Cocky Quarterback: Eric Cocker (Cocker Brothers of Atlanta Book 12)

by Faleena Hopkins

  “Met him once but this isn’t his hang.”

  “No? What is?”

  “Probably a coffee shop. Who the fuck knows man. But he sure as shit doesn’t know sports.”

  Wren calls over, “He does so! He’s a huge fan,” as she drops the pints in front of two guys, interrupting their conversation to ask, “On your tab?” One nods, the other absently waves and they get back to it.

  Since everyone’s been taken care of, drinks are filled and nobody’s leaving, she turns it to me, gnawing on her bottom lip with a thank you shining behind copper eyes. “Can I get you a beer or something? On me?”

  “Nah, I just came here for the view.”

  Her eyebrows lift the tiniest bit. “Had your fill?”

  “Not quite.”

  Shaking her head and hiding her smile, she glances to the right as her bar-back brings a fresh bucket of ice. She relieves him of it. “I got it, Ray, thanks. I’m almost out of Sweetwater IPAs.”

  He runs off to replenish the cooler, and she turns the bucket upside down, ice crashing.

  I jut my chin, watching it, “That’s what a fountain in winter looks like.”

  Her head is tipped, eyes flicking up to meet mine. “What happens to the fish?”

  The fountain my brother made Wyntech buy for his office pops into my mind. I bite my lip before coming up with, “Unfortunately they become Koicicles.”

  Wren leans closer, a slow grin spreading, “Koi-cicles? Did you really just say that?”

  Taylor laughs, “Yeah, and their poops are like ice-chocolates.”

  She and I both eyeball him and say at the same time, “No, just no.”

  “What? Too far?”

  “Taylor, that dart board is pretty cool, huh?” I suggest with meaning.

  He gets the message and mutters, “I’ll go check it out.”

  With a funny look Wren flat out asks me, “Why are you here? Don’t you have a game this weekend? Shouldn’t you be resting, practicing, lifting weights, something?”

  “I’m meeting my cousin Ben. And I’ll take a cranberry juice.”

  Scooping ice into a glass she pours the juice from the gun, eyes darting behind me. I glance back, her expression telling me there’s something to see. A head taller than everyone around him is my cousin Ben, six-six, sandy brown hair and emerald green eyes, wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and jeans more faded than mine. They got that way from sun exposure, just like his tanned skin. We don’t share the same dad, but you can tell we’re related. Only he’s wearing a wedding ring and I most definitely am not.

  “Hey Eric, glad you called,” he nods with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

  We hug, pulling away after a dueling back-slap, me agreeing, “Yeah, haven’t seen you in for-fucking-ever, Ben.”

  He glances around, appraising the crowd, “People still go out on weekends, huh? Haven’t been here since I met Shelby.”

  “Still the same?”

  “Hasn’t changed. What’re you drinking?” I tell him and he glances to Wren. “I need something stiffer. Can I get a Makers Mark?”

  “This is my cousin. He runs an organic farm. Lives an hour north of here.”

  Those laughing eyes wow me as she asks, “Another Cocker then? God, help the women in the room.” Turning to get the bourbon from a high shelf, she goes up on her toes and I exchange a look with Ben.

  Glancing from me to her ass then back to me, he realizes one of the reasons I called him here tonight even though I can’t drink before a game. His eyes clear and he instantly adopts professional wing-man status. “Yeah, but I’m no Eric. I don’t know if you’re a fan, but this man scored—”

  She cuts him off. “I’m a fan of the Falcons. I know his stats.”

  Ben persists, “I see. But are you aware of what a great guy he is?”

  She pours a generous amount of the amber liquid over three ice cubes. “He’s told me as much.”

  Ben laughs outright and I just shake my head. She winks at me and heads off to help other customers. As soon as she’s out of range my older and probably wiser cousin lowers his voice. “One night or longer?”

  “Not sure yet. But definitely a whole weekend at least. See that tat?”

  We both lean forward to check it out. He mutters, “Can’t see it from here.”

  “Dammit, other shoulder. I haven’t been able to figure it out yet but I plan on having a good gander.”

  “Gander?”

  “Figured you’d like that. I’m speaking ‘farm.’ You know, what’s good for the goose.”

  “You’re an idiot,” he laughs. “So why do you need me here?”

  I give him a severe look. “For one thing, I love you, you fuck. Why does there have to be a reason? For another, I need to know why you eloped.”

  His smile freezes.

  Ben sets his whiskey on the bar before he stuffs his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. Classic Cocker move when the men of the family aren’t happy with an uncomfortable subject, or just aren’t happy, period. “What’s the fuss about? Who needs a big marriage? Waste of money for one day.”

  “Big marriage or big wedding? Was that a slip of the tongue?”

  His eyes darken. “Look, Eric, don’t play dumb. You know what went down.”

  I lift up his glass and hand it to him, my juice still in my other grip. “You need to relax. Are we not friends? I know I was the tagalong to your older-cousin-clique but I’ve been there my whole life. You can talk to me, Ben. Don’t act like we’re strangers.”

  His shoulders stubbornly keep their tension. “Sorry, it’s just a sore subject.”

  “You love her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then what’s the big deal?”

  His nostrils flare on a deep inhale, eyes far away. “I don’t need a big wedding like Gabriel had. Didn’t need everyone there, all the hoopla bullshit. Shelby wanted to elope, too. The family makes her uncomfortable. History and all. So we took off, just us, as it should be. Uncle Jett and Luna did it.”

  “They’re the only ones.”

  “So?”

  “You forget they don’t live in Atlanta.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “You’re an hour away. Unlike them you’ve been at every vacation, every major event, and most importantly, at every BBQ. So I want to know why you chose the biggest day of your life to run off and hide.”

  Wren interrupts us by setting two nearly overflowing shot glasses down. “Hey, Cocker, those pretty girls bought you and your cousin some tequila shots.”

  Ben and I flick a glance over at two flirtatious smiles sitting four barstools around the bend.

  We lift the freebies in salute.

  I call over, “Thanks, ladies!”

  Finger-waves is what we get.

  That and batting eyelashes.

  Guess they forgot how to speak.

  I eyeball Wren to see if she’s jealous, maybe just a little bit.

  She’s not.

  “My cousin here is married. Should we tell them?”

  She gives Ben a wink, “Let ‘em dream.” Those laughing eyes lock on me before she dryly adds, “And you can be their nightmare.”

  Ben and I bend back like we’ve been shot with badassery, groaning that she got me good. Proud of herself she vanishes into her work again.

  My cousin and I lock eyes. I smirk, “Okay, maybe I want her for two weekends. Here, drink this. I can’t.”

  Chapter 13

  WREN

  Motown croons from a playlist I carefully compiled for housework. I’m on hands and knees scrubbing my kitchen floor and this kind of music helps the medicine go down. Woke up with an urge to scour.

  Knees barking for a break I stand up and stretch. “Oh God, that feels good! Uhhh!!!”

  A few minutes and fresher water later—I Heard It Through The Grapevine by Marvin Gaye, making my butt bounce—I’m on the floor scrubbing the last eight months, maybe nine, from my tiles.

  The phone
has bounced across the granite counter several times during however long I’ve been down here. I knew if I picked it up I’d stop cleaning. Couldn’t take the chance of a two-toned floor haunting my weeks to come. Living alone I can get away with a lot, I’m the queen of this shoebox, but a kitchen of half clean half filth? Nope nope nope. I don’t need that kind of guilt. Over time gradually growing darker in a consistent fashion, that I am fine with.

  After at least another hour I swirl my hips to the end beats of Brick House by the Commodores and step back to appreciate my work. “Who’s got an awesome kitchen? I do! That’s right. That’s right! Oh yeah, oh yeah, boom!”

  Snatching the phone on my way to a shower I scan the notifications and see Mike, my Mom, and my old bandmate, Ginny. Surprised, I stop to listen to her message right away.

  “Hi Wren, how ya been? Listen, we’re playing The Drunken Unicorn on the 14th and wanted to see if you’d like to come?”

  My heart is pounding way too hard for me to call her back, so I toss the phone on my bed and don’t move for a whole three minutes. Rushing over and snatching it up, my trembling thumb hovers over her number and dials Mike.

  “Hey, what’s up?” he answers, sounds of the loud bar in the background.

  “Just turning my home into a better version of itself. You called?”

  “Yeah, uh, Eric Cocker is here asking about you.”

  Peeling strands of wet hair from my forehead I blink a couple times. “He really is determined isn’t he?”

  Mike chuckles, “Looks like it.”

  “Tell him I’m not a notch to carve into his goal post.”

  “I’m not telling the star player who brings in thousands of bucks for us every week, that. Maybe he likes you, ever thought of that?”

  “Yeah right,” I laugh. “He’s a guy who gets what he wants and for once he can’t. That’s all this is. Tell him I’m cleaning my floors or I’d so be there.”

  Mike snorts, “Nice priorities,” and hangs up.

  “Dumbass,” I mutter, texting back my mom that I’ll see her in an hour. Tossing the phone back on the bed I head into the bathroom to wash off this goo, and the nervousness Ginny’s invite just gifted me.

  “Oh that’s a good idea, Wren,” Mom smiles, excitedly telling our lunch server on the patio of Meehans. “I’ll have a sweet tea like my daughter is having, and the salmon with sautéed kale. Do you have french fries?”

  “We do. Shoestring.”

  She lights up even more, making me smile. “Oh yay! Those please. We have a thing for potatoes.”

  Agreeing with her I add, “You cook ‘em we’ll eat ‘em. But fried is our favorite.”

  He takes our menus. “I don’t trust a person who doesn’t like french fries. I’ll get those sweet teas for you ladies.”

  “Thank you,” Mom and I say in unison as he strolls off, sunlight dappled around him.

  “I used to think it was silly that we have to put our napkins on our laps. I’m not afraid of spilling. What’s the point. It’s such a thing. Then you know what I found out?”

  “What?” she asks, absently sculpting her short hair into place, just in case the light amount of hairspray wasn’t enough. My mother is an older version of me except she’s not an artist, she’s got a Southern accent, and she prefers short hair. Also she has no tattoos, which pretty much falls under the first category. Not that all creative people get ink, but the vast majority, for sure.

  “Well I thought it was dumb so I rebelled and left my napkin on the table. But I was having a burger. And I wore lipstick. With the grease from my fingers, the dripping mustard I had to wipe off, the lipstick that came off with it, if I’d have left that on the table a second longer I would have lost my appetite!”

  Mom laughs, “So we’re hiding the mess?”

  “Yes!” I grin. “That’s why it’s civilized. We look all perfect up here but hidden on our laps is the grime and grit of reality!”

  “Oh, how your mind works, Wren. This is why I wish you hadn’t given up singing.”

  I glance down. “I wondered how long it would take for you to bring that up.”

  Her lips go prim, but she doesn’t argue.

  Sighing I tell her, “Ginny called me today.”

  “Oh?”

  “Mom, don’t look so excited.”

  “Well, what did she say?”

  Playing with the sunglasses I set next to the tiny flower vase, I shrug, “They’re doing a gig soon. Wants me to come. Oh, God, I knew I shouldn’t have told you. Stop bouncing in your chair!”

  “Where is it? Can I come?”

  My heart aches as I realize she thinks I’ll be performing. “No, Mom, that’s not what I meant. Ginny’s their singer now. She just wants to stay friends, doesn’t want me to feel left out. Ginny’s just being nice.”

  Mom’s eyes dull and she leans back as the server arrives with our drinks. “That’s very thoughtful of Ginny,” she mumbles, adding a distracted, “Thank you.”

  He doesn’t dawdle. Sensing he intruded at a bad time he sets everything down and disappears quickly.

  Biting my lips I spin the straw in circles. “I know you want me performing but it’s just not meant to be, okay?”

  Taking a sip, glass in one hand, straw in the other, she mumbles, “There is no meant to be. There’s only what you make happen.”

  “If I were supposed to be on stage I wouldn’t be so terrified. If I were meant to be a singer, I would love being in front of audiences rather than puking before and after the show! Mom, the other night I was on the bar at work, making people laugh and that was fun. But I wasn’t baring my soul like I do when I sing. It was over in a snap, like a dumb comedy routine or something. But singing is different. Don’t you get it?”

  “No, I don’t!”

  Leaning toward her and keeping my voice down I try to make her understand. “Singing is—how do I explain it?—your soul is your instrument. Your voice! You’re literally stretching melodies out of your own vocal chords, opening your heart and putting it on display for everyone. You don’t even need a band for backup if you’re really doing it right, if you have that talent. That’s powerful and it’s terrifying! I can’t just give people my heart like that, when I don’t know who’s watching.”

  “You have the talent, Wren.”

  Sighing I sit back and stare at my tea. “Maybe…but something’s missing.”

  “If I had your gift I’d be on every stage from here to Nashville! Heck, I’d even move there!”

  My lips thin as I gaze at her. Is it like this with every generation? Are parents and children meant to question each other, be so different? Is that what makes us grow?

  “Mom, I appreciate you wanting me to push myself but if I was meant to sing, it wouldn’t be painful for me to do it.”

  “What about your songs? Are those just going to collect dust? I just think you should give it one more try! You gave up too easily.”

  “No, I didn’t! God, this is so frustrating!”

  “You’re telling me.”

  The waiter returns, interrupting us again, but this time both of us want him to. He places her salmon down first, and my Cobb sandwich next. A basket of perfectly tanned french fries lands between us.

  Mom lights up. “Oh, those look delicious!” she breathes, clapping her hands.

  I laugh and lock eyes with him. “You just saved me.”

  He gives me a wink.

  Mom purses her lips and pops a fry in her mouth, chewing with purpose. And that’s not to tell me to fuck off. She is a Southern Belle after all.

  Chapter 14

  ERIC

  My jersey, shoulder pads and helmet sit on the bench next to me, covered in sweat and victory. Shirtless I rake emboldened fingers through my hair and tell the reporter, “We’re feeling good about the upcoming season. The rookies are impressive. Veterans ready to go. We just want to make the fans proud.”

  Mott shouts over the reporter’s pretty head as he passes us for the showers,
“Ready to get that pretty face dirty in Miami next week, Cocker?”

  Chuckling I focus back on the woman and her CNN labeled microphone while the cameraman behind her adjusts his weight under the live camera perched on his shoulder. “Eric, after losing the Super Bowl last season, do the Falcons think they’ll take it all the way this year?”

  “Not only do we think it, we’ll do it. That loss just made us hungry. We could taste how close we were. This year we’ll be ready for anything. Either that or eat too many burgers and just give up.” As they laugh, I grin and shrug, “Ya never know. We’re a bunch of slackers.”

  “Sure you are,” the cameraman mutters.

  She gives him a look—he’s supposed to stay silent—and returns to ask me, “Are there any women in your life?”

  Tony shouts, “Are there ever not any women in his life? You think he’s not named Cocker for a reason?”

  I crack up, covering my mouth as I try to control it and get serious to add, “Not right now. And I plan to keep it that way, ladies, if you’re watching. We’ve started the season, and it’s open season on me. Have to hit the showers.” Straight into camera I ask, “Care to join me?”

  The cameraman and reporter are pleased as they head off, him saying under his breath, “I bet his social media is going to blow up after that invite.”

  “So will ours,” she greedily replies.

  Stripping out of my pants, thigh and knee pads sandwiched as they fall to the floor, I walk naked to the showers, a little disturbed because when she asked me about women, Wren came to mind. The girl who won’t talk to me unless I make her. I’m starting to feel like a stalker instead of just interested, showing up at her work all the time. Used to love going to that bar on the weekend days after the games, but now that I know she works nights, I’m there way too fuckin’ often. I keep writing it off as she’s amusing, makes me laugh. But there’s an itch that needs scratching. And it’s not just in my cock anymore. She’s haunting my thoughts more each day.

  “You ready to make this real?” Mott asks with shampoo in his hair as he soaps up his balls.