There wasn’t a thing I wouldn’t do for the people I loved. If Shelby called and asked me to bury a body tomorrow, I’d book the first flight out of PDX and bring my own shovel. She and her ex had had somewhat of a heinous divorce when Monty was just starting kindergarten. In fact, the last any of us had seen or heard of Thayden—fuck any dude whose name ended in “ayden”—was the day he'd packed up his overpriced golf clubs that had been collecting dust for going on a decade, and climbed into his twenty-two-year-old girlfriend's mint green Ford Fiesta.
Meanwhile, Shelby and Monty had packed up their lives, including their pet rabbit, Bernard, and moved in with me. It had been a tight squeeze for the three of us—well, four, including Bernard—in my one-bedroom loft. For eighteen months, we’d fought over the one tiny bathroom, built forts out of empty mac and cheese boxes, and had countless “campouts” on the rooftop deck. It had been hectic, to say the least, and yet, I wouldn’t trade those eighteen months for anything.
“So, do you want to talk about it?" Shelby probed. "Or should I sayher?”
Her questions sparked a vision of a voluptuous blonde with a face made for fucking and an ass made for eating.
Great. Guess I’ll be jerking off for a second time today.
And then it clicked. I hadn’t mentioned blondie—I mean,Clarke—to Shelby. That meant there was only one other woman she could be talking about, and I really didn’t want to talk about her.
“Seriously, Sor. What happened?”
Apparently, I couldn’t even go a day without being reminded of Monica. Of whom the world, including my family, thought I really was. AllSin,no substance.
“The same thing that always happens.” I gritted my teeth. “I fucked up.”
She sighed. “I don’t believe that.”
“Well, you’d be the first.”
She sighed. “I don’t think you’re being fair to yourself, Sor. You signed up to be a pro athlete, not tabloid fodder.”
That was very true. Sports media had changed dramatically over the last decade, largely because of social media. Facebook had only been around for a few years when I was first drafted. I still didn’t have any social media accounts, much to the dismay of my agent. That didn’t stop the media (or my so-called “fans”) from skewering me left and right any chance they got.
“It doesn’t matter because I don’t want to talk about her anyway. Remember?”
She sighed. The deep, elongated sigh of an older sister who thought she knew better, and truth be told, she probably did. I still needed a few more days to lick my wounds though.
“Okay.”
“Thanks, Shelb.”
After we said our goodbyes, I did a quick twenty push-ups to work out my frustration.So much for releasing my tension.It was either sweat it out or jerk it off, and I did not want to take that kind of frantic energy out on my dick. I’d already jacked off once today and when I’d come, it hadn’t been my ex’s name on my lips, but instead, the southern bombshell next door.
When I got back to Bed of Roses, I traded my yoga mat for shampoo and body wash, wrapped a towel around my waist, and headed for the showers. I second-guessed myself halfway there. The sun had set hours ago, so it was already pitch black out, save for a couple strands of twinkle-lights strung across the lot. Wasit too late to shower? I didn’t want to disturb any of the other residents.
I eyed the rest of the houses, looking for any sign of life. So what if I spent an extra minute or two watching the trailer next door?
Are you awake, blondie?
Something told me there was a fiery minx hidden under that fluffy-robe and gruff exterior, and that was something I wanted to further explore. At another time, when the frigid temps weren’t tickling my balls. There was good ball tickling and bad ball tickling, and this was most definitely the latter.
I started the shower in my go-to stall, the same one I’d used every day since I’d arrived in Rose City, and dropped my head to my chest, rolling it side to side to release the tension that had set up camp between my muscles.
The field was my church, but this was my sanctuary.
I’d never been a man of faith, but I worshiped at the altar of bathroom-tiled bliss.
There wasn’t much I was certain about: Dominic DiMaggio was better than his brother Joe, you should always add extra butter regardless of what the recipe called for (thanks, Mamaw), and showers were the cure-all for just about anything.
Can’t sleep? Feel sick?Page Sixhounds you after your popstar girlfriend dumps your ass? Take a shower.
So maybe it wasn’t a cure-all foreverything, but generally speaking, there wasn’t much that couldn’t be solved with a good, long, melt-your-skin-off shower. It was where I did some of my best thinking. And jerking off.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Speaking of jerking off . . .
