by Frost, Sosie
“Don’t call me Kiss.”
“I thought you liked that nickname.”
“I don’t.”
“It suited you.”
How did he annoy me after only two seconds of conversation? The damn nickname followed me. After the past Christmas party, I never wore the shimmering gown again, not after Jack pronounced me his little Hershey’s Kiss with my mocha skin all wrapped up in silver silk. The name was funny after two glasses of wine, but a respectable girl learned never to encourage Jack Carson.
“Don’t call me Kiss,” I said. “I’ve told you before.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Many times.”
Jack tested my patience with a dangerous smile. “Well, sorry, Kiss, sometimes you talk, and I get lost in those chocolate eyes of yours. Can’t blame a man for becoming infatuated.”
Oh, please. “So…you didn’t get any action last night, and now you’re laying it all on me?”
“You’ll know when I lay on you.”
That wasn’t ever going to happen. I tucked my skirt before I sat. My laptop betrayed me with more and more headlines on my homepage. Tales of the multi-million-dollar star quarterback’s car crash dominated the news cycle, but this article was new. Apparently, Jack stopped traffic for three hours on the busiest bridge out of the city.
“Seriously, Jack,” I said. “What the hell happened?”
His expression hardened, as solemn as I could get him. “I wrecked my 1968 Camaro Z28, that’s what happened.”
I ignored the dozen emails requesting interviews and information. I cared about only one. Jack’s agent would be late. He was probably fighting traffic and sweating bullets the size of footballs to make it to the office before league president Frank Bennett forwent the charm and laid waste to Jack.
“Forget about the car,” I said.
Jack’s dazzling smile was lost to an intimidating scowl. He usually reserved that for the loud-mouth linebackers he loved to humiliate, not the only publicist willing to take his case.
“Forget the car?” He acted like that was the scandal. “It was a classic. 302 V8 engine. Four speed manual transmission—”
I already learned football for this job; I wasn’t taking a literal crash course in cars too. “Jack, the car doesn’t matter. You had three women with you and the van driver had just dropped her children off. You are so lucky you didn’t slam into a family with your…your…”
“My what?”
“Your…whore-mobile!”
“My whore-mobile?”
I waved a hand. “What would you call it?”
He shrugged. “My totaled, 1968 goddamned Camaro! Whores not included.”
“Oh, sorry.” I wasn’t. “What wholesome activity were you planning to do with those ladies?”
He smirked. “We were just taking a drive.”
“A drive?”
“I was showing them a night on the town. You know? Having some fun. Might not kill you to try it once in a while.”
His fun wasn’t my definition of a good time. “Jack, that fun almost killed you.”
“Only makes me stronger, Kiss.”
“Only makes you look like more of a playboy.”
Jack’s words didn’t have a shred of decency or humility. “We were just out for a drive.”
I scrolled to a picture circulating Instagram, Twitter, and every media outlet. I twisted my laptop so he could see the screen.
“Why was your fly down?”
Jack tilted his head as he surveyed the photograph. “Well, that was a bad day to forget to wear boxers.”
“You think?”
“I almost gave a free show.” He took too much pride in the picture. “Believe me, this could have been a lot worse.”
He was delusional. “How?”
“Seeing as I was nearly castrated, be glad we’re talking in your lovely office and not the hospital.” He thumbed through his phone, like this whole meeting to save his career inconvenienced him. “I give a lot to charity already. The last thing anyone wants me to donate is a couple inches of my dick.”
“Too much information.”
“Believe me, there’s enough to spare.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You might, one day,” he said. “Never know, Kiss.”
“Neutering you might actually settle your ass down.”
“I’m never settling down.”
“What a surprise.”
Jack crossed his arms behind his head. Every muscle in his body flexed whether he realized it or not. I hated myself for studying the tight cotton t-shirt as it stretched against his biceps. The tattoo sleeve on his arm was exposed. I told him to never go out without a suit. His ink—the raging calligraphy and lettering, words and dates, messages to himself and memories of his past—didn’t look like the tribute he meant. They were intimidating. Dark. The tattoos did nothing to endear himself to those who already thought he was bad news.
Me included.
“You realize how bad this looks?” I spread my notepads, pens, and phone before me, neat and tidy. My hands folded, and I entwined my dark fingers with every reserve of my patience. “The restaurant you left was trashed. The waitresses humiliated. There’s pictures trending on social media of you in a private room with a different woman on your lap all night—”
Jack didn’t apologize for any of it. “I’m not allowed to have a good time?”
“Your definition of a good time would entertain three men.”
His jaw set. “Sorry my nights aren’t a half a glass of wine, a thousand piece puzzle, and Netflix—”
“Hey!”
“Sorry, Kiss, you don’t seem the party type.”
“That’s a compliment coming from you.”
I was not explaining myself to Blowjob McCloseCall. For the past year as lead on his case, I’d tried my hardest to foster a professional relationship with the least professional man in the entire American League. No way I’d let that arrogant manwhore get under my skin.
Or my clothes.
No matter how much he tried.
Jack laughed. “You need someone to take you out…and then take you home.”
“Excuse me. We’re talking about your sex scandal first.”
“Gotta have sex for a scandal.”
“Oh, good. I’ll just put in the press release you were taking those three floozies to church.”
He rapped a hand on the table. “They weren’t floozies.”
“What were their names?”
His cocksure smile faded. He gnawed a lip, but I stopped him before he furrowed his brow.
“You’re unbelievable, Jack.”
“One was…Sophie?” He shrugged. “Then there was Halter-Top…and…uh, Blondie.”
“Great.” I scrolled my email again. “That makes my job easier. Anonymous sex. Fantastic.”
“Technically, it was supposed to be an anonymous foursome.” He crossed his arms behind his head. “What might have been...”
“I hope you aren’t this insufferable around your teammates.”
“Kiss, you’re getting off easy. With them, I’m much worse.”
The door opened. I stood, welcoming my boss as she escorted Jack’s agent inside. Jolene blushed the instant she greeted Jack, though she’d never have any luck with the quarterback.
Then again, he humped anyone who crossed his path. God only knew who Jack Carson’s next target would be. I pitied that future girl with her night of meaningless, animalistic sex in the arms of an athletic, masculine god who wanted nothing more than a couple hours of utter passion and no regrets.
At least…I thought I pitied the girl.
Maybe.
Jolene sat at my side, unable to look at her client. Her crush on Jack was so awkward she let me take the lead on the case even though I was still her assistant. The hotshot quarterback was a thorn in our side, but if I could keep him out of trouble, I’d get a well-deserved promotion. I wasn’t stopping until I got the partnership in Jolene’s comp
any and became the best publicist in the city.
“Finn.” Jack nodded to his agent. “How you holding up?”
Finn wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and juggled a half-empty bottle of Pepto-Bismol. “Just got off the phone with Coach Thompson.”
Jolene and I braced for the worst. Finn pulled his phone from his pocket. His hand left sweat prints on both the cell and mahogany table. I offered him a glass of water. He declined, sipping the Pepto instead.
“Let me guess.” Jack wasn’t intimidated. Did anything ever bother him? “He’s disappointed.” He held up a hand and started counting on his fingers. “He’s panicking that I’m hurt. He’s demanding that I stay out of the spotlight. Wants me to drop the lifestyle. He’s pissed about the women, about the wreck, about the late night. He won’t say a damn thing about the teammates who actually invited me out. The blame rests solely on me.”
Finn nodded. “You left out most of the profanity.”
He gestured to me. “The ladies have delicate sensibilities.”
I declined to respond to the asshole.
It was only eight AM and already Finn loosened his tie. “Jack, you are the leader of the Rivets. On the field and off.”
“Bullshit,” he said.
“That’s your responsibility, Jack.”
“Last year, I broke two single season records and tied for another three. That’s where my leadership lies. My nightlife doesn’t matter, only if I can get the team to the championship. And I did.”
“And you lost.”
Finn said what we all thought, but it was nothing Jack wanted to hear. The chair toppled as he stood. He loomed over us with a dark scowl that made the tattoos on his arms darken in the artificial light of the conference room.
I knew he didn’t belong trapped indoors like this. A man like Jack needed to vent his frustration on the field, in the gym, or in the bed of a beautiful woman.
Or three of them, apparently.
It was easier to judge the manwhore when I wasn’t imagining what he’d do to the lucky woman.
Jack extended his arms, tightening his muscles. Broad. Powerful. “I’m paying all of you a shit ton of money to represent me. So fucking represent me. You want to pretend I’m some beacon of moral responsibility, fucking tell people I’m a damn saint. Earn your salaries like I do every goddamned Sunday. Until then, I’m out of here.”
“Jack…” I called to him before he reached the door. The phone rang as he grabbed the knob. “The League is calling. You have to talk to President Bennett.”
“Son of a—”
Jolene answered the call and pressed her fingers to her lips. She plastered on a twenty dollar smile and greeted the president as if they were old buddies instead of the monthly target of Frank Bennett’s rage against Jack.
“Frank…how are you?” Jolene immediately flinched against a hail of profanity from both the phone and Jack slamming into his seat. “We’ve been waiting for your call. I have you on speaker with Finn Smith, Mr. Carson’s agent, and my assistant, Leah Williams.”
“I remember.”
Frank didn’t mince words. He also didn’t greet us because he had no reason to say hello. We had hardly hung up the phone since the last conversation. This scandal would result in the same meeting as before. Just like the last call. And the call before that. And the meeting before that…
Every conversation had the same concerns: booze, women, and bad decisions.
It was easier to represent players who were actually in trouble with the law. At least the public could believe they were legitimately remorseful when they got caught with the cookie jar. Jack had his hand up too many skirts to look like anything but an unrepentant womanizer.
“Carson there?” Frank’s voice bit over his name.
Jolene pretended not to notice, though she raised her eyebrow at me. “Yes, he is, sir.”
“Hungover?”
Jack snorted. “I wasn’t drinking last night.”
Frank laughed, cold. “Well, what restraint, Carson. Should we hold a parade in your honor?”
This wouldn’t be a pleasant call. Frank Bennett wasn’t intimidated by Jack’s abilities or successes. The new league president didn’t care about ratings. It was our luck that he was committed to bringing professionalism back to the league after countless problems with drugs, domestic abuse, and allegations of interleague cheating.
“I suppose you heard the news,” Jolene said. “We’re pleased to report that Mr. Carson is not injured and neither were the other passengers in his car.”
“Passengers?” Frank spat the word. “I think that’s more respect than those whores deserve. Please tell me you didn’t pay for their company, Carson.”
Jack’s hand curled into a fist, but he forced a smile. The smirk didn’t make him friendly. “I’m man enough to earn my women, Frank.”
“You man enough to own up to this mistake?”
“That van driver was at fault, the police said—”
“I don’t give a damn what the police said, Carson! You were in the accident. You were photographed bleeding. The other car doesn’t matter. They weren’t the multi-million dollar quarterback more concerned with what’s in his pants than his surroundings.”
“Do you want me out of my pants…or would you prefer I crawl up your ass, Frank?” Jack lost his temper. Already. “I’m the one who got in the accident. I’m the one who totaled a very expensive, very rare car. Where’s my are you okay, Jack? Or Are you hurt?”
“Now you listen here you little punk—”
Finn nervously spoke. “Let’s focus on the issue at hand.”
“This issue?” Frank practically snarled into the phone. “The issue is that the star quarterback for one of the most prestigious teams in the league is out every damn night picking up women, getting into trouble, and now recklessly driving and wrecking his car—”
Jack gripped his chair. He’d either break the arms or his fingers. “The accident wasn’t my fault—”
“Yes. This accident wasn’t your fault, but who knows what will happen next! You are worth millions of dollars—not just to yourself or your city, but to the league! What happens when those women sue you for damages? Or worse? What happens if one day a woman alleges you forced yourself on her?”
“Whoa!” Jack nearly ripped the phone from the table. “Let’s get something straight. I don’t have to force myself on anyone. Those women are begging me—”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s the case.” Jolene interrupted before Jack revealed too many of his exploits. “But, from a PR standpoint, the media will begin to spin Jack’s nights on the town as an aggressive male on the prowl for women. While many of his lady friends are…” She cleared her throat. “…charmed, by Mr. Carson, our surveys have shown an unfavorable opinion of his reputation.”
“My concern isn’t with his reputation, it’s with the league!” Frank must have pounded on his desk. “And I will not let Carson make a fool out of the entire, national organization because he chooses indecency over his responsibilities to his team.”
Jack was pissed enough to list his accomplishments. “I hold the single season passing record.”
Frank didn’t listen. “I can’t abide by this sort of behavior. He’s jeopardizing not only the league’s image—”
“And the single season touchdown record—”
“—But he’s also endangering himself to a personal liability—”
“—The team record for completions in a season—”
Frank’s voice rose, silencing everyone. “These instances of misconduct will come to an end. Fining him has done nothing in the past, so I have no other recourse.”
Finn waved a hand to silence Jack. “Mr. Bennett, what are you planning?”
“A four game suspension for now. I’m arranging an internal investigation and pursuing a contract termination and expulsion from the league.”
My heart sank. Jack nearly launched from the conference room.
“I
t’s the off-season!” He yelled. “Christ, training camp begins in two weeks. You’re going to expel me for doing absolutely nothing wrong eight weeks before the season starts?”
Finn frowned. “Mr. Bennett, I was on the phone with Coach Thompson…he didn’t mention anything about an expulsion—”
“Christ, I should have cracked my head through the windshield,” Jack said. “Maybe you wanted to see more blood.”
“I don’t take this decision lightly, Carson. And you should be grateful I don’t talk to Coach Thompson and recommend he cut you now and let you flounder while we sort out the details.”
Jack sneered. “Like a dozen other teams wouldn’t piss themselves to sign me.”
“Not if I introduce a good-conduct clause into all league contracts—starting this season. I’ll force you to behave or the entire team will be fined for your delinquency.”
“You can’t do that.”
“The preliminary language is with the player’s union now.” Frank paused. “No one will take a chance on you, Carson. You’re a risk and a liability and a PR nightmare. One day, you’ll pick the wrong fight or take home the wrong girl, and you won’t be as lucky as you are today.” He scoffed. “Three women last night, Jack?”
Jack couldn’t charm and rage at the same time. He threatened instead. “This is bullshit. I was giving those women a ride home.”
I braved a chance to jump into the conversation. “Mr. Bennett, a suspension or expulsion will only punish the Rivets and place Mr. Carson in the spotlight. If you feel discipline is the best course of action, we wouldn’t argue with you, but forcing more attention onto this issue will publicize the scandal.”
Frank exhaled. “I’m sorry, Ms. Williams, but Carson’s image hurts everyone. He is no role-model for the younger fans, and he does not project an impression of respect, decorum, or responsibility.”
Jack simmered, ready to blow. “How am I supposed to look responsible? Pick up litter in the park? Herd a family of ducklings across the road?”
Frank didn’t care for his tone. “How about presenting yourself as a functional member of society? Show up to practice, go home at night, and act like a reasonable adult. Find yourself one woman and settle your ass down!”
Just the words Jack didn’t want to hear, and yet…