I stared at him. Initially, I’d been angry, but now I truly felt sorry for him. He believed what he was saying. Anxiety built in my stomach. “You’re saying you never hit me or cheated on me?”
“Who cares? Men cheat. That’s what we do. Especially someone like me, who has options,” he said matter-of-factly. “And you’re blowing that other thing out of proportion. A couple slaps aren’t anything to whine about. When we’re married, telling me no won’t be an option, Andrea.”
I stared at him, horrified. “Married? To you? Never. Never…” I whispered sharply, beyond shocked and numbed by his words. Grant truly was a monster.
“Yes, we’re going to get married. That’s going to happen. And if you’re not used to it yet honey, get used to it.”
As he said the words, his expression changed from grin to grim. He took a nice long sip of beer and looked into my eyes. I wanted to see something good—God knows I tried—but all I saw was a man whose soul had been taken over by greed and entitlement. He would never truly love a woman the way she deserved. And perhaps even more tragically, Grant seemed to not love himself at all.
He put his hand on my wrist and gripped it tightly. It reminded me of the night at McBanners, and his touch sickened me. I wished Jake were here to punch him in the jaw again.
Calmly, I took out my phone with my other hand, pressed the “end audio recording” button, and fired the file off in an attachment to Amy, as we had agreed. This had almost been too easy, but as Amy had pointed out, Grant was so arrogant and egotistical that he thought he was above it all. The mighty, I knew, usually fell the hardest.
Grant put his hand on the back of my neck, tight enough that it was slightly uncomfortable.
I grabbed his hand, pushed it away, and looked him in the eye with the bitchiest face I’d ever made.
“This. Stops. Now,” I said loudly.
“Why don’t you just pipe down, woman,” Grant remarked.
I hadn’t planned it, but my right hand came up, and I slapped his cheek so hard that he let out a little yell.
“Hey!” he said. His eyes flashed. “You cut that out.”
The bartender noticed our argument and briskly moved toward us before Grant could retaliate. The bartender was a pretty big guy and looked like he could be a bouncer.
“There a problem here, Andrea?” he asked me. He eyed Grant, who was holding onto his cheek.
“Sorry,” I said. “We were just having a heated discussion, and he suggested that the Jaguars weren’t the best team in the league.”
The big bartender narrowed his eyes at us. “Well, you just let me know if you need anything,” he said. Then he walked to the other end of the bar once more.
“You listen up,” I said in a stern voice. “I recorded our whole conversation and sent it to a PR friend who knows exactly what to do with it if you force my hand. This is what’s going to happen. You’re going to revoke the whole sensationalist story that you had your friends at Yawper make up about Jake. You’re going to do that right now, before we leave here. And then, you’re going to text my mother and tell her that we’ve been broken up for over a year, and that you’ve been lying, trying to lead her on and stay in her good graces.”
His jaw dropped.
“Here.” I scribbled the number for Yawper down on a napkin. Amy had used one of her media connections to find a direct line to one of the associate producers.
“And if you don’t make this call, you’re going to be outed for what you really are. A sad, tragic man who controls women through physical means. I’m sure the league won’t really care about that, especially given its recent campaign against domestic violence. But do you really want to take that chance?”
His scowl turned into a slight, forced grin. “You wouldn’t do that.”
I arched an eyebrow his way and pointed to the number he needed to call. “Try me.”
He ground his teeth and sneered. I relished in the bitchy grin I gave him right back.
“Grant Newman, you are done controlling me. Don’t you see? It’s really over.”
He gave me a nasty look as he dialed the number into his phone.
“Hello, I’d like to speak with Carla Bornsberry.”
My lips curved upward in a slight smile.
For once, I liked being the bad girl.
The sun was already high in the sky the next morning when I woke up with one hell of a headache. I felt like shit and I reeked of alcohol.
A couple of my teammates had come over last night and gotten drunk with me, but they left early, around midnight, and I was still cranking. Goddamn I’d been so shitfaced. I wanted to erase the memory of everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Yet the more I drank last night, the more depressing things seemed. Usually, it was the other way around.
You know when Benny Jenks, the biggest, goofiest, drunkest guy on the team, is telling you to “take it easy,” that you’ve moved past happy-drunk mode and into “I’ll probably only remember a few things about this night” mode.
I wanted to forget everything. I wanted to forget all about my shitty performance on the field. I wanted to forget that I’d probably be getting some sort of trumped up charges brought against me from after I tried to help Tate. His father had lawyers behind him who were surely looking to milk every dollar they could from the Jake Napleton Empire.
They’d take me for all I was worth.
And there was plenty to take. While I didn’t mind spending the money I’d earned through my baseball contracts and endorsement deals, I also hadn’t blown through it either. I had few vices.
Soon, I’d be reduced to what I started my life as: another loser foster kid from the South Side of Chicago whose potential was going unfulfilled.
Even so, the money, I could live without.
What killed me, though, was that Andrea had gone dark on me. After the game last night, I’d gone to her place but got no answer, just like with all my calls and texts. She’d faded away into the background, like I used to do with Tinder hookups I didn’t want anything to do with after one night. If I weren’t so angry, I might have found some laughter in that.
I couldn’t go around anywhere in the city without getting recognized and hounded. The harder I tried to defend myself, the less people believed the truth. I needed Andrea, not just to help me clear my name, but because I just needed her. She’d become a part of my life, and I wanted her to stay there.
I pulled out my phone and gave her one more call.
Pick up, babe. Pick up.
No answer. Again. I think I’d called her a couple dozen times by now.
I opened the bottle of Jack and poured myself another whisky, neat.
George Thorogood would be proud of me, I thought, drinking in the morning. All I needed now was a scotch and a beer.
I sat down at the TV and did something I almost never do—I turned on SportsCenter. They were doing a Saturday morning special—featuring me. One of my old, shitty Instagram pictures was on the huge flat-screen behind the talking heads. The talking point listed in big letters below them read: Is Jake Napleton the next Johnny Football?
One of the announcers blabbed, “Now folks, we all know the story of Johnny Football, taken number one in the draft, but plagued for years by too much booze, women, and money—and how is Jake Napleton any different? I mean, look at the guy in this picture. He looks like someone who would be more likely to haze you at a frat party—not someone you would trust being around your kid. And will we ever get this story straight about what happened with him and this little boy he was supposedly helping?”
I shook my head at the TV and took a nice long swallow of my whisky as they flashed to perhaps the most unflattering picture I had available to the public. It was an old Facebook photo that showed me with my eyes half open.
Hey, we all have our bad moments.
Then I made my second mistake of the morning—I fired up Twitter on my phone.
#BigUnitsaphony was the number two tr
ending hashtag. Now, I have thick as fuck skin. And there’s been a lot of words used to describe me. But phony? I might be as big of an asshole as they come, but at least I’m genuine in my assholery.
People were tweeting at me from all over the damn country, hell, the whole world. None of these people had any idea about the actual story of what had happened, but still they felt they had the right to tell me to go fuck myself.
It was up to me to change the public’s perception, even if it was too late, but I felt helpless against the constant stream of hate. I wasn’t going to apologize for my past behavior, but I needed to take full ownership of it. I needed to think instead of just react and stop being my own worst enemy. It was time for me to grow the fuck up.
“I don’t know, Chuck,” the other announcer chimed in. I looked back at the TV. He was another one of those stupid talking heads who felt entitled to an opinion even though he had never played professional sports himself. “But one thing is for sure. Good riddance. Can you imagine having to pay more than one hundred million dollars over five years to a guy like this? And the other thing is that he stinks. He’s a joke. He was a one-hit wonder. Sure, he had some highlight-worthy performances in the last few years—and a stellar first half of the season—but the Jaguars are almost certainly better off without him going into the playoffs. Did you see how hard he got shelled by Arizona? He’s an embarrassment to the city of—”
I turned off the TV. The talking head had no idea what he was talking about.
Ten seconds later, my phone buzzed. For a moment I considered chucking my phone out the window without checking to see who had called, but for some reason I didn’t. I was glad I didn’t when I saw that it was my sister, Eva.
“Well hello there, sis. Wasn’t expecting your call. Aren’t you supposed to be undercover or something?”
“Shhh. How did you know that?”
“You called me and told me you were on a life-or-death mission the other night, and that if you died I should donate all of your things to charity. I thought you were joking.”
“Ha. I must have had a few tequilas that night. Anyways, I can’t talk about the undercover piece right now. But let’s talk about you. There’s a media firestorm right now. You got released? What the hell is going on?”
I filled her in on the whole situation, as concisely as I could without leaving any of the important details out.
“So let’s get this straight. You stood up for what you believed in—punching out some asshole who was being super creepy to his ex—and then you tried to help one of the South Side kids. And you ended up crucified on social media.”
I nodded. “That’s pretty much it.”
The phone went silent for a minute.
“Eva? You there?”
After a delayed pause, Eva spoke again. “Sorry, I put the phone on mute so I could curse the world for a second. I’m sure you’ve heard the phrase ‘No good deed goes unpunished’?”
“Yeah.”
“This is you right now. Isn’t it ironic? All those years of being a womanizing asshole, and now it sounds like you’re trying to not be that asshole, and this stuff happens.”
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
“You’re spot on. That really doesn’t help me, though. I don’t know what to do. I’m finished.”
“Goddamn it, Napleton. You’re not finished. No way. Why are you giving a crap about what people think of you all of a sudden? In middle school, how many times did we tell those gangbangers to go to hell when they pressured us to join them? We weren’t popular. We didn’t care what they thought of us. Now all of a sudden some Twitter twats are sitting on their couch eating potato chips and yelling at their TVs, so you think they know you? They think they know what happened? Fuck that. Never let the haters win. Put down the bottle of Jack and go get your girl back.” Eva paused and chucked. “Wow, I just made a great rhyme. You catch that?”
A smile flashed on my face. “How the hell did you know I was drinking whisky?”
“That whole sibling connection thing. Genetics. You can’t see it, but I’m tapping my head right now to emphasize our slight telepathy.”
I sighed and put the whisky down.
“Thanks, sis. Love you. You be careful with this undercover shit you’re doing.”
“Shhhh. You didn’t hear that. I know you won’t tell anyone, but it’s pretty serious. Love you too. Go figure out how to fix this.”
I hung up the phone, and as soon as I did, I felt strangely energized. Even if I didn’t see her very often anymore, I was lucky to have Eva there for me when I needed her.
I picked up the phone to dial Andrea’s number, but I already knew she wasn’t going to answer.
Well, fuck it. It was time to do this the old fashioned way, before cell phones were invented.
If she wasn’t already gone, I’d go to her apartment and fucking grovel. And if she’d gone back to Tennessee, then to Tennessee I’d go. Nothing was going to stop me.
Damned if I was gonna sit here and become a self-fulfilling prophecy of being the next Johnny fucking Football, falling from grace.
Even if my reputation was going to be tarnished forever, I still needed to give Andrea and me a shot.
I had expelled two demons in one fell swoop by getting rid of Grant for good and making him undo the damage he’d done. But there was one loose end I still needed to tie off. I headed back to where my mother had gotten her hair done, and right as I entered, she was getting ready to pay.
“Oh good, you’re here,” she said.
“Mother, I need to stay here for one more day,” I said to her as she handed her credit card to the woman at the front desk.
“I don’t think so, honey. We need to get on the road right now if I’m going to see my Saturday-night shows.” She tapped her wrist with two fingers, like a heroin addict might tap her arm before getting a hit, and I couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t a similarity there.
I stood with my arms crossed, waiting.
“I don’t want to go into details here, but some very big stuff has happened in the last couple of days, and I need to see this through.”
“Ma’am? Just sign here,” the woman said, pointing to the receipt. My mother signed and turned back to me.
“Oh, I’m sure it’s really tough. Dating a professional baseball player and then breaking up with him. I just wish all of my children felt as entitled as you,” she said sarcastically.
“Stop it. You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said in a low voice. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes.
“Oh, is there something I don’t understand here? You broke up with Grant last year, and ever since, he’s been trying to get you back. But ohhh no, you’re off cavorting with guys like The Big Unit on social media. I heard all about it on the radio on my way up here. You just need to face the facts, honey. Grant is the best you’ll do. And he’s not a bad man.”
I looked down at my feet and rubbed my thumb and finger against my forehead. To be fair, I’d sugarcoated everything that had happened between Grant and me, so she had a reason for her opinion. Now was the time for me to break that reality. I got my height from my dad, and my mom was pretty small, but she’d been surrounded by tall men and me for years, so when I brought my face close to hers, she returned my look with equal measure.
“Mother. I should have told you this a long time ago. Grant was a liar and a cheater, and I broke up with him when he crossed the line, not because I needed space.” I paused. “Did he text you that?”
She scrunched her face up. “What on earth are you talking about?”
Unbelievable! “I’m talking about the fact that he slept with other girls while we were together, then told me that I had no right to complain, and that that was just the way it was! And when I stood up to him, he fucking slapped me!” I said, and none to quietly. “He hit me when I refused to have sex with him, and when I tried to leave him.”
There was a collective gasp from all of the
women in the room. At this point, I didn’t care anymore who heard me. My mother just stared at me, completely bewildered, like I had just spoken in Klingon. “G-Grant?” she stammered, confused and blinking rapidly. She had her hands over her heart like she was in pain. Maybe she was. I’d never yelled at my mother or swore, and I knew that was throwing her. “I don’t believe it. I just can’t! I’ve known his mother for decades! He comes from a good, solid family. He’s the sweetest boy—”
“Why do you side with him? You should side with your daughter! Grant Newman was a douchewad who treated me like crap. He made me feel like a horrible person. I was so ashamed of telling anyone, especially you!” I shouted, finally standing up to her. I was so mad that I felt my eyes stinging with tears. “He’s been trying to control me since I broke up with him. He’s crazy! And he was blackmailing me to go back to him or he’d release more lies about Jake!”
My mother started fanning herself, trying not to cry. She looked at me. Her eyes scanned my face, and I could tell she was starting to realize I wasn’t making shit up, because she burst into tears. “It’s just, I thought you two were perfect. I thought, I thought…” She lost the ability to form words, and the tears started pouring out. “Oh God honey, I’m so sorry! Of course I believe you—I wish you had told me,” she said between shaky breaths. “I hate that you’ve been alone in this…” She stepped toward me and wrapped me up in a huge hug. I started to cry harder, not holding back. It felt amazing to finally tell her, to tell the whole truth.
The entire room had broken out in applause, and I cracked a smile through the tears as we pulled apart. I wiped at my eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. And to be honest, Jake’s the one that got me to open up and admit that to myself. He’s been really supportive and wonderful about it.”
“Yes…about this Jake guy you’ve been seeing,” Mother began, still sniffling. “What’s that all about? Did he really kidnap that child?”
I laughed, shaking my head at the mess I’d helped create. “Dear God, no, he didn’t kidnap anyone. Everyone thinks he’s an asshole, but he’s actually a really great guy.”
Playing Dirty: A Bad Boy Sports Romance Page 25
