by Shey Stahl
My point being, if there’s a problem and you don’t think you can handle it, fucking deal with it. You’re an adult.
“Don’t be sorry, just make it right. I need your head and your heart in it. Is everything okay with the kids?”
“Yeah, it’s just gonna take some getting used to and some adjustments.”
He smiles at me, one that offers his condolences. “If there’s anyone who has the commitment to see it through, it’s you.”
He’s right. I know I can. I just didn’t want to do it.
There’s a fight in the locker room. A couple running backs get into it. Surprisingly I’m not involved, but it all has to do with our veteran wide receiver getting knocked around by a younger, stronger corner after his spot. Training camp’s like that. Even if you were the number one draft pick, you’re still there to prove your worth and sometimes it gets more heated than necessary.
There are some shoves, a couple punches, then everyone backs off pretty quick.
“You play like a bitch, Malik!” T.J, our veteran receiver, yells.
“But you—”
“Malik, shut the fuck up,” Quinn pipes up with, always coming to T.J’s defense.
You see this scene right here? Two men battling for dominance? This happens daily at training camp. They never last longer than a punch or two and almost always come from sheer desperation of a second or third-string rookie challenging a veteran to get the attention of the coaches. Then the veteran player wants to prove he’s still the shit, so he throws a couple to put the kid in his place. But here’s the best part. If the starter is injured in the fight, the rookie is off the team. Doesn’t matter who started the fight, he’s gone. It’s career suicide, but it happens more than you know. I can’t fathom wasting that much energy.
A few of us are in the training room soaking in the cold tubs after practice, and by the way, cold tubs are exactly what they sound like. Cold fucking tubs. Fifty degrees filled with ice water and made entirely of stainless steel for that second wave of “fuck you” after you sit down.
We use them to help our muscles recover after a long day spent destroying them. This game of football tests your will and strength like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. The game tells you that you’re worthless, then turns around and makes you beg for another chance. It’s like being trapped in an abusive relationship that’s destroying your body and you’re letting it. You know one day it’s going to kill you, but you can’t leave.
“Hey, LC, wanna grab some dinner?” Jalen, an offensive lineman I occasionally party with, asks as he soaks across from me. Let me add that occasionally is the key word here. As in, twice. There’s a story behind why I stopped “partying” with Jalen, and it has everything to do with his alcohol problem and addiction to hookers. Dude could have all the pussy he wants, but he likes hookers because they apparently do a better job.
“Can’t,” I tell him, imagining this will be my answer more often than not.
Jalen stares at me, his eyebrows raised like I’m crazy for telling him no. “Why the hell not?”
“Dude, don’t you know? His dick’s on lockdown. He’s got kids now,” Justice pops off, amused with himself. I hope his balls shrivel up in the cold water.
I stare at him for a good five seconds, trying to melt the off-season tan from his face. “Shut up.” That’s what I say with my mouth, but my eyes say, “Say another word, motherfucker, and you’ll taste my fist.”
Does he listen? What the fuck do you think?
Piece of shit bursts out laughing. “Your pussy slayin’ days are over, man. Unless of course, Em’s putting out for ya now.” He winks, like I’m supposed to buy into his bullshit and somehow agree with him.
I’m curious how Justice knows about the kids, but I quickly remember Quinn can’t keep his goddamn mouth shut. It also doesn’t matter if he knows. It’s not like I’m hiding the kids. There are five of them. One you can hide. Maybe two. Three or more? Not a chance.
I think now might be a good time to tell you about why I don’t like Justice Bailey. Not only does he not protect me in the pocket, but I have an excellent reason for hatred. He’s an asshole. And while this alone would be enough reason, that’s not my only reason. He used to date Ember. As I understand it right, by my frequent battering of questions, he’s also the last guy she fucked, which puts him on my automatic hate radar.
My hate festers for Justice because he’s been inside Ember and I haven’t. I think about his words and what they’re implying. The part about my partying days being over and that I’ll never get a chance to go out again, even when I get a nanny because surely a nanny won’t watch them 24/7. Yeah, Ember answers her phone and takes care of everything I need no matter what time of the day it is, aside from having sex with me, but surely a nanny has strict hours, right? And then I think, what if I find a hot one? Maybe she can take care of what Ember won’t?
I know what you’re thinking. Why not just fuck some random chick? You’re the star quarterback and surely you have opportunities. And to that I’d say, yes, I have opportunities all the time, but trust is key here. Women are fucking money hungry. I’m sorry to be the one to point it out, but all they want when they see me is my money and last name. They don’t give a rat’s ass about me as a person. When it comes to me they see dollar signs.
That’s why I don’t sleep around. Sure, I have before, but fuck, you gotta be careful with that shit. There are guys on the team that even go so far as to take the used condoms with them, so the chick can’t try to impregnate herself after he leaves.
I know, I got off topic there, but it’s the truth and the reason I surround myself with people like Ember. She’d never do that to me. I don’t know what I’d do without her. Thrown into the lifestyle of the rich, famous, and used, I was so confused for so long, wondering what was real in the life I’d been living being an NFL superstar.
That’s when I met Ember, and I had no doubt in my mind she’d be there for me through it all. I’d chosen football because it’s all I’ve ever known. And while I knew any success I had would come with fame, I also naively signed up for a lifestyle of being under nonstop scrutiny and constantly living with the unknown. Just because I had a multimillion-dollar contract and endorsement deals, which allowed me financial security, all that meant nothing in the long run. A rookie could come in and beat me out for the position and the next thing I know, the GM could be pulling me aside and telling me to pack my bags. You never know in the NFL. Sure, NFL stands for National Football League, but those of us in the league know what it really stands for: Not For Long.
I don’t know when my relationship with Ember went from her being a friend and assistant to me looking at her and considering someday, somehow, this woman would be my wife.
After I’m done soaking, I check my phone for the first time since this morning. There are some messages from Harper and my agent, Chad, but none hold my attention like they do when I see the ones from Ember.
Ember: Hope you like this one.
And then I open the picture. It’s of a brand-new Escalade with Adler standing in front of it making the peace sign. I think he’s getting a little too comfortable in the super-star lifestyle. I admit, I bought into it for a long time too, until Ember came along and knocked my ass on the ground.
I smile. I can’t help it.
Rushing home, for once, I pull into the parking garage. The Escalade’s parked next to my Mustang. When I said I loved cars, I wasn’t lying. I think I have a fleet of seven, even a Lamborghini Aventador in there… and now with this new one.
While I certainly never expected to purposely seek out a vehicle that could fit five kids, I have to say it’s a nice one. SUVs have come a long way over the years. Hell, there’s even 30-inch black Forgiato Concavo wheels on it. Ember has good taste for sure, but it’s no surprise. She’s picked out most of my cars with me.
In the lobby of the building, Gus high-fives me. “It’s gonna be a good season, LC.”
I
flash a smile at Gus, the bellman. “You better believe it, man.” I like Gus. He’s one of those guys you know should be retired by now, but the idea of not having those human relationships he’s carved out his entire career here sounds depressing to him, so he keeps working.
“I had the pleasure of seeing the kids today,” Gus notes. He was here the night I brought them back to the condo and experienced the madness that comes with the five hooligans.
“Yeah?”
Gus lets out an exasperated laugh, as if he recalls a memory that sparks a smile. “The little one has a set of lungs.”
Nodding, anxiety gnaws at me. I don’t know why, maybe because I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with them and at the mere mention of them, it hits me. “That she does.”
I think he senses my mind shifting to everything I’ve been fucking up because the next thing I know his hand clasps my shoulder. “You’re doing great, kid. Even parents who plan to have kids don’t figure it out until the kid’s older. That’s why being a grandparent is so cool. You get a second chance to do right by your kids.”
Twisting around, I toss my hands up in the air, but it’s not an exasperated motion. It’s playful because, for some fucking reason I can’t pinpoint, the idea of going upstairs isn’t as awful as it was yesterday. “But I don’t have that option. They’re not my grandkids, old man,” I tease, winking at him, walking backward a couple steps.
“You’re cooler. You’re the uncle and you get to make their lives better by being you.”
I give Gus one last look, not completely sure what that means.
Taking the elevator up to the top floor where my condo is, that’s when the nerves return.
Drawing in a deep breath, unsure of what I’m going to be met with, I open the door to my condo. It’s calmer than I expect my place to be, only filled with people. The kids are there, along with Cat, who’s coloring with the younger girls at one end of the table, and Ember and Harper going over what looks like houses on an iPad.
You know what I notice first? The boxes of pizza on the table and bags of what looks to be groceries being put away by Pita, my maid. She doesn’t look at me, just says, “Good evening, Mr. Slade.” And then continues her diligent job of organizing my cupboards the way I taught her.
Ember glances up, then back down like she didn’t see me.
“Hi, honey, I’m home,” I say, winking at Ember like I’m going to get a rise out of her. You never know.
While I get no reaction from Ember—or Harper for that matter—at least three of the five kids say hi to me. Haisley, Adler, and Nalani all wave and blurt out everything they did today.
Marley, she barely registers my presence. She’s immersed in her phone and earbuds, a sketch book in hand, blocking out anything I say. And Braylee. She doesn’t say anything either. Doesn’t even look up. I can’t get a read on that kid yet.
Nalani shoves a crayon in her mouth and tries to eat it. “How’s that taste?” Cat asks her, smiling like she knows the answer is going to be her spitting it out.
Her response is immediate as she spits it out. “Yuck.”
After grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, I take a seat next to Ember at the table. Our eyes catch, but she doesn’t say anything to me just yet. Do you notice the flush to her cheeks though? Our knees are touching under the table. And for good measure, I’d die to run my hand up her thigh just to see what she’d do, but I’ll test my luck later. This looks important.
Beside them, Adler is deep in conversation with Braylee. “Seattle fans are known for being the loudest.” Sliding off the couch, he stands in front of his sister. “Can you scream so loud you pass out?”
Braylee shrugs, a game controller in her hand and the flickering of the video game on the television visible in her eyes. “Wanna try?”
“Sure.”
Adler holds up his hand and makes the number one signal with his index finger. “One,” he adds another finger, “Two,” and then a third. “Three. Scream.”
He does, but Braylee doesn’t. She’s back to playing the game.
Adler’s shoulders slump forward with disappointment. “Why didn’t you scream?”
“I don’t know. I guess I don’t want to.”
“The Hawks play their first preseason game in two weeks. We need to be prepared to show our support,” Adler goes on to tell her. I hadn’t noticed until now, but they all look like they robbed the Seahawks team store today. I would have gotten all this for them, jerseys, blankets, whatever they wanted, but I have a feeling Ember’s behind this one. She has insisted on paying for every jersey and hoodie she has.
Until now, I haven’t thought about what it’s going to be like during the season or how any of this is going to work. I like the idea of them coming to the games and supporting what I do for a living. Realistically, it’s not possible for them to be at every game and go to school too.
Ember pushes the iPad toward me after Harper excuses herself, saying she has a meeting to get to. “What do you think of these three? The kids like the one on Lake Washington, the one Frontenac is in a great neighborhood and close to a private school.”
“Is there a guest house?”
Swiping to the right, she shows me the one on Frontenac St. “This one does.”
Looking over the specifics, I see that it has eight bedrooms, ten thousand square feet, six bathrooms and a pool. Perfect. “That one then.”
Ember’s eyes drift to mine. “You’re not saying that just because you think you can kick the kids out to the guest house, are you?”
I smile. “That’s a good idea, but it’s not for them.”
She stares at me, confused and searching my eyes for the underlying reason I need a guest house.
Maintaining eye contact, I hate that my voice betrays me and gives away my intentions. “It’s for you and Cat.”
Drawing in a deep breath, she lets it out slowly, like we’ve been over this so many times. And we have. She’s adamant it’s not going anywhere with us and I keep putting pressure on her. It’s that old saying, if at first you don’t succeed, try again. I’ll just keep trying until she agrees. No one does persistent like me. I’m also the master at rolling my eyes. And if you say something to earn one of these, it’s deserving and effective.
So when Ember pops off with, “We don’t need your handouts,” I give her the Picasso of eye rolls.
“I know you think I’m just doing this to get you to fuck me, and I’m not going to lie, that will always be my intention on some level, but you’re my best friend. You know I care about you and I want both of you safe and happy. If that means you’re living with me, that’s what I’ll do.”
“We’re not your problem,” she adds.
I hate it when she says that. They are my friends and like it or not, part of me will always feel responsible for Cat’s accident. That night it happened, I’d pulled Ember away to fly to the Green Bay Packers game with me because I wanted her there. Cat ended up going to a friend’s wedding with a work friend she didn’t know all that well. That girl wrapped the car around a tree, died instantly and Cat’s life was forever changed. Had Ember driven her like she was supposed to do, the accident would have never happened.
I know, technically speaking, I had nothing to do with that friend’s decision to drink and drive, but because I needed Ember that night (aka didn’t want to be alone), I changed the course of her life.
“I’m tired of telling you this, but that night wasn’t your fault and you don’t need to buy our happiness because you feel bad.”
Leaning in closer, I bring my lips to her ear. “I’m not trying to buy your happiness. I’m trying to make sure you’re safe and keep you close. Keeping you close makes me happy, so you see, I’m really just trying to make myself happy.”
Okay, let’s take a quick break here. You’re probably wondering why I turn everything sexual with Ember. Does everything have to lead back to sex?
Yes, yes it does. Especially when you’re not gett
ing any.
Okay, let’s continue. Do you see the look I’m getting? I hadn’t thought about my answer. It just came out, much like everything else I say to her. That’s one thing I love about Ember. I never have to censor myself. But judging by the look Ember’s giving me, perhaps I should have.
“You’re such a chauvinistic asshole.”
“I am not.” Do you catch the offended tone to my voice? She couldn’t give a flying fuck about offending me. It’s why she’ll make a great wife someday. “I’m an honest asshole.”
“Fine, whatever.” She picks up the iPad and stands. “I’ll get everything set up for tomorrow afternoon, but you need to be there to sign the papers.”
“Why can’t you? You have power of attorney for me.”
“I’m not signing the paperwork on a—” She pauses and looks at the price, her eyes widening. “A thirteen-million-dollar home for you.”
But then I say, like it’s going to make a goddamn bit of difference to her, “I trust you.”
I’m given that look, you know, the one women give you when they’re tired of your shit. “Just sign the damn papers. Take the kids and do it with them. It’ll be a nice step into showing them you’re looking out for them.”
I think about what she says, I do, but I catch her hand before she gets up. “Say you’ll move in with me.” It’s not a question and it’s not meant to be.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because. If I move in with you, it’s only going to get worse.”
I quirk an eyebrow at her, trying to catch her eyesight, but she’s distracting herself by toying with the lid to my water bottle. “What’s going to get worse?”
Let’s screech to a halt and pause here, people. Hell, push fucking rewind if you will because the moment, the very goddamn second our eyes meet when she drops the lid and before I get the word “worse” out, do you notice the flicker of her lashes and the way she looks at me? It’s something between “I want to suck his cock” and “he’s going to be my baby daddy someday.”
I’m kidding, but it’d be cool if she did. If you noticed, the look I actually got was something similar to the one a girl gives a boy she has a crush on. Like when Adler’s cheeks turned pink at the Chinese food delivery chick. That kind.