by Shandi Boyes
I want to pretend the hype surrounding my return to quarterback was fueling my on-field performance tonight, but that would be a lie. I’m still basking in the glory of last night. God—Willow. . . fuck. Her mouth. Her body. Her over-the top-attitude. I hardly slept a wink last night as I took it all in.
I wasn’t planning to kiss her, but, my fucking god, am I glad I did. I’ve never experienced a kiss like that before. It was like a fireworks warehouse exploding in the dead of the night, awe-inspiring and ten times better than I could have ever predicted. One kiss had me wanting another. And another. And another.
I could have kissed her all night. I would have if I didn’t feel the familiar eyeball sensation I get anytime I’m in public. I already secured a number of unwanted watchers at the pizzeria, but I brushed off their interest because I couldn’t be certain it was all focused on me. Willow gains as much attention as I do when I enter the room, but she just doesn’t have a job title to thank for it; she just has her sexy-as-fuck face.
I’m drawn from my thoughts by Darris when he asks, “You coming?”
“Yeah, I’ll be up in a minute. . .” My words trail off when my phone rings. I’m equally hopeful and pessimistic when I dig my cell out of my gym bag. I’m hopeful it’s Willow calling, but pessimistic its most likely the leech who can’t get the hint.
I’m wrong on both parts when I recognize the number flashing across the screen. “Hold on, boys, we might have another reason to celebrate.” I hold my finger in the air while climbing onto the bench in front of the lockers. “Dalton is calling.”
This is the first time anyone has heard from him since he left his driveway in a hurry over twenty-eight hours ago.
“And?” I ask after swiping my finger across the screen of my phone and raising it to my ear. “Do we have a future linebacker in our midst?”
Dalton laughs, his joy uncontained. “We had a girl!” He doesn’t sound disappointed. Far from it. “Becca paid the sonographer to steer me in the wrong direction.”
“Ha! I told you she’s always one step ahead of you.” When our team circles me, waiting for an update, I cup my phone before shouting, “Drinks are on Dalton! He’s the proud daddy of a little baby girl!”
The energy in the room triples as the guys shout their congratulations into my phone. A few even offer their commiserations—they’re the ones who have already fathered daughters. By the time everyone has passed on their well-wishes, twenty minutes have passed, and the stadium is deserted except for the players and their management teams.
After returning my ass to my seat, I push my cell into my ear. “How’s Becca?”
I can’t see Dalton, but I can hear his smile. “She’s good. It went a little longer than she would have liked, but she handled it like a real pro.”
“I have no doubt, man. That girl of yours is strong.”
I can picture his smile when he murmurs, “She sure is.”
A rustle sounds down the line followed by a coo. I never thought I’d get misty-eyed over a baby, but I can feel a little dampness sliding across my corneas. It’s not much, but enough to relay how proud I am of Dalton and Becca. They’ve been waiting for this day for years.
After telling Dalton I’ll drop by the hospital tomorrow, I call Willow.
“A girl! Can you believe it?” She squeals down the line before I can issue a greeting.
“He called you—before me?” You can’t miss the jealousy in my last two words.
Willow laughs, loving my unease. “No, Becca updated me while Dalton called you.”
I screw my nose up. “They joint-dialed us?”
She giggles and murmurs something about me being a dork before saying a little louder, “Better than them drunk-dialing us like I am you.”
I jackknife back. “Hold on, what? You’re drunk-dialing me? Didn’t I call you?”
Her third laugh in under a minute answers my question on her behalf. “Oh, yeah, you did.”
“Where are you?” I scan the locker room, wondering where the fuck that alpha-macho I’m about to go on a rampage voice came from.
There’s no one in the locker room but me.
My attention reverts to my phone when Willow says, “Skylar dragged me to a sports bar.” She gags, weakening some of the tension in my jaw. “While she watched the game on the big screen, I found a much more entertaining way to occupy my time.” I can picture her brows waggling.
I swivel my tongue around my mouth before easing out my next set of words. “You watched the game?”
She makes a weird eh noise. “I pretended to watch it, but if it weren’t for Skylar galloping around the bar on a broom, I wouldn’t have the faintest idea who won.”
I exhale the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. I don’t like being deceitful, but it’s been over eight years since I’ve been looked at like Willow looks at me. Not once have I seen money signs flash in her eyes as I have numerous times the past decade.
Furthermore, whatever we’re starting is new, as fresh as Dalton’s daughter, so I have no clue what to expect. If there’s even the minutest possibility this is a flashbang relationship that fizzles as quickly as it heats up, the longer I keep it out of the public eye, the better it will be for all involved.
My entire relationship with Lillian was lived in front of the cameras. I learned from my mistakes. I won’t do that ever again. I’ve been on the wrong side of the media. It was fucking vicious, and even though Willow appears to have a hard shell, I refuse to sit back and watch them try and crack it. So until I know what “this” is, I’m going to keep quiet about what I do for a living.
“Are you planning to stay at the bar? Or did you wanna. . .?” I leave my question open for Willow to answer how she sees fit.
She’s not going to let me off the hook that easy. “Or do I wanna. . .?”
I stuff my sweaty jersey, shoulder pads, and cleats into my bag, hook it over my shoulder and spin around. Mid-pivot, I ask, “Are you hungry?”
I freeze halfway across the empty locker room when Willow replies, “Do my nipples have breasts?” She snorts before correcting herself. “I meant, do my breasts have nipples? Oh my god, I should probably cut back on the vodka.” She cups her phone, meaning I barely hear her murmur, “I was joking; fill her up. I’ve got all night to drink and all of next week to regret my decision.”
“What happened to your lack of funds?”
Vodka isn’t pricy. . . until you’re a college student drinking at a bar. Then it’s the equivalent of top-shelf liquor.
“I’m not buying them.” She giggles like a school girl worried she’s about to get in trouble. I understand why when she whispers, “I didn’t even bring my purse.”
The slurring of her words reveals her level of intoxication, much less the return of my tight jaw. “If you’re not paying, who is?”
“Umm. . .” She cups her phone again before whispering, “What were your names again?”
I feel my blood pulsate through my veins when a male voice replies, “This is Tim; he’s Bryce, and I’m your new best friend, Archer.”
The dumb fuck doesn’t even attempt to hide the innuendo in his tone. If Willow isn’t already sitting in his lap, he’s praying she will be within the next five minutes.
Not on my watch, asshole!
“Thank you.” Willow moves her hand away from her phone, and the buzz of drunk patrons grows louder down the line. “Archer, Tim, and Bryce have been generously supplying my drinks. They’re really nice—”
“Willow?”
I hear her swallow harshly before, “Yeah?”
“Which bar are you at?”
Her breathing picks up as the sound of her teeth raking her lip flows down the line. “Umm. . . Mister M. . .Mister M. . .”
“Mister Mystra? Is there a cartoon of a chubby Chinese man holding a football on the front window?”
She giggles a throaty laugh too sexy to be heard in public while surrounded by drunken idiots hoping to get in her panties. “Y
es, it does. How did you know that?”
Ignoring her question, I say, “I’ll be in there fifteen minutes.”
As I drag my cell from my ear, I hear her take in a sharp breath, but she fails to protest, assuring me I’m doing the right thing.
My steps down the abandoned corridors of the 69ers home stadium are long and efficient, only halved when Danny unexpectedly steps into my path.
“Hey, you ready?” He tugs down the collar of the shirt I threw on haphazardly before attempting to lick and spit my messy locks into submission.
I step back to avoid his saliva-coated fingers while bouncing my eyes between his. “For. . .?”
“For the pharmaceutical reps.”
He nudges his head to the door he just walked through. There are four suit-clad men huddled around a table and a lady in a fierce-looking three-piece suit helming the meeting.
“We scheduled this weeks ago; how can you not remember?” Danny leans closer to me, ensuring his words are only for my ears. “We’re looking at closing on the ten million you requested. If you can’t memorize a calendar, surely you can remember a figure that high?!”
His words are whispered, but they leave no doubt of his annoyance. He’s been working his ass off the past four months to secure the astronomical figure I wanted because he knows as well as I do endorsements are where the money is.
“I’ve got somewhere to be.” My eyes fall to my watch. Five minutes have already passed since I spoke to Willow, add that to the fifteen minutes it will take me to get to Mystra, and that gives douchebag Archer an extra twenty minutes to convince her he’s worth more than the vodka he’s plowing into her. “Can it wait ‘til tomorrow?”
“Please, for the love of God, don’t do this to me again.” Danny rakes his fingers through his hair to give it a rough tug as his chest displays early signs of a panic attack. “I did as you asked, I schmoozed the fuck out of them to get this deal to the amount you requested, but if you walk away now, they aren’t coming back, Elvis. The deal will be done. Swiped from the table. Given to one of the many agents waiting for me to fuck up this deal.”
He bends in half, his dramatics not unusual. If he gets so much as a papercut, he demands 911 be called. He’s as far from an agent as you can imagine, but that’s why I asked him to be mine. I needed someone out of the industry, someone I trusted to put my interests before anyone else’s. Danny has done that. He renegotiated my return to a game he knew nothing about with the skill of a man in the industry for decades. He’s profited much more than at the insurance firm where he used to work, but like every man in the world, he wants more.
His prima donna routine is tucked away when I ask, “How long are we talking?”
He gives me his best puppy dog eyes while murmuring, “Five. . . twenty minutes tops.”
His eyes widen when a growl rumbles between us.
“Ten? Can you give me ten?”
My eyes return to my watch while my brain calculates how fast I could reach Mystra’s if I ran every red light. It would be pushing it, but I think I could trim it down to eight minutes.
Danny’s brows furrow when I ask, “How many points do you have on your license?” When he looks at me, stumped, I add, “Enough to cover the handful of fines I may incur tonight by attending this meeting?”
“If it gets your ass into the meeting, I’ll reinstate my MetroCard before calling it a night. Scouts honor.” He crosses his heart and hopes to die. . . I can’t remember the rest of the pledge he usually makes. It’s something about kissing boys—or other parts of their bodies.
When Danny thrusts his hand toward mine, I accept it. “Deal, now let’s get in there and make me some money.”
Then I can offer Willow something fancier than a cheap-ass bottle of vodka.
OUR MEETING WAS over in three minutes, meaning I don’t need to run the one red light I’ve been slowed by the past thirteen minutes. The swiftness of our meeting shouldn’t be surprising. It was the standard one every company has while forking over a heap of money to the superstar they want recommending their products.
“Sign here, here, and here.” They then toss the encyclopedia-sized contract into their briefcase, lock their hands with mine, and say, “We’re very excited to work with you, Mr. Carlton.”
I then leave the meeting with an armful of their products—which get tossed into the coat room in my condo, never to been seen again—while my agent works out all the minor details such as filming location, scheduled in-store appearance and anything else they want me to do to have them handing over the amount we negotiated.
I don’t like this side of my industry but understand it’s a major part of it. I’m not just an athlete; there is a lot more to this industry than running onto a field once a week. I have nutritionists, coaches, physical therapists, and muscle conditioning instructors, just to name a few. There is an entire field of people behind me, which means I need a lot more than a standard man’s income.
Love it or hate it, that’s where endorsements come in.
I lower the revs on my Aston Martin when the neon lighting outside Mister Mystra enters my vision. This place was my old hangout when I played college ball. Its beers were under three dollars, and their TV was bigger than the computer monitor-sized one Dalton and I had in our dorm room, so it wasn’t just ideal for two broke-ass students, it was like our second home. The only places we spent more time at than here were the field and class, which we took the bare minimum hours needed to maintain our sports scholarships.
Mr. Mystra passed away four weeks before my final college game. Rumors are he was so excited about the upcoming playoffs, his heart couldn’t function with the massive surge in his blood pressure every season. He was a great man, and it was only right his devotion to the game was honored during championship week. Both teams, home and away, wore black armbands to mark their respect, then the game ball signed by the captain of the winning team was donated to his family. It sits proudly in a glass cabinet at the back of the bar.
“Hey, man, you can’t park there. That’s a tow zone.”
I toss the key to my car into the cautionary teen’s chest before jogging around my idling vehicle. “I’ll only be a minute, and if you stop it from being towed, I’ll show you my gratitude with a freshly printed Benjamin Franklin.”
He smiles like I just told him I’m paying his tuition for the next four years before he dips his chin in silent agreement. While he moves to guard my driver’s side door, which I leave hanging open, I enter Mystra’s.
The number of drunk college students filling the space is eye-numbing. The bitter scent of beer filters through the air and the tangy smell of too many people in one place reveal nothing has changed the past eight years, not to mention the chatter of patrons as they slap down their glasses on the beer-soaked bar. This place is as packed and as happening as it was when Mr. Mystra was alive. I’m glad to see his legacy is being kept alive, just like the ink I scribbled across his football all those years ago.
When I reach the bar, the bartender greets me like Mr. Mystra always did—she’s just forty years younger and nowhere near as short and pudgy. “You haven’t aged a day.”
She nudges her head to the display cabinet the winning ball and team photo is displayed in before locking her eyes with mine. The sparkle of attraction in her hooded gaze would usually have my cock paying very careful attention, but he’s not even twitching tonight.
Don’t get me wrong; the barmaid is attractive with her long, dark locks, pulse-quickening green eyes, and a rocking body; my cock just has his sights on an even more appealing brunette than the one giving me all the right signals at the completely wrong time.
“I’m looking for my friend, around five-four, curly brown hair.” I project my voice to ensure the bartender can hear me over the hum of patrons, but she still appears lost. Unsure if she’s confused by my lack of interest or my description of Willow, I try another tactic. “She’s been plied with vodka by three douchebags hoping to get in her pa
nties.”
“Oh.” Now she’s clued in. “She’s over by the jukebox.” She sets down the glass she’s polishing before pointing to the far left-hand corner of the room.
I jerk up my chin in thanks before taking off in the direction she’s pointing.
“If it doesn’t work out, you know where to find me. My shift finishes at twelve. . .”
If she continues talking, I wouldn’t know it. Her sultry voice was swallowed by the roar of the crowd watching re-runs of Foster’s third touchdown of the night.
I make it three-quarters of the way across the peanut shell-coated floor before my dimpled chin, carved cheekbones, and trademark wonky smile give me away.
“Hey, it’s Presley Carlton. Great game tonight!”
“Oh my god, my dad is going to flip! Can you sign my cap?”
“Mr. Carlton, do you have any tips on how I can improve my game? Coach has been riding my ass all season, but I’m still not meeting targets. If I don’t shape up, he’ll ship me out.”
I smile at the first greeter, haphazardly sign the 69er’s cap the second shoves into my chest, then lower my eyes to the beer the third accoster is clutching before swinging them to the mountain load of empty glasses on his table sitting next to an open packet of cigarettes.
Enough said.
“I’ll quit right now.” He fumbles his words just like his hands when he dumps his half-chugged beer on the table before submerging his cigarette pack into the liquid. “There. Done. Thanks, Mr. Carlton.”
I smirk, wishing it was that easy before continuing to cross the room. I find Willow a few seconds later. Her back is flattened against the jukebox as she attempts to get as much space between her and the asshat who is crowding her as she can. She doesn’t seem impressed with whatever he’s whispering in her ear. Her shoulders are high in annoyance, and her fitted shirt has no chance in hell of hiding the thrust of her chest. She’s not just annoyed, she’s quite possibly frightened.