“You can’t let that personal stuff interfere with what we’re doing, though. We’re trying to win rings in this locker room and that’s all we’re fighting for or about… championship rings.”
“Yeah, man, I got you.”
After Proctor walks away, I contemplate whether I’m going to make the call I need to make. It’s the obvious choice, a simple choice, but not the nicest thing to do.
Miranda Green works in the Human Resources division of the Nighthawks and is someone I used to sleep with on an occasional weekend off. She’s an attractive woman who will make some guy a very nice wife, but ourthingwas a mistake for that very reason. She’s looking for a long-term commitment and I’m not, at least not with her.
When I ended it, she was brave about it and didn’t show any signs that her feelings were hurt, but I knew they were and I felt like a jerk for doing that. So now that I need to ask her for a favor, I’m wavering. It’s some dickhead shit to ask a favor from someone you’ve hurt. She may possibly read more into it, or she just might spit in my face. I really shouldn’t do this. My parents didn’t raise me to be this kind of man, but the problem is that this is about Mia.
My Bird.
Between paying her bills, sending money to Mandy, and dealing with everything thing she’s been through since she blew out her knee, she needs a reason to get up in the morning. She needs to work. Meaningful work.
And for Mia, I’ll do just about anything.
Even if it’s against my better judgement.
Six
MIA
“Excuse me,but aren’t you Rush Bacchetti?”
Rush shifts in his seat uncomfortably because he’s never gotten used to being recognized out in public. It’s actually one of his most endearing qualities, but the attention and his modesty about it can also be annoying. I just wish he’d just sayyesand sign the damn cocktail napkin so his fan can be on her way. Then we can talk about more important things… like my life and that cut on his face.
“Yes, he’s Rush Bacchetti,” I tell her, because it’s taking him entirely too long to answer.
“Really? Would you mind signing an autograph? I’m a huge fan. My entire family is.”
The early 2000s Nighthawk paraphernalia she’s wearing, and the defined lines across her forehead give away that the woman is probably a middle-aged, long-time fan. I don’t have any problems with those women. They’re true blue and deserve an autograph.
I nudge him under the table with my foot.
“Sure,” Rush agrees reservedly.
He signs the napkin with a signature that looks like chicken scratch and hands it to the woman.
“Thank you.”
But I knew it was too good to be true because after her come the cluckers.
Cluckers are women who aren’t real football fans but groupies who strut and spread their feathers for Rush to notice so they can fuck him senseless and spend all his money. He had them in college a lot, but these adult ones are a different breed. I’ve seen nothing like it. They have no shame.
“I look forward to seeing you kill it this season, Rush,” one of them clucks.
She’s short with long dirty blonde hair and curves that are practically bursting out of her clothes at the seams. I dare her to eat one more French fry. She’ll probably rip her clothes to shreds right in the middle of this bar.
Rush gives her the smallest of grins in return and thanks her.
“Thanks.”
“Are you busy after this?” she asks with zero bashfulness. “Want to come to my place?”
“I’m busy all night.” He responds as tactfully as he can.
“Is this your sister?” She references me as if I’m something unimportant that’s in her way.
“Do we look related to you?” I retort with an obvious attitude.
