Chapter Five
Parker
Grogan and I went up to the city to celebrate that night. The combines were over and I’d managed to get word to one of the cheerleaders who I knew was married with children to get word to Amber and some of her single friends that we were going to be out and about. If you can’t blow off a little steam after voluntarily getting your butt kicked by a bunch of people who held your future in their hands, then what was the point? Players who don’t have fun don’t last long, that’s how I saw it. Now, that doesn’t mean everyone has fun the same way. I knew a couple of offensive linemen who admitted to me they’d rather stay home with a book than go dancing and more power to them, but I love the noise, the night, the way women move…all of it.
The bouncer took one look at Grogan and didn’t even card us. I was twenty-one. The only thing I couldn’t do, apparently, was rent a damn car, but soon enough I was going to be buying myself an Audi R8 V10 Plus, Mythos black, with the 20-inch wheels and Bang & Olufsen sound system. The first thing I was going to do after signing my rookie contract was place the order.
Once we were inside, we didn’t even go to the bar, but straight to the dance floor. People looked at Grogan with what the fuck? expressions, like someone that big wasn’t going to be able to do anything but break through the wood of the floor. Then he started to roll those shoulders and move those size sixteen feet, and I had to laugh. If we didn’t know better, everyone watching would have thought he was filled up with helium. Graceful, smooth, precise…not every offensive lineman could dance like Grogan, but every one of them that had a chance to make the NFL had footwork most human beings didn’t understand. People began to laugh and join in as Grogan’s fun was contagious. Two skinny little girls were dancing with him at the same time and laughing. I took the chance to grab a beer and text my inside contact within the cheerleader camp where we were.
Thirty seconds later I checked and saw her response. We’ll be there in ten minutes, then I’m going home. You owe me, Parker. XOXOX
I found the manager and got him to set up a table for us in the main room, no VIP lounge for us. For one, we wanted to be with the crowd and, more importantly, we hadn’t even signed our contracts yet. People think I’m a rich kid, considering where I’m from, but the truth was, Grogan and I would be splurging tonight, and paying for the girls’ drinks alone was going to make a noticeable dent in our meager accounts. It was worth it.
The girls arrived, and Grogan and I laughed at the effect it had in the club. Men’s heads snapped around so hard they might have needed ultrasounds the next day, and this did not sit well with many of the other ladies. Their posture actually changed. They went from casual, I’ve-got-this-guy-completely-wrapped to kind of lifting themselves up a bit, almost as though someone invisible had slowly goosed them. Legs straightened, butts shifted outward and higher, chests pushed forward, hair started getting tossed and played with more, smiles got that extra stretch in them … I doubted we would have even noticed the transformation if we didn’t have such a wide angle and knew the cheerleaders were coming to meet us.
Four of them showed up. My cheerleader friend gave me a peck on the cheek, and I nodded, letting her know I’d pay her back. I figured on sending her some awesome tickets so she and her fiancé could have some fun, once I’d signed my contract, of course.
Once Amber got on the dance floor, as much as we had turned heads before, nobody was watching me or Grogan anymore. Even the women couldn’t take their eyes off her.
It was too loud to talk. I just kept moving to the music while watching Amber. She smiled at me and used two fingers to nudge me on the shoulder, then kind of rolled her fingers toward herself on the sides, watch me. No problem there.
She made a couple of steps that I realized suddenly were more masculine than the way she’d been dancing. Not stiffer, still with all the form and grace she couldn’t help having in every move she made, but just different. It almost seemed stronger, but that wasn’t quite right either. I copied her, and the two girls dancing with Shawn said, “Oh! You got it.”
Amber smiled and nodded, and showed me a few more moves. It’s not like I didn’t already know how to dance, but these were new steps and turns, little moves with the shoulders that must have been the latest, filtering down from the pro levels. I picked up quick, and started putting them together. Amber lifted an eyebrow like she was impressed, and then went back to her own still, which I could not describe adequately if you gave me a thousand years and a thesaurus.
Grogan and I were drenched, while the girls just had a little sheen going.
“How ‘bout drinks?” I asked Amber.
She stared at me like she could read my mind, which admittedly wasn’t hard. “Later, babe. We’re letting ourselves have two drinks each tonight, and we don’t want to waste them early.”
She laughed. I felt my stomach do a little flip at what I hoped were the implications of the strategy. I think I caught Grogan try to stifle a gulp, too.
My cheerleader friend begged off, which made it three to two. I leaned over to Amber at the table, still having to shout but in a way the others could hear. “Should I see if I can find a friend to even out our group? I’m sure there’re a few packs of us out tonight around town.”
“Don’t worry, they look happy, and neither of those two has any trouble.”
I hadn’t noticed yet. Without the slightest effort, Amber had captured my full attention, but her words had me look over and check the other two cheerleaders out. One sat on either side of Grogan, each had a hand up high on his arms just gently laying on his biceps. One was a redhead and the other a blonde, and if it hadn’t been for Amber, those two would have had my tongue hanging out.
“I see your point,” I acknowledged.
“So, how’d you swing us our own table, Mr. Football?”
“Told the manager I’d be back once I signed.”
She laughed. Her shoulders moved, her knees shifted slightly, one of her feet tucked back, her torso just angled a bit, and somehow everything her body did was more graceful than I had ever seen in person before, all because she had a nice laugh. I checked her out up and down, but not like a creeper would. I was just showing her I appreciated her appearance.
“How do you do it?” I asked her.
She didn’t even try to act like she didn’t know what I was talking about. “Parker, I was born this way.” Suddenly the music changed, “This is a good one.”
That’s all I needed. I slid out of the booth and held out my hand. She took it and didn’t let go until we got out to the floor again. I forced myself to just enjoy. Whether anything was going to happen later or not, I felt like I was watching something I would be able to appreciate for the rest of my life. It was the only way I could keep myself from saying or doing something stupid that might ruin the mood, like dancing close and putting my hand on that goddamn perfect ass.
Next time we got back to the table, the ladies let us buy them some drinks. I’d been expecting them to ask for some kind of spritzer or sweet mixed drink, but they just wanted cold beer. Grogan was being a gentleman, but I noticed his arm around the redhead. It didn’t seem to bother the blonde in the slightest. She was sitting on the far side of the booth, and Amber and I were watching as she turned her head toward a guy at the bar who’d been dancing with a different partner just about every other song. The blonde’s head turned, and he must have been looking in the mirror behind the bar because he turned too. The dude was older, looked like he was made out of granite blocks, at least when it came to chin, shoulders, cheek bones, and hands. His scruff looked like it could have sanded wood.
Our blonde turned to us and said, “You guys are fun. Hope we get to party again sometime.”
By the time the last word left her mouth, Joe Concrete was at the side of our booth, right next to her. He ignored the rest of us and didn’t bother trying to shout. He just held out his hand. Grogan and I grinned, impressed. She was still smiling at us, putting her hand in his and standing as we hoisted our drinks to them both.
Amber also had a little smile on her face, and I knew it was now or never. No more dancing. No more drinks, not here at least. I took a page from what I’d just witnessed and cocked my head toward the exit. She lifted that eyebrow again, and I took it as a ‘yes.’
When I stood up, Grogan looked at the redhead, and it was his turn to lift an eyebrow. She giggled and nodded. I was still wondering what was going to happen for me that night, but Grogan had just found out he was all set, the lucky bastard.
We all headed out of the club and paired off into separate cabs. We didn’t waste time with goodbyes, although I had no idea when I might see Grogan again. Other than playing against each other once in college, we’d only actually socialized at the combines earlier today.
“You still have one drink before you reach your limit tonight,” I reminded Amber once we were cozied up in the backseat of the cab.
“Mmmm hmmm.”
I grinned and told the driver to take us to the Ivy, a boutique hotel that was way out of my price range, but just happened to be half a block from where I was staying. They had a rooftop garden bar with a view and a dance floor. They also had a deck with heaters where a couple could hear themselves think.
We made short work of the Ivy. The music wasn’t our style, I didn’t even notice the view, and it didn’t seem to me that Amber was paying too much attention to anything else but me, either.
“How ‘bout one shot before we get the hell out?” I suggested.
“I’m in a tequila mood,” she said with a saucy smile.
I nodded to the bartender.
“Mr. Starr.”
I grinned. “How’s it going?”
“Slower than usual tonight, actually, but I’m not complaining.”
There wasn’t an empty table in the place. I’d hate to see what he considered busy. “We just stopped by for a couple shots of tequila.”
“We’ve got the best selection in town,” the bartender said.
“I’ll bet, but I’m not the world’s biggest connoisseur. Amber?”
She smiled. “I don’t care.”
The bartender was smooth. He looked at me for just a second and said, “I’ve got just the thing.”
I wasn’t about to ask him not to break the bank. My checking account had a $200 overdraft protection, and I’d rather go negative than be a broke-ass college kid in front of Amber. He brought us our shots. In spite of my reputation, I had absolutely zero expertise when it comes to liquor. In high school, it was whatever we could get our hands on, which when it came to our parents’ liquor cabinets was probably pretty damned good. Through college, it had been a keg of whatever someone had brought, or whatever they were serving at the frat parties. Some of our players talked about what they were going to do once they made it, parties with Cristal and Grey Goose.
We tossed our shots down, and I’d never had hard alcohol not even do anything but whisper on the back of my throat. I looked up in surprise. Amber just smiled again. “He poured us the good stuff. You ain't even signed yet. I’ll buy mine.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it. Thanks, though.”
She was about to pay anyway when the bartender said, “On me. Just come back sometime when you’re playing on Sundays, all right?”
I grinned. A warm feeling spreading from…not even from my stomach, which surprised me, but from my muscles themselves, all over. “I’ve got to ask, what was that?”
I was surprised when Amber answered. “That was AsomBroso, baby.”
The bartender looked impressed. “She’s right.”
“Thanks. I’ll definitely be back here to celebrate, you can count on it.”
He nodded and grinned and we went to the elevator.
“That bartender just gave us two hundred dollars’ worth of tequila,” she told me.
I whistled. “It’s like, damn…”
“Like a sauna from the inside?” she said.
I nodded. The elevator door opened. We got in and right as the door closed I realized how much I’d been controlling myself around her, and how much more I wanted her because of it. I didn’t want to lose my cool, but suddenly I was so desperate for her I could feel my temples start to sweat. I clenched my fists so I wouldn’t make an idiot of myself, but I turned to her, with my head down, looking at her strappy little shoes.
I opened my mouth to say something, but she pressed up against me, right against me. There was no hiding what was on my mind, not that she could have possibly ever had any doubt. She looked up at me, and I could smell the faint floral scent of that amazing tequila on her breath as my hand, against my will, found her ass and pulled her just a little harder against me.
“My room’s half a block away,” I muttered.
“Think you can handle me?”
“Hell yes.”
She laughed. “I appreciate the offer,” she said, “but there’s a reason we limit ourselves to two drinks a night, you know.”
“And what’s that?” I asked, suddenly aware that there was more to Amber than I’d given her credit for.
“So we don’t do anything we might regret down the road,” she paused. “Like finding ourselves in some hot, college football star’s hotel room the morning after going out partying.” She winked at me, and I knew the next stop on tonight’s tour wasn’t going to be my hotel room.
* * * * *
I wasn’t going back to school that week. The truth was, I could have probably skipped every class for the rest of the semester, but I didn’t want to. Knowing I was leaving for the NFL had brought the realization that I’d never be back in college again to the front of my mind in a way I had not expected. Suddenly, that degree I never really cared about was already leaving a blank space I wished I could fill. Some NFL players studied enough in their off seasons to finish out their degrees. I’d never thought that sounded appealing until I declared for the draft. Even then, my college experience would never be the same. No more sitting in huge classrooms, trying to pay just enough attention while still scoping out coeds, who were scoping me out right back.
I made a commitment to myself that I would use the time I had left wisely, but this week was for meeting with potential agents and laying the groundwork for getting drafted as high as possible. Millions of dollars were on the line.
I woke up the next morning with one full, free day on my hands before the rest of the week was filled with meetings. The following afternoon I would be meeting with an agent at Thorne Enterprises, then the next morning with one at 360, and a few other agents were flying in to see me instead of making me go out to New York, Boston, or San Francisco.
I stretched, grabbed a shower, decided not to shave. I was about to go downstairs and have a nice, big breakfast when my phone buzzed. Then it buzzed again. Next thing I know, the damn thing acted like it was broken. Practically every player I knew in Division 1 football was sending me a link to some article and asking if I’d seen it.
I stopped in the doorway of my room and just stood there like an idiot reading.
The party boy of the NCAA falls right into the fold with the portly middle-aged men who somehow manage to simultaneously take these young athletes under their wing while firmly inserting their noses in their overdeveloped rear ends.
Okay, that was funny, but why was she taking it out on me?
…cheerleaders huddling together, under the layer of testosterone filling the tunnel as men’s eyes not only undressed them but likely played out pornographic fantasies so vivid they could not contain their open-mouthed, dripping leers.
I played it back in my head. Only two of the guys actually leered, and they were both reporters. The rest of us were just having fun.
…and in the center of it all stood Parker Starr, eating it up. The quintessential demonstration that the NCAA is decades behind the image it constantly tries to project, and the NFL even further than that. One can only hope team ownership and the fan base wakes up enough to send such Neanderthals further down the draft boards, which is every bit as likely as seeing these apes stand up straight, wipe their chins, and begin to treat more than half the world’s population like human beings.
I stopped reading and looked back at the name of the reporter, wanting to know who had such a low opinion of me. Lily Morgan. It took a second to process, but then it hit me. Lily Morgan. How the hell had I not recognized her in the tunnel the day before? Surely she hadn’t changed that much in the short time since she’d interviewed me during my freshman year. I felt like I’d been attacked, blindsided. But it was more than that, it felt like a piece of my heart had been ripped out by talons and fed to a pack of wolves. I remembered Lily all too well. Hell, I’d had a crush on her since that interview. I was just too timid back then to ask an older girl out, but still . . . she hadn’t seemed like the kind of person to write something like this. Why the fuck would she do this to me?
I fell back into a chair in the corner of my hotel room. I’d learned in my three years of college football how a person’s mood affected everything. Sometimes after winning a game, instead of getting straight to the bus and the plane, we’d end up back in the hotel for a night. Whatever wings of the building the team was taking up felt alive, thrumming with energy. It changed everything. The rooms smelled clean, the beds there for us when we were ready, the carpet comfortable under our feet. Even the damned ugly paintings on the walls that looked like they were rejected leftovers from Hallmark seemed like a pleasant part of the background of our victory.
Losses were a whole other story. We’d drag our asses into the elevators and feel them stutter their way up a few miserable floors, feeling the antiseptic chemicals the cleaning staff used infecting our insides just us much as the crappy fluorescent lighting. Cheap throwaway plastic keys made annoying, flimsy sounds and then there were the rooms. How could someone deliberately design something so depressing? From the dribbling shower heads to those paintings that made us contemplate mortality to those little bottles of green mouthwash sitting under mirrors, accusing us of foulness.
Same damned rooms. The only difference was our mood. I sat there in a room just like those. A room where, only minutes before, I’d felt like I was about to begin a new journey, and now I felt that gloom of depression literally chasing me out.
If someone really wanted to know what had changed me that freshman year, that was it. It had hit me one night early on in college, mood . . . confidence . . . it was everything. Nobody coached me on that. No senior took me aside. I didn’t have a Bull Durham moment with an old mentor telling me to find that mixture of fear and ignorance to be just the right amount of cocky. I thought that was crap. That was “fake it ‘til you make it.” After our first loss my freshman year, when I didn’t even get a chance to make a single catch in the game, I realized the only way to make it was to make it.
That was true for practice. It was true for my classes. It was also true when it came to having fun. I’d learned that same year in Logic 101 about the concept of corollary. It’s a proposition that follows from one already proved. I learned the corollary to giving my all in school and football was that the same amount of effort needed to be applied to having fun when it was time. It was the answer to the question: what in the hell makes it all worth it?
At least, it was for me.
Lily was wrong—I didn’t hate or degrade women. I loved them, but I didn’t let anyone distract me. Her article made me sound like I went out of my way to offend her. More than that, it made me sound like I had been eager to single her out for some kind of abuse. It went all the way to saying that because I liked to party, have a good time, was confident, and didn’t give a shit what people thought, it all somehow equated to being a hater, to making life miserable for women in particular.
By that point, I was getting angrier by the second. I didn’t stop to think that part of not caring what other people thought meant not caring what they wrote. Even when they were dead wrong about me.
It was clear she thought I didn’t remember her. How could I not remember the woman who visited me in my dorm who, after she had left, I visualized taking those glasses of hers off, not to mention her dark blue jeans and that sweater that showed her off in ways that would drive any freshman wild.
Sometimes, strange memories still come back to me, of telling her things like how much I hated my rich, private high school. How I’d felt like the world’s biggest phony in preppy clothes showing up at parties where sixteen-year-olds drank Grey Goose and Cristal and did lines like they were rap stars instead of spoiled brats flushing daddy’s money and their futures down the drains.
One of my best friends was one of those guys, but he was funny. Every time he did something horrible, he’d turn it into a story that had the rest of us in tears. Jason did some crazy shit and a lot of cocaine. After I met his parents once during one of our away games when half the team slept in their mansion, I understood a little better why he acted out. The short version of the story was that Jason ended up not coming back to campus after a Christmas break my senior year…because he was dead.
If even half the vague flashes of memory of Lily’s interview were real, then I told her all about Jason, and more, and none of it went into her article. I still have a copy of it. I’ve read it more times than I want to admit. I still don’t know how she managed to make me sound smart and decent without it being the kind of article that inspired all the veterans on the team to give me shit . If anything, some of them treated me with just the tiniest bit of respect after it came out. She wrote about me as the kind of person I hoped I could be.
I’m not saying I fell in love with her that day, but what she came to be in my mind as the next couple of years went by was an idea of something feminine that I didn’t know high school girls could become until I’d met Lily.
For her not to be able to see I was still me, to not be able to recognize I could be confident and cocky, blow off steam, be with good-looking women, and still be decent, worthwhile, even smart…it hurt.
I tapped on my phone. I still had her number in my contacts from freshman year . . . that is if she hadn’t changed it. I was going to call her. I was going to call her and then go enjoy my damned breakfast . . . until I saw the address of her magazine. Right the fuck in town. I tapped on my phone and switched to a map. She was less than four blocks away if she was there. I didn’t even remember getting on the elevator.