by Nikki Ash
“I refuse to believe money is all people in this world care about. I’m going to find someone who couldn’t care less about money, and when I do, I’m going to love the hell out of her.” Celeste cackles again and shakes her head. Since we were old enough to understand the difference between our living situations, we’ve had an ongoing debate. She believes money trumps love, and I believe money destroys it. My parents have a ton of money and they’re miserable as fuck.
“You’ve always been so naïve, Nick. This isn’t some fairytale. This is real life. Love is nothing more than a wasted emotion. One that only gets in the way of the important things like nice houses and cars and clothes…and eating at expensive restaurants! Oh! And vacations! And don’t get me started on social status…”
“There should be more to life than all that.” I grab the remote and switch the television on to Sunday football. “Money doesn’t buy happiness. It just buys shit.”
“You wouldn’t understand,” Celeste says, her voice serious. “Because you’ve never been without money. You’ve never had to worry about the electric or water being shut off. If you want to go to Colorado to ski, you go.”
I don’t even know why I bother to argue with her. It’s always the same shit. I’m rich and my life is perfect…She’s poor and her life sucks…
Celeste continues, “You’ll see. All those broken hearts you’ve had because you keep thinking with your heart. Once you’re in the NFL and making bank, you won’t have to worry about all that. I guarantee once you’re making your own money, girls like Samantha will be begging to be with you, but it won’t be your heart they’re after.”
“They can come after me, but that doesn’t mean I’ll be with them.”
“Let’s be real here, Nick. Those that are poor, want to be rich, and those that are rich, only want to be richer. Plus, you’ve had how many failed relationships in high school and college? You should just quit while you’re ahead.”
I turn my head to Celeste and glare at her. “When I throw a shitty pass, I don’t quit playing. I keep throwing until I get the pass right.”
Celeste laughs. “You know what they say the definition of insanity is? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”
“You’re such a bitch.” I laugh, and Celeste hits me in the face with my pillow. “I’m going to find her…One day I’ll find a girl who’ll love me and won’t want shit from me other than me.”
“Okay…how about we make a pact?” She smirks. “If you haven’t found love by the time you turn thirty, you’ll admit I’m right. Money makes the world go round.”
“Okay…” There’s got to be more to this.
“And we get married.”
At this, I crack up laughing. “Wasn’t that in a movie once?”
“So?” She hits me with another one of my pillows.
“I’m pretty sure it didn’t work out for them…”
Celeste rolls her eyes. “It was a movie. What do you have to lose? You have ten years to prove me wrong.”
“Are you serious? You and me get married?” I rake my eyes down her body. Sure, Celeste is hot, in a Victoria Secret model sort of way, but she’s not exactly my type. I prefer my women with a little more T and A if you catch my drift.
“Don’t give me that look. I’m not attracted to you, either. If I haven’t found a rich guy yet, we get married and do it my way. Not for love, but for money. I mean, c’mon…just about every NFL player you know has a model attached to his arm.”
Before I can respond, my best friend, roommate, and teammate, Killian Blake, walks into our dorm, slamming the door behind him.
“What’s up?” he asks, throwing his gym bag onto his bed.
“I caught Samantha fucking Jesse. Apparently she’s been cheating on me with him all damn summer.”
“I told you that bitch was money-hungry.” Killian shakes his head as he plops down on his bed across from us. I groan internally because apparently everyone saw it but me.
“And Celeste wants to make a pact.” I laugh. “If I don’t find love before I’m thirty, I marry her.”
“You can’t seriously be considering this?” Killian sits up, his eyes trained on me, not even acknowledging Celeste is in the room. Killian and I met our freshman year of college, when we were assigned to the same dorm room, and clicked immediately. He’s a wide receiver, and I’m the quarterback. This will also be our third year sharing a room, and if my dad has it his way, it might be our last. “You realize you’re making a deal with the she-devil, right?” he adds, and Celeste glares at him.
The two of them have never gotten along. Celeste has never hidden the fact that she wants a man who has money, and for that reason, Killian thinks she’s a gold-digging bitch. The funny thing is, she’s never denied it, never once tried to be someone she’s not, and oddly enough I respect her for that. At least she isn’t constantly getting her heart smashed on like I do.
I let out a low chuckle as I consider her proposition. For years, my mom and Beatrice have said Celeste and I will one day get married. I think deep down my mom is rooting for Celeste to get out of her situation like she did, but only because she’s her best friend’s daughter. Any other girl in Celeste’s situation, my mom would be looking down on. But Celeste, she’s always had a soft spot for. Like the daughter she never had.
“And what if I do find love?” I challenge Celeste.
“Well, then you’ll restore my faith in love, and I’ll stop looking for a rich guy and find myself a man to love.” She snorts in disbelief at her own words.
“Yeah, right,” Killian scoffs. “You wouldn’t know what love looks like if it smacked you in the head with your high heel.” I laugh, and Celeste shoots daggers his way.
“You’re too young to be this jaded,” I say to her.
“I’m only four years younger than you, and if we go by life experience, I’m actually ten years older.”
Killian groans and falls back onto his bed, covering his face with a pillow.
“So, do we have a deal?” Celeste grins, extending her hand out to me.
“Fine,” I say, and we shake hands. If by thirty, I still haven’t found the one, maybe it will be time to admit Celeste is right…but I’m not ready to give up on love yet. Plus, the thought of finding love and Celeste having to give up on her ‘marry-a-rich-man plan’ to find her own true love will make it well worth it. “Better be ready.” I smirk.
“For what?” she questions.
“To find your happily-ever-after. Once I find true love, it will be your turn.” I shoot her a wink, and she rolls her eyes.
“You guys have lost your minds.” Killian laughs. “Party tonight at Jase’s new place. You down?”
“Hell yeah,” I tell him. Jase Crawford has been a friend of mine since high school. We played football for two years together at Piermont Academy and then another two years at NCU before he graduated last year.
“I’m down,” Celeste agrees, and Killian gives me a hard stare, telling me to shut it down.
“Not tonight,” I say apologetically to Celeste.
“Really?” She scoffs. “It’s like that?”
“Yeah, little girl, it is,” Killian says. “You might have a fake ID that says you’re older, but you’re still only sixteen, and we’re not going to be responsible for you. This is an adult party.”
“Whatever.” She stands. “I’ll catch you later. Have fun at your adult party.” She saunters out of the dorm room with an extra sway to her hips.
“That girl is nothing but trouble,” Killian says as we watch her close the door behind her.
“Don’t I know it.”
One
Nick
Nine Years Later
“It’s all going to come down to this final play. If Nick Shaw can pull off this touchdown, North Carolina will be the Super Bowl champions for the fourth time since Shaw was picked up eight years ago.”
“If anybody can do it, it’s Shaw.”
“It’s almost as if he’s a completely different guy out there. Now, I’m not saying he isn’t good. We all know he is. But his numbers have steadily declined this season, and with three interceptions during this game alone, Shaw is in the spotlight.”
“All right, here we go. With ten seconds on the clock, they’re on Pittsburgh’s ten-yard line—there’s no room for error. North Carolina either scores a touchdown or Pittsburgh will be the new Super Bowl champions.”
“They snap the ball...there’s nobody open! The pocket’s collapsing. Shaw better make a decision quick.”
“He’s scrambling toward the end zone!”
“He’s reaching toward the goal line…he’s been hit!”
“Did he get in?”
“I don’t know. It’s going to be close.”
“It appears Shaw is still down. He’s grabbing his arm, John. This can’t be good.”
“The ref is saying the touchdown is no good.”
“They have the trainers coming out. He’s still holding onto his arm.”
I cringe as I watch the replay over and over again. Even with a broken arm and a dislocated shoulder, another few feet before getting tackled and we would’ve been the Super Bowl champions. Instead, I not only let my team down but my parents as well.
Not able to watch the video for a fifth time, I put my phone away and turn on the television. Of course, every sports station is analyzing the game. They all have opinions, assumptions, and predictions. I stop on a station that has the headline: Will Nick Shaw be re-signed?
“It’s a tough loss, but Nick Shaw has earned them three championships. That’s more than most players ever get in a career. He deserves a chance to come back.”
“You’re ignoring the fact he just broke his throwing arm and dislocated his shoulder. That’s a lot to come back from. Plus, there’s the fact he was showing a decline this year with a career high of fifteen interceptions.”
Not able to take another second of listening to this shit, I turn the television off and toss the controller across the room. It hits the door and crashes down, the batteries spilling out and rolling across the floor.
The door opens and in walks my mother. Her heels clack across the tile as she flits across the hospital room like she owns it—and in her completely selfish, self-absorbed mind, she probably believes she does. Dressed impeccably in only designer labels—from her Chanel glasses to her Saint Laurent heels—you would think Victoria Shaw actually worked for a living. Well, I guess she does…if you count running my life and spending my dad’s money as a job.
“Throwing another hissy fit, Nicholas?” She comes to the side of my bed and pats my arm like I’m a fucking dog. “Stop watching those shows. They thrive on negativity.” One might think she’s trying to give me some motherly advice, a pep talk of sorts to help me stay positive during the most fucked up time of my life, but I know better. She’s trying to convince herself that her now imperfect son isn’t about to disgrace the family name by becoming unemployed at twenty-nine years old.
“Would it be so bad if I did get released?” The words come out before I can stop them, and my mother looks like I just told her I’m having a limb cut off. And I guess in her eyes, it would be the equivalent, since all I am to her is the golden-boy child who plays professional football. Without my career, what would she have to brag about? What would she say to her stuck up country club friends? And my dad, if I’m released, he’ll lose his twenty percent agent fee he makes off me. What would we even have to talk about? I mean, without football, what else is there?
“Nicholas! Don’t say that!” my mom shrieks. “This is because of your girlfriend, isn’t it? I know she hates you playing. We didn’t come this far for you to just give up now…” I tune her out as I think about how everything I’ve worked my entire life for is about to go down the drain, but for some reason, I’m not worried about what I’m about to lose, what my parents are about to lose, but rather what I might gain.
My girlfriend, Fiona, has made a few comments about wanting to get married and settle down. She doesn’t like how often players are away from their families and said she would feel like she’s a single parent. Maybe now would be the right time to settle down and start a family.
As my mom continues to nag me over my comment about getting released, I pray the nurse will come in soon to give me more pain meds. I was transported back home to North Carolina—from Baltimore—where the Super Bowl was held—immediately after I was taken off the field. Once the team doctors assessed and prepped me, they performed surgery on my arm. Then we had to wait for the swelling to go down enough for the doctors to see how it went. So here I am, stuck in this fucking hospital, living on pain meds and waiting for the doctor to make an appearance to read me my future.
The nurse, who was here earlier flirting with me, said she’ll be back with the doctor in a little while when he makes his rounds. It doesn’t matter what he says, though. Mandatory surgery due to a broken arm plus a dislocated shoulder can only mean two things: time off and physical therapy. And at almost thirty years old, even with three Super Bowl wins, there’s no way North Carolina is going to renew my contract.
I replay my mother’s words in my head. We didn’t come this far for you to just give up now. What a fucking joke. My parents have ridden my ass for as long as I can remember. From playing pee-wee football to high school ball. From playing College ball to me dropping out of college a year early to enter the draft. I’ve done everything their way, worked my ass off, made choices I didn’t want to make, and I’m fucking exhausted. We haven’t come anywhere. I’ve come this far. Not my mom. Not my dad. Me! I’m the one who practiced every damn day. I chose football over having a life. And what the hell for? My mom wants me to play for the status and fame. My dad wants me to play for the money. What I can’t seem to remember at the moment is why the hell I want to play.
“Are you listening to me?” I open my eyes and see my mother glaring at me, her resting bitch face even more prominent than usual. I can’t even recall the last time she smiled. She’s so concerned over the possibility of me choosing my girlfriend over football. She’s my mom. Shouldn’t she want her son to put his girlfriend first? Isn’t that what you do when you love someone? Ha! Love…I don’t think she’s capable of such an emotion. At least not by the definition most would go by. Does she love her home? Yes. Her car? Definitely. Does she love shopping? Without a doubt. Does she love my dad? Or me? I think once upon a time she did…but now the only thing she loves is what we can do for her.
Before I can answer, my father strolls through the door. “Victoria.” He gives her a chaste kiss on her cheek before approaching my bed. That’s the extent of their affection. “How’re you feeling?” he asks me.
“Shitty,” I answer honestly. The door opens again and in walks my girlfriend. She smiles sadly as she approaches my bed.
“Hey.” She leans in and gives me a kiss. Her lips are soft and sweet, and for a brief moment I feel like everything is right in the world. “How are you feeling?”
“Okay. Waiting for the doctor to come in and tell me my fate.”
“If you can’t play again…” Fiona swallows thickly. “It won’t be the end of the world.”
“You can’t be serious!” my mom hisses.
“Mom, stop,” I say, hoping to prevent an argument between my girlfriend and my mom. It won’t be the first one.
“No, Nicholas! She doesn’t want you to play, yet she has no problem spending the money you make from playing.”
“I don’t spend his money, Victoria,” Fiona shoots back.
“Your school? Apartment? All the bills?” my mom volleys.
“Enough, Victoria,” my dad snaps. “The doctor will be here soon. Please get control of yourself. Fiona, it’s probably best if you leave. Nick can call you with an update.”
Fiona’s eyes widen.
“Dad,” I hiss.
“Nick, we have a lot of shit to figure out. I don’t have time for your mom and girlfriend to be going at it like children. I have a business to run. So, it’s either your mother or your girlfriend.”
My dad doesn’t say another word—already back on his phone, furiously typing away.
“Fiona,” I say with a sigh, and she shakes her head. “I want you here.” I take her hand in my good one. “I just don’t want to argue with them.”
“You never do, Nick.” She walks out of the door, and I wish I could chase after her, but I can’t.
“Knock, knock,” the doctor says before the door is even finished closing. His lips are upturned in a sympathetic smile as he walks into the room, the nurse from earlier following behind him. “How are you feeling, Mr. Shaw?”
“I’m in a bit of pain,” I answer truthfully, hoping they can give me something to knock me out so everyone will leave me the hell alone.
“Nurse Karson can take care of that for you.” He nods toward the nurse who then scurries over to my bedside and switches something on to release more meds into my IV.
My father gets straight to the point. “What’s the prognosis, doc?” It’s always about business with him, and since right now, I’m the highest paid quarterback in the NFL, if I can’t play, my dad will be losing a shit ton of money. Because at the end of the day, twenty percent of zero is zero. With my contract being up this year, I don’t see them keeping me on. There’s a lot the team can do with the millions of dollars they pay me.
I glance toward my dad, who has a worried look marring his features, and feel a twinge of sadness. In my father’s eyes, all I am is a football player. If it weren’t for me playing, we wouldn’t even have a relationship. And if I can’t play, where will that leave us? I won’t be bringing anything to the table, and as a result, he’ll no longer have any use for me.
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