by K. Bromberg
As I heft my bag onto my shoulder about to head out to pick her up, I stop when I hear Justin on the phone as he walks into the locker room.
“Did I wait the appropriate amount of socially accepted time before I called you back after you gave me your digits?” Justin asks and then barks out a laugh that is pure ego and cheese.
The man is on the prowl.
Then again, that should come as no surprise considering he always is.
“So you do want me. I knew you couldn’t resist me.” He emits a louder than normal chuckle to make sure we’re all watching him. And by the glance I give some of the linemen on the other side of the locker room, they’re annoyed by him too.
The problem is, you can only stay annoyed with Justin for so long. There’s something about the guy that makes you like him, even when you want to hate him.
“C’mon, you know me better than that by now. I’m expecting grand gestures. Signs in the sky professing your love for me. Hoops for you to jump—or dance—through. Is that too much to ask?” he jokes and then pauses with a shit-eating grin on his face as he listens. “Okay. I guess that will have to do, but I’m telling you, I’m not a man who likes to settle.”
I half listen to the rest of the conversation, curious who it is because Justin’s really turning on the bullshit.
“Who was that?” I ask, with a lift of my chin when he ends the call.
“This chick who wants on my jock.” He winks.
“According to you that would be every chick.”
“Can’t fault me for being good and desired.” He shrugs with his hands up as I shake my head. “I’m a two-for-one special.”
How does a cocky asshole with an arm like he has and a fucked-up attitude get to be a starting quarterback?
I’m better.
I know I am.
“C’mon, Drewski,” Justin says as he takes a seat and starts to lace up his sneaker. “One day, you too, can be like me.”
A player? An asshole? Egotistical? Hated as much as he’s loved?
Oh, the many sides of Justin Hobbs.
He lifts his eyebrows as if I owe him an answer, but the one I want to give isn’t deserved. Mine stems from frustration. A frustration that I’ve been complacent for so long. Discontent.
He sighs when I don’t bite. “Brexton. It was Brexton Kincade.”
And with that name, he has my complete attention. The damn woman has owned my thoughts. Because of her insistent praise of my skills? Because she opened my eyes to my discontentment?
No. It’s more than that.
If I’m honest with myself, it’s because she’s gotten to me.
I miss the smell of a real grass field just after it’s been mowed, and knowing I was part of a team.
She’s right. Fuck is she right.
Of course, I get to smell the real grass, but only from the sidelines. Only with a clean uniform. I’ve forgotten what it feels like when an offensive line is charging at you, competing to take you down and dirty so their team has a better chance at winning.
But you’re a competitor and competitors like to compete.
Her opinions, her comments, they just keep circling in the background, just keep taunting me in the best of ways. In the worst of ways.
Brex and I have history, we connect even now, but I can do nothing about it, about her, other than defend her out of professional courtesy from a douchebag like Hobbs.
“She’s a sport’s agent trying to win you over. I doubt she wants your jock, Hobbs. I hate to break it to you, but I assure you all females aren’t dying to be with you. She’s simply trying to do her job.”
He emits a suggestive chuckle. “Yeah, her job is to do me.”
I grit my teeth. Fucking prick needs to be taught some manners about how women weren’t put on earth to bow down to him.
That and the fact that I might feel slightly jealous when it comes to how much attention he’s been paying her.
Ridiculous but still true nonetheless.
“Real classy.”
“Can you blame me? Who would pass up a chance at having that banging body and burying your face between those thighs?”
“Cut the shit, Justin,” I say and take a step forward. He always takes it too far. “We can all agree that she’s hot, but don’t be a dick. She’s doing her job and doesn’t deserve to be subjected to assholes like you.”
He nods, and I wait for him to come back at me but he doesn’t. Rather he hangs his head back and blows out a long breath. “Fucking Finn.”
“Sanderson?” I ask referring to his agent.
“Yep.” He meets my eyes and lowers his voice. “No offense to the NYC.”
The NYC? Only douchebags say shit like that.
“But Finn would love for me to stay here forever, man, but it’s not my vibe. I could use some Cali sun and those gorgeous women. Big tits. Tiny waists.”
“Good personality. Good morals. Intelligence,” I throw out there to highlight how shallow he is.
He shrugs unapologetically. “Hey man, it doesn’t matter if they understand quantum physics. All that matters is how they look on my arm and how their ass looks when I’m fucking them from behind.”
I run a hand through my hair as I come to the realization. He really just said that out in the open without checking to see if there were any reporters nearby to quote him.
Thank fuck, there aren’t.
“If you plan on moving there, the last thing you should do is call it Cali. Big faux pas.”
“Faux what?” he asks.
“Never mind. Just don’t call it Cali. That’ll get your ass kicked right out.”
“Noted.” He tosses his towel at the dirty towel bin across the room. “Any advice on Finn?”
“Advice on Finn? I thought you were just talking to Kincade?” I ask, fighting the moral dilemma. If he stays with his current agent, it sounds like Finn will keep him in New York. If he were to switch agencies over to say Kincade, then maybe he’d be traded to California and I’d get a chance at starting.
The problem? That pushes him into Brexton’s realm, and history or no history, I hate the idea of him being anywhere near her for an extended period of time.
“Nah, man. Why would I do that? Finn’s the one I want to fight for me. Brexton’s the one I want to fuck.”
“Cut the shit, Justin.”
“Christ, man. Relax. I’m just teasing. She’s hot. I’m hard to resist. We’d be good together.”
“Too bad she has a long-term boyfriend,” I lie through my fucking teeth. What the fuck, Bowman? Brex is a big girl. She works in this industry, so I know for a fact she can handle herself.
She’s not a princess. She doesn’t need saving.
And yet when Justin lifts a lone eyebrow at my comment, I don’t flinch.
“That’s right. I forgot you know her. Steve said you were talking to her after the game the other night.” I nod. “So she really has a man?”
“From what I gather.”
“And you think that scares me?” He throws his head back and laughs. “No one can resist me.”
“You need serious mental help.”
“No, man. What I need is advice. Care to give me some? You’ve had skin in this game a hell of a lot longer than I have.”
Spoken like a true dick. Thanks for pointing out you’ve been in the show two years while I’ve been sidelined for what feels like forever.
“Tell your agent what you want and if he can’t give it to you, then move on to one who will.”
He nods with a dramatic flair. “Yep, but that motherfucker keeps telling me to stay here. That this is the team I need to be on. It’s the right makeup, management, offensive coordinator.”
And Finn is right. This team, this offense, is best suited to an arm like Justin’s, just like it suits mine.
But I keep my mouth shut.
“Finn works for you. Not the other way around. You’re his paycheck, and he doesn’t get paid unless you do.”
He stares at me
with blank eyes as if I just spoke an epiphany. It’s common sense. How in the hell does he remember our playbook during games?
“Huh. That was solid, man.”
I nod and fight the shake of my head in disbelief. “You’re the one whose contract is up at the end of the season. Tell your agent what you want, and if he doesn’t comply, then get a new agent who will.”
BREXTON
“IT’S BEEN AWESOME SEEING YOU again too,” I say and hug an old friend before she flits over to another couple she swore she hadn’t seen in ages.
The wedding was lovely, and boring in that way most weddings are. Lots of words that no one really listens to until they lead to that one moment. The I dos. The you may kiss the bride. The first time the couple turns to face the audience as a Mr. and Mrs.
The cocktail reception, while my old college friend and her groom have their wedding photos taken is even better. The iconic Tavern on the Green lit up with fairy lights and lush greenery—a little piece of country in this concrete-laden city—isn’t a bad place to be with a glass of wine in hand and a heart full of the romanticism of the moment.
The night is warm and the music is soft, as I move across cobblestone pavers toward the doors we’ve been summoned to for dinner service to start.
But when I look up and see Drew standing across the patio, my feet falter and my heart skips a beat.
Drew Bowman is hot in a football uniform. He is sexy at home, barefoot in his sweatpants. But in a dark suit and tie? He’s absolutely devastating.
I look away for a split second as I try to process all the emotions swirling inside of me. Or maybe it’s just sheer lust from the sight of him.
The problem?
When I look back up, he’s staring straight at me and now I have nowhere to hide. Not that I want to.
He walks toward me, one hand holding a drink, the other buttoning up the buttons of his blazer/suit jacket. His expression reads confused but his smile lights up the night.
Too bad when he speaks, the irritation in his voice sounds nothing like his smile looks.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Look at you all fancy and dressed up.”
“What are you doing here?” he repeats, accusation in his tone.
“Jules is one of my good friends from college.”
He nods and takes a sip of his drink as his eyes take an unabashed stroll up and down the length of my body. I know desire in a man’s eyes when I see it, and it’s there all right.
“Small world,” he murmurs and starts to walk away, completely dumbfounding me.
“What? Wait!” I grab his arm and he turns around. “Why are you here?”
The muscle in his jaw tics. “Because Archer McMasters is my friend.”
“Small world,” I repeat as we start moving with the herd of guests inside the decked-out ballroom. Intricate arrangements of flowers line surface after surface in white and beige tones. Fabric drapes from the ceiling and crystal lines the tables. Somehow, it’s elegant yet shabby chic all at the same time.
“It sure is,” he says.
I was hoping to have heard from you.
“I hope whatever happened the other night . . . that you were able to resolve it.”
“Yes. It’s fine.” His eyes hold mine, and I swear it’s like he’s struggling with something. Then he offers me a tight smile. “Good seeing you, but if you’ll excuse me, I need to get to my table.”
I watch Drew walk away, more than befuddled over how this is the same man I had dinner with the other night.
Did I do something wrong? Say something?
How did I misconstrue the vibe I got from him at his house? The almost kiss I’m certain was going to happen? His comment suggesting we do it again sometime?
Am I that off my rocker and desperate for love? That pathetic?
I know I’m not.
I know for a fact, and yet . . . maybe Dekker was right. Maybe I see things through hopeless romantic eyes, even when there isn’t anything there to begin with.
With confusion owning my thoughts and dampening my mood, I head for my assigned table. The irony? When I approach it, I find Drew standing there, staring at the place cards—one his, one mine—seating us next to one another.
I should’ve guessed when I was assigned to table thirteen that it was a bad omen.
Now I know it is.
“Looks like we’re sitting next to each other,” I say and infuse cheer into my voice that I really don’t feel. While he’s not exactly being the most cordial, he at least has manners and pulls my chair out for me.
He sits down and grumbles under his breath as others are taking their seats, and the first round of food is being served.
Everyone at the table introduces themselves. There are two couples who know the bride and groom from work, two childhood friends and their spouses, an empty chair where my plus-one would have been, and then there’s Mildred.
Sweet Mildred with her auburn-colored hair and raucous laugh, and who has declared herself to be ninety-five years old and states, “I’m too old for this shit,” when a salad is slid in front of her.
She’s my kindred spirit, and I think she knows it too by the way she keeps eyeing and smiling at me through the centerpiece on the table.
“Mildred? How do you know Archer and Jules?” I ask.
“I’m Archie’s great-grandma.” She waves a hand. “We go way back.”
Everyone at the table stops chewing at her comment and then starts laughing when we all comprehend her joke.
“You don’t want to sit with family?” the lady to the right asks.
Mildred snorts. “Family is boring. I already know their secrets. I asked to be put at a table with some hot young men so I at least have something good to look at.”
There are several coughs mid-chew in response. Luckily, we’re all saved by the main course being served, because Mildred is a lot to take in and you’re not sure if you should encourage her or fall silent.
“You ready for Sunday?” I ask Drew quietly, cryptically asking about their upcoming game without outright asking so he won’t get the million questions that normally follow when one learns you’re an NFL player.
“Drew?” When he doesn’t answer, I touch my hand to his arm to ask again, and he politely but deliberately moves his arm out of the way.
“We can’t do this,” he murmurs. “This can’t happen.”
I turn and look at him while he waves to someone across the room, and I swear it’s just to avoid me. “What can’t happen? Me sitting with you?” I emit a disbelieving chuckle. “I’m not sure you get a say in that since it was Archer and Jules’s decision where we sit.”
“Not that. This.”
“This?” I ask.
“Do you two know each other, dear?” Mildred asks from her prying perch across the table, drawing eight sets of eyes our way.
“No,” Drew says.
“Yes,” I say at the same time.
I offer a tight smile in response, hoping the servers clearing dishes and asking if we’d like more to drink will be enough distraction so we don’t have to answer.
I turn to face Drew and lean in. “I don’t understand what your problem is. Is this about the other night?”
“Drop it, Brex.”
“Why?” I demand in a hushed voice. “We had a good night. Then we didn’t.”
“It’s complicated.”
“How so? I wasn’t asking for anything more than friendship,” I say and know deep down I’m lying. Making a house call to a client who isn’t yours is just a piss-poor excuse, even to my own ears, and yet, what else am I supposed to say?
“Are you two ex-lovers?” Mildred asks loudly.
“No,” we both say in unison.
“Just friends,” Drew corrects.
“It seems you two are in the middle of a juicy fight and frankly, my ninety-five-year-old self misses those kinds of fights where you claw at each other until it turns into you can’t take
your hands off each other.” She wiggles her shoulders. “Is that what we’re in for? Should I see if the staff here can procure a hate-fuck room for the two of you?”
“Oh my God,” the guest to Drew’s left laughs out as I stare at Mildred with a lax jaw and shock. She really did just say all of that.
And by the way I accidentally hit Drew’s knee with mine and he yanks his away, I know for a fact she did just say that.
“Do you like mustard, son?” she asks Drew. “I bet you do. Loving mustard is a sign of being stubborn. And stubborn lovers are the best kind.” She shivers as if she’s reliving a memory before a grin slides onto her lips. “Am I right?”
“No. We’re not. He’s not.” My words fail me.
“We’re just friends,” Drew says and I hate the way that word makes me feel. Almost like we’re back playing spin the bottle in Deadman’s Cove when we were teenagers. When he made sure that everyone knew we were just friends.
The rejection tastes just as bitter now as it did back then.
The difference? The difference is this time I have confidence and a backbone.
“You do have quite an active imagination, Mildred, but I hate to disappoint you. Drew is someone I knew way back when, when we were just kids.”
“Even better.” She rubs her hands together. “There’s still time for some fireworks to happen yet.”
We both chuckle politely as the awkwardness grows between us.
“It’s been nice catching up with him, but if you’ll all excuse me, I’m going to go mingle.”
I stand and down the rest of my wine, setting the glass down without caring what I look like to those at the table.
There seems to be some fun happening on the dance floor outside and it’s time to let loose and do the same.
Screw Drew Bowman.
He can be attractive and sexy all he wants. He can have a laugh that makes you smile and an intellect that makes you think.
But he doesn’t get to be a dick to me.
I didn’t need him before, and I sure as hell don’t need him now.
DREW
I WASN’T ASKING FOR ANYTHING more than friendship.
Her voice—those lips—saying that phrase repeats over and over in my head.