by L. M. Carr
“What’s your nephew doing now?” I ask.
“Well, he’s playing ball, but no team keeps him long because he’s a loudmouth troublemaker.”
I swallow. “What’s your nephew’s name?”
“Demarcus Richardson.” Dez chuckles darkly. “That boy is doggone crazy sometimes.”
When we pull into the hotel, Dez parks the car, opens my door and extends a hand to help me out. “Thank you, sir.” I feign a sweet accent that closely resembles his, offer a quick curtsy and grasp the handle of my bag. “I’ll be out in fifteen.”
“I’ll be right here waiting for ya.”
§
“Are you working all weekend?” I ask Dez as I climb out of the vehicle at the stadium.
“Every day but Sunday. That’s the Lord’s day.”
I smile at the man who has proven to be a great conversationalist with his easy mannerisms and gentlemanly attitude.
“Maybe I’ll see you on Monday when I fly home. Have a card?” I ask, intending to secure his services for the return trip to the airport.
“No, ma’am. But if you got a pen, I’ll write down my number.”
I give him my phone and he enters the digits, then sits in the car again. I smile. “Thanks for the ride and the conversation.” I fold a large bill in half and slip it through the open window. He hesitates, then finally accepts the generous tip.
A small smile displays his appreciation. “Good luck to you, Miss AJ.”
With my messenger bag slung over my shoulder, I slip my lanyard over my neck and show my credentials at the door. I transition into work mode as I greet other reporters gathered outside the conference room. Some intend to speak to the coaches, while others, like me, head into the locker room to get a few minutes with the key players.
I see my team adjusting the cameras. “Hey, Billy. What’s going on?”
“Well, it’s about time, Hammy.”
I roll my eyes at the awful nickname he bestowed upon me after the first Miami game we covered together. After a night of heavy drinking, we ended up at Denny’s at three o’clock in the morning, and because I was intoxicated, I thought it hysterically funny that a breakfast item was called “Moons Over My Hammy”. Somehow, the name stuck.
“LA traffic sucks,” I explain as Melody hands me the microphone.
The three of us have been working together for years. They’re like extended family.
Herded in like cattle, I rush through the door in search of the Rams quarterback to inquire about their plan to handle the Cowboys.
“Hey, AJ. How’re you doing?”
I smile brightly at Aaron Phillips, the football player I’ve interviewed a hundred times over the years. “I’m good, thanks.”
“I hear congratulations are in order.” He raises a curious brow.
I nod, then steer the conversation away from my personal life.
“You’re looking good,” I note, taking in the physical transformation of the man who stands at 6’5”.
“Yeah. My buddy Tom hooked me up with his chef. No sugar. No white flour. No junk.”
I grin. “Well, that’s great. Let’s hope this new diet will give you the edge you need to finally take the Pats down this year.”
Clutching his chest, Aaron feigns hurt, then grins wickedly. “Low blow, AJ. Low blow.”
My cheeks flame red at the long-forgotten memory of us fooling around one night after a preseason game.
“Let’s talk football,” I suggest with a hard look.
After interviewing Aaron, my team and I make several stops with different players before finally heading over to chat with the head coach.
“We, like every other team in the NFL, are trying to build a winning team. We’re looking for two more pieces to complete our puzzle. I think the new owner has a great vision for this team.”
I pipe up. “Any truth to the rumor that since you weren’t able to acquire Rence Hamilton you’re close to signing Tyreek Smith?”
He suppresses a smile. “Of course you’d ask me that.”
I shrug. “Smith’s stats are comparable to Hamilton’s, and he’s a little younger.”
“You make it sound like Hamilton is ancient.”
I chuckle at the comment, but the truth is, Rence has been slower than expected this year and his reaction time is a bit off. Julian hasn’t said much about it, but I know he’s concerned and secretly hoping he didn’t make a poor decision. He would never want anyone to think he pursued Rence because they had been good friends at one point. The end game of every decision Julian makes is to win.
Shaking my head, I reply, “Not at all. I think Texas is the right place for him.”
Additional questions are asked, then answered before they end the interview.
“Good luck, Coach!”
I spend the rest of the day working from my hotel room. Despite what some people think, I work hard, spending hours researching game releases, watching both teams’ highlights from the previous week, even reading local newspapers to get detailed information. This gives me good insight about the types of questions I should ask the opposing team.
Because Julian also has a game this weekend, our communication is limited, but I understand it. He needs to concentrate and focus. Expectations are high for the team.
§
The next day, a cup of coffee in hand, I jump into the waiting SUV for the drive back to the stadium.
“Late night?” Melody asks.
I nod. “I stayed up late watching the Packers game from last week.”
“The Packers? Hammy, you do realize we’re not covering that game, right?” Billy asks.
I glare at him. “Julian’s playing them tomorrow.”
“Oh, so now you’re an analyst?” he questions with a smirk.
“I’ve been around this game for more than half my life. I think I know what I’m talking about.”
“Yeah,” Melody chimes in. “What do you even know, Billy? You’re just the cameraman!”
I laugh and sit back as we chat about anything and everything other than football.
The SUV drops us off at the players’ entrance. We flash our credentials, allowing us access inside the stadium.
A few players enter and walk past us, down the long hallway toward the locker room. Fatigued from the early morning practice, most hit the showers, while others sit and wait for reporters.
As always, they field questions from eager journalists, some talking over each other. I raise my voice and interject, directing my question to the new rookie running back drafted from Notre Dame. He’s a good player, albeit cocky, and his response is inappropriate.
“I got mad skills on and off the field, baby.”
A few of the men in the room snicker, but their lack of professionalism ignites a fire in me.
“So, if that’s true, can you explain what happened at the end of the third quarter last game when you fumbled the ball on the two yard line and rolled over like a toddler having a temper tantrum?” When he starts to stammer, I smile, letting him off the hook. “You don’t really have to answer that.”
While others ask questions, I catch a glimpse of a familiar face. I smile tightly when I notice Alonzo staring at me, a look of pain on his face.
“I’ll be right back,” I whisper to Billy, walking over to him.
“Hey!” I greet Alonzo, who stands there with only a white towel wrapped around his waist, beads of water still rolling down his chest.
When he leans in to kiss my cheek, I stiffen. Although I consider him a friend, I’m surprised by his outward sign of affection at work. “What’s up, girl?”
“Not much. Getting ready for a busy season.”
He lifts my left hand and inspects it. “I had heard you got married.”
I smile. “I did. I’m really happy.” I pull my hand away and redirect the discussion. “So… Dallas, huh? That’s great!”
His full lips transform into a disgusted snarl and he raises his shoulders casually. “It’s al
l right. They ain’t paying me what I’m worth or giving me my time on the field.”
My expression falls. “Damn, that sucks.”
He nods. “Yep. That’s all right, though. I’m gonna do whatever it takes to get what I want.”
“You should! You’re really good. Don’t let anyone sell you short!”
“You really believe that, or are you just trying to make me feel better about myself?” he asks with a light chuckle.
“Any coach would be a fool not to sign you, Alonzo!”
“Maybe you should tell your husband that.”
I grin, shake my head and waggle my finger playfully. “Nope! I’m not getting involved.”
Hazel eyes stare at me. “Come on, girl.” He tilts his head. “You know he’ll listen to you.”
“Have you met Julian? No one changes his mind.”
“I’m sure you can convince him,” he replies with a light chuckle.
When someone calls my name, I look over my shoulder, then back at him. “I’ve got to run. Good luck tomorrow!”
“Make sure you give me some airtime.” Alonzo smiles as he turns away.
Laughing, I wink at him. “Give me something worth showing and I’ll consider it.”
After lunch, I retreat back to the hotel to get some work done. My text messages to Julian have gone unanswered and, I must admit, it saddens me. I know he’s focused, but it doesn’t really take much time or effort to send a quick reply, does it?
Choosing not to meet my team for dinner, I order room service and open my laptop, typing. Depending on his stats tomorrow, I might be able to put a bug in Julian’s ear about Alonzo. He may be a womanizer, but he’s also a great player.
I enjoy a pasta dinner and sip on a glass of wine while I review some highlights from the Chargers’ previous two seasons. While my intention is to focus on Alonzo, I can’t help but want to see how Rence did. There were three games in a row that he jumped the line and caused penalties. I watch as he jogs off the field to the defensive coordinator. I wish I could hear the heated exchange between the two men. It doesn’t matter because the look on Rence’s face is deadly and his words appear harsh and unapologetic. I’m slightly surprised I didn’t notice this before, but since I mostly cover Sunday games, I rarely have the chance to watch my brother in action.
The ringtone I’ve assigned to Julian sounds and I rush to answer it.
“Hey, babe!”
“Hi, yourself. How are you?” he asks, the rasp in his voice revealing his deprivation of sleep. I imagine him stretching his arms over his head as he releases an exaggerated yawn.
“You’re exhausted. Did you get any sleep last night?”
“I never sleep well without you.”
A wide smile pulls my cheeks. “I love you, too.”
“How’s everything going there?”
I lift the nearly empty glass of wine and take a final sip. “It’s good. I’m excited about the game, but I’m looking forward to getting back home.”
“Thank God,” he groans.
“Are you guys ready for tomorrow?” I ask, even though I already know what his response will be.
“I think so. I told the guys I need their best, their absolute best, for sixty minutes.”
“Did Rence have some stupid comment about that?” I ask with a smirk, knowing how arrogant my brother can be at times.
“Actually, no. He just stared straight ahead, then left the locker room.”
“He’s been acting a little strange lately. I feel like he’s avoiding me.”
Julian hums quietly.
“You should get some rest,” I state.
“I miss you,” he mumbles.
“I miss you.” When he doesn’t answer, I frown. “Julian?” Silence. “Julian?” Silence. I smile, then whisper, “Sleep well, my love.”
I end the call and roll onto my side, placing my phone next to me on the bed. The pillow I cling to offers little comfort as sadness grows in my heart. The desire to be with Julian overwhelming me, I have to resist the temptation to pack my bags and catch the next flight home.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Somehow, I manage to appear present and ready to work, despite my mind being back in Houston. The text messages I sent Julian wishing him all the best on his debut game as the NFL’s youngest coach remain unanswered, as I expected. What I wouldn’t give to be there to offer a kiss of encouragement.
“You okay?” Melody asks as I stride toward her with my hair and makeup perfect. “You don’t seem happy to be here today. You’re usually pretty pumped for games.”
“Today’s Julian’s first official game.”
“Ahhh,” she says, nodding with understanding. “And you want to be there.”
I pinch my lips together and nod.
“We don’t start until four. What time is his game?”
“One,” I reply. “I guess I can watch some of it.”
“See! You get the best of both worlds.”
A forced smile appears on my face as I walk to the elevator in search of an empty room with a television. Because it’s still early, most spectators won’t arrive for at least another hour, while those who tailgate won’t file in until a few minutes before kickoff.
Using my smile and the credentials around my neck, I find an unlocked door and enter, walking over to the huge windows that overlook the field and the thousands of seats in the stadium. Using the remote, I click on the television and sit in a plush seat just as the toro comes running through the tunnel, leading as the team makes their grand entrance. Frenzied fans cheer and holler, while fireworks burst in the sky above.
The camera pans over the players standing on the sidelines before zooming in on the head coach. Julian stands there, his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the opposing sidelines. I don’t think anyone else would notice the dark circles beneath his eyes. His clipboard wedged between his ribs and arm, he adjusts his headset. Even with all the games I’ve seen him play, I’ve never witnessed this level of concentration on his face. His focus is strictly on the field in front of him and the men on his team. It appears as if nothing else in the world exists in this moment.
Three players from each team, which includes my brother, jog out to the center of the field for the coin toss. The referee flips the coin, which lands on the green grass. One player looks over at Julian, then back at the ref.
“We’re gonna defer,” our wide receiver states, following Julian’s orders to get the ball at the start of the third quarter. It’s a smart offensive move, and I smile at his decision.
Several people wearing black and white enter the room, apologizing about the interruption, saying they need to set up for the guests who paid to watch the game in luxury.
“Don’t mind me. I’m not staying long.”
My eyes remain glued to the screen as Rence and the rest of the defensive line jog out to the field and take position against the Dolphins’ offensive line. The center snaps the ball, Rence quickly breaking through the line and sacking the opposing quarterback. The announcers praise my brother and agree with Julian’s decision to bring the Pro Bowler to Houston.
My phone signals an incoming text from Billy.
Where’d you go?
Apparently, Melody didn’t relay the message that I’d left to watch the game.
I’m watching the game. Come up. Suite 100. Just smile and flash your credentials. No one will ask a thing.
By the time I finish my text, the punter is on the field. I tap the camera on my phone to snap a picture of the television to send to Julian. I know he won’t see it now, but at least he’ll know I was watching.
“Houston’s defense isn’t the only thing looking good in here.”
My head spins, hair on my neck standing on end. Ed Asher stands there in an expensive three-piece suit. His hungry gaze pins me in place. I swallow nervously when he tilts his head and addresses the workers in the room.
“Excuse me,” he says to the two waitresses setting up the small
bar area. “Could you give us a minute?”
“No, it’s okay. I was just leaving,” I retort, jumping to my feet and looking down at my phone, tapping the video camera icon.
Both women smile tightly and rush out the door. They may not know who Ed Asher is, but they’re perceptive enough to know his presence is powerful.
“I’m not done with you,” he growls when the room is empty. Slowly, he turns to shut the door.
The sound of the television fades away as my heartrate accelerates, blood racing through my veins.
“What do you want, Ed?”
He slithers up to me, dropping his eyes to my chest. “Since you’re in my house, I think you should call me Mr. Asher now.”
I lift my chin defiantly, my tone oozing disgust and disrespect. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re about to be punished.”
His large hand quickly grasps my neck and shoves me down onto the tiled floor. My phone slips out of my hand.
“Remember when we met in Hawaii?” He strokes the top of my head, then grasps my hair, yanking me forward into his erection. “I warned you about what happens to little girls who play big boy games. They often get hurt.”
“Stop!” I struggle against his grip. “Don’t you fucking touch me, you bastard.”
“You owe me,” he demands, pulling my face back so I’m forced to look at him. “It’s time to pay up, sweetheart.”
There’s a knock on the door.
My mouth opens to scream, but his hand covers it, smothering my cries for help.
At the second, then third knock, he scowls, pressing his hand to my face, cutting off my air. I scramble to get him to loosen his grip, which he does, then bends at the waist and brings his face inches from mine.
“You think you’re going to get away from me like you did in the elevator? I should’ve fucked you then, but I realized I don’t want your pussy. You’re a dirty bitch who spreads her legs for every man who ever looked your way. You know what I do to whores like you? I punish them.” He pinches my cheeks, hard, forcing my mouth open.
