“I hope you know what you’re asking for,” he said.
“I have no idea and that’s the best part.” To McKerry, I rolled my hand, saying, “Lemme have it.”
“Here we go,” Bigelow said under his breath, slapping a hand on Hersberler’s chest.
“Fuckin’ love this,” Wilcox said, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he was ready to get in the game.
McKerry said through halting giggles, “My boy here accidentally jerked off with a bottle of self-tanner.”
Bigelow and Wilcox dissolved into hysterical, wheezing laughter. Hersberler crossed his arms and glared up at the ceiling. “Fuck you all,” he muttered.
“Let’s clarify which part of this was the accident,” I said. “Was it the jerking off or was it the self-tanner? Because I have some questions if it was an accidental jerk-off. Like, how? Just how? I mean, I’m going to have questions either way, but I want to get to the root”—Bigelow clutched his side and barked out a laugh as he crashed into Wilcox so hard they hit the floor—“of the issue here.”
“I fucking hate you guys,” Hersberler grumbled.
“It gets better,” McKerry said, tears streaking down his round, teddy bear cheeks. Beside me, Ryan shook with laughter. Ah, not so stoic after all. “It was game day, and he went out and blew up his receiving yards. So, he had to keep it going. All fuckin’ season with the self-tanner.”
“Yeah, of course,” I said. There was no reasoning with athletes and their superstitions. My second stepdad Jim was the worst with that. Always had to watch a very specific episode ofThe Simpsonswhile eating oatmeal with exactly seventeen blueberries the day of a game. And he hatedThe Simpsons.
“Now,” McKerry went on, still cracking himself up, “his dick is…”
“Orange,” I said when it didn’t seem like the bear could continue.
“And sparkly,” McKerry cried.
I pressed my lips together while they howled with laughter and Hersberler muttered to himself about having shitbag friends. Ryan huffed out a laugh that I felt on the back of my neck. “And why do you know that, McKerry? What are you doing close enough to this guy’s dick to see it sparkle?”
That was the last straw for McKerry. He bent at the waist, his hands on his knees as he fought to suck in air. “He didn’t know how to get the glitter off. He asked me if I thought he needed a doctor.”
I glanced at Hersberler, who’d tipped his head back to drain his beer. “Same procedure,” I said to him. “But instead of the tanning lotion”—I used the universal sign for jerking off—“soap and water.”
Ryan stroked his thumb up the line of my neck. “Never change, Muggsy.”
I wanted to laugh at that, but I was a bit preoccupied with the fact he hadn’t taken his hands off me in the past two hours and my body just couldn’t distinguish fact from fiction.
“Ma’am,” Wilcox said from the floor, his hand extended toward me, “I don’t know your name, but I know I love you.”
McKerry slapped him away. “Get your fuckin’ hands away from this angel. She’s obviously mine.”
“Not even close to yours, McKerry.” Ryan motioned to me, saying, “Boys, meet Emme Ahlborg.”
Wilcox frowned as he gained his feet. “As in?—”
Bigelow shook his head like he hadn’t heard right. “Any relation to the Chicago Ahlborgs?”
“Yeah, same,” I said, feeling every muscle in me draw tight. “My dad.”
I knew this moment was coming. There was no way for me to spend time in Ryan’s world without dragging along the baggage that came with my last name. It was a wonder I’d made it this far.
Hersberler groaned as he rubbed his eyes. “You fucking tools toldCharles Ahlborg’s daughterthat my dick is orange and sparkly.”
That was what it always boiled down to. I was nothing more than my father’s daughter, a branch in a great tree that hadits roots in the earliest days of American football. Someone far back in my father’s family had played on one of the first college squads at Penn. Then, a few years and probably some brain damage later, someone else in the gene pool decided to develop a regional pro league that would eventually turn into one of the four founding teams of the League as we knew it today. More than a hundred years later, the family still owned that team. My father and his sons—my half brothers—ran the organization today.
I wasn’t involved.
“No sweat,” I said to Hersberler. “The secret’s safe with me. But seriously about the soap and water. It’ll do you good.”
“I will do anything you ask if you’ll forget that whole story,” he said, a hand over his heart as he stepped closer. “Emme—can I call you Emme?”
