He doesn’t seem to notice. Or he’s too pissed to notice. “Man, it’s fine, I’m over it,” I mutter. “I just wanted to fuck around, I don’t know.”
“You do know!” Bodley’s words slam into me even though he’s careful to keep his hands away, instead spearing his fingers into his stupidly sexy but machismo wavy, black mane. “You know you can’t keep doing this shit. Theywillcut you, youwillbe removed from the team, and youwillruin any chance the rest of us have of doing anything on this team. So what the fuck is going on with you? You’ve been a little shit all through preseason.”
“This is just what I am! Fuck,” I hiss, balling my fist to punch something, either Bodley or the dumpster, but he pins my arm again.
And I hate that he’s right. I’ve been buzzing since the beginning of the month, like there’s a hornet stuck beneath the surface of my skin.
“You were good last year,” he points out, releasing my arm when my fist relaxes back. “I mean, yeah, you fucked up that gala, too, and there was the stupid champagne thing at the meet and greet, but then you were good. And then suddenly . . .” He gestures to me, to all of me, like all of me is a fucking disaster, but that’s nothing new. “Is it because of the photo shoot? You had to know they weren’t going to let that one-man wet tee shirt contest fly.”
I lean back, catching my weight on the brick wall, tipping my head against it even though I know it’s going to end up ripping a bunch of hair out of my head, and I’ll probably need to get it twisted again before the next game. He’s right about that, too; I did know I was going to piss people off. “Yeah, man. That’s what it is.” I throw in a nervous chuckle for effect. “Just feels pointless to follow the rules if I get in trouble even when I do follow them.”
I say it with conviction. I say it with frustration and a sprinkling of humility, like I really do think it’s pointless and truly wish I could do better. But it’s a lie. It’s just something that’s always in me, that hornet. And I managed to shove it deep down in my gut because this is my last chance, but I’ve lost control of it again.
Bodley buys it. Enough at least to clap me on my back and say, “Maybe we find you a hobby or something. You could . . . I don’t know.”
Yeah, neither do I, but he motions for us to go back inside, and I shake my head. “You go back. I’m gonna head home.”
He nods. Last year, he would have pointed out that home is three miles away and I haven’t settled the tab. Everyone knows now that I’m just going to run the three miles. It’s something I picked up while I was on the Colts. I ignored most of the advice I was given by the therapist they made me seebecause of my ‘behavior issues,’ but the running stuck. And the restaurant has my card on file. Merrick will take care of things inside.
The square is quiet once I’m past the bubble of Camden Pizza Company. It’s hot but not abysmal, and the air has a hint of decay mixed into the clean vegetal scent, autumn on the horizon. My favorite season, of course. Football season.
I turn off the path home the moment I’m out of range for anyone to see me. I don’t want them freaking out that I got lost or something, but I want to run a little longer, and Camden Square isn’t very big. I do one loop on the grid of streets that surround it, zooming by the quilt shop I’ve run by dozens of times but never really thought about. I think it’s Gabe’s new girl’s shop. She was talking about it with my date at the gala. Looks . . . quaint. Not for me, but I bet Gabe could just loaf right into it.
When I finish the wider loop, I finally take the road out of downtown. We live in a neighborhood of McMansions, so it’s only another block before the businesses vanish and the giant fluorescent street lights are replaced with subtle golden lamp posts. The sky above opens up, a million stars suddenly twinkling. I’ve done this run enough times that I don’t have to look at the road as I hoof it down our street, with enough trees and twists that each house seems like its own kingdom.
I run in place next to my white Ferrari F430, a gift to myself for the bonuses I got for being a good boy last season and not fucking things up completely the moment I got here. I mean, yes, okay, I fucked up a bit last year. I immediately got fined for knocking over a display of champagne and blaming it on our kicker, Lin Huang, because the guy’s a douche and I hate him. And then there was last year’s gala, in which I accidentally maybe invited a senator into a supply closet tosuck my cock, but in my defense, she was hot and I didn’t know she was a senator. And then we almost nearly made playoffs, and I got a really nice bonus, and I wanted a fancy car.
I stretch for good measure, just the usual cooldown shit, and since I’m no longer feeling like getting into a bar fight but I don’t want to go inside yet, either, I pull my phone out of my pocket to see what’s going on in the world.
The usual wall of texts from people who shouldn’t have my number congratulating me for my win. A text from Gammy telling me how proud she is of her sweet Honey Bear, so I reply with a cheesy, glittery hugs-and-kisses gif, the sort that look like they were lifted right off of Myspace circa 2010.
A missed call accompanied by a text from Merrick bitching me out and telling me he’s gonna tip them two grand this time, and next time it’s gonna be four grand and then eight grand until I have to sign my paychecks over to Frank and Misty. It’s cool. It’s just money. A fuck ton of social media tags, but I’m not allowed to answer them without my babysitters from PR, so I clear them.
Finally, I hit my email, and most of it is junk. I’m clearing through it until I see one with the sender nameTrixie.
I freeze.
I tell myself I haven’t thought of the girl from Ani-Con since I dropped off the entire wad of cash I’d brought with me — less $100 for food — in a sealed envelope to the front desk. Really, I’ve probably thought about her every single day, but I don’t mean to, and the thoughts are kind of stressful.
I also tell myself it’s good that we didn’t exchange names and she has no idea who I am and we’re never going to see each other again. If what we did that night ever got out, it would ruin me. But late at night, even sometimes during the day, when I’m hanging out at home or out at dinner or literallyfucking launching the ball forty yards downfield while half a dozen linebackers plow toward me, I’m wishing she was here with me.
Not actually on the field, of course. God, they’d kill her. And that’s the other problem: I don’t know if she’s okay. She was so vulnerable that night in the hotel. She was soft and sweet and desperate for someone to be nice to her, and that makes her vulnerable. She was sick, too, and when I think about her, I get this cold dread in my gut that she’s dying and she’s alone.
It makes me nauseous.
I’m sure the name on the screen is a fucked-up coincidence. Hell, there are a million ways to contact me that would go better than emails. I’m not the only guy on this team who’s had a random pick-up contact them weeks or months later — usually with super bad news — and it’s always via social media nowadays. One of the reasons I do check my social media neurotically, even though PR won’t let me respond without their permission, is to screen for messages like that.
Most likely, it’s just another random scammer. I’ve sweated most of the alcohol out, but I’m probably still drunk enough that I’m not seeing all the weird characters the scammers use. Even when I’m sober, I struggle to see them.
I open the email, crossing my fingers it’s not going to put some insane virus on my phone. Instead, what’s on the screen are photos.
It’s her.
It’s Trixie.
From that night.
The first photo is imperfect. It’s dark and pixelated, the balance way off, like it’s a close-up of a background. She’swalking through the door, and high above her head, four dark fingers are curled around the door.
