Wannabe More

by Billie Dale

  Choked up and breathless I swell with pride for the successful player he’s become. Those equations are mine, the exact ones I taught him. The segment ends and tears fill my eyes. He takes his position, sweeping a gaze over the crowd from left to right. Halfway through his eyes find me, the red drains from his cheeks as the smile leaves his face, but he doesn’t have time to react. He’s distracted, missing passes and fumbling shots, twisting his head to find me every few steps. The announcers’ question what has him snaking the crowd.

  I bolt from my seat, racing up the stairs into the lobby. “Oh man, that was a hard fall,” bleats from the screens lining the wall. A glance up stops my retreat. Mazric sits near the foul line, clutching his ankle as trainers swarm him.

  “Jake, did you see how far his foot turned? He’s not coming back from that anytime soon.”

  “Sickening, Bob. I sure hope whatever had our star’s attention in the crowd was worth it.”

  I can’t listen to anymore. Wetness flooding my cheeks, I run out the doors and hail a cab. While I wait for my plane to board, I text Cardinal telling him an emergency came up and I needed to leave but to please not tell Mazric I was there. He agrees a little too easily, offering to ship my bag, knowing the same thing I do. I might have ruined Mazric’s career.

  HENDRIX COLLECTS ME from the airport. I sobbed the whole flight. My eyes and throat burn, but I have no tears left. He stops at a gas station, ordering me to clean up my face before Mazzy Jae sees me. His mention of my daughter sends me into another hiccupping snotfest, minus the waterworks.

  We pull in the ranch and I’ve caught my breath but my daughter is not stupid. My red nose and swollen eyes will give me away. The screen door bangs open but it isn’t Mazzy, its Joe and Carrie Lynn.

  “Ah, honey.” Carrie wraps me in a hug, and damn it, my tear ducts find more moisture.

  “I didn’t tell him and because of me he’s hurt. The look on his face. His emotions waged a full battle in between blinks. Terror, relief, astonishment; he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. I should’ve left the millisecond his eyes met mine but, Carrie, I loved watching him play, and then there’s this thing he does for the fans.”

  “The Vortex Variable. I figured you’d like that. But, Sammy Lee, it’s not your fault and Mazric is fine. I knew he’d found you in the crowd when his game went to shit. He’s got a hairline fracture and a few pulled tendons.”

  My photo mind scans through my medical knowledge. “He’s out for the rest of the season. Might make the playoffs with tons of physical therapy. No permanent damage,” I spout, relief rushes through my veins, turning my legs to jelly. Good thing Carrie’s got a grip on me or I’d be on my ass.

  “I spoke to him, Sammy, so stop winding up your guilt mobile. He was joking and said he’d enjoy the break, pun intended. Though when I told him there was no way you were there, he thinks he’s seeing ghosts of girlfriends past.”

  “He still doesn’t know about MJ. Speaking of, where is my daughter?”

  “When Hendrix messaged with how upset you were, I asked Asia to come take her for a pamper day. Don’t worry about telling Mazric. I was wrong to push it.” I raise a brow, widening one eye. “Yes, I can admit I was wrong, now get that look off your face.” A laugh shakes my chest. “The time will come to tell him, and when it does, you’ll know. Now enough. Joe’s got a surprise to show you.”

  Pappy’s movements have grown stiff. Years of demanding work wore out his knees and hips, making him use quads or a Gator to navigate all the land. He leads us to the set of four-wheelers in the barn. Carrie climbs on behind him and he orders Hendrix and I to follow on another.

  We bump down the lane toward the pond. Joe skids to a stop at the clearing Mazric found for our first time together. Thanks to my stupid eidetic mind, the scene flashes forward with perfect clarity. The look in his eye, feel of his skin, the way he moved within me. My breath grows short and my skin flushes hot at the memory.

  Under the alcove of trees red tape ribbons off the area and yellow flags dot the ground.

  “It’s time for you to move out, Sammy Lee. Since I refuse to be far from Mazzy, I’ve decided this will be your home. The building crew arrives on Monday and I got a guy coming later to go over blueprint options. I figure you helped make all this damn money we’ve got, might as well build you the house of your dreams and, Hendrix, y’all aren’t together, but you're welcome to live there too.”

  He leaves no room for argument because he throttles his quad and speeds away so fast Carrie almost falls off the back. I’d been thinking about getting a place for Mazzy and me but had been putting it off because the last time we made a go of it alone, it sucked. She’s older but the fear is still there.

  Sunshine plays through the barren tree branches. The wind rustles, blowing a chilled wintery breeze off the pond. I couldn’t have picked a better place to build our forever home.

  Forty-Seven

  Present Day

  MAZRIC

  “YOU LEGIT SEE NOTHING wrong with what you’re doing?”

  I stop shoving items in my duffel long enough to glance at his shocked, incredulous frown. “What? I fail to see the issue here, Curry. I’m going home to claim the woman I’ve loved since I was ten years old. It’s all romantic and shit. Sam’s gonna love it.”

  He tosses his hands up in you’re hopeless frustration. “Mazric, man, you found your fiancée cheating on you with one of your teammates. You’ve been photographed with numerous women over the past however many years, and not to state the obvious, but this is the same girl you left behind after screwing her for weeks. You bolted when she needed you and she’s ghosted you for the last eight years.”

  Curry hits my crux but I don’t want his logic and truth. He’s on point but he doesn’t know Samantha Lee Gentry like I do. Or like I used to. Hell, maybe he’s right and she’ll kick me to the curb after detaching my nuts. I should’ve picked her years ago, but I let anger keep me away.

  We both made mistakes. Huge unforgivable chunks of our souls turned to ash by decisions made in the heat of heartache. I’ve ignored the magnitude of what I felt for her because it scared the shit out of me. Seeking solace, burying my pain inside every sexy pair of open female legs I met trying to block the fact that Sam is a mom.

  Yes, I found my teammate, Jordan Pipen, balls deep in my fiancée and it ended up plastered all over the internet and gossip tabloids from here to kingdom come, but I was on my way out of that relationship anyway. Meloni Tate might be every man’s wet dream, but a blunt, smart Sam is where my heart lives.

  “Like I said, you don’t know my Sammy. She’s not like other women,” I reiterate, continuing to pack up my locker.

  “So she’s a robot?” he asks.

  Blink. Blink. My mouth fishes but I have no answer to his absurdity.

  “No woman on earth does a happy dance over you spontaneously showing up to proclaim your undying devotion, after she’s seen you pledging your future to another woman. Not even one of those big blue Avatar chicks, who fuck with their tails, would like the scraps you’re throwing. Either this Sam is not breathing or you’re stupid as fuck. Didn’t you say she has a baby?”

  His words stir my doubt. We have a lot of past to make up for, but I’m not leaving until she hears me and agrees to talk. Realization says I’m screwed, but Curry’s reasoning will not deter me. Even the small voice in the back of my head chiming its fuck-all opinion isn’t stopping me.

  “Sammy is genius smart. Her brain doesn’t stick on trivial bull like the stage five clingers we’re used to. We lost touch, I fucked up, and I will take the blame for being a total cum stain but she loves me, always has, and it’s time she knows I feel the same and I can’t wait to meet her daughter.”

  Bag shouldered, I fall into the wall when Curry shoves by me. Because of his height I can’t tell who he’s thundering toward until he speaks. “I don’t know how you got through security, but you need to turn your skinny ass around and leave. Maz has nothing to say to y
ou, Meloni.”

  “Get out of my way, Curry.” Her haughty voice rakes down my spine, making me wonder once again what I ever saw in her.

  You want to know why I proposed? She looked good on my arm, was hardly ever home between her schedule and mine, and it seemed like the next logical step. I’m almost thirty and my PR team was tired of putting out the fires my playboy lifestyle created. I never loved Meloni, or any of the other women, they were placeholders for the one I let go.

  I should be angry over her infidelity or hurt, but between you and me, she did me a favor. Her relationship with Pipen made her the bad guy, and I skip off to my real destiny without being the bastard who left the supermodel for the small-town gal.

  Curry towers his six foot seven body over Meloni’s five foot ten. His back muscles, tense from his stare off, flex when I clap my hand on his shoulder. “I got it, dude.”

  He spins to face me, his dark-skinned forehead wrinkled, but my I don’t give a shit posture has him resuming his position behind me. Meloni straightens, standing taller in her fuck-me heels and expensive, minuscule black dress that barely covers her ass. She’s immaculate and waging war with her good looks. From the hair extensions reaching down her back to the airbrushed dewy sheen of her skin, she means business.

  “What do you want?” I ask checking the time on my Apple Watch.

  “We need to talk. You refuse my phone calls and you haven’t come home. I hate being here, Mazric, this room reeks of sweaty ballplayer,” she whines.

  Clenching my teeth so hard they crunch, I push air out of my nose. “We’re done, Meloni. Your message came through loud and clear when I found you banging Pipen in the bathroom during a charity function at the Clinton Museum. The penthouse is yours; I won’t be back.”

  “No. I refuse to accept this is over. Jordan Pipen was a one off, an accident. You and I make sense. Now stop this foolishness and come home.” Her manicured nails scratch up and down my arm.

  For the first time since I laid eyes on her years ago, I shudder in revulsion. Even my cock gags, recoiling and he’s the primary reason I’m in this mess to begin with.

  You’d think men would stop leading with the brain in their second head. It never ends well. I mean the sheer square footage for thought capacity is nothing even in the most mammoth of cocks, yet we allow the mushroom-headed fucker to rule when pussy is within scenting distance.

  A barking chortle snorts free. “An accident? Like oops his dick fell into my slit? Granted it is quite a hole, but I doubt the accuracy of your description of events. Scamper a few rows down. You’ll find Pipen primed and ready. I have a plane to catch.”

  My fist tightens on the strap of my bag as I shove past her and out the door, ignoring her screech of my name and proclamation that we’re not finished.

  Flashbulbs blind me outside the stadium followed with a barrage of shouted questions about my relationship status. The viperous paps clambering for any tidbit to publish. I pull a baseball hat from my back pocket, tugging it low, before fishing for a pair of sunglasses I would’ve already had in place had the bitch not distracted me.

  Disguise in place, I find my driver and jog to where he holds open the door of a blacked-out SUV, not exhaling until he seals me inside. Before the sigh can finish, the opposite back door yanks open and Curry folds his large body inside, chucking his bag over the back of the seat.

  “What are you doing?”

  He shrugs his huge shoulders. “As your best friend, I’m obligated to accompany you for moral support.”

  “Moral support?”

  He hits the back of the driver’s seat. “To the airport, my man,” he instructs before turning a bright white smile my way. “Not gonna miss you crashing and burning when Miss Samantha is less than impressed with the stellar groveling of the one and only Mazric Vortex.”

  Forty-Eight

  SAMANTHA

  “JESUS, SAMANTHA, HOW are you breathing in here?” Hendrix stands in the door, using the knob to fan away the smell.

  “I needed to bleach my eyes and the whole you’ll go blind thing wasn’t appealing. This is the next best thing.” My mop sweeps another pass on the linoleum, sending up more eye-burning fumes.

  “You crazy-ass woman. Where’s Mazzy? She shouldn’t be killing her lungs in here.”

  He rushes to her room, coughing harder the closer he moves to the kitchen. “At the barn feeding the horses,” I answer, he halts outside her door.

  With his shirt pulled over his nose, he detours opening all the windows. “Care to tell me what brought about this episode of membrane insanity?” he muffles from behind the collar covering his mouth. “Shit, how is this not turning your brain to gravy?” He moves to the sink, drains my cleaner, grabs my hand, and drags me to the front porch.

  “You men,” I huff, throwing up my hands, “suck.”

  “Spill, Samantha. Why are you trying to incinerate your retinas?”

  “I went to see Brett. Thought I’d be spontaneous and offer him a lil’ something over lunch. Turns out I was too late, he was already getting it from our VP of operations.” I shiver remembering the sound of slapping flesh.

  “George! He was fucking George?”

  “Having a ball slapping dirty time.” I nod. “Man, my butt clenches imagining the agony, but George was face down, desk gripping, ass out having a good ole time. And thanks to my stupid forget nothing brain, it’s a scene I can’t erase.”

  A year ago, we moved Home Vittles to the outskirts of Lexington. Vetted a handful employees through a stringent security check and set up shop in a fresh, new two-story office house, surrounded by acres of farmland. I remain the owner and the president of research and development, but delegated the rest of the responsibilities. Brett Michaels, not the lead singer of Poison, unfortunately, was the best qualified CEO we interviewed.

  After the news of Mazric’s engagement to Meloni hit the news, I decided it was time to jump in the dating pool, but I do nothing half-assed. Nope, I leaped in feet first and sunk in the undertow of the deep end. I went on a few bad dates before I gave in to Brett’s flirting and repeated invites to dinner.

  Hendrix steps in my path. “Did they see you?”

  “Not at first. They were really going at it. Guess I know why he never made a move on me. I thought about grabbing his swinging pleasure-filled nuts but decided I didn’t want to risk an assault charge when I ripped them from his body. So instead, I waited for them to finish. Watched George spray all over the expensive oak desk, gave an applause, commenting how the dismount was wrong, then drew a diagram on the whiteboard as I fired them.”

  “Shit, Samantha. Brett was the best applicant you had. You said he was irreplaceable.”

  “Damn it. What was I supposed to do? We’d been dating for four months. FOUR and he was gay the whole time? Why even pursue me?”

  “Sucks being someone’s beard,” he whispers, squinting at a spot over the trees.

  “Hey.” I wrap my arms around his waist, nestling my head under his chin. “I’ve told you a zillion times you were never a disguise. After almost eight years, the mystery of Mazzy’s father died and she loves her Uncle Hendi.”

  “The secret still pulses inside the heart and head of one person,” he says against my hair, sighing a deflating breath under my ear.

  I step back, meeting his blue eyes. “Hendrix, I—”

  “Enough. How about we head to Jukebox Jake’s to drink away your dating woes?”

  “I’m better suited for spinsterhood.”

  “You’ve taken three men for a test run, and you’re resigning to a life with cats, knitting, and frumpy dresses? Granted you could build a YouTube channel on how to date a douchebag, but you can’t give up yet. They weren’t so terrible.”

  “Right,” I sass. “Johnson looked perfect on paper until he disappeared with all my panties. Cleaned out my drawer and took the dirty ones too. I had to go to Walmart commando just to sheath my ass. I spend little on my clothes but I enjoy a nice, lacy pair of un
dies. He made off with an expensive lot of coochie covers. Taught me to never date a man named after the appendage between his legs. Then there was Alejandro, who I met through the dating app you demanded I try. His profile said he was a Latino mogul with dark skin and ripped muscles. He was a pasty white, balding, five foot nothing, thirty-five-year-old troll who lived in his mother’s basement and wouldn’t stop talking about Minecraft and FortNite. Oh, and his name was Alex not Alejandro, and the only Latin thing about him was his love for tacos.”

  “Again, I say you should start a video series. Save other woman from your dating disasters.”

  “There’s already a book series about douchebags and they all have a happy ending. These twat washers I’ve been dating aren’t worth the energy.”

  He shakes his head. “Step away from your guilty pleasure of romance novels and eighties movies. Happiness doesn’t occur without effort. We could try us again.”

  I shiver remembering the morning I woke up next to a sleeping, mussed-haired Hendrix Carmichael. His bare sculpted chest moving under my palm, the rough hair of his leg rubbing mine, and the prominent bulge digging at my hip where he curled beside me.

  Bad drunken decisions for the win.

  TOO MUCH WINE LED TO a kiss. An awkward meeting of lips with too many teeth and uncoordinated tongues. His soft blond strands twisting in my hands as the heat of his palms grip my ass. Legs locked around his hips we stumble to the bedroom. Behind squeezed tight lids, I fight the stomach roiling feeling of wrong. His fingers lift my shirt, skating beside my belly button to the underwire containing my chest. Tongue tasting of grapes and body smelling of warm chocolate he grinds between my thighs, hard and wanting. The calloused guitar playing rough edges of his fingers scrape the lace of my bra. For fuck’s sake, this is Hendrix playing me like his favorite song but I can’t get out of my head.