Chapter 12
TWELVE
REED
My meeting with management went well, but practice afterwards had unfolded with brutal efficiency.
In-season training was relentless on the body, especially after a recent game when you were already bruised to fuck.
I felt like I’d just run six miles in full pads.
That’s flush drills for you. Fucking mean.
I’d heard in the locker room that the team’s previous QB swallowed his tongue during a particularly stretching flush variation.
The classroom shit wasn’t so bad, but the physical, on-field stuff, was a killer.
I ended up sleepwalking through most of it the morning after Storm left my hotel suite.
We started practice with a walk-through and carried out some drills before shit got serious.
Our GM’s ‘get your head in the game’ comment was chorused by my overly vocal teammates.
I also almost passed out during a sequence of shuttle runs and earned myself a slap on the back of the head by our center.
‘You can’t throw for shit’ was the theme of his complaint, as we struggled to fine-tune the perfect snap.
He then started to comment on past players who had failed to live up to their own hype. Just what I needed.
Restless energy that always lived under my skin felt particularly volatile that day.
Suffice it to say, I didn’t make the best first impression with my teammates.
We were also working with a new coach, one who was known in the industry as a world-class dick: a badge Coach Ryerson more than earned that Sunday as he chewed me out for slacking.
His periodic shouts from the sidelines were all aimed at me.
As the week went by, I managed to redeem myself with Ryerson and got to know the players better. They were less rowdy than the guys who played for the Giants: the camaraderie more cemented and less same-side competitive. I still got my ass kicked during practice.
They also had other things to discuss besides women.
I’d soon gotten sick of locker room mentality with my last team, and listening to sweaty half-naked guys talking about pussy all the time.
Although Nathan, the Patriots' kicker with a shorter fuse than any other player, did tell us a story about his most recent conquest, which was entertaining. It turned out he was dipping his wick in the company ink, and by company ink, I mean one of the cheerleaders. Fraternising with anyone on your team’s cheer squad was strictly forbidden: that shit ended careers, although not that of the players.
Of course not. They were the stars of the show.
If a player was caught fucking a member of the cheer team, they got a slap on the hand, the female participant got canned: one of the many imbalances between the sexes in the sporting world.
The rest of the week was taken up with a series of events all related to football, including film studies sessions, tactical preparation meetings, and press appearances, all in time for the big game against the Bears on Saturday.
But no matter what I was doing, Storm was always on my mind.
All I could think about was our stupid fight.
That night we spent together had been so right, and for us to have parted on such bad terms was eating away inside of me.
It didn’t help when my assistant Lisa called and gave me the details of my new shrink.
Dr. Daniel John Meadows. I’d met him on Thursday and, dull as shit, summed that fucker up.
I certainly didn’t go into detail about my past, but I knew I had to make it work for the sake of my probationary period with the Patriots.
The words I had thrown at Storm came back to kick me in the ass.
Why had I told her it was best for me to transfer counselors?
During our session, when I confessed about my time with the Palmers, she got everything from me without even trying.
Her keen understanding expression had tapped into that part of me that I had kept bottled up for too long.
Talking to Storm about the guilt I was struggling with due to my silence all those years ago had been liberating.
Saying those words to the only girl who had ever truly understood me had worked.
For the first time, I had let that shit out without the fear of being judged or scrutinized.
But the ugly, resentful side of me couldn’t let it go, and so I’d shot my mouth off.
Having Storm as my backpack as we rode my bike together with the ocean beside us felt so special.
When she’d first appeared around the back of the Ritz in those jeans that made her ass look spectacular, my dick had stood to attention in a nanosecond.
Her pants were so tight I was surprised they didn’t cut off her circulation.
I’d never enjoyed the ride so much, having her arms wrapped around me in such a way.
Fuck, I hated arguing with her. Teacup had always suited the meaning of her namesake.
Storm: a violent, tumultuous atmosphere that causes a disturbance.
I got that being close to her in any capacity wasn’t good for my sanity, but not seeing her at all felt like a huge step backwards. I knew I needed to fight for us, but how could I do that when she was being so stubborn? Same old Storm.
Between my other activities, which included hitting the weight room and dealing with the media, I scoped out a couple of prospective houses to rent.
I knew I would soon outgrow my hotel suite, and even if Storm went ahead and married Dickless.
After speaking at length with Ma and my brothers, I had decided to stay in the area, at least during the rest of my NFL contract with my new team.
Most of my family lived in Newport, and the best memories I had were made there.
As far as Storm and I were concerned, I had decided to follow Phoenix’s advice; it wasn’t over until she said, ‘I do.’ I was a fighter and would do everything in my power to make her see sense.
After she left my hotel room, I called Mia and asked her to assign a PI to investigate Jasper Dean Remmington the fucking Third.
I wanted to know everything about that fuck.
Something about him still felt off. She called me back later that day to say she’d engaged the services of a reputable guy who fit the bill but who would cost me an arm and a leg. I didn’t care. I wanted the best.
Over the last few days, I’d purposefully given Storm space that week, hoping that she’d cave.
Teacup was always the one to come running first with her tail between her legs, but that was usually because she was in the wrong.
That last time, I wasn’t so sure who was at fault.
The powers that be? If that were the case, they needed to cut me some fucking slack.
Thankfully, that ‘slack’ came after the win that Saturday night. And I didn’t mean by the fact that I played the best I had in months, earning my place as the starting quarterback with my new team. Storm had sent me a message during the game.
We need to talk. She used to say that a lot, especially after a fight. Her tone would be thick with exaggerated seriousness as she attempted to break things off with me, again.
I thought about how to reply, holding my phone in one hand and a beer in the other.
The team and a group of others were drinking together in the stadium lounge bar, celebrating the win.
A few of my teammates had their girlfriends with them, and I would have loved to have had Storm there.
I wanted her to see how well I was settling in with my new team after the shit that went down with my last one.
“Bro, hot piece of ass, checking you out on your six,” Gunther Matthews, the tight end on our team, suddenly whispered in my ear. The lounge bar was a sea of players, management, a handful of press, a couple of cheerleaders, and several jersey chasers from the looks of things.
Lowering my phone, I glanced around the room towards where Gunther’s focus was.
Dang. She was pretty. The woman he motioned towards was sitting cross-legged on a barstool alone, wrapped in the tightest black number.
She was holding a cocktail in one hand and fanning herself with a bar menu with the other.
The girl had blonde hair in a messy bun on top of her head.
The most arresting thing about her was the size of her breasts.
They were fucking huge, and the neckline of the dress only showcased those babies.
Had I not been as wrapped up in Storm, I would have tapped that in a heartbeat.
“You gonna go for it? She’s looking right at you.”
Before I could reply, one of the female servers appeared by our table with a tray in her hand and a large glass of white liquid.
A snowball. My favorite drink. I knew that wouldn’t have been a guess, as most people knew that type of shit about me.
I’d been interviewed that many times and asked about my favorite color, favorite band, and favorite number (forty-seven, of course).
Most of the public knew that type of shit about me.
“The lady at the bar says hi and has asked if you would like to join her for a drink?” the uniformed woman said as she placed the drink in front of me and then walked off. I would have sent my thanks and declined the sweet gesture, but the server had already gone.
“She’s bought you a drink too. That shit never happens to me,” Gunther grumbled, necking his own beer, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth, and then belching loudly. No surprise there then.