Ten? Fuck me, it was Sunday, God’s Day. I didn’t say anything; I was buzzing from finding out she wanted to see me.
When the server came back over and the boys ordered a round of Jägerbombs, I took that as my signal to leave. I’d only had one beer and the drink from the mystery woman with the generous boobies. It wasn’t my intention to get wasted, especially not now that I knew I was seeing Storm the following day.
I must have done a respectable amount of mingling, as Mia didn’t give me one of her death stares when I said I was leaving. She just nodded and explained that she’d cover for me if there were any questions from the people who had press passes.
After replying to Phoenix’s asking me where the fuck I was, I grabbed my shit and headed for the doors. As I went to walk past the blonde at the bar who’d beenmaking eyes at me, she slid off the stool. She was tall for a woman, the killer heels bringing her on a level with me.
“You’re leaving already?” she said in a breathy voice.
“Yeah. Sorry. And, for the record, I’m taken,” I replied with a soft grin. She wore way too much perfume. Like that flowery shit Storm kept in her sock drawer.
Her eyebrows inched towards her hairline as she smiled back and said, “Lucky girl.”
“Thanks for the drink.”
“You’re welcome.” I applauded myself for not glancing at her tits once.
I left the club and took an Uber to the Touchdown Tavern to meet my brothers.
It wasn’t that I had anything against celebrating with my team, but I had shit to do and wanted to be near my family. I needed their advice. The situation between Storm and me was trying, and I had every intention of doing the one thing I never did: asking for help.
After paying the cab driver, I pulled my baseball cap lower, the bill almost scraping my nose. I was dressed down in jeans and a tee, no football colors in sight.
The street was dark, but there were plenty of people hanging around the sidewalk. Younger girls and guys dressed for the clubs, and a few clusters of people were drinking outside the bars that were all next to each other on the strip. Thankfully, they were all too engrossed in their conversations and didn’t pay me any attention. Just how I liked it.
I noticed that Mario’s takeaway was still open, releasing that smell of grease into the air: my brothers and I had eaten there many times. I was surprised it hadn’t been shut down due to the number of people who got food poisoning from one of their dodgy burgers. Mario’s was famous for its dirty meat. During our college years, we’d always end up there at the end of the night, after getting wasted at the Tavern. That shit only went down well when alcohol had dulled the fuck out of your taste buds. Nix never joined us; he cared too much about what he put in his body. I remember him saying that whenever we suggested a Mario’s that his colon would tighten. Nice.
The cab pulled away, and I glanced at the opposite side of the street, my eyes scanning the treeline there. The park was opposite the club, and in the distance, I could see a few kids kicking a ball around, playing soccer. Again, another haunt of the Sawyer brothers when we were too young to get served in the bars. We’d play ball for hours and get shitfaced on booze we’d asked older kids to buy us from the closest 7-Eleven.
After firing off a text to Mia, I turned away and jogged across the parking lot towards the bright, tacky lights of the bar. I could see Hudson and Phoenix occupying one of the booths through the half-steamed-up windows: empty bottles littering their table.
As the neon lights from the venue hit me in the face, the hairs on the back of my neck bristled, and not from the breeze. It was that feeling I got when I was being tailed: usually by the media. The press could be relentless, but I was sure no one had seen me leave the stadium’s club lounge.
Checking I had my wallet, I wondered who could have followed me. Our starting running back, Marshall Drayton, had been shmoozing with all the female reporters who’d managed to get a ticket to the party. You needed a pass to get access to the club lounge. I remembered seeing them taking tequila shots together on the counter: as professional as ever, and the other two guys who took pictures were also distracted. I had mastered the art of disappearing over the last three years, and so I was sure my leaving had gone unnoticed.
The air was stained with diesel fumes and cheap perfume. Smiling to myself, I walked past an older couple in the middle of an argument. They were standing by the wall that surrounded the lot. The man kept jamming his hand through his hair, a sign of his frustration as he attempted to deny her accusations. The girl was shouting, waving her arms around, and talking about another girl named Kelly, oh dear.
Instincts kicked in, forcing me to glance back towards the park, there it was again. That sense of foreboding that came from being watched from the shadows. It wasa totally different feeling from when the fans watched you on the field. It carried a sinister vibe.
I decided against making my suspicions obvious as I briefly scanned the sidewalk. Reporters usually high-tailed it when they knew they’d been rumbled. The best pictures taken by the paparazzi were the ones snapped when you are unprepared. The messier the image, the more cash they’d sell for.
As I peered across the road, I could see there was no one: no one who stood out anyway. Shooing off that paranoid feeling, I nodded briefly at the security man who was standing by the open doorway into the bar.
There was a group of kids smoking to one side, and I gave them a wide berth as one of the girls clearly checked me out. I could spot members of the media instantly; they usually stood out a mile from your average Joe.
Saturday nights at the Tavern hadn’t changed. The place still held that faint aroma of stale beer, mingled with desperation, but it was a place where I could be myself: away from that pretentious, unrealistic bubble that came with stardom.
Although we’d won the game, the second half had been as gruelling as fuck, and my entire body ached from taking one too many rough tackles. I also had a long season ahead, and being new to the team, I knew I had my work cut out for me. The pressures to overperform were intense: that shit affected you physically and mentally. Combine that with what was going on in my personal life, and I was surprised my head didn’t explode. At least the Tavern made me feel like a regular person for a change.
As I headed towards the guys, keeping my face angled towards the floor, I flexed the fingers on my throwing arm; the tendons there were stiff.
The TV on the wall over the counter was showing highlights from the game. That was where most of the attention was focused, and so I sailed by without any interceptions. As I said, I wasn’t dressed in our team's puffer jacket or their colors, so hopefully no one would join the dots.
The noise from the bar washed over me like a rogue wave. The joint was busy, with wall-to-wall people, and laughter bounced off the exposed brickwork. Most of the tables were occupied, and a few guys were propping up the bar. I usually hated crowds, but they gave you anonymity: something I needed that night.
A naff Twenty One Pilots song was blaring from the sixties-style jukebox in the corner, but the sound of the TV and the pissheads talking almost drowned out the music.
Circling my shoulders, I navigated through the throng while dodging elbows and spilled drinks as my eyes met Hudson’s. He waved me over, motioning towards the bucket of beers he had on ice in the center of their table. At least I didn’t have to go to the bar. I managed to steer around a boisterous group of college jocks, also without being recognized.
