A: Is this an imposter?
C: Ha. Ha. (No smiley face because I’m not LOL). I’m just trying to simplify my life and cut out all unnecessary drama. Fighting with you never got me anywhere.
A: I suppose not.
C: I’ve got to hit the hay. Practice tomorrow. I’m guessing whatever happened today has you tied up in knots. If you decide you want to talk about what happened with the network, I’m here. Good night, Arianna.
A: Night, Chase.
A kinder, gentler Chase? What the hell is going on?
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chase
“Four in a row, baby! Four in a row!” Van Graff, my safety, slaps my ass on the way back into the locker room.
We were on fire tonight and took down the Ravens 49-17. Every pass was right at the numbers. I ran the ball in for three touchdowns, and each time it was like the seas parted. The defense couldn’t touch me. If I weren’t superstitious, I’d say my slump is over. But I am, so I won’t. Publicly, I’ll say the season is turning around and we’re taking it one game at a time.
The locker room is a mad house. Winning at home and maintaining our lead in our division has lit the place on fire. After we get out of here, we’re all going out to celebrate. This past month, I’ve made team bonding a priority. It sounds cheesy, but I can’t dispute the results.
A few weeks back, Coach gave me a lecture on nurturing relationships. He spent two hours talking about how he and his wife keep the chemistry alive. There were slides; it was painful. Somewhere between hearing about their bowling league and cooking classes, I got his message. If we want chemistry in the sack, we need to do shit together other than argue about the kids and talk about the electric bill.
So I’ve been organizing a few times a week for us all to hang out. By me, I mean the team PA. Times like this, I miss having Jenna. She can organize a party like no other. But if all I miss is her event-planning talent, I think I made the right choice by cutting her loose.
Ericson smacks me upside the head while I’m talking to one of the lovely female reporters. Some guys have a problem with ladies in the locker room, but I quite enjoy it.
“Dude, turn your ringer off. It’s blowing up, and I’m sick of hearing it,” Ericson says.
I wink at what’s-her-name. “Well, when you changed my ringtone to Barry Manilow, I figured I’d keep it. You’re the ones who have to suffer. Take that, sucka!”
After a few interviews, I make it back to my phone. Calls from the usual crew: family, old teammates, and a text from Ari.
“What’s got you smiling, Brennan?” what’s-her-name asks.
“Not a thing. Good luck with your story.”
As I walk out to my truck, I text Ari back. We’ve been swapping texts for three or four weeks. For the most part, we keep things football centered. I sneak in some healthy flirting when I can, but she shuts me down most of the time. I’m walking and texting, which isn’t advisable, and I accidently hit the call button. Fuck. Texting is one thing, but calling each other is something else entirely. I could hang up, but—
“Hello,” she answers.
Too late. “What’s up, Blondie?”
“You called me, jackass.” She sounds annoyed. This isn’t starting off well.
“I got your text. Thanks for the congrats. I did well today, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, you finally took my advice,” she says. “You did an excellent job of pulling your head out of your ass.”
I laugh. “If the whole TV thing doesn’t work out, you have a future in motivational speaking.”
“Seriously though, good game. It was worlds better than the Raiders game I worked, which was just painful. At least I didn’t have to travel for it.”
I get to my truck and get in. “I’m flattered you watched.”
She scoffs. “Don’t let it go to your head. We’re doing the Ravens game next week, so I needed to do my homework.”
God forbid she admit she watched to see me. “Of course. You still in town?”
“Yes,” she answers. “We don’t head out to Baltimore till Wednesday.”
I should let it go. I should just be happy that we’re speaking. But I’m a greedy fucker, and I’ve been settling for too long. “If you want to bone up on the Ravens, the team’s going out tonight. You can come and do your thing. Get in everyone’s head, bust everyone’s balls.”
Silence. Dead fucking silence.
I start my truck and pull out while my Bluetooth remains silent. “Listen, Ari, the boys are calling on the other line. I’ve got to jet.”
“Chase?”
For the love of God, please, I don’t want to talk about this. “Got to jet, remember?”
“I was just wondering how you’re going to handle it when your team likes me better? I know it killed you when the Stanford boys turned on you.”
“You were the coach’s daughter. They had no choice but to placate you,” I playfully retort.
“It’s just adorable how you’ve rationalized that. Where are you going?”
Is she flirting? Maybe she’s just being playful? Whatever her intention, she’s talking to me. I can’t help but smile. “I’ll text you.”
“I’ll think about it.”
That’s bullshit. She’s totally going to go.
Three hours later, she shows up at the bar and gets mobbed the second she walks in. She knows a bunch of the boys, and those that don’t know her want to. My jaw hurts because I’m clenching so hard, and I’m gripping my glass so tightly, I’m lucky it doesn’t shatter. It’s all coming back to me. This is why we failed. She floats in on a cloud, and the whole fucking room becomes mesmerized. Every fucking guy starts sizing her up, wondering how he can get in her pants, and I can’t do a motherfucking thing about it. My post-game high is officially gone.
“Dude, did you see who’s here?” Harken, one of the linebackers, says. “Fucking Arianna Aldrich! Man, she’s smoking hot. Is she still with that soccer guy?”
That’s a good question. I’ve never had the balls to ask her about Douchenozzle. Truth is, I don’t want to know the answer. But just because I don’t have the stones to know the truth doesn’t mean I’d let this jackass think he can have a stab at her.
Harken looks at her and smiles. My fists clench, and it takes all I have not to knock that smirk off his face.
He leans in. “You think I’ve got a chance with her?” he asks. “What I wouldn’t do—”
“You’re wasting your time, man,” I interrupt. “She doesn’t date football players.” Yeah, that’s it.
His face falls.
I point at a girl who’s standing alone across the bar. “Check out that chick.”
His smile comes back, and he bolts to chase tail.
She’s in the bar for almost an hour before she comes to my table. Typical Ari, always making me wait. I could never figure out if she pulls this shit to keep me on my toes, to torture me, or for the show. The fact that she’s doing it now, when we’re, “just friends,” makes me even more confused. I’ll give her credit though, she knows how to work a room. Every person she spoke to will leave here thinking she’s their new BFF. She’s just like her father that way.
She sits next to me and motions to the waitress to come over. “So when’s your safety going to report that hip injury? He’s trying damn hard to hide it, but I saw him miss three tackles today and watching him tonight… I’m guessing bursitis.”
“Judging from the way he’s staring at you with that dopey grin, he thinks you were checking him out. Little does he know you were sizing up his flaws. At least I’m not the only one you do that to. You’re a crafty one, Ari. You’ve got everyone fooled.”
She stares at me as if I just told her that her ass looks fat in that skirt. “I’m suddenly at a loss as to why I bothered to come.”
She keeps talking, but she lost me at “come.” Fuck, her legs look killer in that skirt, and all I can think about is what color panties she has on. I need to get my head on straight or this
“just friends” thing will crash and burn.
A few of the guys stop at the table to ogle her, which pisses me off. Reilly, an offensive tackle, made the mistake of bringing up instant replay, one of Ari’s hot button issues.
I shake my head. “Oh, man. You are so in for it.” I lift my glass to him. “It’s been nice knowing you.”
We haven’t discussed instant replay in two years, but from the way she chews him up and spits him out, she’s just as passionate about it as she ever was. She brings up the Packers/Seahawks game from 2012, and that draws in a bunch of other guys who drool over her as she discusses the “catastrophic failings” of instant replay. Someone kill me now.
While the boys go at it about a blown call in our game, Ari nudges me. “I hear there’s a Golden Tee machine in the back.”
What is it about chicks and video games that’s just so fucking hot? “I’m always game to take your money, Aldrich.”
She raises her eyebrows, then slowly pulls a hundred from her bra. “Let’s rock.”
God. Damn.
Once we extricate ourselves from the booth, she takes my hand and pulls me to another VIP section that I didn’t know about. There’s a large booth, a pool table, a dart board, and a Golden Tee machine.
Ari and I used to spend a lot of time in random dive bars playing Golden Tee. We’d meet up based on her schedule or mine, but we couldn’t go anywhere popular without risking blowing our cover, so we’d find a dark dive bar and keep to ourselves. When we pried ourselves out of our hotel room, that is. I slide my credit card, and it’s just like old times.
We end up closing the bar after hours of smack talk and sports talk. Nothing heavy, nothing personal. We have the occasional argument, but we wouldn’t be us if we didn’t.
We’re both laughing when I walk her to her car. Then there’s that awkward moment when the laughter stops, and neither one of us knows what to say. When we were together, we’d either be going at it or flipping each other off at this point. How do friends who used to fuck say good-bye?
She points at the red Spyder. “I’m over here.”
“You got rid of the Range Rover? That’s too bad. I loved that car,” I say, taking a risk bringing up old times.
She pulls out her keys and clicks her keyless entry. “When they pulled my endorsement, I was a little bitter.”
Now I feel like an asshole. Of course I had to bring up something related to her retirement. “You still have the Bentley?” I ask trying to change the subject.
“Nope,” she replies. “I totaled that before I left on my… hiatus.”
Charlie had mentioned something about an accident. “How’d you wreck the Bentley?”
“Road rage,” she says with a smirk. “Daddy picked this up for me when I decided to come back to town.” She taps the hood. “No trunk space, but the seats are comfortable. I hear it’s got great pick up, but with traffic around here, I’m lucky if I hit second gear.”
“Never have that problem with my truck.”
She opens the door, but pauses before she gets in. “You still have that rust bucket?”
“Don’t knock Black Beauty. If I recall, you had some pretty good times in Red.” It wasn’t bad enough that I stepped in shit bringing up the past the first time, I had to go and do it again.
“Have a good night, Chase.” She gets in her car and closes the door.
Is it pathetic that I stand there watching her drive away?
What does it mean when going to clubs has gotten tired? Am I old now? At the ripe age of twenty-four? We’re in some club in NYC, and all I want to do is go back to the hotel. I never thought I would get over hot chicks throwing themselves at me, but I am one hundred percent over it. It’s boring and kind of pathetic. But here I am. Three chicks are working overtime to get my attention, but my mind is elsewhere. Ari and I have been texting all day, and like a pitiful teenager, I keep checking my phone to see if she’s responded. Each time I check, I can actually feel myself losing testosterone. At this rate, my man card will be revoked by the end of the weekend.
Attempting to ditch the cling-on triplets, I excuse myself while promising to be right back with more drinks. That should keep them bolted to the booth for a while. I move to the other side of the bar where a bunch of the boys are hanging. No later than five minutes after I sit down, another chick is trying to sit in my lap. I’m trying to get her off me when someone grabs the lapels of my suit.
Wham! I get blasted in the face, knocking my ass to the floor. What. The. Fuck. I hop to my feet and see that my attacker is no other than Henrik fucking Jensen.
“You cocksucker! I’m going to fucking slaughter you,” he screams, looking ready to throw another punch.
“What the fuck, Jensen?” I’ve never spoken to this dickwad in my life, and he comes in here throwing punches?
“If you think I’ll just sit here and watch you step out on her, you’ve got another mother fucking thing coming to you.”
Spitting the blood out of my mouth, I put up my fists, ready to knock him into next week. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Wilson, my center, steps between us. “I don’t know what this is about, but I know neither of you wants this on the front page. So calm the fuck down and talk like men.”
Henrik pushes against Wilson. “I’ve got nothing to say to this asshole, but I am going to bash his face in.”
I step back. As much as I want to take out every ounce of anger and frustration he has caused me over the last two years on his pretty face, I don’t need this shit the night before a big game. “Jensen, I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.”
“How many times do you need to break her fucking heart before you just let her go?”
I throw up my hands in frustration. “Who are you talking about?” He has the only girl I want, so I can’t figure out what the hell he’s pissed about. Jenna? I can’t think of how he would know Jenna.
He stares at me as if he’s trying to figure me out. His body relaxes. “You don’t know?”
“No! No fucking clue. Either clue me in, or calm the fuck down.”
He shakes his head and smirks. “Fuck, chommie, I’ve really stepped in it. Brennan, my man, I owe you an apology. I got some bad skinder, and this is one hundred percent my bad. Please, let me buy you a round to fix this.”
I have no idea what the hell that means, but at least he’s smiling. The last thing in the world I want to do is have a drink with Douchenozzle, but my curiosity is piqued. So I let the fucker buy me a drink, or five. I want to hate him because he has my girl—I do hate him. I want to tear off his balls and play pool with them—but he’s fucking hilarious. We end up closing the bar laughing our asses off.
The bartenders lets us hang out until after the club clears out so we can avoid a mob scene. Then they take us out a back door to wait for our Town Cars.
“So, Jensen, you going to tell me what that was all about back there?”
“Like I said, I got some bad skinder.”
“And what the fuck does that mean?” I ask.
He taps his foot and looks around for the car. “I heard you were hooked up with a good friend of mine. I saw you with that trollop on your lap, and I figured you were screwing around on her. But I could tell by the look on your face that I was way wrong.”
“You going to tell me whom it is you’re talking about?”
Two cars pull up, and the bouncers open the doors.
Henrik steps into his. “This was a blast. Catch you next time I’m in the States.” The bouncer closes the door, and the car drives off.
What the hell just happened?
Chapter Thirty-Six
Arianna
“Okay, Henrik, I need you to look at Arianna like you want to eat her for breakfast.”
Henrik whispers, “This should be easy. There’s nothing I want more than to eat you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
“Arianna, turn to Henrik and look at him longingly.”
&nbs
p; I look lovingly in his eyes. “Let’s keep it clean, Jensen.”
He pulls me tighter. “But, baby, you know I only like it dirty.”
“Your mother is standing ten feet from us. Can you please keep it together? For your sister?”
“Great job, Henrik. That’s just the passion I’m looking for,” the photographer shouts. “Okay, everyone. Take five while I mess with the lighting.”
Henrik’s sister, Abri, killed herself after battling an eating disorder for ten years, so his family established a foundation to fund support services for girls with eating disorders and poor body image in South Africa. Once they moved to Europe, the foundation expanded their reach to include all of the EU. Recently, Vereen Krause, the German supermodel, partnered with the Abri Foundation to launch an international campaign to draw attention to the unfair and unrealistic standards girls are told to live up to.
Henrik and I were asked to model for their “Embrace Your Beauty” campaign. The goal is to highlight the sex appeal of beautiful, healthy women. Earlier this year, Henrik and I shot a series of ads and commercials where he lusted after me despite the selection of faceless matchstick-thin models around.
I’m an athlete. Well, I used to be. I have an athletic body, and I’m proud of it. I’m not runway thin, nor do I ever want to be. I work my ass off to stay healthy, not to stay thin. Over the course of my life, I’ve gotten a lot of attention for my body, despite the fact that I probably have thirty or forty pounds on the women Hollywood deems ideal. My favorite of the ads shows a computer simulation of what I would look like as a size zero and puts it side by side with me as I am. I look positively revolting that thin. I just hope the rest of the world sees it that way and doesn’t tell me I need to drop the weight.
This campaign means the world to Henrik, and I would do anything to support it and him. Regardless of whatever happens with us, I’m committed to the Abri Foundation. Today, we’re meeting in L.A. to reshoot one of the ads.
“So,” I ask while the photographer plays with the lighting, “did you really do it?”
He looks at me with a look so overtly angelic that he must be the devil. “Whatever do you mean, Lamm?” He motions for us to sit in the director chairs.
Hate to Love You Page 29