Chapter Three - Henry
CHAPTER THREE
Henry
“I DON’T NEED a babysitter,” I insist, crossing my arms over my chest as I lean back in my chair. I’m facing Owen, the head coach for the Panthers, along with some of the press team, my agent, the team manager, and a couple other bigwigs telling me another way I’m failing to live up to the great Sebastian Walker.
I promise, I’m not bitter about it. He’s family to me, and I love him. I’m stressed because I’ve worked my ass off for this, and I’m afraid it won’t be enough to please everyone. It’s a lot of pressure.
“It’s not a babysitter. It’s just a PR specialist and an intern shadowing you around during practices, games, and team events to help the public get to know you better.” Awesome, so it’s not just one babysitter, but two.
“Why is this necessary? Walker rarely did press,” I counter. I must be crazy because Owen’s face softens for a brief moment at the mention of his brother-in-law.
I can’t believe that he’s in on this, and didn’t give me a heads up. I know he has to keep the boundary clear since my father is one of his best friends from college, but as my coach, Owen could have given me a hint this was coming.
“Look, you’re talented, but you’re still unknown. Walker had a great career, but he still had to earn the public’s respect. It’s not just given, and Sebastian certainly didn’t have privacy from the press, especially at the beginning of his career. During training camp, you refused interviews, and videos of you brushing off fans while they tried to get your attention are circulating on social media,” Owen says, pulling no punches with his words.
“I paid all the fines for refusing interviews,” I protest, but I don’t really have an explanation for my interactions with the fans, or rather, the lack of them. In previous seasons, I tried so damn hard, but all anyone cared about was my personal life. I’m an introvert despite what everyone else might believe, and I like my privacy. The idea of everyone knowing everything about me makes my skin crawl.
It’s the reason Andrew is the face of our nonprofit together, instead of both of us. He doesn’t mind the attention, while I run in the opposite direction.
My agent, Calvin, gives me a glance to tell me to keep my shit together. “What happens if Henry doesn’t comply with this request? Is there any room for negotiation on when and where they can follow him around?”
The team’s general manager, Greg Ottaway, rests his hands on the table. “Honestly, if you deny this request , we’ll either release your contract or trade you. Price, I’ve been looking forward to seeing you lead this team, but we need the public to support you, and they won’t do that if you don’t give them someone to root for. Sebastian retiring has everyone nervous for what this season will look like, and this request is a courtesy because we want to keep you here.”
An acidic taste forms in my mouth that I swallow, but the reality is sinking in. I don’t have a choice unless I want to leave, and that’s the last thing I want.
To pour salt on the wound, a magazine is slid across the table, landing in front of me. The cover is a picture of me sitting on a couch at a club with two scantily dressed girls on either side of me with a table in front of us littered with expensive alcohol. A couple more are laid out, each with an unfavorable headline, but none are as bad as the first.
It looks bad. It looks really fucking bad, but that picture is cropped and taken out of context. What the version— the version that apparently ended up everywhere —doesn’t show is Quinn, our new wide receiver I was asked to welcome to the team, on the other side of the girl on the left of me, and the other girl’s boyfriend standing to the side of her. I’m holding a bottle of water in my hand, but everything on the table counters the truth that I was stone cold sober and went home alone.
Sure, the last few seasons it probably would have been a different story. I would go out with some guys from the team, have a few too many drinks so I wouldn’t act stiff as a board all night, before ultimately taking a beautiful woman home. Andrew and I always kept each other in line before anything too crazy could happen, but there were still more than a few headlines printed. When Sebastian confided in me about finally retiring last season, I knew I had to step up, especially with my upcoming contract renewal. I wasn’t lying when I told Mirabelle my focus this season is football.
“Fuck,” I swear under my breath, dragging a hand over my face. The headline only adds to the false narrative: Henry Price, the Panthers’ new golden boy or playboy? “I wasn’t drinking, and I spent most of the night with my ass planted on that couch, alone.”
“No one cares what the truth is behind that photo—they care about what the photo shows. This is what people see you as, and it’s not the first time you’ve been seen partying. If I were you, I’d agree with the plan we spent time and resources putting together to give everyone else something else to talk about besides this,” Greg says, watching me closely to see what choice I’m going to make, but it’s not like I have one. To put this conversation in simpler terms, I have to get the fuck over it if I want to stay.
I never should have agreed to go out that night. I’ve turned over a new leaf. I’m doing everything I can to get ready for this season because I refuse to let anyone down.
I nod slowly, trying to maintain my professionalism. “Okay. They can shadow me. Is that all?”
“No, it’s not. We also scheduled some additional photo opportunities and press events for you to attend to help revamp and bolster your new image. You are not to attend any team functions, or anything additionally scheduled for you without one of your shadows,” Greg continues, and I clamp my jaw shut so it doesn’t fall on the floor. I can’t fucking believe this is happening.
“Preseason starts next week. How am I going to have time for all of this with our schedule?” I ask, bouncing my leg under the table. I’ve apparently already fucked up enough to warrant babysitters, so the last thing I need is to lose my shit in front of half the front office.
“Nothing will conflict with the team’s practice or game schedule,” the team’s public relations manager is quick to jump in. “Coach Lewis has agreed to be flexible with you if a conflict arises for any reason.”
I look at Owen who is tight-lipped now, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s not happy he has to be flexible for this PR bullshit.
“My priority is football. I’ll do all this . . . stuff, but I’m not going to miss practice or workouts for it. That’s nonnegotiable.” The amount of self-control it takes to call this shit “stuff” is insane. It’s probably not worth even trying to say my priority is football, because at the end of the day, I don’t have a say in any of this.
Playboy is a new one, but it’s not the only label I’ve earned in the media. I don’t love talking to them, but apparently I can be described as broody, and if you add in my sleeve of tattoos to the equation, it ends up equating to me being a dark and mysterious bad boy.
The truth is, I’ve never done anything remotely close to deserving any of those labels. I’m a rule follower, obsessed with Greek mythology to the point that I have an entire sleeve dedicated to my favorite myths, and my little sister is my favorite person to hang out with.
The thing about labels, though, is you can’t choose what you’re given.
“Deal,” Owen says, causing everyone at the table to turn to him.
“Coach Lewis, you’re here as a courtesy. You don’t have the authority to agree to that,” Greg says, a warning in his voice.
“Respectfully, is Henry’s job not to play football? If I’m remembering correctly from the meeting we had prior to training camp, you asked for back-to-back Super Bowls, and I cannot do my job and prepare my team for that if my quarterback isn’t there. From my experience, winning games will also boost his reputation in the media just as well— if not better —than holding puppies in pictures.”
I bite my lip to hide back my smile as Owen pretty much gets as close as he can to telling the general manager to fuck off. This whole thing is bullshit, but it’s reassuring to know he’s on my side.
None of them argue, too surprised he actually defended me.
“So when do I get to meet my shadows?” I ask, accepting my fate, at least for a little while, hoping that if I bring the attention back to me, Owen won’t find a way to lose his job in the next minute.
Greg clears his throat, a pleased gleam in his eyes as he focuses on me. “They’re right outside,” he answers, pulling out his phone to send off a short text. “I don’t think I need to remind you this is the last year of your rookie contract. If I were you, I would take this all very seriously.”
I’m still recovering from the whiplash of that when my babysitters step into the room.
I recognize the first figure walking through the door, although she’s never acknowledged me before now. I don’t know her name, but I can already tell she is going to make this as painful as possible. She’s tall, wearing a pantsuit, and a pair of deathtrap heels that are intimidating as fuck. Her dark eyes narrow in on me, and I think I’m a little afraid. She seems like she’d have zero qualms about stabbing me with her pointy shoes.
Behind her, I spot a familiar short blonde that causes my mouth to tug upward automatically, despite the awfulness of the last twenty minutes. Mirabelle looks professional, wearing light grey dress pants and a white blousy top, and her wild mane of waves is pulled back into a bun with a few stray pieces hanging in her face. She looks . . . grown up. Mira’s also wearing a similar pair of deathtrap heels that make her taller than normal, but I’m curious to know what they’d feel like hooked around my—I nearly jolt out of my seat at the intrusive thought that would normally be kept locked behind a stone wall in my mind, trying to slow the sudden racing in my chest. I cough lightly, trying to compose myself before anyone notices the heart attack I nearly gave myself.
I do everything I can to not let those thoughts pop into my brain when I’m around Mirabelle, because I have a feeling that once they start, I won’t know how to make them stop.
Mirabelle’s hovering behind her, but I stare, unable to look away. Her dark brown eyes are bright as she makes eye contact with me, offering me a hint of a smile. I’m not sure I know how to smile because I think my brain is glitching.
This has to be some weird dream. I’ll wake up, laugh about this with Andrew, and forget all about needing babysitters and finding Mirabelle Walker attractive. Well, okay, that’s partially a lie. I’m not blind—Mirabelle’s a very pretty girl, but she’s so off-limits, it’s not even remotely funny to joke about, let alone allow my brain to consider the possibility.
“Henry, this is Stacey Arnold, but I’m sure you know who she is because she’s been on the public relations team since you were drafted.” Greg doesn’t bother introducing Mirabelle. I’m not sure if it’s because Mira’s an intern, or because she’s Sebastian Walker’s daughter, and has been around the stadium since she was a kid.
Fuck, definitely not a dream.
I muster a pathetic smile in Stacey’s direction. “I don’t think we’ve met, but I’ve seen you around.”
“Likewise.” She smiles politely back, but all I can think is how long this season is going to be with her following me around.
And Mirabelle , a little voice in the back of my head reminds me. Fuck.
~
I take a drink of my beer, glancing at the baseball game Wilson put on the television in my living room. After the ass-kicking I got in that room today, I’m not sure when I’ll be ready to go anywhere in public for a while.
Wilson and Quinn think it’s hilarious I’m required to have a shadow this season. I thought Wilson was going to start crying from laughing so hard when I explained they brought out that stupid gossip magazine as evidence I can’t be trusted without a babysitter. He knows nothing happened that night, and the photo was taken out of context, but I’m still the idiot in the photo.
I’ve decided that unless Stacey is talking to me, I’m going to ignore that she’s there. Mirabelle on the other hand, I can’t ignore unless I want the wrath of my family and hers for being a dick, but I’m trying to not think about her following me around.
“Man, I just can’t believe they’re actually having you followed by PR and an intern all season because of that cover photo,” Wilson says, shaking his head. “That’s messed up, even if the intern is Mirabelle Walker.”
“I can’t believe Coach is going along with it. You seem like the last person on the team who needs a babysitter,” says Quinn before he resumes snacking on a bowl of chips, tossing them up in the air to catch them in his mouth. I’m tempted to tell him to knock it off, but Wilson beats me to it.
“You’re dropping more of those on the ground than you’re catching. Unless you plan on vacuuming before you leave, eat them like a normal person.”
I chuckle quietly, but I do appreciate it. This house is mine, but Wilson’s place is being remodeled so I told him he could crash here. That was a year ago, and there’s been very little progress made on the remodel since, but I don’t mind the company and I have the space.
Kaitlyn usually stays with me for a weekend or two a month so I have a bedroom set aside for her, but I’m guessing that her trips will drop off now that the Walkers moved to Wilmington full-time where my family lives.
“Coach pushed back as much as he could today, but maybe if I’m on my best behavior and we’re winning, they’ll decide I don’t need shadows.” It’s wishful thinking that even if all that happens, Greg will get rid of my shadows, but I can have hope.
Wilson looks at me, shrugging. “Honestly, I think I’d switch places with you. I know it’s weird and all since Mirabelle is Sebastian’s daughter, and we played with him, but she’s hot—in a non-creepy way. That was an internal thought that I probably shouldn’t have said, but I’m not going to repeat it,” he adds, probably due to the look on my face.
I remember Sebastian telling me what a prick his daughter was dating last winter, and how he was only putting up with the guy because Mirabelle seemed to like him. He was so relieved when they broke up, but I’m not sure there’s anyone Sebastian thinks is good enough for Mirabelle.
“Super flexible too,” Quinn chimes in, and I redirect my glare to him. We’re not anywhere near close enough for him to say shit like that. I’ve spent enough time with him over the last few weeks I’d call him a friend, but I’d also have no problem decking him.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Quinn? She’s a kid.” I scoff, and he puts his hands up in defense.
“You’re the one whose mind went straight to sex. I was just thinking she could show me some killer stretches to keep me limber on the field. My mom is a huge fan of hers. And for the record, she’s twenty, which is only three years younger than me.”
Wilson shoots him a look too.
I like Quinn, but the dude is a womanizer. He thinks with his dick, which is fine, but I don’t want him anywhere near Mirabelle. Bash and Owen would kill me if I brought him near her. Hell, my dad would kill me. The only person more protective of Mirabelle than her father and uncle is my dad.
Thalia is his best friend, and Dad’s always had a soft spot for Mirabelle, saying she reminds him a lot of Thalia at her age.
I still have to think of Mirabelle as a kid because the alternative has never been an option.
I happen to choose life, so Quinn will go nowhere near Mirabelle if I have anything to say about it.
Quinn smiles as he turns to look at me, the bowl of chips now balancing on his chest. “You know her pretty well, don’t you? Can you introduce me?”
“No,” I answer, confused on what part of this he doesn’t get.
Wilson nods slowly in agreement. “Q, you gotta forget about it. She’s Coach’s niece.”
I take a long drink, refocusing my attention on the game because if I keep talking about Mirabelle with my friends, my head might explode. My phone rings and it’s my little sister. I answer it, pulling my ass off the couch to go out on the back deck.
“Hey, Kait,” I greet, shutting the door behind me.
“Henry, I made the cheerleading team,” she yells, nearly bursting my eardrum in the process. The pure happiness in her voice does make me smile.
“That’s great. I knew you would.” I was confused when she first asked what I thought about her trying out for the cheer team, but she wanted something new her senior year of high school. I’m glad she made it.
“Thanks. Maybe if I work hard enough, I could end up cheering for you at your games.”
I nearly choke at the thought of my seventeen-year-old sister getting hit on by future Quinns. “Fuck no.” It slips out, and I immediately regret it because the last thing I want is to hurt her feelings. I drag a hand through my hair tiredly as I sit by the edge of my pool, dipping my feet in the water. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just you’re seventeen, and all the guys are . . . they’re just . . . I don’t know. If you want to be a cheerleader, then be a cheerleader.”
Damn, I deserve a big brother of the year award for encouraging this.
“Henry, I won’t be seventeen if I’m cheering for you,” Kait says like it’s supposed to make me feel better. Then I’ll have to worry about her being too stubborn to listen to me.
“Just stay away from boys.” Great, now I sound like Dad.
Kaitlyn laughs, finding my overprotectiveness endearing. “Yeah, ’cause you totally stayed away from girls when you were my age,” she muses.
“You were eight, what exactly do you remember about it?” I tease. We have a nine-year age gap between us because Dad had her with Penelope a couple years after they got married, so Kaitlyn’s actually my half sister.
“Ta gueule!” 3
We both are fluent in French, which is helpful when all the families get together. Thalia started teaching me when I was little and then my stepmom, Penelope, helped fill some of the gaps after she married my dad. I think the only person who doesn’t speak it is Owen. Everyone else learned. I don’t use it all that often now that I don’t live at home, but Kait switches back and forth frequently.
“Whatever. How is it having your boyfriends at school?” I taunt, knowing the right buttons to push with her.
“Henry, don’t call them that. Hunter and Bailey are boys who are my best friends,” Kaitlyn says, annoyed I’ve brought this up again. I love Hunter and Bailey, but they’re teenage boys with raging hormones. I’m fairly certain that one, if not both, have a crush on Kaitlyn, but I don’t want to touch that mess with a ten-foot pole. I’m not sure if she has a crush on one of them, but twins fighting over the same girl? No thank you.
“If you say so,” I say, chuckling. “Is it nice having them there, though?”
Kaitlyn scoffs, mumbling under her breath too quietly for me to hear.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“Yeah . . . I guess it is nice. I don’t think you have anything to worry about when it comes to me staying away from boys. Every guy is too busy obsessing over Hunter and Bailey because of their dad, I don’t think any of them would notice if I walked into a room naked.”
“Well, I’m personally on the team of don’t walk into a room naked because I’d end up in prison for killing everyone who looked at you,” I say, stalling because I don’t know what to say. I’m out of my depth here, and I don’t speak teenage girl. “I’m sure that’s not true, Kait. It’s only been a couple days.”
“I know. I’m just annoyed.”
“I know.” I take a swig of my beer, looking out over my backyard.
“So have you seen Mirabelle around the stadium yet?” Kaitlyn asks, changing the subject.
“Yeah, I saw her today.” I’ll be seeing her every day for the next several months.
“She’s so cool,” Kaitlyn says in awe. I don’t blame her, Mirabelle is pretty cool. She’s easy to talk to, she’s funny, and she’s smart as a whip. “I wish she was my sister.”
Okay, that’s taking it a little far. “Excuse you, I think I’m a pretty awesome brother.”
“You are, but she’s an Olympian. Maybe you should hang out with her instead of your friends. She never would’ve let you get pictured with those girls,” she suggests, and I’d completely forgotten about the possibility of my sister seeing that cover.
“You saw that?” I ask, wincing because the guy in that photo is not the type of role model I want to be.
Kaitlyn laughs on the other end of the phone. “Everyone has seen it. You’re earning quite the reputation, but I sure hope you’re wrapping it up. I’m not ready to be an aunt yet.”
I choke on my beer, horrified my little sister just said that to me. I feel like this should be the other way around. “It’s not what it looked like,” I croak out, trying to clear my throat. “I was only there to babysit my friends. The only thing I had to drink that night was water.”
“Wow, that’s definitely not what it looked like. You might want to be more careful.” She laughs again at my misery, and it’s tempting to just drown myself in the pool. “Oh shit, Hunter is calling me. Can I call you back tomorrow?”
“That’s fin—” I don’t even have the chance to finish saying it before Kaitlyn’s hung up on me.
Guess it’s just me alone with my thoughts now, which is exactly where I don’t want to be.
My phone rings again in my hand, and it honestly wouldn’t surprise me if it was Kaitlyn calling back to tell me something quickly before hanging up again, but instead, it’s an unknown number.
I click the answer button, but the voice on the other end makes my stomach turn more than that meeting did today.
“Henry? Baby, it’s Mo—” I hang up immediately, acid filling my mouth.
My mother, Allison, disappeared from my life when I was four without a trace. I never received a birthday card, or a single phone call until the details of my rookie contract were released after the draft. I was the third overall draft pick, and a week later, I heard from my mother for the first time in eighteen years. I answered the first couple of calls out of curiosity, but it quickly became obvious she was only calling because she wanted money. I stopped answering and changed my number. It doesn’t matter, though. She always finds a way of getting my new one, and it’s more of a hassle than it’s worth.
I was tired of the questions from my parents every time I changed my number, so I started blocking her number, but occasionally, an unknown one slips through.
Everyone needs something from me, so why should my mother be any different?