Chapter Five
Cade
For someone who won the Super Bowl three weeks ago, you wouldn’t know if you saw me. I’ve been in what I can only describe as a funk since that night, probably even before. I have become the living embodiment of a moody, sullen teenager, and I’m thirty-eight years old. It’s ridiculous.
Across the room, my phone buzzes with an incoming text message. I glance at the screen, and my already sour face turns further.
Where are you?????
Even in a text message I can hear Josephine’s shrillness, and I shudder at the thought. I was supposed to meet her for lunch and didn’t bother to text or call her to let her know I wasn’t coming. She’s been blowing up my phone for hours, and I’ve been ignoring it for just as long.
I am no longer sure what I ever saw in her. Sure, she’s hot, and the sex has always been great, but our relationship has no substance. It’s a relationship of convenience these days. I need a woman like her when I show up to events, she needs a man like me to parade around at her movie premieres. Our relationship has had more ups and downs than a rollercoaster, and I need more than that.
Before I can stop and think about it, I grab my phone and call Josephine. She answers on the second ring.
“Where are you?” she demands. “Do you know how humiliating it was sitting by myself at Chateau Marmont? Where the fuck were you? You better have a damn good reason to stand me up. I’m Josephine Lowell, and no one stands me up, not even you Cade Thomas. You owe me big time, Cade. Jewelry big.”
“Josephine, for once in your life, shut up.”
“How dare you!” she gasps.
“I’ll tell you how I dare. We're done, Josephine.”
“Cade, don't be silly.” Her tone instantly changes, and she’s purring through the phone. “I’m sure you had a good reason. You can make it up to me anyway you like. I’m wearing those purple panties you like so much.”
“Do you want to know what I was doing today? I was in bed listening to Adele. I haven’t left my house in three days. I don’t have any interest in you or your Hollywood lifestyle. I want something real, Josephine, and you will never be real.”
“I am real, Cade. For the last two years, I’ve been me.”
I laugh. “That doe-eyed innocent act you play on screen isn’t you, no matter how hard you try to convince the public otherwise.”
“Fuck you, Cade.”
“It’s been... Well, it’s been something, Jo, but this isn’t it for me anymore.”
Now she laughs, and the bitterness turns my stomach. “You’ll be back, Cade. You’ll come crawling, begging me to take you back. But it will be too late. I’m the best thing that will ever happen to you, and you will regret this.”
She hangs up before I can say anything else but it doesn't matter. A weight feels likes it has been lifted from my shoulders, and I head to the bathroom to shower. When I feel like I’ve washed away the crustiness of spending the last three days in bed, I get out, wrapping a towel around my hips and dripping water on the floor into my bedroom. I dress quickly, shake my hair, and grab my car keys. I’m not sure where I’m going, but I need to get out of my house.
I drive to Manhattan Beach and walk the beach for a while, lost in my thoughts. I’ve been thinking about retiring from football; I’ve played seventeen seasons, and I’m pushing forty. I’ve had a great career, one that might not ever be matched, but I’ve also had injuries over the last few seasons. I played most of this season with a torn labrum in my shoulder. I need to have surgery on it.
Truth is, I have no idea what my next move should be, but I know the feeling in my gut is telling me to embark on something new. It's not like I have to do anything — I’ve made more than enough money to live on the rest of my life, but I’m pretty sure I’d go stir crazy without some sort of backup career.
I thought the salt air might help clear my head, but I decide I need a drink instead and head back to my car. I recall a friend of a friend mentioning a place nearby called Zinc. If memory serves me right, they are supposed to have great craft beer and a hot bartender, so I head over.
Immediately upon entering the lounge, I hear the murmurs and feel the looks. I don't mind being recognized, and for the most part, people are respectful. I’ve never been accosted while trying to take a piss, which is great. I smile and wave. I’m stopped for selfies with a group of women who appear to be out for a ladies’ night, and then sign autographs for a couple who are from the Midwest and in town as a belated honeymoon.
When I finally reach the bar, I look over the menu and decide on a craft beer they have on special. The bartender has just set it in front of me when the door opens and a woman enters. I can’t help but do a double take.
There is something simple, but classy about the jeans she wears, cuffed at her ankle with nude pumps, a simple blouse, not too fitted but not too loose, and a blazer. She adjusts the tortoiseshell cat eye-shaped glasses on her face and with a quick, appraising sweep of the room, she heads for the bar and takes the only empty seat — beside me. I offer a quick, polite smile as she sits down. The bartender takes her order and while she waits for her drink, she pulls her phone out.
I watch her surreptitiously as her eyes remain locked with the screen of her phone. Her hair is the same color as my dark beer and falls to her shoulders, full and looking soft to the touch. She’s beautiful, not a bombshell like Josephine, but she looks like the picture-perfect girl next door, the kind of woman Josephine has worked so hard to seem like, but no one actually buys into.
Classy girl also paid me no mind at all when she sat down. I admit, it puzzled me. In this town, everyone knows who I am. I gather she must be playing it cool, waiting for me to make a move. And who am I not to oblige?
“Hi, I’m Cade,” I smile, turning toward her.
She looks up, startled at my voice. I hold my hand out.
When she looks up at me, I notice right away that her eyes are the color of forget me nots, my mom’s favorite flower, and that there is no moment of dawning recognition. She has no clue who I am. “Hello, I’m Serena,” she answers after a beat, politely shaking my hand before returning to her phone.
I decide to press on, see if she really doesn't know who I am, or if she’s just that good.
“Nice day, huh?”
“Oh, um, yes, yes, it’s a nice day,” she replies.
“How about those Condors? That was some win the other week. Everyone’s still talking about it.”
“Condors? That’s the basketball team?”
I chuckle. “No, it's the football team. They just won the Super Bowl.”
She nods. “Right. Football.”
I decided to mess with her. See if she really was as clueless about sports as she was leading me to believe. “Yep, football. The sport with the homeruns. The team that scores the most wins the Super Bowl. It’s just a big home run derby, you know?”
“Really? They just see who can score the most homeruns? Hmph. For how long?”
“A couple hours. They have four quarters, and you score a point for every homerun, and then there are bonus points for hitting certain targets on the field, too.”
“That seems like a lot of time for something so simple.”
“Everyone really only watches for the commercials, anyway.”
“Like the ones with the horses? Those are always so sweet,” she purred.
“Yep, exactly like that,” I said, trying to keep a straight face. She was adorable.