There it was.
I just hated that it had to be because Mayfair was out. Nobody wanted to see their teammate go down.
I was pulling my shirt over my head when a familiar face on the TV screen caught my attention. I frowned, crossing my arms as a local sports reporter filled the screen, holding the mic up to the man beside him.
“Stan Mathews, NewsOne Sports. You must be very proud tonight,” the reporter said, not waiting for an answer before he turned back to the camera. “For those of you who don’t know, I’m just outside the VIP box, and happened to run into none other than NFL legend Greg Johnson. You here to see your son play?”
My father smiled – an easy, dimpled grin, identical to mine. “Well, if you want to call it that.”
Stan looked confused by the answer, but smiled back anyway, pushing on. “So are you proud of JJ’s performance tonight? That last catch was spectacular.”
“I was certainly glad to see him make a catch. Think I might have to start calling the boy butterfingers since he can’t seem to keep the ball in his hands.”
My eyes narrowed at the same time Stan’s did. I was pissed. Stan was just further confused.
“Are you referring to the play where the defense was flagged for pass interference? Kendall Griggs grabbed his arm, and Jordan still managed to catch it…”
My father scoffed. “But did he keep it? If he’d held onto the ball and gotten loose, he could have run it in. Kings wouldn’t have needed a touchdown to win, and maybe Mayfair wouldn’t have torn up his knee. Every play matters in football, and now that boy is probably benched for the season.”
“Well, there you have it,” Stan said, looking mildly horrified by how expertly my father had blamed me for Mayfair’s injury. “Uh, interesting commentary from record-breaking former NFL wide-receiver Greg Johnson.”
Interesting?
Ha.
More like bullshit, I thought to myself as I stuffed my earbuds into my ears. I’d been planning to wait to hear the news about Mayfair before I went out to the mandatory press conference, but I was suddenly ready to be done for the night, period. I packed up my stuff and headed out, ignoring the waiting crowd of reporters and player’s families as I waited my turn to answer whatever shitty, repetitive questions were waiting for me tonight.
“What do you think about what happened to Mayfair?”
“It’s messed up. When I saw it on replay, it looked nasty.”
“Can you give us any specifics about his injury?”
“No comment, because I don’t know any answers myself, and if I did, that’s his private medical information, to be released as he sees fit. I hope to see him make a quick recovery, no matter what the prognosis is.”
“How do you feel about being able to put up a win for your team?”
“It definitely feels good to be adding a W to the record, instead of an L. We worked hard in practice this past week, and it paid off. I’m proud of my team.”
“Do you want to address claims that you’re a bad role model, after all the news this past week about your frequent strip club visits?”
“A bad role model? If anything, I’m encouraging people to appreciate art more, and understand its value. Those women work very hard at putting on a beautiful show, and I pay them very well for it whenever I partake. I’m being a productive member of our society, stimulating the economy. What’s there to complain about?”
Most of the room chuckled about that at the same time I did, and the shared laughter honestly lightened my mood. I answered a few more questions about specific plays, dodged a question about Todd Browning’s sick ass, and then responded to a few more about the game. I wasn’t quite as on-edge as when I first stepped into the media room, but by the time I made it to the last question, I was still ready to go.
Tension swept my shoulders when I realized my last question would be coming from Kendra Fulton at WAWG Sports. Just my luck.
“Great game tonight Jordan,” she mused, smiling big as she stood. “I’m sure you’ve already caught some of the commentary about the game, but there’s one clip in particular making quite a splash. Have you heard your father’s thoughts on the game?”
Immediately, a vein at my temple began to throb. I clenched my jaw, hoping to make it a little less potent as I ground out a terse “Yes.”
Her smile brightened. “Oh good. So you already know that he feels you – figuratively, and literally – dropped the ball with that pass interference play. If you’d done that differently, Wayne Mayfair may not have gotten injured while attempting a touchdown play. What do you say to your father Jordan? Do you feel guilty, or wish you’d done things differently?”
I sat back in the little chair they’d provided, and scratched my head. “Well… I don’t say anything to my father. He can have whatever opinions he wants, but no, I don’t feel guilty about that play. Anybody with eyes could see that Griggs was trying to pull my damn arm off – they got flagged for that play, because it was a blatant foul. Was I supposed to teleport?”
I took a deep breath, tamping my anger down. Just when I’d shaken the negativity off my shoulders, here she was with this, trying to piss me off.
Kendra opened her mouth to say something else, but I shook my head and stood. “Nah, I’m done. I’ve answered enough bullshit.”
A few other questions rang out, but I ignored those too as I exited the stage. I got with my security, got to my car, and got the hell out of there. I shot a text to a couple of my teammates, letting them know I wouldn’t be making it to the celebratory team dinner, and ignored the missed phone calls from several people, including Jessmyn and Nicki.
All I really wanted was to be left the hell alone.
Five.
He isn’t here.
I scanned the darkened restaurant one more time just to be sure, looking over the defensive backs flirting with the waitress, offensive linemen popping open bottles of champagne, and our running backs cheering at the highlights on the big flat screen TV, my eyes searching for one particular face.
We’d gotten the news back that Mayfair was out – torn meniscus – for possibly the whole season, but he was in decent spirits, and had encouraged the team to celebrate the win, as usual. So we were.
Except Jordan was nowhere to be found, when he was usually the life of the party.
He hadn’t responded to any texts or calls, and neither had his security. I’d already called Cin, looking for him at Arch & Point, but she swore he wasn’t there, and I had no reason not to believe her.
Social media was blowing up with talk of the game, to the point that “The Flash” and “Flash Jordan” were both trending, but the man himself hadn’t posted anything since Friday night. None of this was like him – he was always ready to celebrate, to boast about a win, rub it in the other team’s face. He’d been so up and down, hot and cold since the season started that I was beginning to be more than a little bit concerned. And add to that, that interview with his father, and the press conference…
Maybe I was thinking about it too hard, but something felt… off. And I would much rather be safe than sorry.
Jordan had at least one massive, Cribs-worthy house that I knew of, but during the season, he had a condo that he called home. Luxury building, with security and a doorman, both of whom ruined what was supposed to be a “surprise” pop up.
I damn near pulled a muscle trying not to vent my frustration with an impatient tap of my foot. But I knew from experience that sugar would get you into places that salt wouldn’t, so I kept a smile on my face and counted my blessings that the tight jeans and fitted Kings tee shirt I’d worn to the game showed off just enough body to lower guards.
I was flirting my ass off with the doorman when the security guard got off his phone, informing me that I’d been approved to go up. He handed me a keycard for the elevator, instructing me to return it when I left, and ushered me down the hall, alone.
In the elevator, I couldn’t stay still. I wasn’t sure why, but n
ervous energy coursed through me, and I wished I’d brought Presley along. Or hell, Nate. Or the security guard. Anything to not be alone with Jordan in his condo, which I’d never been to or seen before, unlike his house.
Everyone had seen the huge, waterfront mansion that had made it on magazine covers and cable TV design shows, where people marveled over the – unnecessary – opulence. In a building like this, his condo was probably more of the same.
The elevator chimed on the top floor, but the doors wouldn’t open until I used the card from security. I passed it over the scanner and the doors slid apart, opening into a foyer with polished hardwood floors and a gorgeous chandelier made of what had to be millions of tiny sticks of glass in blue, gold, and white.
Holy shit, and this is just the hall.
Shaking my head, I stepped out of the elevator and moved to the front door. I pushed the bell and waited… then waited some more… then waited a little bit longer before I pushed the button again. I hadn’t even moved my finger back yet when the door swung open and there he was, in nothing but sweats that hung – deliciously – low around his waist.
“What?”
I lifted an eyebrow at the borderline coldness of his greeting. His jaw was set in a harsh line, shoulders tense, eyes tired. Nothing like he usually was with me.
“That’s all I get, Jordan? A dry ass what?”
His nostrils flared. “Tonight, yeah. That’s all I’ve got. What do you want?”
“I’ve been calling you, and you’re not answering. I was—I mean, the team… was worried. You usually don’t miss an opportunity to drink and celebrate after a win.”
“Wasn’t in the mood tonight,” he said simply, his hand resting on the door like he might close it in my face at any moment.
I narrowed my eyes. “Do you have company or something right now? Somebody here with you?”
Ugh.
I hated the way that came out, like I cared if he had a woman there.
Do I care if he has a woman in there?
“What?” he asked, scowling. “Nah. Why does it matter?”
“It doesn’t. Can I come in?”
“For what?”
“To talk.”
“About what?”
“Things.”
“Such as?”
“Jordan…”
His face remained in a scowl for several seconds before he let out a low groan, then nodded, opening the door wide enough that I could get through. Inside, I took a quick look around, surprised by the simple, modern design. The open floor plan was cloaked mostly in greys, accented with white and dark royal blue. The hardwood floors from the hall continued into the condo, creating a warmth that helped balance the cool color scheme.
It was very… low-key.
Not at all what I’d expected to walk into.
“You want a beer or something?”
Internally, I cringed, but I’d learned early into the business side of football that if you were offered a beer, you accepted at least one. And no matter that Jordan’s expertly toned, beautifully inked, perfectly lickable upper-half was on full display, this was a business call.
At least that’s what I told myself as I nodded.
I followed him into the kitchen, silently chiding myself as I admired the sculpted contours of his wide back and arms. He opened a black stainless steel refrigerator and reached way into the back, grabbing a bottle there before he snagged one from closer to the front, then closed it.
He opened both bottles, then unceremoniously pushed one into my hand before he walked off toward the TV, where he had the game on replay. I was still standing in the kitchen when he sat down, raising his bottle to his lips.
I rolled my eyes, then left my purse on the counter, shoes by the door, and made my way to where he was. He’d taken a place in the corner of the huge, L-shaped couch, so I chose a spot a responsible distance away from him and sat down, not saying anything.
He had a pad in his lap as he watched the game, jotting down notes about certain plays. Instead of saying anything, I simply studied him, until he must have felt my eyes on him and looked my way, eyebrow raised.
I tried to cover by averting my gaze, and took a swig from the beer to distract myself. I was expecting awful, but instead my taste buds were met with bright, crisp, fruity flavors that caught me off guard. I pulled the bottle away to look at it, surprised to see a label printed with a bright orange fish, and a name I didn’t recognize as a national brand.
“Figured you’d like that fruity shit,” Jordan mumbled.
When I glanced at him, his gaze was on the TV, not me. The beer in his hand sported a different, but similarly eccentric label. “What about you? That damn sure isn’t a Budweiser in your hand.”
“It’s not. Jess introduced me to this quirky shit, sent me a bunch to try out. The ones I like aren’t fruity. Here,” he said, holding the bottle out to me. I stared at it for a few seconds, then took it, lifting it to my lips for a swig.
“It’s peppery. And kind of chocolatey? It’s nice,” I admitted, handed it back. “Not at all pissy, like every other beer I’ve tasted.”
He chuckled, then took another long swig from his bottle before he sighed. “So are you going to eventually get to what you came here for? You said you wanted to talk, so… talk.”
I licked my lips, then drank from my beer again, letting the subtle grapefruit flavor linger on my tongue before I spoke. “I… I want to know what’s going on with you, Jordan. You’ve been different lately, and I wanted to know if you were okay.”
“I’m good,” he said, too quickly. His eyes went back to the TV.
“You expect me to believe that?”
He shrugged. “You’ve always believed what you wanted to believe anyway, Nicki. So there’s no point in me sitting here trying to convince you.”
“You don’t have to get snippy with me Jordan, I’m here because I’m concerned. You’re not… predictable, anymore. One minute you’re at the strip club as many days in a row as you can get there, the next, you’re sulking at home in front of your TV after you pull off an incredible win. Is this the new normal? You fucking and pouting your way through the season?”
“Fucking and pout—… you don’t even know what you’re talking about,” he scoffed.
“Then explain it to me,” I said, turning toward him on the couch. “Because all the gossip sites were talking about before the game was the pictures of you, Cin, and her baby having breakfast this morning. Is that your girlfriend now? Your child? These are things I need to know, so that we’re making sure you have the resources you need.”
Jordan pushed out a harsh breath, shaking his head. “Cin is my goddamned friend. I can’t have breakfast with my friend?”
“Most men I know don’t regularly go see their “friends” perform naked, or pay their “friends” to grind in their laps.”
“And that doesn’t have shit to do with me. Is Cin fine as hell? Yeah. Do I enjoy watching her dance? Hell yeah. But I’m not fucking her, and I’ve never tried to fuck her. She’s there doing a goddamned job, and I respect that, because like I said – she’s a friend.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “You’re serious right now?”
He frowned. “Yeah, I am. She doesn’t judge, she gives great advice, and here’s a novel concept for you Nicki – she actually listens, unlike whatever you call yourself doing right now. If this was supposed to cheer me up… this ain’t it.”
“I didn’t come to cheer you up, I came to figure out what the hell was wrong with you, because I know something is.”
“And what are you gonna do with that information once you have it? Organize it for me?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Okay, you don’t have to be an asshole.”
“I’m not trying to be an asshole, I’m trying to be real. You said you aren’t trying to cheer me up, so I’m confused about why you want to know? For the team’s interest? Is that it? Well, fine – I’m not suicidal, and I plan to show up at practice next wee
k. I have an appointment set with the PR chick, and I’m meeting with the potential agent your assistant set me up with. There you go. Your ass is covered.”
“I’m not here about covering my ass,” I hissed, my fingers tightening around the neck of the bottle. My cheeks were hot, and tears of frustration pricked my eyes, but I swallowed them. “I… I’m here because I care about your foolish ass wellbeing.”
He snorted. “So is this business, or is it personal?”
I bit down on my lip. In that moment, I had no idea how to answer the question. The business obligation was filled the moment I saw him alive and well, and reinforced by his assurance that he was coming to practice, and hiring new people for his team. I didn’t need to know anything else. I could leave, because I’d done my part. But the thought of leaving without knowing what was happening in his head… it felt wrong.
“Personal.”
He hadn’t expected that, and I could tell. His eyes went wide, and he sat, staring at me like he didn’t know what to say. And hell, neither did I.
It would have been so much easier to lie. I could have just said it was business, so he could show me to the door, and we could both go on with our nights. Instead, I’d made it complicated.
“The pressure…” Jordan said, after a long moment of silence had passed between us. “It’s… like you wouldn’t believe. From all sides. No relief. I hit up Arch & Point, watch some ass, talk to Cin, because it helps me decompress. I don’t really kick it too close with many people, to have folks to talk to like that. Jess is too young to understand that kind of responsibility. Trent… man, what kind of asshole would I be, complaining about the game when all he wanted to do was play, and couldn’t? And my father… well, you already know about that.”
I nodded, suddenly feeling like shit. It was my job to help my players succeed, but the pressure Jordan was talking about… I’d definitely added to that. And “success” wasn’t what I saw in front of me. On the field, sure. But right now? Jordan just seemed tired.
Love on the Highlight Reel (Connecticut Kings Book 2) Page 6
