Page 2 of Mad Rivals
And my own home—a penthouse in a skyscraper downtown. I glance around the place and walk over to the windows that look out over Navy Pier and Lake Michigan on one side and downtown on the other. I’m in the New Eastside, just north of Millennium Park. I run the Lakefront Trail along Lake Shore Drive daily when the weather allows.
I don’t want to give it all up. I love this city. I bleed blue and orange, have my entire life, and now I’m just supposed to…wear black and silver? Just like that?
I head over to my liquor cabinet and grab the first bottle I see. I take a healthy chug of the amber liquid as I try to come to terms with the fact that a month from now, all this will be a distant memory.
* * *
“Nice to meet you. I’m Madden Bradley,” I say, holding out a hand to shake Spencer Nash’s. We’ve met on the field before, and this is absolutely a case of game respecting game. I’m a couple years his senior. I’d peg him around thirty-two or thirty-three, and at thirty-five, I’m practically ancient for a wide receiver.
But I’m not going to let that stop me from playing my ass off.
I’m a competitor by nature, and there was a hole on this roster that was filled by me. I will do what it takes to prove that I belong here and that I deserve to be on that field when the games begin.
“Mad Brad!” Clayton Mack says, slapping me on the back. “Welcome to the Storm. Call me Clay. Or Clay Mack.”
I just got here this afternoon, and Coach Brian Dell introduces me to the other receivers along with the coaches who are in the office today. He gives me a few minutes with the men who are now my teammates in the locker room when he has his own meeting to attend to.
“So what’s good in this town?” I ask.
“The views,” Spencer says. “The beach. The fans. My wife’s winery.”
“There’s some good food if you find the right places,” DJ Evans tells me. “I can help you out there.”
“The women,” Clay adds as he wiggles his eyebrows.
I raise a brow. “The women?”
I can get good food anywhere. Hell, I hail from Chicago, the home of good food.
And I guess I can find good women anywhere, too. But if my new buddy Clay has an inside track, I’m all ears.
“I’m married, and my wife is from Minnesota, so I can’t really attest to that,” Spencer says.
Clay elbows Spencer. “This guy is always talking about his wife like getting married is goals.” He rolls his eyes.
“You’re not a marriage guy?” I ask Clay.
He shrugs. “It’s not for everyone.”
I chuckle as I voice my earlier thought. “Finally someone who shares my values. Clay Mack and Mad Brad. Sounds like a lethal combination for this town.” What I really mean is that I think I just found my San Diego best friend.
I guess time will tell.
CHAPTER 2: Kennedy Van Buren
There’s a Solution
I never should have closed my eyes.
A twenty-seven-year-old woman in downtown Chicago should be smarter than that, and I am.
I’m just so damn tired.
I took public transportation—the bus—this morning. It’s a longer ride, but I can work or relax versus the stress of driving. And on my way home from work, I can read.
Or I could, anyway, until someone lifted my Kindle.
It was on the seat next to me when I closed my eyes, and now it’s not.
