Page 5 of Just Playin'
It was a good six months.
The following six weren’t as pretty.
Doctors, lawyers, even hairdressers often say they exceed in their field of expertise because they were born to do it. The same can be said for athletes. I was bred into the rowdiest, grubbiest, and big-hearted football fanatic you could imagine. It didn’t matter what was on, or the importance of the occasion, if it occurred during game time, it didn’t exist. Nothing on this earth will ever succeed football on the totem of importance to my dad. Not weddings. Not anniversaries. Not even the birth of his first grandchild lifted my dad’s backside from his favorite couch during a game.
He often tells people he’s inspired me to return to my glory days. I’m not so quick to issue him the same praise. Yes, he loves football. Yes, he was ecstatic when I secured the number one draft pick after four years of college ball. But he didn’t run me through drills while it poured down rain. He didn’t even pick me up after my high school games. Until I went pro, my father had never seen me play.
Some say that’s why I fell for Lillian’s “trophy wife” trick so quickly. She was so interested in everything I did, I truly thought she cared about me. It was only after I walked in on her with Josue did I realize I was wrong. She didn’t count my calories because she knew the leaner I was, the faster I ran. She was keeping her piggy bank well-stacked. The fitter I was, the better I played. The better I played, the more endorsements I secured.
I thought the record-breaking amount I secured for a five-year contract with the 69ers was impressive, but it had nothing on the sponsorships I negotiated off the field. I was bringing in so much money, I could practically roll in it.
Then it all came tumbling down.
My illustrious career was struck down by a supposed “non-rehabilitation” injury. I canceled my wedding with Lillian because I refused to roll down the aisle in a wheelchair, and the endorsement money I anticipated living on after I spent my fortune on a twenty-three million-dollar penthouse in New York went up in smoke.
I was left with nothing but the clothes on my back, the support of my fiancée, and the occasional gig she brought in being the face of a clothing company no one had ever heard of.
I should have seen Lillian’s affair as a blessing. If I had, my share of our penthouse would have helped me start a new life. Instead, I funded Josue’s retirement in the Caribbean. He’s a twenty-six-year-old yoga instructor living on a yacht. If that doesn’t show you how fucked up life is, I don’t know what will.
With that in mind, I hit decline on Lillian’s call. She’ll leave a voicemail; I’ll pretend I never got it, and the vicious cycle we’ve been playing the past six months will remain on course.
Unsure if I am amused or annoyed, I stand to my feet to gather my belongings. Only the slightest smidge of disdain crosses my face, but from the way Danny arrives at my side two seconds later, you’d swear I was howling in pain.
“How’s your back? Any twinges? Spasms? Do you want me to get Amara to give you a rubdown before you head off?”
I lift my milk-chocolate eyes to Danny. “Amara? The Italian with more hair on her top lip than me?”
He smiles a cunning grin. “It doesn’t matter what she looks like. Her hands are worth a million bucks.”
I give him a look. He can say that since he has no interest in discovering what Amara has going on underneath the white masseuse dress she dons daily. He’s too busy sneaking peeks of the players exiting the showers to let female anatomy deter his mission.
“It’s good. I’m good. I don’t need Amara. . .” My words trail off when I stuff my clothes into my gym bag, and Danny’s eyes land on numerous bottles of pain medication stacked in the back corner.
“Don’t,” I warn when his lips twitch with the telltale sign he’s about to begin one of his infamous lectures. “I haven’t taken any pain meds in months. They’re from an old prescription.”
A sprinkling of blond hair falls in front of his eye when he slants his head to the side and widens his eyes. He’s going for the innocent,I’m your friend more than your agentlook. It’s not a look he can pull off. “Then why don’t we throw them out?”
I snatch his wrist when his hand darts toward my bag. My hold is weak enough not to hurt him, but firm enough to indicate he’s overstepping the bounds of the job I pay him to do.
“I said I haven’t taken any. That doesn’t mean I won’t need them at a later date.” I scan the locker room to ensure we’re alone. Happy we are, I drop my eyes back to Danny. “They’re backup. Just in case.”
When I spot my teammate/best friend Dalton darting past the locker room, I use his whitening face to my advantage. Danny and I have held the same conversation numerous times the past six months. We always reach the same outcome. My meds are there just in case I need them. I don’t use them. They’re merely reminders of how far I’ve traveled since my injury—well, mostly.
“Hey, Dalton. Wait up.”
Dalton freezes just outside the door being buckled by eager sports reporters wanting interviews with players of the winning team.
“Everything alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
My brows furrow when he replies in a hurry, “It’s Becca. She got assaulted in the bleachers.”
“Hold on, what?” I grab his shoulder, pulling him back before he’s swallowed by player-eating journalists. “She got assaulted—here? On our home turf?”
Surely I heard him wrong. The 69er fans are a rowdy bunch, but they love all aspects of their team—wives and girlfriends included.
Dalton’s comment makes sense when he adds, “She lost her ticket. With her ID left on the kitchen counter along with her baby brain, she bought a ticket from a scalper. He failed to mention her seat was in hostile territory.”
“Is she at the hospital?”
