by Xyla Turner
Under Further Review
Pro Series
Xyla Turner
Contents
Under Further Review: Pro Series
Copyright
Acknowledgments
1. A Game, But Still A Business
2. Needs To Be Reported
3. Remembered Legacy
4. No ‘Get Over It’ Button
5. It’s Time
6. Myrtle Beach
7. Quality Time
8. It’s Nothing
9. Back To Reality
10. Cannot Be Friends
11. Throw Away
12. The Next Morning
13. Falling
14. Not me
15. Define It
16. The Right Question
17. No Competition
18. Help, My Ass
19. Do Something
20. His Legacy
About the Author
XYLA’S OTHER BOOKS
XYLA’S CONTACT INFORMATION
Under Further Review: Pro Series
Xyla Turner
AZINA MEDIA PUBLICATIONS
237 Flatbush Avenue, #187 Brooklyn, NY 11217
This is an original publication of AZINA MEDIA PUBLICATIONS.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2016 AZINA MEDIA PUBLICATIONS
Cover Page by Dynasty Cover Me
Edited by Gayla Leath
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized edits.
All rights reserved.
Created with Vellum
Acknowledgments
To my family, friends, co-workers, supporters, and fellow authors!
To Latoya Evans aka Toy
Thank you for your willingness to work with me,
your energy and being courageous!
To our players – may they forever live on!
Xyla World, this couldn’t happen without you.
Shatisha Nash, the one and only cabinet member
in Xyla World.
To my sister, thank you for your support.
#CannotWait
To Him that gives me the strength to soar!
1
A Game, But Still A Business
“Good evening, Officers,” Shane yelled over the music. “Nice of you to join us today.”
Two policemen strolled into the luxury hotel room. The taller one was on the heavy side with a beer gut that clearly explained how he handled the stress. The shorter one was a little thin, had the eyes of a rookie yet displayed a keen sharpness that only came from a professional.
The suite had marble floors, tables and countertops, which was only fit for a king. When the Washington Redskins come into town, ‘team members would always stay at the Millie Hotel at the Millie Hotel. The organization paid well and mostly for discretion, so if the cops were at our location that meant something really bad happened or was about to happen. Players, women, agents and the like were all over the suite. Since it was registered under Shane Sinclair, the police officers were looking for him.
To his misfortune, Shane had a drunk and what appeared to be a heavily drugged girl over his shoulder and was halfway up the stairs. The worst part was that the same girl was under-aged. This was bad and it was damn near impossible for him to spin this in his favor.
“Shane Sinclair, a word.” The tall officer motioned for him to meet him near the door.
The music was shut off and people moved further into the suite so they could still see and hear, but not be too close to the action.
He descended the steps with the girl still on his shoulder and asked, “What can I do you for?”
“We are looking for a …,” the taller cop looked to the shorter one.
“Uh, Elaine Culter.”
“Yes, Elaine Culter. She reportedly came to this party. She’s about five-foot-seven inches, brown hair, brown eyes.”
The shorter officer chimed in and said, “Kind of like the one on your shoulder.”
The tall cop walked around Shane and asked, “What’s your name darling?”
The inebriated woman murmured something inaudible.
“Do you know her?” the shorter one asked Shane.
“No, I don’t. She had a little too much to drink, so I was going to put her in a room upstairs.”
“Well, if this is Elaine Culter, she’s sixteen and has no business being at your party, let alone in your room,” the older cop spewed.
“I agree, officer. I did not card everyone’s date when they brought them to this party, but I will make sure that if there is anyone under the age of eighteen here, they know you fine gentlemen are free to take them away. I have ninety-nine problems and a child ain’t one.”
There was some snickering from the other players that were behind him. The officers did not find it amusing. The tall one yelled, “If you are under the age of eighteen, get your asses out of here, before we bring the fake id card detector around. You have five seconds.”
To Shane’s surprise, three girls stepped forward and scrambled out the door. One of the young women, who did not look anything like twenty-five, came back and said, “My friend Elaine is sixteen and he has her.”
Her trembling finger was pointing to Shane with the girl still over his shoulder.
“We’ll take her from him,” the shorter cop said.
Shane lifted her off of his shoulder and gave her to the shorter police officer. The taller one patted him on the back and said, “You lucked out man. That’s a senator’s daughter and he was looking for blood. I’ll be sure to let him know she went untouched. Not sure who brought her, but he’ll be happy to know that someone was looking out for her.”
“Yeah, do that.” Shane relaxed.
“You have a good night,” the shorter one called back as they left.
Shane could hear the sobbing girls outside the suite, but he was thankful he just dodged a bullet. He also knew he needed to slow down, because that type of heat could be career ending. Tonight would not be the night for that, so he turned around and yelled, “Hit the musssiiiccc!”
The next day, his coach called him into the office with a written reprimand for the police being called and having underage girls at the party. His coach always tried to tell him that he was larger than this, more than this. Telling him that he didn’t have to succumb to the game, but he could shape the game to him. Shane always heard him, but he just wasn’t there yet.
He reminded him of his father, Darius Sinclair. He was a man’s man and worked for everything he ever acquired. That is what he taught Shane. Work hard, work faster, work smarter. This was how he was able to get to the National Football League (NFL) and recruited by the Washington Redskins four years ago. Shane finished college and played overseas for a few years. His father was proud of him, his accomplishments and more important that he was creating his own legacy. Shane knew he’d never be half the man his father was, but he strived to attain a portion of the legacy his father shed sweat, blood and tears to carve out.
His parents have been married for thirty years and raised three beautiful children in Southeast DC. Shane tried many times to move them, even to Maryland, but they would not have it. His fathe
r would always say, “I paid for this house, I’m going to live in this house. So, son when you pay for your house, you better live in it.” His mother was no better. If Shane offered to get the house cleaned, since his parents were older, she would say, “I live in this house, so I’ll clean it. When you get your house, you clean it.” They were two peas in a pod, but they were proud and they instilled in us the importance of hard work.
Jeffery Mills, Head Coach of the Washington Redskins, issued a fine that Shane would be sure to get from Keith. He didn’t bring the girl to the party, Keith wasn’t stepping up because he did not need another strike against him. The coach had already threatened to trade him if he kept up his shenanigans. Shane had his own run-ins with rules and fines, but they were not with the team or the coach, it was with the media, more specifically reporters.
In the past, Shane would call press conferences and not show, or let a reporter ask him a question and when he finally stopped, Shane would give them his food order. The reporters always tried to crack the hard exterior he showed for them, but he never let up on his pranks, especially during home games. Shane did not care for the parading of players for the dog and pony show for anyone, but to be forced to was simply torture.
He also played pranks on his teammates and opponents, but last fall, they got him good. During a pre-season game, someone put a bullhorn near his ear while he was asleep and blew it, causing Shane to jump up and step into a pail of tar as he was consistently hit with torn pillows so his legs were covered in feathers. He went down and so did the feathers. There were pictures on all social media platforms and posts that this was a prank orchestrated by his team and the opposing team, the Philadelphia Eagles.
Shane’s eyes searched the humongous locker room for Keith. He probably was in his usual cubby, with headphones in his ears, getting ready for practice. His eyes were closed and as expected his round head and thick neck was rocking to the beat. He probably shouldn't be trifled with, but Shane no longer cared, since it was him taking the rap for his mishap.
Shane stalked over to him and slapped his broad chest with the paper. The big man growled before he opened his eyes. Shane stood with his feet shoulder width apart and his arms crossed over his chest. He was not as big as Keith, because he was a running back. He was solid, slender and all muscle. The perfect shade of chocolate as his mother still said. Keith, on the other hand, was a beast and a perfect linebacker. He was light on his feet, but the man could bend steel. Or so he says.
“What the…” Keith flared up, then he stopped when he saw who it was standing over him.
“This is the fine for the underage girl,” Shane bent slightly at the hips to whisper.
“Oh yeah, man. My bad.” Keith had a look of remorse on his face. “Next time, I'll be sure to card.”
“What? There won't be a next time man. I'm pulling you off that girl, when she’s damn near passed out drunk. What were you thinking? Then I'm the one caught looking like I'm taking advantage. This type of shit ends careers. It won't be mine. I worked too hard for this shit and I won't let a soul take that away.”
“Yeah, man.” He shook his head and hit it with his beefy hand. “I keep messing up.”
“Get your life together man. Not sure what's going on, but you need to get your shit together and I'm saying that because I care.”
Shane walked away, because the practice was in an hour and he had to go through his stretching, massage and warm up before the grueling exercise actually started.
Once practice was over, Shane had to go through another series of routines that included an ice bath, another massage, and the steam room. While practices were three hours, it took almost eight hours between preparation, actual practice and team meetings. Similar to any other full-time job. Critics always say football is nothing but a game, but it is very much a business.
Once Shane entered his car, he called his mom. His pop never answered the phone, but it stayed on his mom’s hip.
“Shane Sinclair.” He groaned, because if his mom was calling him by his full name, that meant he was in trouble.
“What's up Mom, what'd I do?”
“Where are you supposed to be, huh? Remember the charity that your father started, but since you hooked up with the Vivy gal, you've had no time.”
“Not Vivy Mom, her name is Vivian.”
“Well, she looks like that Vivy girl,” his mom went on, “you know the one with all the Botox and plastic surgery.”
“Mom, she only had her nose and chin done.”
“Every picture I see, she has something new swollen.”
Shane groaned, “Mom, what about LULA?”
“Don't you have a fundraiser tonight? In one hour?”
“Uh, ohhh noo.” He started rifling through his calendar at the stop light. “Mommmm, oh noo.”
“Oh yeah. Your father is on his way there now,” she chided.
“Dammit,” Shane growled. “Alright, Mom. Got to go. I’ll be a little late, but I’ll be there.”
“Umm hmm,” she murmured and hung up the phone.
Shane would never admit this to his mom, but ever since he and his fiancée hooked up eight months ago, he had been off his game. He was normally on top of the upcoming charities and events, because they were all linked with his father’s interests or businesses. The event that night was a fundraiser for a charity that he and his father co-founded since Shane’s grandmother, his father’s mom, died of cancer. Before the charity was official, Darius Sinclair, had his own fundraiser and he went door to door to collect monies from people on his paper mailing list. He sent out flyers and people contacted him from all over to contribute or receive assistance with various expenses that were associated with the disease that insurance did not cover or some of the extras that were needed. When Shane made it to the NFL, the first thing he did was set up a location, hired a firm to manage it and made his dad the Executive Director. This move was not met with gratitude, unbeknownst to Shane, his father did not like the motive behind what his son had done. He felt that he was doing it just fine and did not need a fancy building, stationary, and the works.
Shane tried to explain that he did it for him and his grandmother, but Mr. Sinclair replied with, “That’s for the wrong reason.”
For the life of Shane, he did not understand, until the first event, when a breast cancer survivor was hugging his father and thanking him for simply keeping the movement going, and actually being there. It clicked for Shane, so when he went to his father to explain that he understood, his father congratulated him and gave him his famous words, “You cannot throw money to fix real problems, most problems start on the inside and work their way out.”
Once Shane arrived home, took another shower and grabbed a suit, he realized that Vivian was out of town at an event that he knew nothing about. Lately, things had been distant between them and Shane was not sure why. She seemed to be on a wedding frenzy some days and could care less, others. He attempted to speak with her about it, but she just smiled, sat on his lap and started to frisk him. He was not a man that would turn down sex, so that usually worked, but as his father said, ‘most problems start on the inside and work their way out’.
When Shane arrived at the event, located in downtown D.C. at the Marriott Hotel, his mother and father were already mingling with the guests. His dad gave him a stern look of disappointment, so he nodded his head to accept. His mother simply shook her head and smiled, waving him over to join them.
Darius Sinclair was dressed in a black tux with a black bow tie and a pressed white shirt. He had a silver goatee that almost glowed in contrast to his chocolate, wrinkle free face. He was six-foot, two-inches and still kept an athletic build, from his normal manual labor. The man looked to be in his forties, but was actually fifty-eight years of age. His mother, Beatrice Sinclair, had on a long, light golden chiffon dress that swung out around her ankles, barely revealing her three-inch heels. Her mostly silver colored hair was in Shirley Temple curls that swept to the right side o
f her golden face. She also did not look to be a day over fifty, yet she had just turned fifty-six.
The event space was elegant, with chandeliers in every section of the ceiling, pink table cloths on every table with a tied, pink ribbon around a basket as the centerpiece. Drinks were flowing, the ice sculpture was melting and people were giving money.
It was time for Mr. Sinclair to address the audience, so everyone took their seats as the bell chimed.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you all for coming. I won’t be long, but I had to take this opportunity to say thank you to all those that have been around since we first started the LULA Foundation. That was over thirty years ago and thanks to your help and support, it has definitely expanded by leaps and bounds. I would be remiss, if I did not mention my son, Shane. He’s grown up to be such a wise young man and as much as I want to take the credit, I just can’t. I know that when I move on and when the time comes, he’ll continue to make this foundation the great success that it has grown to be. I know, he’ll continue the legacy, because that’s just the type of son he is. Love him dearly.” He took a sip of water. “Now without further ado, let’s announce how much we’ve raised. Drumroll, please.”
The continuous beat of drums played repetitively, then he announced the amount raised. It was much larger than last year, so this was excellent. Cameras were clicking and even the press in the back were speaking with the various guests. Shane’s contribution was minor and he recognized this, by not being in the forefront and not broadcasting his involvement. He did not know why his father just publicly named him, but he knew he would avoid the press. This was his father’s charity and it would remain that way.
2
Needs To Be Reported