First and Ten by Erin Hayes and Margo Bond Collins

Hello everyone, today I have Margo Bond Collins and Erin Hayes on my blog with their new sport release, First and Ten. Margo is sharing a little humorous story that ended up in her book. I have to laugh, because I can certainly see myself doing just this very thing. 

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​Don’t Plot and Pump!
 
Any honest author will tell you that she can get lost in the worlds she creates. I do that constantly. Maybe too much. Recently, while Erin Hayes and I were cowriting First and Ten, I was trying to figure out a scene that had me stumped. I’d been thinking about it all day long.
 
I needed to put gas in my car before I went to pick up my daughter from school that day. So I got out of the car, got the gas pumping, and went into the store to pick up Bel’s after-school snack. While there, I came up with an excellent plot point.
 
I was still thinking about the story when I got back out to the car, feeling pretty pleased with how smart I was.
 
So of course, I drove off with the hose still in the car and pulled it out of the pump entirely—with a crash and a clatter that terrified me as I waited for everything to explode around me (I might be a little over-dramatic sometimes).
 
Luckily, those pump hoses are designed to break away exactly because of idiots like me. I had to slink back into the store to confess to the clerk. He just shook his head, and I left again, feeling considerably less smart than before.
 
A version of that scene makes it into First and Ten—though Madison’s trying to solve a completely different problem, the moral is the same: don’t plot and pump!
 

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Hysterical. Like I said, I could see this happening to me. Sometimes, we authors get so tied up in our stories that we just zoom out the rest of the world around us.

Tell us a little about this story, First and Ten.

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First and Ten: A Contemporary Reverse Harem

A Team of Her Own Book 1: Preseason

by Erin Hayes and Margo Bond Collins

Available on Amazon

FREEin Kindle Unlimited

 When Madison Harte inherits a football team with three hot players who all want her, there’s one problem: when it comes to America’s favorite sport, she’s clueless. 

I have the worst luck. Failed tech startup? Check. Cheating ex-boyfriend? Check. No idea what to do next? Check.

Then my Uncle Dusty passes away and leaves a whole football team to me. Never mind that I’ve never even seen a game. Who has time for that, right?

But I can sell the team and turn my life around, so I fly from San Francisco to Birmingham, Alabama, where I find a whole new level of football obsession—and start to develop a fascination of my own. Mostly with the three players who are very, very interested in me. 

I never expected to find a team of my own. Or that there would be so many obstacles in our way.

Luckily, Madison won’t have to choose just one man in this contemporary reverse harem where Friday Night Lights and Bridget Jones collide and where—hallelujah—it’s still raining men.

Excerpt:

The last time I had anything to do with football, Timothy Bartley threw the ball at me during PE, and it hit me in the face. I was left with a shiner for three weeks after that, barely able to see out of my poor eye. Everyone made fun of me, and I still sported a small scar on my eyebrow where my skin had split from the swelling.

That was in sixth grade. Seventeen years ago.

Since then, I hadn’t watched a game, hadn’t paid attention to who’s who, or even glanced at ESPN. That was fine by me. I was happy not having to spend my Saturdays watching the big game. My money was spent on video games, comics, and shoes instead of tickets and merchandise.

Football was in an entirely different universe that didn’t touch mine in the slightest.

Until now.

“Excuse me?” I asked in disbelief, sitting forward in my chair. My black business suit stretched as much as it possibly could, but it still felt tighter than the last time I wore it. Yet another sign that my size-14 waist was now a size 16. I’d put on some weight since my ex Jacob and I broke up six months ago. My boobs looked great though, so I really didn’t mind. He was the one missing out.

“Did you just say what I thought you did?” I asked.

My lawyer, an old family friend named Daniel Reiss, a balding man with a permanent scowl, stopped his reading of my late uncle’s will and looked up. “Which part?”

He must have continued reading while my mind slowly processed what had been bequeathed to me.

“The part about the football.”

He frowned, the wrinkles in his face deepening, and he flipped back a few pages in my uncle’s very long will.

Uncle Dusty had been eccentric when he was alive, amassing a huge fortune that had once covered a vacation home in Tahiti, several of the most expensive cars ever produced, a private jet, and millions of dollars in capital. But, being eccentric, he had spent or sold most of it before he died. Fair enough, I would have done the same. Most of the will consisted of what to do with his coin collection or each of his rare, exotic stamps.

But the part about football was, well, let’s just say unexpected.

Finding his place on the page, Daniel cleared his throat. “‘I leave my football team, the Birmingham Yellowhammers, to my brother’s daughter, Madison Harte.”

Madison Harte. Me.

I blinked. “Is that like a little kid’s team or something? Or his collection of footballs? Or a set of those shirts they wear?”

“Jerseys?” Daniel supplied.

“Yeah, those.”

“No.” He watched at me, perplexed. “They’re a team for the major league.”

I looked at him blankly.

“As in professional football, Ms. Harte.” Ugh. Daniel only used my last name when he thought I was being stupid. I should’ve been used to it by now—he’d used it for the last several months as I refused offer after offer from Jacob to buy out my half of our tech startup, even as my savings dwindled. I finally took him up on it when I had no choice.

I hesitated for another beat, still trying to come to terms with Daniel’s words. “You’re not talking about soccer, are you?” At least I knew something about soccer. I played on a rec team when I was in college. Still terrible at it, but at least I knew some of the rules. Like, you couldn’t use your hands to touch the ball.

Daniel couldn’t hide the derision from his face. No matter how grumpy someone looks, they can always make you feel like the stupidest person in the room.

“No, Miss Harte. Americanfootball.”

I worried my bottom lip, a million thoughts running through my head. “Uhm, how can you leave someone a whole football team?”

None of this made any sense.

About the Authors

Erin Hayes

Sci-fi junkie, video game nerd, and wannabe manga artist Erin Hayes writes a lot of things. Sometimes she writes books.

She works as an advertising copywriter by day, and she's an award-winning New York Times Bestselling Author by night. She has lived in New Zealand, Hawaii, Texas, Alabama, and now San Francisco with her husband, cat, and a growing collection of geek paraphernalia.

You can reach her at erinhayesbooks@gmail.com and she’ll be happy to chat. Especially if you want to debate Star Wars.

Read More from Erin

 www.erinhayesbooks.com

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Margo Bond Collins

USA Today, Wall Street Journal, and New York Times bestselling author Margo Bond Collins is a former college English professor who, tired of explaining the difference between "hanged" and "hung," turned to writing romance novels instead. (Sometimes her heroines kill monsters, too.)

Read More from Margo

 www.MargoBondCollins.net

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I have to admit, I know very little about football, but I do love to watch my Detroit Lions play, pitiful as they are sometimes.....

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