by Kara Hart
“Why are you such prude?” she asks.
“I am not a prude,” I tell her. “I just don’t want to hear about how sexy my insane client is right now. He’s not sexy. He’s an asshole.”
“Assholes are totally sexy and I want to sit all over his face,” she says. “Seriously, I know he can ride a gal to the moon and back.”
To the moon and back? Who is this woman? The images that flash in my head are something else. She’s right sometimes, but this is my ex we’re talking about. This is my high school sweetheart, turned worst piece-of-shit.
“You do realize I was supposed to marry this guy, right?” I ask her, creasing my eyes.
“Yeah,” she laughs. “And live happily ever after, right? Come on, babe. You were like 17 when all of that happened. It was more than a decade ago. Now look at you. You’re doing great.”
“Right. Great.” I shake my head. “I have to make this idiot look like a changed man by the Super Bowl. This should be interesting.”
“Sounds fun,” she shrugs. “Anyway, I have more important things to do right now than talk about this all day.”
“Like what? I thought you weren’t working today,” I say.
“Yeah, exactly,” she smiles, pushing her butt out. “I’ve got a date with a very nice man. He’s a producer. He just did all of those Manic Prowler movies. You know, the really gory slasher type films.”
“Um, be careful,” I laugh. “I don’t want to wake up to you on the news.”
“If I don’t text you tomorrow, just assume I’m dead,” she says.
Jennifer gets off of the couch and gives me a hug. When she’s gone, I’m all alone in my house, in this foresty place I now find myself living in. I immediately call Joseph.
“Fix this,” he says without giving me any time to say anything in my defense. “Fix it now.”
“Joseph, I told you. I told you I didn’t want any part in this shit,” I tell him. “Jackson is going to ruin his career. It’s a fact. I’ve seen players do this before and it never works out well.”
“Jackson just needs a little guidance. The coach is on him for that,” he reassures me. “What he really needs is a good public relations person to make him look good.”
“I’ll do my best. I’ll call the Sports Network and have him go on. He’ll do an interview and he’ll get a chance to explain himself. I’ll coach him on what to say. That’s about all I can do right now. Is he suspended? I assume he is.” I sigh loudly and close my eyes. This is too much work, dammit.
“Good,” he says. “And yeah, he’s suspended for a game, but that’s it. He still has time to redeem himself in the public eye. I want you to dig deeper after this, Fiona. I want you to find some information about his past. He grew up poor in Arizona, right? You both went to the same school. Have him open up to you about it and we can run a big spread in Time. Anyway, I have to go. Talk to you soon.”
He hangs up the phone and I have no chance to argue. Dig deep. I don’t need to. We were in love. I know a lot already. I know his mom used to live in the trailer park a few miles away from the school. I know he used to have to beg for rides to classes. I know that he was lucky as hell to have football and that his dad beat him almost every damn day.
It’s stuff we shouldn’t bring to light. It’s stuff we, in the media, shouldn’t obsess over, just because it brings us good ratings. But this is my job and this is what the world wants out of stars. They want to own as many pieces of them as they can, to chew them up and spit them out.
Shit, what do I care? Jackson is an asshole, even more so than the consumers waiting to take a bite out of him. I shouldn’t care. I don’t care. I have to keep telling myself that. I don’t care.
I get on my laptop, contact all the relevant people at the Sports Network, and check my phone when I’m finished. Shit. At least four hours have passed. What the hell have I been doing all this time? That’s when I hear the knock coming from my door.
Idiotically, I don’t check who it is, and I just open the door. My stomach turns when I see Jackson standing right in front of me, complete with that cocky smile of his. “Miss me?” he asks. I slam the door in his face.
He knocks again and I’m forced to open the door if I don’t want my door falling off its hinges. “What do you want, Jackson?” I ask him. He’s still smiling.
“Well, aren’t you going to invite me in to your new place?” he asks, walking in on his own accord. “It’s lovely, really. You’re doing so well, despite the circumstances.”
I close the door and groan. “I wish I could say the same for you, Jackson,” I say. “Instead, you’re fucking everything up for me. One week in and I have to deal with your shit.”
“Did you watch the game? If you did, you’d know that was a cheap shot. I had to swing back. It was practically self-defense,” he says, opening my fridge. He closes it when he sees that there’s no beer in it.
“Practically. Right,” I scoff. “What do you want? Seriously, I have things to do.”
“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I thought we could hang out. It’ll be like old times.”
Is he really going to bring those days up? He should know how hurt I was then. “I’d rather not,” I say, feeling my heart rate quicken to an incredible pace. “In case you don’t remember, you broke my heart.”
“I know I did,” he says, turning serious for a second. “And I never got a chance to apologize, so I’m doing it right now. I’m sorry. There. I said it.”
“Great, can you leave now?” I ask. I’m serious too. I don’t know what he’s doing in my house.
He sits down on my couch and spreads his arms across the back end. “Alright, let me be serious for a second,” he says.
“I would love that actually,” I tell him.
“We need to fix what happened today,” he says. “I’m sorry for that too. I shouldn’t’ve done it. Now I have to sit out the whole fucking Arizona game. That’s our home state, Fi. My mom was going to go to that game.”
“Yeah, well.” I sigh. “You dug your own grave, Jackson. I’m not your nanny. I can’t just fix every wrong you do.”
“Fine. I’m not even asking you to do that,” he says, though that’s exactly what he’s asking me to do. “But, just this one time, please. Help me with this. I want to go to the Super Bowl. I want to make my ma proud of me.”
For the first time, Jackson is owning up to his bullshit. It’s like looking at someone for the first time. “You’re going on Sports Network. You’re going to do an interview and you’re going to explain yourself. I’ll tell you everything you need to say. If you listen to me, everything will be just fine. Luckily, sports fans have seen asshole players before. But the people who live for the game, don’t live for the theatrics. So cut that shit out.”
“Got it.” He sighs and stands up. “Look, I’m thirsty. I could use a beer or a few shots. You game?”
I’m hesitant. A drink might be nice right about now, but I don’t want to get involved with a guy like Jackson ever again. I want to keep my distance as much as possible, on the off chance he ever wants to mess up my life again. He sees my hesitation. “Come on. I know you want to. It’ll be fine. I won’t be a dick, or whatever you think I am normally.”
“You are a dick,” I say. “But a drink sounds fantastic right about now. I’m so stressed with work stuff. I probably do need a break.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.” He puts his hand up for a high five. When I don’t give him one, he smacks my butt firmly. “It’s a date.”
“It’s not a date,” I tell him, as firmly as his butt slap. My face is bright red with embarrassment. “And don’t ever touch my ass again. Seriously.” I can already tell this is doomed. My career is beyond fucked if he keeps screwing up. I like his new “goody-goody” attitude, but can it really last? I’m sure I’ll have that answer soon enough.
69
Jackson
Yeah, I must be insane. I must be out of my God damn mind. It’s either t
hat or I’m such a narcissist that I can’t control myself around any woman who gives me so much as a smile. I can’t help myself. I just love all the attention.
So yeah, I smacked her ass. Big deal. It’s not like she didn’t want it. When she scowls at me, I can practically taste the anticipation coming from her. It’s that palpable history we have. It’s the way she looks at me with understanding. She doesn’t have to figure me out. She already knows what I am, that I don’t give two fucks about anything. Sometimes, you just know what a woman is thinking, and I definitely know she’s picturing me doing awful things to her.
I open the door of my Maserati and watch her bend over to get in. Fuck, I want to do terrible, unspeakable things to her. I want to revert to a primal state, drop to my knees, and eat her from the door of this sports car. I smile to myself and chuckle a little, knowing she has no idea what kind of thoughts I have inside this filthy brain of mine. I keep them locked away in there, knowing it’s just fun and games.
I get in and turn the car on. I shift the gears, driving full throttle to the nicest bar I know, The Lantern. We zip through the sunny streets, speeding by at least twenty Subarus on the way.
“Be careful!” she screams. I cut another corner and feel the car lift by an inch and she screams even louder. “Dammit, Jackson! Stop, you bastard!”
“Just hold on, baby!” I yell. “We’ll get there in less than 30 seconds!”
We get there in one piece, but she’s freaking out. When I stop the car, her hair is all over the place and her breathing is rapid. “What? What’s the matter?” I smile.
“Fuck you, Jackson,” she huffs. “I hate your guts.”
“Aw, come on,” I laugh. “No need to get mad at me. We’ve got business to discuss. That’s your favorite thing to do, right?”
She just growls at me and gets out of the car in a hurry. The Lantern is high class and I brought her here for a reason. She may be well off in a high-paying job, but she’s not quite as privileged as me. She doesn’t go to these types of spots. If there’s one thing I love, it’s showing off my money to women.
The host standing in the front of the restaurant and bar looks her up and down. “No,” he says. She’s wearing a simple outfit, jeans and a tight, white t-shirt. It’s not exactly up to the dress code standards. I watch as she fights the guy, which I love.
“What the fuck?” she says, confused. “No? This is a bar, right? Let me in.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but no,” the guy says. I laugh a little, standing back against the wall.
“Listen, you prick. Let me in,” she says with a fierce attitude that fills me with some odd sort of excitement. I crease my eyes, watching her. She’s a woman who will fight to get what she wants. It’s admirable and pretty fucking sexy. Man, I need to stop saying those things about Fiona. She’s a childhood friend. That’s it. I have to remember that.
“Ma’am, I’m calling security,” he says. He motions over to two big guard-looking guys. They’re not that big, to be honest. I mean, I’ve dealt with scarier dudes on the field.
They walk up to Fiona and one of them grabs her arm. “Hey,” I call out, ready to end this charade. “Get your hands off her, pussy.” I say the words with a giant smile plastered on my face.
“Sir, back up or we’ll have to use force on you,” he says to me. I toss my ID at the host and watch as his jaw drops.
“Oh no, no, no, no,” he mumbles to himself, starting to stutter. “Get your hands off her! Now!” the guy screams.
“What?” the bouncer says.
The guy hisses at the bouncers. “This is Jackson Leeman, from the Black Wings, and his girlfriend!” The guy backs off completely, throwing his hands in the air.
“I had no idea, sir,” he says. “I apologize.” I half expect him to fall to his knees and start kissing my ring.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “But if it happens again, I’ll make sure you never get work in this town again.” No idea how I’ll do that, but it seems like a scary enough thing to say.
“I am not his girlfriend,” Fiona says.
“Honey, it’s alright,” I smile. “Our anonymity is safe here.” I turn to the host with a whisper. “It’s our anniversary.”
“Oh, well, a table just opened up!” he exclaims, leading us to a table. “Right this way. And happy anniversary, you two!”
“Again, I’m incredibly sorry,” the security guard says with a look of shame across his face. The whole thing is hilarious.
Fiona whispers at me as the host leads us to our table. “Can you please just chill out for once in your life? It’s getting really old.”
“Come on,” I whisper back. “I’m just having some fun.”
We order two Mojitos followed by some shit I can’t really pronounce and we’re gifted three free drinks on the house. It’s funny, when you’re this rich, you expect to pay extra for nice things. Instead, they just give you everything for free. Take that sports car, for example. I got that in a sponsorship. All I had to do was stand next to one, take a couple of photos and hold a football in my hand. A few hours for a free car. The whole industry is just insane.
In the darkened light of the restaurant, Fiona gives me a stubborn look. Still, I’m staring at her tits, practically spread on the table for me. “So,” I say. “What am I going to say in this interview? What points do you want me to drive home?”
“You need to play up your good sides,” she says. “The nice guy in you.”
“Oh, God.” I sigh. “Nice guy? Me? I think you’ve got the wrong person.”
“I know I do. But you’re a football player. You know how to act a little, right? You need to tell the world that things have been hard for you lately. Adjusting into the pro lifestyle has been difficult. You’ve gotten caught up in things, but you’re ready to take your life in another direction.”
“Sounds… boring,” I say, yawning.
“That’s because it is,” she says. “But you have to do it and you have to prove to the world that you’re ready to change.”
“How can I do that?” I ask, still staring at her cleavage. Her nipples, I swear, are poking through the fabric. She’s not even wearing a bra. “Why didn’t you wear that dress I told you to wear the other day? You’d look so good in a nice, short dress.”
She ignores that last bit. “First, you’re going to sell that sports car.”
I think I feel my heart stop for a second. I feel sick to my stomach. “What?” I ask her, not registering what she just said to me.
“You need to sell the Maserati, Jackson,” she repeats, annoyed by my response.
“You’re kidding me, right? You have to be joking?” I laugh. But she doesn’t laugh back, nor does she smile. “No. I won’t do it. I can’t do it!”
“Seriously? You’re acting like a baby. You can buy a new one later. Did you even pay for it?” she asks.
“That’s not the point. It’s my personal item. I deserve it. I earned it, dammit,” I protest.
“You have two more cars you can use. I think you’ll be fine,” she exhales sharply. “Look, do you want my help or not? I thought you wanted to make your mom proud of you.”
I run my hands through my hair and sigh. “Fine,” I say, looking up at the ceiling. “I’ll do it. If that’s what it takes, I’ll fucking do it.”
“Look, I’ve seen suspensions get overturned for things like this,” she leans forward, pushing her tits against the table even more. I’m not drooling, I swear. Okay, I kind of am. “If the league thinks you’re turning over a new leaf, they could let you play the Arizona game. Isn’t that something you want?”
What I want is to dive into her chest. I cough and shake the thought away. “I doubt that’ll happen,” I laugh. “That’s a rare occurrence and the league executives hate my guts.”
“They don’t hate you, Jackson. You have the best stats in the league right now. You show the most promise out of any other player,” she says. “Just don’t fuck this up. They want t
o see you flourish.”
“No.” I laugh with a slight tinge of anger. “They want to see me play by the rules. They want to use me however they see fit. They don’t give a damn about me and I don’t give a damn about them. I’m not someone who plays by the rules. That’s why I’m here in the first place.”
“You’re here because you play ball well, plain and simple,” she says. “And you signed up for this. It’s not like you’re being made to play the game. You knew there were rules when you came into this.”
“Yeah, well—” She cuts me off and I fall back into my chair.
“Just do this for me. It’ll be an easy ten minutes of your time and it could save your ass. Plus, you’ll make me a very happy woman,” she says.
I smile. “I know what else would make you happy, baby.”
She gets up from her chair and slams a ten-dollar bill on the table. “Look, you asked for my help and now you’re just being a dick again. You just can’t help yourself, can you? Well, I’m leaving. I don’t care if you go on air or not. It’s up to you. If you do, let me know how it goes,” she says, walking away. She quickly turns around and grabs the ten-dollar bill from the table. “You can afford to pay this, right?”
And just like that, she walks out.
“Damn,” I say to myself. “She’s a catch.”
70
Fiona
I wake up the next morning to a slew of drunken texts from Jackson. They read as follows:
I don’t want to have to sell my soul for the game.
I’d do anything to win. Anything except spout a bunch of lies about how I’m reformed and good.
I’m no good. That’s just who I am. Why can’t football fans just except it?
Alright, fine. Ignore me. But that doesn’t change anything. My stance is firm.
I give up. I want to play. I’ll do it.
I have to laugh when I see the series. It’s like listening to a convict talk to his lawyer about going with the plea deal. Only, this is definitely the easiest move in the world for a sports player. All he has to do is say the right words, comb his hair right, and smile. How difficult is that really?