know in no uncertain terms that his thinking was wrong.
The engine clunked once more and a grinding sound emanated from the other side of the dash as if the thing had given up the ghost.
He could relate. His body felt like that when he stopped moving these days.
At thirty-six years old, Joe had the appearance of a fit man in his twenties. He liked to think he resembled his beloved Porsche at home in West Hollywood rather than this current hunk of junk. Gleaming chrome and a flashy paint job on the outside gave people the impression that he was all power and sleek lines, when in reality, his engine needed an overhaul under the hood, and his shocks and struts had seen better days. He pushed his Porsche to the same limits he pushed his body and both protested loudly. Just like the minivan.
“Time to move before you freeze up like this piece of shit.”
He gritted his teeth and opened the door, feeling his lower back protest. He had to get his feet planted under him just right and push himself to standing, putting the least amount of pressure on his knees. Once he was upright, he arched his back and felt the L5 bulging disc, the torn tendon in his hip, and the stubborn rib that would not stay in place no matter how hard his chiropractor back in Hollywood pounded on it.
He let out a harsh exhale as everything settled into place and then he swung the door closed. It was a chilly April morning and he was glad he’d brought his wool coat and worn his fleece-lined jeans. He’d kept them around past their expiration date because when his arthritis acted up, they kept him toasty. His fur-lined Palladium boots kept his aching feet supported and warm. The frigid temps here in the Midwest were hell on his joints, but he knew once he started moving, he’d feel better. He was just about to head up the walkway when he heard the rumble of tailpipes and the screeching of...heavy metal?
A ginormous four-by-four truck complete with a rack of lights and a winch mounted on the front grill kicked up gravel as it pulled into the spot next to Joe’s rental. The windows were tinted but he had a feeling he knew exactly who the monstrosity belonged to.
“Well, if it isn’t fancy-pants, twinkle-toes, Dance Machine’s own Joe Judd! I’ll be damned.”
The six-foot-five, Northern European ruddy complexioned, long and not-quite-as-lean these days, blond-mulleted, monster-truck madman currently lowering himself gingerly out of the gas-guzzling giant was none other than Leslie Payton. Three-time Super Bowl-winning—now retired—NFL quarterback, championship university football coach, and fellow alum of Greenvale College.
The tremors running through Joe’s body had nothing to do with the temperature. No, this was a reunion long in the making, and now that he was here, he struggled to keep his snarky demeanor front and center.
“You always did know how to make an entrance,” Joe said, shaking his head. He strolled toward the back of his car to greet Les, who already had his hand out, seemingly just as eager.
“And you’re a sight for sore eyes,” Les said, taking Joe’s hand and pulling him in for a back-pounding bro-hug that made Joe’s teeth smack together. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”
Joe couldn’t either, honestly. He’d told himself he’d never come back here after graduation. The fact that he’d returned to the site of the best and most difficult years of his life was due entirely to the sheer amount of respect he held for Barry Payton—Leslie’s older brother and the new president of Greenvale College—and the complicated feelings he had for the man standing before him.
“I’m glad you could make it out. Barry was thrilled when you agreed to arrive early and meet with him.”
Joe raised an eyebrow. “I agreed to come for Spring Fling and the recognition of the cheer squad…Am I missing something? Was there another part to the invitation?”
Les stepped back but didn’t let go of Joe’s hand, nor did he remove his other hand from Joe’s shoulder.
“I’ll let him explain it all to you. I’m just glad you’re here. Man, you look good.”
Joe did not miss the fact that Les’s gaze traveled hungrily over Joe’s body. Joe stood a little taller under the appraisal, glad he wasn’t the only one struggling with propriety.
“You just off a show?”
Les’s hands were rough, his knuckles thick on long fingers. His hands were huge, as they needed to be for a storied career as a professional football player. They were strong, too. Sturdy, like Les’s shoulders—
“Uh, yeah. Just finished choreography for the next season of Dance Machine and I’m headed from here to New York for a limited run of West Side Story.”
“When you’re a jet...doo doo doo doo doo,” Les sang, snapping his fingers. He laughed and pounded on Joe’s shoulder again, hard enough to make him stagger. “Oh, sorry, man. That’s great. I loved watching you on that live broadcast. You’ve still got those moves.”
Les’s smile held more wattage than all the lights in Levi Stadium, and Joe felt a blast of heat being the recipient of one of those smiles.
He had a flash of the first time he’d been the recipient of a Leslie Payton smile and how that night changed his life.
He watched my show. Joe fought to hide a triumphant smile.
“How ‘bout you? How’s your mom?”
Joe skimmed the alumni newsletter from time to time, only stopping if there was mention of Greenvale’s Golden Boy alum. He knew, for example, that Les had built a sprawling estate on his grandparents’ farmland outside of Ayre Valley for his family to live in while he was still playing for the 49ers, and that his mother Agnes lived there.
“She’s good, thank you for asking. I’m actually here for the same reason you are,” Les said as he gestured to the administration building. “Brother Barry calls and I come running.”
“Right. That’s great he was promoted to president this year. How exciting for him.”
Les laughed. “It suits him. He’s been an old man my whole life. Figures he’d end up all respectable and shit.”
Les’s eyes crinkled as he talked about his brother. They were close, the whole Payton clan. Joe wouldn’t know about that. It was just Joe. No siblings and he’d lost his mom a long time ago.
“I’m not sure why he asked me to be here early. I don’t think the big game is until later, right? It’s been a while, but I figured they still played at night.”
The Yellowjacket’s Spring Fling tradition was for the cheerleaders to play flag football against half of the football team. The rest of the players learned a cheer routine to be performed at halftime. It was all in fun and the ticket sales went to the athletic department scholarships.
“Yeah, well…” Les trailed off. He rubbed his hands together. “Why don’t we go inside, huh?”
He’d started moving toward the building before he finished talking.
Joe realized that there was something more to this invitation than he’d been led to believe. He wasn’t sure whether he was more intrigued or concerned, honestly, but he wasn’t going to miss out on finally being in the same place at the same time with Leslie Payton.
“Right,” Joe said, following Les up the walkway. He clicked the remote lock on his rental car once more, not that anyone in Ayre Valley would break in or steal it. It was just a habit after living in LA for so long.
A big crowd of kids dressed in green and gold matching T-shirts and shorts came bursting out of the student center. The women all had their hair pulled up in space buns with green and gold ribbons to match and they carried poms.
“Omg is that…JOE JUDD!”
Under normal circumstances, Joe didn’t care for fan mobs, but this was different.
These kids were literally here because of him.
“That’s right!” Les used his best TV commentator voice. “Please welcome the Godfather of Jackets Cheer, Mr. Joe Judd.” He clapped and whistled while the kids gathered around giggling in that starstruck way Joe had experienced many times since making his TV debut on Dance Machine.
“Hey,” Joe said, and he cleared his throat. Allergies this time of year were brutal. Of course that was why he felt the sudden urge to rub his eyes. “Looking forward to seeing you play tonight.”
“You’ll watch our demo too, won’t you?” one of the young men asked. “We’re doing our competition routine for the school this afternoon. Then there’s the barbecue and—”
“Sure. Can’t wait to see what you guys came up with this year.”
The kids squealed and one by one they all reached in to shake his hand. After twenty handshakes, Joe was a little out of breath.
“You’re their goddamned hero, you know that?” Les shook his head and chuckled. “They didn’t even recognize me.”
“Well, you have to admit the long hair and the Motörhead shirt don’t scream NFL star. I bet you wouldn’t be recognized in most bars around here.”
“Yeah, I would.” He laughed that big belly laugh of his. “Cheerleaders just don’t watch football typically unless they’re cheering for it.”
“Not true,” Joe said, and then he backpedaled. “I’m sure I watched one of your games at some point.”
Bullshit, Joe. You watched every single one you could. Hell, you even recorded the games he commentated on after he retired.
Joe had thirsted after Les Payton since they spent a magical Spring Fling night together fifteen years ago. Talking. Laughing. Dreaming of the future, but nothing beyond that. No, they’d been on two very different paths and therefore it hadn’t made sense to let anything start. Graduation for Joe was weeks away and Les had already been playing in the NFL for eight years. They’d met at Spring Fling but hadn’t, uh, flung anything together. Over the years, they’d kept in occasional contact, which became more regular—and intimate—and Joe had never stopped wondering.
