Big Bad Baller: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by Tia Siren

  “Holy shit,” I whistled. “Some party.”

  I hiked down my dress, making sure my Spanx weren’t showing and entered.

  When Jesse had said “party,” I had initially expected what a small-town, too-busy-for-parties girl like me thought when they heard the word. Fifteen or fewer people crammed in someone’s basement, drinking sickly-sweet jungle juice and praying that whoever’s parents the house belonged to suddenly didn’t decide to turn around from their week-long vacation in Florida and show up just as someone was struggling to light a joint.

  But this…well, this was a party.

  There were at least a hundred very glamourous people. Most of the girls wore skin-tight sequined tube dresses that showed off their long, gazelle-like legs, while the men showed off their machoness—and egos—in leather sports jackets as they threw around footballs and flirted with the girls. The music was generic, electronic, and throbbed out of a speaker system so massive and expensive that I was horrified to see people putting their drinks on it as if it were a table. Still, if one was throwing this kind of party, I supposed that was to be expected.

  Feeling completely out of place, I gulped at the crazy grandeur. It took all my willpower not to turn right there and stride out the door, but I reminded myself that this was a date with Jesse Valen and stepped inside.

  In the kitchen, I spotted an array of half-empty liquor bottles and sticky soda cans surrounding a tower of cups. After watching several partiers’ approach, pick a bottle at random, and pour themselves a drink, I figured this was communal property and decided to help myself. Feeling slightly ashamed, I took out my five-dollar bottle of wine and added it to the ranks of party offerings before making myself a potent mix of Jim Beam and soda. I felt a little weird about drinking people’s pricey booze, but seeing as there was a least a 750-dollar bottle of liquor already spilled on the sodden floor, I figured they wouldn’t miss it.

  I sipped, relishing the bravery and warmth it afforded me, and then set off to look through the rest of the party. For a moment, I considered just calling Jesse’s phone, but I dreaded the idea of shouting hoarsely to each other, trying to make ourselves heard over the music and ruckus of excited party guests. I also didn’t want to seem…eager, I supposed. Or dependent on him. I wanted to appear as if I was entirely capable of having a good time on my own in such a situation.

  Therefore, I meandered and tried to not look too out of place by examining the pictures on the walls and noting how well the décor—or, in this case, the lack of décor—was perfect for partying.

  Then, at last, I saw him.

  Three seconds later, I realized that the reason it had taken me so long to spot Jesse was that he was sucking face with some dumb blonde bimbo. For a moment, I wished I hadn’t seen him at all. I also scolded myself for being so judgmental towards the girl’s appearance—she could certainly be an absolutely intelligent blonde bimbo—but I was so overcome with horror I just couldn’t help myself. I thought we had formed a connection at the bar, that maybe, finally, after all these years, he was genuinely interested in me.

  Apparently not, I thought as I turned to walk away. However, at that very moment, Jesse freed himself from the girl’s French assault—with the sound of a plunger being yanked from a toilet—and drunkenly weaved his way toward me.

  “Mary!” he cried, as if we were the best of friends—or worse, siblings—and clapped me into a rather sweaty, one-armed hug. “Mary! How are you? This is…this is…”

  He looked around for the blonde, but she had already disappeared—either to get herself another drink or to examine somebody else’s tonsils, I assumed. Giving up, Jesse shrugged. “Oh, whatever. I don’t remember her name anyway. So, how are you?”

  “Quite well,” I snapped, my tone indicating, with stark obviousness, that I was not.

  I supposed he must have been too drunk to pick up on it, because he answered, “That’s great. Greeaat! Here, I want you to meet the host of the party. Jason? JASON!”

  Another young man, who was decently handsome but not nearly as good looking as Jesse, ambled over. At his approach, Jesse hollered the man’s name once more and curled his arm around his friend’s shoulders.

  “This is my friend, Mary,” he slurred. “She’s Bill’s sister, remember? Kinda dorky in high school, but now—”

  Outrage at his stupid behavior filled my veins, and I shoved my drink into his hand. “Good night, Jesse.”

  My words still hung in the air as I charged away from the room.

  “Hey, wait!” he called, but I ignored him. I was doing my best to hide my utter humiliation behind a shield of anger and outrage, and it was working.

  I think.

  “Wait! Mary, wait!” Jesse cried as be burst out of the house after me. If I had a car, I could have easily gotten in and driven away while offering a select finger his way, but I didn’t have one. I had walked, in high heels, which made it incredibly easy for a goddamn professional athlete to catch up.

  Why, why, whyyyyy did I wear heels?

  “Mary!” he panted, at my side now. Somehow, he seemed a little less wasted. “Look, I’m really, really sorry. That was a horrible thing to say—”

  I whirled on him. “And what about Ms. I-forgot-her-name? Was she horrible?”

  He recoiled as if struck, opened his mouth, but did not respond.

  “Here I was thinking we were out on a date—that you had asked me on a date—and when I show up, I find you making out with her? What the fucking hell?”

  I was angry—so freaking angry. I knew we weren’t dating, exclusive, or anything else that would make Jesse feel any loyalty to me. I also knew he had probably kissed a thousand girls, and would probably kiss a thousand more before his football career ended, but it still stung.

  “Mary.” He sighed, his voice so sad that it arrested me a moment. “I’m sorry. I do want to have a date with you. It’s just hard sometimes. You have no idea. All these girls chasing me, saying nice things…it’s hard to resist. Especially when everything else in my life is so shitty…”

  My restraint or whatever was left of it at that point, exploded. “Your life is shitty? Your life is shitty? You’re an NFL superstar. You make millions of dollars a year. Men and women worship you. It’s the life my brother always wanted!”

  “Yes,” he interrupted tragically. “It is the life your brother deserved too, but he did not get it. All my success—sometimes it is just as painful to me as his failures.”

  I wilted. My anger vanished, like a pot of boiling water once the flame had gone out. I blinked at his sadness, his grief, his despair.

  “You’re not happy with the way things turned out?” I asked astounded.

  “No, Mary,” he said. “I am not happy. Every moment, of every day, of every year of my life, I live in regret. All I can think about is what would have happened if that night had gone differently.”

  He stood there, his massive shoulders sagging, his great strength and athleticism bowed by the burden he carried.

  “I had no idea,” I said and meant it.

  “But,” he replied hesitantly, his hand creeping into my own, “When I’m with you, I feel better. Like maybe, one day, everything will be okay.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I just gazed at him in awe that such a giant could be interested in someone as meek and unimportant as me. I smiled a shy smile at him and he smiled a glorious one back.

  “Mary Taft,” he said after a moment, “will you consent to be my date—my only date—tonight?”

  He looked at me with his big puppy dog eyes that were filled with equal parts of mirth and suffering, and I could not resist.

  “Damn you, Jesse Valen,” I cried, slapping him good-naturedly on the shoulder. “You know how charming you are, don’t you?”

  He chuckled. “That I do. And it’s gotten me out of stickier situations than this, let me tell you. Want to go back inside?”

  Nodding my head, I allowed him to take my arm and guide me back into the
crowded apartment.

  Chapter 4

  The rest of the party passed in a whirlwind of smiles and clanking drinks. The first thing Jesse did upon reentering was replace my discarded drink. This time he fetched me an expensive but delicious favorite: a Washington Apple. Afterward, he kept his arm around me and started introducing me to his friends as “his dear friend Mary.” It was a title I liked, and for much of it, I felt like I was on display.

  In all honesty, I thoroughly enjoyed every moment of it. As Jesse’s companion, I caught a little bit of his glory and glow, and for a moment, it was like I was famous and universally loved as well.

  Soon we found ourselves outside. Many of Jesse’s friends were smoking, but he did not partake—he had the NFL to worry about, after all. Instead, he entertained the group with crazy football stories. Some were heroic and featured glorious touchdowns or great catches, while others were downright silly.

  One I particularly enjoyed—at least, from what I could piece together in my drunken state—was about the team’s bus breaking down in the middle of Arkansas. According to the story, they were forced to stay at a bed and breakfast that had an overload of flowery bits, uncomfortably soft mattresses that were shared between teammates, and the most delicious sausages and pancakes Jesse had ever had. I liked the story because it seemed sweet, less show-offy than the rest.

  Eager to prove that as least some of me could hold my own at a party like this, I stole a cigarette from some guy’s mouth, inhaled deeply, and released a series of beautifully formed, concentric smoke rings that flew through each other. It was yet another skill I’d earned working as a waitress—busboys were surprisingly crafty with their smokes during the long, boring shifts.

  The crowd oohed and aahed in appreciation, and Jesse turned to me with an impressed grin and said, “I wonder what else you can do with your mouth.”

  Feeling bold, I leaned so close to him that my lips grazed his cheek when I whispered, “Wouldn’t you like to find out?”

  My boldness made me wonder who this sexily clad girl whispering scandalous implications into a professional football player’s ear was. Whoever she was, I decided I really liked her.

  Jesse grabbed me, pulled me close, and kissed me hard. The feel of his lips on mine was everything I had ever imagined it would be. His mouth was warm, firm, demanding and perfect.

  The crowd catcalled and giggled, then eventually dispersed, leaving us alone to our privacy under the eaves of the house. Once we parted, we sat close enough that our shoulders touched, and looked up at the sky.

  “This is really nice,” I said, pretty drunk and proud of myself.

  “Yes, it is,” he replied. “I wish it could be this way all the time. It’s great playing and all, but I feel like I don’t really have a home base, you know? Like I don’t belong anywhere.”

  I giggled. “Home base. Don’t you mean end zone?”

  “Ah, whatever, Taft,” he murmured and rested his head on my shoulder. Overhead, the stars twinkled over the lights of the town.

  “You know what would make this moment perfect?” he asked after several moments of sweet silence. “If your brother were here.”

  I scowled. In my mind, that was precisely the thing that would ruin this moment.

  “I don’t mean here, specifically,” he said, seeing the look on my face. “I mean, wouldn’t it be nice if he were okay with us being together, and like…having a relationship?”

  Earlier that night, I would have protested vehemently. I would have claimed that my brother would never be okay with the two of us being together, that he would never enjoy Jesse’s presence. But now, after several strong drinks, I was feeling optimistic.

  “You know what, Jesse?” I bubbled drunkenly. “Maybe, if we just go talk to him, he’ll get over it and be okay.”

  Jesse gazed at me in happiness. It was a look that made me feel both drunker and sober at the same time.

  “You think so?” he asked hopeful. “Oh, that would be amazing. Do you think he’s still awake?”

  I glanced at my watch and saw it was three in the morning. “Most definitely,” I deadpanned.

  “Great!” Jesse exclaimed and leaped from the curb on which we sat. I followed suit, though a bit more unsteadily. As much as I had started to enjoy looking fabulous, I continued to regret my shoes.

  “Where do you live?” he asked, like a dog excited to go to a park.

  I shrugged and pointed vaguely down the street.

  “Awesome!” he cried and bolted toward my place.

  Jesse was about half a block away when he realized how far behind I was. He stopped, turned, and galloped back to me.

  “This will be a lot quicker,” he declared as he seized me around the waist and tossed me upon his back. I winced as I felt my dress ride up, but at this point in the night, I was almost too drunk to care.

  “Giddy up!” I cried and poked the ends of my stilettos into his thighs as if they were spurs. He laughed, whinnying and snorting as if he were a real horse before taking off into the night.

  I giggled the entire way. Part of me decided I was way too drunk for this sort of movement, while the rest of me relished in his strength and manliness. As previously mentioned, I was generally regarded as a big girl. In all the sports I had played in high school, I always was the strong, sturdy type. The center. The goalie. The shot putter. And yet Jesse threw me around as if I weighed no more than the skimpy little dress I was wearing. For me, it was a rare and exquisite feeling.

  At last, we made it to my apartment.

  For a moment, I was ashamed of its dingy appearance. The clusters of weeds growing around the mailbox, the overflowing recycle bin, the cracked paint were all very embarrassing, but Jesse’s face showed no disgust. Instead, he gazed at it with supreme contentment, as if there was nowhere else in the world he would rather be.

  Jostled not only by my drinking but by my recent horse-riding activities as well, it took me about three tries to fish the keys out of my clutch and stick them in the door. A giggle and a kiss later, I was inside the apartment. However, just as I was about to hustle Jesse inside, it occurred to me that Bill might not want to be surprised. Just as I had not liked being startled in my T-shirt and messy bun at the grocery store, I was sure Bill would like an opportunity to put on something more decent than his boxers before his old frienemy ventured inside.

  I asked Jesse to wait outside and stumbled into the kitchen. “Biillllllll? Helllooooo?”

  In retrospect, I realized that this sort of greeting wasn’t the best way to ingratiate myself with my brother. However, it did get him to his feet, which was a good thing.

  He shuffled out from the living room, holding an open box of cereal in his hands. “Hey, Mary,” he said and sniffed the air. “Whoa. What the heck have you been drinking?”

  I tittered, leaning far too much on the kitchen table. “Oh, I don’t know…whiskey, gin, rum…some Washington Apples. You know, the usual.”

  I laughed at my own joke. It was, in fact, quite unusual for me to come home in this state.

  An awkward smile found its way across Bill’s face. “Oh, yeah? I’m glad you’ve enjoyed yourself. You don’t get nearly as much fun as you deserve.”

  His reaction caught me by surprise, and I blinked at him a few times. Once the shock wore off, my optimism grew, continuing to buoy me. Remembering our previous fight, when he had been upset that I made “too big a deal” of things, I used a neutral tone when I thanked him for the comment and received a smile in return.

  For a moment, he looked like the brother I used to know. Then, without quite meeting my eye, he said, “You’re welcome. Actually, I’ve been thinking. I wanted to apologize for our fight earlier. I know that sometimes I can be mean. I just wanted to say that I’ll…I’ll try to be better.”

  “Hey, Mary!” Jesse’s voice interrupted our little moment. “Is that asshole dressed yet?”

  The smile on my brother’s face froze. Suddenly, it became stiff and strained, like
glass bent nearly to the breaking point.

  “Who…” he started. “Who is out there?”

  “Come on, Mary!” Jesse called. “Let me in.”

  Bill’s eyes widened, first in recognition, then in horror, and finally in rage.

  “Is that…” he rumbled like a lidded pot about to burst. “Is that Jesse Valen?”

  “I…I…met him at the party,” I stammered, struggling to lie in my drunken state.

  “Party?” he smoldered. “I thought you said you were going out with some friends?”

  “I…” I started, but there was nothing I could say. I had no defense. My guilt was evident in the euphoric happiness that had, only moments before, been blooming across my face.

  “Goddamn door,” Jesse swore as he burst inside. He had the decency to look sheepish as he stumbled into our house, but then he ruined everything by grinning at my brother. “Hi, Bill.”

  “Get out!” My brother’s face contorted with rage.

  This was no look of annoyance or even embarrassment. It was a look of pure hatred, and it scared me.

  “C’mon, Bill—” Jesse tried.

  “No!” he thundered. “I do not want you here. You are not welcome. Now get out!”

  Jesse’s cocky, charismatic grin faltered, like a beautiful flower taken out of the sun.

  “Come on, buddy,” he said. “I just wanna talk to you. Look, I know what you’ve been through. I know what it’s like to have your whole life turned upside down by a single night—”

  Before I could realize what was happening, Bill strode forward and struck Jesse right in the face. He stumbled backward with a look of pained horror on his face. I knew he was a man who could take a hit. I had seen him play in every one of his games, so I knew the small impact of my brother’s fist was not what was hurting him.

  It was the rejection of a once beloved friend.

  The strike not only bruised Jesse but it also instantly sobered me. “No, Bill,” I cried, rushing between the two of them. “It’s my fault. I brought him here. It was my idea.”