Page 93 of Clear Shot
“Dude, I’m asking for some privacy.”
“He’s already had at least three shots of tequila and?—”
Before I realize what I’m doing, I knock the phone out of his hand and send it flying. Then I get up and crunch the heel of my boot into it.
“What the fuck?!” The guy stands up and he’s a lot bigger than I am.
Shit.
My day is about to go from bad to worse.
But I’m all in for a fight.
I don’t even care if I spend the night in jail.
It might be a welcome respite from my life.
And help in my quest to get traded.
So I don’t hesitate—and take the first swing.
For whatever reason,fate is smiling on me.
Not only is the guy a punk who goes down like a rock, the bartender knows Jordan, of all people. Before I can really wrap my head around the fight, the crowd who surrounds us—with their phone cameras pointed right at me—and the paramedics who show up, Jordan is there.
He gives the guy money—at least a thousand dollars from what I gathered—and pays my bar tab. Somehow, he does damage control saying something about a death in the family and to please give me a break. The next thing I know I’m in his convertible Mustang, wind blowing through my hair as he drives me away from the beach.
And for at least twenty minutes, neither of us say a word.
I’m both grateful and pissed off.
At him, at Hana, and mostly at myself.
Everything happening is my own damn fault.
The ever-present black cloud that’s been following me since my teens reared its ugly head today. This always happens. I know better than to get too comfortable with happiness—it never lasts. Not for me anyway.
“You going to tell me what the fuck that was about?” Jordan says as we head west.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“To the arena,” he replies. “You have a lot of explaining to do. I did my best to minimize the fallout, but you know those videos are probably already on social media. You’ll need to talk to Coach and the PR team.”
Great.
“And you know he’s going to bench you.”
I totally deserve it.
“You also owe me fifteen hundred bucks for that guy’s phone.”
“I’m good for it.”
“Dude, what the fuck were you thinking? What’s going on?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Yeah, it kind of does.”
