Our conversation comes to an abrupt halt when Jake strolls into our quiet spot. “Manny. Copperpot. Why are you two hiding back here?” He glances between us, noting the distance. “I’d approve if someone had a hand in someone else’s clothes, but no way am I letting you guys get away with trying to escape the stuffed shirts.”
“Did you just call me Copperpot?”
Jake is all innocence. “What? Me? No. Who?” He hooks my arm over his elbow. “Now, come with me. The guys want an official ruling on whose dick is the biggest.”
I laugh, as Finn pushes himself off from the wall and glares. “I will kick your ass, Ryder.”
“You’ll have to catch me first, and we both know I’m way faster.”
Jake leads me way, with Finn following. And I don’t protest. It’s a relief walking into the crowded, noisy party where I don’t have to think.
Just be. Just be. I can do that. I have to.
* * *
Finn
* * *
“I don’t know about you guys, but I look fucking sharp in this suit.” Woodson runs a hand down the front of his tux. “I’m getting laid tonight.”
You have to love Woodson’s cornfed, Iowa boy brand of optimism and child-like honesty. I laugh as he waggles his brows with hopeful glee.
“You’re married, aren’t you?” North asks him with a look that clearly states he’s skeptical of Woodson getting any play.
“Cynicism is a bitter taste that rests on the tongue and destroys the appetite,” Woodson intones.
North snorts. “You read that in a fortune cookie.”
“Did not.” Woodson grins. “I saw it on the side of a bus.”
“No way.”
“Believe what you will, bitter boy. I, on the other hand, am going to hunt down my wife. Convince her to get an early start.”
North and I groan, and I wave Woodson off. “Those who talk too much do too little.”
“Let me guess,” Woodson says. “Fortune cookie?”
“No, a simple Finn Mannus truth.”
Woodson scoffs and then goes in search of his woman. He trudges over the grass toward the house, leaving Woodson and I sitting on a low stone wall that edges the pool area. Up in the distance, I catch a glimpse of Chess’s dress. She’s talking to Meghan, our PR director.
“Ten bucks says she’ll have a headache,” North says.
I flinch, thinking he’s talking about Chess, but then I realize he means Woodson’s wife. “You really are a cynic.”
“I prefer realist.” North turns my way. “So how about you, Manny? You ready to buckle down and finish out this season with some wins?”
It’s my turn to snort. “Is this some sort of pep talk?”
“Yeah, I guess it is.” North rests an elbow on his knees and gives me a look. For a bizarre second I have the image of The Thinker coming to life to get me a lecture. Weirdly, that image doesn’t die when North speaks again. “We win these last two games and we’re in the playoffs.”
“I know this well.” I dream about it. Have nightmares about it. Who the fuck on our team doesn’t know this?
“You seem distracted, is all.”
I stare at North. And he stares back.
“I heard you talking to your girl earlier.”
I rub a hand over my face. “Fucking hell.”
He merely shrugs. “Don’t talk in public places if you don’t want to be overheard.”
I’m thinking about who else could have heard. The prospects aren’t pleasant. “You’re a nosy fucker, you know that?”
“I like you, kid.”
“Kid? You’re only five years older than me.”
His smile is thin. “It’s not the years. It’s the mileage.”
“Jesus, don’t quote Indiana Jones. I beg you.”
North laughs. And for one shining moment, I think I’m clear. But he quickly sobers. “Look, these are the years that define your career.”
“Oh, hell…”
“If you don’t make your mark now, give it your all, then you’re done. The next college hot shot is just around the corner, waiting to take your place.” North points a long, bony finger at me. “Don’t fuck this chance up by dividing your attention between football and a woman. Love is great, and you think it means forever, but it’s not worth risking everything you’ve worked for.”
“I’m not trying to fuck it up. I’m trying to have it all.”
“Impossible. Something has to give. You want a woman? Find one who wants to be a player’s wife. The kind of girl who’s will give you babies, put you first, and never complain when you’re gone. The kind who will be there when you come home. Otherwise, it’s going to fuck with your head. Put that shit aside and focus on your career for now. Once you’re established and a few rings on your fingers then worry about women.”
I glance at the gaudy as fuck Super Bowl ring on North’s hand. He doesn’t usually wear it, but I’m guessing it’s a go-to accessory for galas, a nice piece of bragging rights. It’s a weird bit of irony that football players dream of wearing a ring better suited to sit on some Vegas pimp’s finger. But we do. We all want those ugly ass rings.
North stands and looks down at me. “Tell me this, what occupies your thoughts more? Football or the girl?”
My jaw ticks.
“Here’s a hint.” North leans in. “The answer should be football.”
A true football player lives, breathes, and dreams of the game. I’ve had that pounded into me since I put on my first Pee Wee helmet. Anything less that total devotion to the sport and you’re an amateur.
North’s voice cuts through the thick haze that’s settled over me. “Besides, you do well. I do well. And I want to kick ass this year.”
I cut him a look. “I’m glad we had this talk. We should do it again sometimes.”
Ignoring my sarcasm, he gives my shoulder a slap and walks off toward the house.
I should get up too, go inside, find Chess and mingle. But I don’t move. Everything feels sluggish and heavy. I’m also thirsty as hell, my throat dry and tight. “Fucking North.”
“I think he was trying to be your friend.”
Chess’s voice startles me, and I lurch to my feet just as she walks out of the shadows.
“Hey.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “You heard all that?”
Her lip quirks, as she hands me a cold bottle of beer. “Enough. What was it North said? Don’t talk in public if you don’t want to be heard.”
So she heard it all. I take a long pull on my beer and try to run through all of North’s lecture. None of it is puts Chess in a good light. “North is coming off a bad marriage.”
Chess stands beside me. “I heard. Megan says he got married too young. Before he could know his own mind.”
“Jesus, gossip is rampant in this organization. With everyone doling out advice like they’re Dear Abby.”
Amusement lights her eyes. “It’s a wonder you’ve survived.”
I snort and take another drink. Something uncomfortable and off buzzes between us. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it. Knowing she’ll follow, I start to walk toward the pool house. It’s dark and abandoned right now. That doesn’t stop me from trying the door.
Thankfully it’s unlocked, and I walk in. Chess is a step behind me, a small wrinkle forming between her straight brows. “We’re not having sex in here,” she says. “That would be cliché.”
“I’d like to say I have better game than that. But we both know I’d be up for sex anywhere you wanted it.”
My joke falls flat, as Chess strolls around the darkened room. There’s just enough light to see her shadowy form and the glint in her eyes as she turns back toward me. “Then why are we here?”
“Something’s going on with us,” I blurt out. “Everything feels off since we got here.”
Chess walks back toward me, until she’s illuminated by the outdoor sconces that flank the pool house doors. “I feel it too.”
“Then
talk to me.”
Chess lets out a tired sigh. “I don’t know where to start.”
My heart thumps in my throat, but I’m not backing down now. “At the beginning.”
Slowly, she shakes her head as if trying to clear it. “Finn, you’re my best friend but—”
“No, I’m not,” I cut in.
Chess gapes at me. “You’re not,” she repeats, pissed.
I want to kiss her. I refrain. Barely. “I have a best friend. It’s Jake.”
Her delicate nostrils flair. “Fine. Then James is mine.”
“I know this.” I take a step closer.
“Well, I’m glad we got that cleared up.” She sneers. “Asshole.”
I grin, which really pisses her off. I ignore that too and take another step. “I know Jake is my best friend because I don’t want to fuck him.”
“Lucky for Jake,” she mutters, glaring up at me.
“I don’t miss him the second he’s out of my sight,” I add.
Her eyes narrow, her gaze darting over my face in growing confusion.
I’m so close now, the tips of her breasts brush my chest when we both take a breath. “I don’t need to hold him, need to see him just to know that he’s okay, that he’s comfortable and happy before I can relax.”
The anger in her eyes mutes to something softer.
I touch the curve of her jaw, my thumb brushing her lower lip. “We are not best friends, Chess. We are more. You are my everything. The reason I get up each day.”
She melts toward me. “Finn…”
My hand slides to the nape of her neck, and I hold her steady. “So don’t come at me with this, ‘we’re best friends’ bullshit when you want to use it to drive me away.”
She freezes, her chin firming in stubborn resistance. Did she think I was blind?
“You are not doing whatever this is under the guise of friendship.”
Her head jerks back, trying to get free. I don’t let her. My hold is gentle but firm.
Her glare is fierce. “Let me go, Finn.”
I can’t. It’ll break my heart.
“Talk to me,” I rasp.
Her cold hand wraps around my wrist. “I heard everything he said.”
Guilt has me flinching. “Look, North is…”
“He’s right.” Her voice is soft but emphatic. And it is a kick to the gut.
“He believes he’s right.”
Chess frowns. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard James bitch that one of his favorite athletes is starting to suck because he’s lost his focus in a relationship?”
“Are you saying I suck now?” My head pounds, a dull thudding at my temples.
“I’m saying that, aside from that kind of gross and misogynistic bit about players’ wives in the middle, North was making a lot of sense. And you know it.”
The pounding in my head gets worse. Something bitter burns its way up my throat. “I can’t fight you too, Chess. I need you on my side here.”
“I am on your side.” She moves to touch my cheek but stops short. “I just think that if we take a step back—”
“Fucking hell. Just stop with your damn logic and listen to me!” I throw the bottle against the wall and it shatters. Chess flinches as I round on her. “I’m hanging on by a thread. A fucking thread. And you’re either trying to end us with talk of babies that we may or may not want, or you’re being some sort of goddamn sacrificial lamb on the altar of football! Do you want me to choose football over you? Is that it?”
She blinks back at me with glossy eyes. “No. You shouldn’t have to choose.”
“Then don’t make it a choice.”
“Do you think it was easy to hear all that?” she snaps. “While knowing that, by having me in your life, I make it that much harder for you to succeed?”
“Your faith in my ability is heartening, Chess. Truly fucking inspiring.”
“Goddamnit, Finn, this isn’t about my faith in you, it’s my lack of faith in me. I am a bad bet!”
“And yet I’d put all my money on you,” I shout. “I’d do it in a second. But you won’t do the same for me.”
She flinches but that stubborn chin of hers remains firm. Like she’s already committed to her plan. “Finn—”
“No.” I back away, holding up my hands to ward her off. “You know what? I want you to go. Take that job in New York, stay there and find yourself. Because North is right. It’s too hard as it is. Going into this with doubts will just set us up to fail.”
She just stares at me as if she’s been frozen, and I wait for the denial, for her to tell me I’m wrong. Slowly, she starts to breath, her chest lifting and falling with the effort. Her rage gathers, and it is a beautiful thing to watch. Her glare is like justice and judgment all rolled into one, and it is directed at me.
“All right, I’ll go. But let me tell you this.” Her voice rises, growing harder. “My parents always followed their hearts. They never stopped to think or work out the consequences of their actions. Not once. It was always instinct and emotion over logic and planning. Well, guess what? I got left behind.” Her small fist punches her chest with a hollow sound. “I suffered. Not once did they consider the effects their actions would have on me.”
She blinks rapidly and her voice changes again, cracking. “I’m sorry if I worry. If I weigh pros and cons and ignore my heart sometimes. But I can’t be like them. I can’t be like you. I won’t. When I chose forever, I want it to be forever. I need that.”
I’ve made a grave mistake. I’ve pushed her too far when I should have yielded. “Chess…”
“No.” Her hand slashes through the air. “We’ve said enough. My head hurts and don’t want to fight.”
“I don’t want to fight either,” I whisper. Her head hurts, after all. “It’s bullshit, all this worrying.”
She visibly flinches. “I’ve lost everything that is safe and familiar to me. My home, my place of work, my best friend. And I’ve replaced it with you. You ask me to have faith in us while you protect yourself. All I want is one simple thing.”
The stale air of the room presses in on me. “You want me to predict the distant future. I can’t do that. I can barely focus on tomorrow.” What if North and Chess are right? What if I can’t divide my attentions and succeed?
It’s a testament to how well she knows me because it’s clear she sees my fear. “You can’t give it to me because you’re thinking now about what he said, aren’t you? And the answer isn’t what either of us wants to hear.”
My heart pounds to hard now, my whole body throbs with the rapid beat. Sweat breaks out on my skin. “I’m sorry, Chess. Just…” I swallow past the panic. “Give me a little time…”
Her gown rustles as she moves past me, not looking me in the eye. “I’m going to New York.” She pauses at the threshold of the doorway. “And while I think about taking a leap of faith and following my heart, maybe you think about how you’re going to make your life work. With or without me.”
I let her go on ahead to give her some space. It’s a mistake. By the time I return to the party, she’s left it when Meghan. And by the time I get back home, she’s gone.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chess
* * *
I left Finn and New Orleans like a thief on the run. I’m not proud of it. I should have said goodbye. But panic took hold of me, and I needed to see a familiar face that wasn’t Finn’s. I went to New York, my hometown, and to James, my oldest friend, thinking that maybe distance would make it easier to breathe again, and figure out what the hell just happened.
Finn doesn’t call or come storming after me, demanding we talk things out.
Did I expect him to? I can’t say. It’s horrible to admit that I’d wanted him to maybe show even a little bit of resistance. But he let me go.
A week out, I get a text from Charlie, asking for my address. Since I’m not trying to hide, I give it to him. Charlie sends me the bulk of my clothes.
I cry myself to
sleep that night.
Weeks pass. I throw myself into work. And I guess Finn does too. He wins one game and then the next. I cry again when I watch him celebrate on the field with his teammates, the sight of his smiling, victorious face too much to bear. But I’m not a masochist, and when they go to interview him, I turn the TV off.
Two days after they officially announce Finn and his team are in the playoffs, a New Orleans gossip e-mag I subscribe to shows a picture of Britt and Finn walking into a restaurant, Finn’s hand protectively on her arm as they shy away from the camera. Another grainy image of them siting at a table for two follows.
I cry myself to sleep for a second time.
Do I think he’s with Britt now? My heart says no. My brain keeps flashing to the image of them together, and I am sick with bitter jealousy. Part of me thinks I deserve this. It’s my own fucking fault for leaving. Another, far more angry part of me says, fuck that noise.
Ironically, every other aspect of my life is fantastic. Michael’s SoHo loft is so prefect it makes my bones hurt with envy. I remember that he’s from New York real estate royalty and probably doesn’t have to work a day of his life if he chose not to. And I’m grateful all over again that he offered me this opportunity.
The project is a dream come true. Every day, I look forward to working. I meet established Oscar winning actors who flirt shamelessly, and young Hollywood A-listers who act like overgrown boys, which, unfortunately reminds me of Finn and his guys.
I keep waiting for someone to throw attitude or be a dick, but it doesn’t happen. It’s as if the stars have aligned and fate is telling me this is exactly where I need to be.
I hate fate.
I’m sitting in the sun-drenched living room of Michael’s loft, curled up on his oversized Italian leather couch, and eating a New York bagel with apple cinnamon cream cheese, when Finn calls.
I should have known he’d hunt me down when I was the most content I’d been since leaving him. Face prickling with heat and heart pounding hard, I stare at the phone, his name lit up on the screen, as if it might up and bite me.
The Hot Shot Page 29
