“I won’t walk away based on your say-so. I’m the father here, son. She was my wife. A word you’re yet to understand the deeper meaning of. We were married.”
“Were married. Aren’t anymore. No, my bad. You are married. To another woman. If any of us doesn’t understand the deeper meaning, it sure as fuck isn’t me.”
“People stray, Julian. That’s the way life goes. There are no clear-cut lines, just confusing, unfair bends.” He grabbed me by the arm as I shouldered past him, my muscles flexing in his grip. “You can love more than one person. Simple mistakes are born from bad decisions.”
“I’d call leaving your family—your two-year-old son who needed you—more than a simple mistake. You don’t get to decide now that you want back in. That’s not your life anymore, and you’ve got no fucking right to come crashing into hers and demand your own way like an over-indulged toddler. You made your bed in New Jersey when shit got tough, and if you don’t go back there and start fucking lying in it, I swear to God, I’ll make you regret last night for the rest of your sorry existence.”
The stubborn streak draining out of him, he looked genuinely at a loss. Like he’d walked into the wrong lecture mid-way through. Curious for some understanding but unfamiliar with the topic. It was an act. It had to be. He might be a self-involved prick, but his brain was fully functioning. Same couldn’t be said for his conscience, though.
“What happened here? Why were you so against letting me into any part of your life?”
Okay, maybe it wasn’t an act. Maybe he was just getting stupider in his old age.
“I let you in.”
His anger flared, the real Julian Sr. always hovering just under the surface. “Once you became a teenager, I could barely get a foot past the door. You shut me out!”
“You tell me what happened, Dad.” I used his title as a weapon. A reminder of what he was supposed to be but had no fucking concept of. “You fucking tell me.”
His lips remained sealed, the fire in his eyes raging.
“Can’t, can you? And that’s why I’ve got no fucking time for you anymore.”
Flanked by Rebecca, Marilyn, my mom, Elena, and Susan, Angel nursed a strawberry mojito. Her engagement ring was the sparkling center of attention, Marilyn lifting her finger from the shapely cocktail glass to pilfer one more look at the diamond that set me back a tiny, but worthwhile, fortune.
I approached the table, the confrontation with my dad hanging around me in an invisible cloak of constraint. Rebecca’s glare penetrated my periphery, and I got it, she was pissed I hadn’t stuck to my end of the bargain. But I couldn’t do anything about that now. The moment came and I seized it, and it was up to Rebecca to find a way to get over it.
“Can I borrow Angel for minute?” I said, breaking up the henhouse. “I’ll bring her back.”
A quick sip of her drink and Angel stood up from the blue cushioned seat at the table, the smiling faces around her—minus Rebecca, who was still glowering at me—shuffling chairs to make her exit smoother.
Space had been made in the center of the room, an unofficial dance floor, and I pulled Angel in by her hand, her lower body pressed against mine. A slow song played, but all I saw and heard was Angel, the melody in the background a basic guide for our movements. Her hands draped around my neck, and I rested my hands over the curve of her silky, satin-covered ass. I resisted the urge to squeeze her firm, plump flesh, put off by our audience.
“Is something bothering you?” Angel looked up into my face. “You’ve been distant.”
“Am I not good company?”
“You are, but I’d rather you tell me what’s on your mind. We’re celebrating tonight. We, not just me. I want you to be happy, too.”
“You agreed to marry me. This is the happiest I’m ever going to get.”
“If this is you at your peak, I’ll need time to rethink my decision.”
I squeezed her ass, bending to kiss her as her eyes rounded and her mouth opened to verbally put me back in my place. Her eyes eventually closed, her body loosening in my arms. She tasted like mint and strawberries, and I had a sudden, intense craving for both.
We left our own party before anyone else, taking a cab back to the house.
I opened the French doors to the balcony off the bedroom, falling onto the white linen cushions covering the loveseat. Reaching under Angel’s short skirt, my palms skimmed her hips, the tops of her thighs, my heartbeat spiking at the discovery of the microscopic G-string under her dress, so tiny and thin, I tore it from her legs with little resistance. I’d buy her another one. Crotchless next time.
With a sly smile, she unbuttoned my pants, pulling me out into her small hand. She gave a few slow pumps, and I pulled her onto my lap, her dress riding up and her bare, toned legs spread either side of my thighs. I took control, hoisting her up slightly and sliding into her. I held her to me for a number of blinding, overpowering seconds, spearing my fingers into the hair at the back of her head, listening to our hearts pound out the same jaunty, uneven rhythm.
When I couldn’t hold off any longer, I pistoned my hips, thrusting into her. My body relaxed around the tight, velvety sensation of Angel as she rolled across my cock. Her mouth parted, my name leaving her lips in a moan barely audible over the high tide crashing against the rocks. I covered her mouth when the intrusive sound of a car engine and the long sweep of headlights rumbled down the driveway, announcing company had arrived to force an early finish.
Angel collapsed in my arms, breathing heavily into my neck. Still hard as a pole inside of her, I carried her into the bedroom and stripped her out of her dress, leaving her in nothing but me and the ring.
I kept her busy long into the morning, ignoring the glaring implant under the skin on the inside of her upper arm. Lost myself deep inside her while I fooled my brain into believing my mom wasn’t having an affair with the man who left us and started another family without a single thought for the one he’d left behind.
N o matter what was written in sports blogs and magazines, or quoted from standardized locker room interviews, training camp wasn’t fun—for any football player. That first day of catching up with teammates after a summer doing your own thing, and easing back into procedural routine, were the two exceptions. But that was in normal circumstances. When you were returning after a botched season and MCL surgery, prepared to make your return stronger and better than before, training camp was Disney World on steroids. At Christmas. Where Mickey Mouse comes to life.
Attendance had been at a hundred percent for OTAs in May, but day one of camp still had that fresh feel to it. And this year we’d already seen one of our returning defensive players succumb to injury during the conditioning test. That was what happened when you slacked off too much during the offseason: you paid for it in camp and lived with the embarrassment for the rest of the season. That’s if you were strong enough to come back from the injury. Camp wasn’t a hurdle you wanted to fall at. Not when there were younger, sometimes fitter, guys fresh off the draft grinding overtime to replace your name on the roster with theirs.
And that was training camp in three words: a fucking grind.
I’d consider myself lucky to be here, but I’d put the work in. Spent hours in meetings with the rest of the offense and helping with plays, even when I wouldn’t be involved in any of them on the field. Watched video and broke down strategy. There’d been no luck about it. I was grateful, though, that the contact from the Jets player who’d dropped me during a play hadn’t been worse. And once I got over myself, my sorry ass pushed on with the recovery.
Media had been all over me like flies on fresh shit in the weeks leading up to camp, pestering me for a straight answer on whether I’d be one of the players in attendance—would I be starting the new season? They got their answer same time as everyone else. At the very last minute when I turned up for training.
At Nova Southeastern University, under the canopy in the seating section, two-thousand fans basked in the shade
while the rest of us sweated it out on the field. I’d studied the playbook so many times, the routes and strategies were torched into my inner eyelids. I didn’t just play football; the damn game was woven into my DNA.
Jay Carlion, one of my wide receivers, was getting ready to run one of those routes now. The center snapped me the ball, and with his shoulders square to the ground, Carlion exploded off the line. My staggered stance put me deeper into my three-step drop for the back-shoulder throw. Planting my backfoot in the third step, my knees were slightly bent, the ball in both hands in front of my chest, and I pulled my shoulder back and threw the ball before Carlion had time to turn and look. We’d done this rep maybe thousands of times, and the perfectly timed precision meant Carlion’s hands were face-high and the football was securely trapped between them.
We ran a few more passing plays and sprint-pass drop-backs and then moved on to throwing drills. Our meetings ran late into the evening, and with pre-season just two days away, it was another night at the hotel, and more team bonding. But my knee felt great, and not even a long night could sour my optimism for our upcoming games.
Toward the end of August, pre-season was done. Angel was flying to Miami tomorrow morning, and the highly anticipated season opener was less than two weeks away.
“Can I come with you tonight?” Rebecca uncapped a bottle of sparkling water, standing over where I sat perched on the edge of the sectional, scrolling through emails on my phone. I had one from my agent regarding endorsement deal extensions with Nike and Gillette, and two from management with attached long-winded documents I needed to find the time to read through thoroughly.
That time wasn’t now.
“Julian? I’m talking to you.”
I thumbed through the email, glancing over the details. “What?”
“Can I come out with you tonight?”
“Why would you? You don’t know anyone. Besides, I need you to stay here with Dog.”
“I’m not your doggy babysitter. I do have other things to do, you know.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
Rebecca worked twenty hours a week as a receptionist for an upscale massage parlor where the Cristal they served cost more than the treatments. But when Rebecca wasn’t at work, she pulled out every weapon at her disposal to get under my feet.
“That’s beside the point. I’m coming with you. I never get to go out.”
“Make friends, then.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder.”
“I’ll go find something to wear.”
I looked up from my screen. “I said you’re not coming.”
“Because you’d rather I sit here alone and read Furry Friends stories to Dog? Fat chance, Julian. That’s all I ever do, and I’m sick of it.”
Whoa… she could hold it right there.
“If you’re so sick of it, go home. I’ve asked Angel to marry me. The next step is her moving in here with me, and that means you moving out.”
The back and forth moment between us changed, and Rebecca pulled in a breath through her nose. She swallowed, gaze bouncing between me and my phone in two second intervals.
“I thought that would be obvious…” Nausea stirred in my gut from the look I’d painted on her face. Moving back to New Jersey hadn’t entered her mind at all, and now I was seriously concerned she might not go. This living situation was never permanent, and I’d thought that understanding went both ways. Her staying with me had already exceeded its expiry date.
Rebecca blinked twice, a forced smile rising with the watery sheen in her brown eyes. “Right. Of course. You guys need your privacy, duh!” She squeezed her water bottle too hard, the plastic indenting loudly in her hands. “Just tell me when to be out of here.”
“It’s not that I want you to go, Rebecca, it’s just—”
“No, I know. It would be weird. Newlyweds have a lot of sex and stuff, I get it. Please don’t explain.”
“I wasn’t implying that, but as long as you’re okay.”
“I am.” She recapped the bottle, flustered to the point her discomfort became contagious. “I’m perfectly okay.” Pushing out another smile that wouldn’t be winning her any Actress of the Year awards, she walked into the kitchen. I looked over my shoulder to see her wipe her eyes using the sleeve of her fuzzy, cream sweater.
“Hey, Rebecca,” I said, determined to lighten the mood. It may not have started out that way, but she was family now. It didn’t feel good being the cause of her tears. “Get dressed. Dog can last one night on his own. I’ll leave the TV on for him.”
“I can come?” The fuzzy sleeve of her sweater was pulled over her wrist, pushed under her nose, and her sullen expression evened out as she looked at me.
I nod. I might not have wanted Rebecca around my teammates, but I wanted that sadness etching her face even less.
“Where are we going?” Her eyebrows crept together in doubt, probably over my shady behavior.
“Nikki Beach.”
“No way!” She let out a high-pitched squeak, frowny face be damned. “Total celebrity hotspot. And I have absolutely nothing to wear! Oh my god, Julian, what will I do?” The panic was real, and I nipped it in the bud before it triggered a searing headache—for me.
“I’ll take you shopping, but only if you don’t take for fucking ever to buy something.”
“Deal.” There went that squeak again. There was a slim possibility I could end up missing that nail-on-chalkboard sound when she was no longer living here.
Nikki Beach lived up to every one of Rebecca’s expectations. Barely covered in a stringy white bikini and sheer white skirt to the floor, I had my hands full keeping guys away from her she was nowhere near experienced enough to be dealing with. To be blunt, she was a liability, and it was nothing new to me, keeping my home life and football life separate. Once they mingled, all that was left was one, giant mess.
“You’re scaring everyone off.” Rebecca reclined on a daybed, her third cocktail in hand. “You can go and talk to other people.”
I sat on the lounger next to hers, my feet planted either side of it, in the sand. “There’s a reason I don’t bring you out with me. Attention follows you, and then usually trouble. I try to avoid both.”
Rebecca grabbed another cocktail from the waitress making her rounds, polishing off the one she already had and setting the glass down on the bamboo side table. At the rate she was putting the alcohol away, she’d be done in no time, and I’d be carrying her to a car and cutting my own night short.
I wasn’t drinking, though, and not just because I was on childminding duties. I was going easy on the alcohol, conscious of hindering my performance and the stamina I’d built up over the summer. 2018 was our season, I could feel it.
Nikki Beach was crawling with half-naked women, most of my teammates leaving their girlfriends at home, freeing them up to enjoy and interact in the show. Unless the girlfriend was here, and the wife was stuck at home. It wasn’t unusual for that to happen. And if the wife did find out? She probably wouldn’t do anything about it. Some fights weren’t worth having when the lifestyle was this generous.
The VIP cabanas were occupied, and I could only ward off the attention from Rebecca for so long. Eventually, we’d be dragged into the partying chaos surrounding us.
Eventually came sooner rather than later. Seizing her opportunity for escape, Rebecca looked cozy with one of our newest signings, a twenty-one-year old graduate of Clemson University. Mostly lining up at left guard, Tate Ross handled all offensive positions he was put in, and it was no wonder the Dolphins had been keeping tight watch over him over the years. That level of attention didn’t form overnight. Scouts had their beady on eyes on the most promising players sometimes right from high school. Tate hadn’t started a game yet, but I doubted it’d be much longer until he was suited up and on the field for the regular season. Versatility like his didn’t warm the bench for long.
A body sunk into the bed beside me. Peeling my gaze fro
m Rebecca, I side-eyed the woman in the neon-yellow thong bikini. She grabbed two of the linen pillows, stuffing them under her elbow.
Carlion dumped his big body on the bed, pushing the brunette over by her plump ass. He stretched out his legs in front of him, eyes locked on the backside of the beauty sandwiched between us.
I raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Julian, Alexis. Alexis, Julian Lawson,” Carlion said distractedly, grabbing another handful of her ass that was rounded against his thigh. “Damn, girl. Your mother fed you well.”
“I know who you are. I go to all the home games.” Alexis licked her red lower lip. Carlion swiped her a glass of champagne from a passing waitress and asked for two beers to be brought over. I changed mine to water.
Five flutes of champagne later, Alexis had shimmed to the foot of the wide bed. Her ankle hooked over mine while she was in conversation with another woman who looked strikingly similar to her, and though the action appeared unintentional and casual, I’d been around plenty of her kind to know what she was doing, and there was nothing unintentional about it. She dragged her foot over the side of my calf, and I cleared my throat, pulling my leg away.
My breath left me in an airy groan from deep in my abdomen as another body landed in my lap. Flowing blonde hair blanketed my arm, and my eyes met with Rebecca’s glassy ones. Alexis strayed from her conversation, her hawk-like gaze assessing Rebecca slouched all over me. Carlion only pretended to be interested in the three-way confab, his focus branching out to any jiggling ass that sauntered by, and there was no shortage of those.
“Hey,” Rebecca slurred, staring drunkenly into my eyes. I noticed her skirt was missing, and I glanced over to where she’d been cozied up to Tate. The sheer skirt was strewn in the sand, Tate nowhere in sight.
“Hey,” I said. “What did you do with Tate?”
Rebecca shrugged, a stupid smile on her face.
“Okay. What happened to your skirt?”
She looked down at herself, eyebrows slanting low as she realized she was wearing less than what she came out in. “It must have come off.”
Keeping Seven Page 4
