After the cab ride home, a good thirty minutes of pictures and promises for my cab driver, and a quick shower, I’d jumped in my car to head over to the bar, Doolan’s, where at any given moment—when we weren’t at work—you could find at least one of the Mavericks hanging out.
Noise buzzed around me as the bar got busier by the minute.
This always happened after I posted on social media, essentially confirming to droves of local followers that I was somewhere they could come see me.
It never stopped me, though, from posting when I felt like it, telling it like it was, or even giving away my location.
I lived a public life, and I knew full well that I’d signed on for it. I didn’t resent it like some people did, and I certainly didn’t think I was above the consequences. Instead, I embraced it. I lived at the center of my bubble and did my best to look out for both my interests and those of the people around me.
Unfortunately, sometimes, my cavalier attitude about social media etiquette and personal privacy led to fights with my publicist and agent and even Jilly from time to time. Apparently, she was tired of opening packages with women’s panties inside at my home address.
Thankfully, Sean and Cam Mitchell were doing a good job at distracting the droves while I focused on my phone as it buzzed with a response from the woman I wished would stalk me the most.
Catharine: He’s watered and sleeping like a good boy.
Me: Is sleeping the only thing good boys do?
Five minutes passed without a response, and the fans started to infiltrate the invisible barrier around me. I was good at staring at my phone, keeping my focus, and doing my thing until I was good and ready to interact with the public, even when people were staring at me, but having nothing to actually do on said phone while waiting for a response from someone that might never come made it a hell of a lot harder.
Finally, by sheer force of will, I suspected, as my eyes were moments away from turning into lasers and my hand was starting to cramp up from randomly scrolling through my apps, a text message popped up on the screen.
Catharine: I…have no idea. I was just talking about my plant. I’m confused and completely blank as to how I should answer you. I tried to think of something cute, but…I’ve got nothing.
I smiled, completely tickled by her unease—especially the fact that she’d shared it with me.
Me: Well, I can tell you. According to Cosmopolitan magazine, good boys do the following: they put the toilet seat down, bring home flowers for no reason, listen when you’re talking to them, and plan surprise vacations.
Her response was immediate and made me laugh embarrassingly loud.
Catharine: :( My ficus doesn’t do any of that.
Sean was looking at me funny and a couple of fans were creeping in, but I did something I hardly ever did and turned my back to all of them. I just wanted this moment, a couple more exchanges with Cat, and then I’d get back to them.
Me: Looks like I’m going to have to give him some lessons.
Catharine: You mean to tell me YOU do those things?
Me: I can do almost anything when truly motivated, kitten.
Catharine: Wow. I think I’m impressed. Maybe a little scared.
I looked up as someone bumped into my elbow, creeping so far into my personal space that they’d be able to read my screen despite my special privacy cover soon.
I tilted my phone away and leaned, hoping the moment would hold long enough to tell her goodnight.
Me: Sounds like the perfect combination to me. I’ve gotta get these guys off their barstools and into cabs, but we’ll talk in the morning, okay?
Catharine: Um, okay. Have fun.
I felt unbelievably unsatisfied, like I had conversational blue balls, but I knew what had to be done. If I waited any longer, there’d be hell to pay and teammates to bail out of jail.
“You done?” Sean asked, shouldering in between me and the nosy fan without shame. He wasn’t rude, but he wasn’t overtly accommodating like I was either.
I nodded, noting the lipstick smears on his neck and the spot where the missing button at the top of his shirt used to be.
He’d disappeared earlier, for the better part of an hour. And given the opportunity now, I asked about it, even though I was fairly certain his disheveled appearance said the answer. “Where’d you go before?”
His cheeks dimpled as he smirked before draining the dregs of his bottle of beer.
“Nowhere.”
Nowhere was code for somewhere with someone doing a few sexual somethings. He was highly sexually active in a way even I didn’t really understand.
And trust me, I loved to fuck.
I shook my head and smiled, a loud slap to his shoulder my kickstarter to the end of the evening. It was time to get this show on the road.
“All right!” I shouted as I spun around on my stool. Everyone in the bar’s attention came to me.
“If you belong to me,” I started, “down your drinks, pay your tabs, tip Amber,” I nodded to the bartender, and she bowed at me, “and get your ass outside.”
Murmurs started up immediately, and a couple of the guys rolled their eyes, but everyone moved. They were used to this and used to me, making sure they kept their act together, got home safely, and didn’t ruin a good thing for the whole fucking team by being an irresponsible drunk asshole.
I grabbed a few sheets of paper that hit me in the chest on the way out and gave them a quick sign, and then herded the guys together on the sidewalk. When I did a count, we were a couple over.
I took another look, and when I really paid attention, it was pretty easy to tell who didn’t belong—their breasts were a dead giveaway.
“Okay, ladies. Time to hit it,” I instructed, giving a wink and a smile as I indicated they should exit the group.
This always seemed to happen when I did the roundup, a couple of women trying to blend into our flow. Sometimes they had help from the guys, and sometimes they did it all on their own. Either way, it wasn’t a good idea.
Oran Wells, the Mavericks middle linebacker, frowned at me and pulled his companion closer. I looked into his eyes to see they were glassy and dilated.
“Sorry, Oran. Practice starts at five sharp. That’s zero five hundred in military speak. You think she’s gonna help you get out of bed?”
“Negative,” Sean muttered, and the rest of the guys laughed.
I stepped up and pulled Oran away, wrapping my arm around his shoulder as I led him to a cab.
“Look, I’ll give you a free shot tomorrow,” I offered, my tone conciliatory. “Seriously, I’ll make sure Sam lets you come right through. But tonight, I’ve gotta block you.”
“Cockblock!” he accused, and I laughed.
“A descendant of the devil, I know. But if it’s any consolation, every time I do it to another man, I get one in return added to my curse. It’s like a séance of male sex bonding or something.”
“You’re twisted, QB,” he mumbled as I dropped him down into the seat of the cab and gave the driver directions.
“I will be when you take your free shot,” I returned easily and slammed the door.
After a double tap to the metal top of the cab, they were off like a shot.
I looked back at the group on the sidewalk and sighed.
One down, five to go.