Or away from the devastating words at my penthouse.
I needed to get the fuck out. Her taking the ring off was a step over the line for me. It felt too final. A nail in the coffin.
Sure, we’ve been arguing the last few days. But I thought it was a blip. I have a fiery temper. Nobody was ever in danger when I was driving. She’s sensitive, I’m aggressive. Opposites attract and all that shit.
It was more than an attraction.
I fell in fucking love with her, and she just ended it.
She didn’t care that I was keeping secretsto protect her. All she cared about is that I kept the damn secret.
It’s not evenmysecret. It’s my father’s. But I’m sure as shit the one being punished for it.
The goddamn club is a full thirty-minute drive from my place, and it’s too quiet. So quiet that the silence feels like it’s screaming at me.
I could call Madden and admit he was right.
I don’t feel like it. I don’t feel like talking to anyone. I just want to sit in a corner with some whiskey and drink until I stop feeling the pain.
I should’ve known from the start that this would happen.
If anyone ever wondered why I’ve spent my life alone, this is it. I never wanted to get involved emotionally with a woman because I never wanted to endure this part of it. I like to keep things light. Simple. Fun. Have a good time, and move on to the next good time.
This? This is stupid. This pain in my chest is stupid. This feeling like I let someone else down wouldn’t fucking be there if I hadn’t let her in.
I never wanted to be like my dad—lying, keeping secrets, abandoning the very people who should come first in my life. But the more life I live, the more I’m starting to fear that I’m turning out exactly like him.
Even going to the club is a stupid idea. I have practice in the morning. We have two more days to prepare for our firstmatchup against the Giants. We leave Saturday morning for the game.
And I’m heading toward a sex club as I mourn the loss of my sham of a marriage that was pretty fucking real to me. She’ll stay because I reminded her of the contract, but she doesn’t want to be there. Is that really any better than her just going on her own terms? I’m not convinced it is.
The ride to Coax feels eternal, but we eventually arrive, and I sit in the backseat an extra moment before getting out.
“Would you like me to wait, sir?” the driver asks.
“Please.” I want to leave when I want to leave. I don’t want to wait a half hour for him to show up.
I head inside. I don’t need to show my membership card. I’m waved right in, and I pass through a room set up like a nightclub to get to the lounge. I beeline for the bar, get my first glass of whiskey, and find a chair. I look around me once I’m settled in. The action doesn’t happen in this room, but I can see the negotiations taking place.
There are a few guys from the team here. They shouldn’t be here any more than I should be. We have practice in the morning.
I spot other familiar faces. People from television or movies. The Heat is out of town tonight, but usually a few players end up here, especially since the team manager sold his stake years ago to keep his name out of the local gossip columns.
I see women flirting with men. I see men drooling over big tits.
It’s all so…
So…
So pointless.
I never felt that way before. I’d come here, get my rocks off, and head home. It was a good enough time. Usually fun. Always something I could take or leave.
But as I watch those negotiations taking place now, it feels like another lifetime ago.
I don’t feel like I fit in here anymore.
Some dudes bring their significant others here, sure. It’s their thing to be watched through the windows upstairs.
