“Alex.” She sucks in a deep breath and lets it out. “Do I have to call Mickey? I really don’t want to tell him about this, but I don’t think I can ignore that you have a problem.”
“I don’t have a problem. You do.”
“Oh, and what is that? Please, enlighten me.”
I tilt my head to the side until my eyes meet hers. “For starters, minding your own business.”
Somehow, Charlotte’s presence is sobering me up. I can make out little things about her appearance, like the fact that she’s wearing a black tank top with no bra and gray pajama pants with pink dots on them. Her caramel hair frames her makeup-free face. A sleeping mask rests on top of her head.
I trace my finger down the length of her bare arm, leaving a trail of goose bumps. “Are we having a sleepover, sweetheart? If we are, you’re going to have to undress me first.”
Charlotte shakes her head and stands, looking behind me. “I’m blaming you for this, Kane. I know this was your doing.”
“Coach, we were just showing Alex a good time,” Kane says, defensive.
“I don’t want to hear it, Tyler. This is his last chance. Do you have any idea what kind of strings Mickey and I had to pull to get him here?” She pinches her nose between her fingers and sighs. “Can you guys just go home? And get these girls out of here before you end up like Alex. Under Armour will pull that deal so fast, you won’t know what hit you, if the media catches wind of whatever the hell has been going on here tonight.”
“Look, Coach, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” Kane sounds like a scared little boy who’s afraid of his mother. “You know I’ve got mad respect for you.”
“Good. Then, show me some by taking this party elsewhere. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to anyone on the team.”
“Sure thing,” Kane mumbles. “Later, Alex.”
I raise my hand in acknowledgment. Donovan and the girls utter their good-byes, and the door slams behind them. Now, I know I’m screwed. They left me alone with the queen of mean and destroyer of fun.
Charlotte glances down at me, her finger pointed at my face. “And, you, I don’t even know what I’m going to do with you. I already knew this was a massive undertaking when Mickey asked me to look out for you, but you have a meeting tomorrow with the last GM in the league who wanted you, and you had to go and drink yourself into a stupor.”
“You look sexy when you’re mad, you know that?”
“Don’t give me those puppy-dog eyes, Alex.” She sinks into the space on the couch next to me with a loud groan. “You’re the most frustrating athlete I’ve ever worked with. Mickey is counting on me to get you back on track, and I can’t let him down, so get your shit together and do it quickly.”
“Will you stay the night with me?” I ask because I’m drunk, horny, and dying to know what she tastes like. I’ve been fantasizing about her tight ass and toned legs all week. I don’t even know if I could get it up after all those shots. Whiskey might be my friend that keeps me company and never lets me down, but it’s a real boner killer.
She smirks. “No, I will not stay here with you. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you come back to my place and sleep off your hangover in my guest room? I need to make sure you’re coherent and on time to your meeting. You can’t mess this up.”
I hold out my palm to Charlotte, and she places her hand in mine.
“Lead the way, boss lady.”
Coach
Alex Parker is the most annoying man on the planet. One more night like this, and I’m going to be out of a job. As if it wasn’t bad enough that I had to take care of my parents as a child, making excuses for their addiction, I’m now responsible for a man who clearly has a problem with alcohol…and who knows how many other vices.
How could Mickey do this to me?
Mickey knew that Alex was in bad shape. Our entire office knew he was drinking more than usual after his father’s death, but I had no idea he was this out of control. Walking into his apartment to see a topless girl on his lap and a girl snorting lines of coke off the breakfast bar wasn’t what I had expected when Mickey asked me to lease the apartment.
In less than a year, Alex has gone from the top player in the league to the king of scandals and one-night stands. I know firsthand that it only takes one slipup to turn everything to shit.
When Mickey said I was the best agent for the job, did he mean because of my past?
I couldn’t save my parents. They were too far gone by the time child protective services removed me from my home.
I thought I’d left that back in Chicago a long time ago. Now, I’m confronted with another addict and another mess to clean up. The thought of going through this again makes me sick to my stomach.
But I have to help Alex even if it’s only into my spare bedroom for the night.
Once I get him off the couch without falling down, I hook my arm around his back, and he pushes his weight down on me. He’s two hundred twenty pounds of solid muscle, toned to perfection, and all of it is draped over me like a very heavy blanket.
This must be what it’s like to carry a dead body over your shoulder.
Alex nestles his face against my neck, his lips grazing my skin, and his kisses send chills down my spine. I’m forced to drag him through his apartment and next door to mine. At this hour, the hallway is desolate, and the only sound is coming from Alex’s shoes as they scrape along the tiles.
My back throbs by the time I push open the door and lock it behind us. Alex perks up, taking in his surroundings with one eye open. He sensually runs his hand down my arm. Even in his drunken state, he knows exactly what he’s doing. Everywhere our skin meets leaves a trail of fire spreading from my neck and down my arms and legs, making my toes curl.
“Is this your place?” Alex mumbles, slurring his words. “It looks like a museum.”
I want to throw him off me, but instead, I move past the kitchen and living room and toward the spare bedroom to the right of my office. “Sorry if it’s too clean for you. Maybe I should pretend I’m you and dump bags of drugs on my counters and spill beer all over the floor. Yeah, you know what, Alex? I think that’s a brilliant idea.”
“You need to lighten up, Coach.”
I raise a curious eyebrow, surprised that he’s not calling me Charlotte, which always sounds so formal to me when I’m used to players using my nickname.
“It wouldn’t kill you to have a little fun every once in a while,” he continues, his words jumbled together.
“I wish I could, Alex, but I have things called responsibilities and people who count on me. You have them, too; you just don’t care. That’s the difference between you and me. And it’s time for you to grow up and get your shit together. I’m not doing this every night until the end of your career—if you even have one after this season.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he growls. “Stop pretending like you know me because you don’t. You don’t know shit about me.” His voice sounds sad before he trails off. “No one does. Not anymore anyway.”
I suck in a deep breath and blow it out, frustrated and somewhat upset by our exchange. “You have one chance. That’s it. Consider yourself lucky that the media hasn’t found out about your binge drinking because I can promise you that we wouldn’t even be here right now if anyone knew. What they saw online just looks like you were out one night, getting drunk, not that you do it on a nightly basis. You’re right; I don’t know you, but what I do know about you is that you’re an alcoholic man-whore who can’t keep his dick in his pants. But you’re also a great player, and you’re wasting that talent and this opportunity by continuing down this path of destructive behavior.”
He sighs but doesn’t respond, hopefully letting it sink in—though I’m sure he’s too drink to absorb anything I’m telling him.
I have to hold on to the doorframe to get Alex into the bedroom without slamming into the wall. We almost take out the flat screen television on top of an oak chest as
we stagger over to the bed. I’m about to dump him on the mattress when his foot tangles with mine, tripping me in the process, and we fall sideways onto the comforter.
With my head next to his, our mouths only inches apart, his glassy gray-blue eyes meet mine, and I can’t find the courage to pull away from him. Being this close, I want to kiss Alex, find some form of comfort in him even if it’s only for one night. He’s a gorgeous mess and a complete train wreck, and like the rest of my clients, he needs me.
Alex raises his fingers to my cheek and begins to cup my face with his big hand. “You’re really pretty,” he says, sounding like a child with the way his voice reaches a different octave. “Too bad you have a boyfriend.”
At first, I’m confused until I realize he thinks Jamie and I are together. I don’t respond to his comment because it’s probably for the best. Pulling myself up and into a sitting position, I grab Alex’s shoulders and help him slide toward the head of the bed. He props his head on a stack of pillows and looks over at me, his eyes slowly closing.
“Good night, Alex,” I say, running my hand through his shaggy brown hair that’s damp with sweat.
He’s burning up like he has a fever.
“Night, Coach,” he slurs.
I hop off the bed, remove his sneakers, and throw them on the floor. His clothes are drenched in sweat, and I contemplate whether I should remove them before tugging at his shirt.
Distracted by his abs, I stop for a second to take in the sight of his body. For someone who drinks so much, he’s in incredible shape, not an ounce of fat. I have to remind myself that the purpose of this exercise isn’t to gape at his pelvic muscle or think about what he must look like naked.
“C’mon, Alex, sit up for me,” I say, placing my hand behind his back so that I can remove his shirt.
He’s useless at this point, snoring and whacked out of his mind. To get a better angle, I slip back onto the bed and straddle him, my hand still holding him up. The position is awkward and killing my lower back. I move his face closer to my chest in an attempt to peel his shirt up and over his head.
Internally, I consider this a small victory. His face is shoved between my cleavage, and he’s breathing so heavy that I don’t know if I should call Mickey’s concierge doctor, the one he uses for situations like these.
No, I’ve got this. I’ve been here before.
Lowering his head onto the pillow, I pull my arm out from under him, and a sheen of his sweat glistens on my skin. Still on top of Alex, I move my fingers down to the button of his jeans. I pop it open and then pull down the zipper. It takes all the strength I have and about ten more minutes to remove his pants.
I get off the bed and walk toward the door. Then, I flip the light switch.
This is all I can handle for one night. I’ve had to do some unimaginable things in my life, especially since I’ve become a professional sports agent, but Alex is the one that’s hit me the hardest. He’s throwing away his life, wasting his potential, and he reminds me of someone—my father.
In four years, we went from a single home with a beautiful view of Lake Michigan to a housing development on the south side of Chicago. My parents were too high to even notice that I was still alive most of the time. Most nights, I would sit up in my bed and pray that they would make it until the next morning.
Now, here I am, standing at the entryway of the bedroom, staring at Alex as he sleeps, and hoping that he isn’t too far gone.
A few minutes pass where I listen to him breathing before I head into the kitchen to get something to cool him down. I need to get his fever to break, or I’ll have no choice but to call Dr. Rothman. And that’s the last thing I want to do because that also means a phone call from Mickey.
I can’t handle a conversation about how I let him down. He’s counting on me to whip Alex into shape. I thought that staying away from Alex would be best for both of us because I think too much about him in ways I shouldn’t, and it’s that type of thinking that will get both of us into trouble. I don’t date clients, and I especially don’t date ones with addiction problems.
My own breathing is somewhat erratic by the time I walk into the kitchen and open the cabinets to look for anything that will cure his fever. This is too much like my last encounter with my parents, except Alex has a fighting chance and they didn’t. Leaning on the counter, I try to compose myself. I can do this.
You can do this, Coach.
I take four small ice packs from the freezer and wrap them in dish towels. Then, I grab a handful of aspirin from the cabinet above the sink and two bottles of water from the refrigerator before gathering them in my arms. My trip back to the spare bedroom makes me sick to my stomach. But I need to make sure Alex is okay.
Lowering his body temperature is my first priority when I sit down on the bed next to him. He’s sprawled across the navy-and-white-striped duvet, his right hand over his face, the other limp at his side. I rest the aspirin and water bottles on the nightstand and place the ice packs on his forehead, chest, and legs, which is probably overkill.
In only a pair of black boxer briefs, Alex is by far the most attractive man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Every part of me craves his touch, wants to know what it’s like to be one of Alex Parker’s puck bunnies, but anything more than a client relationship isn’t possible when it comes to my players. I can’t cross that line. But I want to every time I’m around him.
My eyelids begin to droop, and the stress of the situation and the fact that it’s now four a.m. are coaxing me into a trance. I need sleep. Without thinking too long about it, I climb into bed with Alex, lie down next to him, and press my palm to his skin. He feels cooler already. This worked in the past with my parents.
If I’m lucky, Alex will sleep off the alcohol and get to his meeting on time. I need him to make it there, or Mickey will drive from New York just to chew my ass out. Overcome with exhaustion, I close my eyes and fall asleep to the sound of Alex snoring, my hand still on his chest.
Alex
When I wake up, I have something heavy balanced on my forehead, and it’s moving. There’s a liquid of some kind dripping down the side of my face, more is pooling on my stomach, and my legs are wet.
What the fuck?
My head throbs, crushing my skull with each pulse. Unfortunately, that part has become a normal element of my morning routine. A woman is lying next to me in bed with her back facing me, her ass pressed against my side. That’s also normal.
Please don’t be the stripper.
I’m no stranger to strip clubs, but I don’t make a habit of taking the girls home either. If they want to shake their tits in my face and grind on my dick, that’s fine, but I’d never kiss a stripper, let alone have sex with one.
For the second time this week, I’m in an unfamiliar bedroom with a strange girl, and I have no idea where I am or how I got here. The last thing I remember, I was in my new apartment, pounding a beer with a girl on my lap, and the rest blurs together. I reach for the object that’s leaking all over my pillow—an ice pack wrapped in a dish towel.
What kind of kinky games were we playing last night?
No matter how many times I tell myself that I’m going to stop drinking, I have shit willpower, and my craving for the next glass overpowers everything else. The image of my father lying unconscious in that hospital bed, tubes connected to his mouth, nose, and arms, play in my head like a highlight reel, except it hasn’t gone away, no matter how hard I try to drink it away.
The night I saw my father in the hospital, I opened the bottle of Macallan he’d been saving in his liquor cabinet. My dad wasn’t much of a drinker. It was a gift from a colleague that he planned to hold on to for a special day—what he hoped would be the day my team won the Stanley Cup.
We were so close last year. My dad was supposed to be in remission. The Caps were on fire, and I was in the zone. Everything was going so well. I’d even racked up fifteen points throughout the first three rounds of the playoffs, and midway through g
ame one of the Stanley Cup finals, my father collapsed in a club box. By the time I found out and made it to the hospital, he was already sedated. Three days later, he was gone.
I’ve been drinking myself to sleep every night since I opened that bottle of whiskey. Now, I’m in another stranger’s bed, too sore to move and wondering why I’m wet.
I tap her on the shoulder, and she stirs, a tiny sound escaping her lips.
“It’s not time yet,” she mutters under her breath. “Five more minutes.”
I recognize her voice. No, it can’t be. Sitting up, I remove the ice packs from my chest and legs and then set them on the nightstand beside the bed. Almost afraid to look, I peek over at her, both excited and terrified when I see Charlotte next to me.
She’s wearing a black tank top without a bra and gray pajama pants with pink spots. I lean against the wooden headboard and stare up at the ceiling.
Mickey is going to murder me. This cannot be happening. As much as I wanted to hook up with Charlotte, I will never hear the end of it once Mickey gets wind of this.
I’m not sure where we are, but the room lacks any personality—white walls, wooden furniture, modern paintings devoid of color or warmth, and minimal decor. It’s clean and polished to perfection, more like an expensive hotel room, except it feels unlived in, reminding me of a museum.
An alarm clock on the table next to Charlotte’s side of the bed reads ten thirty a.m.
My meeting with Mike Turner, the Flyers general manager, starts in three hours. That gives me plenty of time to mix my hangover cure, take a shower, and if I’m lucky, go another round with Charlotte. Though in my current condition, getting it up and having enough energy to satisfy her is doubtful.
Bits and pieces of last night come to me in tiny slivers.
In one memory of Charlotte, she’s straddling me and removing my shirt, my face smashed between her tits. I smile at the thought. At some point, she took off my pants and got in bed with me. I can’t remember anything past that.
Parker (Face-Off Series Book 1) Page 7