Page 18 of Linebacker
I’m not the weak Hope ‘hopeless’ Palmer, that he undoubtedly remembers back in school. Well, I guess that’s his impression with the caustic way he’s reacting towards me.
It’s not until Coach walks around to the far side of his desk and slides into the black, high-backed executive chair that Mars makes his move and reluctantly drops into the remaining seat.
“There’s no point beating about the bush with this Marshall, so I’m just going to come right out and say it.” Couch leans back in his chair, his face as straight as a plank of wood. “The board are concerned about your behaviour…”
“My behaviour? Are you sure they’re not getting me mixed up with Marsden? He’s the one who’s getting flagged in nearly every game,” he says defensively. “I’ve not received one this season.”
“I’m not talking about the game, son. I’m talking about off the field,” Coach leans forward on the desk, resting his elbows on top of a copy of Gridiron, Pro Football and I’m sure I see the top of a copy of USA Today sports weekly magazines too. “You’ve been hitting the headlines, Marshall, and not always for the right reasons.”
“My private life is my business,” he bites back.
“Not when it’s plastered on the front page of every sports magazine, not just in America but across the fucking globe.” He picks up one of the magazines and throws it in his direction.
Mars scarcely blinks when it comes towards him, catching it before it hits him in the face. He holds it between his hands, and glances down at the copy of The National Enquirer. His left brow rises, and a smirk plays across his full lips, but he doesn’t say a word.
“May I?” I ask, leaning over to take it from his hand. He’s unwilling to let go at first, but I tug harder until he releases it. He scowls at me as I sit back and stare down at the front page. I glance back up to find that annoying smirk is back on his face. I know that he’s expecting me to react to the picture of him, obviously drunk out of his head and misbehaving.
He’s shirtless, and the photographer has got the light perfectly right to show the definition of the taut muscles of his chest. Not so much for the dark-haired bimbo that’s laid across his lap wearing a bright pink mini-skirt and matching hooker heels. Her fake tits are out for all to see, only her pixilated nipples giving a minuscule amount of coverage. But what stands out the most due to the big red arrow pointing it out, not that it isn’t already obvious enough, is Mars’ hand buried high up between her parted legs. With an expression of pure rapture on her face, there’s no doubt that he’s hit her sweet spot.
He doesn’t realise that I’ve already seen this, plus the majority of all the other images snapped by the paps of him caught in compromising positions, with numerous different women. So, if he expects to see a shocked expression on my face, he’s going to be greatly disappointed.
“Not the best impression to give to all your young fans, Vance,” I say with an even tone to my voice. “It is okay to call you Vance, isn’t it?” I don’t give him a chance to answer. “Although I have seen worse. Caught with your pants down, bare arse showing while being blown by the wife of the front man of the TV show you’d just been interviewed on, now that was below the belt, no pun intended.”
His face to anyone else would be void of any expression, because the signs are so subtle that to the untrained eye it would be difficult to detect, but for me, it’s as obvious as traffic lights. The instant dilation of his pupils that, of course, can suggest a multitude of emotions. The barely visible tick of the muscle just below his ear, also tells me he’s trying his best not to clench his jaw too hard. It’s enough for me to conclude that he’s as angry as a bear who can’t find a wood to shit in. He opens his mouth to say something but snaps it back shut when Coach slaps the flat of his palm on the desk, causing the papers to lift and scatter even further. A couple of them fall to the floor, but he ignores them.
“Exactly, Marshall. You need to clean up son, because it’s starting to have a negative effect on the sport.”
“But not my game,” Mars bellows out, his temper starting to show its ugly face. “As long as I excel on the field, who gives a toss?”
“The parents of the fourteen-year-old who lives and breathes football and all that is Vance Marshall, Linebacker for the Montana Longhorns, that’s who.” I counter before Coach gets the chance. “Do you seriously think that they want him to grow up thinking that it’s okay to drink yourself into oblivion and act like a narcissistic arsehole, with no respect for women or relationships, for that matter?”
“I’m not narcissistic,” The tick and tightness of his jaw are now prominent, but the deep growl of his voice alone is enough that even a blind man could pick-up on how utterly pissed he is. I suppress the shudder that his tone ignites because the last thing I want is for him to see that he’s affecting me. If he thinks he’s got the upper hand, I might as well grab my bags and take my arse back to the airport. “Besides, if the parents are stupid enough to let their kids read that trash, then it’s their own stupid fault.”
“That’s a textbook response. Deflecting,” I tut, shaking my head. Totally patronizing, but hell, the way he’s acting is verging on a petulant child.
“Damn it, son. It’s time you take responsibility for your actions,” Coach speaks up.
“And what if I don’t?” Mars smirks, his cocky attitude bubbling to the surface.
Coach shoots out of his chair, slamming his hands to the surface of the desk. He leans forward, bracing himself with his outstretched arms. “If you think you’re indispensable, you’re mistaken. In fact, the board has made it clear that they will no longer tolerate this level of disrespectful, shameless conduct on or off the field. As far as they’re concerned, you have become too much of a liability and if you don’t clean up your act, then your contact with the club will be suspended.”
“They can’t do that,” Mars grits out as he jumps to his feet. “They wouldn’t do that.”
“Well, they won’t if you stop being a total prick and take the help that they’re offering you.”
“What help, her?” He swings me a dark and cutting glare. “A sports psychologist?” he spits.
“And behavioural psychiatrist.” Bugger me! Mars has changed from the expressionless eighteen-year-old I remember from before. Or am I a damn sight better at reading people now? Guess my five years of intense university education was worthwhile, even if only to get a read on my old school nemesis.
But he wasn’t your enemy when you last saw him, now was he?
He helped you get away from a volatile situation, then opened up to you and told you how he felt.
He kissed you like he wanted you, like the air he breathed.
He had shown you real emotion, offered to help you escape your life.
Then, like a coward, you walked away.
