by Nikki Ash
“The surgery went smoothly. My recommendation is time off for ten months to a year, minimum. He’s going to need extensive physical therapy...” He continues on with his doctor talk, but I’m no longer listening. I’m looking at the disappointment on my father’s face. The sadness in my mother’s eyes. Other than football, I can’t remember a single thing I’ve ever done to make them proud. It didn’t matter that I was a straight A student, or that I volunteered after school for the literacy program to help kids who couldn’t read. They never went to any of my Math Elite matches or attended any of my engineering competitions.
But every Friday night, they would be in the stands to watch me play. My mom would cheer for me throughout the entire game, and my dad would spend the entire next day strategizing for the next game. And it was during those moments, I felt like they actually saw me—that they actually cared. I thought her cheering me on and him strategizing with me was us being a family. But now I’m starting to wonder if it was love or greed. My guess is toward the latter.
As I stare at the both of them, I consider telling them to go fuck themselves. That they can take my money and status and shove it up their asses. But I can’t do that. Because at the end of the day, they’re my parents, and like any child, I want them to love me and be proud of me. I let out a heavy sigh, my heart cracking as I come to the realization it might not even matter. Without my job or income, neither of them will need or want me.
“Nick.” I snap back to the present to see the team owner, Edwin Smith, and my coach, Reggie Frazier, standing in front of me. The doctor has apparently left, and everyone is staring at me. “You okay?” Coach asks, and I lift my chin up and down robotically.
“We need to talk,” Mr. Smith says, and I nod again. “The doctor filled us in…” Of course he did, because he’s the team doctor. They probably knew my prognosis before I did. “It’s not personal…” Like fuck it’s not. I give them eight fucking years and three super bowl rings, and the minute I’m no good to them, they drop me like a bad habit. “We just feel at this time it’s best to part ways. After careful consideration, we’ve made the decision to take the team in a different direction.”
Fuck, have I always worn rose-colored glasses? How did I not notice all of the greed and selfishness around me? Probably because up until this moment, it’s been smooth sailing. My numbers have only increased. My income and bank account only growing. I allowed everyone around me to use me while I basked in the artificial feeling of being wanted and needed while believing I was making everyone happy.
My mom starts to frantically argue and beg. She doesn’t give a shit about my job, or about the fact that my entire life has been about ball since I was a kid and my father realized I could throw like a pro. She doesn’t give two fucks that I’m not even thirty years old and my football career might be over. She cares about one thing: how this will look to her stuck up country club friends.
“Mom.” She ignores me. “Mom!” I yell louder, but she just keeps going on and on. “Mom!” I shout, and everyone looks at me. “Stop!” I glare at her and see she has actual tears in her eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her cry before. “Coach, Mr. Smith…thank you for coming by to let me know.”
“If anything changes…” Mr. Smith starts to say but doesn’t finish. We both know my career with North Carolina is over. There’s no point in making false promises he can’t—and won’t—keep.
“Thank you,” I respond politely.
They leave, closing the door behind them, and then my father starts. “This is just a temporary setback. This isn’t the end, Nick. Rest up, do your physical therapy, and next year we’ll get you back on a team and making money again.” He says all this while he’s typing away on his phone. “I need to take this. It’s Roger Cedarbeck, the rookie offensive tackle. We’re in negotiations.” Bringing the phone up to his ear—not even bothering to look at me—he walks out, leaving only my mother and me in the room. Guess some things never change.
“Well, since you’ll be available, we can schedule luncheons and charity events. We can find ways to make you look good in the public eye. As soon as you get out, we’ll go over the social calendar.” She gives me a kiss on my forehead, and then she’s gone, leaving me alone.
The doctor comes back in and lets me know I’ll be discharged from the hospital by the end of the day tomorrow. Not wanting to text Fiona and ask her for a ride since she left here upset, I put a call in to the car service I use often and arrange for someone to pick me up tomorrow.
* * *
“I don’t love you anymore, Nick, and I can’t be in this relationship another damn day.” I’m sitting on the couch in my apartment, listening to my girlfriend explain why she’s leaving me. When I arrived home, I found all of her stuff already loaded into a U-Haul truck. The only reason why we’re even having this conversation is because she thought I wouldn’t be home for another couple days. She was planning to leave with nothing more than a note and her apartment keys on the counter.
“Okay, so let me get this straight. You loved me a week ago…hell, supposedly you loved me two days ago…but now you no longer love me?” I ask, confused as fuck. “So, all the talk about wanting to get married and have a baby…it was what, just talk?”
“It was me being stupid. I have no family or support, and your parents, they would make horrible grandparents.” She cringes. “Plus, you always put them and your job first. I need a man who actually puts me first.”
“I’m right here. I’m putting you first.” Was my paying for all of our bills and her schooling not putting her first?
“Until next season…then you’ll be back to playing football, and I’ll be stuck here by myself. I have dreams, and I need to follow them, and starting a family with you is no longer one of my dreams. To be honest…” Fiona pauses. Her eyes close, and a second later they reopen with a look of such contempt, I can feel it down to my bones. “I would consider it a nightmare.” She lifts her purse over her shoulder and says, “Honestly, Nick, I don’t think I ever really loved you” and walks out the door, slamming it behind her.
Well, damn…okay, then.
My head hits the back of the couch as I think about how much my life has already changed because of my injury. My dad hasn’t once called me since the doctor gave us the verdict—not even to see if I made it home okay. My mom’s one and only text was regarding the charity functions she thinks I should attend to keep myself in the public eye. And Fiona, as you can see, just walked out the door and out of my life.
Maybe it’s time for me to make a change. Time to put myself first. There’s no way I’m staying here for the next year and attending charity functions with my mom. Grabbing my phone from the coffee table, I shoot a text to Killian. The year after I was drafted, he was drafted to New York. We might not be roommates anymore, but we’re still best friends.
Me: I’m out. Minimum 10 months. They let me go.
Kill: Fuck. What are you going to do?
Me: If it were up to my mom… charity functions.
Kill: Fuck that.
Me: You up for some company?
Kill: Fuck yeah! But what about Fiona?
Me: Apparently she’s looking for her next meal ticket.
Kill: Bitch. Where are you now?
Me: Home
Kill: Get your ass up here!
Me: I’ll get everything settled here and be on my way in the next few days.
Kill: I’ll get a room ready.
Me: And the women.
One thing that I’ve learned from Fiona is that it doesn’t matter how much you give or try, it’s never enough, and I’m done doing both. Fuck my parents, and fuck Fiona, and fuck love. It’s time to get fucked.
Kill: That’s a given.
He says women are a given, but the truth is, I haven’t seen Killian with a woman in years, not since our sophomore year. The guy went from practically sleeping his way through the student body to barely looking at a woman. I’m not sure what happened, but h
e refuses to talk about it. Anytime I see him at a football function or charity event, he always has a woman on his arm, but in all the years I’ve stayed with him or vice versa, I’ve never seen him bring a woman home or spend the night out with one.
Two
Nick
Fourteen Months Later
We’re sitting in a booth in Club Envy, partying like we do most nights. Only tonight, we’re partying with a purpose.
“Bro! You fucking nailed those tryouts. You and me,” Killian shouts over the music. “You and me! We’re going all the way!” We clink glasses, and Killian announces “My boy is back!” before we both throw back our shots. It takes everything in me to tamper down the nagging feeling that once again somebody is after me for what I can do for him. But I remind myself that Killian isn’t like that. He’s not like my parents, who both went radio silent—after my mom threw a fit—when I up and moved to New York, or the women who only want me for what I can give them: materialistic possessions, trips, nights out at expensive restaurants. The tabloids say I’m a manwhore, a playboy of sorts, but you know what? Those women who spread their legs with dollar signs in their eyes aren’t any better. I tried the hearts and flowers route and look where it got me…so don’t judge me when I finally come to my senses and give everyone what they want.
For the last year, Killian is the only person who has had my back. After putting my condo on the market and having my shit shipped to New York, I chartered a plane and refused to look back. I’ve been living with Killian at his place, and it’s been like one long party. On the days he’s home, he helps me with rehab, and he’s done it without knowing if I’ll ever be able to play again. So, no, Killian isn’t like that. I know that, but sometimes I have to remind myself. When it’s all you know, it’s hard to accept otherwise. I heard through the grapevine Fiona is still attending dance school and living it up in North Carolina in a nice as hell apartment. Seeing as she was broke as fuck when we met tells me one thing: she did, indeed, find her next meal ticket.
“I think I spot Melissa. I’ll be back.” Killian fist bumps me before walking away to find his friend. They hang out more often than not, but nothing seems to ever come of it. I look to my left and then my right. I’ve got a woman on each side of me, both fake blondes, and both vying for my attention. One is rubbing up on my dick while the other is licking down my neck. I bring another shot to my lips as I ignore the buzzing in my pocket indicating I have a phone call coming in—most likely one of my parents who are back to acknowledging I exist since there’s a good possibility I’ll be getting my career back tomorrow. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re both on a plane heading to New York right now.
I press my finger against my pocket to stop the vibration, and when it starts up again, I pull it out and shut off my phone. Tomorrow, I’ll deal with them. Tonight, I’ll pretend they don’t exist. After all, they spent the last year pretending I don’t exist.
When I look up from my phone, I spot the most gorgeous fucking woman I’ve ever seen, standing at the bar. She’s wearing a black lacy top and matching shorts. Her brown hair is down in waves, and she’s sporting the most adorable pout as she tries to get the bartender’s attention.
Not giving the two women on either side of me another glance, I shoo them off me and make my way to the bar. “Can I buy you a drink?” I whisper into the woman’s ear as I approach her from behind. She angles her head to look at me then graces me with the most beautiful, shy smile before she shakes her head no.
“No, thank you. I can buy my own…if the damn bartender would ever look my way.” Her face scrunches up in anger, and I have to hold back a laugh. She waves her hand out with a bill between her fingers, and I can’t take my eyes off her. Dark brown hair, chocolate-brown eyes, and creamy, porcelain skin. Her natural beauty stands out like a shiny diamond in a room filled with dirty stones. Amongst all the fakeness in New York, this woman screams, ‘real.’ Of course, that’s what I thought about Fiona and look where that got me.
I raise my finger in the air, and the bartender immediately makes her way over. “What can I get for you, baby?”
I turn toward Brown-Eyes. “What would you like to drink?”
At first, she looks stunned, but then her face contorts into a look of annoyance mixed with anger. “Seriously?” She rolls her eyes, and I shrug. I don’t know why she’s shocked. Everyone knows who I am here in this city. “I’ll take two vodka cranberries,” she says to the bartender then places a twenty on the bar top. The bartender nods, then she turns her attention to me. “What’re you having?”
“Her…I’m having her.” I point to the woman next to me. This time, the bartender rolls her eyes, unamused, while Brown-Eyes snorts in amusement. “But for now, I’ll take a couple shots of Patron.”
“Sure thing.” The bartender goes to grab the woman’s twenty, but I pull out a fifty before she can. She takes my bill—leaving hers—slips it into her bra, and walks away to make the drinks.
“So, two vodka cranberries?” Please don’t let her be here with another guy.
“One is for my friend. She’s somewhere around here. She ran into a guy she knows when we were walking in.” Thank God!
She looks around in search of her friend before her brown eyes come back to me, giving me a once over. This is where I expect her to recognize me, figure out who I am and milk it for all its worth, and believe me, I most definitely will.
But instead, she gives me a small smile, takes her twenty off the bar top, and says, “Thank you,” shrugging nonchalantly.
“No problem. But now you owe me.” I shoot her a playful wink.
“Oh really…even after I tried to buy our drinks?”
“Yep.” I hold back a grin.
“And what is it I owe you?” She cocks her head to the side, a small ghost of a smile playing on her lips.
The bartender comes back over and sets our drinks down in front of us. I grab one of the shots and hand it to her. “A shot.”
She throws her head back in laughter, and I know I’ve got her. And fuck, if her sexy laugh doesn’t have me.
* * *
“Shot! Shot! Shot! Shot!” Lifting the shot with my mouth from the middle of Brown-Eyes’ perky tits, I tilt my head back and swallow it in one gulp. The Patron burns going down, the warmth settling in my stomach. I hold the shot glass up for everyone to see, and the crowd erupts in cheers and applause. We’ve been drinking for the last hour, and I still don’t even know the woman’s name. But what I do know is, I’m deeply and madly…in lust with everything about her.
She grabs her shot and downs it, her slim sexy-as-fuck neck on display, begging for my lips to kiss it. Closing the gap between us, I pull her tiny waist into my body. My arms wrap around her backside, and my hands land on her tight little round ass. “Dance with me,” I murmur into her ear. My tongue darts out to lick the bottom of her earlobe. Chills rush down her arms as I feel her physically shiver.
She nods in agreement, and I pull her in closer. Our bodies are flush against each other. Our skin sweaty. I’m not quite drunk, but I’m definitely tipsy, enough that I’m nuzzling my face into her hair and sniffing her sexy perfume. It’s sweet and has my dick twitching, wanting to know what else on this woman is sweet. My lips move to her neck, and I trail kisses downward toward her collarbone. Her head rests on my shoulder as our bodies grind against one another to the pulsating dance music that’s infiltrating the club’s speakers. It’s loud, and we don’t speak, allowing our bodies to do all the talking for us.
“Yo, bro!” I hear Killian yell to me over the loud music and chatter in the club. “I’m out.” I look up long enough to lock eyes with him. I was curious as to why I haven’t seen him much tonight, but the doe-eyed woman by his side answers my question. He found Melissa. I tilt my chin up in acknowledgement then bring my attention back to the woman in my arms.
Gliding my hand over her ass and up her back, I grip the back of her head, entwining my fingers in her thick mane, and pull
back enough so she can make eye contact with me.
“Are you drunk?”
She looks up at me and shakes her head. “No.”
“Want to get out of here?”
Her lids are hooded over with lust, and she bites down on her bottom lip as she considers my question. What I thought was an act—her not knowing who I am—I’m starting to think isn’t one after all. Because let’s be real, if she knew who I was, she wouldn’t even be contemplating whether or not to leave with me. I’m Nick fucking Shaw. Any woman who knows who I am would be begging me to leave with them. I have a reputation of being stellar in the sack, which I take seriously. And even if I sucked in bed, they would still come because money talks. Now, with all the buzz about the possibility of me signing a multi-million-dollar contract tomorrow, women are all over me trying to get on this money train. So, as I watch this woman consider whether it’s a good idea or not to leave with me, I’m thinking she has no clue who the hell I am.
“Okay,” she finally says, a small smile playing on her deliciously bee-stung lips that look like they were made to be wrapped around my cock. “Let me text my friend and let her know I’m leaving.” Her friend and the guy she ran into joined us earlier for a quick drink, but then they excused themselves to dance.
Grabbing her by her hand, I guide her toward the side exit of the club. I’m going to have to hail a cab since we’ve both been drinking. The last thing I need is to get a DUI when I’m about to be back on a team playing ball again.
Just as we’re about to leave, I spot Celeste, and her eyes meet mine. I give her a chin-jerk toward the door to let her know I’m leaving, and she rolls her eyes at me. She’s used to me leaving with a different woman from the club.
“I’m staying at the Ritz,” Brown-Eyes says once we’re outside. “It’s only one block over.”
“Sounds good to me.”
We head to her hotel in silence. We walk through the lobby, and she presses the button for the elevator. Once we’re inside, she says, “I know it’s probably going to sound cliché, but I’ve never done this before.” Her honesty paralyzes me. She’s a complete contradiction to everything I’ve ever known. I’m used to women who make a career out of bedding guys like me.