Illegal Contact (The Barons)

by Santino Hassell

  Illegal Contact

  Santino Hassell

  INTERMIX

  NEW YORK

  INTERMIX

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Santino Hassell

  Excerpt from Down by Contact copyright © 2017 by Santino Hassell

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780399586293

  First Edition: August 2017

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from DOWN BY CONTACT

  About the Author

  For the scared, the closeted, and the hopeful.

  Chapter One

  Gavin

  “As training season starts for professional football players around the country, the legal troubles for Barons tight end Gavin Brawley are making the headlines once again.”

  I watched the evening news from under my baseball cap and ignored the suited man pacing on the other side of the room.

  “That’s right, Owen,” the female anchor said. They always sounded so earnest even as their eyes danced with glee. Nothing like a celebrity athlete’s downfall to get a journalist’s rocks off. “After almost a year, Brawley was finally sentenced in the wild car chase and assault that was caught on camera after last year’s Super Bowl.”

  The “wild chase” hadn’t been videotaped, but some asshole had captured the ensuing confrontation on their phone’s camera. I’d cringed at the clip in the days and weeks following the incident, but now I watched with detachment. Like it had happened to someone else.

  My chest didn’t tighten anymore as I watched all recorded six-five of me make the terrible decision of jumping out of the gunmetal Maybach after it screeched to a halt. And I no longer felt nauseated as I watched myself yank open the door of the shitty Nissan before pulling the driver out. When I responded to his frenzied attacks by cocking back my fist and swinging it in an arc to his face, I didn’t blink. The only feeling that remained was the sense of relief as I watched myself hold a brawny frat boy up against the side of his car and force him to delete the blackmail-worthy shit he’d bragged about having on his phone.

  “Some people think Brawley received a light sentence,” the anchor went on. “But the Barons are reeling after learning he would not only be suspended for an entire season—he’s also under house arrest for six months in lieu of jail time, and is ordered to wear an ankle monitor for the duration. The star tight end can’t go anywhere but his Westhampton mansion, with approved trips to see his management team—”

  The television went black. It stretched almost the entire length of the wall so, with no other lights on, my entire living room darkened. The only thing illuminating Joe Carmichael—my stressed-out manager—was the setting sun streaming in through the windows.

  “I was watching that.”

  “Why? Watching it won’t change things.” Joe tossed the remote control on one of the couches and strode forward. Even his perfectly tailored suit and perfectly styled hair couldn’t hide his irritation. “We’re already up shit creek, Gav. I could live without hearing the breathless coverage.”

  “Relax.” I sank lower on the couch and tilted my head backwards. “You’re not the one with an ankle bracelet on for the next six months because of a single punch. A punch thrown in self-defense.”

  “You’re right. I’m the one that has to clean up your messes.”

  “No one ever asked you to be my babysitter. The only reason you’re standing here is because—”

  “Your agent told you to hire me after you and Simeon turned a vacation in Ibiza into a brawl with the Predators, which the media blamed solely on you.”

  I ran my tongue over my teeth. “The Predators are douchebags who stay salty because they haven’t won a Super Bowl in like twenty years, and we stay collecting trophies. And they were talking shit.”

  Joe went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “And let’s not forget that the only time you released a statement to the press, it was an open letter telling them to go fuck themselves after they did that story on both you and Simeon having difficult childhoods.”

  “Because that was a trash story,” I snapped. “They just wanted to write about how the Barons handpick starters with rough pasts to exploit our aggression and trauma on the field, acting like our talent needs an explanation. It was garbage and a flat-out lie. Simeon has plenty of fam and his mother is awesome.”

  “That’s not the point. Everyone knows the media twists facts. But when you dragged the article all they did was make it out like you were jealous he received more attention.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t give a damn. I’m sick of them acting like everyone who didn’t come up with a silver spoon in their mouth should have their lives exposed so people can rationalize why poor kids go pro, when their spoiled brats can’t even make it to a D-1 school. Simeon knew where I was coming from, and that’s all that matters.”

  The statement earned me a scathing stare.

  “Is there going to come a point when you stop getting yourself into trouble because of Simeon Boudreaux?” Joe jabbed a finger at the television. “Because this mess? This takes the cake. Simeon being blackmailed by that frat boy was his own fault. If he’s going to sic you on every meathead who secretly tapes him sucking their dic—”

  “He didn’t sic me on anyone. So stop there or we’re gonna have a problem.”

  Joe’s nostrils flared as I coolly stared up at him. If he hadn’t learned by now that trash-talking the Barons’ quarterback, and my best friend, was trouble—I had no problems dropping him. Despite being a little bit of a sleazy douchebag, Joe was mostly an okay guy who wanted the best for me, but he tended to overstep. And he was doing that right now.

  Luckily, Joe backed off and went back to ranting about the news story.

  “And I love how they conveniently forget that you won the Super Bowl for New York last year.”

  “There ain’t no ‘you’ in team.”

  “They smear your name all over the news, but a year ago, you were a hero.”

  That was bullshit. A year ago, everyone had still hated me. Just slightly less since I’d scored three touchdowns in a game everyone had betted on us losing.

  The media, and the fans, ha
d given me credit for my part in the win, but they’d done it with commentary and hashtags about Brawley making up for his usual douchebaggery only due to his obsessive dedication to training and lack of a personal life. It had been grudging respect. Nothing more. And it would never be anything more. I wasn’t charming or endearing like other pro football players who earned millions in endorsements.

  I was the one who walked off the field after a win with no dog-and-pony celebration dances or rituals. The guy who’d been known to have a temper since being scouted back in high school. My first year playing college ball, I’d received more flags than all other players combined during the entire season. And at my first major press conference for the NFL, I’d flipped off a room full of reporters after they’d unfavorably compared Marcus Hendricks, a running back and another of my few friends, to a rookie on another team.

  People who didn’t know me talked a lot of shit, but my friends knew me for my loyalty, and that was what mattered. Well, to everyone but Joe.

  “Yeah, I helped win, but everyone still called me an asshole and a bully, and focused more on where I grew up instead of what I did in the game. I could score a hundred touchdowns, and someone would still bring up my hardscrabble past.” I hated that fucking phrase, but reporters loved using it. “They’d still focus on how it’s responsible for my bad sportsmanship.”

  “Because they paint you as an unprofessional jackass, and you live up to it every time.”

  Joe started pacing again. He was upset enough for me to consider comforting him, but worrying about a suit was pretty low on my list of shit to give two fucks about. I was the one being banned from the field. I couldn’t even go to the games to cheer for my boys. I couldn’t leave this ridiculous mansion unless I was going to Joe’s office in Manhattan. If I was granted permission. If.

  Even so, I knew it was better than being thrown in a cell for reckless driving and aggravated assault. Although if they thought that was me being aggravated, there was clearly a thing or two they didn’t know about Gavin Brawley. If that guy had never put his hands on me, I’d never have been triggered into smashing his face with a single punch. My only goal in following him had been to destroy the video of him and Simeon and, thanks to the wonders of Cloud technology, I wasn’t even sure it was really gone.

  “Look, can we change the subject? I don’t pay you to nag me, Joe.”

  “Right. You pay me to do the impossible. Make your life easy and keep your image clean.”

  The word lit my fuse almost as fast as the news that some guy had been trying to blackmail Simeon not even ten minutes after scoring with him in the bathroom. I shot to my feet and towered a good eight inches over Joe. He took a step back.

  “Fuck my image,” I sneered. “When I was bouncing between group homes, it was football that kept me sane. Not being clean. It was football that kept me from killing one of the asshole foster parents who thought taking me in meant they had an in-house servant and whipping boy. So don’t come to me preaching about the fake-ass persona you want me to have. It’s never gonna happen. All I care about is playing ball.”

  Between my quickening breath and racing heartbeat, I was sure I was red-faced and wearing the infamous Brawley glare. I took a deep breath, then another, and squeezed my hands into fists. I hated how easy it was for people to set me off. Especially once someone identified my triggers and then spent their time poking and prodding until I flew off the handle.

  Luckily, Joe wasn’t like that. He didn’t get it, but at least he pretended to.

  “Fine. Subject change. If you won’t hire some help, your living situation is going to be worse.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “This place is a mess.” Joe trailed after me as I strode to the kitchen. “How will you do your shopping?”

  “Delivery works.”

  “Not for everything. You’re not in Manhattan where things can be delivered in a couple of hours, Gavin. There’s barely anything out here but you, the Atlantic Ocean, empty summer houses, and serial killers. You’re going to have to stay on top of everything yourself. I won’t be available every minute of the day.” Joe paused by the counter and watched as I yanked a beer from the fridge. A state-of-the-art kitchen, and all it was used for was to store premade meals and booze. “Unless you’re planning to get back together with Celeste Wakefield . . .”

  “I’d rather spend six months in jail.”

  “What about the one girl you were screwing for a couple of months?”

  “She made tracks when she got tired of my lack of conversation skills. Besides, she wasn’t in it to be my girlfriend. It was fun.” I used the edge of the counter to pop the top off the beer. It went flying across the kitchen and landed somewhere on the floor. “I’m not gonna get with a girl just to ask her to run my errands. I’m not the douchebag TMZ would have you think I am, Joe.”

  Joe pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. If you can’t think of anything, I’ll continue with the hiring process for the PA. The guy I interviewed has worked for several celebrities.”

  Everything after “the guy I interviewed” blanked out. My fingers tightened around the bottle. “Say what?”

  “I hired a personal assistant. Someone to—”

  “No.”

  “—keep your affairs in order. All of the scheduling you’re going to need—”

  “I said no!” My voice tore out of me and echoed off the vaulted ceilings and walls of glass. I tried to take another breath, but the vise closing in on me made it impossible to find a calm center. Those tricks didn’t work when someone was making decisions about my life without consulting me. I’d gone through that as a kid. Going pro should have given me complete control, but instead I was constantly being steered in one direction or another. Being told what was right or wrong, what I should or shouldn’t say, how to conduct myself or react when someone was trying their best to corner me. “You don’t make decisions like that for me. Not now. Not ever.”

  “Don’t be irrational.”

  “You haven’t seen me be irrational yet, but I can show that side of myself real fast if you don’t undo whatever you did.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  I slowly exhaled through my nose and tried to find logical words floating in the red haze descending from the peak of my temper. “Joe. This shit started because of me confronting the dude who threatened to out Simeon. You think I’m stupid enough to trust someone in my house? If you think my image is shitty now, just wait until a housekeeper or a PA finds out I like fucking guys. Gavin Brawley, the Barons’ alpha asshole, being bisexual will be a lot more sensational than golden boy Simeon experimenting at the club while wasted.”

  Joe cringed. He went through life pretending I only chased female tail when off the field. It was less stressful when it came to sorting out the potential homophobic backlash if word got out that I was bi. I tried to choose my male hookups carefully, and never a random stranger. Even on the days when I craved a man’s hard body and low, deep voice more than anything else, I sometimes told myself it was more trouble than it was worth. And Simeon’s latest disaster only cemented that thought in my mind, so having a stranger in my house . . .

  “The man I hired has worked for movie stars, Gavin. He understands discretion.”

  “I don’t give a shit if he understands quantum physics. He’s more likely to land on the moon than set foot in this ridiculous mansion.”

  Joe sighed like he was dealing with an unruly child. I slammed the bottle against the counter so hard that it splintered in my hand.

  “Damn it, Gavin!” Joe grabbed a towel from the counter and threw it at me. “Now you’re bleeding.”

  I barely noticed the pain. It was always like that when adrenaline soared through me like a shot of liquid fire. In those moments, I felt either anger or a drive to go. Go faster and evade whoever was coming for me, or hit harder if there was no escape.

  It was okay on the field, but there was no more field. No turf. No comforting weig
ht of pads against my body. No huddle of men who trusted me to catch the ball and barrel through anyone stupid enough to get between me and the end zone. Nothing but an enormous mansion I didn’t take care of.

  “Shit.” I stared at my bloody hand. “Sorry.”

  “Jesus, Gavin.” Joe walked around the counter and forced me to take the towel. “You and your goddamn temper cause so much shit.”

  “Thanks, Joe. I’m aware.” Pressing the towel to my hand caused it to hurt more. There were probably tiny shards of glass stuck in the cut, but I didn’t want to deal with it in front of him.

  “Gavin,” Joe said patiently. “Please listen to me. You’re not a normal guy who got in trouble and now has to work from home. You’re Gavin Brawley, and you cope with stress about as well as I cope with my alimony payments. It’s day one and you’ve already maimed yourself. Do you even have a first-aid kit?”

  I gritted my teeth. He had a point. If he hadn’t been here, I wouldn’t even be able to go to the pharmacy. I’d have to find someone to drive all the way out to Dune Road to deliver me a Band-Aid.

  “I’m barely here.”

  “Exactly! This place is gorgeous but barely livable for the long term. Look—tell you what.” Patronizing patience oozed out of Joe’s pores. “We’ll do a new round of interviews together. Okay?”

  I gritted my teeth again and thought of all the awful things that could happen with a random person wandering my home, and weighed it against my inability to leave the property for any reason without court approval.

  “Fine,” I ground out. “But final choice is up to me.”

  Joe smiled. It was so condescending that I had trouble not wringing his scrawny neck. I focused on the pain instead.

  I was a multimillionaire and a famous athlete, and yet people still treated me like a dirt-poor street kid from Newark. Some things never changed.

  ***

  Noah

  It was the sleekest and shiniest elevator I’d ever been in. Like a silver pod that would shoot me up into outer space if I pressed the right button. Or deliver me to the office of a celebrity manager who would take one look at me and wonder why the hell I’d bothered to show up for this interview.