THE AMERICANA PLAYBOOK

Dear Reader

First, thank you for being here. Whether you’re new to my books, or you’ve been around for awhile, your support means the world to me.

Now, let’s get to business.

The Americana Playbook is a marriage of convenience football romance between two former childhood best friends. One of them happens to be the (fictional) president’s daughter and the other plays for a (fictional) professional football team. It sounds fine and dandy. But please buckle up and understand that I value consistency—you likely won’t find a book of mine that doesn’t address sensitive topics. Here, there are a few, and while none of them are explored in a graphic way in this book, you should be aware that The Americana Playbook is intended for readers 18+ due to its mature content and the following issues some might find triggering.

• The troubled teen industry
• Kidnapping
• Child abuse (institutional, mental, and physical)
• Emotional abuse in a sports setting
• Sexual harassment
• OCD, PTSD

If any of these are triggering to you, stop reading here. If they aren’t and you continue on with the story, please preface that this book does have content warnings if you recommend it.

Thank you for taking a chance on Fitz, Parker, and The Americana Playbook.

Cheers,

Cathryn

The Troubled Teen Industry

The Troubled Teen Industry (TTI) describes a system of unregulated residential youth facilities and or programs aimed at “rehabilitating” struggling teenage children. Consisting of wilderness programs, boot camps, residential facilities, or therapeutic boarding schools, TTI is a multi-billion dollar industry that is better known for the abuse charges against its programs than it is its success in impacting the lives of children positively.

At the time of the initial publication of The Americana Playbook, Unsilenced, a TTI watchdog and nonprofit, estimates that 100,000 children are currently enrolled the industry’s 5,000 facilities or programs in the US or abroad. Some of these children were taken, like Parker, from the middle of their beds overnight, enrolled by their parents and guardians to deal with mental health issues or even mundane behavioral problems. Most will leave these programs worse off than when they entered.

Parker’s story is fictional, but is based on the real life testimony of half a dozen former participants of TTI’s programs who were happy to share these stories in hopes others will learn about the enormous amount of institutionalized child abuse happening at the moment.

If you are interested in learning more, you can visit Unsilenced where you’ll find information on current anti-TTI legislation, survivors’ stories, and ways to help end the abuse.

Dedication

For the bad, the bold, the beautiful, and those who were never broken despite being told otherwise.

Epigraph

There are no good girls gone wrong. Just bad girls found out.

MAE WEST

New England Rebels

Day 44

Dear Fitzy,

Today I’ve been gone 44 days.

You know how much I hate math. You must be laughing. Never in my life have I cared to count so much. If I’ve been counting right, it’s early October and well into your last season of high school football. I’m sorry I missed most of it. I thought I might be back to catch some games, but now, I’m sure I’ll miss all of them.

I think about you a lot. I’ve been wondering what you were doing every moment since day 1 when I began to count from the back seat of the car the night they took me. It was day 17 when I realized I might never come home.

Most of the time, I don’t even know why I count. Time doesn’t really exist here anyway. I don’t even exist here. Nothing does. Not freedom, the ability to think or make choices for myself. There are uniforms that are really a cross between hospital scrubs and cheap pajamas. The food rotates between a few shades of beige. The television has only one thing playing on it. There’s no phone to use unless you have permission and supervision, and even then, you can only call your parents. There are no asks to be made. You can’t get another blanket when you’re cold. Forget demanding privacy when you shower, you can’t even beg for it. I’ve been stripped of not just clothes, but my identity. There isn’t much left of myself to hold onto. I don’t know how to manage to hold on to hope, Fitz, but I am. Just believe me when I say it’s by the skin of my teeth.

And believe me when I say, if I could ask for anything, it would be a moment with you. Because between counting days and minutes, what I think about is how my life was one giant lie. But not you, Fitz. You were the truth.

I wish I could write down everything to do on this napkin I snuck from the cafeteria. The pen I stole from the art room keeps making holes in it. I’m sorry if it’s hard to read. I’m sorry I didn’t know I needed to say goodbye that night. I know things have been hard between us, but I’m going to ask one thing.

If I make it out of here, I’m going to try to forget this all one day. Please remember it happened though. Maybe then it can end with me.

Rebels Only.

Parker

Chapter 1

“Has this been the welcome home you’ve always dreamed of, Fitz?”

Technically, I’m pretty far from Boston. I’m standing in an Atlanta hotel ballroom that’s been converted to house the dozens of journalists in front of me. I’ve spent a good chunk of my football career in similar situations, but only for the Los Angeles Bulls, where I played up from when I was drafted until last season.

I lean back from the podium, making it obvious I’m looking down at the New England Rebels’ emblem—an outline of a soldier of the American Revolution—before I adjust the mic. “Look, I grew up on the south shore of Massachusetts, and I’ve always been proud of our teams, even the Red Sox.”

The room chuckles.

“But it’s another kind of proud to lead the Rebels to a Super Bowl. And I’ll be even prouder to bring that trophy to the streets of Boston.”

I wait for the head of the Rebels’ PR team to take another question, and a woman stands.

“Rebecca Morris,” she introduces herself. “From The Boston Journal’s Sports & Style section. A large part of this year’s coverage of the team has focused on your relationship with Coach Foller.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of my manager, Nick. It’s impossible to miss the veins in his neck bulging.

Rebecca continues, “I think it brought a new sense of wholesomeness to the game, knowing that he coached you all the way back in high school. But I’m sure you’re aware of the allegations that have come up over the last few months.”

Nick might have a stroke.

“There are two things my team reminds me to never comment on. Politics”—I wait for the laughter to subside—“and legal matters. The Rebels did an investigation and I have to trust it was thorough.”

My eyes bounce between Nick, who looks like his blood pressure has lowered, and Rebecca, who doesn’t appear satisfied.

“You don’t have any comment on the abuse allegations?” she asks. “As of now, four former players back when he coached at the college level have⁠—”

“I can’t speak to other players’ experiences. I can only speak to mine.”

Nick’s eyes beg. Please don’t.

I rock back and forth on my heels. I should probably keep my mouth shut and leave it at that. But I’ve been in the public eye long enough to know no comment leaves a lot of room for people to come up with their own truths when really, there only is one. And it’s simple.

I owe everything to James Foller.

They always say you never forget your first. I happen to have a few of those up my sleeve. Foller is one of them. He was the guy who made me into the player—the man—I am today. That started in high school, but it didn’t stop there.

When I went on to play in college at Georgia, he joined the staff as the quarterback coach my sophomore year when we won a championship. And when I was drafted to the League, it wasn’t much later he joined the Bulls as an assistant offensive coordinator. But I can’t exactly take credit for that. Foller got to that level because he was a damn good coach who knew what it would take to keep winning.

The truth is, football is an ugly sport. You’ve got to be tough. You’ve got to be violent. And to win? You’ve got to give your grit, determination, and will. You can only do that if you’re prepared and do the work. I’m not sure why people find it surprising to find that coaches are often tough on players. They scream. They break you down. If you’re tough enough to get through it, they’ll build you back up and you might find yourself in my exact situation—about to play in the Super Bowl.

Coach did all of that. After going on to be the offensive coordinator for two more teams, he made enough of a name for himself to become the head coach of the Rebels. And his first executive decision was to make a change at quarterback that timed with my contract with the Bulls expiring.

“It’s been an honor to be coached under James Foller,” I say. “I credit him with much of my growth and success, and look forward to throwing a cooler of water on him after we get that win in two days. I’ll take the next question.”

* * *

“You know something.” Josh, my center, straightens from his bent over position, huffing. “We need to think bigger.”

I hand back the water bottle to the Rebels assistant. “We’re about to play in the Super Bowl,” I tell Josh. “What’s bigger than that?”

“No.” Josh shakes his head. “I mean about what we’re going to do to Foller after we win. It has to be bigger than a cooler of Gatorade.”

“What do you need? A swimming pool?” I joke.

Josh stares toward the sideline. “That’ll work if it’s filled with Holy Water.”

I trace Josh’s stare. “They’ll be alright,” I say when I see what he sees—Micah, my running back, and Todd, our defensive lineman standing, helmets off as Coach talks to them.

“Most of us are about to play the biggest game of our lives the day after tomorrow and he’s got us running routes in full pads.” Josh scoffs.

Full pads this close to a game—let alone the Super Bowl—isn’t a conventional coaching tactic. And conventional isn’t exactly in Coach Foller’s playbook. We run full contact practices probably more than any other team in the League. But this season, we have more wins than any other team as well.

“For god’s sake.” Josh tips his head. “Go figure out what’s going on, will you? If I go over there, I’ll make it worse.”

“You’re a captain as much as I am,” I remind Josh, who has played for the Rebels for four seasons, and under Foller for two.

Josh waves me off. “You’re Captain America. Go save the day.”

“I never endorsed that,” I remind Josh about what they started to call me when I signed with the Rebels after their losing season. And here we are.

I toss him the ball and jog over to the sideline.

“I don’t know what’s worse,” I hear Coach say. “My running back afraid to take a damn hit, or my corner afraid to give him one.”

I catch Micah’s eye, and go to interrupt, but Todd beats me to it.

“I’m not risking breaking my guy’s leg in practice,” he says. “Never been about that. Definitely not about it now right before a championship game.”

Coach swings his head in Todd’s direction. “Alright then. So I’ve got a cornerback issue. Take your soft ass off the field and get yourself back to the hotel in an Uber.”

My eyes widen. “Coach⁠—”

“Hey Fitzy.” Coach looks over the rims of his glasses. “Do snowflakes win championships?”

My eyes drift to Todd.

Coach waves a hand at me. “Did you hear me? I asked if snowflakes win championships.”

I take a deep breath. “No.”

Coach moves away from Todd and Micah, coming up to stand next to me so we face them together. It’s drawn out like we—coach and quarterback—are the team.

Micah shakes his head and looks away, like he knows where this is going. And I do to. Foller has asked me this dozens of times since I was a kid. He made sure as hell I didn’t want to be a snowflake, that I wouldn’t ever disappear just because things got a little too hot.

Todd isn’t that way. Todd is one of the greatest cornerbacks in the League. And the truth is when I played for the Bulls, we feared him as an offense. He was quick. He was strong. And he hit with every part of his body with zero hesitation and maximum effort.

When he had to.

But I know every moment with Coach Foller is a teaching moment. And what he’s trying to teach Todd right is that if he’s not prepared to tackle his own teammate with full force now, he might hesitate when it matters.

Todd shakes his head at me. “I’m done.”

I curse under my breath.

“Good,” Foller says. “That’s the best decision you’ve made this entire day.”

Todd brushes past me as he heads into the locker rooms of the training facility we’ve been using.

“And you,” Foller says to Micah, “If you run one play today like you aren’t prepared to take down a god damn brick wall, you’ll sit on Sunday. Is that clear?”

Micah lifts his helmet onto his head and stepping around us, back onto the field.

I turn, and so does Coach. “What happens to snowflakes Fitz?”

Josh’s shoulders drop as he gives Micah a pat on the back.

“They melt.”

Chapter 2

I do a double take through the peephole. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I open the door. “How did you get up here?”

The night before a game—no matter home or away—means lockdown. It means retiring to our rooms after a walk through, meetings, and dinner, only for our doors to be met with a knock thirty minutes later by staff to make sure we’re abiding by curfew.

“And what the hell is that?”

“Gift from the wifey.” Nick pushes past me, setting a basket on the table.

I scratch my head. “It’s after curfew. How did you even get up?”

“Me? I know people.”

I raise an eyebrow.

Nick drops his arms. “Fine. I’m staying one floor up. They really should put security for you guys on the stairs.”

“What’s with the Easter basket?” I ask.

“Some things to help you relax.”

I fold my arms. “So you’re telling me the whiskey I drank earlier won’t do the job?”

“Not funny, asshole.” Nick reaches for something. “Here.”

“Fuzzy socks?”

He hands me a small plastic bottle. “Put them on after you spray your feet with this.”

I look at the label. “Magnesium?”

“There’s lavender spray for your pillow and⁠—”

“Nick, there’s clearly one person in this hotel room who could use magnesium spray. And it’s not me.”

“Fitzy…”

I lift my head toward the ceiling and groan. I hate when people call me that. “Just say what you came here to say. I should’ve been in bed fifteen minutes ago.”

He presses his lips together and takes a deep breath. “I need you to separate yourself from Foller.”

I should’ve known this wasn’t about magnesium.

“Separate myself? I’m a franchise quarterback. He’s the head coach. That’s contractually impossible. And the guy is like a father to me.”

It was an easy role for him to step into, since my mother never remarried after my dad died when I was a kid. She didn’t have a clue how to jumpstart my football career out of high school and get me recruited. But James Foller, Thacher Prep’s guidance counselor and football coach, sure did.

“You’ve got to stop reminding people of that, alright?” Nick sits on the bed. “You don’t comment on legal matters. That’s it. Next question. No adding He’s made me the man I am today or the I owe everything to him bullshit with tears in your eyes.”

“I didn’t cry.”

“You did in your mind.” Nick rakes a hand over his curly blond hair before he waves me off. “All football guys are softies.”

I shove my hands into the pockets of my joggers. “Are we done here?”

Nick shakes his head. “I’m serious.”

“You’re serious because you don’t like him,” I remind Nick. “But he’s part of my team as much as you are.”

Nick stands. “He’s always piggybacked on your success.”

“Oh?” I challenge. “And who gets 2.5 percent right off the cuff of every deal I make?”

I got the sense there was some sort of jealousy thing Nick couldn’t get over when it came to Coach. I consider both of them on my team. Nick is my manager. He guides me on every business decision I’ve ever made. And even though I know I’ve got enough talent to make good money playing football, Nick has always made me more money. But Foller sure as hell taught me that football is never about money.

I grab the bottle of the lavender juice and spritz the space between us. “Go put your fuzzy socks on and go to bed. You’re stressing me out.”

He holds his hands up. “Listen, Fitz. You played well this season. Very well. You’re maybe the most-liked player in the League. Let’s keep it that way. It will be hard to do if you end up a packaged deal with someone everyone’s pointing fingers at saying he’s a bad guy. I’m trying to keep you America’s Mr. Nice Guy.”

I roll my eyes. Another damn nickname. During my first professional game when I was a third-string quarterback, I fumbled the ball because I tripped over a defensive lineman who failed to tackle me. I was so nervous, I helped the guy up, apologizing, even though the clock was running and I should’ve jogged to the sideline. We won by three touchdowns.

BULLS FIND QB-1 IN AMERICA’S MR. NICE GUY.

To say I was fucking lost when I first got to the League is an understatement. But I went back to my roots. I buckled down and took things seriously. I lived and breathed not just football, but preparation for greatness, exactly the way I was taught. Exactly the way I was coached. The League was hard-pressed to find a quarterback better prepared than me.

These days, when I make headlines, there’s a stark difference.

CAPTAIN AMERICA LEADS REBELS WITH AN IRON ARM AND NO APOLOGIES.

Nick begins to walk to the door.

“Besides, I’d hate for you to get that tattoo covered up if it doesn’t work out long term with the Rebels.” He tosses a smirk over his shoulder that I meet with a grimace.

To Nick, it’s a joke. But there’s nothing funny for me about the tattoo he’s the only one who knows the meaning behind.

“I’m never drinking with you again.” I yank open the door.

“Just give it your all tomorrow, Fitzy. Heart and soul.”

Nick throwing a cheap shot at my tattoo doesn’t exactly inspire me to play with heart. After all, I got that tattoo because of my heart.

I try not to think about it too much, but man, it’s awfully quiet in this hotel room. And do you know what quiet does to me? Makes me fucking lonely.

It’s something I don’t often admit to anyone, not to Nick or my friends—and certainly not my mother. For someone who lives such a loud life, you’d think I’d relish in the quiet moments. What people don’t know is that inside, I’m screaming.

And it’s not the kind of noise that can be muffled by just anything, or anyone.

My bare feet shuffle against the carpeted floor before I peek back at Nick’s basket. But I don’t go and pick up the mask or the bed perfume or whatever that shit is. I take one step closer and backhand the basket right to the floor, the contents sprawling out across the carpet.

Immediately, I feel better. I should’ve been a linebacker. Coach always joked about that, saying even though I was big and tall, it would be a waste of a good arm if I played anything other than quarterback. And I bought into that—into everything. There was conditioning and footwork before class, practice after school, weight training and film, and more coaching sessions. And that was only in high school. But as many things landed on my plate as a kid when it came to football, some things were taken away—like my best friend, Parker, who had no idea I was madly in love with her.

I didn’t lose Parker all at once, at least, not at first.

The truth is, I lost bits and pieces of her over time. I was too young to remember my Dad dying after he flipped his car over. But my mother always used to say was how thankful she was that it happened quickly. That’s because there’s nothing worse than losing someone you love slowly. You lose them looking for you, the tap of their fingers against your bedroom window late at night. You lose the strength of their smile, the magnitude of their laughter that was the soundtrack of your childhood. It’s one thing after another.

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