Dirty Player

by Mira Lyn Kelly

  Heart slamming, I collapse against the door frame.

  “AJ, are you okay?” Matty asks as his mother steps over and rubs a hand over his tiny back.

  “Yeah, Aunt Julia, you’re looking a little funny.”

  I nod and then nod again. Fine. Just fine. Except I have the feeling I might need to murder Greg Baxter.

  “I’m just going to grab this box and take it back to my room.”

  Cammy’s eyes narrow on the box in question and then shift back to me. “Why? What’s in the box, Jules?”

  My lips purse together, and I inch toward the opposite counter. “N-nothing important.” That might have sounded more believable without the guilty-sounding stutter.

  I grab the box and dart to my room, almost getting the door closed behind me before Cammy stuffs the full length of her arm through. There’s no choice but to let her in.

  Next thing I know, she’s snatched the box out of my hands and is bouncing on my bed, giving it a solid shake.

  “Spit it out. I’ve got Matty counting macaroni noodles to make dinner, but he’s four. He can’t count that high.”

  “I think it’s from Greg.”

  Her mouth forms a perfect O, and she slowly lifts the box to her ear and gives it a gentle shake. “What is it?”

  I’ve got a guess, but I can’t bring myself to actually say.

  My expression must be telling enough, because now she’s tearing at the Prime packing tape and ripping through the cardboard until the box lies open on the bed between us.

  “No way,” she gasps in stunned awe.

  But yes. Greg Baxter sent me a vibrator.

  Blinking up at me, she whispers, “I kind of love him.”

  That makes two of us. But just as a friend, and with all the necessary disclaimers.

  Greg

  Julia: Got your present.

  I’m feeling pretty smug about it until I see the accompanying picture of some tiny kid with loopy blond curls and a superhero costume staring down at a torn-open shipping box, a confused look on his innocent face.

  “Oh shit,” I croak out, my gut churning. Rux shoots me a curious look from where he’s sprawled on his seat, but I wave him off.

  We’re on the tarmac with a few minutes left before takeoff for San Jose, so I call her.

  She answers on the first ring and I dive straight into my grovel.

  “I am so sorry. Jules, you gotta believe me, I never would have sent it if I’d thought Matty would see it.” What kind of kid opens his aunt’s mail? Maybe they all do. Shit, I need to learn more about kids. Talk about how not to get the girl. “I’m sorry. If he needs therapy or a specialist or something, I’ll pay for it. For Cammy, too.”

  I’m ready to pop for a private school education when I hear her muffled cry through the line. It feels like something inside of me just died.

  “God, please, Julia. Don’t cry.”

  But then I hear it again, more clearly, and that’s no cry at all.

  “Are you laughing?” I demand, because it sure as hell sounds like she is.

  “Greg, you totally deserve that!”

  “He didn’t open the box?” Please say he didn’t. I try to be a decent guy, especially when it comes to kids.

  “We let him open it, but only after we’d replaced the contents with a bag of frozen peas.”

  I breathe easier and relax into my chair as the sound of Julia’s laughter warms me. She’s going to pay for that stunt, but for now I’m just enjoying this moment.

  “I figured that box had to be staged. It looked like a couple of wolves tore into it going after a slab of meat inside.”

  “Believe it or not, that’s just Cammy. She was excited.”

  “Cammy opened it?”

  “Matty I can control. His mother, not so much.” There’s some noise from the background, and then Julia is back, a smile in her voice. “By the way, I think you made her whole year.”

  “How about yours?”

  Our attendant Vicky is walking through the aisle, motioning that we’re about to take off. I signal for one more minute as Julia’s voice comes through the line. “Too early to say, but I’ll let you know.”

  I grab a magazine and lay it over my lap to cover the semi I’m sporting.

  Score one for Julia.

  * * *

  We kick ass in the Shark Tank and a few hours later hop back on the plane to Arizona for a game against the Coyotes. I text Julia the next morning after watching video from the last game with the coaches, asking if she’s got anything to report. I’ve been thinking about her pretty much nonstop the last few days. A lot of it’s dirty… her head thrown back and her hands between her legs as she plays with the toy I sent. I want to know how far-off my fantasies are… if she was thinking of me, but all I get back are some bullshit football stats she probably collected for the game she’s covering tomorrow night. Rux catches me grinning at my phone and wants to know what’s up, but for as much as I share with him, I’m keeping this close to my chest. At least for now.

  We’re back in Chicago the next day, but Julia’s in Oakland, so I’m SOL for any accidental run-ins with her. Maybe that’s not the worst thing. I’m not exactly a patient guy, and Julia’s not ready to accept what’s going on with us. Yet. She needs some time to figure out that this thing is bigger than she’s willing to admit. That being with me wouldn’t be the hit to her career she’s afraid it would. And if I had to guess, she’s probably going to need some time to accept how serious I am—because what the media shows of me doesn’t exactly scream quality boyfriend material. That shit is skewed, but I haven’t done as much as I should have to set the record straight.

  I will though, because for the first time in a long time, I’ve got a goal that really matters.

  Julia

  “Cripes, Julia, how many times are you going to check your phone?”

  I flip it facedown on the arm of the couch and give Cammy an apologetic smile. Matty’s been in bed for an hour, and we’re curled up on opposite couches for a movie night. My heart isn’t really in it, but we planned this a week ago, and Cammy even got a bottle of wine out.

  “I’m done,” I promise.

  She shakes her head and pauses whatever movie we’ve been watching.

  Doesn’t that say it all? I don’t even know what’s playing, except that I’m pretty sure it’s a romantic comedy.

  “Just friends Greg Baxter distracting you over there?”

  “Don’t get all worked up. His posts are just so funny.”

  “Mmhmm. I can tell. You’ve been snickering for the past twenty minutes.”

  I shake my head. “No, it was mostly the movie, I swear.”

  “Liar,” Cammy gasps, her tone so shame-on-you I know I’m missing something.

  Another glance at the TV and I gasp.

  “Cujo?”

  What. The. Hell?

  “Now she notices.” Cammy leans into the corner of her couch, cuddling her wine against her chest. “You’re into him, sis. Admit it.”

  I can’t. Because then I’d have to stop with the texts and calls, and I don’t want to. I want the laughter and teasing and friendly flirtation I can still file under harmless. But if I’m into Greg, then all that changes. Suddenly, he’s not just the friend keeping a smile on my face. He turns into a guy with the potential to wipe it away for good.

  Ray pulled me into his office again this week. He had a file on Greg, filled with pictures and printed articles. In each shot, he was standing with a different celebrity date, most of them known for drama, though none of it had been tied to him.

  I’ve seen the pictures. Read the articles. Teased him about what a dirty player he is.

  None of it bothered me until I was standing there with Ray too close as he flipped through the pages that were apparently circulating upstairs.

  “I told them there’s nothing to it,” he’d said, rubbing my shoulders like he wanted to soothe me or something equally absurd. “That you were one hundred percent ded
icated to your career, and even if you did decide to make room for a romantic entanglement, you would be too smart to invite this kind of tabloid fodder into your life. They’re going to trust you, because I trust you, Julie. So for now, consider that fire put out.”

  I thanked him, stepping away before he could see how repulsed I was by having his hands on me, or how much I disliked him casting Greg in such a disparaging light.

  But he’d made his point, and as much as I didn’t like it, I couldn’t ignore it.

  I look back to Cammy, who’s watching me expectantly. “We’re goofing around. That’s all. It’s just how Greg is.”

  “So, same as always?”

  I open my mouth and close it again.

  “Fine, it’s different. But the flirty stuff is only part of it. Half the time, we’re just texting back and forth about our days.”

  Eyes wide, she nods. “Like a couple.”

  “No.” I’m standing my ground on this one.

  It’s been two weeks since Martin’s party, and Greg hasn’t asked me out again or hinted at wanting more than what we already have. What he has done is managed to integrate the subject of our sketchy hookups into our everyday conversations to the point where there’s no weirdness around them at all. And while we used to go months between texts and sometimes years between calls, these days our limit is more like a few hours. It’s like our little indiscretions have actually made us better friends.

  The sound of my sister clearing her throat brings me back to Cujo and the smug smile perched on Cammy’s lips.

  “You should see the look on your face, Julia. You’ve got it bad.”

  I shake my head. “No, I’ve got it good. Greg’s just the kind of friend I need in my life right now.”

  “The dirty kind?”

  Yes. “No. The kind who makes me feel good.”

  “Girl, I don’t disagree. This business with where your career is going has been like a wet blanket over you for far too long. All I’m saying is, call this thing with Greg what it is.”

  Apparently, she’s waiting for me to say it, because after an exasperated huff, she adds, “Which is more than just friends! Julia, how can we even be having this conversation?”

  “Because I don’t want anything more with Greg, okay?” I take a breath and meet my sister’s eyes, wondering how, of all people, she doesn’t understand. “I just want things to stay the same, Cammy. I want him to be the friend I get to keep. The guy who doesn’t have the chance to let me down. I want to be smart and make the choices that mean a stable, secure life for us. For Matty.”

  Cammy sits back, her eyes softening. “You’re scared.”

  “I’m cautious.”

  “I guess between Mom and me demonstrating what a wrecking ball relationships can bring to your goals, it’d be hard to be anything else.”

  I hold up my hand, not wanting to put my issues on her, but she waves me off. “I get why you have a tough time letting guys in. I mean, aside from your dad and whoever mine is being two black holes in our lives, it’s not exactly like Mom picked any winners.”

  Shaking my head, I let myself think back to the veritable revolving door of losers Mom brought home with her. The ones we knew were bad and avoided from the start. The ones who looked like they were better but ended up causing the most problems. And rarely, the ones we’d wished would stay, but never did. “How could anyone have such bad luck with men?”

  I mean, I know so many good guys. Great guys. Couples with happy marriages. How could one woman so consistently pick duds?

  Cammy shrugs. “She has a type?”

  I look at my sister, sweet and beautiful and smart, and pregnant at seventeen with the baby of a boy who swore he’d love her forever, but the minute things got rough, bailed on her completely.

  “I know you’re thinking about Jeremy,” she says, suddenly looking older, her eyes a little harder. “Wondering if I’ve got a type too. Or maybe if you do.”

  “No.” It might be exactly what I’m worried about, but I’ll never admit it to her.

  She lets out short laugh and shakes her head. “Well, I think it doesn’t matter what our types were in the past—yours, insufferably boring. Mine, somewhat unreliable. What matters is that we learn from our experiences and be open to giving the right man a chance when we find him. And if you’re worried about history repeating itself with another guy who leaves, think about this… Greg’s stuck around for thirteen years. Seriously, what else has the guy got to do to prove himself?”

  I laugh, shocked to realize that he’s been a man I’ve trusted and relied on for nearly half of my life. In all that time he’s never let me down.

  But the leery voice in my head has to ask if maybe that’s just because I’ve never given him the chance.

  “There’s more to it than just trust, Cammy.”

  “I know. The job stuff. Your street cred and all that.”

  She’s ridiculous, but I love her.

  My watch vibrates, and I pinch my lips together, resisting the pull of the incoming text as Cammy watches me patiently. She reaches for her wine and takes a slow sip.

  My fingers itch. My heart is already beating faster. I don’t need to check it. I—

  “I’m just going to go check this. You watch Cujo. I’ll keep you company later.”

  The corners of her mouth curl up, and she nods. “You do that.”

  I walk into my room, my phone pressed against my stomach until I close the door behind me. Sitting back on my bed, I check the message and grin.

  Greg: Time to chat with your favorite guy?

  I call him within a blink, and before the first ring is through, he answers.

  “Jules, you should have seen it. Rux was signing autographs after our press thing, and this lady holding a squalling baby hands him a puck to sign. Rux is trying to be cool, but no one can hear anything over the wails. And then it’s silence. Everyone stops and looks over to where the baby opens its mouth and goes Exorcist all over Rux. Green pea puke is literally dripping from his chin.”

  “Oh God. Is the baby okay?”

  The answering laughter is rich and deep and rumbles through me in all the best ways.

  “Baby was fine. Started doing that cute gurgling thing and playing with its toes.”

  I shouldn’t like it that Greg thinks gurgly noises from babies are cute, but his hotness factor just went up by ten.

  “And Rux, how was he?”

  Another deep laugh. “Not so good. He’s a sympathetic puker.”

  He goes on painting the picture of Rux trying to hold it together in front of the fans and failing in epic fashion, and by the time he’s done, I’m laughing so hard tears are spilling down my cheeks.

  When I take a breath, Greg sighs. “Damn, you’ve got the best laugh.”

  “Yours isn’t so bad either. I like hearing it.”

  “Yeah, well I’ll be home in a couple of days and maybe we can do some laughing in person.”

  I can see us hanging out. Grabbing a bite or a beer. Watching The Walking Dead on his couch. I can see talking to him like this, while I lie back on my bed… only with him beside me.

  It’s crazy. I shouldn’t be thinking that way at all. But maybe Cammy’s right.

  My phone starts to vibrate with an incoming message. Then another and another.

  “Hold on a second, Greg. My phone is blowing up.”

  “Everything okay?”

  I check the incoming texts and shoot upright, a cough punching free from my lungs.

  Oh God, this is bad.

  “Jules?”

  Staring at the image the network PR manager attached, I take a slow breath.

  “What’s going on?” he asks, his tone urgent.

  “Someone took a few pictures of me at the gym today. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, but they look—my boss isn’t going to like this.”

  9

  Greg

  TWO DAYS AGO, I was pretty fucking happy about the way things were shaping up with Julia.
We’d been talking, texting, getting closer with every conversation. I could hear her defenses coming down with each soft sigh and lingering goodbye. And up until this thing with the gym photos, I was thinking all I needed was to get back in town, and that chemical thing between us that reacts every time my mouth gets close to hers would do the rest.

  Now I’m not so sure.

  I hadn’t fully appreciated just how big an obstacle Julia’s job actually is. Doesn’t matter that there’s nothing specific in her contract about athletes outside the NFL. The problem is the uphill battle she’s fighting for credibility in a field predominantly ruled by dudes.

  I’m no stranger to protecting my public image. There are clauses in my contracts about conduct too. But for Julia, it’s more than avoiding scandal or bad behavior that could keep her off a Wheaties box. It’s everything from how loose her sweater fits to whether her smile lasted a second too long. Finding that fractional space between coming across as a cold bitch and coming across like she’s coming on to someone.

  There’s always a camera and always someone looking to judge her on all the shit that’s no one’s fucking business but hers.

  The photos are stupid.

  Julia was working out, wearing the same tight tank and fitted shorts everyone else wears—granted, that combo looks a hell of a lot better on her than on most people—but some dickcheese snapped a few shots of her when one of the NBA guys happened to be at the club too. The whole interaction took less than ten seconds and was limited to him saying hi and her complimenting his winning shot in the game from a few nights before, but the guy looks like he’s staring at her tits, and she looks like she’s giving him the pie eye. This shit happens all the time, but it doesn’t always result in a viral meme. Julia’s did.

  As a result, I’m not going to get to see her before she leaves for her next game.

  “I’m sorry, Greg. The meeting was a total waste of time. At least it wasn’t with wardrobe again—I don’t think I could have taken another debate over the thickness of my sweater for the next game.”