He finishes, chest heaving slightly, as he chugs the diet Coke as if his life depends on it. He finishes it in seconds, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and collapses on my couch, head in his hands.
“God, sometimes I really miss cocaine,” he sighs.
Uh-oh. Rudy only gets nostalgic about coke when something’s really bad. I sit down in the leather club chair opposite him and wait.
Rudy’s hands move from his face to rub his bleary eyes and massage his temples. Then they start running back and forth over his shaved head.
We have a running joke that I owe him hair implants. He said he finally just decided to shave it all off, since he started losing it in clumps ever since he signed me. I sent him a head buffing kit last year for Christmas.
He wasn’t amused.
I’m just about to ask him to just tell me when he asks me.
“Why’d you do it?”
His voice is laced with exhaustion. He sounds defeated.
I look at him as if I have no idea what he’s talking about, because I don’t. I’ve done a lot of things.
I lean back and cross my arms over my chest.
“You’ll have to be more specific,” I smirk, eyebrow cocked up in question.
He glares at me.
“Why,” he enunciates crisply, “did you decide it was a good idea to take Bob Odom’s yacht out for a pleasure cruise with a bunch of rookies, a dozen strippers—at least I hope they were just strippers—four members of the micro wrestling federation, and a lesser Saudi Arabian Prince!”
“It was harmless,” I scoff.
Rudy no longer looks tired. He looks furious. In fact, I’m afraid he’s about to have an apoplectic fit.
I pull out my phone, just in case I need to dial 9-1-1.
“IT WAS NOT FUCKING HARMLESS!” he screams.
Suddenly, remembering the girls asleep on the floor in my bedroom, I put my finger to my lips. “Ssshhhh.”
“Do you have a girl here?” he demands incredulously.
I shrug my shoulders, and he immediately jumps up and runs to my bedroom. Then I hear a thud and a pair of screams.
“My apologies, ladies, I didn’t see you there,” I hear Rudy say in the distance. “Right, yes, I’m Mr. Thomas’s agent, and we need to discuss some business. So, if you wouldn’t mind getting dressed—I believe these belong to you, and here’s yours—I’ll get you some money for a cab, you’ll sign this non-disclosure agreement, and you can be on your way.”
By the time Rudy has hustled the girls out the door, I am almost on the floor from laughing so hard.
“You think this is funny?” Rudy glowers down at me, which is not a usual occurrence since I’m 6’5” and he’s barely 5’9” on a good day.
Picking myself up off the floor, I sit back in my chair, wiping the tears of mirth from my eyes.
Rudy sighs.
“Listen, kid, you’re in the shit now. You took a joy ride in the team owner’s private yacht, and then you crashed it. You had to be rescued by the fucking Coast Guard. You put not only your life in jeopardy, but the lives of everyone on that boat. Do you have any idea how quickly this almost became an international incident?”
“Key word there is almost,” I say. “Prince Yasin was fine. Hell, he even thanked me for the good time.”
“But his parents did not,” Rudy argues, pacing back and forth.
Finally, he sits back down and gives me a look, like he’s about to tell me my dog died.
Except I don’t have a dog. Too much responsibility.
“Brady,” he sighs again. I’m really getting fucking sick of his sighs. “Your actions have consequences.”
“So, what are they going to do? Dock my pay? Make me sit out the first couple of games? Good luck to that. I am this team.”
Rudy snorts, and then begins to laugh in a defeated and delirious manner. He shakes his head.
“No, Brady, nothing like that,” he says. Relief washes over me—and confusion. What else could they do?
“You’ve been traded,” he says.
WHAT?!
“What did you just say?” I demand. He couldn’t possibly have said what I think he did.
“I said, ‘you’ve been traded’. You’re no longer the starting quarterback for the New York Bulls. So, start packing, because you’re out.” He jerks his thumb to the side like a baseball umpire.
I don’t believe it. I just signed that new contract at the end of last season! What the fuck?
Fuck, I can hardly breathe.
“Where?” is all I’m able to get out.
This time, there’s pity in his eyes when he says, “San Antonio.”
Texas? Fuck, no.
“No,” I say, my voice flat. “Do something. Fix it. This is what I pay you for. You’re the best at what you do, so fucking do something.”
“I’m sorry, Brady, but this is the best I could do.” At least he actually sounds like he feels bad about it.
“What do you mean, this is the best you could do? Call L.A.! Call fucking St. Paul! I can deal with snow. Call one of the dozens of teams that have been sniffing around me like I’m a bitch in heat.” I’m almost shouting now.
And I’m getting even more irate because Rudy-fucking-Goldstern is just sitting on my couch, shaking his head.
“I’m sorry, buddy, I am. But I tried. After the yacht fiasco, no team wants to touch you with a fifty-yard pole. San Antonio is the best I could do. They’re the only team that wanted you.”
My heart is pounding in my chest, and I feel like I’m going to be sick. I got the hell out of that state in college, and I never looked back. Well, maybe once, but that doesn’t matter now.
I fucking hate Texas. The roar of blood in my ears is so loud, I can barely make out the rest of what Rudy is saying.
“...one year contract, with the option to sign a more substantial, long-term contract at the end of the season, permitting you do well, and don’t find yourself in breach of the morality clause.”
“The what now?” I squint at him, again unsure of what he’s talking about.
“They’re taking you, but you have to sign a morality clause. I’m just waiting on our lawyers to review it, but from what I’ve seen, it’s pretty standard. No illicit behavior, curfews before games, that sort of thing. We’ll work it out, don’t you worry about it.”
The slick, self-assured man I hired is back, now that the bad news is delivered.
I put my head in my hands, disbelief still clogging my brain.
A morality clause? FUCK.
I fucking hate Texas.
Chapter 3
Izzie
It’s fine.
It’s fine. I’m fine.
Everything’s fine.
I keep repeating this to myself as I grip the steering wheel, wiping alternating sweaty palms on my khakis. I’ve got to pull myself together before I pick up Liam from school.
I brake to a stop at a red light and heave a sigh as my forehead bumps the top of the steering wheel. The familiar litany repeats itself.
It’s fine.
It’s fine. I’m fine.
Everything’s fine.
In all honesty, I’ve had the same three phrases on loop in my head since Fran announced her “good news.” I believe it’s a default loop, triggered when you’re forced to smile at something even though you are quietly shrieking and/or dying inside.
I can’t help it. This weird brain loop is just a product of my genetic code. And there’s no denying DNA.
At that thought, a half-hysterical laugh bubbles up, tempered by some bitter, angry tears.
Ugh! I’ve got to pull myself together. And, after glancing around, the elderly woman tsk-ing in the Mercedes next to me evidently thinks I should, too.
I give her a deranged grin and wave.
I look at the clock. I still have a few minutes before I absolutely have to pick Liam up. So, once the light turned green, I make my way into a Dairy Queen parking lot and wallow.
I
let myself go for a minute or two more, venting out my anger and grief and annoyance.
I deserve it. I kept everything locked tight. And, despite my brief lapse in language in my office, I was nothing but pulled-together and professional at work.
Fran eventually came to my office, and we finished my tour, introducing me to all of the coaches and the manager. Then I finished setting up my computer, even scheduling my first couple of one-on-one sessions with the players.
And I smiled.
The whole damn day, I smiled like I’d just won the lottery. I’m pretty sure my eyes betrayed my true feelings, but neither Fran nor anyone else noticed, so…mission accomplished.
Because my true feelings are this: I hate Brady Thomas.
I detest his square jaw and chiseled cheek bones. I abhor his slightly too long, tousled blonde hair. And don’t even get me started on the drivel that he spews in his post-game interviews.
I curse his throwing arm and his touchdown passes. And I have made it my personal sports fan mission to loathe every single team he’s ever played for.
I crow in triumph when his throws are intercepted, and I cackle in delight when the opposing team’s defensive line makes a sack. He is, quite simply, the worst.
And now, to perform my job to the high standards I hold myself to, I have to give him my best. As if I needed another reminder that life’s not fair.
I check the time as I wrap up my venting session and realize I’m going to be late. So I pull into the drive-thru to get Liam and me Blizzards. In for a penny, in for a pound, as Gigi always said.
Plus, I earned it. And he deserves it for being awesome. And mine.
As I pull up to the school, I’m happy to notice that I am not the last one to pick up their kid. Only the second to last. So, points to me.
Still, Liam rolls with the punches, and he doesn’t look even mildly disappointed that I’m late. He just hugs the after-school volunteer goodbye and waves to the other kid waiting to be picked up, though he does feel the need to point out the obvious.
“You’re late,” he says. Then, “Did you meet the players?” he asks eagerly.
“Not yet,” I say. “They were off doing something else today. I’ll meet them tomorrow, though,” I finish. At this, he does look disappointed.
However, his sweet eight-year-old face splits into a huge gap-toothed grin when I reach in the back and hand him the Blizzard. “Dinner…is served,” I say with a flourish. Then add in a loud whisper, “But, psst, don’t tell anyone, or they’ll revoke my license.”
His face grows earnest as he solemnly intones, “I won’t, I swear it. Cross my heart and hope to die.” His blue eyes are equal parts imploring and mischievous, and my heart breaks and heals in the same instant.
Even if he really is just my nephew, I love this boy like my son. Lucy would be proud. My only qualm with raising Liam is that I never had any romantic adventures of my own; I had a baby to take care of, even as a virgin. Shit, I am to this day because I stopped being concerned with who to sleep with first when Liam came into the picture.
Part of me really wonders how I’m gonna feel about having so many ripped, sweaty, athletic bodies surrounding me all the time, each of them just dripping with testosterone. In reality, it probably won’t change much, but a girl can dream she meets her husband out there.
The straight face Liam tries to sport lasts for about five more seconds before he dissolves into a fit of giggles, no doubt fueled by the Oreo and vanilla ice cream caloric monster I just shoved into his hands. I am so going to regret this decision at bed time, but, right now, hearing his laughter makes my insides melt and life feel right. Sometimes, you just have to eat dessert first.
We pull up to the house in the small San Antonio neighborhood filled with old ranch homes. The house is mine now, since Gigi passed away last year, following Pappy by only 6 months.
He’d had a heart attack, and I’m still convinced that she died of a broken heart. She never quite recovered from his sudden death—none of us had.
Still, it was a heavy blow to bring her coffee one morning and find she’d slipped quietly in the night. Thankfully, Liam had been sleeping at a friend’s. That whole morning was sad and surreal enough without having to explain to a six-and-a-half-year-old why his Gigi wouldn’t wake up.
Sometimes, life sucks.
But it goes on. It has to.
We recovered. And though the house fills a little empty without their love and laughter, it’s still home.
This was Lucy’s and my refuge after the car accident that took our parents but spared us. Where we whispered our secrets and shared our dreams for the future. Where I held her and hugged her after every stupid boy broke her heart.
Where I had my own first, terrible, awkward kiss after prom. It’s where Liam learned to walk and talk and where he lost his first tooth.
There’s a lifetime of little moments within these walls. Every brick holds a bounty of joys and heartaches. I wouldn’t change it for the world.
Okay, that’s a lie. The house is a bit dated, and I honestly can’t wait to give everything an update and a fresh coat of paint, but between work, school and Liam, I just haven’t had the time.
But even with a face lift, the heart of the house would remain the same. And that’s the point. This is a house full of life and loss and love—always love.
Running on a weeks’ worth of sugar, Liam darts out of the car and races into the house as soon as I close the garage.
“You better be running to take a bath!” I yell as I follow him in and head to the kitchen to start cooking actual food.
No matter what I said in the car, a Blizzard does not make a nutritionally sound dinner. And I would be grossly negligent in my nutritionist duties if I let him go to bed without eating something healthy and well-balanced.
The kitchen is actually the only room that’s seen a bit of updating. I repainted the walls and cabinets two years ago.
I thought the bright butter yellow walls and light blue cabinets made the black and white checkerboard tiles pop. Gigi thought I was crazy when I brought home the paint, but she loved the end result.
Within a few minutes, I’ve thrown together a quick chicken and vegetable stir-fry. I poke my head out of the kitchen and yell, “Liam! Dinner’s ready!”
“Coming!”
Liam whips around the corner and careens into the kitchen as I’m setting the table.
“Did you take a bath?” I ask, eyeing his damp hair.
“Yes,” he says as he sits at the butcher block kitchen table. I sniff his hair as I put his plate in front of him.
“With soap?” I ask, seeking clarification. I don’t know what it is about boys and their aversion to baths, but I swear Liam spends more time doing things to trick me into thinking he bathed than it would take for to actually bathe. However, his hair does smell clean.
“Yes,” he sighs in exasperation as he starts shoveling chicken, rice, and vegetables into his mouth with single-minded focus.
“Just checking,” I reply with a smile, picking up my own fork.
No matter what darkness the day brings, coming home to this little boy, who holds my heart in the palm of his often grubby little hands, makes the world a little brighter.
There is nothing and no one I wouldn’t protect him from. And I swear, I’ll be his shield against heartache for as long as there’s breath in my body.
Chapter 4
Brady
From the second I stepped foot off my plane, I’ve wanted nothing more than to turn around and go the fuck home.
God, what an ugly, little shithole town.
It makes sense why the Rangers probably need me. In fact, the whole trade is probably the most excitement they’ve had in years, especially judging by how empty this place gets after eleven o’clock at night.
I can’t imagine that a single decent club or an upscale lounge is anywhere to be found. The only strip clubs are hours away, so none of that after practice, either.
>
I don’t even want to get started on the food. I’m not a picky eater by far, but hey, I’m rich. I’m not eating at fucking Applebee’s.
Honestly, if playing for the Rangers, and being wrapped up in this whole “morality” clause doesn’t kill me, boredom probably will. But who knows? It’s only my first day.
As I drive to the stadium, literally in the worst mood ever, I turn on some Lil’ Wayne and crank it up loud, as I normally do. It always puts me in a good mood.
Then while sitting at a red light, I notice a little old lady peering at me, her beady eyes piercing with judgment.
Why is everyone in this town so afraid of me? I look straight at the old lady, smile, and turn up the music. Angry and intimidated, the granny sinks into her seat and faces the road.
As I speed away, the engine of my newly-rented Bentley revving a resounding “fuck you” to all the cars behind me, I can’t help but laugh.
As I pull up into the stadium, Willis waddles out.
“You’re late!” he hollers as he approaches the passenger side door with his little clipboard, which I swear must be stapled to his wrists or something. “Wait, did you buy this car? Your agent told me you were going to chill out on the exorbitant spending while transitioning.”
I hop out the car, engine still running. “It’s a rental.”
I throw the keys to Willis, who barely catches it as it bounces against his fingers like he’s playing a game of hot potato.
“Can you park that?”
Willis stares at me in disbelief as I walk past him.
“Hey, that’s not my job!” he screams after me. “Hey, get back here!”
As I step inside the stadium, it suddenly gets quiet. Everyone’s looking at me like I’m a dead man marching to the electric chair.
I put on my shades and continue walking. I’m not gonna let these little townies try to make me feel like I don’t belong, like I’m some sort of Big Bad Wolf coming to blow their stadium down. Pathetic.
As I turn down the hallway, I spot Coach McGoy on his cell. As soon as he sees me, he slams it closed. Apparently, flip phones are still a thing over on this side of the country.
“Goddammit, Brady.” He rushes over to me, his hands on his hips, his mustache sharp and gray. “You’re 30 minutes late.”
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