The Baller (21 page)

“Brody. You’re just in time. Get a pad and paper.”

I furrowed my brow.

“
Wheel of Fortune
is about to start,” Willow explained. “Remember how the three of us used to—”

I looked her right in those big eyes. “I know when her shows are on. And
we’re
not doing this.”

Her bright face faltered. It should have made me feel better, but instead it did the opposite.

“You don’t want to play?” Marlene asked.

“I’m going to sit this one out.” Marlene looked disappointed, but the moment Pat Sajak came on TV, her face lit back up. If only we all had something that made everything okay, even if only for a few minutes. I stole a fleeting glance at Willow. She used to be my Pat Sajak.

When the first puzzle came on TV, the two of them fell right back into a time warp. Back in the day, the three of us would sit on the long plastic-covered couch in Marlene’s living room. We’d write down our letter picks before the contestants called out theirs and keep track of how much we’d win if they guessed our letter. What Marlene didn’t know was that Willow and I had secretly played for sexual favors. Whoever earned the most at the end of the show got whatever they were in the mood for that night. Most nights I let Willow win, just so I could hear her tell me what she wanted me to do to her.

The visuals came flooding back.

Willow at sixteen, looking up at me as I hovered over her. Her lips swollen from hours of kissing.

I hate you.

Her sitting up, her hair a wild mess, as she pulled off a white T-shirt. No bra underneath. My thumb tugging on her bottom lip, which she sucked between her teeth nervously.

I hate you.

At the sound of my chair abruptly skidding across the tile floor, Willow jumped. “Bathroom” was all I offered.

Refusing to concede my time with Marlene out of principle, I stayed for a while more, quietly sitting and trying to avoid any real interaction with Willow. When it was time for lunch, I helped Marlene into her wheelchair and brought her down to the dining room.

“I have to get going. Practice this afternoon.”

“You two work too much.” Marlene’s usual lunch table was waiting for her. I made sure she was comfortable and said my goodbyes before heading back to her suite to grab my jacket.

I heard the door creak open, but I didn’t turn around as I slipped on my coat.

“I made cupcakes,” Willow said softly. “Red velvet with cream cheese frosting.”

I stared out the window. “Not hungry.”

She took two steps toward me and stopped. I could see her reflection in the window. “Do you want me to avoid certain days?”

“Do whatever you want. Makes no difference to me.”

She nodded. “I saw the game yesterday. You know, you still do the same little celebration in the end zone that you did in ninth grade on the field at Kennedy High School.”

I hated that she
thought
she knew so much about me.

I hated
her.

She didn’t know anything about me anymore. I made sure she knew it before I walked out the door. “I celebrated inside my girlfriend that night, not in the end zone.”

Delilah

The only time I didn’t mind my boss popping into my office was when Indie was around. Mostly because Mr. CUM literally tripped over things when he came near her. Today, it was the garbage can just outside of my door.

Indie had spotted him coming down the hall and leaned over my desk like a barfly trying to attract attention in a pool hall full of horny cowboys. Her already tight skirt looked ready to bust at the seams as she wiggled her ass suggestively.

“Nice to see you, Charlie.” She stayed bent over my desk and looked back over her shoulder to speak to him. No one called Charles Ulysses Macy “Charlie.” Except Indie.

“Indie.” He cleared his throat. “You’re looking well.”

She smirked. “You’re looking at my good angle.”

I interrupted before he could respond. “What can I do for you, Mr. Macy?”

“Yes . . . Um. We need you to cut a sixty-second spot for the playoffs.”

“Really?” The sixty-second spots were always done by the big-name reporters and well-known faces.

“We need the female draw, so we’re making the spots two reporters—one of each will be a woman.”

“So you’re basically using her for her body?” Indie stood and folded her arms over her chest.

“Um . . . no. We . . . ”

“Relax, Chuck.” She rested a hand on his arm. “I was just a little jealous. No one has used my body in a while.”

Poor Charles had to adjust the growing bulge Indie was inciting. I actually came to the pig’s rescue. “I’m happy to have the opportunity.”

“Good. You’ll drive down with Michael after the game on Sunday. Do a spot with Mara in Miami on Monday.”

“Michael?”

“Langley. That’s who you’re shooting your spots with.”

It took me ten more minutes to get Mr. CUM out of my office. When he was gone, I scolded Indie. “Why do you insist on doing that?”

She tossed a pen up in the air and caught it. “I mentally give myself two points for making him hard. It’s a little game I play.”

“Gross.”

“I know. Do you think he’s jerking off in the men’s room? I get five points if he comes out and there’s a little wet spot on his pants from post-ejaculation drip.”

“Seriously, you might be more disgusting than him.”

“Serves him right. He deserves to be treated like meat since that’s how he treats others.”

“But he
likes
it.”

“He likes it while I’m playing with him, not while he’s stuck playing with himself.”

I caught the pen she was continually tossing in the air. “I have to be away an extra day now. Thought I only needed one on-air outfit. I need to get to the dry cleaner’s before they close. Which means I’m out for yoga tonight.”

“No yoga?” She pouted.

I began packing up my desk for the day. “Nope. I’ll just have to work out with Brody tonight,” I teased.

“Rough life. You’re going to get laid by your gorgeous quarterback boyfriend tonight, then fly off for a romantic night away with Michael Langley.”

“It won’t be romantic.”

“The way that man looks at you, my guess is it won’t be from lack of him trying.”

***

Brody and I had dinner plans at his hotel tonight. I texted him that I was going to be late, but by the time I finished running my errands for the trip tomorrow, I was even later than I had planned. When I arrived at the Regency, Brody was sitting at the bar inside Silver Ivy. Siselee, the batting-eyelash waitress, was sitting across from him at the table, wearing her uniform.

“Hi.” Neither of them had noticed me walk up.

Hearing my voice, Brody swung in my direction, knocking a glass clear across the table as he turned. It fell to the floor and shattered. All eyes in the bar took notice. “There she is!” he said loudly. When I came within his reach, he wrapped one arm around my waist and tugged me toward him. A busboy immediately ran over and began to clean up the mess.

“Our guy’s had a little too much to drink,” Siselee said.

Our guy?

“He had a bad day,” she continued. Her high-and-mighty tone was irritating, and I fought the urge to put her in her place. Instead, I spoke to Brody.

“Hey. You okay?” He was definitely drunk. In his attempt to open his eyes wider, he actually tilted his head back. As if tipping his head back might help the lids snap open.

He smiled and snuggled into me—head first into my chest, of course. “I’m great. Now that you’re here.”

“Did you eat anything?”

“Nope. I was waiting for you.”

“Sorry. I didn’t think I’d be this late.”

“That’s okay. Siselee kept me company.”

I bet she did.

Once the busboy had cleaned up the mess, Siselee was back with a tumbler filled with a clear liquid.

“I hope that’s water.”

“I brought him a fresh drink.”

“I don’t think he needs it.”

“Sure, I do.”

Siselee looked at me with a patronizing I-told-you-so face. “It’s Tuesday.”

“I’m well aware of that.”

“It’s the only day he allows himself to have a few drinks.”

“Yes. But from the looks of things, I think we’ve skipped past a few and landed on overserved.”

“He had a bad day.”

“You know what, I think we’re going to get something to eat in the restaurant instead of eating in the bar.”

As I led Brody to the hostess station, the extent of his drunkenness became that much more apparent. His arm dangled around my shoulders, and he was actually leaning on me a little. “How about if we skip the restaurant and order room service?” I said.

“How about if we skip room service, and I eat you?”

“Even a perv when you’re drunk, I see.” I chuckled.

Upstairs in Brody’s suite, I ordered a light dinner for two. Although I wasn’t too sure that Brody would be awake by the time the food came.

He was fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, so I helped him undress while he sat on the bed.

“While you’re down there . . . ” Brody snickered when I kneeled down to untie his shoes.

“I think you might be too inebriated for even that.” I slipped off his second shoe and rested my hands on his knees.

Brody slid my hand from his knee to between his legs, cupping my fingers around his hard-on. “I could see right down your shirt while you untied my shoes. I’m not so drunk that I couldn’t take ’em off. I just liked the view.”

I laughed. “Why don’t you shower before dinner comes? Might sober you up a bit more.”

“Are you taking one with me?”

“Not this time.”

“All right. But I’m not taking care of myself while I’m in there. I’m saving that for you when I’m out.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

The food I ordered arrived just before Brody finished in the bathroom. He came out wearing a towel wrapped around his waist—just like the first time I met him.

Two months ago, I would never have guessed that all of Brody Easton’s cocky arrogance only camouflaged his insecurities. Turns out, we weren’t so different after all. For the last seven years since Drew died, everyone had been telling me that I was avoiding real relationships because I was afraid to get hurt again. I didn’t see it . . . until I saw my own actions reflected back at me from Brody. We might have had different methods, but we were doing the same thing—protecting our hearts from loss again. You couldn’t get hurt if you didn’t let anyone in.

I set up our dinners at the dining room table. “Were you just bored waiting for me? Or did you really have a bad day?”

“Maybe a little of both.” He scrubbed his hands over his face and sat at the table.

“Did you have a bad practice today?”

“Not too bad.” He lifted the silver cover off his dinner and looked at the Caesar salad I’d ordered him. “Tomorrow is going to suck with the hangover I’m already starting to feel coming on.”

“You don’t usually have more than one or two. Is everything okay?”

Brody rubbed the back of his neck. “Marlene had a visitor when I went to see her this morning.”

I suddenly lost my appetite. “Oh?”

“Willow. She thinks she can just walk back into our life and everything is going to be okay.”

Something about the phrase
walk back into our life
made me feel even more uneasy. “Did you two have a fight?”

“No.”

I nodded. We ate in silence for a few minutes.

“Just a lot of bad memories.”

I had no idea how to respond to that, so I didn’t. The air was thick, and it was difficult to swallow as we danced around other topics over dinner.

After dinner, Brody lay in bed while I brushed my teeth in the master bath with the door open. “I’m not going to be flying back with you Sunday night. The station is sending me to Miami after the game.”

“Oh yeah? Who you heading to interview?”

“Payton Mara.”

I finished brushing, pulled off the headband I wore while I washed my face, and was about to flick off the bathroom light when I noticed one of Brody’s jerseys hanging on the back of the door. It was a practice jersey, but his name was emblazoned on the back. My fingers brushed over each letter in the dark.
E-a-s-t-o-n.
I was totally falling for him. There was no way to stop it at this point. I just had to hope that when this fall was over, Brody was there to catch me.

Knowing why his head was where it was tonight, I had two choices. I could get into bed, snuggle up next to him, and wonder if he was thinking of her while we drifted off to sleep. Or . . . I could chase away those bad memories and leave no room for him to be thinking of anyone but me.