Текст книги "The Game Plan"
Автор книги: Kristen Callihan
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
Chapter Twenty-Five
Fiona
Some people hate New York. I get it—the place is loud, busy, dirty, swarming with activity. But I love it. The very second I step out onto its streets on Saturday morning, I feel energized, my pace picking up and my back getting straighter. Walking down Park to catch the subway downtown, I can almost pretend my time with Dex was a dream.
Except my nipples and thighs are sore. Every step I take sends a pleasurable little twinge through my sex, which aches as though I’ve been battered from the inside out with a large, blunt object.
I smile, remembering the thick length of Dex’s cock pounding into me. And I almost want to stop walking and squeeze my thighs together, as if it will keep the feeling with me for just a bit longer.
I miss him. It’s been less than a week, and I miss the sound of his voice, the warmth of his skin, the sly way he teases me. I miss teasing him. And I really just want to be back in that bed with Dex, tracing the lines of his tattoos, getting him to suck in a sharp breath when I play with his nipple ring.
None of this is good. He doesn’t live here. We’ll only see each other when he can fly into town. I need a distraction, and I aim to get it.
My steps grow quicker as I leave the Subway on 9th and make my way to Horatio Street. By the time I make it to Jackson’s apartment, I’m in desperate need of a fix. Thankfully, he lets me in quickly and is waiting for me as soon as the industrial elevator rolls to a stop on his floor.
Handsome and fit, he gives me a smug grin. “Not back in the city for a day and already you’re here. I told you you’d become addicted.”
I give his sandy jaw a peck. “Yes, yes, you’re very smart. Now shut up.”
Jackson slings an arm around my shoulder. “Did you just quote The Princess Bride to me?”
“If you have to ask, you’re not worthy, Jax.”
The apartment is part of a vast, renovated warehouse. Astrid Gilberto croons about a girl from Ipanema, and the fragrance of fresh coffee and baked bread mixes with the prevalent scents of wood chips and varnish.
Jackson lets me go and calls out. “Would you stop playing that shit? You’re going to turn us into a cliché.”
Hal walks out of the kitchen, holding a tray and wearing a glare. “You keep that up and I’m going to Chinatown to buy us matching silk robes, asshole.”
Then Hal grins at me, his blue eyes twinkling. “Fi-da-lee,” he drawls as I give him a hug. “Jack’s right; you’re addicted.”
“Maybe I just come here for the food.” I grab a croissant and take a large, obnoxious bite.
Jackson leans against the steel kitchen countertop. “So then you don’t want to see your table?”
“It’s ready?” I say around a mouth of food, though I’m pretty sure it really sounded like, “Pits meddy?”
“Breakfast first,” Hal insists, pouring me some coffee.
Which makes Jackson and me roll our eyes and head toward their workshop, Hal calling us barbarians as we go.
I’ve known Hal and Jackson since my senior year in high school when my mother stopped in their studio to look at some dining tables. Known as Jackson Hal Designs to the rest of the world, the couple creates some of the most beautiful modern furniture I’ve seen.
They work out of their apartment and have a studio on the ground floor, both of which Jackson inherited from his uncle, who bought the place in the ’80s when the Meat Packing District was, as Jackson puts it, “The domain of queers and steers.”
Now, it’s a fashionable district, filled with couture, night clubs, and hot restaurants.
And there is my baby. I give a little happy sigh as I run over to the dining table I made. Sixty-six inches long, it features a butcher-block top of reclaimed wood, organized in a pattern to take advantage of the natural colors and grains of each slab of wood.
At the moment, it’s all held together with massive clamps that have been in place while the glue dried.
“Want to do the honors?” Jackson asks.
I’m already unscrewing everything, eager to see the table unbound.
For the past five summers, I’ve been apprenticing with Jack and Hal, learning everything I can about furniture making. It’s helped me become a better designer, and I like that I get to work with my hands instead of simply drawing out sketches of rooms.
We all stand back and check out the table. It’s rough and needs sanding. I don’t want to use a slick varnish but plan to rub on several coats of soft, subtle wax.
“I don’t like that one dark piece,” I say, pointing to a length of wood that catches my eye. “It looks off.”
“You need a bit of imbalance,” Hal argues. “Otherwise the thing becomes bland.”
“Hal’s right.” Jackson walks around the table with a critical eye. “It works.”
We discuss the merits of the table and what I can do to improve it for a while, but eventually, my friends drag my troubles out of me.
Curled up in the corner of one of their massive couches, I palm my second cup of coffee and finish up my tale of professional woe.
“So quit.” Hal waves a hand as if this piece of advice solves everything in one fell swoop.
“And do what? I need to work. And I can’t just run away whenever things get hard.”
“Felix is a talentless hag,” Hal says with a sneer. “And he knows how to manipulate. You want to stay in that toxic environment? For what? So you can lose your soul?”
“Very dramatic,” Jackson deadpans before looking at me. “But he’s right. Felix isn’t going to teach you anything but how to succeed in business by being an ass. There are other ways. Do what you love, love who you do.”
“Don’t you mean ‘love what you do’?” I ask with a laugh.
Jackson leers. “That too.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, taking a sip of coffee. “I’ll have lots to do while he and the-thief-who-shall-not-be-named have fun on the Robertson project.”
“Robertson as in Cecelia?” Hal asks.
“Yep.” Cecelia Robertson and her thirty-million-dollar penthouse.
“She bought a dining set from us last year.” Hal crosses one leg over the other. “That bitch better not be ditching it in her redesign.”
“That bitch,” Jackson drawls, looking at me, “is in fierce competition with Janice Marks. I know because that’s all she could talk about during our consultation. How she had to have bigger and better than Janice. How her table could not look anything like something Janice would purchase.”
A slow, evil grin spreads over my face. “You don’t say.”
“Mmm…Janice is having a cocktail party at her house in two weeks. Want to be my date, sweet thing?”
Hal glances between us and grins as well. “You two…”
At that I stand. “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure as always. But I’m suddenly feeling the need to go in search of a cocktail dress.”
I’ve got a revenge to plan.
It is a sad truth that, yes, I do kill time on social media during work hours. A little lookie-loo over a coffee break, a little web surf at lunch. It’s a bad habit. I’m trying to nix it. But I don’t feel too guilty since I’ve caught Felix doing the same many times now. Who are we kidding? Our world is one of online addicts.
At lunch on the next Friday, I sit back with my chai tea and go to one of my favorite gossip sites, a total rag—my shame, my addiction.
My hand pauses over my tracking pad when Dex’s picture pops up in the headline. At first it doesn’t compute. Dex is in profile; his mouth—so nicely framed by his lush beard—is stern. Why the hell is he on a gossip site?
Leaning closer to my laptop, my heart pounding, I peer at the story. And the spiced tea I just sipped nearly chokes me.
“Mother fuck….”
The headline is large and ugly:
Pippa Bloom offers 1 Million Dollars for Proof of taking NFL Offensive Lineman Ethan Dexter’s Virginity
Heat prickles my cheeks and tingles the tips of my fingers. I can’t believe it. I read the article, a brief piece discussing how this private club called Pippa Bloom doesn’t believe a prime bachelor such as Dex is still a virgin. They want to take him down.
Why? There’s no explanation except for the fact that they’ve just gotten tons of free publicity by putting the public eye on my man.
I’m so angry, I can’t move my eyes from the screen. My fingers shake as I hit link after link discussing the offer, discussing Dex as if he’s some sort of sad case.
My first instinct is to call him. But no, I’ll be all screechy, and that won’t help the situation. I could call Ivy, but I’m guessing she’ll be all screechy, and I can’t handle that right now. So I call my friend Violet.
Violet and I were roommates freshman year, and though I quickly moved out to live in my dad’s guesthouse from sophomore year on—because, despite being social, I loved my privacy—we remained close friends.
“What up, Fi-Fi?” she answers in her best bro imitation.
I roll my eyes but smile. “Ms. Day.” Yes, her parents actually named her Violet Day. Then again, her mother’s name is Sunny, so I’m thinking they were aiming for a theme.
“What can I do you for, Fi?”
“You know you really need to stop talking like your brother. It’s getting uncomfortable.” I laugh when she curses, but the ugly headline still on my screen sobers me. “So I met a guy.”
“Ooh, tell me all.”
I can imagine her now, legs pulled up on her massive office chair, her gray eyes wide as she twists a strand of her honey brown hair around her finger.
“His name is Ethan. He’s a friend of Gray’s. They used to play together in college. He’s a center in the NFL now.”
“A football player? Get the fuck out.”
“I know. I’m surprised too.”
Violet knows my thou-shall-not-date-an-athlete vow well.
“But he’s kind of different. Unexpected. I just…I really like him.”
“I can tell by your voice,” she says softly.
“Yeah. Thing is…” I turn and scroll through the hideous article. “Have you read the news today?”
“Yeah…” Vi sucks in an audible breath. “Holy shit, are you talking about Ethan Dexter?”
I hate the scandal in her tone. I know she doesn’t mean it, but my cheeks prickle in irritation. Not at her, but the whole ugly situation. “That’s him.”
“You’re dating a virgin?” she almost shrieks.
So much for avoiding high-pitched conversations.
“You know what,” I snap. “I’m going hang up—”
“Sorry!” Violet interrupts. “That was totally rude. And not my business.”
“No.”
“But are you?” She rushes on as if she can’t stop herself.
I make a face at the ceiling as my head rests on my chair. “Let’s just say they’re a little late in their hunt.”
She snickers, but it’s a happy sound. “Go you, because I’m looking at his picture and holy Moses, he’s hot. Not your usual type. But hot. Much hotter, actually.”
I can’t help but smile. “Yes, he is. But right now I’m worried about this offer. And who the hell is Pippa Bloom?”
There’s a moment of silence, and I know Violet’s calmed down enough to actually get to the real point of the article.
“Pippa Bloom—” Violet all but sneers the words. “—is both the name of a club, and the scummy little shit who created it.”
“Tell me more.”
“Pippa Bloom, the woman, started off as a matchmaker for the rich and powerful. But it soon became clear that these gentlemen really wanted an easy hookup without all the stickiness of a relationship or the illegality of paying for sex.”
“Isn’t that how it’s always been?”
“Yeah, but she’s the one who made the connection and found a way to provide this easy, high-class hookup service. So she formed a club. It’s like Tinder for the wealthy. Members are vetted; attractive men and women are procured. They all know the score.”
“I don’t really want to side with anyone who’s out to hurt Dex, but I still don’t see what’s so bad about that.”
Violet makes an annoyed sound. “The club promotes cheating. They play up the taboo of fucking around on your spouse, marketing mostly to men. And they do cheap shit like this stunt with Dex to get publicity.”
“Fine, Pippa Bloom is cockwomble—
“What?” Violet laughs.
My lips twitch. “A very bad person. A twat.”
“I love when you break out the Brit.”
I acquired quite the cursing education during my summers in London.
“It happens when I’m hella pissed. But to speak in good ol’ American, she’s a punk, sleezoid, insert rage-filled adjective here.”
“Name-calling is well and good, but I’m going to bring that bitch and her club down.” Violet’s tone is hard and determined.
“I don’t see how.” I tap my pen on my desk and stare off. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. Dex matters. I need to talk to him.”
“It matters to me. This shit tore my parents apart. Now your man is a target? Hell no. Enough is enough. She’s going down.”
The thing with Violet is, I know she could do it. Behind her sunny smiles and foul mouth, Vi is a computer genius. From an early age she’s lived and breathed computers. Now, at age twenty-one, she’s a highly paid network securities consultant. Which means she also has the knowledge to go dark.
“Fine, go scorched-earth on her. Just be careful. I don’t want to see your ass wearing orange. I don’t care if it’s the new black.”
“I’d find a way out.”
Her confidence is not comforting. I run a hand through my hair and sigh. “I gotta go…”
“Find your man and give him comfort, Fi-Fi. Let me worry about damage control.”
I really don’t want to imagine Violet’s version of damage control. Better to remain ignorant in case of criminal proceedings. And right now, I have to concentrate on my own version of damage control.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dex
Having never been in the limelight before, I can say that it flat-out sucks to suddenly be thrust under its glare. At first, I don’t know what’s going on. Why are cameras aimed at me? I get the occasional picture taken, but I’m a center. I’m not news. I do my job and support the team.
This fucking flash-blitz that blinds me as I leave practice? Never happened before.
And then come the shouts.
“Dexter? Dexter? This way!”
“Dexter! What do you think about the virgin hunt?”
“Dexter! Are you really a virgin?”
For a long moment, I can only blink, try to get my sight back. One word hammers through all the ringing in my skull: virgin. It’s like a hit to the ribs. I can’t breathe.
They’re talking about me being a virgin.
Shame surges hot over my skin, like I’ve been stripped of my clothes and placed in the desert. I duck my head and shoulder through the crowd, aware of my teammates at my back, looking at me. And then comes rage. I shouldn’t be ashamed. My life is my own business.
It actually takes me five steps to realize I’m not a virgin. I’m so fucking blindsided that for a second, I forgot about Fi. Jesus. I’m not a virgin. But obviously the world thinks I am. And why?
“Dex.” Someone touches my elbow. I flinch, ready to throw the guy off. But it’s Rolondo, his dark eyes serious.
“Come on, man. I’ll drive to dinner.”
Dinner? People are still shouting, crowding. Cameras still in my face.
‘Londo grips my upper arm and gives me a nudge toward his SUV. Right. We’re supposed to go out to dinner with Drew and Johnson. We play their team tomorrow. Dinner. I don’t think I can eat. I kind of want to throw up instead.
Numbly, I get in Rolondo’s ride. The thud of the door shutting is a relief. It muffles the sounds from outside.
‘Londo hops in the driver’s seat. “We’ll hang at my place until it’s time to go. You don’t need this shit.”
He turns the ignition, and the car explodes into ear-ringing rap, his system set so loud my ass vibrates. He gives me a toothy grin and swerves out of the parking lot, leaving the press behind.
We drive a block before he turns the stereo down. “Damn, I didn’t roll over any of those punk-ass fuckers.” I know he’s only half kidding. His expression turns grim as he reaches into his jeans pocket and finds his phone.
“Google yourself and find out what the fuck’s going on, D.”
Part of me doesn’t want to. But knowledge is power, and I can’t fight what I don’t understand.
The headline immediately hits the top of the search page, and it’s a punch to the gut all over again. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I’m a marked virgin? With a fucking bounty on my dick?
I could almost laugh, but my stomach turns instead. I have to choke out the story to Rolondo, who just whistles long and low.
“Shit, man. That’s some…” He winces, rubs a hand over the short dreads he’s wearing. “That’s some shit, Dex.”
“Who the fuck is Pippa Bloom?”
He gives me a look. “You never heard of it?”
“It? Sounds like a woman to me.”
“Pippa Bloom is one of those hookup sites. Only they cater to rich dudes. You know, specialize in eccentric shit. Truth, I think there’s much more to them than just sex. Their slogan is ‘What’s your pleasure?’ It means anything. And I do mean anything.”
“How do you know about them?”
Rolondo squirms in his seat. “It…uh… It isn’t just guys looking for women.”
“God, you’re a member?”
“Not after this,” he snaps. “Not after they messed with my boy.”
“Thanks.” I run a hand through my hair. “No judgment, by the way.”
“Right, man. I didn’t hear any judgment in your tone.”
I can practically feel him rolling his eyes. I look over at him. When we graduated, Rolondo told our inner circle he was gay. I’d suspected it, but never said a thing. It’s been hard for him, but we have his back. Always. He’s yet to tell the media, which I know wears on him.
“I’m serious,” I tell him. “Live and let live. But, yeah, okay, I’m judging the shit out this site now. The fucking bounty on my ass kind of killed my good will.”
Rolondo laughs. “But, hey, you’re gonna be infamous after this.”
I know he’s joking. It doesn’t help, though. I can just hear the spew on ESPN now. The jokes. I’m stuck sitting here, feeling exposed, pissed, humiliated, then pissed again.
“Why the fuck did they decide to target me?” I’m not even aware that I’ve spoken until Rolondo shrugs.
“You got this whole man-bun, tattooed, broody big-guy thing going on. You know how many chicks dig that shit? And being a virgin on top of that? Fuck. It’s like catnip.”
My brows raise as I look at him. “Man-bun? You sound like an eighteen-year-old girl, you know that?”
I swear he blushes. But he shakes his head as if I’m the crazy one. “Man, I got younger sisters. It’s impossible not to know this shit.”
I squeeze the bridge of my nose. I feel a headache coming on.
“The real question is how did they figure out you were a virgin?”
“I’m not.”
I know he gets what I’m saying. I shouldn’t even mention it. But it fucking irritates me that this dating site has labeled me primary objective number one because they think I still am. “I mean, I was. Before… Shit, never mind.”
“Well,” Rolondo drawls, “at some point we all were virgins, D.”
I don’t want to smile. “You know what I mean. I’m saying it isn’t out of left field that they assumed I was. I never hid it. But I didn’t advertise it either. Doesn’t matter because—”
“You’re not anymore; I get it.” He turns in to the driveway of his condo. “You don’t gotta explain anything. But be prepared for some shit. This bitch-ass agency offered one million dollars for proof of getting into your pants?” A low, mirthless chuckle leaves him. “Man, shit. You’re gonna have bitches coming out of the woodwork for your ass.”
With a grunt, I slump in my seat, my heart clenching in my chest. “Fuck.” I’ve got to talk to Fi, prepare her for what’s coming. My insides roll. I promised her privacy, normalcy. This is far from fucking normal.
When I get inside Rolondo’s place, I try to reach Fi, but my call goes straight to voice mail. It keeps going to voice mail until it’s time to go out to dinner. And I’m left with this sinking feeling that everything has just fallen apart.
Despite my foul mood, dinner with the guys actually helps. Immediately they’re giving me hearty slaps on the back and offering inane jokes as we’re led to a quiet corner booth.
But once seated, Johnson leans in, wearing the fierce expression that has the press calling him The Viking, with his long yellow hair and slightly ruddy complexion. “Seriously, Dex, why the fuck did they start in on you? I mean…” He pinks a little. “We all kind of guessed you were—”
He slaps his mouth shut, unwilling to go there, which is kind of ironic considering he’ll talk shit about everything else under the sun. And I wonder if they pity me, thinking I’m some sad case. It pisses me off. The base part of me wants to tell them what I told Rolondo, that I’m no longer a virgin, or that I don’t give a shit about what I hadn’t done before, because being with Fi is the best feeling in the world.
But what I do with Fi is private. And I’m not even going to think about it now, not when she’s a thousand miles away and I miss her to the point of pain.
Yes, pain. It’s lodged in my chest. I rub the spot, hating that it feels cold and empty. There’s a pressure along my spine, like a hand pushing me toward wherever she might be. It’s getting worse, this urge to just leave where I am and go to her. Why isn’t she answering her phone?
I have dozens of voice mails right now. From Ivy and Sean Mackenzie, asking if I’m all right and wanting to discuss a game plan. Calls from my team’s PR rep wanting the same thing. Calls from nearly everyone I know except Fi.
Johnson is waiting for an answer.
“I honestly don’t know.” I rub the back of my neck where it’s stiff and sore. “I keep a low profile.”
“Man, I don’t think so,” Rolondo says with a shake of his head. “Not with you singing in bars and shit.”
Johnson laughs, hunching over. “Oh, man. I nearly pissed myself when I saw that video. Fucking crazy, D. I cannot believe you did that.”
I can’t either. But then Fi brings out parts of me I didn’t know were there. I’d gone into it trying to win her, but ended up having fun. I’d let go in a way I’ve only ever done on the field.
“Thing is, that video has been out for a while. It had a run on social media, got a good laugh on ESPN, but that was it.”
“It’s your calendar. They’ve released the photos.” Drew holds out his phone. There’s a picture up on his browser, and we all make a swipe for the phone to see. I get there first, elbowing Johnson off as I look down at the screen.
“Shit. I forgot about this.”
“Sexy Dexy,” Rolondo sings out with a laugh, earning a shove from my other elbow.
My team’s calendar photos. Nude photos. Yeah, I did it. Mainly because the photographer was a hot young woman who had a way of scaring the pants off all of us. Literally.
Thing is, she clearly had talent, and she didn’t treat it as some gratuitous man show—not that most of the guys would have minded.
The photos were tasteful, done in full, saturated color so rich it appeared as though you were looking at an oil panting.
My photo was a side shot against a deep red background. I’m taking a knee, my helmet on the ground beside me, my head bent and my arm resting on my thigh. A sort of football-style “The Thinker,” the photographer had insisted.
Aside from showing the side of my ass, none of my goods are on display, though I suspect there might be a little Photoshop at work—things hang and all that. I look weary yet undefeated, my expression thoughtful.
“It’s a good pic,” I say absently.
Drew smirks.
And I glare. “What? It has artistic merit.”
“It’s man candy,” Johnson says. “Look at you, all thoughtfully flexing your muscles. Did you flex your ass too?”
“Nothing to flex. That’s just my natural form.” I give him a look. “Jealous?”
Rolondo laughs. “Yeah, he is.” He gestures to the screen. “I’m gonna have mine blown up and hung over my bed.”
“Typical,” Johnson says. “How’d you pose for yours? Doing one of your showboating dances?”
“Holding a football in front of his dick while he strikes one of his showboating poses,” I deadpan.
“Fucking hot as hell,” Rolondo assures.
“I’m not letting Anna see these.” Drew shakes his head. “She’ll be all over me to do one too. But, yeah, man. There’s an article here.” He hits the screen, and it goes back to another page. “They’re calling you the hot, tatted, sensitive centennial of football. Apparently your pic got the most hits.”
“What? Sexy Dexy got more hits than me? Oh, hell no.” Rolondo scowls and pulls out his phone, apparently checking all the articles himself.
I roll my eyes.
Drew’s mouth turns down at the corners as he reads. “It was that fucker Randolph Norris who said you were a virgin.”
Norris was a nose tackle who played for the rival college team we beat in our last two conference championships. He and I faced off several times, and he always came away looking like a chump. To say we dislike each other is putting it mildly.
And since he’d played for a college only ten miles from ours, he was privy to the local gossip.
“Fucking ass stain,” Johnson mutters. “I hated that guy.”
“He was drafted by New Orleans this year,” I add. “But Coach cut him during the last round of training camp. Rumor was he didn’t like Norris’s attitude.”
“Because it sucked,” Rolondo mutters. “Nearly snapped Finn’s head off during a light practice.”
Putting the health of the starting QB in danger because you’re showing off in practice isn’t a smart move. Thank Christ I don’t have him on my team anymore.
“So he’s bitter and clearly hates Dex,” Drew says. “He had loads to say—about how Dex never went out with any women, or dudes. How our college called him the patron saint of football. How people took bets on when he’d lose his V card.”
“Did they?” I ask.
They all give me hesitant glances. I guess so. I’m not really pissed at them, but it fucking irks to realize people have been talking about me this whole time.
And now the world is too.
I sit back with a sigh. “Put it away. I’m going to get indigestion before I even have a chance to eat.”
“And we all know you do not come between Dex and his meals.” Johnson wags a finger.
“No, that’s you,” I say.
“True that.” Rolondo grins wide.
“Man, you should, like, star in The Bachelor,” Johnson says. “I can see it now.” His voice drops. “This season, on a very special NFL Bachelor…”
“That’s your favorite show, isn’t it?” Drew asks with a grin. “I bet you watch it at night and just cry when he sends some poor girl home.”
We all laugh as Johnson turns red, his fair skin unable to hide his flush. “Do not.”
“Excellent come back,” I tell him.
“Anyway,” Drew says, “Dex can’t go on that show. He’s already got a girl.”
“No shit?” Johnson looks at me like I’ve grown two heads.
“Yep,” Drew answers for me. “Fiona Mackenzie. Ivy’s little sister.”
“The cute blonde who took her dress of at the wedding?” Johnson’s expression borders on a leer.
“Hey,” I warn. “Just wipe that right the fuck out of your memory.”
Drew shakes his head. “See? Gone on her already.”
I drink my water and endure a round of kissing noises. “You kids done?”
Johnson wags his tongue in a lewd manner. “Now I’m done.”
“Bunch of juveniles,” I mutter. But I’m not mad. I’ve missed this. I missed my guys.
Rolondo frowns. “If you’re with Fiona now, this whole virgin-hunt thing goes out the door.”
“No,” I say with force. “I don’t want Fi anywhere near this. The press does not get a piece of her.”
“I respect that,” Rolondo says. “But you gotta know that what you want and what the public takes are two different things, my friend.”
Unfortunately, he’s right. I hate the fear creeping over my shoulders. There are things I can’t protect Fiona from, and it frustrates the hell out of me.
We eat dinner and gossip. I’m not afraid to admit it’s pure gossip: who’s done what knuckle-headed thing, which coaches suck, which don’t.
And of course, war stories. How we’ve manned up in the face of pain and adversity and made spectacular plays, which are always ten times more impressive in the retelling, as if we don’t all watch Sports Center highlights and know when one of us is lying out of his ass.
By the time the waiter slides a dessert that consists of chocolate in five different forms in front of me, I’m almost normal again.
Johnson scowls at his plate. “It’s so tiny. Everything here is tiny.”
“It’s gourmet,” Rolondo says, picking up his spoon.
“Who picked this place, anyway?” Johnson complains.
“I did.” I slide a spoonful of dark chocolate mousse into my mouth and almost groan. Damn. Fi needs to come here with me. And like that, I’m missing her again. I ignore the emotion and glare at my guys. “It’s delicious. Just order another one if you’re still hungry.”
Rolondo just laughs and eats while Johnson mutters about me being some sort of metrosexual.
“Lumbersexual,” I counter, getting a look of horror from Johnson. I shrug. “That’s what Fi says, anyway.”
“Why would she say you like having sex with lumberjacks?” Johnson asks with a confused frown.
Rolondo throws a napkin at his head. “Man, you don’t know jack about jack.”
“Lumberjacks?”
We all groan.
Except Drew, who doesn’t say a word. He hasn’t even noticed his dessert. He’s way too fidgety and practically glued to his phone screen, which isn’t like him.
“Why do you keep looking at your phone?” I ask him. “Shit, is there more bad press? Am I now up for grabs for both sexes?”
“I’d do you,” Rolondo puts in with a grin.
“You’re too high-maintenance for me.”
“This is true.” ‘Londo nods and looks me over. “I’d most definitely make you shave that beard. I’m not into bears.”
I shrug. “We were never meant to be.”
Johnson rolls his eyes. “I don’t care if I sound like a dick. This whole exchange is bizarre.”
“You always sound like a dick,” Rolondo says. “So we’re used to it.”
He ducks a chunk of bread Johnson pings at him. An older couple across the way turns to stare.
“Ladies,” I say mildly, “mind your manners. This isn’t the college bar.”
“Yes, Mom.” Johnson sits back and looks around. “Why is it that we aren’t in a bar? I mean, yeah, we got money now. But this place is making my shoulders itch.”
“I’m checking the place out,” I tell them. “It’s for sale, and Gray, Drew, and I are thinking about investing in restaurants.”
“Seriously?” Johnson looks surprised.
“We need something to fall back on. We aren’t going to play forever.”
Since the three of us love to eat, we thought about the restaurant business. Gray and Drew have been looking at places on the west and east coasts, respectively.
I glance at Drew. “If a certain QB would get his face out of his phone and taste the food, it would be much easier to do.”
Drew lifts his head. “The atmosphere is a little staid, but the food is good, and the place is packed.”
“Agreed,” I say. “It always is, but I’d make changes.”
