by S. R. Grey
Ugh, this sucks already.
Lars talks to his agent for the next few minutes, but I tune them out.
When he finally gets off the phone, I say, “So you leave tomorrow and you’ll be gone for two weeks, huh?”
“Yes. So”—he raises a brow and tugs at the hem of my shorts—“I think this means we need to make the most of our time together. Starting right now…”
I can’t argue with that.
Swimming with Sharks
This night of loving Becca is all I have. So you bet your ass I make the most of it, bringing her to climax again and again.
I leave her house long before dawn so I can race home, pack a bag, and make it to the airport in time for my early flight.
She cried before I left.
Shit, I almost did too.
I told her again that it’ll all work out.
Will it?
I don’t know.
After I land in Dover, I meet with a driver and limo waiting to take me to the hotel I’ll be staying in.
But I only have time to drop off my bag.
The team already has checked me in.
I’m told via text that there will be a rental car waiting for me at the training facility. I can drive it back to the hotel after practice.
These Sharks don’t mess around. They run this shit like a well-oiled machine.
I’m driven from the hotel to the training facility in the limo. It’s state-of-the-art and there’s already a stall in the locker room set up for me.
I’m a few minutes late getting out on the field, having no real time to get acquainted with the players.
Once I’m out there, things start right away.
These Sharks are pretty regimented. This is not like the Comets’ laid-back mini-camp.
The coach, an old man with white hair and brown leathery skin, tells me, “I want you one-on-one with the quarterback. You’ll be running these routes.” He hands me several pieces of paper outlining the plays. “With just the two of you, I can better assess your chemistry.”
“Okay.” I nod as I look over the plays.
It’s an interesting approach, this jump-right-in tactic, but I can roll with it. Even though I don’t want to leave Columbus, I’m committed to doing my best during my time in Dover.
That’s just me.
I’m a natural competitor.
The Sharks’ quarterback is friendly enough. His name is Mike. I’ve met him before, since we played the Sharks during our regular season.
“Hey, man,” he says, shaking my hand. “Good to see you again. Welcome to our camp.”
“Thanks,” I reply.
We review the plays together, and then get started.
It’s pretty basic stuff—a lot of me running down the field in various patterns, catching passes.
Their quarterback has a good arm, but I like Graham better. I’d rather play with him than this guy.
That is, if the Comets pick up Graham Tettersaw.
And keep me.
All their decisions seem to be on hold lately.
That sucks, because the last thing Becca and I need is for me to be gone for two weeks only to return to find out our lives are still up in the air.
Unfortunately, I have a feeling that’s the way it will play out.
After I run the final route Coach asks to see—a simple down-and-out pattern—Mike asks if I’d like to go out with the guys tonight.
I have nothing else to do, and I sure as hell don’t relish the idea of sitting alone in my hotel room all evening, so I say, “Sure.”
“Great. There’s a cool bar and grill where we hang a lot,” Mike tells me. “We’ll be heading over there later for a few cold beers.”
“Where is this place?” I ask. “I have a rental car with GPS. So I can drive myself.”
“Actually,” he says, “I’ll just pick you up at the hotel where you’re staying. It’ll be easier, as I’m not planning on drinking tonight. I’m taking cold medicine, so no booze for me. Plus, this way you can have a drink or two with the guys and not worry about having to drive.”
“What about the guys, though?” I ask.
“They’re renting a shuttle,” he tells me. “That’s an option too.”
Since I’d rather ride with Mike than a bunch of guys I don’t know at all, I say, “I’ll go with you.”
“Perfect.” He nods. “Want to meet in the hotel lobby around seven?”
“Sure.”
Practice continues a short while longer, and then I hit the showers. My rental car is in the players’ parking lot just as I was informed it would be. I drive it to the hotel.
It’s almost five by the time I’m back up in my room.
I remember Becca mentioning that she had an appointment with a client around this time, so I decide not to call.
But I do send her a text letting her know I’m going out with the boys at seven. I say for her to call me as soon as she has a chance. I also let her know that even if I’m with the guys, I’ll make time for her.
I always will.
Becca texts back pretty quickly with an assurance she’ll call me later.
She adds, Have fun. Gotta go for now. I’m with that new client, and she’s really, uh, something. *insert sarcasm*
I laugh.
It’s just as I thought—Becca is stuck with a pain-in-the-ass bride-to-be.
But this chick must really be “something,” seeing as six o’clock rolls around, and then six thirty, and still there’s no call or any further texts from Becca.
I think about sending her another quick message, but I don’t want to bug her while she’s working.
Resigned that I’ll just talk to her later tonight, I slip the phone into my jeans pocket and head down to the lobby to meet with Mike.
And So It Begins
Oh my God, I am going to scream. Funny how some clients can be a dream… and others are a complete nightmare.
The one I’m dealing with today is a high-maintenance chick named Skye. She is, unfortunately, of the nightmare variety.
Skye must have at least thirty lists of requirements for her wedding, no joke. All are enumerated with things she’d like for me and Jodi to do for her and her upcoming nuptials.
I am going to kill my partner for not being here with me to deal with this crap!
It’s my fault, though.
I agreed to meet with the Skye at five, outside of our normal business hours. I did it in the hopes of keeping my sad ass busy, as this is the first night Lars is away.
Jodi offered to stay, but I told her to go home to Caleb.
So, yeah, this is on me.
I said to her, “This way, one of us will have a good night.”
She smiled over at me sadly, assuring me, “There are many good nights with Lars ahead of you, Becca.”
“I hope you’re right,” I replied glumly.
I caught her looking away then, and that told me all I needed to know—there really is a chance Lars may be traded away.
Ugh!
My distressing reverie is cut short when my client blurts out, “By the way, I’d like for all of my guests to have not only favors but also a fresh floral arrangement of their own to take home.”
“I advise against it,” I reply. “You do realize it’s going to cost quite a lot, right? Flowers can get real expensive, real fast.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She sniffs haughtily. “My father is paying for everything.”
“Still,” I go on, “I’d rethink floral arrangements for every guest. Even favors are often left behind. There’s a good chance flowers will be discarded on the tables. Then there’s also the issue of fresh flowers not lasting very long.”
I stop short of telling her it’s a blatant waste of money, seeing as she is the client. I’m simply the consultant.
But it doesn’t matter; Skye’s mind is made up.
That much is clear when she insists on all the flowers. “I told you, money is no object,” she states
.
Sighing, I make a note to order two hundred and fifty small floral arrangements. I add another notation to be sure to notify the event facility to donate any leftover flowers to the nursing home down the street from them.
It makes me feel better knowing no flowers will be thrown away.
Grrr, I hate waste.
Skye continues to keep me busy from that point on. Our consultation lasts for almost three freaking hours.
The only good thing that comes out of it is I forget about Lars being away.
I’m quickly reminded, though, once I’m home.
My house is far too quiet.
That would be fine if I were preparing to go over to his place, or if he were coming to mine. I’d be making us dinner, or he’d arrive early and help.
But none of those things are happening tonight.
I check the time, noting how many hours I have to get through till I can go to sleep. Then I’ll be one day closer to my man coming home.
Hmm, it’s a few minutes after eight.
I have a while.
Lars said he’d be out with the guys, but he also mentioned for me to call anyway.
So I do.
Unfortunately, after several rings, I’m sent to voice mail.
Crap.
I think about leaving a short message for him to call back when he can.
But I decide not to.
I’ll just try him again in a little while.
I should probably eat, as I’m starving. Skye the unruly client kept me from dinner.
I head to the kitchen and pull out a frozen dinner from the freezer. It’s some sort of low-cal lasagna, but it’ll do. I also—score!—find some leftover mixed green salad in the fridge.
“I’m all set,” I murmur to myself as I poke holes in the plastic overlay to vent the lasagna before I place it in the microwave.
A short while later, while I’m seated at my small kitchen table, blowing on a bite of piping hot lasagna to cool it down, I hit Call again on my cell in the hopes of reaching Lars.
But once more, I’m sent to voice mail.
“Huh, that’s weird.”
I check the time.
It’s nearing nine.
Didn’t Lars say he was going out with the guys at seven?
Guess they’re having a really good time, so good that he must not be checking his phone.
The ringer is probably turned off.
Ah, well.
I finish my lasagna and salad and decide not to dwell on it. Lars will call me once he’s back in his hotel room.
I try to relax by washing the dishes by hand, and then hunkering down on the sofa in the living room.
I turn on the TV.
Only problem is I can’t concentrate.
It’s nine thirty, and I’ve still not heard a word from Lars.
I don’t want to be a pest, but I go ahead and try him again.
I get his voice mail once more.
This time I leave a short message.
I also text to Call me when you can.
But he never does.
By eleven o’clock, as I’m heading to bed, there’s still no communication from Lars.
I’m actually kind of worried.
This is not like him.
I sure hope nothing bad has happened.
Bad Decisions
Holy hell!
When Mike mentioned a cool bar and grill where the guys like to hang, I envisioned a quiet, low-key establishment.
This place is anything but.
It’s packed with people, and the music is blaring. For a Sunday night, this is wild.
The guys and I luck out and find a large round table in the bar area when a group of six—same as ours—leaves.
“I got the first round of shots for everyone,” Mike announces once we’re all seated. “Jamesons sound good?”
The guys all cheer, agreeing that Irish whiskey is a solid choice.
I join in the cheering, but wow, we haven’t even ordered any beer yet.
That’s rectified as soon as the waitress, looking completely frazzled with her messy auburn bun and pen behind her ear, comes over to take our orders.
Since no one has had dinner, we also all order food.
Oh, and the shots, of course, courtesy of Mike.
I’m happy to see he abstains like he told me he would—he asks for a Coke for himself—seeing as he’s driving.
When the waitress returns with our beers and shots, I take the opportunity to check my phone to see if Becca has contacted me yet.
There’s nothing from her.
I sigh.
It’s seven thirty.
She must still be busy with the client.
Shaking my head and feeling bad for my poor girl, I set the phone, screen-down, on the table.
The waitress sets my beer right next to it, as well as the shot from Mike.
I nod and thank her.
Everyone takes their shot, and then we all start shooting the breeze.
I have to say the guys are really friendly. I find them welcoming, and I feel like I fit in. This is definitely a fun group.
Maybe playing here wouldn’t be so bad?
If only I could talk Becca into coming to Dover with me. That is if they do indeed pick me up.
Yeah, right, that’s never going to happen.
I mean, I could get traded to the Sharks, yeah. But Becca coming with me and leaving her whole life behind?
I just don’t think we’re there yet.
Nor could I ask her to give up everything she’s worked so hard for.
I’m not that selfish.
Feeling cruddy about things and how they may turn out, I order another round of shots for everyone but Mike, making mine a double.
Mike, who is seated to my right, raises a brow. “Whoa, Samuels, you’re going for it, huh?”
Shrugging, I reply, “What the hell. Practice doesn’t start till noon tomorrow.”
“That’s true,” he agrees.
“I’m sure I’ll sleep it off by then.”
“That’s the spirit,” one of the other men in the group chimes in when he overhears me.
Mike just shakes his head, chuckling.
Next round, everyone except for Mike orders a double shot.
Needless to say, we’re all pretty buzzed by the time our dinners arrive.
We’re louder and more boisterous too, at times even drowning out the blaring music.
That’s quite a feat.
None of the other patrons seem to mind, though, as the whole damn bar is raucous.
Dinner flies by, plates are cleared, and someone buys me another shot of Irish whiskey.
I don’t even think to check the time.
My phone is tucked under the red cloth napkin the waitress forgot to take.
I reach for it at one point to see if Becca has called, but I’m quickly distracted when the guy to my left and a couple of the others get up to mingle.
Mike stays at the table, as he’s deep in conversation with a dude who’s a safety on the team.
I watch as three of my potential teammates head over to talk to three women at the bar.
I look around the joint, observing that there sure are a lot of women in here.
That’s probably why the guys like this bar so much.
The waitress comes by then, distracting me from my thoughts.
“Here you go,” she says as she sets another beer down on the table.
“Whoa, hold up.” I stop her before she leaves. Pointing to the bottle, I say, “I didn’t order this.”
“I did,” a woman utters saucily from my left.
Twisting around, I find there’s a cute brunette standing next to me.
The waitress, leaving the beer on the table, rolls her eyes and walks away.
Noticing the seat on my left is open, the girl nods to it and asks, “Mind if I sit down?”
Eh, what’s the harm?
It’s not like I’m going to go home wi
th her.
“Go for it,” I say, shrugging.
Plopping down, she adjusts her short, tight black skirt in a way that makes it ride up higher. I think that’s done purposefully. Her top is black as well, like a leotard. And she tugs at the low neckline, smiling at me.
I look away, but when she flips her chestnut brown hair, practically hitting me with her long locks, my attention returns to her.
“I’m Mandy,” she says.
“Hey, Mandy.” I tip my bottle her way. “Thanks for the beer.” I take a long pull, and once I set the bottle back down on the table, I tell her, “I’m Lars.”
“I know,” she replies, snickering.
Huh, she has really pretty green eyes.
Not like Becca’s beautiful aqua-shaded ones, but still, they’re nice.
But wait, she knows my name?
Huh?
Clearing my throat, I ask, “How do you know my name? Did you overhear us talking?”
“No.” Mandy shakes her head, wavy hair bouncing. “I just happen to know you play for the Comets. Thus, I know who you are.”
Wow, I can’t believe she knows this.
It’s not like our league is the NFL. Usually only our fans in our own cities know who we are.
Still feeling surprised, and also a little more than buzzed, I reply, “I do indeed play for the Comets. But how does a girl from Dover know that?”
Smiling smugly, she explains, “I’m not from Delaware. I’m actually from Columbus.”
Ahh, now it all makes sense.
I nod. “Got it. But wait… You’re saying you wouldn’t have recognized me if you weren’t from Ohio?” I pretend to be aghast. “You mean I’m not nationally known yet?”
I’m totally kidding, and she knows it.
Feigning a sad look, she replies, “Not yet, I’m afraid. But I bet someday you will be. The league you’re in is growing. And you’re really good.”
“Wow, thanks.”
Dropping her voice to a whisper, she says, “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Sure.”
Mandy leans in a little closer, so close that I can smell her floral perfume. It’s not entirely unpalatable.
Softly, she says, “You’re hot enough that even if I hadn’t recognized you, I still would’ve come over and bought you a beer.”