As I made my way to my room, I bumped into Phoenix. “Hey, where’s the fire?”
I stepped back and cocked him a look.
“Sorry,” he said with a grin. “Force of habit.” I’d always found it interesting that he took his job so seriously, yet could joke about fire.
I fought the urge to groan, hugging my body with my arms instead. Should I tell Nix that Jasper was threatening me? Phoenix and I were tighter than we used to be, but if I were to confide that my soon-to-be husband had plans to maim his brother, the shit would hit the fan big time. I couldn’t allow anything to knock this shit offtrack until I knew more about Jasper and his father’s plan for us to unite. That unsettled feeling circled my head. There had to be more to it than protecting his sexuality. Surely. Maybe I should talk to my father.
“Just tired. A disagreement with Jasper about button holes,” I lied.
He frowned down into my face. “Button what?”
“It’s fine. Forget it.”
“Is Jasper in Dad’s office?” Phoenix asked.
“Yes,” I replied with a nod.
I watched as his eyes narrowed. “He seems to be in there a lot. How the fuck does he get a key and I don’t?”
“I know. I don’t get it either.”
“OK. Anyways, I need a word with him, so I’ll see you later.”
I smiled and walked away. Leaving Phoenix to interrupt Jasper and his father’s meeting, whatever the fuck that was about.
Hopefully, it had nothing to do with me.
How wrong I was.
TWELVE
REED
My meeting with management went well, but practice afterwards had unfolded with brutal efficiency.
In-season training was relentless on the body, especially after a recent game when you were already bruised to fuck. I felt like I’d just run six miles in full pads. That’s flush drills for you. Fucking mean. I’d heard in the locker room that the team’s previous QB swallowed his tongue during a particularly stretching flush variation.
The classroom shit wasn’t so bad, but the physical, on-field stuff, was a killer. I ended up sleepwalking through most of it the morning after Storm left my hotel suite. We started practice with a walk-through and carried out some drills before shit got serious. Our GM’s ‘get your head in the game’ comment was chorused by my overly vocal teammates.
I also almost passed out during a sequence of shuttle runs and earned myself a slap on the back of the head by our center. ‘You can’t throw for shit’ was the theme of his complaint, as we struggled to fine-tune the perfect snap. He then started to comment on past players who had failed to live up to their own hype. Just what I needed.
Restless energy that always lived under my skin felt particularly volatile that day. Suffice it to say, I didn’t make the best first impression with my teammates. We were also working with a new coach, one who was known in the industry as a world-class dick: a badge Coach Ryerson more than earned that Sunday as he chewed me out for slacking. His periodic shouts from the sidelines were all aimed at me.
As the week went by, I managed to redeem myself with Ryerson and got to know the players better. They were less rowdy than the guys who played for the Giants: the camaraderie more cemented and less same-side competitive. I still got my ass kicked during practice.
They also had other things to discuss besides women. I’d soon gotten sick of locker room mentality with my last team, and listening to sweaty half-naked guys talking about pussy all the time. Although Nathan, the Patriots' kicker with a shorter fuse than any other player, did tell us a story about his most recent conquest, which was entertaining. It turned out he was dipping his wick in the company ink, and by company ink, I mean one of the cheerleaders. Fraternising with anyone on your team’s cheer squad was strictly forbidden: that shit ended careers, although not that of the players. Of course not. They were the stars of the show. If a player was caught fucking a member of the cheer team, they got a slap on the hand, the female participant got canned: one of the many imbalances between the sexes in the sporting world.
The rest of the week was taken up with a series of events all related to football, including film studies sessions, tactical preparation meetings, and press appearances, all in time for the big game against the Bears on Saturday.
But no matter what I was doing, Storm was always on my mind.
All I could think about was our stupid fight. That night we spent together had been so right, and for us to have parted on such bad terms was eating away inside of me. It didn’t help when my assistant Lisa called and gave me the details of my new shrink. Dr. Daniel John Meadows. I’d met him on Thursday and, dull as shit, summed that fucker up. I certainly didn’t go into detail about my past, but I knew I had to make it work for the sake of my probationary period with the Patriots.
The words I had thrown at Storm came back to kick me in the ass. Why had I told her it was best for me to transfer counselors? During our session, when I confessed about my time with the Palmers, she got everything from me without even trying. Her keen understanding expression had tapped into that part of me that I had kept bottled up for too long. Talking to Storm about the guilt I was struggling with due to my silence all those years ago had been liberating. Saying those words to the only girl who had ever truly understood me had worked. For the first time, I had let thatshit out without the fear of being judged or scrutinized. But the ugly, resentful side of me couldn’t let it go, and so I’d shot my mouth off.
Having Storm as my backpack as we rode my bike together with the ocean beside us felt so special. When she’d first appeared around the back of the Ritz in those jeans that made her ass look spectacular, my dick had stood to attention in a nanosecond. Her pants were so tight I was surprised they didn’t cut off her circulation. I’d never enjoyed the ride so much, having her arms wrapped around me in such a way.
Fuck, I hated arguing with her. Teacup had always suited the meaning of her namesake.
