Getting traded in my tenth season is a punch to the gut. I haven’t bonded with anyone here because I don’t really want to. I didn’t bond with anyone in Dallas, either. Every time I tried, they’d leave anyway. Just like everyone.
So I stopped trying.
And that’s who I’ve become. The guy who hates everything and everyone except for my sport. My bad attitude is what got me sent here, though some would argue Vegas is likely the exact wrong place for someone like me to be.
Yet here I am.
I guess the Aces think they can fix me. Coach Nash can set me on the straight and narrow.
Good fucking luck.
People have tried, but not a single one has been successful.
I’m fine the way I am. It’s far easier not letting anyone in since every time I have, I’ve only ended up hurt.
My phone rings, and I click off the call without answering. It’s my agent. The voicemail will be there when I’m done playing poker. I can’t pick up a call at the table anyway.
I should get up. I should take it as my signal that it’s time to go. I should stop throwing money right into the pockets of whoever owns this godforsaken place and get a good night’s sleep ahead of tomorrow’s practice.
I don’t.
Instead, I just keep drinking. Just keep playing. Just keep losing. Just keep chewing on that tiny little cocktail straw until I feel the sharp edges digging into my gums to remind me that I’m alive. It’s the same reason I keep going back for more ink. The needle injecting ink into my skin is fucking addictive, a reminder that I may have numbed the inside, but the outside can still feel everything.
Maybe it’s why I’m addicted to football, too. I live for feeling the pain because pain’s a hell of a lot better than the hollow feeling of being numb.
Every time the cocktail straw digs into my gums, I’m reminded ofher.
I don’t want to think about her. Ineverwant to think about her. When I do, sometimes a piercing ache slips through, andthat pain is far worse than some temporary needle driving against my skin.
I raise my bet to give myself something else to focus on.
It’s a distraction technique. Raise the stakes somewhere else to combat the memory.
She’s the reason I choose to be numb.
A woman wearing a red slip dress with a black jacket over it sweeps past me, the scent of her perfume following behind her. It’s intoxicating, and my eyes flick to her ass and trail down to her tall, black heels with red on the bottom.
Could I see those heels wrapped around me as I pump into her? Abso-fucking-lutely.
Is it going to happen? Not tonight.
I’ve learned my lesson when it comes to women.
The occasional one-night stand is about all I can stomach these days, but I’m at a point in my life where even those are fewer and further between than they used to be. People know me—or they think they do, anyway. They know who I am, and it’s inevitably the same story.
The woman runs to social media to brag about her night with a future football Hall of Famer. It never has anything to do with wanting me for anything other than bragging rights.
I’m sick of it.
I’ve gone the nondisclosure agreement route, and the woman was offended—not because I asked her to sign one, but because she couldn’t brag about our night.
So I’ve written women off at this point.
It’s easier this way.
I’m not getting married again, and if someone did happen to come along who wanted me for more than bragging rights, isn’t marriage what she’d want in the end anyway?
It’s off the table.
