Chapter 2
Maxwell
Head Coach Martineau looks like a bloated lobster in a pot of hot water and the lid's about to blow.
I should feel bad…but I sort of want to laugh.
God, I’m an asshole.
"The Boomerangs spent fifty years building up our reputation as one of the most respected, disciplined teams in the league,” he roars. “A team of gentlemen. And you’re trying to tear it all down in one damn season!” Torrents of spittle fly across the table and into my cup of black coffee. He huffs and puffs and pounds his fists. And I do my best to look interested in his tirade. There are millions of dollars on the line after all.
Millions of my dollars.
But I’m a grown man and I generally don’t respond well to chastisement.
"Do you understand how serious this is, Masters?" I wince as his bloodshot eyes zero in on my face.
I glance around the room and half a dozen grim faces glare at me. They called in the big guns for this meeting. Ken Laureto, the team’s owner. Jake Grisham, the assistant manager. Christine Vincent, the VP of Public Relations. And of course, the Douche Lord himself, Oscar Murphy. The team has been threatening to cut me for months. As I glance around this conference room, I come to the sobering realization that maybe they’re serious this time.
My focus shifts back to Coach Martineau. "Yes, sir. I understand completely." I really don't want to be responsible for this man's premature heart failure…That wouldn’t be good for my career. But he seriously needs to calm down.
“You know what the problem is with guys like you?” Oscar growls. “Nothing is sacred to you. Nothing is pure. You take something innocent and turn it into a joke, into fodder for the tabloids.”
Okay, I get it. Scandal is no good for the business of managing a professional football team and when the scandal involves two players coming to blows over a woman, it’s more than a matter of bad publicity. It’s something that can affect morale and team spirit. And when morale is low, the team loses games. I get it, okay?
But what happened between Tiffany Murphy and me was a private moment between two consenting (and very horny) adults. And I’ll tell you, that rebellious college girl was anything but pure and innocent. How was I supposed to know that she would post pictures of me sleeping naked in her bed on Instagram just to piss off her bible-thumping older brother? And how was I supposed to know that Oscar Murphy would rush me in the middle of an NFL press conference and I’d have to defend myself on live camera?
Some things are just outside of my control.
Anyway, Martineau continues ranting on about how I need to straighten up fast or else I'm off the team. Oscar pipes in, telling the coach that assholes like me never change.
Blablabla. Same shit. Different day.
Meanwhile, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I discreetly slip it out and read the text message waiting for me. It's Keeland. I know that this is an important meeting but that won’t deter me. I always take Keeland’s calls and text messages. Immediately.
Past experience has taught me not to take my brother for granted.
Keeland: Hey man. Need a favor.
Maxwell: What you need?
I’d drop whatever I’m doing to help Keeland if he needs me to. That’s just the way I am when it comes to my older brother. He taught me everything I know and I owe him the world. On top of that, I lost him for three years and now, we’re trying hard to make up for lost time.
Keeland: Got a friend stranded at LAX. I need you to go pick her up. She needs a place to stay for the night.
Still, I don’t mind getting on his nerves every now and then. Like any younger brother, when I see the opportunity to pull his leg, I take it. It keeps him limber…
Maxwell: Is she hot? ;)
I struggle against the urge to laugh because I can just imagine him grunting with annoyance right now. I know exactly how to push his buttons. My agent, Paul Price, frowns over at me and kicks me under the table.
Keeland: Maxwell, none of that shit. This girl might be a bit fragile right now. She was supposed to meet some guy from off of the Internet but he turned out to be an imposter. The last thing she needs is you hitting on her and making her feel even more vulnerable.
I groan inwardly. This chick sounds like a drag already.
Maxwell: Great, so you're trying to pawn off some crazy broad on me?
Keeland: She's not crazy. She's just not looking to get fucked by you.
Maxwell: Then, that makes her crazy.
I smirk down at my phone and I know that my brother is on the other side of the country trying not to roll his eyes.
Keeland: Are you gonna pick her up or what?
Maxwell: Sure. Whatever. Give me an hour to get there.
Keeland: Okay. Her name is Faith Monroe. Meet her at arrivals.
A few seconds later, a picture fills the screen. Long, sunny blonde hair. Catlike blue eyes. Blood-red, heart-shaped lips. Crazy or not, this chick has got my cock twitching.
"Masters, are you even listening to me?" the coach yells, ripping me out of my thoughts and back into the present. I look up and the entire room is glaring at me.
"Um, I'm sorry, coach,” I say pushing to my feet and throwing apologetic eyes at each person in turn. “I just got word. I've, uh, I've got a family emergency." And I'd rather be anywhere but here right now.
"A family emergency?" he repeats looking less than convinced.
"Yes, it's, uh, very urgent." I crease my brow and try to look solemn.
“This meeting isn’t over!” Oscar shouts, slamming his fists into the table as I hurry toward the door.
I scowl at him. “Here’s the cliff notes version, Murphy. I’m an asshole. I need to take my career seriously. I need to stop banging your sister. Blablabla.”
Oscar looks like he’s about to pounce on me again and the coach looks upset enough that he might join in.
Oops!
I give a small, patriotic fist pump. “Go Boomerangs!” The coach snarls and I wince as I slip out the door.
I may have just made things worse for myself in the short-term. But in the bigger picture, the team is better off with me than without me. At 26, I’m the top-rated quarterback in the league, after all. I know I tend to get wild off field but they wouldn’t just get rid of me, would they? I damn well hope not.
Moments later when I burst out of the building’s front doors, my yellow Audi R8 Spyder isn't parked at the curb where I left it. My attention darts down the street to where my baby is being hauled away by a tow truck. Fuck.
Yes, I'd seen the ‘no parking’ sign posted outside of the building but I’d been late for the meeting and figured that I'd be back before any problems came up. I’d expected that, at worst, I'd get a parking ticket. Chump change to me. But I was wrong. I realize that now as I stand helpless, watching the city of Los Angeles’ minions kidnapping my baby.
Don't get my wrong; I have half a dozen other cars at home. But I need to get to LAX. Now.
I hear laughter erupt behind me. I turn around and find Laureto having a chuckle at my expense. "That’s what you get for being an arrogant prick, Masters," he says as he claps me on the shoulder.
I resist the urge to flip him off. Remember…millions on the line.
"This would probably be funny if I didn’t have to get to the airport right now,” I say to him just as his driver chauffeurs his town car to the curb.
"Well, you're in luck, kid,” he says as a man in a crisp black suit exits the vehicle and opens the back door for him. “I’m headed that way. I'm leaving for Ohio this evening. You can ride with me."
I consider his offer. As much as I don't love the idea of being confined to a small space with this man for the next hour, I sense an opportunity. An opportunity to show him that I'm more than just a jackass pro baller.
I'm committed, loyal and reliable. A stand-up guy. This is my chance to prove it.
I thank him for the ride as I slide into the back seat next to him. During our drive across town, Laureto talks my head off about the politics of owning a pro football team and my attention weaves in and out of his monologue.
I’m busy. Scheming.
We pull up at the airport and I instruct the driver to let me out. I hop out of the car and my eyes scan the swarm of travellers, looking for the girl in the picture Keeland sent to my phone. And when I finally spot her in the crowd, in her wide-brimmed straw hat, cut-off denim and a flowy, off-the-shoulder top, all trendy like she’s on her way to Coachella, I feel something wicked forming in my chest.
I just can’t help it.