by Kata Čuić
Gorge rolls his eyes, then calls back, “Oh, look! The guy who knows how to throw a ball is here! Wanna play catch? I’ve got a jockstrap with your name on it.”
This is why I love Gorge. He won’t make any public waves—would never dream of fucking up anything for our teammates—but in private? Yeah. He doesn’t hesitate to treat Blake Mayview like the piece of garbage he is.
The quarterback of the Orlando Sharks leans against the doorway with a smug grin on his face. “I’m good, but even I’m not good enough to catch the tiny cup you use to cover your crown jewels, Betts.”
For a black man, it’s amazing how red Gorge’s face becomes. He shakes his head and mutters to himself, deciding our royal dickhead isn’t worth his time.
I’ve got nothing but time. And a seething hatred for this piece of shit who makes more money than I do. “Speaking of crown jewels, B-Lake…did yours shrivel up and fall off yet? I’ve got a bet going with the team about which STI you’ll be diagnosed with this season. Personally, I put up my whole workout bonus on syphilis. It’s making a comeback in the States.”
The QB makes a tsking noise that sounds like a cross between a clucking chicken and a dying rabbit. “I followed your career and extracurriculars in college, Fossoway. I really thought you showed promise. We could have been football besties, but no. You decided to turn into a pussy when you got here.”
He doesn’t know shit about my extracurriculars in college, just like everyone else. And I have zero regrets about cleaning up my act. Well, maybe a few regrets.
“For a guy who loves pussy so much, using the term like an insult makes absolutely no sense.”
A different sort of pain kicks around in my chest. The kind that’s from injuries of my own making. Throwing my old QB’s words at the current one feels like coming full circle, except that circle is more like a lopsided oval at this point. Still. I’d pay my entire salary to see Rob Falls go toe to toe with Blake Mayview. If Rob knew what this guy was like, he’d knock him out cold and not give a damn about the bad press. Or his job.
He did that once already his rookie season with a reporter who’s cut from the same cloth as Mayview.
“Speaking of pussy…” Blake mocks my words. “Did you two check out the new team psych yet? She is fuck-hot. Black hair, black eyes, tan legs for miles, and the best natural tits I’ve ever seen on a woman. Y’all better start placing bets about how long it’s gonna take me to get her into bed. Personally, I’ll put up my whole workout bonus on two weeks. By the time we get back from training camp, I’ll have Dr. Deep on retainer to get on her knees and suck my cock anytime I want.”
I press stop on the treadmill before my legs catch up to my brain that’s sprinting faster than my heartbeat. I nearly faceplant into the display. “What did you just fucking say?”
Mayview grins. It’s evil, like he knows something he shouldn’t. He repeats his words slowly. “She’ll be sucking my cock in two weeks. Bet me.”
The world tilts beneath my feet when I step off the treadmill. It has nothing to do with my balance not catching up to the change of pace and motion. “No, not that part. What did you say her name was?”
He shrugs. “Dr. Deep.”
“Amira Deep?”
Please no, please no, please God no.
“Yeah. Why?” His grin increases a few million watts. He smells a competition, and every pro football player is addicted to the stuff. “You know her or something?”
“Sounds vaguely familiar,” I lie through my teeth. I’m not about to give this motherfucker ammunition he doesn’t need. I’m not about to back down from his challenge either. “Just curious about the name of the woman who’s going to be sucking my cock in two weeks.”
Right after I’m through wringing her neck.
No good deed goes unpunished, and the cat meowing plaintively from his carrier in the corner of my new office is proof.
“I’m sorry, my friend. It’s only for a few more hours.”
Pavlov does not care. Pavlov also does not understand English. He continues to cry at the injustice of being confined to a small box.
I continue to wonder how I am going to sneak him into the extended-stay hotel that is our temporary home if he cannot remain quiet for more than a few minutes at a time.
Perhaps it would have been more humane to re-home him with a loving family in California, but I did not have that kind of time. I could not bear to surrender him to a shelter, knowing he may be euthanized if he wasn’t adopted. How could I repay him for his loyalty with a death sentence? He has been my only companion for years while I slaved away to earn my degree in record time. With the exception of a few un-noteworthy liaisons.
It’s amazing to me how much I have changed in a relatively short amount of time. I went from a twenty-year-old virgin in college to a woman who enjoyed her first relationship without the control of her parents. By twenty-three, I had time for nothing more than the occasional one-night stand during my graduate work. I never believed any of those things were possible for someone like me and yet, here I am.
I sink down into my new desk chair to contemplate what the next five years hold in store for me. One thing is for certain—the next few hours hold misery for Pavlov and much work for me as I ready my office for the players who will report to training camp in two short days.
The knock on my door startles me. I glance around at all the unpacked boxes and files that I have not yet had time to read. I have already been caught off guard once this morning, but perhaps this time, it is simply Janice with the rest of the paperwork for me to sign.
“Come in.”
The door swings open. A truly striking specimen of all man braces his arms against the doorway, his defined biceps bulging with the position. He’s tall enough to fill the doorway completely. The frame enhances his trim waist, flat stomach, and muscular thighs. His sharp blue eyes are as piercing as ever. The dark stubble dusting his masculine jawline is new, but it looks good on him. He was already on his way to becoming a man when I last saw him in person. He has well and truly surpassed that goal. He’s far more breathtaking in person in a sweaty t-shirt and athletic shorts than in all the ads I constantly see of him wearing next to nothing.
I accept that he is objectively one of the most physically attractive men I have ever seen.
I reject the way my heart hammers in my chest at the sight of him.
“No. Jesus Fuckboy Christ, no.” He groans. “And you’re back to wearing the glasses, too? Why, God? Why?” He glances up at the ceiling and speaks to someone who isn’t me, “I know I’ve fucked up. I’ve done some shit I’m not proud of, but seriously? Don’t I have a little more time to earn some good karma? This is basically hell!”
In spite of his expected negative reaction, his blasphemous words make me smile. “Brawn.”
“Don’t you Brawn me,” he hisses, stepping into my office then closing the door behind him. “What are you doing here?”
I throw my arms wide to gesture to my tiny kingdom, which I am certain will not infringe much on his larger one. “I work here.”
“Why do you work here, Brain?”
I nod. It is a proven technique for building rapport and understanding. “I have recently gained my licensure, and your team just so happened to have an open position for which I applied.”
Alex pinches the bridge of his nose. “We have exchanged weekly phone calls for years. We text each other funny memes several times a day. Ever since you graduated and left for Cali. It’s not like we haven’t been in contact. You didn’t—I dunno—feel the need to bring this up at any point over the last few months? Or…maybe at least give me the courtesy of a heads-up?”
A hint of guilt henpecks my conscience, but I straighten my shoulders. If anyone has taught me how to make my own independent decisions, it is Alex. “What would you have said if I had brought it up?”
“I would have told you to stay the fuck away,” he shouts.
“And I would have missed out on the oppo
rtunity of a lifetime that I have spent years training for,” I return calmly. “I will not apologize for doing what is in my best interest.”
He holds his hands in the air and shakes them like he’s strangling me from across the room.
Even after all this time, the mere threat of his hands around my throat makes me clench my thighs together to squash the immediate throbbing at my center.
I allow myself the courtesy of exactly ten seconds to pull myself together. The past is the past, and we have both moved on from that. I lift my chin higher. “I understand you may feel this is a violation of your rules—”
He cuts me off with a deep, dark chuckle. “You have no idea what the rules of this game are yet, sweetheart.”
I shudder at his words. It is entirely possible that ten seconds will not be nearly enough to pull myself together where Alex is concerned.
An eternity of change ago, he taught me all the rules—both the ones he lives by and the ones I needed to learn to live my best life. The former was the basis for my undergrad thesis, which landed me a spot in a coveted graduate program for sports psychology. My hypothesis was that elite athletes order their entire lives around the rules of the game, contrary to the popular media belief that they live by no rules at all. The latter helped me to throw off my sheltered upbringing and find my footing as a modern woman in a man’s world. He taught me how to not only find my power but how to wield it as a weapon for getting what I want.
I will not dishonor his teachings by kowtowing to him now, but I will give my friend the courtesy of airing his grievances. I owe him that much. I gesture to the leather sofa in my richly appointed office. “Please. Explain to me the new rules.”
He does not sit, and I am not surprised.
Alex has always been larger than life, and his presence makes his personality known. He clasps his hands on top of his head and paces my office, taking up as much space as possible. “Rule number one—stay away from Mayview.”
I am not unfamiliar with that warning. “The quarterback? He was in here a few moments ago.”
After meeting Blake Mayview in person, it’s easy to see that his all-American good looks and Southern charm may get him into trouble from time to time. With a smile that glows brighter than the sun and words that drip honey, I’m certain many women have fallen for his charisma. The indemnification clauses about the Sharks not being held responsible for my potential emotional distress make a little more sense. However, I am a professional, and no player—despite their undoubted attractiveness—will sway me to cross that line.
Alex’s eyes widen. He stops pacing and faces me with an obvious expression of panic. “What did he say to you?”
“He was the epitome of a leader. As the starting quarterback, he felt it was his duty to be the first player to welcome me to the team.” I watch Alex carefully. “He invited me to dinner this evening.”
Alex points at me. “And the answer is no.”
Pavlov must take Alex’s posture and inflammatory tone as threatening. Even from inside his carrier, he arches his back and fluffs up his already considerably fluffy fur.
Alex squints. “Did you just hiss at me?”
“Yes.” It’s not that I believe Alex will rat me out for having my pet here. I simply do not want to appear as incompetent and flustered as I currently feel. If I want to be seen as a professional member of this team, then I must act like one. Fake it ‘til I make it, as it were. “I cannot decline his invitation. That would be rude.”
“You can, and you will,” Alex insists. “You’re on my turf now, Brain. You either play by my rules, or you hit the road.”
I relax into the lumbar support of this chair that feels very much like a throne just now. My body is open; my arms propped on the armrests with my legs extended in front of me. I can take up as much space as Alex without being overbearing. “This is my job now, Brawn. You either agree to negotiate a new set of rules with me, or this is going to be a very uncomfortable season for you.”
Another pitiful mewl slices through the tension that crackles in the air like so much static electricity.
Alex narrows his eyes then whirls around. “This must be Pavlov. Figures you’d adopt a Persian cat.” He sucks in a sharp breath as he crouches low in front of the pet carrier. “I’ll bet you’re as evil as your mother, too.”
“Need I remind you that adopting a cat was your suggestion?”
Alex snorts. “Did it work?”
“Sure,” I lie. “Let’s go with that.”
Alex is not wrong. We have kept close contact over the years since I graduated from our shared university. As the miles stretched between us along with time, our phone calls grew increasingly intimate. Without the anxiety of face-to-face communication, we divulged all sorts of things to each other. I confessed to him that I was lonely since most of my time was spent pursuing this career. He admitted he was falling in love with his best friend’s girlfriend. I encouraged him to explore his feelings in a safe and healthy way, happy for him that he’d finally opened more than his body to someone. He told me to adopt a cat since they are easier to care for than a dog in the interest of squashing my loneliness. He also offered up Pavlov as a name, which was admittedly hilarious. Pavlov the cat instead of Pavlov’s dog. A fitting pet for a psychologist.
Even in the middle of the stress of taking my qualifying exams for my PsyD, Alex knew exactly how to make me laugh. If only my advice to him had been as worthwhile.
The only woman Alex has ever loved chose another man. He was crushed by the ordeal.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. I have been hoping for the opportunity to tell him so in person, but I never imagined it would be under these circumstances.
He rises and faces me again. “You should be.”
His words surprise me. Another of Alex’s rules is to never apologize, to never show weakness. He has never once let on that he blames me for his lost love. Until now.
“Perhaps if you had told me that they were already married, I would have had a clearer picture of the situation. I would not have encouraged you to go for it.” It is not an excuse. Simply a reason. And a means of admitting no weakness in the strength of my advice.
He scratches the back of his neck as his shoulders hike up. As quickly as his obvious discomfort presents itself, it disappears with a glare aimed in my direction. “Oh, you thought I was talking about Rob and Evie? No. I’m talking about you showing up here unannounced.”
“You blame me.” It is not a question.
He finally sinks onto my brown leather sofa. “For that disaster? No. You didn’t have all the background info, but I did. I knew better, and I was stupid anyway. I used you,” he admits with a hard swallow.
“Excuse me?” My heart gallops in my chest. The memory of his intimate lessons in college is never far from my mind. I learned very quickly that there were certain lines he would never cross with me, but I have never been fully able to separate the acts we shared from the emotions they evoked in me. I have simply learned to cope with the truth of our relationship.
He hangs his head between lowered shoulders. “I knew it was wrong, but I wanted her anyway. They love each other even if they have really fucked up ways of showing it. I withheld important information about them from you because I wanted someone to back me up. I wanted the goddamn approval that no one else would have given me. It was selfish, and it was wrong, and I’m sorry.”
I don’t quite know what to say. Never in a million years did I imagine I would hear an apology fall from Alex’s lips. It is against his rules. After such a breakthrough, my reflexes kick in. All the training I’ve spent years honing demands that I explore this growth I see in the man sitting on my therapist couch.
“Why were you so certain I would not have given you my approval had you told me the full truth of the situation?”
He snaps his penetrating blue gaze to me. There is an immense amount of weight behind those eyes that hold words he is not yet ready to say. Perhaps he has admitted a
ll to himself that he can for now.
He glances away to stare at Pavlov, whose face is pressed into the door of the carrier. “I sure as shit blame you for taking this job without telling me first. You’re not stupid like me, so explain why Pavlov is here? Some of the guys on the team are allergic to cats.”
There go my hopes for getting approval to use Pavlov as a therapy animal in my office. I give Alex the reprieve he so clearly needs by agreeing to his change of subject. “I was only given a weeks’ notice after being officially hired. I did not anticipate needing to complete a cross-country move in so little time. The only accommodation I have for now is a room at the closest extended-stay hotel, and it does not permit pets.”
He slowly turns his head toward me as a grin creeps across his face. “If you need my help again, Brain, you’re gonna have to actually ask me for it this time.”
I resent his implication. “I asked you for it the first time!”
“You didn’t.” He shakes his head, but that high-wattage grin never dims. “If I hadn’t been in the right place at the wrong time, you never would have.”
I will never admit he is right. “Then, you are still in the right place at the wrong time. I am a grown woman. I will handle it myself.”
“Tell you what?” He rises to his feet again, that smile permanently etched into his face. “You wanted to renegotiate, so let’s do that. An even exchange of power, right? Just like I taught you. Decline Mayview’s invitation because you actually have something more important you need to do tonight.”
He is not wrong yet again. I actually do have plenty of important things to do in the next forty-eight hours. “What, pray tell, do I need to do tonight?”
Impossibly, his smile grows wider. “Move in with me.”
This has disaster written all over it, but I can’t back out now. The problem is that I know these people too well. Mayview won’t stop until he gets what he wants. That’s what makes him a damn good quarterback even though I hate to admit anything about the guy isn’t absolute trash. And Amira Deep? I helped create this monster. I know damn well even if I told her the whole truth this time, it wouldn’t deter her from her goal in the slightest.