Page 10 of The Americana Playbook

Returning my attention to the screen, my response to Todd is sidelined when Nick T-bones me with a text.

Nick

I know who you’re talking to.

Glancing around, I search for him, but it’s impossible to see anyone apart from those around me. The rest of the club outside the VIP section is packed.

Nick replies with a photo where I just barely make myself out, and I roll my eyes.

Nick

Most players are hugging their WOMEN. Not texting their washed-up coaches.

Plenty of fish in the sea tonight. Maybe one is girlfriend material. It’s about time you entered your boyfriend era. This way they’ll be more for the press to talk about other than you and FOLLER!!!!

I reach across the table, but realize the bottle is empty. Twisting, I scan for a waitress. I don’t know who thought it would be a good idea for them to be wearing Rebels jerseys as uniforms. At this point, I could offend ninety percent of everyone here by asking for another round.

I nudge Josh, but he’s too blasted to care. His, wife, Lo, steals his glass from his hand when I get up. But it doesn’t faze him—he snatches her hand and pulls her in for a kiss. I leave the two of them making out like teenagers.

With my head down, I move to the bar in the cornered-off VIP area. For a second, I contemplate leaving. I came, I saw, I conquered, I drank enough, and I’m sure whatever urge I have to drink more will simmer down the moment I get to my hotel room and pass the fuck out because even though we won tonight, my body took two sacks worth of a beating.

There’s a tug at my t-shirt. “Where are you off to, champ?”

I find a petite blonde at my side. She runs her fingers down my arm, her long nails dragging along the skin.

This could go one of two ways. One just gives me a little company before I sleep alone tonight.

She tilts her head. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“It’s an open bar.”

Blondie smirks. “Can I buy you a drink somewhere else, then?”

The strobing lights let me see her hand slide down to mine, but I step away before she can link our fingers. Tonight at least, I’m not this kind of guy, the one who takes an opening from a beautiful, willing woman and runs with it. Been there, done that. The truth is, I’m not in the mood to party in a club or in my hotel bed. Not after tonight’s win which came with a loss.

I head to the bar, deciding one more drink should be enough to cloud over my head enough that I fall asleep not dreaming of throwing picks or my benched guys.

“Tito’s on the rocks, please.” It’s so loud I have to repeat my order to the woman bartending, but that’s not her fault. She turns, leaving number 27—Todd’s number—facing me.

I drum my fingers against the dark, shiny wood, trying to avoid lifting my head because that will require me to smile, to engage, when all of this feels so damn meaningless. I lift my drink when it’s placed in front of me but the glass doesn’t make it all the way to my mouth when I see what’s written on the napkin.

I squint and focus to get a more careful read because I can’t see what IthinkI see. No way. I just said this all felt meaningless. Now, I’m looking at two words with a shit ton of meaning.

Rebels Only.

My immediate reaction is to look up and scan the area as intensely as I do when I’m looking for a break in the defense, but instead, I wonder if someone slipped something into one of my earlier drinks.

“All good?”

Before I flick my eyes up, I brace myself in case I hallucinate Parker on the other side of the bar. But the only one I find is a redheaded bartender who most certainly isn’t Parker.

I clutch the napkin like someone might steal it as I twist and turn. But god help me, it’s so packed in here it’s like searching for a needle in a haystack considering everyone is in team merch or a jersey.

When I turn the napkin over, my eyes bulge.

555-459-3137

xx--P

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