🏈📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘🏈: On Any Given Sunday by Pat Toomay

Summary:

On any given Sunday, one team can beat another... This is a novel about football—professional, that is—in something of the way, say, Bernard Malamud's The Natural is a novel about baseball. In it you can discover the essence, the truth of the war zone the players inhabit that can only be invoked by Pat Toomay, a man who was there.

“Pat Toomay has mixed fact and fiction to produce a story that will make every armchair quarterback laugh and wince—and worry at his exposition of “the game’s” most insidious reality: the prospect — on any given Sunday—of a fix.” —John Seigenthaler, USA Today

 

“Toomay, for many years a lineman with the Cowboys and the Raiders, gives a sinister turn to the old saw that ‘on any given Sunday, one team can beat another’. . . . He writes knowledgeably about football: its strategy, the pain, the respect and hatred between the men in the trenches.” —Publishers Weekly

CHAPTER 1

She is walking toward me along a rocky beach, in a sheer dress, her supple body limned against the setting sun. Unaware of my presence, she kneels before a tidal pool and for a moment observes the sea life thriving there. She gently stirs the water, rises and continues along the shore. Then she sees me. I smile in a knowing way, she in pleased surprise ...

I awoke with a jolt as the bus shuddered and lurched across a monstrous chughole. Again, the dream. It had been stalking me for some time, though never with the frequency of the last several weeks, and never so consistently unresolved. I shrugged it off. We must be downtown, I thought; and with the sleeve of my sports coat I wiped the condensation off the window of the bus.

It was the eighteenth of December 1976 — a Saturday evening — and Philadelphia was dressed up for a Bicentennial Christmas. Minuteman mannequins stood mute guard over Christmas displays in the storefront windows; great crepe-paper bells hung from nearly every lamp post. Though the hour was early, few shoppers were out. It was raining hard and rivulets of water ran down the sheet-metal gutters on the brickwork of the old buildings, down the concrete gutters in the streets, down the storefront windows and the windows of the bus. The bus was hot and the acrid smell of sweat hung in the air, overpowering the fragile scents of cologne and deodorant.

I asked the driver how much farther we had to go.

"We're here," he answered, and wheeling the charter into a circular drive, he parked before the Philadelphia Liberty Hotel.

"Thank God," someone said, and we all stood and gathered our belongings and began to file off.

Coach, as always, led the way. An impressive figure in greatcoat and fedora, with neatly clipped hair and deeply tanned face, he stepped off the bus and started up the canopied sidewalk, nodding and smiling at the scruffy adolescents with notepads and pens who had gathered in anticipation of our arrival. Coach was lugging a 16-millimeter analyzer projector and several strapped boxes of game film. As he neared the front door of the hotel, he turned and gestured toward me. I reached around him and pulled open the massive door, and out stepped a small, red-faced man in a three-piece suit.

"Where the hell have you been?" he said. "Article nineteen paragraph twelve, you're supposed to be here at least forty-eight hours before kickoff." And he crossed his arms and spread wide his legs as if to prevent our passing.

Coach glanced at his watch. "Yes, well, we seem to be a day late." He smiled. "We'll discuss it later."

"But this is a big goddamn game," the man persisted. "What if your plane had gone down? Do you realize the scheduling problems that would have created? And what about the local press? Have you forgotten your obligations to the local press?" The man was angry and bewildered.

"We'll discuss it later," Coach said, and brushing past him, walked inside the hotel.

Phil Tanner, the team's advance man and business manager, was standing in the center of the lobby, smiling nervously as we came in. Coach glowered at him.

"You been holding hands with him, Tanner?"

"I couldn't get rid of him, Coach. I —"

"What's your job? Your job is to get rid of him!"

"But he's from the league office, and he's been screaming at me for two hours. I —"

"Excuses, you're giving me excuses."

"I didn't know what to do, Coach. I mean —"

"Get on with it. Do you know what to do now?"

He did, of course; and as Coach stormed across the lobby for the elevators, Tanner began handing out room keys. A fat, sweaty man, there were perspiration stains in the armpits of his jacket, and I found myself staring at them as he read from an alphabetical list. "Rafferty," he rasped, and when I raised my hand he tossed me the key — room 418. At the newsstand I bought an early edition of the Sunday Philadelphia Examiner, then, noting the crowd waiting near the elevators, climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. There I ran into Jan Rutledge and Wayne Law — our quarterback and his favorite receiver. They were headed for a local seafood restaurant and Wayne, my roommate, asked if I wanted to join them.

"Thanks," I said, "but I'm going to try and catch Judy later, maybe eat with her."

"You don't give up, do you."

I gave him a look.

"Suit yourself," Wayne said, and he and Rutledge ambled off down the hall.

In the room I set my attache case on the bureau and the newspaper on the nightstand between the two beds. I took off my coat, tie, and shirt, and hanging everything over the back of a chair, stretched out on the bed nearest the window. I was tired, but it was the kind of tiredness that comes from tension, and I knew it would be difficult to sleep. So, to pass the time, I picked up the Examiner sports page and read Mickey Baron's column.

The Las Vegas oddsmakers had made us a two-point favorite on the strength of our defense, "but," wrote Baron, "the oddsmakers are blind. They have overlooked two insurmountable liabilities ..." and he named them: Coach's outrageous play calling, and Rutledge's rag arm. "A disastrous combination," Baron concluded, and picked Philadelphia in a rout.

I turned to the agate columns to check the injury report. Though his observations were valid, I felt Baron could only be right if Wayne Law didn't play — and there was a chance he might not. A game-breaking receiver and our offensive co-captain, Wayne had suffered a mildly pulled hamstring two weeks before, in the fourteenth regular season game, and had not played last week. We didn't really need him then since the opposition was severely outmanned and we won handily. But this game was different. Not only was Philadelphia our match, but we had to win to get into the playoffs. Wayne's presence could mean the difference between winning and losing.

There was nothing to worry about. Wayne was not mentioned in the report: he would play.

After reading the rest of the newspaper I dozed, waking up hungry at eight-fifteen. Judy was due in the hotel at eight-thirty, so I walked down to the lobby to meet her.

The lobby was crowded. Most of the people there were from Washington, team followers, and they all displayed the team colors in one way or another. Their children, similarly bedizened, patrolled the lobby like giggling little Cossacks after autographs. There were about fifteen of them, each clutching pen and paper. As autograph hounds, though, they weren't very discriminating. In fact, any man over six feet was stopped and badgered until he signed his name to every scrap of paper.

Ducking across the lobby, I sat down near the elevators to wait for Judy. Though unnoticed by the kids, I had been spotted by a man in a burgundy hat on the other side of the room. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that he was waving at me. Not wanting to be bothered, I turned away toward the front door of the hotel and continued my watch.

The Cossacks had just finished with the bell captain when Brady Young came in. Brady was Judy's editor at the Washington Herald; he carried a suit bag and portable typewriter and was surrounded by kids. "My hands are full," he kept saying, but the kids were persistent and demanded autographs. As Brady put down the typewriter to begin signing, I got up and asked if he'd seen Judy Colton.

Now the Cossacks wanted me.

"I saw her at National Airport," he said. "I don't know — I expect — she's probably stopped somewhere to eat ..."

A bell rang, elevator doors opened, and Brady Young disappeared.

After dutifully signing the autographs, I started back across the lobby for the stairs. As I did the man in burgundy stepped forward and doffing his hat, flashed a nervous grin. I knew him after all. He was Charlie Rale, an investment broker from Washington, formerly Jan Rutledge's friend and adviser and once an avuncular member of the team "family" — in fact, the family's self-styled financial coach, and a damned good one at that.

"Are you going to speak to me?" he asked timidly.

"Why, hell yes," I said. "I just didn't recognize you in that ridiculous hat."

"Aw, I bought it in the goddamn gift shop. Tanner's been fucking with me since I got to the hotel."

"They don't give up."

"Harassment, and it's getting worse. This latest thing is nuts."

"I know."

The "latest thing" was Judy's profile of Charlie in her Herald column two weeks ago. It was an innocent piece, filler really, intended only as a bit of publicity for Charlie and his failing brokerage business, yet it inspired an incredible response from my employer, Washington club owner Roger Clayton. After reading the article, Mister Clayton had phoned Brady Young at home, delivered a lecture on journalistic improprieties, demanded Judy's resignation. Asked why he'd singled her out, Clayton said: "Treason. She's publicized an individual who tried to destroy the Washington franchise." He was quite serious. But he was also quite drunk, and when Brady, a long-time friend of Clayton's, reminded him of this the following day, Clayton withdrew his request and apologized.

Charlie's problems with Mister Clayton began in April of 1974 and, according to Charlie, stemmed from his association with a California sports attorney who was rounding up talent for the World Football League. Before that an intimate of Mister Clayton, Charlie had served as a liaison for the attorney in his dealings with several Washington players who were interested in the new league. When Mister Clayton found out what was happening he was furious. He had taken good care of Charlie. There had been trips to exotic places, girls, a special seat on the team charter, golf games with important people. For Charlie to help lure Washington players to the other league was treachery. So Mister Clayton expelled Charlie from our midst. But that didn't end it. Using his considerable influence, Clayton began punching holes in Charlie's lifeboat, his brokerage business, and as a result the waves of financial ruin were lapping closer and closer.

"Have you ever tried to talk to him?" I asked. We were walking across the lobby toward the stairwell.

"Who?" he said.

"Mister Clayton. I mean, what the hell."

"You want me to get killed?"

"It's been two years, Charlie. You'd think —"

"There was some other stuff going on there, Brad. I don't want to get into it." He opened the door to the stairwell. "Listen," he said, "I had an appointment with Rutledge tonight and he didn't show. If you see him upstairs, ask him to call me. It's kind of important."

"I think he went out to eat with Wayne."

"Oh."

"Bookbinder's, I think."

"Maybe later then. If you see him. Don't go to any trouble."

"Sure."

"Wayne's leg's all right, I guess?"

I had started up the stairs. "What's up?"

"I mean, he wasn't reported hurt in the paper. He wasn't on the injury report."

"So he's going to play."

"But he's hurt."

"Charlie, if he was hurt he'd be on the report."

"You mean he's playing a hundred percent?"

"I mean if he's not on the report, he's okay."

Charlie shook his head. "Fastest healing hamstring in medical history."

"It wasn't that bad," I said.

"A lot of people'd like to know how hurt he is, you know what I mean?"

"That's not news."

"I mean, I thought he was hobbled."

"He's tough, Charlie. You know that. We're all tough."

I knew what he was getting at. More was involved than simply the effect that the presence or absence of a name on the injury report might have on the strategy developed by opposing coaches. Everybody knows about the pink sheets, the football cards, the odds, the big bets. If a key player is injured and unable to play in a particular game, and if this information is withheld, then the handicappers cannot set an accurate point spread and those people with knowledge of the injury have a definite advantage in betting that game. Gamblers would naturally pay a high price for such an edge and that's why the league requires public disclosure of all injuries, to minimize if not eliminate the scramble for "inside information." And of course it was this scramble personified that stood sweating before me in a funny hat and disguised as a friend. He was desperate and it angered me.

"You wouldn't be trying to get a little edge, would you, Charlie? You wouldn't be looking to take unfair advantage, would you?"

"Not me, Brad. No way."

"You think I'm stupid?"

"No way."

"No way."

"So what's the story? Gimme a little help here."

"I'm going to bed. Tell that to your friends. Rafferty went to bed early."

I spent the next few hours in my room eating room-service food and watching Saturday-night television. At eleven, just before curfew, Wayne returned. He had been talking with some players in the hall and he came in laughing, his face flushed and his eyes glistening.

"Hey, Brad," he said, "how about Coach this afternoon? He really held back on 'em, didn't he? Can you imagine what that league official would've thought if he'd started in on diurnal rhythms?"

Wayne was laughing and I did too. "He probably would've thought the same thing we thought when we first heard it — that Coach had lost his mind." But of course that was before the team had been turned over to a group of Georgetown University behavioral scientists for three days of intensive study during the last off-season, at Coach's insistence, and since then we've all become acutely aware of our bodies' diurnal rhythms and their sensitivity to change, particularly to the disruptive changes brought about by travel. That's why we were late arriving in Philadelphia. "The less time we spend on the road, the better for us," Coach says. "I'm not gonna bust up the old DRs any more than I have to. And if that means stretching a league rule here and there and heating up Phil Tanner's duodenal ulcer, well, so be it. I'll try anything to help us win, and for that you will appreciate me."

Wayne was undressing now, carefully hanging and folding his expensive clothes.

"So how was Bookbinder's," I said.

"You ever eat a bad oyster?"

"Oh, no."

"Rutledge claims he ate a bad oyster. Anyway, he puked all over himself."

"He's not —"

"No, no. He's fine. He's got a seafood hangover, that's all. And a helluva laundry bill." Naked now, Wayne rummaged in his suitcase for his playbook.

"After you guys left I ran into Charlie Rale," I said. "We had a little talk."

"Yeah? — Ah," Wayne said, finding his playbook. "I thought I left you home, little buddy." And clutching the book — his "little buddy" — he climbed into bed.

"He was looking for Rutledge," I said. "They've got a deal working or something."

"You mean Charlie's got a deal working and he wants to get Rutledge involved."

"I don't know, they were supposed to have a meeting — I saw him in the lobby, that's all."

"Jan won't talk to him, Brad, just like you shouldn't talk to him. You know how Mister Clayton feels about that." Wayne flipped through his playbook to the scouting report.

"Mister Clayton asks you to shoot Baptists, you gonna shoot Baptists?"

"Did I tell you about Huey Greene? He's a Baptist."

"Goddammit, Wayne, I made some good money with Charlie Rale and I don't understand —"

"He's a Baptist who backpedals, Huey Greene. Unfortunately he has yet to learn when to stop backpedaling and start running and he can't possibly cover me on the post."

"Come on."

"I'm serious," he said. "You remember the Buffalo wideout who booted the game winner two years ago? That was Huey Greene. Buffalo traded him to Philly, Philly made him a corner and you oughta see the way he plays — all balled up and churning. You can blow right by him on the post, and once you do he overcompensates and that opens up the quick out. What I'm telling you, this is going to be a piece of cake."

"Can you run the patterns?"

"Hey. The rest was Mister Clayton's idea — rest for the weary, you know. I ran hard on Friday, there was no pain."

"Good."

"Good? That's all?"

"I'm sorry, but it kills me the way he takes care of you, it really does."

"We're a little irritable tonight, aren't we."

"It really does," I said. "I mean, he gives you the week off, he offers you that goddamn job looking after his race horses — it'll never happen either, that job. You wait. It's just a carrot, you know what I mean? A carrot hanging off the top of your helmet so you'll run faster."

A behind-the-scenes look at the life-and-death struggles of modern-day gladiators and those who lead them.

Release Date: December 22, 1999

Release Time: 157 minutes

Director: Oliver Stone

Cast:

Al Pacino as Tony D'Amato

Cameron Diaz as Christina Pagniacci

Dennis Quaid as Jack "Cap" Rooney

James Woods as Dr. Harvey Mandrake

Jamie Foxx as Willie "Steamin" Beamen

LL Cool J as Julian "J-Man" Washington

Ann-Margret as Margaret Pagniacci

Lauren Holly as Cindy Rooney

Lawrence Taylor as Luther "Shark" Lavay

Jim Brown as Monte "Montezuma" Monroe

Aaron Eckhart as Nick Crozier

Bill Bellamy as Jimmy Sanderson

Matthew Modine as Dr. Ollie Powers

John C. McGinley as Jack Rose

Lela Rochon as Vanessa Struthers

Elizabeth Berkley as Mandy Murphy

Clifton Davis as Mayor Tyrone Smalls

Charlton Heston as AFFA Football Commissioner

Andrew Bryniarski as Patrick "Madman" Kelly

James Karen and Gianni Russo as Christina's Advisors

Duane Martin as Willie's Agent

Pat O'Hara as Tyler Cherubini

Mazio Royster as Wide Receiver

Rick Johnson as Dallas Quarterback

Allan Graf as Referee

Margaret Betts as Mayor's Aide

Lester Speight as Sharks' Security Guard

Eva Tamargo as Tunnel Reporter - Game 3

Delia Sheppard and Jaime Bergman as Party Girls

Dan Sileo as Dallas Defensive Tackle

Sean Stone as Fan (as Sean C. Stone)

Antoni Corone as Fan

Cameos

Dick Butkus

Terrell Owens

Ricky Watters

Irving Fryar

Joe Schmidt

Oliver Stone

Barry Switzer

Y. A. Tittle

Warren Moon

Johnny Unitas

Pat Toomay

Emmitt Smith

Wilt Chamberlain (uncredited)

Author Bio:

Pat Toomay played ten years in the National Football League for such teams as the Dallas Cowboys and Oakland Raiders. He is the author of numerous articles about pro football, and two books: The Crunch and the novel On Any Given Sunday. Pat lives in Albuquerque, where he enjoys the friendship of Acoma Pueblo spiritual elders Gilbert Concho and Becky Chino and his relationship with Tibetan Lama Karma Rinchen. Wandering New Mexico's charged terrain is an important pastime. He has two sons, Seth and John.

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🏈⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine⏳🏈: Blame it on the Mistletoe by Eli Easton

Summary:

When physics grad student Fielding Monroe and skirt-chaser and football player Mick Colman become college housemates, they’re both in for a whole new education. Mick looks out for the absent-minded genius, and he helps Fielding clean up his appearance and discover all the silly pleasures his strict upbringing as a child prodigy denied him. They become best friends.

It’s all well and good until they run into a cheerleader who calls Mick the ‘best kisser on campus.’ Fielding has never been kissed, and he decides Mick and only Mick can teach him how it’s done. After all, the physics department’s Christmas party is coming up with its dreaded mistletoe. Fielding wants to impress his peers and look cool for once in his life. The thing about Fielding is, once he locks onto an idea, it’s almost impossible to get him to change his mind. And he just doesn't understand why his straight best friend would have a problem providing a little demonstration.

Mick knows kissing is a dangerous game. If he gives in, it would take a miracle for the thing not to turn into a disaster. Then again, if the kissing lessons get out of hand they can always blame it on the mistletoe.

Original Review January 2015:

Fielding is the epitome of geekdom and he's an absolute perfect fit for Mick. Even though this is really a pretty cliche geek/jock, or in Mick's case ex-jock, this story had me from the beginning. Cliche or not, I couldn't put it down once I started and even though it is only the second story I read by Eli Easton, it has me wanting to check out the author's other works. I say "cliche" and for some that might immediately be a turnoff and sometimes that can be true, but in this case I mean it as a compliment. Being able to turn an often used plot and make it a must read, especially in novella form, takes real talent.

RATING:

CHAPTER 1

 “OH, look!” Fielding said. “They have a new latte flavor—‘Santa’s Death by Peppermint.’ I’m getting that.”

It was the second of December and we were waiting in line at The Coffee Clatch. The campus coffee joint was bedecked and bedazzled with holiday spirit including colored mini-lights, tiny, fuzzy Santa hats on all the espresso machine handles, and displays of giant holiday cookies. Great. Fielding would be bouncing off the walls on a sugar high all month long.

“Do you have any idea how many calories are probably in that latte?” I asked. It was more or less a hypothetical question.

“Lots and lots,” Fielding answered enthusiastically. “Oooh! Cookies!-”

I was about to get more serious about my anti-sugar lecture when someone pressed into my back. By the feel of the soft curves along my spine that someone was female. Normally that would have been a good thing, but I wasn’t seeing anyone at the moment, and I didn’t care to be groped in a coffee shop while trying to talk my best friend. More to the point, before I’d had my morning pick-me-up. A little annoyed, I turned to see who it was.

A slim blonde in blue eye shadow and a tight pink sweater smiled up at me. She put her hand on my arm.

“Hey, Mick,” she gushed. “Long time no see.”

I recognized her, despite the lack of a perky red and white uniform. It was Regina, a Cornell football cheerleader. Had we ever messed around? I had to actually think about it. But no, we hadn’t. Regina had been into Dylan McDermont when I was on the team. But the appreciative look in her eyes made it clear that Dylan was now buried in the Cemetery of Abandoned Interests. Probably right next to subtlety.

“Hey, Regina. Uh… this is my housemate, Fielding.”

“Hello,” Fielding said.

Regina gave Fielding a quick once over and a polite hello before she turned her attention back to lucky me.

“I can’t believe you quit the team!” Regina put on a cute little pout. “The girls were just chatting the other day about how much we miss seeing your fine ass out on the field.”

What do you say to something like that? Why yes, I do have a fine ass, thanks for noticing? or Maybe you and my ass can work out another arrangement?

I went with, “I decided I needed to focus on my studies.”

“Well, you are missed! I was hoping to get to know you better. In fact, the girls were just talking about you at dinner the other night. There seems to be a general consensus that…” Regina paused, looking coy, “…that you’re the best kisser on campus.”

A surprised huff escaped me. It sounded appropriately dubious.

“I was sort of hoping I’d get a chance to test that theory for myself.” Regina blushed prettily at her own boldness and slid her hand from my arm to my chest.

Man. As a freshman, I would have been all over that. I’d have been thanking my lucky stars and my insides would have been auditioning for Riverdance. Regina was cute and enthusiastic, and that sweater showed off her C cups to perfection. But getting girls had never been an issue for me. I inherited dirty blond hair and blue eyes from my mom and a rough, somewhat lumpy face from my dad. I’d been told I looked like Daniel Craig. I didn’t get the appeal, but I wasn’t exactly sorry for it. Still, by my junior year of high school getting girls became less of an issue than getting rid of them. And Regina was setting off big red warning lights in my head.

“Sorry, I’m seeing someone,” I said, giving Regina a regretful smile. “But it was really great running into you. Say hi to the other girls for me.”

The people in front of us moved and we were up to place our order. Thank the god of awkward moments.

 

It was a decent enough day considering that it was December in Ithaca, New York, so we took our drinks outside and sat at the fountain. I had my usual hot green tea with soy milk. Fielding had ignored my warning and gotten his sweet Santa sludge. I’d learned to pick my battles and I let go of this one. I was double-majoring in Nutrition and Physical Therapy and I took healthy eating very seriously. But Fielding looked too happy for me to be a Scrooge about a little holiday treat.

“Why’d you tell Regina you were seeing someone?” Fielding asked, as soon as we sat down.

Inwardly I sighed. I’d had a feeling I wouldn’t get out of that encounter unscathed. “It’s called a little white lie, Bud. The truth would have been rude: I’m not interested, buzz off.”

“Ah! I see.” Fielding smirked. “Away with thee, thou silver-tongued succubus.”

I laughed. “Piss off, oh ye of the cleavage-which-shall-not-be-touched.”

Fielding chuckled, a low hearty rumble which made me grin. My science geek housemate hadn’t grown up with a lot of laughter. But Fielding laughed now. He did a lot of things now that he hadn’t when we’d first moved in together. I felt pretty damn good about that, peppermint lattes notwithstanding.

“But why should her cleavage not be touched?”

I shrugged. “Been there. Done that. Have the T-shirt.”

Fielding blinked at me, a frown of confusion on his brow. “You slept with her? But she said she wanted to test the theory about your—”

Damn. Fielding missed nothing.

“I didn’t sleep with her. Girls like her.” And really, having a thing with three members of the Cornell football cheerleading squad was more than enough for any man. More than that, and I’d seriously have to seek counseling.

Fielding still looked puzzled. “So when you say ‘I’m seeing someone,’ and you really aren’t, is that the equivalent of saying ‘Let’s just be friends?’ That’s the common brush-off, isn’t it?”

He said it with a bit of a blush, like maybe he’d heard that once or twice before himself. And, wow, that kind of made me feel like a heel for what I’d just done to Regina.

“I guess. So, um, anyway, you have a late lab tonight?” I asked, artfully changing the subject.

“It’s Tuesday,” Fielding said dryly, as if I should have his schedule memorized. I did, but any port in a storm.

“Right. There are still two servings of that chicken casserole you like in the freezer. So I’ll plan on dinner around seven, then. Okay?”

I tried to catch Fielding’s eyes to get a confirmation of that, or at least a sign that he’d heard me. It was not unusual for the things I said to go in one ear, get lost in the vast contortions of Fielding’s massive intellect, and never make it to central processing. But Fielding wasn’t gazing off into space, mind on some physics problem or another. No, he was looking at me. More specifically, Fielding was looking at my mouth. He was intently looking at my mouth, a frown of concentration furrowing his brow. He sucked on his bottom lip.

Christ. Something hot rolled over in my stomach. It felt like uneasiness that maybe shared a condo wall with terror. And maybe arousal lived a couple of doors down. It was not a good feeling. I took a hasty drink of green tea, trying to hide my mouth from Fielding’s gaze. It also kept me from screaming like a little girl.

Covering up my mouth seemed to work, because Fielding broke off staring at it and met my gaze instead. There was a light in his eyes that I didn’t care for at all. When Fielding’s eyes said Eureka! civilizations crumbled and gods wept.

“Bye,” Fielding said abruptly. He pulled on his backpack and hurried away, head down.

Author Bio:
Having been, at various times and under different names, a minister’s daughter, a computer programmer, a game designer, the author of paranormal mysteries, a fan fiction writer, and organic farmer, Eli has been a m/m romance author since 2013. She has over 30 books published.

Eli has loved romance since her teens and she particular admires writers who can combine literary merit, genuine humor, melting hotness, and eye-dabbing sweetness into one story. She promises to strive to achieve most of that most of the time. She currently lives on a farm in Pennsylvania with her husband, bulldogs, cows, a cat, and lots of groundhogs.

In romance, Eli is best known for her Christmas stories because she’s a total Christmas sap. These include “Blame it on the Mistletoe”, “Unwrapping Hank” and “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles”. Her “Howl at the Moon” series of paranormal romances featuring the town of Mad Creek and its dog shifters has been popular with readers. And her series of Amish-themed romances, Men of Lancaster County, has won genre awards.

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🏈Monday Morning's Menu🏈: Hit the Brakes by Beth Bolden

Summary:

Food Truck Warriors #2

Can they fake it til Tate makes it?

Tate Ward is in a bind. His food truck hasn’t been the runaway success he’d always dreamt it would be. When he tries to join a new food truck collective to gain a larger following, his sales aren’t even high enough to win a spot. What he needs is a high profile endorsement—and he knows just the guy.

Tate hasn’t seen Chase Riley since high school. It’s been ten long years of watching from a distance as Chase conquers football fields and fans’ hearts.

Tate never wanted Chase to know that he had the world’s stupidest crush on him, because he always believed Chase was straight.

But desperate times call for desperate measures . . .

When Chase offers a tempting plan that could fulfill all his dreams, Tate knows he can’t say no. All he has to do is pretend that his very real feelings are actually fake.

But faking it with Chase, while leading to wild success and even wilder nights, is everything that Tate feared it would be. All it’s done is leave him wanting the impossible: Chase’s heart.

“I need to talk to you,” Tate said.

Chase had imagined, more times than he cared to consider, what it would feel like to finally be honest with Tate about his feelings. That he had feelings. He could admit that it had never looked like this, not in any fantasy he had ever had. But truthfully this was better than anything he’d dreamed up because it was real.

The people surrounding Chase, that he’d barely been listening to, melted away, several of them shooting him knowing grins. Chase thought he might’ve heard one of the guys even tell him he could get it.

They weren’t exactly alone, but close enough that they could talk frankly. And it really looked like Tate wanted to talk frankly.

“I kind of figured as much,” Chase said.

He felt shy, suddenly. Exposed, with Tate staring at him like he was seeing him for the first time all over again.

“You,” Tate said, suddenly crowding into his space. Chase’s heartbeat accelerated. Was he going to kiss him? Had he been waiting for Chase this whole time, and now that Tate knew, he wasn’t going to waste a minute?

Except no. That dreamy bubble burst, almost immediately, and with force.

Tate shoved a finger into his chest, and up close, his eyes were flat and gray, hard as stones. Just as hard as his voice. “You are a fucking idiot,” he said.

“Sadly, not the first or the last time someone’s gonna tell me that,” Chase said wryly. Hoping it would cover his disappointment.

What did you expect? You threw this out without talking to him, without even floating the idea. You totally suck at this.

“If you faked . . .” Tate said.

But Chase couldn’t let that stand. Tate didn’t think he was being honest? Tate thought he was lying now?

“No,” Chase said. “It’s true . . . I’m not straight. I’m . . . not sure what I am. But I know I’m not straight.”

Tate’s gaze softened. Not by much, but enough that it didn’t feel like Chase’s heart was being squeezed until it exploded.

“Okay,” he said. “Still, you should’ve told me,” Tate said in a low, angry voice. “You should’ve told me ten years ago. And now? You definitely should have told me first, before I had to find out with the rest of the world. Especially since we’re apparently dating now?”

That was rich. Chase had suspected about Tate back in high school—the flirting was kind of a dead giveaway, and that wasn’t even counting the way that Tate had looked at him—but it wasn’t like Tate had been honest back then either. And when he had been? Chase had had to hear about it from mutual friends.

However, Tate wasn’t wrong. He probably shouldn’t have suggested to his millions of followers that they were dating without clearing it with him first.

Drive Me Crazy  /  Hit the Breaks

Author Bio:

A lifelong Pacific Northwester, Beth Bolden has just recently moved to North Carolina with her supportive husband. Beth still believes in Keeping Portland Weird, and intends to be just as weird in Raleigh.

Beth has been writing practically since she learned the alphabet. Unfortunately, her first foray into novel writing, titled Big Bear with Sparkly Earrings, wasn’t a bestseller, but hope springs eternal. She’s published twenty-three novels and seven novellas.

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Hit the Brakes #2

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🎭Week at a Glance🎭: 1/30/23 - 2/5/23

Monday's Musical Melody: Secretly Mine by Colette Davison

January Book of the Month: War of the Wicked by Davidson King

⏳Throwback Thursday's Time Machine⏳: The Heart of Texas by RJ Scott

📘🎥Friday's Film Adaptation🎥📘: Sounder by William H Armstrong

Saturday's Series Spotlight: Shielded Hearts by Elle Keaton Part 2

Sunday's Short Stack: The French Toast Emergencies by Brigham Vaughn

Sunday's Short Stack: French Toast Emergencies by Brigham Vaughn

Summary:

Arthur Cain has removed himself from a social life littered with mistakes and unhappiness.When a freak April snowstorm hits, he just wants to stock up on the basics so he can get back to writing his thesis. Samuel Richards is a musician with a wicked sense of humor and he knows how to use it. The last thing he expected was to have it save him when he heads out for supplies and everything falls apart. The storm sends both to the grocery store, but neither had a "date" on their shopping list. 

It's one disaster after another for Samuel, but the history student comes to his rescue. If only Arthur was as good dealing with live men as he was with dead Vikings.

Original Review May 2014:

As someone who has been born and raised in Wisconsin, I have seen first hand the emergency pantry stocking when a blizzard is predicted and it was fun to see it in a book.  Arthur and Samuel are wonderfully intriguing characters that I would have loved to read more about but the length, or lack-there-of, is definitely not a drawback.  I fell for both guys and the romance that sets in due to their weather triggered circumstances.  Definitely another great novella by Miss Vaughn.

RATING:

He glanced at the rapidly emptying shelves and sighed heavily. With some effort, he finally squeezed through the traffic snarl and reached for the last loaf of bread right as another hand closed in on it. His gaze flew to the man beside him. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, like Arthur, but taller and lankier. His brown hair was curly and long-ish, sticking up every which way. He had brown eyes and scruffy facial hair. His grin nearly made Arthur let go of the bread.

“Uhm, I think this was mine,” the cute guy said, tugging on the loaf.

“No, pretty sure it was mine,” Arthur protested, tightening his grip. He always rewarded a particularly productive day’s work with grilled cheese and tomato soup.

“You could get raisin bread,” the other guy suggested.

“Eww, you can’t make grilled cheese with raisin bread.”

“Sure you can. Just think, melty cheddar with raisin bread. Mmm.”

On second thought, maybe that didn’t sound so bad. However ... “Still gross with tomato soup,” Arthur pointed out, gesturing to the half dozen cans in his cart with the hand that wasn’t clutching the bread.

The other guy made a face but didn’t let go. “Fair enough.”

Arthur tugged at the loaf gently. “So you’re going to give me the bread?”

The other guy laughed, leaning against the shelves as if he was getting comfortable. “Nope.”

“Uhm—” Arthur mentally calculated how long the storm would last and the number of slices he’d need before then “—we could split the loaf.”

“Fine. You let me have the loaf, I’ll pay for it, and we can split it after we go through the register.”

Arthur hesitated. “I really need this bread. How do I know you won’t disappear with my half?” He shook his head. “No deal.”

“But if there can be no arrangement, then we are at an impasse.”

Arthur broke into a grin. “Are you quoting Princess Bride to me?”

“Maybe.” The answering grin was cheeky.

Author Bio:

Brigham Vaughn is on the adventure of a lifetime as a full-time writer. She devours books at an alarming rate and hasn’t let her short arms and long torso stop her from doing yoga.  She makes a killer key lime pie, hates green peppers, and loves wine tasting tours. A collector of vintage Nancy Drew books and green glassware, she enjoys poking around in antique shops and refinishing thrift store furniture. An avid photographer, she dreams of traveling the world and she can’t wait to discover everything else life has to offer her.

Her books range from short stories to novellas. They explore gay, lesbian, and polyamorous romance in contemporary settings.

To stay up to date on her latest releases, sign up for the Coles & Vaughn Newsletter.

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EMAIL: brighamvaughn@gmail.com

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