The Jock (3 page)

Harry's
lips curled with amusement. "I didn't think so, but I had to be certain. I
remember that day he brought his ex-wife Stacy over to the house all too
well." He grimaced, as if the memory of having offered his sister unmanly
consolation still pained him. "Don't want to repeat that."

Gwenyth
rolled her eyes to the ceiling. Then she frowned. Good lord, the beige sedan's
overhead interior was blue. Yuck! Talk about visually mismatched. "You
worry too much, Bro. Besides, I'm dating someone right now if you will
recall."

Harry
made a small sound that sounded suspiciously like a snort of disapproval.
"If one can call Trevor a date," he muttered.

The
brow above Gwenyth's good eye rose up a notch. "Meaning?"

"Let's
just say that I hate lawyers."

"Harry,
you
are a lawyer."

"Yeah,
well, that means I've dealt with enough of them to know you shouldn't be dating
one."

Gwenyth
decided against commenting on that particular observation. That she had been
suspecting the same thing of Trevor was beside the point. She would deal with
that revelation later. "So how exactly is Sam helping the 'get Harry Jones
to Washington cause'?"

Harry's
right hand absently thumped on the steering wheel in time with the rock song
playing quietly in the background. It was a shame that voters weren't allowed
to see this playful, boyish side of him, Gwenyth mused. She was certain they'd
all fall in love with him if they did. "He's coming into town to attend
that dinner and speech my campaign is throwing at the University of Tampa in
two weeks." He shrugged his shoulders. "Sam's going to give a little
speech on my behalf."

And
she would have to look her best.
That disquieting thought rumbled through
Gwenyth's brain like shock waves. Not that it mattered what Sam thought about
her looks, she told herself. What mattered was that Sam see the brilliant,
respected photographer she'd become, that he realize she was a woman of the
world, a woman to be reckoned with. A woman whose looks meant nothing to her. A
woman who had made it on ambition and grit alone. A woman who...

Bah!
Okay,
so she wanted Sam to think she looked good.

But
only so he'd realize what he'd given up ten years ago when he'd broken a
sixteen year old girl's heart. Not because she still cared. Not because she was
still in love with the man. It wasn't like she still slept in his #33 jersey or
anything. Well, unless she had nothing else to wear.
Or
unless she
was feeling particularly under the weather.

Sighing,
Gwenyth pondered the man known as Sam Trevianni as she watched her brownstone
apartment loom into view. She wondered what he'd think when he next saw her.
She wondered if he'd like what he saw. Gwenyth called herself ten kinds of fool
for even thinking about him. Still, she couldn't help but to wonder what it was
Sam was doing right now.

Sam
"The Slam" Trevianni woke up with a bitch of a headache. Disregarding
the telephone whose rings were grinding into his skull like a battle axe, he
pulled himself up from the hotel room's king-size bed and made his way to the
bathroom—and the aspirin.

Sam
flipped open the medicine cabinet and grabbed hold of one of the aspirin
packages, ripping it open with his teeth as if it was a gift from the gods.
Sweet Jesus, he should never have bet a week's pay that he could drink Brian
Goodman under the table. He'd done it alright, but damn was he paying for his
sins now. He groaned dramatically. He was getting too old for this shit.

Closing
the medicine cabinet, Sam ran his fingers through his tousled hair and called
it a comb job. He'd worry about grooming after his head quit pounding. He
stomped out of the bathroom and toward the phone, his goal being to put an end
to its incessant, damned ringing, when he was intercepted half way by a knock
at the door.

Sighing,
Sam stopped in his tracks and made his way back to the door. "Yeah, who is
it?" he barked. "Room service," a breathy voice returned.

Sam
didn't remember ordering any room service, but maybe he had. It was just as
well. Not only was his head pounding, but his stomach was damned hungry. He
opened the door, then cast a quick but thorough glance over the hot redhead
who'd brought up his food. He flashed her his million-dollar smile. "Bring
it on in, honey. Put the tray by the bed."

"You
got it."

Sam
nodded. That quickly, the redhead was forgotten and the still blaring telephone
was remembered. He strode toward it and picked it up, bringing an end to the
goddamned noise. "Yeah. Sam here."

"Hey
Sammy. It's Lee."

Sam
grimaced. The last person he felt like talking to right now was his overly
tenacious manager. His head was still throbbing as it was. "Hey Lee. I'm
kinda busy. Mind calling back?"

"This
will only take a minute."

Sam
sighed. He just wasn't in the mood for this. "What's up?"

"Quite
a lot, Slam Man, quite a lot."

Sam
grunted. Lee took it as a cue to continue. "Got a call from Vantry
Sportswear this morning. They want you to model their new swimwear line. I
think it would be an excellent career move, Sambo. They want to start shooting
a month from now."

Sam
shook his throbbing head. "Forget it, Lee. You know how I feel about
modeling."

Hell,
everyone knew how Sam Trevianni felt about modeling. He hated it. Actually,
hate
wasn't strong enough a word. He detested it, felt like a fool sitting there
striking a bunch of ridiculous poses. The cereal and shoe ads were dumb enough,
but he'd never forget the time he'd agreed to model for a cologne
manufacturer's new line called "Obsessive". Sons of bitches had
actually wanted him to pose naked with another guy. Said it looked artsy. Sam
might not know much about art, but he knew when he felt stupid. That day there
was at the top of the list. Needless to say, he'd told them to forget it.

Lee
apparently wasn't interested in hearing his chief rainmaker say no. He plowed
determinedly on. "Why don't you take a few days and think it over? The
shoot doesn't begin for another month, so you don't have to make an immediate
decision, Slammy."

Sam
grumbled something imperceptible into the phone line. At this point he'd say
anything to quit Lee from yappin'—and to get him to quit calling him by all
those dumb names he always made up. "Fine. I'll
think
about
it."

Lee
knew when to apply the pressure. Conversely, he recognized when it was time to
ease up. "No problem. I'll be in touch, Samarino"

Sam
grunted, then returned the phone to the desk. A hunger pang jolted through him,
causing him to remember his breakfast. He whirled around to find it, then
frowned at the sight that greeted him.

The
redhead. Very much naked. Very much lying on his bed spread eagle. Very much
playing with her engorged clit. And apparently very much without any food
whatsoever in tow. Odd, but it was the last revelation that got to him the
most.

She
smiled sinfully from the bed. "I'm a big fan, Mr. Trevianni."

"Uh
huh."

"I
have something for you here that's better than bacon and eggs."

"Somehow
I doubt that," he mumbled under his breath.

The
redhead's smile wavered. "What was that?"

Sam
shook his head. He was just too damn old for this shit. "Nothing. But if
you don't mind, I need for you to leave." He placated her with his
pearly-white smile. "I never have sex before a big game." He batted
his sinfully sexy eyelashes. "Kills all my energies."

"But
the game isn't until tomorrow night, and its for charity, not a real
game," she determinedly argued.

Sam's
smile faltered. Apparently Red wasn't as dumb as the usual groupie. "Yeah
well, I never have sex for
two
full days before a charity game. Makes me
work out all my frustrations on the field." His grin was breathtaking.
"For the little kids and all."

Red
was apparently appeased. She sat up and crossed her legs. "If I leave my
number, will you call me?"

"Uh
huh. Yeah. Sure."

She
bolted up from the bed, threw back on the waitress garb she'd obviously
pilfered from the hotel, and handed Sam a card. "There's my number. Call
me
after
the game." She winked provocatively, running her tongue
across her lower lip. "I'd love to help you celebrate."

It
took five minutes and lots of evasive answers to get Red out of his hotel room,
but once Sam did she was forgotten as though she'd never been. He plopped down
on the chair nearest the desk phone and stretched out his long, muscular legs.
Damn but his head was killing him!

Picking
up a room service menu, he mentally listed the goods the hotel offered for
breakfast.
Quiche
?
Tarts
? He glowered at the menu, his mood
taking a turn for the worse. This just wouldn't do.

Oh
and looky here, Sam snorted to his self, bran muffins and fresh berries. Well
yeeee-haw. Maybe if he was real lucky they'd be sure to serve it to him on one
of them doily doo-hickies.

Disgruntled
and seriously considering writing a scathing letter of complaint to the hotel's
president, Sam scanned the menu thoroughly for something he could eat.
Something that might actually fill up his gut.

Ahhh.
His
eyes at last settled upon a feast of fortune.
Bacon,
eggs, pancakes,
and grits
. Hell yeah!

Nothin'
artsy here. It was just what a ball player with a bitch of a headache needed.

* * * * *

Sam
picked up the copy of the Los Angeles Times that had been left for him
alongside his breakfast. He opened it and immediately turned to the sports
section, because hey, that was really the most interesting thing about the
paper.

Not
that Sam didn't like to be well informed. People would be surprised if they
realized just how informed he really was. Most thought he was merely a dumb
jock, and in many ways he probably was, but there were some things he was
definitely smart about. Especially anything that dealt with old civilizations.

The
Mayans. The Incas. The Egyptians. The ancient Greeks and Romans. Fascinating
mother fuckers, all of them. The only thing he found a little strange about any
of them was how the Greeks seemed to prefer screwing other men over getting' it
on with the ladies. Sam didn't understand that, but he didn't mind that about
the dead guys either. To each his own he figured. Must have been part of their
charm.

Seeing
as how there was nothing in the paper referring to any dead civilizations— no
new museum exhibits, no new archeological symposiums planned this week—Sam
closed the paper after reading the scores on the sports page. Throwing the paper
on top of the table, he picked up his coffee cup and chugged down what was left
of the Colombian brew. Glancing absently at the newsprint he'd just cast aside,
his eye was then snagged by a photograph on the front page of some naked
guy—and
oh baby
!—wasn't that Senator Green, the guy running against his
old pal Harry, standing behind him?

Grinning,
Sam picked up the discarded copy of the LA Times again and took a closer look
at the picture. Man oh man, must that loser be embarrassed! He actually felt kinda
sorry for the guy. Maybe he'd have his people contact the dude and recommend
this plastic surgeon friend of his who specializes in penis enlargements. This
picture would do wonders for Harry's campaign and all, and for that Sam was
grateful, but that didn't mean he couldn't afford to be generous. After all,
this loser would probably never score again with the ladies after they caught
wind of
that
photograph. Sweet Jesus! Sam was suddenly thankful he'd
been born hung like a bull.

The
photo having peaked his interest, Sam decided to read the article in its
entirety. He grunted his disapproval when he realized the naked guy with the
little worm was a
NAM
protester. Let him find his own plastic
surgeon, damn it. He couldn't stand those people. And he definitely didn't
appreciate how they cashed in on the familiar term of
NAM
at the
expense of men like his dad who had fought and died there. None of these
pussies would have fought there. They were too busy bemoaning the fact that
they were born privileged and misunderstood to anyone who'd listen.

Sam's
stomach clenched when a particular paragraph gained his attention:

Three
people were arrested on assault and battery charges, including Senator Green's
aide, Webster Carr. Carr, 35, allegedly blackened the eye of fashion
photographer Gwenyth Jones in an effort to wrestle her camera and the
incriminating photographs from her (see picture on 10-b). Jones, 26, is the
sister of Harry Jones, the incumbent Green's chief rival for the upcoming
senatorial election.

Gwen?
He hit little Gwen? Sam's free hand unconsciously balled itself into a fist as
he flipped to 10-b. Carr better pray he hadn't hurt her too bad. Otherwise, he
just wouldn't be liable for his actions.