"It's not my wedding day anymore!"
"Saint if you don't put that table down, I swear to God I'm going to have to put you down."
"I don't fucking care–"
WHAP!
Three
SABRINA
Three years ago
Georgetown, Washington, D.C.
"What can I get you?"
A female bartender who is probably in her twenties, but looks like she's pushing forty because of the bags under her eyes and her leathery skin, asks me for my drink order. Problem is that I don't really drink.
It's one of the many things I have given up to stay at my goal weight which is actually pretty high for my height, so I have to be careful; but tonight I want to feel like someone other than myself. Even if it's only temporary. Even if it's just smoke and mirrors. And I know that alcohol can help me get there.
"What do you recommend?" I ask. Her face may look hard, but so is her body. So I'm guessing that she knows a thing or two about staying fit. "I want to order a drink or two tonight, but I don't want to consume a lot of extra calories."
"Do you like red wine?"
"I don't usually drink alcohol at all, so I don't particularly like any one thing."
"Then may I ask what's your reason for wanting to drink tonight?"
She asks her highly unusual question (for a bartender anyway) while drying the inside of a wine glass with a soft white cloth.
"A guy. Well basically all men."
"Understood." She smiles briefly. "Then shots are the way to go."
"Shots?"
"Yeah, it's the mixers that are highly caloric like fruit juice or soda. If you drink straight liquor I promise that you will arrive to your destination much quicker with little to show for it around your hips."
"That sounds like exactly what I'm looking for."
"Are you on a budget?"
"Not really." I'm using my company credit card tonight.
"Then Patron shots are the way to go. It's a premium tequila."
"Eww, with the worm inside?"
"Absolutely not," she snickers. "This is an upscale, smooth tasting tequila. Great for margaritas and also for shots and no worms."
Sounds like what I'm looking for.
"Okay, give me two."
"Coming right up."
I've never done shots before, although I've seen college kids do a million of them, but I was never that girl in school. I was a scholarship kid carrying a 3.9 GPA. I never had the time or inclination to spend my nights getting drunk and possibly date raped at frat parties. I was always in the library, and parties were never my scene anyway.
The bartender never introduces herself to me by name or much less cracks a smile. She's not warm and fuzzy like the ones I've seen on television shows and in movies; but at least she's helpful. Her goal is to get me drunk or at least feeling better, and I'm thinking she understands because she has some pretty interesting war stories about men of her own.
She demonstrates how I should drink my shots for the full experience. Shaking the bar salt on my hand, then licking the salt, drinking the shot (with haste), and then chasing it by sucking on a wedge of lemon or lime. I like that there is a ritual behind this shot taking thing, so I catch on fast. The first shot makes my eyes squint, but by the third (or is it fourth) I am feeling way better.
I hear a group of voices coming towards the direction of the bar and my stomach drops. This is it. It has to be new guy's voice I hear among the sea of voices. I wonder if I've ingested enough liquid courage to finally talk to him about something other than mundane topics such as how the microwave works on the third floor lounge or the weather forecast.
I never quite mastered the art of flirting and because of that character flaw, I've ended up only dating a few guys, and they were all guys who I was set up with by friends. Unfortunately that has meant that I've usually ended up with guys that I'm not attracted to at all or who are complete weirdos.
I'm hoping that this is the one time that the nice, normal nerd (that's me) gets the successful, safe guy (that's new guy) and that we live happily ever after. For once I would like to be in a sweet, normal, reciprocal relationship.
Of course none of that will ever happen if I don't learn to say anything interesting when I open up my mouth. I tried about thirty minutes ago towards the end of our company dinner and it was a complete disaster. I made a fool of myself.
This must be what it feels like to be drunk, because my ears are playing tricks on me. I couldn't have heard the new guy, because none of the people that enter the bar are actually my coworkers. They are a group of very rowdy and gigantic men who all kind of look alike. I giggle to myself, because they look like they are going to completely annihilate the place by just moving around and bumping into things. They're that big.
It's pretty obvious that they're celebrating something, and the decibel level of their spirited banter grows only louder with each passing moment. This is my cue to leave. Even if my new coworker walked in right now, this noise would make it way too distracting for me to say anything to fix my earlier blunder.
"Are you with the Carson group?" The bartender asks me.
"Yes, how did you know?" The hotel is a big place.
"There are three groups that have pretty much locked down all of the rooms in the hotel this weekend, and I don't think that you belong to the other two."
I'm offended by her assumption that I couldn't be with any other group in this hotel. What is she trying to say? Although I guess that's what people do. Make assumptions about others based on limited information. I suppose I did the same thing to her.
"I'm pretty sure your group went to the Galaxy Bar after dinner. That's the lounge on the seventh floor."
Dammit, I'm in the wrong place.
"Thanks," I say curtly.
When I motion to stand up from my stool, I feel loopy. Objects in the room are starting to wave and ripple, and suddenly I wish I was sitting on a chair that was a little lower to the ground and had a back to it.
I'm going down.
"Whoa there. Are you all right?"
Two very tall and wide masses of grinning flesh steady me by the waist, and gratefully I don't fall and split my head open.
"Thanks guys," I offer.
Both guys start cracking up.
"It was an easy save, Freshman. No problem."
"Why are you calling me that? I'm not in college anymore."
"Could have fooled me by the way that you drink."
"I just had a couple of drinks, Mr. Need To Mind Your Own Business. That goes for both of you."
"You're cute."
"You're blurry."
"Aww, you're really twisted aren't you?"
"Twisted?"
"Drunk."
"I don't think so. Wouldn't I be slurring?"
"You are slurring," one of them laughs.
Another blurry mass yells from across the room, "Hey, man. Next round is on you!"
"You and your friends are like gigantic. Look how they barely fit in the seats. I think they're going to break the couches over there," I giggle.
I can't stop laughing.
"You want another drink, Freshman?"
I may be tipsy, but I'm not stupid.
"So you can have some sort of ménage with me? Uh, I think not." I frown.
That gets me a huge laugh.
"First of all there's only one of me standing in front of you right now, and secondly I like my women sober, so they can at least remember my name when they call it out. I just wanted to buy you a drink, because I'm celebrating and evidently I'm also paying for everyone's third round in here."
"Celebrating what?"
"I just got dumped."
I don't know why anyone would celebrate that. Hell, at this point I'm still trying to figure out why I still see two of him.
"So you're sure you're not a twin?"
"Damn, you're cute in your little corporate suit, but this is bad timing. I've officially sworn of
f women."
For a moment I feel woozy and when I dip a little to the left on my stool, he quickly places his enormous hands back around my waist and saves me from another near death experience.
"Did you eat today, Freshman?" he asks with concern.
I usually eat six little meals a day, but at this point I'm sure I've missed at least two of them. I didn't eat anything at the dinner tonight, so my stomach is probably empty. Maybe I didn't think this drinking alcohol thing completely through.
"I may have skipped a meal."
The big guy doesn't sit down but continues to stand behind me, still holding me by the waist, and speaks closely by my ear. If I wasn't so tipsy, it would be very sexy.
No wait, it is sexy.
"These are the basic rules to getting shit-faced, Freshman. You listening?"
I nod my head silently.
"Good girl. All right, so you need to eat before you drink. That's very important. You should drink the same alcohol all night. No mixing vodka with tequila. No red cups ever. Even at an office party. Pace yourself with glasses of water in between drinks. And never drink alone. That only leads to trouble."
"I like rules," I say not even fully processing everything he's said. "Rules are good."
"I see that." Is what I think he murmurs in response.
The bartender interrupts us by asking my new bar mate for his order. I find it amusing that when she talks to blurry guy that she seems to crack a smile. At least I think that's what she's doing. She's baring teeth at least.
"Can I get you something?"
Oh my God, is she being flirty with them? I mean him.
"I'll have another of whatever is on tap and drunky over here will have a nice tall glass of ice water."
"Hey!" I protest being called a drunk as well as his choice of drink for me. "I don't like water."
"Drink it anyway. I want to stop holding you on this stool. I'm sick of standing."
Humph. "Fine."
He sits on the stool next to me, spreads his massive legs apart, and pulls my stool forward in between them while holding my hips to keep me steady.
"So tell me. What's got you so upset that you've taken to the bottle? It's obvious to the average idiot that you don't do this often if ever."
Something about the warm tequila flowing through my veins and the vibes that blurry guy gives off, gives me the courage to discuss my dismal love life. I'll never see this guy again, and there's a sliver of a chance that he could actually help, so I talk. It's hard though, because I have to make sure to focus on only one of them.
"There's a guy."
"Go on."
"He's here."
"Where?"
"In the hotel. We're on our annual retreat."
"Oh so you work with him?"
"Yes. He's new."
"Okay, and?"
I take a chug of my ice water. It's actually refreshing, because the alcohol has me practically sweating like a pig.
"And he doesn't know I exist."
"I find that hard to believe."
"It's true."
"That's why you're upset?"
"We were just in a dinner meeting before I came here. We were all doing team-building exercises. He didn't want to team up with me. I could tell. I might've said a few things to embarrass myself after that. Then I ran out."
"Paranoid much?"
"He either didn't want to team up with me, or I'm invisible to him."
"Are there a lot of other women on the team?"
"A few."
"Young like you?"
"Yeah."
"Well there you go. There are too many distractions for the poor guy. I know the feeling well. You're going to have to figure out how to get some one-on-one time with Mr. Clueless."
I squint my eyes. "Are you positive you don't have a twin brother?"
"No," he chuckles. "Do you still see two of me?"
He waves his hand directly in front of my face.
"Yes," I say emphatically. "And you both have identical black eyes."
"Drink more water. When the good Lord made me, he broke the mold. So I guarantee that you should only be seeing one of me as well as one black eye courtesy of my brother over there."
I take another big gulp of my water.
"Why should I take your dating advice anyway? You just got dumped."
"The reason why you should take advice from me is because it works. It's how my bitch of an ex snagged me. She made sure to get my attention first, and then went in for the kill."
"Why did she dump you?"
"I have no idea."
"You should go after her."
"I started to, but then I changed my mind."
"If you loved her, you would have gone after her."
"Love shouldn't take that much work, Freshman."
"Maybe you weren't romantic enough. Women love romance."
"Who needs romance when she has this to wake up to every morning."
"The two of you think very highly of yourselves."
"Still seeing double huh," he snickers. "I think you better call it a night, Freshman."
"I was on my way to the seventh floor. I don't want to just go to bed without saying something to him. I ran out of the room like a complete moron today."
"Can I be honest with you?"
"You mean you weren't honest before?"
"Men are dumb, but we ain't stupid. Trust me when I say that he knows exactly who you are already, and if he were the least bit interested he'd have his eyes on you right now. He'd be in this bar right now. The fact that he isn't here tells me that he's not the guy for you."
"He should be chasing me but you shouldn't be chasing your fiancée?"
"Exactly."
"I think you're wrong. He's the perfect guy for me."
"There's no such thing, Freshman. My parents come damn near close to the perfect couple, and they still have their issues. There is no perfect guy. Only the right guy."
His words are starting to fade, as I try to keep my eyes open. I am ten seconds away from sprawling out on this floor and catching a nap.
"I'm soooo sleepy."
"What room are you in?"
"I dunno. 342 or maybe 324."
He laughs at my confusion and the next thing I know I'm seven feet in the air.
"Wait–"
"Quiet. I'm making sure you get to your room safely. My cousin Ben is starting to give you the hungry eye over there."
"The hungry eye?"
"Yeah, like he wants to eat you for dessert. Literally."
Uh-oh.
"Where's your key card?"
"My suit pocket. Just make sure he doesn't see me like this."
"Who, my cousin?"
"No, Jason, the new guy." I say drowsily.
I do my best to keep my eyelids open in case I need to cry for help. I'm breaking all of my personal safety protocols by allowing a complete stranger to carry me in an elevator and up to my room; but I'm no match for the deep sleep that the alcohol is placing me under, although I stay alert just long enough to hear a garbled promise that I hope is kept.
"Don't worry, Freshman. I've got you."
Four
SAINT
Sweat and salt dripping down my blazing hot back.
Chunks of the earth underneath my fingernails.
The gritty taste and texture of fresh turf in-between my teeth.
Football is what I eat, shit, and breathe.
I've been playing the game my entire life, and I've played with sprained ankles, broken ribs, jammed fingers, sore Achilles tendons, and black eyes; but the one thing that I've never gotten used to is tossing the ball around in ninety degree heat with a helmet and pads on. I hate that shit. I'd rather play in the snow any day.
I come from a lineage of professional football players. Football royalty is what they call us. The Stevenson Family. My father played the game. My uncle. My cousin. My older brother currently plays in the league, and so do I. I'm sure if I have any sons,
they'll be expected to play as well. It's what we love. It's what we do. It's who we are.
Every fall as a kid I played football for my high school, but every summer it was a requirement that my brother Michael and I play in our family's football camp a.k.a. our summer league for kids with high football IQs and professional potential. It's called the Stevenson Summer Combine and it's a big deal. Any kid who doesn't play football for a highly visible high school program wants to come to our camp to hopefully be noticed by scouts. Our family is well connected, but it's no picnic. We played all day, everyday, and every summer at that camp whether we wanted to or not. Whether we'd rather be riding bikes or eating water ice because it was so hot. It was our duty as Stevensons to be there.
Football is our legacy.
In those days we played on some of the hottest, humid Philadelphia summer mornings straight through to the late afternoons. I remember feeling many times like I was going to keel over and pass out. Luckily my older brother Michael knew when I was about to eat rocks, and made sure to pour a pint of Gatorade down my throat, before I met my maker.
That's exactly the same way I feel now. Blazing hot, and a bit nauseous, but I can't totally blame the heat for it. If I'm going to be totally honest, I haven't been sticking to my usual clean diet of protein and veggies. I ate crap and drank more beer than I should've last night, because I felt like wallowing. Hell, I deserve to wallow. I'm in a miserable situation.
Last year my team, The New York Nighthawks, finished second to last place in the league. The year before that we were dead last. The year before that? Hell, I don't even like to think about my rookie year. We sucked balls. And right this very minute, we don't look any fucking better than we did last season. Which is nuts because ...
I'm the franchise player.
The star.
I put butts in the seats and pay the bills around here. So why is my team complete trash? I'll tell you why. I don't have any support. I'm getting my ass kicked out here week after week, and nobody in the head office is doing anything about it. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to diagnose what the problem is. I see it. My father sees it. The fans see it too.
Management needs to concentrate on working the kinks out of my offensive line. Unfortunately to stay well under the team's salary cap, our penny pinching owner has secured all these wet behind the ear rookies or broken down veterans that the coaching staff seems to be struggling to put in place to protect me out there on the field. It's even more critical now because we've finished the pre-game season, and now we're about to enter into the regular season, and they still don't have it figured out.
Broken By A King: The King Brothers #3 Page 16