SUTTON

 

April 27th

KBC Studios

Los Angeles, CA

 

 

I hate these meetings. Eric always calls them at the oddest hours, as though we’re expected to be awake and functioning at any time because that’s the way he is. But no one else in the world is like Eric Croft. No one should be. Especially at five-thirty A.M..

“Cocaine.” Eric drops the newspaper down on the conference table with a theatrical thump. “Tom Berg was caught buying a shitload of it. He’s out of the NFL. He’s probably going to jail, so needless to say, he’s off the show. We can’t use him in the special.”

“Damn,” I mutter under my breath. The cover of the paper stares up at me, mocking me. Crushing my dreams into powder as fine as the dust Tom was planning to snort up his nose.

To my right, Clara rubs my arm consolingly. Over the years, she’s become sort of a stand-in mother for me here on the show. She gives good advice that I rarely take, but it’s nice to know someone cares enough to try.

“How much is a ‘shitload’ of coke?” McKay asks Eric curiously.

“I don’t know, McKay. A lot.”

“But where did you get the measurement of a ‘shitload’?”

Eric sighs. He pushes his hand through the thick, black hair hanging down over his forehead. It’s graying lightly around the temples. He won’t bother covering it because as handsome as he is, Eric isn’t vain. He’s driven and it’s his drive that’s made him start to gray at only thirty-six. His face is covered in a meticulous layer of scruff, the sides of his head shaved nearly bald, making the deep blue of his eyes glow like neon. “The paper said it was ‘copious amounts’. I took license and translated that to roughly a shitload. Okay?”

It is not okay. McKay doesn’t deal in abstracts like ‘copious amounts’ and ‘a shitload’. He likes facts and figures, but he can see that Eric isn’t supplying those this morning so he nods in acceptance of the nothing he’s been given.

Eric takes a step back from the table to address the entire room. There’s a select few of us present at this early hour. Eric, of course, our executive producer. Taj, his underling. Our choreographer and my Mother Hen, Clara. Two lawyers named Bill and Bob, though which is which, I can never remember. The show’s talent scout, Becky. McKay, our director. And me, a professional dancer. I’m only here because this Tom news affects me the most. Up until this morning, he was my partner on Dance the Night Away as well as one of the most feared quarterbacks in the NFL.

Now he’s just some cokehead rotting away in a jail cell.

“The head of the network has already spoken to the Chairman of the NFL,” Eric continues. “They both agreed that the best thing for everyone is to find a replacement for Tom as soon as possible. After this meeting, none of you have ever heard of Tom Berg. If you’re asked about him, you have no comment. We want to distance ourselves and the show as far from him as possible.”

“Who are they going to give us to replace him?” I ask.

“No one. It’s up to us to find someone.”

“They’re not even going to help?”

“We had enough trouble signing the men we have now,” Clara complains. Her wild brown curls dance around her face in agitation. Those curls are a clear indication of her mood. They flow like flowers in the wind when she’s laying out our choreography, but they spring like iron coils when she’s angry. The way they’re doing right now. “They expect us to find a replacement for Tom with only a week to go before the show?”

“Do I even get to meet my partner before the first episode?” I demand.

Eric holds up his hands at us like he’s warding off a pack of wild dogs. “Easy, ladies. We’ll sort it out.”

“How?”

“When?” Clara demands.

“Today. No one leaves this room until we’ve got the slot filled.”

He pushes up the sleeves of his expensive, dark gray sweater. It exposes the tan skin of his arms covered in black tattoos from his younger, wilder days. Days when he drank Bud Light instead of chardonnay and threw his hat into the ring of every singing competition on television. He never won but it got him interested in the business. Now here he is ten years later producing one of the hottest reality shows on the air.

At least, it used to be.

DNA is in a rut. We have been for the past two seasons. Even last year when I won with Jace Ryker, America’s favorite rockstar turned Broadway actor, we didn’t pull in the ratings the studio was hoping for. Not even close. Viewership is down, voting is down, and, if we don’t pull out of this nosedive soon, the whole damn show is going down. That’s why we’re doing this special season with NFL players. The studio partnered with the NFL to raise money for the Ronald McDonald House Charities through donations from the audience. Each dancer/player pair will advance to the next level in the show based on the judges’ votes and the donations made in their name. I thought Tom Berg was going to be a perfect fit. He’s handsome, talented, well-known. But after last night’s arrest, you can add unemployed to that list.

It might not be long before you can add it to my list of accolades as well.

“You want me to find a replacement in twenty-four hours?” Becky asks Eric warily.

“We’re all going to help you. I promise.”

Becky doesn’t look convinced, and with good reason. No one helped her when she was setting up this special season of the show, calling every NFL player in the book to try and secure enough contestants to even get us off the ground. It’s their time off. Most of them want to spend it with their families to make up for all of that time they normally spend on the road or in the gym. Others are worried about getting injured. It’s not uncommon for people to pull muscles or even break bones on our show. We’ve had to replace our share of celebrity contestants in the fifteen years we’ve been on the air. I’ve only been one of the dancers for four years and I’ve seen two replacements happen. Never to me, though. Not until today.

“We need a Kodiak,” Taj tells us decisively. “They just won the Super Bowl. Everyone in L.A. knows who they are. They’re the kind of name recognition we need to get the viewers excited and they’re more likely to participate because they live here. No travel needed.”

“I want Colt Avery,” I throw in, and not for the first time. This has been my demand since they pitched this charity season with NFL players. Colt Avery is a big-name player with a history of working with children’s charities. He’s also gorgeous and charismatic. With Colt’s good looks and both our fame coming off wins, we’re a lock. We’d take the stage by storm every night.

But…

“Colt Avery still says he won’t participate,” Becky replies sadly. “His fiancé doesn’t like the spotlight. He dropped out of his Dairy Queen ads last year and he’s only doing charity appearances in closed settings at hospitals. This is the exact opposite of the kind of work he wants to do.”

“The opposite of the kind of work she wants him to do,” I mutter, annoyed.

Clara looks at me with meaning. “After what happened last season, I’m sure Jace Ryker’s girlfriend feels the same way.”

I roll my eyes. “It was harmless flirting that only went on in front of the cameras. The audience ate it up with a spoon.”

“It almost broke them up.”

“That’s not my fault. That girl is insecure. And it takes two to tango. He flirted with me too. I don’t know why I’m the villain.”

“I thought you called him a prude because he refused to flirt back,” Clara points out.

I glare at her, not grateful for the reminder that Jace refused to play ball.

“What other Kodiaks can we talk to?” Eric steps in, redirecting the conversation. He has his own opinions about how I worked the audience to win last season, but I’m glad he’s not voicing them today. I don’t want to hear them. Not again.

“Trey Domata,” Taj suggests.

Becky shakes her head. “He’s a hard no. He’s the quarterback. He can’t get hurt.”

“Tom Berg was going to do it and he’s a quarterback.”

“Yeah, and now we know why. He’s snorted almost all of his money up his nose. Did you read the article? He’s broke. He said yes to us because he’s desperate for money.”

“Shit, okay,” Taj mutters, thinking. “Kurtis Matthews.”

“If you can get him on the phone, you’re welcome to ask him.”

“Tyus Anthony,” Clara suggests, sounding unsure. She and I are in the same boat; we don’t know much about football except what we see floating by on the internet. “He and Colt are close, aren’t they? He could be good. And he was just in the headlines for something around Christmas, I think.”

“Yeah, he had a brain tumor removed,” Taj informs her heavily. “He’s not on the team anymore.”

“He’s coaching,” McKay corrects.

Eric’s brow draws into a tight V. “We don’t want a coach. The other names we’ve managed to sign up are Bs at best. With Tom gone, we don’t have an A-Lister in the group. We can’t start scraping around for coaching staff. What we need is to find someone people know, for whatever reason. What have we got as far as scandals? Who’s in the doghouse with the NFL?”

“I don’t know,” Taj drones irritably. “Tom Berg?”

The rest of the room chuckles, but Eric’s scowl only deepens. “Tom Berg isn’t in the doghouse. He’s going to jail. Think less salacious than a cocaine bust.”

“A player for the Steelers got a DUI last month,” McKay offers.

“Get his name.”

“Oh, good,” I laugh sarcastically. “I’m trading in my junky for a drunk.”

“I’ve got you covered. Don’t worry about it.”

“I never worry.”

“Worrying is all you do.”

“Someone in here has to or nothing would ever get done.”

“I have ulcers older than you, sweetheart. Leave it to the professionals.” He addresses the room with arms wide open. “Come on, people. What else have we got? Who else has bitten the hand that feeds recently?”

Taj snaps his fingers excitedly. “Shane Lowry!”

“Why do I know that name? Who does he play for?”

“He’s a Kodiak. He got ejected from the Super Bowl game and he was in a fight in a bar on Valentine’s Day about a week later.”

“Pass,” I declare firmly.

Eric ignores me. “Why was he ejected?”

“There was a quarterback blitz,” McKay rattles off mechanically. “A Patriot put a late hit on Domata and talked trash in his face. The guy spit on Domata before Lowry pulled him off and punched him. Lowry broke the Patriot’s nose and a tooth before he was ejected. He was fined thirty-thousand dollars for the infraction.”

Becky smiles at him in amazement. “How do you know all of that off the top of your head?”

“Because McKay knows everything about everything,” Eric answers briskly.

He’s getting excited. He sees salvation and he’s about to lunge for it, but I’m not so sure it’s the right move. Who the hell is this Lowry? Is he some three-hundred-pound doorstop with no coordination and no hope of learning everything I need him to know? Or worse, is he ugly? Fans are shallow. They loved me and Jace last season because we’re both very, very pretty. Fans don’t vote for ugly, not unless it’s a pity thing. And I hate pity.

“What’s he like?” I ask McKay. “As a person, what would we be getting ourselves into?”

“He’s nice.”

Clara scoffs. “He’s nice? The guy who got in two fights in two weeks is nice?”

McKay shrugs, as if to say, What do you want from me?

“I don’t care if he’s the Pope,” I tell the room, but I’m really talking to Eric. “I need someone who can dance. And take orders. And not punch me in the face if I look at him wrong.”

“That’s a tall order,” Becky snickers.

“Is that a jab at football players for being violent or are you saying I have a punchable face?”

“Punchable face,” Taj and Clara answer together.

I laugh, falling back in my seat. “Well, screw you all. I’m not working with a criminal.”

“He’s not a criminal,” Bill/Bob corrects me, reading from his phone. “He was arrested and charged with Assault for the scuffle on February fourteenth, but the charges were dropped the next day.”

“Did he pay the guy to drop them?”

Bill/Bob shrugs his slouching, aged shoulders. “It’s unclear. There’s no record of it so I can’t say for certain.”

“But odds are that’s what happened,” his partner fills in.

“And more than likely, it was a very tidy sum, considering Mr. Lowry’s net worth.”

“I’d take a hit from Shane Lowry for that kind of money,” Taj mutters into his coffee.

Becky laughs at him. “When you woke up from the coma, you’d have no idea how to spend it.”

“He’s not that big.”

“He’s big.”

“How big?” I ask nervously.

McKay types quickly on his tablet. I can see the reflection of a website in his glasses. He stops on the blurry image of a guy in a yellow uniform. “Really big.”

“Give me a gauge. Are we talking Andre the Giant?”

“The Rock. They’re the same height but Shane is a few pounds heavier than Dwayne Johnson.”

Eric snaps his fingers sharply at him. “Get me a picture of him. Get me his stats.”

McKay types at his tablet for a second before sending the image to the projector overhead. It beams down an image onto the blank wall behind Eric. For a second, another man is superimposed over his face. He’s wearing a uniform, a big, boisterous smile, and about a hundred extra pounds of bone and muscle. Eric is dwarfed inside the man until he moves to the side and they’re separated. Both of their faces immediately become clear again; absolute opposites in every way. Both shockingly handsome in their own right.

I’m immediately sucked in by Shane’s eyes. They’re big and blue, almost electric in their intensity, but it’s softened by his smile. Everything is. His energy, his girth, the intimidating breadth of his chest and canon-sized curve of his arms is all muted and made bearable by the genuine light of his smile. He wasn’t posing when they took this picture. He was laughing, and I think that kind of charisma could work on the dance floor. And the female viewers will go crazy for his face; square, strong, and sexy.

Despite the possibilities, I have to admit that his size scares me. A man that large as my partner could be awkward at best and dangerous at worst. It would be easy for him to hurt me in a hundred different ways without even trying. My stomach churns uneasily at the thought.

“Damn,” Taj mutters. His eyes scan the script under the picture, his lips murmuring softly. “Six-foot-five. Two-hundred-ninety-six pounds.”

“Sutton is five-foot-three,” Clara reminds Eric. “She weighs almost two hundred pounds less than he does. It’s not a good pairing.”

“We can make it work.”

I shake my head sharply. “No way.”

“Sutton,” Eric coos soothingly.

“Don’t even try, Eric. He’s violent and he’s a mountain. I can’t work with him.”

“If we can get him, you’re going to have to.”

“Let me swap with someone else. I’ll take one of the other players that’s not out on bail.”

“He’s not out on bail,” Bill/Bob reminds me.

“He may as well be!” I cry. “He’s an animal.”

“He was ejected from one game,” Eric reasons. His voice is thick with calm, but it’s a lie. An illusion. Underneath the act, I can hear how paper thin his patience is on this issue. “He got in one fight at a bar. It happens. It’s not like he’s a murderer.”

“And if he was, you’d still pair me with him if it meant it’d save your precious show.”

“Enough,” he growls quietly. “Stop being a child. He’s a football player. They get into fights. It’s what they’re paid for. We’ll do a background check on him before we sign him. Bill will get to the bottom of the incidents and if he doesn’t see any red flags, we’re going ahead with Lowry. End of story.”

“Two of the other players we have in the competition have priors,” Taj tells me calmly. “There’s a DUI and a Drunk and Disorderly. They’ve both been perfect gentleman to their partners so far.”

Eric smiles down at me. “You hear that, Sutton? He’ll be a perfect gentleman. You have nothing to worry about.”

I shake my head angrily, growling at Eric, “You’re making a mistake and I’m going to be the one to pay for it.”

“We’ll see, won’t we?”

“I can’t believe you’re going to do this. You’re going to shackle me with some alpha male asshole and the weight of him will sink me by the second episode. I’ll go from the champion to a loser.”

“That’s the risk that everyone runs, and if you can’t handle that, you’re welcome to quit. We can replace you just as easily as we’re replacing Tom today.”

His words sting. They hurt like jellyfish kisses across my skin and I rub my arm unconsciously to console myself. But I don’t look away. I meet the challenge of his stare head on, and I don’t flinch. I don’t falter. My mother taught me better than that.

Never let a man hurt you, little darling. They’re not worth the salt they’re made of.

McKay clears his throat loudly, adjusting his big Clark Kent glasses on his nose. “According to his Twitter, Shane Lowry is in Washington visiting family.”

“We have to move fast,” Taj adds warily.

The room is watching Eric and I face off. But as quickly as the argument escalated, it deflates. He looks away to the picture of the man glowing on the wall behind him. He crosses his arms pensively, giving the impression that he’s deep in thought, but his decision has already been made. Whether I like it or not.

“Get him here by tomorrow morning.”