If all goes well.
My stomach does an unpleasant flip, and I push the negative thought that’s forming out of my mind. I’ll get signed, I tell myself. I will. I’m doing everything right. It has to pay off. It has to.
The bartender sets out another round of shots in front of the group. They’re playing a stupid-ass game called Spin the Shot. Spin the Shot centers around this spinner thing with a red arrow on it, and a holder just big enough for a shot glass. Each person takes turns setting a shot into the holder, then spinning the arrow until it lands on whoever has to take the shot. The group started out with strawberry margarita Jello shooters, but now they’ve moved on to their second round of something called a Blue Hawaiian shot. It’s made with some sort of vile-looking blue-colored Jello. From the smell, I’m guessing the alcohol is rum. Since I’m not drinking, I just sit back in my chair nursing a Coke and watch everyone else play.
It’s Aaron’s turn to spin the arrow. It lands on Kayla, who squeals and grabs the shot from the holder so roughly she’d have spilled it if it wasn’t Jello. Tipping her head back, she slides her tongue into the shot glass and scoops the Jello into her mouth and down her throat. She chews a few times and swallows, then sticks out her tongue dramatically and coughs at the alcohol. Her tongue is dark blue. Everyone else laughs like it’s the funniest fucking thing they’ve ever seen.
One thing I’ve learned since I stopped drinking: drunk people are never as funny as they think they are.
Aaron’s teammate Mike Brandt drinks next. Then it’s the turn of the girl he’s with, a big-titted redhead named Ashley. Then Kayla again. At this point, Kayla’s starting to get pretty fucking sloppy. I realize pretty soon she’s gonna be too drunk to do anything but pass out in the passenger seat of my SUV. Inwardly, I cringe at the thought of her ralphing up blue puke all over my interiors.
I decide it’s time to go. Before that vision becomes a reality.
“Come on, Kayla,” I say, grabbing her gently by the shoulders. “I think it’s time for us to call it a night.”
“But I’m having fun!” she protests. She gets up, though, and stumbles a little on her high heels so I have to steady her.
“I know, but it’s time to continue the fun somewhere else,” I tell her, even though I’m already starting to have second thoughts about that.
Kayla lets out a little bleat of laughter. “We’re gonna go fuck!” she announces to the others drunkenly. The girls start to giggle loudly and make sex eyes at me, like they wish they were in Kayla’s shoes. But they’re at least as wasted as she is, and anyway I’ve got my hands full enough with her.
“Okay, then,” I say to my buddies. “You guys have a good night.” I toss a couple bills on the table, even though I only had a soda and a couple mouthfuls of the nachos we ordered earlier. Everyone calls goodbye to us and we turn toward the front door of the bar, Kayla wobbling beside me on her heels.
“Are we going to your place?” she asks me eagerly as we walk out into the cool night air.
“Nah,” I shake my head. “How about yours?”
“Come on, Mason,” Kayla croons at me, screwing up her face into a little pout. She must think that look is sexy, because she does it to me a lot. “You never take me home!” she whines. “I won’t even stay the night if you don’t want me to.” She sidles up to me and breathes into my ear. “You know how good I can make you feel, baby.”
In my pants, my cock stirs, but irritation overrides any attraction to her I’m feeling. I’m pissed that I have to have this argument with her again.
“My place isn’t really moved into. You know that,” I say, trying hard to sound reasonable and not pissed. It’s actually true. Even though I bought the house over a year ago, a lot of my stuff is still in boxes. Shit hit the fan shortly after I moved out here. So I haven’t been exactly motivated to unpack and decorate.
But that’s not the real reason I don’t wanna take Kayla home. The real reason is, I don’t want the hassle. Kayla’s hot, but she’s not all that. I can get any woman I want, without having the expectation that I’ll have to take her home and let her spend the night. It’s just not worth it to have to make small talk with her tomorrow morning while she thinks up excuses to stick around.
“Look, babe,” I murmur, grabbing her hand and pulling it away as she starts to reach for my crotch. “There’s a hotel just down the road. A nice one. Why don’t we go there?”
But Kayla’s having none of it. “No!” she complains, her voice rising. “I’m sick of this, Mason. Why don’t you want to take me home? Are you ashamed to be with me or something?”
I’m not with you, I almost say, but manage to refrain. Goddamn it, Kayla knows going home with me isn’t an option. I make it clear to every woman go to bed with. And that we’re just having fun, nothing else.
“Kayla, Jesus,” I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “It’s not that…”
“You know what?” she interrupt me. “Fuck this. You’re nothing but a drunk and a loser anyway,” she screeches at me. “You’re not even a Rocket yet. I bet you won’t be one, either.” She gives me an ugly, angry sneer. “I’m done, Mason.”
I shrug, more relieved than anything that I won’t be spending the night fighting this. “Fine by me.”
Kayla blinks a couple of times uncertainly, like she was expecting me to argue with her. She opens her mouth to fire back at me, but pauses. Then finally:
“I have to pee.” She announces it loudly and defiantly, like it’s a stellar comeback.
“Fine,” I grumble. “Go.”
She goes back inside to the restrooms that are by the front door. I wait for her, trying not to get pissed at the insults she hurled at me. In one respect, Kayla’s not wrong. I’m not a Springville Rocket yet. Oh, I had been — for all of three weeks or so. The team had signed me for last season, and everything was all set. I even moved here to Springville and bought my house. But then, all the fucking shit hit the fan, and… well, I ended up getting un-signed. And sitting out last season completely.
And now, if they decide at the last minute they don’t want me this year…
Shit. I shake the thought from my head, for probably the millionth time. I need to move forward. I can’t afford to get stuck worrying about something that hasn’t happened yet. All I can do is hope things keep going in the direction they are, and that the team will sign me for this season. Once that happens, I’ll be in the clear. I’m one of the best linebackers in the league, and they know it, too. My agent has told me as much. I know I can perform. I know I can make myself one of the most valuable players on the team, if they just give me a chance.
But the Rockets have had more than their fair share of scandals in recent years, and they don’t need another one. Which means that any whiff of trouble makes the owners and managers gun shy.
And unfortunately, there’s a whiff of trouble around me that just won’t seem to go away.
Kayla takes fucking forever in the bathroom. I wait, then wait some more, and finally, she comes back out of the bar, smelling like re-applied perfume. She’s put on more lipstick, too, I notice. But underneath the cherry red color, I can see the blue tinge on her lips from the Jello shots.
I gesture over to my SUV in the parking lot. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”
Kayla lifts her chin. “Fuck you,” she sniffs at me. “I called an Uber.”
“Fine by me,” I say, relieved. I was anticipating another big argument when I dropped her at her place. Now I won’t have to have it. Pussy like this is too much damn work.
Even though I want to get out of there, I wait with her until the Uber arrives out of a sense of obligation. The whole time, she sits on a bench with her arms and legs crossed, pointedly ignoring me. A few minutes later, a Toyota sedan pulls up. The driver’s side window rolls down and a guy pokes his head out. “You call an Uber?”
“I did,” Kayla announces, standing up from the bench where she’s been pouting. “Not him.”
; “Hey,” the guy peers at me as Kayla goes around to the passenger side. “Are you Mason Robichaud?”
“Yeah,” I say, giving him my best for-the-public smile.
He’s fucking asshole Mason Robichaud!” Kayla shouts toward me as she opens the car door. She throws herself inside, making the car shake, and slams the door violently. I grimace and look apologetically at the guy.
“Dodged a bullet?” he murmurs at me knowingly.
“Looks like it,” I nod with a tight grin.
He snorts, then his face brightens. “Hey, man, can I get an autograph?”
“Sure thing,” I tell him. I wait as he rummages inside the car and pulls out a scrap of paper. I can hear Kayla bitching at him, but he ignores her. He holds out the paper and a pen to me. I sign it on the roof of the car and then hand it back to him. “Have a good one.”
“You too,” he smirks, giving me a knowing look.
I watch the Uber drive off, and take a deep breath of relief. For a second, I consider going back inside to hang out with Aaron and Mike, but the prospect of watching them get drunk just isn’t doing it for me. Instead I decide to just go home and call it a night.
As I’m stepping off the curb toward my car, a commotion off to one side makes me turn my head.
“You fucking, stupid, old, beat up fucker!” a voice yells.
The voice is female. It’s coming from the parking lot of the place next door. In the light of the street lamp, I can just make out the silhouette of a woman in a dress. She looks to be throwing a tantrum next to a car that I’m assuming is hers.
I’m too far away to see what the woman looks like. But I’m close enough to see that her dress is form-fitting, and that she’s wearing heels. From here, it looks like she has a killer ass. And legs to next Tuesday.
I watch in amusement as she continues swearing a blue streak and starts pounding on the hood. The corners of my mouth quirk up. Whatever’s wrong with her car, that’s sure as hell not gonna fix it.
Curiosity gets the better of me. Instead of walking over to my SUV, I cross the parking lot and head toward the chick beating up on her car. Hell, since Kayla took off, I’ve got nothing else pressing to do with my evening anyway. I may as well spend the next few minutes playing hero to this chick.
And who knows? I might even get some action out of it and salvage this night after all.
2
Anna
I sigh as my eyes train up and down the bar. The place is crowded, and I'm grateful for it being busy so that there are fewer eyes on me. It’s easier to watch other people when I’m part of the crowd — and when no one is hitting on me, which happens more than I like. Especially the ones that like to stay up late at night watching television in their underwear. Those are the especially tenacious ones — the ones that recognize me when I’m in public.
It’s Friday night. I should be out with my friends, not sitting in a bar by myself trying to get a story. I’m at the Happiness Bar, the same place I’ve been hanging around for the last couple of weeks, in vain. Sometimes I question if I’m in the right profession. Things always seem to go wrong whenever I try to get one step ahead of the game. Whenever I get a lead, I hope that maybe I’ll get lucky and my boss will take me seriously. That he’ll finally move me up a spot or two on the totem pole. So far, though, it feels like I’m getting nowhere.
I’ve been working for the local TV station WSPR for two years. I had to fight like hell to even get where I am right now. I’m one of the presenters during that screwed-up time slot that’s so late at night it’s actually early in the morning. And even so, I think seventy-five percent of the reason I got that job is because I’m considered to be a pretty face. Which is definitely an advantage in my line of work, but it’s also a curse. It’s hard to be taken seriously when everyone you meet just assumes you got where you are from your looks, not your brains.
I started out at WSPR as a late-night weather girl. Then I got moved up to announcing the news at an hour when nobody gives a shit. In another year, maybe I’ll be lucky enough to get moved to a better slot, flashing my pearly whites to another demographic.
But my real goal? What I’ve always wanted to do?
Sports reporter.
Unfortunately, my boss doesn’t think women should be reporting on sports. Not men’s sports, anyway. Even though there are plenty of examples of great female sports reporters nationwide to prove him wrong, Ethan’s brain seems stuck in the nineteen-fifties. Which is weird, because he’s only about ten years older than I am.
Ethan would probably let me convince him to cover some women’s sports for the station — except he doesn’t think women’s sports are even newsworthy enough to cove most of the time. And covering the “hard” sports stories of the men’s teams is men’s work, in his opinion. The best a woman could do would be the human interest stories, like how some quarterback does charity work for a local animal shelter or something.
Which means that as long as I’m working for WSPR, I’ll either be stuck being a pretty talking head at three a.m., or doing filler stories about how a local basketball player’s mom makes stuffed basketballs with the team’s logo for underprivileged kids.
Unless, that is, I can break a big story by myself and Ethan will have to notice me.
So, with that in mind, I’ve been working hard to do just that. I’m trying to get information about the Springville Rockets sign-ups for the next season, and it hasn’t been easy to come by. I’m trying to be careful with my approach so I won’t get shot down. That’s why I’m following this lead. I happened to meet the assistant to the director of pro personnel for the Rockets a few nights ago at a friend’s party. After a few drinks, he told me their team had plans to drop one of the players. I tried to get more out of him, but he got more handsy as the night went on, and I wasn’t willing to give it up for a one-night stand with a guy I wasn’t attracted to just to get a lead.
Ever since then, I’ve been trying to find the someone else to start questioning. It could be a big scoop, and I want to be the one to get the story before anyone else beats me to it. The Happiness Bar is a well-known hangout for local athletes, so I’ve been coming here hoping to run into someone from the team. Unfortunately, it looks like I’ve drawn a blank tonight. There’s no one here from the Rockets that I recognize. Plus, I’m the only woman here by myself, and I keep getting hit on by half-drunk guys with beer breath. I don’t even have the benefit of a girlfriend as a buffer, and I’m getting sick of fending off advances by random men.
“Hey, there.”
I glance up at the bartender as he comes over. He leans against the bar and gives me a disarming smile. I have to admit, the man looks good, but I'm working and really don’t have time or the inclination to flirt with him right now.
“Yes?” I ask.
“You want something stronger to drink than that club soda? You’ve been here for a while.” He flashes me his set of pearly whites. I can’t help but admire how the tattoos on his left forearm accentuate the muscles underneath.
“Thanks for worrying about me, but I’m actually waiting for someone,” I lie. I try not to sound cranky and rude, but I’m not sure it’s working.
I can see the interest in his eyes fade just a little. “Whatever you say. If you need something just call for me,” he says as he walks away.
I toss my hair over my shoulder and glance around the room again. Nothing. There are no men here who could possibly be pro athletes. I’ve been here for almost two hours. I guess I could stay longer, but I’m sick of waiting around. I should just cut my losses and get the hell out of here.
Sighing, I finish up my umpteenth club soda, pay my bill, and stand just as another random guy is trying to catch my eye at the other end of the bar. Ignoring him, I hurry to the front door before he can get up and come over to chat me up. Ugh. Suddenly, a pint of Oreo ice cream and a movie sitting on my ratty old couch sounds like a very appealing way to end the evening.
I push past a group of people
coming into the bar and into the night air. Once outside, I walk to my car and open the door with my key. I root around inside my bag for my phone, then toss the bag onto the shotgun seat. As I’m reaching for the door with my free hand, my other hand fumbles with the car keys and my phone. Before I can catch it, my phone drops to the ground. I let out a little yelp of horror when I hear it hit the concrete and watch it bounce a couple feet away.
“Shit! Shit shit shit!” I hiss. “Please tell me it’s not fucking broken.”
I toss the keys inside and circle the car door because it’s in the way, then lean down to pick up my phone. As I do, I lose my balance a little on my heels, and my hip bumps against the door. I slide back against it, trying not to fall over, and it swings shut behind me.
Grabbing the phone, I reach back for the door handle and haul myself up to a standing position, then pull it to open the door.
Nothing happens.
I try again.
Nothing happens, again.
“Noooo!” I wail in disbelief and horror. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!”
Setting my phone on the roof of the car, I reach for the handle with both hands and start yanking on it over and over.
Which does about as much as you’d expect it to.
“No, no, no,” I chant under my breath as I tug on it harder. I even wiggle it a little, before tugging some more. “Not now, please,” I plead quietly. “Fucking shit, fuck fuck fuck.”
I put my foot against the car, and pull on the door handle with both hands, even though I know there’s no point to this anymore. I pull, to the point I should be worried about breaking it, but then my hands slip, and I stumble back, windmilling my arms, until I back into the car next to me, which breaks my fall.
And give my car a look of pure hatred and rage.
I’m miles from home — way too far to walk. Plus, my bag is still in the car, and my house key is on the same fob as my car key. I think about calling Harriet to come get me, but I know she’ll be in the middle of a set right now. I don’t have the heart to drag my roommate away from a gig. So I have to figure this out on my own. I’ll just have to call someone to come unlock my car.
PLAYERS: The Complete Series (Springville Rockets (Sports Romance Books 1-3) Page 35
