“It’s okay, but if I wanted to die in my own backyard, I’d ask Nixon to throw with me,” He called across the twenty feet that separated us in his backyard.
“Nixon is in Brazil.” I tossed it back in a perfect spiral. “Besides, you’ve been throwing with me since high school. You’re just a creature of habit.”
“You know what I mean, jackass.” He grinned as he caught it this time, sporting a Raptor tee and athletic shorts instead of his normal business suit.
Usually, we used our once-a-week facetime to catch up. The fact that we’d been friends since high school wasn’t broadly advertised among the Raptors. Not because I was embarrassed, but because I didn’t want anyone thinking that’s how I’d gotten my contract. The fact that Weston’s dad had died our senior year of college, leaving him more money than God and an NFL team was a coincidence. Kind of.
But today, I was distracted. Itchy. Tense.
It had been two days since Savannah had shown up at the boathouse, offering her body on a silver platter with a polite little please. But there was nothing polite about the things I wanted to do to her—the things playing over and over in my mind.
“What’s your issue?” Weston tossed the ball.
“I’m fine.” I caught it.
“Say that to someone who doesn’t know you. You’ll have a better chance at playing them off with a little smirk.”
I threw it a little harder.
“Oof.” He grunted as he caught it, then tilted his head at me, doing that little appraisal he was known for. Weston’s dad had been a numbers guy—turned money into more money while he slept. Weston, however, had a unique ability to read people.
An ability I cursed as he crossed the grass.
“Spill it,” he said when he got close enough to stop shouting. Not that there was anyone around.
“There’s nothing.” My jaw ticked. Since signing with the Raptors, there were definite lines I couldn’t cross with Weston, and this was one of them. Giving in to Savannah jeopardized my position on the team. Even if we kept it quiet, there was always the chance of Coach finding out.
“You have the same look on your face that you did junior year when Daisy Rodriguez dumped you after the state finals.” He stuck the ball under his arm and lowered his sunglasses, staring at me over the frames.
“She’d moved on to the next sport,” I joked. “Besides, we handled that with punching bags and what? Cliff diving, right?”
Weston laughed. “Yeah, well, those hands are insured for a million dollars, and I’m pretty sure your contract keeps you from doing stupid shit with me these days.” The guy was an adrenaline junkie—that hadn’t changed.
“You can’t help me with this one anyway,” I answered with a shrug. “I can’t remember... you ever want something you couldn’t have?”
“Besides my father’s love and affection?” he joked.
I shook my head at his self-deprecating humor. “This is something that could go badly. So badly.”
“Oh, really?” His eyebrows lifted, always up for anything that spiked his blood pressure. “Would this something be a woman?”
“Maybe. You’re better off not knowing.”
“The possibilities are endless when you put it that way.” He slipped his phone from his pocket and answered a text. “Brynn just got here with some papers,” he said in explanation. “I’ve never known from you to back down from a challenge.”
“Would you ever jump out of a plane with a chute that was only fifty-percent guaranteed to open?”
He put his phone away. “Now my curiosity is piqued.”
“I want someone I have no business wanting.” I laced my hands behind my neck.
“She want you back?” Weston folded his arms over his chest.
“Yeah.”
“Is she married?” His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Hell no. It’s not like that. There are just...consequences.”
He nodded slowly, lifting his sunglasses to the top of his head and studying me. “Is she worth the risk?”
Yes.
“How do you know? You’re the one always chasing the high. How do you know when you come across something that’s just too risky?”
He sighed, looking over the back end of his palatial estate. “I hate this place. Dad bought it for his mistress. Figured if we were all tucked away in Virginia, he could do whatever he wanted here.”
My brow knit at the subject change. “Sell it.”
“If I sold off every place Dad fucked that woman, the Raptors wouldn’t have a stadium,” he said with a wry grin. “If it’s finances, I risk it. We both make enough. If it’s my life, I risk it. There’s no bigger thrill.”
A petite, strawberry blonde in a tailored suit walked onto the patio and offered us a wave.
“I only need him for a second!” Brynn called out. “Good to see you, Hendrix!”
“Hey, Brynn!” I called back. “Guess we’re all a long way from Virginia, aren’t we?” I asked soft enough for only Weston to hear.
Brynn had been a couple of years behind us in high school and worked through her last two years of college as Weston’s assistant when his dad died. He’d said it was because he’d needed someone he could trust, and Brynn was definitely trustworthy. She was also beautiful, not that Weston ever noticed.
“We are,” he agreed with a nod. “I don’t risk relationships,” he answered quietly.
“What?”
“You asked what’s too much risk.” He shrugged, looking at me as he backed away, heading toward Brynn. “I have money. I have too much fame. I have sex. A lot of sex. The only thing I don’t have in excess are relationships—people I trust. I don’t risk those.”
“Even if you’re missing out on the possibilities?” I glanced over at Brynn.
He shook his head. “You never fuck someone you can’t live without. Trust me on that one, and yes, I have wanted something I can’t have. Every day, Hendrix. Every damned day.” He turned and walked toward Brynn, his posture transforming from high school friend to billionaire business mogul.
Could I live without Savannah? Was I going to have a choice when she graduated and took a job somewhere else? I had to say no. I couldn’t sleep with her and walk away.
I was already too addicted from that one kiss for that.
Sleeping with her would be a mistake. A foolish, reckless, selfish thing to do.
Fuck the consequences. I wanted to do it, anyway.
That didn’t mean I was going to.
6
Savannah
"Whoa," I said, reaching out to gently grab my dad's wrist. "Easy on the salt, Dad."
My dad rolled his eyes but had an easy grin on his face. He threw another dash of salt into the oversized stockpot on the stove with a mischievous look.
I shook my head, taking up a good lean next to the stove just in case he decided to add any more ingredients to the chili that weren’t needed. "You know that other spices work just as well on this chili, Dad. Too much salt, and you'll kill the flavor. Not to mention your blood pressure."
Dad cringed but barked out a halfhearted laugh. "I'm responsible for a team of fifty-three barking men. I think it's safe to say my blood pressure is screwed regardless."
“They’re not animals,” I argued.
“Not all of them,” he said, laughing. “But they do their part in driving up my stress level.” He shook his head. “Not just me, but all the coaches. Just yesterday Olsen was telling me he had to kick one of his star players off the team over two teammates fighting over the same girl.” He sucked his teeth. “There are reasons I have rules in my locker room,” he continued, eying me. “At least my boys listen, and leave you alone.”
I swallowed hard. “You really shouldn’t—”
Dad held up a hand to cut me off. “Don’t,” he said. “Not today. Rules are important. This team is our livelihood. And you’re my baby girl. I wouldn’t hesitate to kick someone off the Raptors if it meant keeping your heart safe. B
ut since I have the rule, I don’t have to worry about that. And neither do you. Win-win.”
Guilt swirled in my stomach, knowing what I’d done with Hendrix. What I’d asked of him. But, honestly, Dad’s rule was ancient. And downright wrong. My body, my choice.
I gave him a chiding look and stirred the chili that had started to simmer. One of our Sunday traditions during the off-season was chili, cornbread, and whatever Netflix show he was binging. It was our one time to be just Dad and Savannah as opposed to Coach Goodman and Coach Goodman’s daughter. I cherished these moments. It became a staple of ours ever since…well, ever since we lost my mother when I was five.
My fingers absentmindedly traced the tiny star necklace that hung on a thin chain around my neck. One of my most cherished items. The last gift my mother gave me before she got into the car accident that ended her life.
I could still remember the way she smelled, like cinnamon and vanilla. I could still remember the way her arms felt as she carried me to bed and tucked me in. She cinched that star-covered blanket over my five-year-old body and flicked off the light only to reveal an entire galaxy on my ceiling. I may have been a little bit obsessed, and she always indulged me. Always called me her star.
I crossed the expanse of my father's kitchen and wrapped my arms around him in a quick hug just because I could. It didn't matter how long it had been, the grief of losing my mother was like a tiny hole in my heart that never would heal. It wasn’t an all-encompassing grief that threatened to swallow me whole, but it was there nonetheless.
"What did I do to deserve that?" Dad asked as I released him and opened the fridge to grab a sparkling water.
I twisted off the cap, tossed it in the trash, and took a small sip. "Just love you is all," I said, and I meant it with all my heart. Regardless of my issues with his overprotectiveness, he was an amazing father. Sure he may have been a little overbearing in the early years, and even now, with his off-limits rule for his team, but he’d done everything he could to raise me right.
And now here I was about to embark on my own career, something I'd worked toward for half my life. The thrill of being in the epicenter of a professional athletics team was a rush you could only understand if you’d done it before. And I'd done it since forever, and I loved it. I loved the fast action, the strategy, and the quick-thinking with each new problem that arose.
I chewed on my bottom lip, something sticky and heavy gnawing at the center of my chest.
My father frowned at my obvious switch in mood and nodded toward me. "What's eating up my baby girl?"
I blinked out of my thoughts but was unable to shake off that slight guilt sucking at my heart. I took another drink of my sparkling water, trying to collect my words. I didn't want to sound ungrateful but…
"Do you think it's unfair?" I finally asked him as he headed toward the stove with a giant wooden spoon in his hand.
He stirred the giant pot of chili like a conductor instructing a symphony. The smells of spice and pepper and tomato filled the kitchen, doing everything it could to rid me of that icky feeling. All the smells of home. My father's home, which used to be mine before I left for college. "I'm gonna need you to be a little bit more specific," Dad said as he sat the spoon down on the holder next to the counter by the stove. He plucked the cast-iron lid on top of the pot and turned the burner down to low. He spun to give me his full attention.
"The fact that I have a position waiting for me with the Raptors," I said, finding the tile along our kitchen floor incredibly interesting. Again, I wasn't ungrateful. I just wanted to earn it. Wanted to do something on my own and not have merely been given the position just because I was Coach Goodman's daughter.
A deep groove furrowed my father's brows, and then he huffed out a laugh. "You’re serious?"
I nodded, finally meeting his eyes straight on. He must've noticed the seriousness in them because his expression softened. "Savannah," he said, and I felt like I was ten-years-old again. "Do you know how many candidates applied for that position?"
I shook my head. In all honesty, I didn't know if Weston had looked at anybody else.
Dad blew out of breath, positioning his hands on his hips like he was about to call me into a huddle. "There were fourteen other qualified candidates for the position that's waiting for you. Weston went over every single one of their qualifications with a fine-tooth comb. You just happen to have more experience than the rest of them."
"That isn't exactly true —"
"Isn't it?" Dad smoothly cut in. "Savannah, you've been in the thick of it since before you could even throw a football. You know this sport almost better than I do. And you also know about managing it a hell of a lot more than I do. Hell, you went to school for it. That's what gave you an edge, not because of your name. Your experience. Your tenacity. Your dedication. I mean, for crying out loud, you took the accelerated courses to graduate early." He crossed the space between us, gently clutching my shoulders. "Don't for one minute think you didn't earn every ounce of this position waiting for you. Because you did. It wasn't because of my recommendation or the fact that Weston knows you as well as any of the Raptor players. It was because of your resume. Because of that degree you're about to get. Because you know the profession and will do great things inside of it. Weston's hiring you was because you're an asset. End of story."
A little bit of that dark tension released from my tight chest. But there was still something nagging at me in the back of my head.
"Unless," my father continued. Tilting his head down at me. "Unless you don't want to work for the Raptors?" He tried to hide the concern in his eyes, but I could see it there. The idea that I might not want to work for his team. His owner. That I might want to branch out and do something completely separate. I know he'd support me, but I also know he was excited as hell when Weston offered me the sports management position.
"It's not that," I admitted. "You know I love the Raptors. You know I love you. I just don't want to be handed things. And you can't blame me for wanting to experience things on my own too."
Dad nodded, then pulled me into his chest for a tight hug only he was capable of. The same hug he gave me for every accomplishment in my life—learning to ride a bike, learning to drive a stick shift, accelerating through college at top speeds. He was a solid constant in my life, a comforting, easy thing to fall into at a job where we’d see each other frequently. But I'd always been a little bit on the wild side, and I couldn't help that craving to reach for something beyond the known just to get a taste of it.
Hendrix Malone was one said wild thing.
I stepped out of my dad's embrace, smiling up at him. Trying to shrug off the entire conversation like it wasn't eating me away inside. Eating away at me just like the fact that Hendrix had yet to respond to my proposition.
And maybe he never would. I’d just have to learn to live with that, too.
Scoring a touchdown during Monday Night Football seemed an easier thing to do.
A few hours, one delicious bowl of chili and two pieces of cornbread later, I kissed my dad on the forehead while he sat on the couch, properly beached before Tiger King.
"Where are you heading tonight?" he asked, the same curious and concerned tone he used when I was sixteen and had first gotten my license.
I smiled at him ruefully. "I'm heading home to get changed," I said. "London has been offered a position with the Carolina Reapers. We're going out to celebrate."
My father's eyebrows climbed up his head, his lips pursed as he nodded. "An NHL team, huh?" He shrugged. "It's no NFL team, but it's nothing to turn your nose up at,” he teased, and I snort-laughed.
"One of the best NHL teams in the country. Definitely not something to turn your nose up at. Hence celebrating tonight." I reached for the door, waving at him.
"Be careful, baby girl. Love you!" Dad called as I swung the door open.
"Always! Love you too!" I shut the door behind me and did my best not to sprint to my car.
Anticipation flew through my veins like a livewire. I got ready in a hurry and broke speed limits to get to the club.
London and Paul were already waiting for me outside one of Raleigh's hottest and most exclusive nightclubs. The downtown building, which used to be an old telephone company, was nearly fifty-years-old. Until about two years ago when the new owner renovated the entire building, yet somehow managed to keep its original architecture to preserve the history.
Tricks had people lined up around the block, and the air was sticky and warm as I headed over to my friends.
"Damn, girl," Paul said, looking me up and down as he appraised my attire—my over-the-knee-boots, paired with a short black silk skirt, and vivid purple blouse. "Are we fishing tonight? Because you sure as hell look like some bait."
I smiled, doing a little twirl so they could get a better look as I reached them. London wrapped me in a quick hug, and Paul kissed my cheek. They had clearly been waiting in line for a while because we are almost near the door. I knew I could go up to the bouncer and tell them who I was, and have that velvet rope part for us, but I didn't like pulling that card. Besides, it was a perfectly warm, beautiful evening. The night sky was crystal clear and the twinkle lights strung atop the roof flickered golden sparkles across the pavement.
"You never know," I finally answered Paul. I couldn't keep the giddiness from my voice, the hopefulness. And I internally reminded myself to shut that shit down.
London smiled up at me knowingly, but I ignored her as we made our way to the bouncer who ushered us in when it was our turn.
Tricks’ interior was dark with colorful lights pulsing on and off over a dance floor crowded with bodies. All weaving and rocking to the thumping music that seemed to come from everywhere. A gorgeous black marble bar took up the entirety of the left wall. Its structure was illuminated by soft white lights glowing from just beneath it. Glass shelves held every manner of liquor available, and we hurried to make our way over to get our first celebratory drink for the night.
We quickly ordered our drinks, me a soda water and lime since I was elected to be the DD of the night for my celebrating friend, who was doing her best not to smirk at me.
Hendrix: A Raleigh Raptor Novel Page 5
