ERIC

“Hey sweet tits, can we get another pitcher over here or what?” Mott yells. Actually, it was more of a loud grunt, but whatever.

The ponytailed brunette arches her pretty eyebrow above densely packed, tipsy bodies, her copper eyes locked on Mott. For a second it feels like she’s going to give a nod, a smile, something normal for a waitress. But after two suspenseful beats, with everyone in our group of twelve watching, she throws a tattooed hand up, heavy with silver rings, middle finger extended in a salute he can sit on. If he had wings.

The team guffaws with laughter.

I slap his oversized shoulder. “Read it and weep, Mott!”

“You think you can do better, Cocker? Go get us some beers! On you!”

Throwing my million-dollar hands in the air I announce, “Watch and learn, fuckers. If you need to take notes to improve your game, there’s an app on your phone to store ‘em. Be prepared. You don’t want to miss this!”

They chortle, joyous that Mott got served a dish of humble pie and hoping I’ll make him eat it. Everyone’s in a mood. We’re about to start the season and we Falcons are ready for it. Training Camp was grueling and we loved every sweaty second. Now we’re revving up, the second Exhibition game went well today. We’re feeling glorious, impervious, and that makes Mott getting flipped the bird that much funnier.

It’s an eighty-two degree, seventy-seven percent humidity Sunday. Sticky bodies undulate in conversation and cravings of every kind.

I make my way through the throng, eyeing all the sweet-scented females who are silently begging me to choose them for the night.

“Lookin’ good, Eric!”

Flicking a glance to my right, it takes me a second to recognize a girl I’m pretty sure I fucked last season. Can’t remember her name though. Regardless, I pull her willing hips against mine. “Hey there…Long time. Looking good yourself.”

Long eyelashes flutter to my mouth as she pouts, “They didn’t play you very much today.”

“You were looking for me?”

Along with a sultry smile comes the slow tease, “Maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t.”

My eyes are locked on her bottom lip as she bites it.

Because I’m still interested, I teach her, “These pre-season games are for evaluating rookies, getting them used to big crowds so they don’t lock up when the pressure hits. I’ll be playing, just not as much. Can’t have the quarterback getting hurt before go-time.”

“Can’t have that,” she purrs sliding her hands up my back and pressing everything closer. Her volume drops as she smiles, “I had fun last time.”

Last time?

Did we fuck more than once?

What the hell’s your name again?

Burrowing into her neck I offer a vague, “You were a blast.”

“Hey Cocker! We’re thirsty!”

Well, look at that.

Totally forgot my mission.

Glancing over to Mott I grin at him. He points me to the bar and swirls his finger like, get it done!

Tearing free from the girl who’s practically a stranger to me, I offer an absent, “You take care now.”

Disappointment replaces flirtation.

Her friend blurts, not quietly, “He could have at least lied and said he would call!”

“I don’t lie.”

Their mouths drop open and I head for the waitress.

I grew up in a family where confidence was taught as soon as we took our first breath. You don’t get the name Cocker without being raised to own it. Especially because during grade school the nicknames are brutal. Never heard so many children gleefully say the word cock in your life. Never bothered me. For the most part nothing can. And I have my dad to thank for that. I remember the nights he’d tuck me in, deep voice filled with determination while he instructed...

Believe in yourself.

Everyone is unique—that means you.

Everyone means everyone.

When you go to sleep tonight, little man, ask yourself these two questions: Who is Eric Cocker? Who do I want to be?

Ask every night.

You get to decide.

Nobody will do it for you.

You are your own master.

You either hold your power.

Or you give it away.

That decision is always up to you.

No matter what anyone says.

Hold your power.

Keep it.

Feed it.

Understand?

Yes, Dad.

Good. After you’re done asking, get some rest. I love you, buddy.

And I did what he taught me. All three of us did—my siblings Emma, Ethan and I—we all asked that question nightly.

Who am I?

Who do I want to be?

It’s why the three of us are so different. And why nothing can shake us for long.

When you bring a foundation with you there’s no need to rely on other people to give you theirs.

Our cousins are the same. Every one of us is different and we all know our own worth. We’re Cockers. That name must be lived up to. For funny reasons and not so funny ones.

But Dad nor any of his brothers, even with all the ass I know they got as young men, could have prepared me for the surplus of tail I’m offered since I was made quarterback for the Atlanta Falcons.

Today is like any other day no matter where I am. Breasts out, eyelashes wagging, lips pouting, fingers suggestively licked. The only thing missing today is a girl climbing up a tall bar-table on all fours with her ass in the air like a cat in mating season. Believe me—it’s happened.

But this place especially is where we get our pick of any number of options if we’re interested. No strings.

O’Neal’s Irish Pub—that’s where we celebrate or commiserate after home games. The ambitious females of Atlanta know it, those who are dying to ball a baller. How they yearn to snap our pictures while we’re sleeping in their beds, covers tangled around our satiated, mammoth-sized, naked bodies. The girls without a brain in their heads share these pics on social media, thinking it gives them importance. Do we mind? Hell to the fuckin’ no. That kind of free publicity keeps our personal and professional reputations pumping hot and hungry.

It sells tickets.

Gets us laid more.

Win win.

The waitress is unaware I’m standing behind her as focused fingers tap onto the sole computer screen at a cluttered service station. I scan her voluptuous body. She’s got some meat on her. Nice round ass accentuated by jeans designed to show it off. Her racer-back tank top gives anyone interested a sneak peek of ink etched into her right shoulder, but I can’t make out exactly what it’s of. Now I want to slip my fingers under the cotton, pull it back and uncover the mystery.

The hand tattoo we all got a glimpse of earlier, I can see up close now. Tiny birds perched on a slender branch that travels from her wrist down her middle finger, stopping just above the first knuckle. It’s done tribal-style—no color, just black. But the needle used had a fine point, artwork delicate and feminine.

As Mike sets down drinks meant for someone else, I motion to tell him I’ll order what I need from the waitress.

He gives me a knowing smirk and heads away, under the wrong assumption that I’m intent on getting in this brunette’s tight pants.

I haven’t made my decision about who I’ll take home tonight—I came over here to get some beer for my buddies and at the same time, show Mott up.

But now that I’m standing here behind this body…

Mmm.

Mmm.

Mmm.