Love In the Red Zone (Connecticut Kings Book 1) (5 page)

I turned onto my back, feeling my subconscious fading. My head jerked at the piercing sound from nearby. I turned to my side, not fully awake. The next ring snatched me out of my sleep. My eyes blinked open and head leaped from the damn pillow. I glanced at the time. It read 4:47. Who could be calling this early in the morning?

Fuck!

Shank
…

“Hello?” I growled into my cell.

“Oh, Jesus!” he sucked in a breath.

“Pete?”

“I’m so glad I caught you! I’ve been calling back to back.” He exhaled into the line. “I know you’re an early riser.”

“What is it?”

“Listen, kid, I got really wasted last night. My younger brother’s getting married and I let his friends use my condo for his bachelor party. I didn’t join in, but I did close myself in my office to get some shit done while they brought me countless Apple Pie on the Rocks. You familiar with that, TB? It’s made with fireball apparently.”

My face swelled in anger. “Pete, man, you calling this early in the morning to kick it about some frat boy shit?”

“No, man! No! Of course, not!” he cried a new octave, feeling my wrath. I liked Pete because he was a good guy and straight shooter, but dude was about to get cussed the fuck out if this was some drunk dial. I’d never known him to do that, but he wasn’t making a lot of sense. “Look!” He took a deep breath. “I drank so many of those fruity things, it snuck up on my ass. I fell out here at my desk. The first thing I did—after taking a major piss, of course—was check my email. There was one from Nate Richardson.” That name got my attention. Nate was the son of the owner of the
Connecticut Kings
, Eli Richardson. “He sent it late last night saying he’s heard whispers of the league considering re-instating you. So, that got him talking to Eli Richardson, who, as you know, held out as long as possible before cutting you. Richardson said if the league is going to do something this unprecedented, he’ll be damned if anyone else will recruit you.” My chest started pounding. “If all goes well with the league, they want you to come in and sign paperwork to use their facilities to train.”

What?

Now, I couldn’t tell if I was dreaming or not. This was…insane!

“What’re you saying, Pete?” I couldn’t gain a hold of my damn vocal chords. They were flopping, producing a pre-pubescent sound.  

“It would be their way of observing you to see if you’re in league shape and still with professional stamina. Apparently, they’ve heard about your performance level at Rutgers.”

Months ago, I stopped trying to resume a life I’d forfeited when I was convicted. I’d been laying low since, no longer wanting the limelight. I had to focus on my life. Yeah, I still had some paper in the bank, but nothing that would sustain me if I didn’t get a new gig, and definitely nothing that could maintain this big ass house if I didn’t resume a salary similar to what I made in the league. I’d been smart with my money, but I couldn’t live on my current savings forever.

“What’s supposed to happen now?” I asked, still dumbfounded.

“I told him I want to meet right away. It’s still early, so I have to wait for him to wake up to respond,” he added dryly.

“A’ight. I’ll wait to hear back from you.” I rubbed my eyes, trying to wake up the other half of my brain, because the current one couldn’t process this.

“All right, brother,” Pete assured before hanging up.

I lay there for a moment, going over what he’d just said. This was unprecedented. Almost no convicted player is let back in the league after being locked up; Mike Vick was a rarity. I couldn’t get my hopes up over something that was unlikely to happen to a regular Camden dude like me.

Before putting my phone back on the nightstand, I happened upon a missed text. It was from Ezra Carmichael—my unofficial pastor. Technically, he hadn’t been installed yet and was still assistant pastor—and one from Brielle. I ignored Brielle once again and tapped on Ezra’s thread.

Ezra:
I need to meet with you right away. This morning if possible.

I immediately returned his text. As I typed, my mind took flight with the possibilities of the emergency.
Why would E wanna meet with me right away?
Ezra wasn’t just my pastor. He was my therapist for a minute. I’d known him since before I got signed to the NFL. He just got back into the country and started helping out his pops, the first pastor, around the church. The first thing that struck me about him was his energy, which was on freeze all the time. My man, Jeremy Harris, another NFL quarterback, went to
Redeeming Souls for Abundant Living in Christ
in Harlem, New York. Harris played for the Giants and had been mentoring me. When he invited me to church with him my last year in high school, I had no legitimate reason to say no. I didn’t believe I’d like it, but went with the flow. When I met Ezra and was able to kick it with a minister who didn’t look or act like one, but was also in no way a hypocrite, I kept coming.

Me:
That’s what’s up. What time?

Ezra made sure we weren’t overwhelmed by the fanfare of the congregation. I wasn’t signed at the time, but had a name as a future-leaguer. He also made sure we were covered with our personal lives. I don’t know how he was able to do it, but he got me to a place where I wanted to become more spiritual. I wasn’t with no holy-roller shit, but I needed to know more about me and my purpose here. People would assume it was to ball, but I saw the fakes and the phonies as my name spread across the country from my skills on the field. I saw through the fake ass smiles and offers to be “cool.” But with Ezra, I was just Trent. He never asked me about my future, only wanted to know about my current state of mind and the condition of my heart. Harris told me I could trust him, and was right. Ezra is the one who put me in touch with my current attorney, Edward Chesney, when I got signed. Chesney got me hooked up with the right finance team and their guidance is the only reason I was still in my ten-thousand-square-foot home while unemployed.

Ezra:
Nine am at the coffee shop in Closter.

I knew the place. We’d met there a few times when I was in counseling. It was now five, which gave me plenty of time to pray, get a run in, and put in a good hour of weight lifting before showering and heading over to Closter.

Me:
See you then

I let out a long breath, forcing myself to start the day. Pulling from my abs, I sat up, rolled over, and swung my feet to meet the floor. My first decision was to push the dark shit from my head so I could focus on the tasks of the day.

I headed over to the corner table near the window when I made it to the coffee spot. My hood hung over my head and mind was reeling with so much. I had too much time on my hands and yet no opportunities. I’d been praying and waiting and nothing had happened. It was driving me crazy. I admitted to feeling alone last night while finishing up on a circuit of strength training routines. All I did when alone was pray, workout, and listen to old Stevie Wonder albums. The only things I did with others was church and volunteering with the football team. I’d been home for six months and felt more alone than any other time in my life. Shit, I thought I experienced desolation when I was locked up, but this shit is even more depressing when you’re a free man. You feel some kind of way about being alone and not wanting to be around anyone at the same damn time.

As I looked out into the shop, I noticed a tall suit with a bearded face approaching me. Ezra. I stood, removing my hood.

“Ezra!” I offered my hand, glad to see him looking clean and shit. We shook hands and then, out of nowhere, he pulled me into a hug. “Good to see you, man.”

There was a brief freeze in his hold before he released me then held me at arm’s length. It seemed as though he was examining me, something that was the norm with Ezra. He could sense the shit out of the tiniest mood, making him good at what he did in therapy as well as on the pulpit.

“Do we need to resume our session? When I discharged you it was because you’d met your treatment goals and could function independent of guidance,” he asked with scrutiny in his eyes.

I snorted, quickly deciding to move this conversation into a different place. I didn’t want to come off as weak or needy, though I knew I could be real with Ezra. There weren’t many men I could get real with other than Shank and my pastor.

“E, man, you know how it goes. Sometimes you have your good days and others you have your not so good days. Ain’t nothing I’m not managing and giving over to God through prayer and fasting.” I tried for a smile. “Have a seat, man. You’re looking debonair as usual. Your swag turned up a few notches. Is that what marriage does to you?” I laughed, knowing that would rattle his otherwise cool temperament.

He returned a crooked smile that was loaded with something I could grasp. He was married now. That expression could have meant anything.

Marriage
.

“That, and makes you reconsider every thought before it becomes an action.” He snorted.

“I hear that, man. It’s a beautiful thing, and you deserve it.” I meant that. Ezra was a straight up dude. No gimmicks. “You’ve held out long enough. I thought you’d be like your boy, Bishop Jones, and never marry.”

“Bishop has been married.”

“Really?” I felt my face ball. This was news to me. I’d never seen Bishop Jones, a mega-pastor out in California, with a woman. He was a known, trusted friend of Ezra’s and a televangelist like him, too. Bishop Jones had been in the game a lot longer and was older. He was widely respected and had a certain draw to the ladies. He’d been in tabloids like me, allegedly attached to women in Hollywood. I never asked Ezra about the truth behind the rumors. Every man had his weakness and more often than not, it was the opposite member of the species. “I thought he was like Paul and opted for singlehood and ministry.”

“No,” Ezra shook his head, his mouth curved to the side. “That has been his preference for around twenty years since divorcing, but he has children by his wife, whom are older than you.”

“Wow?” Again that was news. Whenever I’d been in his presence when he wasn’t speaking at
Redeeming Souls
, it would be briefly in passing with Ezra at a function. Ezra introduced us once and Bishop talked shop about my career, being familiar with me, but outside of that, I knew little about him other than what I’d observed. “I know the ladies love him. I’ve seen him out at functions. He’s a magnet out there!” We both got a good laugh out of that one.

“Yeah. The ladies love Bishop,” he confirmed.

He was a friend of my pastor’s. A close one, I could tell. But other than that, I didn’t know him. Didn’t really care much about his personal life. I was just making small talk with Ezra, who I knew had that chick magnet swag in common with Bishop, only he was younger. I studied the way the women would respond to his presence over the years, but I never got the impression Ezra was beat for it. Like, the moment he took to the stage or entered a room, his presence dripped a certain elegance that drew that type of attention to him.

Even when I brought a few of my friends in the entertainment industry to church with me when Ezra was speaking, the ladies in particular, would always ask about him. I recalled Brielle even twisting in her seat when he began a sermon one Thursday night. Everyone in our section couldn’t stop stealing glances at one of the biggest pop star artists around sitting at their church, flanked with body guards, and she couldn’t get enough eye fucking time in with the preacher innocently doing his job. She asked me in the middle of service who he was and if he was married. Mind you, I’d just fucked her twice that day before church.