“Nurse?” she croaked, her pale, watery eyes fluttering open and then closed. Her throat sounded dry and scratchy and I reached for the beaker on the dresser, holding her head while she swallowed a sip of tepid water.
“I’m here.” I lay her back down on the pillows, turning up the dimmer lamp by her bed. The room instantly warmed under a subtle glow.
Nellie looked at me, a brief frown adding more wrinkles.
“Angel?” Lost clarity enriched her voice. I had no memory of the when she’d last used or known my name.
I leaned in, stroked her hair through my fingers. “You remember that?”
She coughed, almost choking, and I gave her more water. Her body started to relax again. When I thought she’d fallen asleep, her glassy eyes peeled open. It took a massive amount of her strength just to focus and look at me.
“Nurse?”
“Yes?”
Nellie’s milky eyes sharpened with weak determination. I’d have given her my energy if it were possible. She could have it all. “Could you tell my husband that I’ve been looking for him?”
“Grandpa Killian? I can call him right now.”
She stopped me fleeing from the room to call Grandpa with a hardened grip on my fingers. “I’m tired now.” The tip of her tongue ran slowly over her thin, dry lips.
Her eyes were already closing, body slumping even more in exhaustion from our conversation. Then her eyes pinged open, startling me. “Where did you put my wig? I’m swinging by the bank tomorrow.”
“Grandma, you have your own hair.”
Her veiny arm lifted, fingers tapping around her skull and latching onto a group of white flyaway hairs. “Where did that come from?”
I lowered her arm into the sheets and tucked her in. Every movement drained her. “It’s always been there.”
She seemed to nod, drowsiness lulling her under. “I’ll rest my eyes a minute, if you don’t mind.”
“No. You go to sleep, I’m right here.”
While she was in a rhythmic and deep sleep, I tucked my legs under me in the chair that I already hated and rearranged a pillow behind my head to make myself mildly comfortable. My eyes ached with a pulsing exhaustion, but adrenaline still flowed in my veins from hearing my name, keeping me wildly awake.
Eventually, tiredness won out and my eyelids grew too heavy to stay open. I dozed off as the sun embarked on the very beginnings of its early descent, the sky a stain of dark blue through the crack in the curtains. A half-moon of pale blue light touched the rooftops, a sign of a new day breaking.
By the time the sun had risen, Nellie O’Hara had been pronounced dead.
“J ulian.”
The media circled me, microphones and recorders pushed under my nose from every direction. I turned my head to where the blonde waited for my attention.
“Julian,” she said again, her lips painted in an immaculate rich red. “An unstoppable rushing touchdown in only your third career start, and a fifty-yard pass to Jay Carlion that led to the first six points in the game. How do you feel?”
I’d handled interviews in college, and this was no different to me. Simple question, simple answer. It was saying too much that caused problems. I tugged down the hem of my t-shirt, seeing as I’d barely been given time to dress and my abdomen was still exposed.
“We played well,” I said. “Kept the ball moving down the field. I feel like I sent the ball to all the right places. There was no win but, as a team, we worked hard. We earned every single point today.”
A male reporter from one of the local news stations spoke up. “And how are you settling in with the Dolphins?”
“Just fine,” I said. “It’s only the beginning of the season, but I’m lucky to be here and playing alongside some of the biggest names in the game. I’m excited to see what the rest of the season brings.”
I turned to look behind me, making sure my profile stayed in camera view when another reporter asked, “And what’s your opinion on Gabe Sentenna’s shoulder injury?”
“Obviously our defensive line felt that absence today, but we held it together like we had to. We’re missing one of our strongest, and I know myself and the rest of the team just want Sentenna to get healthy and back in top physical condition. The main thing will always be his health, that’s what’s important. But I’m sure he can’t wait to get back on the field, either.”
“With less than a handful of professional football games under your belt, are you ready for the Patriots next weekend?” It was the blonde again, and out of all the suits she was sandwiched between, she showed she had the biggest balls, firing question after question at me. She raised one eyebrow, like the Patriots were something I should be afraid of. I smiled. It would go down better on TV than laughing.
“I’m ready for anything,” I said, raising my own eyebrow. “Especially the Patriots.”
When the head coach, Marlon Good, was done with us, the rest of the day was mine. And in a city I’d lived in all of two minutes, and the only people I knew were my teammates who had lives of their own, that was a lot of time to myself.
Outside the stadium, I signed autographs for patient fans and smiled for pictures with girls wearing the Dolphins jersey tied at their midriff, my number plastered front and back. When I finally made it to my new Range Rover, I checked my phone for messages from Angel. I was pissed when I saw my screen was jammed with only social media notifications and a message and missed call from my mom. Angel had said she’d watch the game, but she couldn’t have. She’d have been the first to drop congratulations. We hadn’t won the game, but we’d improved.
The growl of an engine roared outside, and I rolled down the window, looking down at Carlion’s white Lamborghini Gallardo. Highest paid receiver for the Dolphins, with one of the sweetest rides. “Yo, Rookie.” Kendrick Lamar pounded from his speakers. “Tonight. Club Adelphi. I better see you there, man. Team bonding starts now.”
I hadn’t partied once since signing for the Miami team, practices and training taking up all my time and my priorities. Then there was the media side of it; how I conducted myself in public, how seriously I was taking my new job. Whether I wanted to take my best-self out onto the gridiron or turn up half-assed and worn out from the Miami lifestyle.
Fuck it. What was one night out—one club? I could still have a good time and not cause a scene. I was a professional athlete. I knew my limits. “What time?”
Jay’s face split into an animalistic grin and he made a whooping noise, his foot hitting the gas pedal and waking his growling supercar. “Nine. You are in for the time of your life, brother.” The car revved once more and he took off, faster than was legal.
I sat in the lot a little longer, typing out and deleting a message to Angel that I decided would be a bad idea to send. The game had only been over an hour and thirty minutes at the most. I’d give her more time. Angry texting my girlfriend from across America was a dumb idea even for my standards. I’d go out, have a drink, and forget about it.
My apartment was only a twenty-minute drive from the stadium, and I made it in fifteen. I locked the Rover away in the underground parking garage and let myself into the sleek, white and glass complex. The building was nice; a little fancy for what I was used to, but fuck if I was buying a place. Miami mightn’t be forever—it was for now. And I still had a paycheck to live off. I wasn’t about wasting money, and I never have been.
I rode the elevator the top floor, not because I got off on sitting high above everyone else, but because this was the only apartment available in this building, and the price and location were damn good. I had a view of the beach in a low-key suburb, I was near to work, and my new three-bedroom home was big enough for when Mom, Taj, and Angel came to stay.
Loosening my silk tie with one hand, I grabbed a bottle of iced water from the fridge with the other, then sprawled out on my oversized leather sectional, flicking on the TV. I switched the channel to ESPN, but I was too wound-up about Angel, or lack of her, to relax enough
and listen to what was being said. I left the channel on, barely focusing on today’s game highlights.
My body ached like fuck. I’d been lying parallel so long that the street lights had come on outside. The condo would have been in darkness if not for the glow from the sixty-five-inch television, and surrounding floor-to-ceiling windows letting in light from the sidewalks.
I stretched out, my body rejecting the idea of moving. Stiff from the game earlier, I moved slowly to the bathroom, stripping out of my shirt and dress pants to spend at least thirty minutes under the walk-in’s hot jets.
I could’ve happily just crashed tonight, but the risk of blowing up Angel’s phone was too high, and I needed her to make the first move. We weren’t even a year in to this being apart shit, and already cracks were starting to show. If she couldn’t even call, what was the point?
From my closet, I picked the first outfit that had been dry-cleaned. A fossil gray Ralph Lauren sweatshirt and graphite gray dress pants. There was a valet service at Adelphi, so I drove there with the intentions of getting an uber home.
The club was busy, and I’d bet it had everything to do with most of the Dolphins players that were already inside. Carlion had texted me to meet them on the rooftop, and I headed straight there.
Inside, it was wall-to-wall women, some in thong bikinis and the rest in not a whole lot else. A pool lit up the roof, divided down the middle with a stocked sky bar and stools, and blue floor lights studded the surrounding patio. Illuminated high-risers formed the view, stretching for miles along the beaches.
I couldn’t see Carlion, but there was a blonde making her way across the patio in a figure-hugging black dress. She held a champagne flute in one hand and a glittering, gold purse in the other. “Rookie,” she said, an intentional smile arching her trim eyebrow.
It was the reporter from earlier, and I had my suspicions she knew in advance that we’d be here tonight. “No interviews,” I said, making my stance clear.
A waitress in a silver mini dress sauntered by and the reporter snagged a glass of champagne from her tray, handing it to me. “No interviews,” she agreed. I accepted the drink, swallowing it in one. Champagne wasn’t my thing. It tasted like carbonated shit. “Maybe we could talk off the record?”
“Yo, Rookie!”
Fucking hell. I had gone from Seven to Rookie. My mom wasted her time naming me on the birth certificate. She could have saved herself the registration fees.
“Get over here and bring that fine piece of ass with you!” From a crowded seating area on the other side of the pool, Carlion hoisted up a bottle of liquor, waving it at me.
The reporter smiled, already turning on her heel. “Guess that’s my invite.”
“So my man Julian here”—Carlion’s big brown hand rained down on my leg—“I don’t know whether to fucking love him or take him out. Man’s got skills, no doubt about it, but he’s the prettiest motherfucker on the team now! It’s a damn shame for all these other hos that he’s already got steady pussy.”
Internally, I cringed. If Angel was here now, she would lay out him and me for speaking about her like that.
Erik Masters, starting tight end, picked up the Hennessy from the table and gulped it from the bottle. He stood the bottle on his thigh and pointed to me, relaxing back into his plush chair. “There’s always hos, Rookie. You just gotta be smart about it.”
The reporter, whose name was Angela Valentina, piped up next to me, aiming an accusatory glare across the table. “Aren’t you married, Erik?”
Erik cupped his crotch, smirking at Angela when her steely gaze refused to waver. “Separated. You’ve still got a chance with me, baby doll. You’re always in the locker room, anyway. Let’s make that shit personal… I’m down for whatever you are.”
Angela turned to face me. “Bit of advice, new guy. Don’t ever listen to these assholes. They may know football, but they know not a fucking thing about women.”
I swirled the cognac and ice in my glass. “Don’t think that’ll be a problem.” I was bored, and I’d drank more than expected only a few hours into the night. There was no chance these guys would let me duck out early.
I could still feel Angela staring at me and I looked to the side, ready for what she had to say. ’Cause she was going to say something. She didn’t know how to keep her mouth shut for longer than a few minutes.
“I meant it when I said tonight was off the record. These guys trust me, and for good reason. Work is work, and right now, I’m off the clock… and so are you. So tell me, your girlfriend, she’s all the way in California, right?”
I didn’t like where this was going, and I answered with caution. “Right.”
“And how’s that working out? The Miami scene—baller lifestyle? She’s cool with that?”
“Listen, if you think she’s sitting at home pining after me, you’re wrong. She’s got her own shit going on, her own life.” The look Angela gave me confirmed that hadn’t come out right. Traces of my bitterness set my tone over Angel’s absence and I knocked back my drink to give my mouth something else to do.
“Why didn’t she move out here with you?”
So Angela wasn’t done with the off the record grilling.
“Why do you care? You say this is between me and you, but what’s with all the damn questions? How do I know this isn’t some story you’re researching on piece-of-shit football players who can’t keep their dick in their pants?”
My sharp tone must have carried because Carlion made eye contact, a what the fuck? look on his face. “Sexual tension?” he asked, waving over one of the scantily dressed waitresses. He motioned to my drink and the waitress picked up a freshly-opened bottle of Hennessy from the middle of the table—which I could have done myself—and re-filled my empty glass.
As she set the bottle back on the table, Carlion’s arm snaked around her waist and she squealed, dropping into his lap. His lips brushed her neck without verbal consent before he was slapping her ass as she walked away. The waitress giggled and then Carlion’s attention returned to me and Angela.
“If you two fuck, be sure to do it in the pool so we can all watch.” He grinned, exposing his gold tooth.
I snickered, but only because he meant every word. How he hadn’t been charged yet for sexual harassment was one of life’s miracles. If I’d have been in that waitress’s shoes, I would have grabbed him by the balls and twisted till the circulation cut off.
I kept out of most of the conversation, occasionally checking my cell for any messages.
Still none.
“You never really answered my question.” I’d been inside my own head for so long, I’d forgotten Angela was sitting next to me. “Why isn’t your girlfriend here? I’m asking as a friend, that’s it.”
“She’s in college and she’s holding down a job. Like I said, she has shit to do. We see each other when we can.”
“And that really works out okay?”
I didn’t feel like lying, and she sounded genuinely interested. Or confused. “Sometimes. Sometimes not.”
Angela moved forward in her seat, uncrossing her slim, tan legs. The ends of her blonde hair swept over her cleavage, and my gaze dropped when she made a show of scooping it behind her shoulders, her chest jutting out as she did. She finetuned her gaze, green-blue eyes narrowing. “None of this fazes you, does it?”
“Depends what you’re referring to.”
“This”—she waved her hand in a half circle—“this club, your sudden VIP status. This amazing life you’ve stepped into, your pocket-bulging salary. You could handpick any woman you want. Take anything you want.”
“I earned all this,” I said defensively. “And everything you just listed doesn’t mean squat to me. I’d play ball for minimum wage if I didn’t turn pro. The money’s a bonus that only an idiot would say no to. The NFL means you’re playing with the best, and I want to play with the best. I want to be the best.”
“I know that,” Angela was quick to say. “I know
you don’t actually want to be here with these drunken idiots. I can see you’d rather be someplace else with someone else. I know you’re all about the game. But one day…” She leaned in a little closer, her perfume drifting under my nose. “One day that will change, and you’ll step into your role the way you’re supposed to. And if what you have now back in California comes crashing down around your feet, you’ve got friends here. Friends who can be with you every day, and I’d really like for you to think of me as one of them.” I watched her as she stood, smoothing out her tight skirt. “Just something for you to think about, Rookie.”
I didn’t leave the club until after two a.m., and instead of feeling drunk, a pounding headache pulsed at my temples. I dropped down face first onto my bed, and I was asleep on impact.
The incessant buzzing that had barged through the fog in my brain was only just starting to register as my phone ringing. I stayed face-planted into the pillow while I groped around on the nightstand for the annoying piece of technology that wouldn’t go silent. My fingers finally landed on the glass screen and it dropped to the floor when I slid it toward me one inch too far. “Fuck,” I muttered, sitting up and leaning down for the damn phone.
The display showed six missed calls, all from Coach O’Hara. It was dumb he was still saved in my contacts under that name, seeing as he wasn’t my coach anymore, but I still hadn’t grown the balls to just call him Michael, and he wasn’t getting a Sir out of me every time I had to speak to him. I called him back and he answered on the first ring.
“’Bout time,” he spat, and I felt my jaw set.
“What is it?” I asked, the pounding in my head screaming its full-blown return. I got up to go hunt down some Tylenol. I was still in last night’s clothes, minus my shoes and socks. I couldn’t have slept through my alarm because it was dark as coal out, the streetlights still on.
Losing Seven (Falling for Seven Book 2) Page 2
