Page 4 of Draft Pick

Fuck that. “I’m not about to make waves with the team’s strength coach. You’ll have me making enemies when I need their support.”

“Rear view mirror, son,” my dad waved off my statement, “there are two kinds of people in the world: those worth your time and those who’ve used up their usefulness in your life. You gotta be forward-thinking from this point. Grab opportunity with both hands or you’ll get left behind.”

I didn’t care, but I couldn’t say that. I didn’t know what I wanted, honestly. Don’t get me wrong, I still loved the game deep down, but it’d become more about my dad’s dream than mine, and I was tired of dancing to his tune. The prime rib tasted like sawdust, and I wanted to leave. If I stayed another minute, I’d say something I’d regret. I made a show to check my smartwatch. “Fuck, I forgot about a study group I signed up for tonight. I gotta cut this short.”

“Language, honey,” my mom said reproachfully as if I were still ten.

“Study group?” My dad was confused. “What the hell you wasting time with a study group? The semester’s barely started.”

I rose and tossed my linen napkin to the table. “Still gotta maintain my grade point average to be eligible to play, Dad, and I don’t want to get behind. Trying to stay on top of it.”

My dad grumbled, acquiescing to my logic though I could tell it was a tenuous win. Even though my dad was an attorney representing plenty of wealthy clients — and he clearly understood the value of an education — once he realized I had a higher athletic talent, it was like my education didn’t matter anymore.

Made me feel like a piece of meat.

“Well, you’re still meeting with the strength and conditioning coach. I went to a lot of trouble to make this meeting happen.”

“And how am I supposed to do that?” I said, holding my temper in check by the thinnest thread. “I just told you why it’s a bad idea.”

“And I’m telling you why those in the rear view mirror don’t matter.”

“I don’t think of people like that,” I growled.

“Time to start. You’re about to run with the big dogs, son. Time to stop pissing like a puppy.”

I hated when my dad used analogies like he was some badass when his only claim to sports fame had been as the equipment manager for his high school team. “Yeah, sure,” I said, needing to get out of there. “Text me the details,” I said to shut him up. I didn’t intend to meet up with whoever my dad was dragging into my life, but I wouldn’t waste time arguing with him either. God, I needed to get fucking drunk and/or laid, and I didn’t care about the order.

That’s how I ended up at the Spotlight bar, wincing through a terrible rendition of a wedding DJ mix-tape classic, already on my second beer and about to order a third.

And then I heard a voice that didn’t belong in a dumpy old bar with scuffed floors and an aging sound system.

I swiveled on my barstool, transfixed by the powerful vocals ripping through the crowd, firing up the dance floor, and sending people whooping and grinding with enthusiasm for the remix of Lady Marmalade.

A tall, curvy blond with the most fantastic tits I’d ever seen was singing into that microphone as if she were opening for Beyonce, and I was transfixed.

The black dress clung to her generous curves in a way that made my jeans tight, and I forgot what the fuck I was doing before setting eyes on her.

Everything I’d been chewing on abruptly disappeared from my head, replaced with an absolute need to know more about the sexy songbird owning those lyrics like they’d been written for her.

My palms got sweaty, and my guts cramped with an unfamiliar sensation. Who was she? I had to know more. I leaned over to the bartender. “Do you know who that is?”

The bartender shook his head and moved on.

A table of girls cheered her on, likely her posse, whooping and hollering like they were on spring break in Cabo. A girls’ night out. Every guy’s nightmare situation. If I wanted to get close to the sexy blonde, I’d have to gain the approval of her friends first. It was like walking the gauntlet. One wrong move, and I’d have zero chance of scoring her number.

Best way to success was to come bearing gifts. I flagged the bartender. “The next round of drinks for that table over there with all girls is on me,” I said, pushing my credit card across the sticky bar to create a tab.

“You got it,” he said, grabbing my card, then motioned for the waitress to come over. He reiterated my instructions, and she grinned my way as if she were onto me playing the odds. But I was only interested in the hot blonde.

There was a soulful sweetness to how she belted out the verse, getting into the vibe, shaking her hips, and grinning at her girls as if she were playing to the crowd. They cheered her on like rabid fans.

There’s no way that gorgeous woman was single, right? Fuck it, if her man was stupid enough to let her out of his sight, that was his problem.

The song finished, and she wiped the sweat dewing her face, but her radiant smile stole my breath. I wasn’t usually a poetic guy, but watching her made me want to start penning some epic saga.

Laughing, she bounced from the stage to wild applause and dropped into her seat beside her girls as they congratulated her. With perfect timing, the waitress brought a round of tequila shots to the table, and they all swiveled their confused gazes my way. Our eyes met, and I waved. Everyone but the blonde gestured for me to join them. I didn’t waste the invitation and grabbed my beer to head over.

“You can sing,” I said to the blonde, leaving no confusion about what attracted me.

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