Jasper Dean Remmington the Third, as he’d been introduced, ignored my offer of a handshake and left me hanging, and that never happened. I wasn’t embarrassed by that, but I was angry. I had every reason to hate the guy, and he had no reason to hate me. In my mind, he’d never found out about Storm and me.
I weighed him up off the bat. He was an uptight jerk with delusions about his own self-worth, and jealous waves rolled off him. You saw it on the field all the time.
And what was with his lame-ass name: Jasper. It sounded like it belonged to an eighty-year-old man.
He could have, at least, tried to hide his animosity. As soon as I arrived and spotted him with Mr. Summer’s, I was already running ideas through my head as to the best way to fuck him up. But did I make that clear at ‘hello’? That would be a big fat no, which I then regretted.
The tension between us crackled as we silently watched each other. I’d dropped my hand quickly, and his rudeness had gone unnoticed by our party. We were all interrupted as a group of people swamped us, asking for my autograph. It wasn’t long before they were politely moved on by security.
“Sorry about that,” Dominic Summers, the now ex-mayor of Newport, explained red-faced. He told us that the last time there was so much commotion at the club was when Wood’s turned up to host a charity gala. Woods, meaning Tiger Woods. I found his comparison amusing, considering I was nowhere near as famous or as talented. Not at golf anyway.
A flurry of less-than-stimulating conversation then ensued, most of it about my trade to the Patriots. It turned out that Storm’s father played college football when he was young and was quite the contender.
“Dominic was a linebacker in his heyday.”
“Cool,” I replied, automatically wanting the guy to like me. If I were to have a future with his daughter, I needed him on my side. The fact that he didn’t appear to be looking down his nose at me gave me some confidence that I could bring him around. I wasn’t a kiss-ass, but Storm worshipped the man, and so I had to try.
As we made our way towards the green, I could feel Jasper the ass-wipe staring at me. I had only been in his company for ten minutes, and I was already bored to fucking tears. What Storm saw in the douche I would never understand. Although from what Nix had said, theirs was a ‘business arrangement.’
All he did as we signed in and dealt with the paperwork was brown-nose Summers. Any comments I made, even if they were to Phoenix, were frowned upon by Jasper. What the actual fuck had I done? Nothing, yet!
Status, it must have been a status thing.
It was a bright day, and the course was busy. I wondered what brand Nix’s clubs were, as Jasper bragged about the new Callaway clubs he’d just purchased. I’d toyed with the idea of buying some last-minute, but decided against it. I’d played golf before, but only nine-hole loops, and the rest of my experience was on the driving range. That day, I had signed up to complete the full standard, eighteen holes. Who knew how that would go? But I’d try my best.
Phoenix and Dominic were organizing a couple of kids to caddy for us, which left me alone with Jasper. As he started to fiddle with his clothing, I glowered at the man whom I suddenly envisaged killing with my bare hands.
We were standing outside, and the sun was shining, but you could cut the atmosphere with a knife. I wanted to know what the hell his problem was. It was almost like he knew I’d fucked his wife-to-be in the past. Either that or he was jealous of my success and fans. I got that a lot.
I nodded along with a semi-interested expression as he showed me his clubs. They were leaning against the wall on the patio next to another pristine set and one which had seen better days: Phoenix’s shit, no doubt.
Guests of the club meandered past us on the patio, which spread around the entire club. There were tables and chairs out there, some of which were occupied with couples enjoying a drink in the open air. You could hear several matches going off on the green in the distance. A few people did double-takes as they passed us. Others spoke briefly to Jasper and shook his hand. I ignored a couple of women dressed in golfing attire who hugged him and cooed about his forthcoming nuptials. When they walked away, having expressed their congratulations on the dick marrying my girl, the look he gave me was priceless. Smug, for some reason. My gut churned as several alarm bells went off in my head.
Did he know about Storm and me?
Jasper clearly expected me to be gobsmacked by his greatness. Yeah, not happening.
“So, I hear you’re getting married soon? How does it feel, the thought of finally tying the knot?” I could taste those words at the back of my throat like cheap vodka. He must have sensed I was being insincere.
“It feels good. We’re both ready now. It’s been a long time coming,” he replied. I wondered if he was subconsciously admitting that he was shit in the sack. I perversely translated his words to Storm ‘took a long time coming,’ in my head.
An awkward silence fizzed around us as I feigned interest and nodded my head.
After five more agonizing minutes of waiting for the others, Jasper filled the silence. “So how does it feel being kicked out of the Giants?”
He was such a ballsy bastard. I pushed to my feet, having been in the process of re-tying my shoelaces. I’d used prepping myself for the game as a distraction. To stop me from saying something I regretted.
The gloves were off, and without blinking an eye, I pointed out. “I wasn’t kicked from the Giants, I was offered a better deal,” I stated in a brisk tone. As soon as the words were out, I regretted them. My response suggested that I felt the need to explain myself to the prick, when I didn’t need to do that at all.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” It was probably a stupid move, but I couldn’t help sharing a contrived character assessment. I grinned and pointed a finger, analyzing him psychoanalytically. “Let me guess, you failed to make the team at school?” He opened his mouth to reply, but I cut him off before he could spout any more bullshit. “And now you hate all athletes?”
The cocky motherfucker bounced right back as he replied with a head tilt. “Are American Footballers considered athletes?” Jasper said with feigned confusion.
I lowered my hand. “We’re in America, you can just say footballers,” I batted back with a smirk.
Jasper cleared his throat and started to fiddle with his golfing glove. “Indeed. I was more into lacrosse in high school.” His tone had changed and was less prickly.
