A pair of blue eyes and a heart-stopping smile filled my mind.
Ugh.
“Well you always have a home here when your need for adventure is over.” My mother coughed into the phone. “Have you made any friends? Or met any nice looking men?”
My mother seemed to think it was her mission in life to marry me off as soon as possible. She had made setting me up on horrible blind dates an art form. There wasn’t a single man under the age of forty-five in the tri-county region that she hadn’t tried to push my way.
“There’s plenty of nice looking men, Mom,” I laughed.
“Any in particular? I’m not getting any younger and I’d like some grandkids before I’m too old to enjoy them.”
“I’ve been on a date or two. Nothing serious,” I told her.
“You disappoint me,” she teased and then began to cough some more. “Sweetie, I appreciate the call but I’m tired. Can we talk later?”
I didn’t like how she sounded but I knew I’d get nowhere by grilling her about how she was feeling.
“Sure Mom, but please don’t forget to call me when you find out the EKG results.”
“I won’t. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
After we hung up I didn’t know what to do with myself. I stared at the dark television screen in the corner of the room. I wished I could watch the stupid thing. I had purchased the secondhand smart TV not long after I had moved in but so far hadn’t gotten cable hooked up. Mostly because it was an expense I couldn’t really afford. I made do with watching YouTube videos on my computer.
I tried watching a new hydraulic press video. There was something supremely satisfying about watching a press squish pieces of plastic until they were flat. But not even the sound of exploding glass could cut through the Lucas Bradley induced fog I found myself in. I couldn’t stop thinking about the smug jerk.
He really had some nerve thinking I would wait around for him after the game.
He didn’t ask, he simply told me what to do. Demanding me to do anything never turned out well for anyone. Let alone gorgeous famous football players that I wanted to kiss more than was appropriate.
He was playing a game with me. I knew his type. The player type. The ones that used their good looks to get them anything—and anyone—he wanted. And it had worked. Sort of. That night in the Thorny Rose bathroom still played on repeat in my head.
I needed to get myself a damn hobby.
Feeling antsy I got up and made myself some Pot Noodles. They were much better than the Ramen I had lived off in college. Then I sat back down at my computer. I could watch more pointless YouTube videos. Or I could preoccupy myself with a man I was pretty sure I was becoming slightly obsessed with. And just like that I fell down the internet rabbit hole as I started looking up all things Lucas Bradley.
Picture after picture of him on the football pitch. Scoring a goal. Celebrating a goal. Yelling at the referee. There were a lot of those. It seemed he was kind of a hot head.
And then picture after picture of him with his tongue down women’s throats. His hands on their asses. Falling down drunk. Passed out in a booth.
He liked to party. That was obvious. And he got himself into some trouble because of it. Just last year he was arrested for getting into a fight with a guy at a bar. Lucas punched the man in the face and broke a beer bottle over his head. The guy pressed charges and was given some sort of pay off to keep it out of court.
I found a Daily Mail article about a woman who was all too eager to share the story of her wild night with the Chester striker. It apparently involved sex toys, one of his teammates, and a whole lot of alcohol. I wondered how much she was paid to tell all.
Lucas wasn’t painted in the best light by the media. It was a mixture of hero worship by the sports pundits and salacious details about his less than vanilla personal life. He was obviously a man that people liked to talk about.
After a shower I settled back down in front of the computer, eating a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips and reading story after story about the man I had hooked up. I wasn’t quite sure why I was so fascinated with him. Why I wanted to know all about him.
I had made the decision not to see him after the game.
So why was I torturing myself?
There was a knock at my door. I glanced at the time on my phone. It was after ten. I set my computer on the couch and got to my feet.
Thad, Mr. Creepy Neighbor, had already been by today asking if I had a hammer he could use. I didn’t ask what he needed it for. I had told him no, not even bothering to smile politely, and closed the door in his face.
If it was Thad again, I would have to finally talk to the landlord about him.
