STORM
THE NEWPORT HERALD
Giants’ fans' hopes ofGunslinger, Reed Prescott, remaining with the franchise through the rest of his career are shattered after trade interest from the Patriots.
How did I get here?
That relentless question revolved around my head daily ever since I’d first seen him on ESPN.
Reed Prescott.
Reed had changed over the last few years and had become even more gorgeous, if that were at all possible. He was one of the best-looking guys on the team; his body was now incredibly athletic and packed with solid muscle, almost like a weapon on the field. Animal magnetism and rugged, masculine physical perfection at its best—the type that would turn any girl's insides to mush. That honed physique was also a testament to how hard the strength and conditioning Coaches pushed their players.
On TV, he came across so shrewd and confident: his voice lower, rough, and raspy, the type of sound that hits you directly between the thighs. Reed Prescott owned every interview I had seen so far, and he was sharper, self-assured, and breathtakingly formidable.
He was an unapologetic version of the man I always knew he would be, forged in the violent crucible of the football field. A place where Reed now shone as one of the highest-paid, youngest quarterbacks in the NFL, at just twenty-four.
I remembered staring at the television the previous week, open-mouthed, until Jasper had walked in and rudely turned it off.
“Is he going to be a problem?” the man who was still my fiancé had questioned, somewhat nonchalantly. Jasper had glared at the blank screen where Reed’s face had been, his thin, wiry frame bristling with annoyance. His calm tones never matched his body language.
With a snort of feigned disgust, I’d managed to reply. “Of course not.” It was better that Jasper thought I believed Reed was still beneath me, which wasn’t the case, no matter what our friends and his brothers had once thought.
And now I was winding myself up by paying attention to my ex’s fucking press daily.
After seeing Reed interviewed that first time by an overzealous, chesty anchor on the news, I’d been filled with that incessant need to find out more. So, I’d weakened and googled the star sports celebrity, and now that question had sprung up regularly.
How did I get here?
It usually crept in towards the end of the day, when I was tired and feeling extra sorry for myself. A profound combination that affected me both physically and mentally.
Reed Prescott: the one that got away. But was he really? If I were the one who so foolishly let him go.
Feeling a headache brewing, I leaned back into the buttery leather of my car seat. Jasper’s voice bled like a sliced artery through the Bluetooth system. Listening to my long-standing fiancé drone on about rich-person problems reminded me of everything I had lost, more than what I had gained.
Picking at my manicure, I attempted to tune him out. I had finally agreed to set a date for our wedding. Our nuptials were well overdue, but I’d made a deal. I wouldnot speak the words ‘I do’ until I’d carved out a career for myself, but the clock was now ticking, and I had run out of excuses.
I swiped at my cell, closing another story I had been reading about Reed.
You need to move on;my alter ego reminded me again. And I knew that was the right advice, so why did I find it so damn difficult to follow?
Because you’re still in love with him.Reed, my ex-love, and that one boy from my past whom I couldn’t forget. I lowered my hands to my lap, considering I was getting married in a few weeks, I knew I had to. Easier said than done.
I was now a qualified clinical psychologist on retainer by the Rhode Island Patriots to provide mental health support to their players. I worked three days in the stadium offices, and volunteered one day at my old High School. And, as of Monday morning, Reed Prescott would become a Patriot and one of my clients. What were the fucking chances?
And why was the star quarterback being advised to see a shrink? Suspected Intermittent Explosive Disorder. Reed couldn’t control his temper, and as part of the terms and conditions of his new contract with the Patriots, he had to attend a course of therapy.
Enter, Storm.
From what I had read in the media, the rationale behind Reed being traded to another team was commonplace when teammates didn’t get along. The Giant’s players Reed Prescott (QB number forty-seven) and Kyle Anderson (C number fifty-five) had a love-hate relationship. After several clashes on the field, it had been declared that keeping them both on the same team was no longer sustainable. Being only two years into a four-year rookie contract, Reed had been traded from the New Jersey Giants to the Rhode Island Patriots, much to Lance Rogerson's dismay. Lance was the Giants’ coach and had seen Reed as his protégée.
The agreement was made on a player-for-player swap: the Patriots would gain Reed and lose Mario Luthor, an already established defensive end, and an elite asset. After much negotiation, both teams confirmed they were content with the trade.
The decision made headline news with whispers of nepotism: a popular problem within the guts of the NFL. The comments rang true, considering Kyle Anderson’s father, Jonathan Anderson, was one of the private owners of the New Jersey Giants. The tabloids stated it was a fix. The Giants defended the decision, reporting that Anderson's contract had a no-trade clause. Something that hadn’t been there when both parties had originally sealed the deal. Reed’s contract had no such agreement.
“Are you still there?” Jasper’s voice huffed, cutting into my thoughts.
The loud rev of a motorcycle flooded the inside of the car, and I glanced out of my window. “Yes, I’m still here,” I replied as my gaze zoned in on a biker guy who had pulled up next to my parked car. His bike was a red sports BMW model; stunning and clearly expensive. And for some strange reason, from the direction of his helmet, he was staring into my car.
