by Susan Arden
“Yeah. I remember.” He’d met a couple of them and they were the type that wanted to settle down. To them, he was nothing a single pro baller and a doorway to the NFL lifestyle. On the outside, that might be true. Not many knew him well enough to know that wasn’t his goal for the future. “Seriously, my shoulder is burning. I just want to ice it.”
Rich nodded. “Shit. I hear you. We get so beat up on the field. My knee is swollen like a mother.”
“It’s called ice,” Brett grunted. “You should try it. I know I sure as hell need a bag or two.”
“Preaching to choir.” Rich snorted. “Hey, since you’re staying in tonight, you going to the party tomorrow?”
Brett glanced over his shoulder and down the aisle, making sure the press had vacated the locker room. “Mike’s birthday bash? You still hooked up with him?”
“Hell yes. Even traded, I don’t want to lose out on that wild man’s ability to throw an out of control shindig.” Rich nodded, jerking his chin across the locker room to a group of guys deemed the party animals of the team and the NFL’s rocking unofficial players’ club.
Every team had a few and this team was no different with half a dozen players who managed to operate under the radar with hot-as-hell parties most weekends. A crazy ass time was only a phone call away.
By being in the NFL, all sorts of doorways were open. Didn’t matter what a man’s status was. Come the weekend, parties were a place to unwind with no questions asked—or so they said as long as the press didn’t get wind of it, or the management. In cities across the nation, and tomorrow Brett had heard right here in Dallas, Mike had planned an insane birthday bash that would make the other parties appear tame.
Brett inhaled. Shit, he needed to unwind himself. “It’ll be something. Sure. I might stop in.”
“Mike, hey man,” Rich yelled across the locker room.
The wide receiver turned in his direction. “What’s up?”
“How old are you going to be?” Rich asked and laughed. “Brett wants to know.”
“Fuck Brett, you never ask a lady his age,” one of the guardsmen shouted out and broke into a chuckle.
Mike shot the other player the bird. “Thirty-one. And you’d better show your face. If not, I’ll have one of these motherfuckers come pick your sorry ass up. You feelin’ me, Brett? And by the way, Rich, kiss my ass.”
“I might if you show it. Sure as hell’s better looking than your face,” Rich snorted.
“You planned on showing up to a Friday night bash?” Brett asked. “As in stag?”
“If you say you’re going, I’ll do my best to get over there,” Rich said. “If Marcie thinks I’m out with you, she won’t give me rash of shit. She thinks you’re one of the good guys.”
“Even with the newspaper report about the bar fight?” Brett peeled off his jersey and started to unlace his pads. He refused help from one of the locker assistants, preferring to deal with undressing and cutting away the yards of tape binding his pads and body, especially when his hammered shoulder throbbed painfully. He didn’t need his name included on any injury reports that might get him benched.
“It was in a regular bar, not some strip joint, so yeah.” Rich waved to a few other players.
“Where’s the place?” Brett clenched his jaw at the rolling in his gut that told him this plan had ‘bad idea’ written all over it.
“Starting out at Venzie’s, then closing down Firefly’s. Mike likes the rooms upstairs.”
“Did he book a floor this time?” Brett asked, wondering how Rich knew so much about these bashes considering he was married and seemed to be happy. He wasn’t about to ask, though.
“Yeah, more, I think. I heard he tried to get the complete hotel but they’re booked for years in advance,” Rich supplied. “I’d better run. Just stopped by to shoot the shit with my old team. Later. If you reconsider, just stop by.”
“Thanks. Don’t think so.” Brett preferred staying alone during the holidays. Being with other people intensified the hollow feeling he couldn’t shake. He got lost easy enough in a crowd of people he knew. At times, he felt more at home with strangers at a bar.
His father, an enlisted soldier, had died when he was barely five, and his mother refused to remarry. A vibrant woman who had been an actress for years. Alberta Gold. She’d returned to the stage and traveled with him in tow as a child. He’d seen most large continental cities in the United States several times over by middle school and toured Europe, South America, and Asia until his mom began experiencing tremors and weakness in her legs. She was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and he’d moved her into around-the-clock care right before he’d gotten engaged to Daniella.
Brett finished showering and returned to the deserted locker room. Brett sat down in front of his locker.
“You and I are probably the only players without a tether.” Farb, the punter, broke the silence from a couple of lockers away.
“I’d rather have it this way. Sometimes, at least.” He stepped into his trousers and stood up to slip on his shirt.
“You crashing back at your place, or you up for some fun?” Farb slammed his locker shut.
“What are you thinking?” Brett asked. Alone without the hype of the press and other players, it was easier to think straight.
“I know a couple of places. Get ready. I’ve got a driver for the night. So no worries about getting pulled over.”
“A man with a plan,” Brett muttered. “Let’s have at it.”
Farb pulled on a pair of sunglasses. “Buckle up. This ride is guaranteed to get rough.”
~~~
Fuck, the ceiling expanded and contracted as Brett struggled to open his eyes. He was still drunk from last night. A soft groan came from his mouth as he sat up in the bed where he’d landed. A generic hotel room and he was alone. Then a ton of messed up memories sliced into his awareness. He and Farb had ended up at a strip club. The remnants of the night included a half empty bottle of Scotch by the bedside and a headache the size of Mars burning inside his brain. At least he didn’t have to wake a woman and make excuses. If at all possible, his hookups were never more than one-night stands. The look of hope in a woman’s eyes wasn’t something he enjoyed crushing. Best to fuck then leave, and not have to deal with the morning after crap.
His phone rang and he snatched it up, fumbling it to his ear. “Brett?”
“Yes?” he said, his voice hoarse and gravelly from drinking a trough of liquor “Darn, you sound…hold on for your mom.”
He recognized a pair of familiar voices arguing.“ Estella? How—,” he was interrupted by his mother’s greeting.
“Hi, Brett,” his mom said in raspy voice, strained from being on a ventilator. “Happy holidays. Are you still coming?”
“Yes, ma’am. Two o’clock and I’ve a date with my favorite fan.”
She laughed. The sound was good. One he didn’t hear on a regular basis. After his mom had been diagnosed and unable to continue acting, they’d settled outside of Arlington with his grandparents when he was a teenager. Come back to his mom’s hometown where he’d enrolled in high school. The first real school he’d ever attended and it had been a chore. His mother, for all she’d tried to home school him, didn’t have the ability to deal with his learning disability. That fact seemed to trouble her even today. Even after he’d found out he was dyslexic after getting testing as an adult and the mystery of why school had been so frigging difficult was finally solved.
“Oh, I’m thrilled! We watched your game yesterday and then replayed the recording. Estella likes to fast forward to all the parts where you’re featured. You’re looking strong out there, son.”
“I feel good,” he lied. The flaring pain in his shoulder ratcheted up in intensity because of not icing it as he knew he should have after the game.
During high school he’d made the football team after a ten-minute tryout. A natural, his speed and agility perfect for a hybrid tight
end position, his coach had said. Weighing in at two hundred forty-nine pounds and standing six foot six, he was a rarity. Then, and apparently now considering what his agent said. For every door God closed, he cracked open a window where light entered if not streamed. For Brett it had been in his being able to run like a mad dog, turn and catch a football, never breaking stride. His coach and the other high school coaches in the area, even the college recruiters, said he was exceptional in how he functioned for his size.
Unfortunately, his college test scores were on the opposite end of the spectrum, right in the area of dismal. But it didn’t seem to matter to the schools who courted him with promises of cars, apartments, and parties. He had the choice to accept a full ride scholarship to several universities or go directly into playing in a minor league. He picked pro ball in Canada and no classes. No more grades and worrying about the fact that he just didn’t understand why the words on the page didn’t match the words in his head.
Some sort of dysgraphia, and had he been given something as simple as a laptop, his educational life would have been made far easier than trying to copy nonsense from a whiteboard in class.
“Shall I bring you anything special?” he asked, knowing his mother enjoyed when he brought baked goods.
“How was your evening?” she asked, suddenly distracted.
“I stayed in and rested for my big day today,” he said, lying again. Crud, he closed his eyes, hating the feel of this conversation. Then, from some unknown place, the words jumped out of his mouth, “I met a girl yesterday.”
“Brett, how nice. Are you bringing her with you?”
His heart raced in his chest. “No. Not like that. I mean, we talked.”
“It only takes a bleep to open the door,” she said. His mother had always told him, the moment she’d met his father she’d known he was her soul mate. Well, hell, he knew one thing for sure: Corinth McLemore was not his soul mate. More like a burr he couldn’t untangle from his thoughts.
“You haven’t brought a girl around since—”
“Mom, it was a brief conversation. Nothing more. I don’t know why I even mentioned it,” he interjected.
She sighed. “You’re thinking about her. Aren’t you?”
We are so not from the same world. That wildcat’s voice and fiery, honest eyes had him stumbling when Corinth had blurted out the sentiment that had made him reel. Then, and more so now, as though the direction of his life was no direction at all. Hollow and meaningless, a piercing reminder he wanted to avoid but ran headlong into in again and again as the words came tumbling from Corinth’s moist pink lips. He’d lobbed the comment back into her court with a jackass remark about having a life and it was the pain in her beautiful blue eyes he’d fleetingly witnessed that had him by the balls. She was at UCLA. A huge ass school. One he’d never been to, and what were the chances he’d ever find her? He recalled her ID. It had said she was in the marketing department. The whole idea of looking for a beautiful, mouthy needle in a university haystack was insane. But he’d done shades crazier. He made a mental note to look up UCLA’s marketing department and ask around on the team. There was bound be another player who would know someone with a contact there.
He repeated his question. “Would you like something? A treat, maybe?”
“Brett, just yourself. I miss you. It’s been three weeks.”
“Couldn’t be avoided. Had to get ready for this game. Worth it, considering we lead the division and might actually make it to the Super Bowl.”
“I figured you’d be focused on training. We’re so excited and keeping a running tally of your stats. A couple more games and you’re there.”
“Keep your fingers crossed.” He kept everything crossed…fingers, toes, legs, arms. A Super Bowl would mean a large bonus. And a win would domino into a much larger contract for the next year. Heck, for the life of his career. At twenty-six, if he nursed his shoulder, he’d be lucky to get at least six or seven more years. He needed more and had relented, advising his manger to get on the ball finding endorsements.
While other players bought vacation condos and all sorts of toys with the sky’s the limit mentality, Brett had other concerns. The cost of around-the-clock care for his mom meant he needed to secure not only his future but hers, considering she didn’t have anything beyond what little the government provided. No retirement, and she’d already gone through the small inheritance from his grandparents. His mother was cared for by registered nurses in an upscale apartment setting within a modern medical facility. But it cost. Nearly a quarter of his annual salary, but he refused to move his mother to something less costly. He’d seen those places when his grandmother had to go into hospice. The smell and the feel of loneliness and grief was overwhelming. He adamantly refused to do that to his mother when his accountant made the suggestion last month.
“I don’t want to tie up your time. I suspect you have some training scheduled for the morning.”
He scratched his hand down the stubble on his cheek. “Yeah. I do need to get going.”
“I love you, Brett,” his mom said, her voice wavering. “I’m so proud of you.”
His chest constricted. “I’m proud of you, mom. See you soon.”
He hung up and fell back on the bed while his shoulder throbbed unmercifully. Seriously, he needed to get his game on and stop futzing around. What had Raquel, his physical therapist, said a million times? Ice, ice, ice and more ice. So simple, and yet he’d be damned, but he fought her advice this last go round. He needed his therapy routine with bands and light weights, or any routine really. Earlier in the month, he’d taken two weeks off for physical rehab while feigning a family emergency with the team. At first, it had felt like he was wasting his time, but shit, he’d witnessed the results in two weeks and no one suspected he’d sustained a shoulder injury. As far as the team and his agent were concerned, he was an offensive machine.
Now, back in Dallas without a physical therapist riding him and the holiday interruption, he’d messed up royally by going out and not taking care of himself. He’d been down this road before where he’d gone to therapy, gotten fixed up, and then put aside what he knew he needed to do to heal and rest, and get ready for the next game. Not this time. Brett sat back up and reeled upright. Naked, he collected his clothing, and stormed into the bathroom. No more screwing around.
Okay, no more messing up after tonight and Mike’s bash. Fuck, how many times had he said that in the last few years?
~~~
The dance club was as out of control as any he’d been to where Mike and his group of NFL friends gathered. Working his way to the front of the line, Brett stopped and signed a couple of autographs. Apparently, the word had gotten out that the Devils were partying hard and a line of people stretched down the block, waiting to get inside Firefly. And then he saw her.
Brett blinked, unable to believe it was really Corinth McLemore standing in front of him, wearing a dress that hugged her in all the right places. She must have a serious attachment to sexy stilts, he thought, and this time her high heels too easily wrested a groan from him. And a clench of his jaw.
His focus zeroed in on her. A target in his scope and his body tightened as he watched her animated gestures before allowing his gaze to trace a line down her curves. Dressed in a miniature length dress, the sight of her legs kicked him in the gut. He excused himself from the fan beside him and walked toward her. His body hummed in electric expectancy. He didn’t know why she had this effect on him. He’d known plenty of beautiful women and Corinth wasn’t the type of woman he sought on a weekend. Those brief hookups involved getting naked, fucking, coming, and then goodbye. He most definitely wanted the part about sex…it was the one-night stand aspect deemed a no-go this time. He knew without a doubt, a girl like Corinth McLemore wasn’t part of that scene.
Ever since seeing her in the airport—it wasn’t seeing…more like connecting to a defibrillator—he couldn’t shake her from his thoughts
. His brief conversation with this woman shouldn’t have had any effect, but it did. One he couldn’t seem to erase or forget. It had been the moment she’d become unsure of herself, soft as a rose petal, and he’d almost bolted out of necessity. Run as far and as hard as he could away from his instinct to reach out to her. But his mind had returned again and again to the way she bit her lip, the scorching heat in her eyes, and the feel of her body close to his. He wanted more—of her.
Both now and then, Corinth’s skin glowed in a way that had him wanting to take a taste. Slide his mouth along her neck, sucking, licking, and biting a path to her mouth. The spiking notes of her voice punctuated his next breath. “Good evening, Ms. McLemore.”
She turned toward him, surprise and something else mingled in her expression. Her eyes lowered for a beat as though assessing him. He wore a custom-made suit. Probably too player-like for her. Shit, it was for him but this club had a dress code. No way in hell was he going to wear a spare jacket—impossible to find one that would fit his build anyway.
“Wow, please tell me you’re not into stalking.” She laughed and sound caressed his senses.
“In your case, it might be warranted.” He enjoyed seeing the widening of her eyes. He held out his hand, unsure if she’d take it after his rapid disappearance in the airport.
She laid her palm flush with his. “You look…well.”
He wanted to return the compliment and keep her talking…call for a driver and whisk her away. “Are you coming or going?”
Her head bobbed upward. “Coming. I mean, we just arrived. And you?”
“Just arrived as well.”
“Good luck getting in. The Devils have this place booked and only the crème of the crème are allowed inside tonight.” She smiled up at him and the enticing effect had him canting closer.
He couldn’t resist asking, “Did you and your friends want to go to a dance club?”
“Do you know of any?” She leaned in and whispered, “A good one. This is a girls’ night out sort of thing. Bridesmaid shower on the spur of the moment. Normally, I have every detail covered, but this time I was scrambling to plan something memorable.”
