The Final Quarter

by Anne Lange

  Maybe he could sell it all and move to a straw hut on an island. One with no phone or Internet service.

  With all the energy and excitement of a turtle, Jack rose from his living room couch and meandered to the kitchen, his feet lead-like. He placed his empty glass in the not-so-empty sink. He let his gaze roam the tiny one-bedroom apartment as he walked toward the front door. His mother would have a coronary if she saw the leaning tower of magazines, the double layer of dust and the clothes strewn about the leather furniture and granite tables. While on the road, he’d only spent part of each winter here. So little time, it felt more like visiting than living. Now, everything had changed.

  Leaning down to pick up his black carry-on, he cursed his luck. Then he let himself out, locking the door behind him. How often had he actually left the building since he’d returned home, other than for food?

  Oh yeah, I ordered that in.

  He came to an abrupt stop after he’d pushed through the building’s main doors and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The wind slipped through his nylon jacket, chilling him. Damn, it was cold. And snow covered the ground.

  When the fuck did winter arrive?

  He hailed a cab, not in the mood to spend twenty minutes driving up and down each level of the airport’s parking garage waiting for somebody to give up their primo spot. He just wanted to get on the plane, have a drink, or four, and sleep for a few hours.

  While the cabbie maneuvered through traffic, Jack debated reading the attachment Mason had mentioned. Fuck. He hated this. In his current mood, the last thing he should be doing was exposing it to some unsuspecting, unknown female—even if she’d been paid to make him happy. But a bet was a bet, and although he’d spent hours trying to find any excuse to stay locked in his dreary home, he never went back on his word, even those agreed to while under the influence. Besides, it had to be some kind of bad luck to renege on a deal that involved the gambling hub of the free world. And he’d had enough bad breaks in his life.

  He sighed. He’d go, but that didn’t mean he’d enjoy himself. If lady luck happened to be on his side, his sour mood would scare away his date and he’d be left to his own company.

  When had he become so pathetic that his friends would actually pay somebody to spend the weekend with him? Maybe he should make a side trip for some penicillin, just in case. He shook his head, a shiver crawling down his spine. If it turned out to be some swanky high-dollar escort, he’d give her a nice tip and tell her to go shopping. Then he’d crash for two days before the flight home.

  After a thirty-minute delay, Jack boarded the plane, stowed his luggage and, as he settled into his first-class seat, something he soon wouldn’t be able to afford anymore, he placed his drink order before they’d even taxied down the runway. Once the plane had reached its cruising altitude, his beverage delivered and downed in three large gulps, he closed his eyes.

  Jack jerked awake when the whine and rumble of the landing gear kicked in.

  “Sir, we’re preparing to land. Could you please put your seat in the upright position?”

  He blinked and looked up into the face of a very pretty flight attendant. Mid to late twenties, blonde hair pulled up into a fashionable twist, her blue eyes, glittering with feminine interest, matched the same hue in the uniform scarf. A coquettish smile tipped the corners of her mouth into a sweet curve. A baseball groupie or just somebody interested in getting laid during her layover?

  Until a few months ago, he might have taken her up on the unspoken invitation, and asked her to dinner, if only to appease the publicity team. Unfortunately, they’d never taken his tastes or his interests into consideration. It was all about the image. Now, nothing stirred him other than the desire to throw a fastball through the curved wall of the plane. He rubbed at the persistent ache in his shoulder.

  Instead, he mumbled something, pulled up his seat and tried to direct his attention out of the window. Undeterred by his rudeness, she stretched over his seatmate to hand him something. Her breasts strained against the fabric of her blouse, her hard nipples prominent.

  Did she undo an extra button?

  “You were sleeping when I came around earlier, Mr Bishop.”

  On autopilot, he raised his hand to accept the snack. She winked as she placed it in his palm, gliding her fingers along his as she backed away and moved down the aisle.

  Jack looked down at the package of peanuts sitting atop a napkin. Bending forward, he stuffed them into the pocket on the back of the seat in front of him, but the napkin escaped his hold and drifted to the floor. Leaning down to retrieve it, he paused, staring at a phone number jotted across the airline’s symbol in blue ink, and a red lip imprint with the name Ashley penned underneath. He rolled his eyes and shook his head. It had been like this ever since he went pro.

  Straightening, he crumpled the napkin in a ball and pushed it down into the pocket then turned to glance at the view. On other trips to Vegas, he’d always loved seeing the strip from this height, especially at night. In the blinding sun of mid-afternoon, he absorbed the red of the mountains, and the blue spattering of lakes and backyard pools.

  Mason’s email said his date would show up some time later this afternoon. Maybe he could slip up to his room, shower quickly then hit the casino, avoiding the date altogether. If they managed to not run into each other for the next two days, he could spend the weekend pining for his lost career over a blackjack table.

  The plane made a smooth landing and taxied to the gate. While the other passengers jumped from their seats, only to find that they had nowhere to run until the door opened and the crew bade them farewell, Jack remained seated and turned on his cell phone, absently flipping through unopened emails from Mason and his former teammates—fewer in number compared to last week. He opened his brother’s message again, finally reading the attachment. As he scanned the message to find out where he was staying, his gut twisted in anger. He suppressed a growl.

  You’ll actually be staying at the Bellagio this weekend, in one of the suites. It’s top of the line and worth a small fortune, so don’t fuck this up. Or I’ll be pissed and you’ll owe me. I figured tonight you’ll probably want to do room service, but I’ve booked a dinner reservation for you at Rao’s in Caesar’s for tomorrow evening, 7 p.m. Oh, did I forget to mention your date will be sharing the suite with you for the weekend? Be nice.

  He reread that last line. Not the ‘be nice’ part. He’d fucking kill Mason. Goddamn it. Any chance of avoiding the woman had slipped away, just as fast as his career had.

  Thirty minutes later, Jack used his key card to let himself into the corner suite. He stopped to listen for a moment, getting a sense of his surroundings. Nothing. His mystery woman hadn’t arrived yet. He cursed Mason once more for good measure. If it wasn’t for the fact that he no longer needed an agent, he’d fire his ass. At least he’d had the decency to forewarn him about his weekend roomie. Regardless of the outlay of cash, he planned to teach Mr Enright a lesson as soon as he got back home, and payback was a bitch. Be nice? Mason knew damn well Jack never spent the night with his so-called dates. Never.

  The door swung closed behind him, and he moved farther into the living space. His eyes widened as he took in the elegance of room. Holy fuck. He’d stayed in plenty of nice hotels while being wooed by scouts. During his time on the road, they’d been decent, though nothing extraordinary.

  But this room existed in a class by itself. Deep, comfortable-looking furniture in rich colors pulled his eye to the center of the room. A large plasma television hung over the gas fireplace, and a big, bright bouquet of flowers—their fragrance filling the room—almost overwhelmed the round dining table. And the view from the long side of the room—shit—it overlooked the fountains. A terrace lay straight ahead facing the other direction. It was a far cry from the hostel doorstep his parents had dumped him off at as a child.

  His phone rang inside his pocket. Dropping his bag, he reached for it, glancing at the screen before placing it to his ear
.

  “Mason.” Jack didn’t even make an attempt to hide the growl of menace.

  His brother laughed. “Is the room not to your liking?”

  “This has nothing to do with the room, and you know it. What the fuck are you up to?”

  On the other end, the chuckling stopped, replaced by an uncomfortable silence. Jack waited.

  “Jack, I respect you. I get that you’re angry. You know that. And I know you’ve been dealt another card that sucks big time, but you need to move on, man.”

  “I am.”

  “No. You’re not. You’re drinking and sulking yourself into a hole.”

  “I’d think you’d be more understanding. After all, you’ve lost one of your revenue-generating clients,” he stated, his voice clipped.

  “That’s harsh, Jack. I’m not your agent at the moment. I’m your best friend. Fuck, I’m the brother you never had, and I’m telling you baseball isn’t everything. You’re not even thirty yet. You have your whole life ahead of you, and it’s time for the pity party to end.” Mason sighed, a heavy sound through the phone line. “Listen, I talked to—”

  “Stop. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “But there are other things you can do, Jack, that still involve sports and baseball in particular.”

  “You don’t understand, Mason. It’s not the same as playing. I’ll never be able to do that again.”

  His brother’s voice dropped lower, laced with sympathy. Or was it pity? “No, you won’t. But that doesn’t mean you have to give it up completely.”

  Jack ran his free hand through his hair and strolled over to the windows. He glanced down, watching the hordes of people lined up on the street against the pillars and railings to get a view of the dancing streams of water.

  “I never took you for a quitter, Jack.”

  He stiffened. “I’m not a quitter.”

  Strained silence ensued for a long moment before Mason spoke again. Jack sensed him gathering his words, filtering them, working on round two. The man was five years older, but they’d always been on the same page, and for the first time, they weren’t. Why Jack didn’t just hang up, he couldn’t say. Instead, he waited while Mason switched gears.

  “I set this weekend up as a way to show you there’s still something out there for you. It’s a chance to start over.”

  “With weekend stranger sex?”

  “You never know, my friend. This could be the woman of your dreams.”

  Jack snorted.

  “Just play it out, Jack. You’re away from the cold and snow for a few days. You’re going to spend the weekend with a beautiful woman. Get to know her, have fun. Relax. See a show. Come home refreshed and ready to start your life.” Mason paused for a couple of beats. “You do have options. And who knows? You may be surprised at how everything turns out.”

  Not likely, but Mason was right about one thing. At least he wasn’t stuck back in Minneapolis in the shitty weather. “Is it necessary for us to share a room?”

  His foster brother’s lighthearted snicker eased the tension. “It’s the only way I knew for certain you’d actually meet with her. I’m not stupid, pal. You forget who you’re talking to. I know you planned to skip the introductions and spend the weekend at the tables drowning your sorrows and avoiding the pretty lady. I went to a lot of work to get the two of you together. The least you can do is take her to dinner. I promise, she doesn’t bite.”

  “It better not be a hooker, Mason.”

  “Really, Jack?”

  Incensed or not, Jack also knew how Mason operated. Jack groaned. “Fine. I’ll take her to dinner.”

  “And talk nice to her.”

  Fuck. “I know how to act around a woman.”

  “This isn’t one of your groupies, Jack, or one of the ladies that jerk of a publicist arranged for you. I mean be nice to her. Don’t put on the face for the cameras, lead her around, then fuck her in some coat room before you ditch her.”

  Wow, protective much? And clearly he’d fallen for the publicity hype too, which pissed Jack off. “I promise to behave, Mason. And how many times have I told you it wasn’t like that. But I also promise to kick your ass as soon as I see you.”

  “We’ll see, buddy. We’ll see.”

  His low, suspicious chuckle irked Jack. What the fuck did he mean by that?

  “Listen, I need to grab a shower before my roomie shows up.” Sarcasm dripped off his tongue but Mason apparently chose to ignore it.

  “One more thing, Jack.”

  Of course there was. “What?”

  “I’ve put a call in to the high school for you—remember we talked about it a few weeks ago?”

  “Mason—” The man would not give it up.

  “Don’t Mason me. You wouldn’t have made the move. The coach gave me his numbers for both his home and the school. He insisted that you call anytime. They’re anxious to talk to you. Just give them a call. I’ll send you the info.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  This time his brother groaned. “Call me when you get back to town. I’m sure we’ll have a lot to talk about by then. Oh, and Mom says hi. Later.”

  He’d just bet she did. Hi wasn’t the message she’d left on his answering machine.

  Jack pulled the cell away from his ear, Mason’s cryptic words still confusing him. He shook his head and shoved his phone into his pants pocket then walked back to retrieve his bag from where he’d dropped it by the door. He went in search of the bathroom.

  He moved down a short hall, peeked through a door and stuttered to a stop. Wow. It was large enough to golf in, had loads of marble counter space, gold faucets and a pile of plush white towels. He stepped into the space and flipped on the light. The large walk-in shower boasted two rainfall showerheads and a bench seat. Perfect for couples. Too bad he had no plans to make use of it in that fashion.

  He stripped, letting his clothes fall into a puddle at his feet, and stepped into the shower. Jack turned the heat on high enough to steam up the room. Grabbing the shampoo provided, he worked the liquid into a generous lather and put his hands to his hair.

  Knowing Mason’s taste, his date for the weekend was cover-girl gorgeous and interested in bragging rights, after she had played queen of the mountain with him. He began psyching himself up for an evening with a woman he did not intend to see beyond the night, let alone this weekend.

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  About the Author

  Shoes are her addiction, but books are her passion. Anne Lange grew up with a love for reading. If you take a close look, she’s got either a book, her Kindle or her Kobo—maybe all three—tucked into her bag or a pocket when she leaves the house. You know, just in case there’s time to sneak in a chapter or ten. Anne reads many genres of romance, but prefers to write sexy stories, often with a dash of humor, and usually with a side of those sinful pleasures your mom never told you about.

  Oh, and always a happily ever after.

  While embarking on this wild journey of becoming a romance author, Anne juggles a full time job and a family. Not always successfully. Who needs a clean house every day? And what’s wrong with cereal for dinner? She lives in Ontario, Canada with her wonderfully supportive husband, three awesome kids who are growing up way too fast, and Rocky the bearded dragon.

  Email: anne_lange66@yahoo.ca

  Anne loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com.

  Also by Anne Lange

  A New League: Sliding into Home

  Totally Bound Publishing

 

 

 
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