The Way We Score: A small-town, accidental pregnancy, sports romance. (The Bradford Boys)

Present Day

The Mont Blanc pen glides smoothly over the stiff white pages. I sign my name, Olivia Cherry Bankston in a decisive script on the last page of the divorce decree.

I feel heavy. I feel free. I feel… so ready for this to be over.

Mason Clark, my divorce attorney’s expression matches mine in solemnity. “Initial here…”

I follow his instructions, adding a swift OCB on the short line, exhaling my emotions over the reality of it. The finality.

“And here…” He turns the page, and I scribble once more. “And that, my friend, is that. You’re done.”

“That’s that.” Straightening, I screw the top on his fancy pen and hand it back to him.

Frustration, failure, and annoyance, all of it twists in my chest. I’ve spent six months rehashing all the “how did I let this happen” and “how did I get here” questions.

It’s been a long, difficult road, and I’ve finally landed on acceptance. I’ve accepted that I made a mistake. I’ve accepted I did my best, and I’ve accepted it was never going to be right, especially after I found out my ex had been sleeping with other women.

“You never think about the end when you’re at the beginning.” My voice is quiet, and my memory trips back to the day four years ago when I married Warner Oberon III.

It was an unusually hot day in October, and we stood in front of a massive gathering of mostly his friends and family at his parents’ estate in Mountain Brook.

I wore white lace. He wore a powder-blue suit. The humidity was unusually high, and I was uncomfortable, hot, and itchy. I looked out over that crowd, and I couldn’t find a single familiar face outside of my mother’s. She never stopped crying.

Ignoring the unease in my stomach, I focused instead on Warner’s smile. He looked like he’d just closed a deal.

“I guess not.” Mason’s tone has all the cynicism of a seasoned divorce lawyer as he calmly collects his things. “Yet almost half of them end.”

“I hate being a statistic.”

But didn’t I always worry that for Warner I was merely another successful acquisition? Love was never part of the equation for him. Was it for me? Surely I loved him at some point.

Mason reads my face and places a warm hand on my shoulder. “Stop.” Our eyes meet, and he continues. “Nothing has changed, Liv. You’re still a smart, successful lawyer, and this is merely a bump in the road of life.”

My eyes narrow. “It feels more significant than a bump.”

“If you knew how many of these cases I handle in a week, you wouldn’t fixate on it. You’d accept it and just keep swimming.”

“Sorry, it’s my first divorce.” A hint of sarcasm laces my tone, and I walk to the window of my law office.

I have a stunning view of Birmingham, facing Red Mountain, which is topped by the monument of Vulcan, the Roman god of fire and forge, holding his spear to the sky in defiance. A burly, bearded, bare-bottomed old god who refuses to lay down his weapon, instead lifting it to the sky. I defy you, stars.

The knot in my throat makes me wonder what I’m truly mourning. I’ve navigated one failure after another since I met Warner Oberon, from my lack of promotion to partner, to discovering our infertility issues, to discovering he was cheating on me, to now, standing here with freshly signed divorce papers.

I’m at my lowest point, but my urge to fight is strong. He humiliated me, but he won’t win. I’m not a failure.

Blinking down, I quickly swipe a hot tear off my cheek.

Mason lifts his deep-brown leather messenger bag onto his shoulder. “It’s an adjustment, but I think you’ll realize once the dust settles, you made the right decision.”

I almost laugh. “I made the only decision after I found out what he’d been doing.”

“Warner Oberon is not a loss for someone like you.” Mason continues. “You’ll bounce back. Hell, I bet there are eligible men all over town marking their calendars for an appropriate time to give you a call.”

“You’re sweet.” My insides are heavy. “You’ll see that he signs those?”

“Yep, I’ll take care of it.” He starts for the door. “I’ll get his signature and file this with the judge. You’ve been separated for six months, so it won’t be an issue. Take care of your mother, enjoy your friend’s wedding, and when you get back, you’ll be ready for a fresh start.”

“Thanks, Mason.” I go to where he stands at the door, extending my hand. “You’re a good friend.”

“And you’re a smart, capable woman. You’re a survivor. Don’t let anyone tell you any different.”

“Right.” I nod, exhaling a laugh.

“I miss my babies.” Mom leans heavily on the arm of her walker, staring out the small kitchen window with the white lace curtains. “I miss feeding them, talking to them, listening to their little clucks.”

I’ve been home a week, and my stomach is still a jumpy mess. The entire Bradford clan is filtering into town for Dylan’s wedding, which means I’ve been hiding out here since I arrived.

Still, for all my efforts, of course I ran into Garrett on my first attempt to be sneaky. It was at his family’s restaurant Cooters & Shooters. Mom was craving Dylan’s spicy food, so I called in a to-go order. I crouched in the shadows near the pool tables, behind the mass of dancing people, and still he spotted me like I had a homing beacon on my forehead.

Towering over me, with all his room-filling personality, he’d asked how I was. With a wavering voice, I’d answered fine, which wasn’t entirely true.

Then I said he looked really good. He did…

I managed to get away without too much interaction, but for the rest of the night I was flustered. I lay awake in my bed thinking about him, analyzing every word, wondering what he was thinking about me—if he even was thinking about me.

He looks good. He looks like he always did, big, strong, handsome… square jaw, muscles for days. Knowing grin, big hands, full lips. I denied the attraction that still pulled me to him. It’s been years. That’s all over now.

Lies. It’s still there.

He was on the bar dancing with Craig, moving his hips like he always did. You’d think someone that tall and big would be awkward. You’d think he’d clod around like some kind of Frankenstein’s monster. You’d be wrong.

Garrett Bradford thrusts his hips and moves his body with a rhythm that should be sinful. Every woman in that bar was licking her lips and watching him work. My stomach tightened as the onslaught of memories hit me hard.

I remembered climbing onto his back, wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders. I remembered burying my face in his neck and inhaling his warm scent of citrus and soap. I remembered his oversized personality, his laugh, his oversized everything.

I’ve never felt so safe as I did when Garrett Bradford held me close. I’ve never felt so broken as I did when that relationship exploded.

Exhaling a low growl, I remind myself there’s no point trying to dig up the past. Life goes on, and going backwards only brings you back to where you started. I’m not running in circles.

Standing in the living room of my mother’s small house, I lift a framed photograph off a mahogany end table. It’s me in high school, captain of the drill team. I’m wearing a royal-blue sequined bodysuit with gold accents, thick nude tights, and tan dance shoes.

My hair is ironed stick-straight, which was the style then, my posture is perfect, and I look like I’ve just popped my neck to face the camera. My eyes are flashing, and the smile on my face is laser-sharp, red lips perfectly glossy.

Beside it is another picture of me in college, in my white LSU Golden Girls uniform with the large purple and gold fleur de lis on the front. It’s another action shot, and my hands are on the waists of the girls on either side of me. We’re getting ready to do our precision kicks, all the way to our noses.

Studying this girl I used to be, my brow furrows lightly. I was so certain back then. I knew exactly where I was going and how I’d get there. I knew what I wanted, and I was going to get it.

At least, that’s what I thought.

“You need a more recent picture of me.” I return the frame to its place on a hand-crocheted doily.

“I like the one on your law firm’s website.” Mom calls from the kitchen.

She’s talking about the professional headshots my associates and I all took on the same day. I’m in a light gray pantsuit with a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck. I’m focused, serious, my lips barely lifted in a Mona Lisa smile.

“It’s very formal.” Nodding, I decide that might be the best approach. At least, it’s the approach I’ve been using for six months—protective, professional, boundaries. “I’ll see about getting one for you.”

I go to where she’s leaning on her walker, still looking out the window at the wire-walled henhouse. It’s a charming little chicken coop, and I’m pretty sure she built it herself.

The frame is sturdy two by fours painted white. The tin roof has a rooster turret on top, and it reminds me of a children’s playhouse with wrought iron climbing frames propped against the sides and large flower pots filled with vegetation.

Pale, fleshy plumeria blends with lacy ferns, and a group of six specialty chickens roost in boxes like bunk beds safe from dogs or raccoons or opossums or any other predators.

“The doctor only said you shouldn’t do all the bending and feeding and cleaning. You can still go with me and talk to them while I do all that stuff.” I slide my hand over her tissue-soft one. “You have to be careful, though. Isn’t poking around the coop how you fell?”

“No, it was that dog Gladys was sitting. It went crazy, chasing Henny Lane and Mother Clucker up the ramp. I was trying to catch him when my clog got caught under a crate.”

She tries to demonstrate how it happened and almost loses her balance again.

“Easy there.” I grab her arm. “We won’t have any excuse if you go down on my watch.”

Her lips purse, and she shakes her silver head. “I’m not going down.”

Mom always had dark red hair, but now it’s all silver. She likes to say there’s no point in dying red hair. I wouldn’t know. Mine’s only ever been strawberry blonde—pink, as she calls it, which isn’t as hard to maintain.

“I wouldn’t have gone down the first time if it weren’t for that darned dog,” she continues grousing.

“That’s good, because you’re not as young as you used to be.”

Which is why it’s taking her break so long to heal. Knowing she’d fallen and broken her leg with me three hours away in Birmingham had been hard. Every mile, every minute it took to get all the way down here had felt like an eternity.

It got me rethinking everything.

We take our time descending the short flight of stairs at the back door. My childhood home is a small beach cottage with only two bedrooms and one bathroom.

When I was growing up, Mom liked to say it was enough for us. Wanting more than we needed was greedy in her book.

It’s a very old-school Newhope attitude, considering the town was founded by utopian populists who owned all the land in common. It’s an attitude that’s quickly disappearing as the old-timers die out and rich young couples filter into the pristine coastal community.

“This henhouse is about the same size as my bedroom.” I lightly tease.

“And it houses six chickens.” Mom lifts her chin as if she’s proud of her communal thrift.

“I thought you only had three chickens.”

“Don’t question the chicken math. It happens.”

My eyes narrow, and I hold back the quip on the tip of my tongue. I don’t care how many chickens she has, as they clearly make her happy.

Being back here makes me happy, even if I’m hiding from a certain someone. The scents, the sound of the water lapping against the bay, the smiles of neighbors and friends, the familiar roads and paths, all of it is a balm to my aching insides.

It’s giving me all sorts of ideas like remote work or even something crazier, hanging out my own shingle, doing wills and estates and being a simple, country lawyer.noveldrama

Forget the big city. Forget trying to make partner. What has it brought me? A lot of money and a lot of heartache.

“I think that dog really upset Henny Lane.” Mom leans heavily on her walker, gesturing to her favorite little white hen. “She’s been acting strangely for the last two weeks.”

The chicken in question has long, white feathers that almost seem like hair blowing in the breeze. Her face is tiny under her massive, white mane, but she’s proud.

“She seems okay to me.” I give my mom’s arm a nudge. “Just look at that expression. I think she knows she’s named after a famous Beatles song.”

The chicken jerks her beak side to side as we get closer.

“Honestly, Liv.” Mom scoffs. “How could she possibly know that?”

My mom has never gotten my sense of humor.

“Hey, Henny.” I soften my tone as I gently lift the small bird into my arms. “You okay, little girl? It’s going to be all right now. That bad old dog is gone.”

The hen makes a low cluck-cluck noise as I cuddle her under my arm.

“She used to be one of my best layers.” Mom’s tone is forlorn. “Now she stands and gazes at the horizon.”

“Maybe she’s pining for the fjords.”

“What?” Mom’s nose wrinkles as she pulls back her chin.

I’m about to explain it’s a Monty Python reference when a high, cheerful voice greets us from the sidewalk leading around the house from the street.

“Hi, Ms. Plum! Hi, Liv!” Dylan Bradford skips up waving one hand while balancing a glass dish in the other. “How are all the hennies doing today?”

“Dylan!” Mom cries, smiling and waving. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I’ll tell you.” Dylan stops at the door, and I notice she also has a brown paper bag under her arm. “I was reading an article, and it said chickens love hot peppers! Can you believe that? They can’t taste capsaicin, and apparently peppers are really good for them.”

I’ve known Dylan my whole life, and I’m always glad to see her. It’s the giant cautiously strolling up behind her who sends my stomach flipping like a stone to my feet.

Garrett’s a foot taller than his sister, and so much broader. His hands are in the pockets of his jeans, and he’s wearing a navy henley that clings to his toned chest and muscular arms.

When his blue eyes meet mine, a hint of a smile curls his lips, and electricity flashes through my body, sending my heart thumping like a rabbit.

“I brought all my scraps for you to feed them.” Dylan is always so excited to share her love of deathly hot peppers. “I heard Henny Lane isn’t feeling so good. Maybe they’ll give her some pep?”

“Well, I don’t know.” Mom turns her walker, carefully lifting it over the obstacles as she picks her way to the door. “Let me see what you’ve got. I might not want to share.”

Dylan happily complies. She knows how much my mom loves hot peppers—unlike me.

Opening the bag, she gives it a shake. “I’ve got the tips and stems of black hungarians, poblanos, jalapeños, a few red habaneros, and a serrano.”

“My goodness!” Mom’s at the door, lifting her walker over the threshold so she can join Dylan at the small picnic table.

I’m left alone with the chickens to face the man who was my first love. The man who holds my history, my hopes, my fears. The star of all my high school dreams.

I swallow a gulp and do my best to fade into the background, trying to seem very busy inspecting the row of empty chicken boxes. Two large Cochins are on their nests, and I return Henny Lane to hers. I don’t think he can see my fingers tremble.

“You doing all right, Ms. P?” Garrett’s voice is pure warmth, and my body tenses. “I hope it’s okay that I tagged along to check on all the girls.”

“Garrett Bradford, you are always welcome here!” Mom exclaims loudly. “I haven’t seen you in a raccoon’s age.”

“You know, raccoons only live about two or three years.” Garrett’s eyebrows crinkle as if he’s apologizing for bursting her bubble. “So I guess that old saying is wrong—unless you mean it hasn’t been a while.”

“Is that so?” Mom frowns. “It always seems like those pesky little robbers hang around way longer than three years.”

“Now a naked mole-rat lives thirty years.” He holds her thin arm, helping her maneuver her walker across a square paver.

“Garrett Bradford!” She scolds, giving him a little swat on the arm. “I would never call you a rat, especially not a naked one.” She whispers the word naked. “It’s undignified.”

I bite my bottom lip to keep from snorting. Garrett’s one of the few people in Newhope who always shared my goofy sense of humor and loves giving my too-serious mom a hard time.

It’s part of the reason I loved him so much. For so long.

“To be fair,” he continues, “raccoons aren’t much better than rats, naked or clothed.”

“What in the world are you two talking about?” Dylan cries, hopping over to assist my mom in her slow pilgrimage across the small yard. “We’re here to help my favorite fancy chicken feel better, not talk about naked rats and raccoons!”

My head ducks as I swallow a laugh. Mom allows Dylan to help her scooch her way to the table where the glass casserole dish and the brown bag of peppers wait.

“Olivia, bring Henny Lane over here and let’s see if she’ll eat a pepper.” Mom pauses to turn back, not seeming to notice my fluttering hands and squirming stomach. “Garrett, you can help Olivia… Oh!”

Her walker folds, and I bolt from behind the chicken bunks at the sight of my poor mother going down again.

“Mom!” I nearly fall as I try to lurch around the ramp extended from the top chicken bunk to the ground.

Then I almost turn an ankle as I step in a water trough, sending it flipping and slinging water everywhere, all over my legs and feet.

“Shit,” I hiss, my hands flying through the air for anything to break my fall.

“Easy!” Garrett’s large hands catch me, swooping me up before I break my own leg.

“I’ve got you!” Dylan holds my mom around the waist, re-opening her walker. “You’ve gotta take it easy, Ms. Plum!”

Mom shakes her head, lowering herself slowly to the bench beside the table. “I don’t know when I turned into such a klutz.”

“You okay?” Garrett’s voice is low, his strong hands gripping my upper arms.

He lifts me as if I’m a rag doll, which at five-foot-seven, I am definitely not. He doesn’t let go until he’s sure I’ve regained my balance.

“Thank you… Yes, I’m okay.” My hands are on his biceps, and I take a step back, eyes watering and my ears burning red.

“You’d think we were putting on a comedy show!” Mom calls from where she sits, exhaling a heavy laugh. “Maybe we should move that ramp, Liv. I think it’s a hazard right there.”

“I think you’re right,” I mutter, glancing around the cluttered space. “This whole place is a hazard.”

My fingers thread in the chicken-wire wall, and I’m completely flustered as I shake the water off my drenched foot.

“I can help move things around if you need me to?” Garrett has to duck so his head doesn’t hit the roof of this little shelter.

“It’s okay, I’ll do it.” Bending down, I straighten the plastic water troughs. “I need to refill these.”

“I can definitely help with that.” He smiles.

Nodding, I look down at the clumsy, damp mess I’ve become. “Thanks.”

An awkward silence falls briefly, and Dylan hops to her feet, taking the glass dish off the table. “We should probably refrigerate this—it’s poblano peppers stuffed with black beans, corn, and rice and topped with shredded cheese. And don’t worry Liv, poblanos aren’t hot at all.”

Mom hesitates a moment, her eyes moving from me, up up up to Garrett, and she seems pleased with Dylan’s suggestion.

“That sounds delicious, and I’ve got fresh-squeezed lemonade.” Mom wobbles to her feet again. “Garrett and Liv can take care of the chickens. See if Henny will eat one of these peppers, Liv!”

Dylan keeps pace as my mom slowly makes her way to the back door.

“But, I don’t know how much to give her…” I try to protest.

“Make sure you fill the feeder and don’t forget the oyster shells.”

With that, they’re climbing the short steps. The screen door slams, and I’m left in the small shed with the man I’ve been doing everything in my power to avoid.

Garrett clears his throat, looking down at the plastic trough. “That was pretty sneaky, leaving us with all the chores.”

Blinking up to his blue eyes, I exhale a huff. “Ever since her accident, she’s been ordering me around like she’s the Queen of England. It’s like I came here to wait on her hand and foot.”

A deep laugh rumbles in his throat, and it squeezes my stomach. He’s so familiar. Four years in high school we were together. Four years in college, we painfully fell apart. But right here, I can only remember how happy I used to be.

“Well, now I’m here to give you a hand.” I watch as he turns and goes to the side of the house where the garden hose is wrapped around a black metal wheel designed to be decorative.

His faded jeans hug his ass, which I can’t help noticing hasn’t changed a bit since high school. It’s square and tight, and his muscled thighs stretch those pants just a bit, just right.

“Thanks.” I turn in the opposite direction, going to the square wooden feed bin on the other side of the coop.

A bag of ground oyster shells is inside it along with a scoop for refilling the chicken feeder. The feeder is designed like a picnic table, with a trough on top. It has high sides to prevent waste.

Garrett is back with the hose to carefully refill the water troughs while I prep the food, scatter the oyster shells, and check their litter.

It doesn’t take long before we’re done and standing around, hands on our hips watching the small birds prance around eating and squawking.

Some of them have soft feathers that remind me of little alpacas, while others have flat feathers that are black or brown with white tips that make them appear lacy. Their eggs range in color from light blue to dark brown, and they usually lay about one a day.

“Those are some fancy chickens.” Garrett walks back slowly from where he finished wrapping the garden hose around the wheel again.

“Mom could tell you the different breeds.” I keep my eyes on the hens. “I have no idea what they all are. She’s added some new ones since I was here last.”

Garrett stays outside the small house, reaching up to slide his hand over the back of his neck. “Are you just in town for the wedding?”

“I’ll probably stay until Mom’s a little stronger.” My nose wrinkles as I look up at him. “You?”

“I don’t know.” He drops his arm, looking down at his boots.

The chickens cluck and peck, and the wind ruffles their feathers. I look up at the house, wondering what Mom and Dylan are doing. I imagine them standing at the window spying on us.

“This is weird.” Garrett’s voice is low. “Things have never been weird between us.”

My shoulders lift in a shrug. “Things change.”

“Not this much. This is new, and I don’t like it.”

“I don’t like it much either.”

Henny Lane hasn’t gotten out of her nest to eat, so I walk over to lift her off the straw. She lets out a low, fussy cluck, and I carry her to the picnic table. “Let’s see if she’ll eat a pepper. Dylan seems to think they’re the cure for everything.”

“Want me to hold her?” He lifts a hand as I approach.

“Sure.” I carefully pass the small bird to him, and we go to the table.

She looks like a stuffed toy compared to him, and I open the paper bag, peering inside to where the pepper scraps are all mixed up. Instead of reaching inside, I tilt the bag and shake out a few pieces. I know better than to get capsaicin oil under my fingernails.

“Hello, Miss Lane.” Garrett holds the chicken up to his face.

“Oh!” My hand flies out to clutch his arm. “Don’t get her too close to your eyes.”

His brow furrows, and humor narrows his gaze. “You think she’ll peck my eye out?”

“I don’t know what she’ll do.”

“She’s not a BB gun, Liv.” Still, he lowers her to the table near where the pepper scraps are waiting. “She’s a sweet little bird.”

“Mom said she’s been acting weird.” I use a stick to slide a deep reddish-green tip closer to the chicken.

“She’s no Henifer Lawrence.” He nods. “Or even Henifer Aniston.”

“What…?” I’d been watching as Henny Lane carefully inspected the pepper pile, but he got me with that one.

“I mean, if we’re handing out awards for acting.”

My smile tightens, and I nod. “She’s very noisy. She might be more of a singer than an actress.”

“She’s the Yolko Ono of the group.” I can’t hold back any more, snorting a laugh, which makes him smile. “That’s better.”

His tone is a mixture of pride and warmth, and my chest squeezes. “You always made me laugh.”

“They say it’s the best medicine.” He stands, wiping his hands together. “I’m okay with making house calls, but you should come around more. Don’t be a stranger. It’s your hometown, too.”

Squinting one eye, I look up at him. “Okay.”

I don’t know why I’m still nervous, but it feels good to say yes. It feels good to remember who I used to be. Maybe it’s who I still am?

“I’ve got to get on back.” He walks backwards along the path to the front of the house. “Maybe I’ll see you at the restaurant one night.”

My gaze lingers on his face, his smile, his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The confident way he moves like an athlete.

I nod. Maybe.