Scott
I couldn’t let the call go to voicemail again.
After Coach Henderson had called me into his office for a change in the game plan, I had thirty minutes to spare before I was officially late in picking up Bridgette.
I’d texted her that if she could drive with Rianna instead of me picking them up because by the time I got to their place, we’d be caught up in so much traffic that we’d be lucky to get to Lucky Lanes by ten. I really wanted to spend the night with just her, but even Coach had brought up the need for my teammates and I to gel together.
There wasn’t anything more important than being one with my teammates.
On the field, my O-line trusted me to make the throws and I trusted my receivers to catch them. But trust wasn’t just built on the field.
It was slowly erected from practices and team meetings, and it was solidified by us winning games. It was also peppered with the interactions that I had with my teammates off the field.
So tonight, I was making an effort to join my teammates in celebrating all of our wins. We still had practice tomorrow, but tonight I was letting loose, even if it was for just a bit.
The ringing of my cell penetrated my concentration, and I knew that no matter how many times I tried to mind-block the sound, it would still be there.
He’d been calling and I’d been declining.
It’d been months before I started talking to him again after he had blackmailed my ex-girlfriend. And as much as I wanted to keep ignoring him, he wasn’t going to give up.
Tapping my finger on the wheel, I accepted his call.
“Son.” His voice came through the Bluetooth of my car. Inside the comfort of my vehicle, he failed to provide the safety that I once associated with his presence.
He called me son, but I was never as important as a son should be. My friends always had their parents attend their games. My father never went to any. Stef, my stepmom, was there for all of them. At first, I’d ask why he couldn’t and she’d said he was busy. One day, I stopped asking and realized that I didn’t care anymore if he came or not.
“Yep,” I replied. My father grew up in North Carolina, the land of yes ma’ams and no sirs. I knew it was grating on his Southern nerves right now that I sounded disrespectful which would be anything that I did from the time I turned fifteen and on.
“Stef’s already making plans for the holidays.” My stepmom loved to celebrate anything that required her to change the decor in the house. Her interior designer was on her list of top 10 favorite people to call. “Are you coming home to any of them?”
Home.
Southlake Texas and all its mansions used to be home for me.
But now –
I could honestly say that home was wherever the football was in between the grip of my hands, my ears tuning out the noise from the crowds, and whenever the ball landed in my receivers’ hands, I felt that I just added another mark to my life’s goals.
“I don’t know,” I answered, hoping that he would take it as it is. In the two and a half years that I’d been out of college, I went home only once.
Not because of him, but because Stef called me, begging to celebrate Christmas with the family.
My stepmom wasn’t ever going to be the mother that birthed me, but she was a good person. She was a saint of a woman. Any woman who could be with my dad for longer than twenty minutes deserved a prize.
Our relationship hadn’t always been this monologue of angst and resentment. As his son, I looked up to him.
“You’re still holding that grudge about Kara on me.” His voice didn’t hold an ounce of remorse and that was what made my teeth grind in annoyance.
I stepped on the brake as the yellow Fiat stopped abruptly in front of me. I was used to it, traffic in LA was touch-and-go. Touch the gas for a few minutes and you go a quarter of a mile. Then brake on and off all the way until your destination. It took a while for me to get used to it. Now, when I drove in areas where the roads were free from construction and traffic lights and California-rolling drivers, it felt strange. It felt as if the roads weren’t made for freedom and I missed the ten million drivers in front of me.
It was proof on how much Los Angeles had become engrained in me, even after only a few years of living in it.
“Stop Dad. Please. While you’re at it.” I’d wanted my ex-girlfriend back, but not in the way my father made it happen. I’d never force any person to be with me against their will.
My father though? He simply shrugged in his suit and said that it was necessary.
“You’ve always been so dramatic.” He said and it took every ounce of self-control I had not to hang up on him, “It’s been years since that little incident happened. I can’t believe you’re still holding that over me.”
I promised Stef that when he called, I’d answer. But I didn’t promise her that I’d be polite.
“Look Dad, I gotta go.” I needed to end this call before I disowned my own father.
“So, are you going to come around for the holidays?” He questioned again and I could just picture him in his office. His Meisterstuck Gold-Coated Pen, an honorary gift from India’s Prime Minister, circling between his thumb and forefinger, waiting for me to say yes or no. It was classic Samuel Strauss’ strategy, patience was a virtue he valued more than anything. Too bad he’d be waiting until winter for my answer.
I inhaled a breath and thought of how nice it would be to be in Bridge’s arms right now. Being in her presence relieves me of tension and stops me from thinking of negative things, things like my backup quarterback trying to plot his reign over me.
After three seconds, I said, “I don’t know. It depends on where I’m at.”
I already knew that Pittsburgh was hosting the game on Christmas Day, so Thanksgiving would be the only time that would be feasible for me to attend holidays in Texas, if I was inclined to do so. But I was also thinking how good it will be if Bridge and I spent Thanksgiving together. She had a ten-day break, and I had a bye week, so it would be good time for us to celebrate it together.
“You’re going to be in Pittsburgh on Christmas.” My father tried to mask the disappointment in his voice. It’d been there from the time I threw touchdowns in PeeWee football and it would never fade, even when I became a Hall of Famer.
“I gotta go,” I repeated. I didn’t want to get sucked in the vortex of trading barbs with him, which would no doubt happen if I stayed on the line.
“Stef wants you with us for the holidays. Your grandparents are also visiting.” It had taken him this long to impart that information. Knowing my father, Grandma Nat and Nampa Toots’ presence were going to be his bargaining chips.
What he didn’t know was that the day after I got drafted, I flew to North Carolina to visit my grandparents. And I was planning on visiting them again in the off-season. My mother might have been gone, but my grandparents kept her memory alive for me.
It was a wonder that my father was inviting them now, after all these years.
“Okay, that’s great that they’re gonna be over for the holidays.” My father’s parents had passed on long ago, so the only set of grandparents that I had were from my biological mother’s, Stef’s parents were not in the picture, and there had never been a holiday where my grandparents were included.
“Is that a yes or a no?” Dad insisted. His patience was slowly thinning.
“Or.”
“Scott.”
“I gotta go, Dad.” This time I meant it. “I’ll talk to you later.”
Without waiting for his reply, I ended the call.
I turned left to get into the parking garage for L.A. Live/Staples Center and breathed a sigh of relief. Calls with my father always made me antsy and left me irritated.
Bridge had texted me when I was on the call with him and her text made me look forward to an evening better than what my day had been.
It’d been days since I last inhaled her presence, and only she can relieve the heavy burden weighing down on my shoulders.
We could stay for an hour to mingle with my teammates, but then I wanted to take her to my place so we could celebrate with the walls of my condo listening to her moans and screams of pleasure.
I handed the valet my keys before my balls started tightening up in my jeans, and as I skipped, not walked, towards Lucky Lanes, I realized that it has been a long time since a woman made me feel this way.
Her dazzling beauty wasn’t the only quality I looked forward to seeing.
I liked the way she sparred with me, the way she didn’t bend to my opinions, but I also liked the way she submitted to my hands in the throes of passion.
She was so tiny, but her presence packed a punch.
And it unmanned me every single time.
I’d have to apologize for the shitty music blaring through the speakers.
Whoever was deejaying obviously sucked.
There was too much Pop playing, and in the company of football players, rap music and rock n’ roll were better choices.
“Hey man, glad you could make it.” Dylan and Cole, both tight ends, slapped me on the back as I entered the room.
I’d been there a few times.
It was a great club, a place where privacy and fun were top priorities. I’d visited here often, especially when I was first drafted by L.A. I’d met beautiful women here, all willing to climb up the legs of the reigning quarterback, hoping to scan their tickets to fame.
I wasn’t deluded.
I could tell when a woman wanted me because of the position I played and sometimes I played with them. I knew that they weren’t looking for a relationship, rather a guy who they could capitalize on to up their likes on Instagram or Twitter or other forms of social media.
And after Kara broke my heart, I let women use me.
For fame, for money, for sex.
I made it clear from the beginning that I didn’t want lies. A one night stand once asked me to take a picture of my dick, just to show her friends that she had bagged me.
I drew the line at that. I was horny, but I wasn’t stupid.
And I didn’t do drugs.
If any of the white powder stuff showed up, or I started to smell herbs, I was out of that scene.
Rikko and I partied. We partied hard, but we had fun without the aid of chemicals messing up our brains and bodies.
My brain was already messed up as it was, I didn’t want to add another ingredient that would disable me to play football at my highest ability.
I scanned the room, the dark making it almost impossible to make out who was who.
Bridge didn’t tell me what she was wearing. But before I could ask it, Dylan was handing me a glass of beer already, “Here.”
I accepted it, noting that the glass was icy cold.
He must have just swiped it from the bartender.
I hardly ever drank, but tonight we were celebrating wins so I took a gulp before saying, “Have you seen Bridgette?”
Dylan had a quizzical look and before he could answer, a big arm slugged my right shoulder, “Scotty, you came.”
Dillon.
He must have started partying early because he looked like he was three sheets to the wind.
The guy could outmaneuver and outrun all the defenders on the field, but give him alcohol and he was pissing like a baby.
Alcohol and Dillon didn’t mesh, but the latter hadn’t accepted it yet.
I nodded my head and Dylan and Cole were chuckling on the side.
Cole shook his head, “You had two shots of tequila and now you’re shit faced.”
Dylan agreed, his hands gesturing like he couldn’t believe it. “I thought he was going to start climbing the walls.”
Climbing the walls? Even that was too much, but I had to agree with him, Dillon’s eyes were having a hard time staying open.
He was raised in a Baptist church, and I guessed Baptists didn’t drink alcohol.
I learned of his intolerance to alcohol the first night all of us went out. He’d ordered a pina colada and he started singing Bailamos. I wasn’t familiar with Enrique Iglesias, but apparently Dillon was. He sang all of the Spanish crooner’s songs, and by the time he’d finished another glass of the same fruity drink, he was dancing inside the men’s bathroom. He said he had to find a larger floor space which was why he ended up in the men’s bathroom, swinging his hips and moving his body like he was America’s Lousiest Talent. We had to get out of Club Ninety Seven before the bouncers kicked us out.
“Who gave him alcohol?” I asked, no one who knew Dillon would be offering him alcohol this early in the night. We’d learned to give him drinks when we were ready to call it a night.
“SShhhttooop worrying my fwends.” He was also slurring.
Great. Just great.
“Water?” I motioned to Cole, and he flagged one of the servers walking around the club.
As the server handed Dillon the glass of water, I asked again, “Have you guys seen Bridgette? Tiny woman, hazel eyes…”
“Great laugh?” Cole supplied and my eyebrow lifted, who was making Bridge laugh?
“Huh.” Dillon muttered to my side, “Shee washhh talking to Dex.”
Dex?
Dillon added, “I thought she was Dex’s woman. They were hugging and shit when I got in.”
Bridgette and Dex. Hugging?
What the hell?
Dillon must be inhaling helium because Bridge was too shy to just hug anyone. Especially the annoying little booger who was itching for my position.
I looked down on my phone again, she hadn’t texted me since her last message half an hour ago.
I helped Dillon to a chair and said, “Nah, she doesn’t know him.”
To the other guys, I bumped fists and said, “Alright, see you tomorrow. Have fun, but be good.”
They both smirked and laughed.
My feet roamed around the place, and my eyes were on the lookout for my woman and her friend. I thought I spotted Rianna at the bar talking to Swami, and I was just a few feet away from approaching her when a tiny figure in a blue dress caught my eye.
It was dark, but there was enough light where she was standing, and I could make out the glorious curves of her body.
Her ass was encased in a short dress that shimmered under the club’s lights.
I could tell she was wearing heels, and just the thought of her keeping the heels on while I pushed inside of her made my insides ten degrees hotter.
A couple of teammates stopped me on my approach to her, and I managed to make small quips, hoping that they knew how much I liked playing with them, but right now all I really wanted was to get to Bridgette.
I couldn’t see her face, but her hands were in the air, motioning, like she was busy talking to someone.
I was completely enraptured by the magnificent view of her in that blue dress that I completely missed the big hand on her right shoulder.
When the hand moved, it was then my attention transferred to the body that the hand was connected to.
What the fuck?
Why in the ever-loving fuck is Dex Berger’s hand on Bridgette’s shoulder?
Suddenly, the room didn’t feel ten degrees warmer.
It felt a thousand degrees hotter.
They called me Cool Scotty on the field.
But right now, if those reporters were present – they’d never call me that nickname again.
My eyes were shooting lasers at Berger’s hand, and when the light landed on his face, I wanted to cross the distance between me and them in a flash.
I’d seen Berger’s expressions change from collected to angry when Coach reprimanded him in practice. I’d talked to him a few times, even when he was acting like a shitty prick most of the time. I’d even said a few nice words to him because I understood that we were playing for the same team, even if the last place he wanted to be in was L.A.
When Minnesota traded him to us for two second round picks, he showed his displeasure by his overt snickers and shit talk when I threw a lousy pass.
I watched him in practice and in college, he was a great quarterback.
I was actually looking forward to working with him, but from the first meeting, he’d declared that he wasn’t there to make friends, but he wanted my position and that he was going to get it sooner than I wanted.
I let those pass.
You didn’t get to be good in this league if you didn’t know how to let comments like that, even from your own teammate, roll off your shoulder.
You didn’t get to be great in this league if you fought with your team, just so you could be first string.
So yeah…
I’d seen him, studied a few of his expressions even just so I could learn more about the guy who was dead set on kicking me off of the roster.
But, as emotional as Berger was when he played in practice, he’d never shown this side of him.
His eyes were trained on my girl, as if he couldn’t, didn’t want to look away.
His mouth was set in a stiff line, but it was the look on his face that reminded me that even assholes like him were humans.
He was looking at her with longing and remorse in his eyes.
And as I closed in on the gap between me and them, I felt my fury at having his hand on my girl slightly thaw, because it was not so long ago that I, myself, had been wearing that look on my face.
“Babe,” I said, pulling her waist to me. She was tiny, but the strength of her body never failed to amaze me. I’d caught her off guard so she’d resisted at first, but in a second she’d recognized my presence, she relaxed.
Dex’s hands were no longer on Bridgette. I caught the look of surprise on his face, but that was all because my vision was now a hundred percent occupied by the woman in my arms.
It was good that they weren’t or I’d gladly take them off of her and smash it in his face.
I might be feeling sympathetic towards him, but that was still overruled by my claim towards this woman who was now smiling at me from ear to ear.
I smelled her coconut and citrus scent, and it was enough for my nerves to start calming down.
And when she’d tilted her head to she could gain access to my neck, no doubt hoping to grace me with a polite kiss, I lowered my head so I could meet her lips.
And in front of the man who seconds ago was looking at her like she was the last piece of pie on the baker’s shelf, I coaxed her mouth to open up for me.
She was hesitant at first, but once my tongue tasted hers, there was no way I was letting her out of this.
Not without claiming her as mine.
Not without stamping her head as Scott’s woman.
Because as much as I felt for Berger, whatever history they might have had, I wanted Bridgette to remember that it was me taking her home tonight.
I was her present.
And definitely her future.