Two
MADDOX
“You want to explain to me what just happened?” Jamie asked, his gaze focused solely on his girlfriend, Audrey. She’s talking animatedly to the woman who just bought me for a date, and I realize I don’t even know her name.
“That girl and I —”
He interrupts me. “Her name is Claire.”
Fuck. What had I called her? Something else, obviously. “Whatever. We got into it earlier. She’s a scrappy little thing.”
Jamie sighs. “Why did you get into it with her? Don’t lie, Mad. I need the truth.”
“I may have suggested we have some fun while the event was still going on,” I finally say.
Jamie’s head drops, his eyes on the ceiling. “You know, when you teased me by asking if you could sleep with whoever purchased the date with you, I thought you were joking.”
“I didn’t mean to,” I argue. “I saw her and had to go up to her. She reminds me of someone, but I can’t remember who. I could tell she was into me, and then my brain seemed to short-circuit, and I was asking if she wanted to go somewhere.”
“You literally asked her to go somewhere?” Jamie asks, his eyes back on me. I’m one of the rare individuals who gets straight eye contact from Jamie. He’s autistic, and social situations can be a major struggle for him.
“I may have said something about her being hot, and that I’d like to be acquainted with a specific spot that was probably the hottest part of her,” I finally admit. Jamie lets out a loud burst of air as he rubs the bridge of his nose.
“I don’t even know what to say to that.”
“It wasn’t my finest moment.”
“And then she buys your date, and somehow you end up challenging her to a sex bet.”
I chuckle, a smile growing on my face. “I like the sound of that. A sex bet.”
“So now you’re going to try to get her to sleep with you,” Jamie says, ignoring my comment.
I shrug. “Why not? We’re both adults. She seems pretty closed off, and it makes me wonder what kind of hellion she’d be in the sheets.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Jamie mutters quietly. “She’s friends with Audrey, Mad. You cannot treat her like some bimbo that you know is just a cleat chaser. You have to at least try to be somewhat respectable.”
“She’s the one who threw down the gauntlet. I would have let it slide. It’s fine, man. I have it under control.”
Jamie stares at me, deadpan. “What’s her name again?”
Fucking hell. “It’s not Carrie. I know that.”
“You probably shouldn’t lead with that when you talk to her again.”
I think for a moment, then snap my fingers. “It’s Claire.”
“Oh, good. You can teach a dog new tricks,” I hear from behind me, and turning, I find Claire glaring at me. “What are the chances I can just donate the money and not go on a date at all?”
“What’s the matter, Sunshine? Only a few moments ago, you were totally on board with … how did you say it?” I ask, tapping a finger to my lip in pretend thought. “Oh, yeah. You’re going to make my life miserable.”
Claire rolls her eyes. “I’m not sure I spoke those exact words, but sure. It seems like you enjoy dramatics, so we’ll just go with it.”
“Those were your words, dammit. I didn’t make that up.” I pause. Did I? I don’t think I did. But as Claire stares at me, anger seeping from her pores, I wonder if I misheard her. She doesn’t necessarily look like a woman who thrives on dramatics. Then again, what does that type of woman look like?
“Good God,” Jamie mutters. “He’s totally in his head right now.”
“Is this normal?” Claire asks. That’s a good question.
What is normal? Is she speaking in terms of me specifically, or men in general?
Are we talking about how I interact with everyone, my friends, the media, women I want to sleep with, or just her?
I’ve got a bunch of different versions of normal, babe.
“He’s thinking too hard,” Jamie comments.
Claire snorts. “Or he’s had one too many blows to the head. How many concussions has he had?”
“Three,” I murmur, still thinking about her comment.
If I could create an equation for the number of women I’ve slept with who I would qualify as being dramatic, what would the equation be?
What kind of case study would I need to create to collect data?
Furthermore, what traits would be considered dramatic versus not dramatic?
“He’s thinking up all kinds of things right now,” Jamie says. “I’ve seen it so many times. He’s probably creating a case study in his head for something he’d like to research.”
“I’m sorry, a what now?” Claire sputters. “A case study? Who the hell is this guy?”
I vaguely hear Jamie scoff. “He’s the smartest guy on the team, Claire. He has a degree in electrical engineering.”
I snap out of it when I hear silence from Claire. When my eyes focus, I find her staring at Jamie incredulously. “Thanks, man. I don’t think you’ve ever called me the smartest guy on the team before. That means a lot.”
Jamie chuckles, shaking his head. “Just calling it as I see it. I’ll leave you two alone to discuss the parameters of your date.”
We’re quiet as we watch Jamie walk away, quickly finding Audrey and pulling her into his arms. He smiles down at her, love etched on his face.
I find myself smiling as I observe the two of them.
I can’t say I would have matched them if it had been up to me, but seeing them together makes it clear that they’re perfect for each other.
Turning to Claire, I take in a deep inhale before launching into my thoughts. “Alright. It’s one date. We can manage this without killing each other, right?”
Claire’s gaze slowly moves from Jamie and Audrey to me. She studies me, her eyes calculated. “Speak for yourself. I make no promises.”
I struggle to keep from smiling. I really do love this girl’s fire. “Honestly, I think we should make it two dates. One for you to try and break me, and one for me to do the same to you. It’s only fair to see who wins the bet that way.”
Claire’s posture relaxes, but her face is covered in frustration and disdain. “No! I don’t want to be stuck with you for two dates. One is bad enough!”
“Jesus, woman, I’m not quite that bad. You’re acting like you’ve been forced into this, but you’re the one who bid on me,” I argue.
“I figured someone else would bid against me,” she states, crossing her arms over her stomach.
The move pushes her tits up perfectly, and my mouth waters at the thought of getting one of them in my mouth.
She’s rocking size C breasts, maybe even a D-cup.
I’ve always been a boob man, and hers are perfect.
When she snaps her fingers an inch away from my face, I jolt.
Whipping her hand up, my eyes follow. “Eyes up here, asshole. Last time I checked, my breasts don’t talk. ”
I sigh nonchalantly. “You’ve been with the wrong men, baby. I guarantee I can make them talk.”
Her face screws up in disgust. “Does that work with women? Talking so lewdly? I had no idea you were so crude, Maddox.”
I shrug. “I don’t need to talk a specific way with women. They mostly just throw themselves at me.”
“Now that I believe,” Claire mutters. “Rest assured, I will not be throwing myself at you. So stop with the salacious talk. I’m not that kind of girl.”
“Noted.” My phone buzzes in my pocket, and when I pull it out to look at the screen, I find a text from my father.
Great. My dad and I don’t have a good relationship, and he typically only reaches out when he’s drunk and belligerent.
Knowing his pattern, I expect a phone call in the next ten minutes.
I’ll need to get the hell out of here to quietly deal with the fallout.
“I’ll need your phone number, Sunshine.”
“Can’t we just talk over social media or something? I’d rather not give you my number.” My eyes whip to Claire, finding her glaring at me. “What? You probably have a thousand numbers in there from past conquests. I don’t want to be associated with that.”
“Almost sounds like you’re assuming you’re going to be a conquest of the future.”
“Hardly. I’m not a puck bunny, or whatever the football term for it is, when a woman has no morals and only wants to sleep with a professional athlete to get that notch on her bedpost. In fact, I’m blaming too much champagne for tonight’s entire debacle.
This is very unlike me … unless alcohol is involved,” she says in a rush.
Huh. That’s interesting. Only when alcohol is involved?
Guess whatever I plan for our date is going to involve some booze, because I really want to see how Claire acts when she lets her hair down.
“Just give me your number, Sunshine. It’ll all be fine.”
Claire sighs deeply, but rattles off her number. I plug it into my phone, adding her as a contact under “Sunshine,” then send her a text. “Now you have mine. We’re in training camp, so I won’t have a lot of open time for our dates.”
“Date. Singular. Not plural.”
I shake my head, grinning. “Nah. We get two. Even playing field, sweetheart. Anyway, things will be somewhat chaotic for the next couple of weeks. How is your schedule?”
“Nowhere near as chaotic as yours,” she retorts. “Just let me know what days you’re available, and I’ll make it work.”
“Nights, Sunshine. Not days.”
“What?”
“Dates are a night. I’m not taking you out for lunch.” Claire audibly growls at me, making me laugh. “It won’t kill you to go out with me, Claire. I’m not quite the masked murderer you’ve clearly concocted in your head.”
“That remains to be seen,” she says pompously, as she strides past me. I don’t even try to hide the fact that I watch her walk away, my eyes trained on her ass. I might be a boob man, but Claire is rocking one hell of an ass.
When my phone rings in my hand, I groan. Dad is a little too predictable. I wonder what he’s going to start on me about tonight.
“Dad.”
“Did you know you aren’t even in the top five for yards?” he slurs.
“What?”
“Jesus, son. You don’t understand English these days? I said you aren’t in the top five for wide receivers in yards. What the hell kind of man did I raise you to be? When did you suddenly decide to slack off?”
Walking in the opposite direction from Claire, I look frantically for any alcove or deserted hallway so I can have this conversation in private. “I don’t check my numbers anywhere near as often as you do, Dad. I’m more concerned with whether or not I complete the plays, and if we win the game.”
“Of course, that’s how you’d think,” he spits out.
“More of that ‘part of the team’ bullshit. No one is going to remember your name, you miserable piece of shit. No one will remember our name. It doesn’t matter if you’re part of a team when you’re doing the bare minimum.
I know your mother is rolling over in her grave, so disappointed in you. You disgust me, do you know that?”
Gotta love a pep talk from dear old dad. “Well, since she’s cremated, and I have her ashes, I can assure you she isn’t rolling over in a grave.”
“Don’t you back-talk me!” Dad shouts. “I knew her better than you! She’d have been appalled at your behavior, so disappointed in how you treat me. After everything I’ve done for you!”
I sigh, rubbing my forehead. I want to yell back at him.
Remind him that I pay his mortgage and all his bills, and that I bought him a new car.
I’m the one who has a team of people who clean for him, make sure he has food, and track him down when he ends up drunk at a bar.
But there’s no use. Ever since my mom died, he’s held it against me.
Mom was rushing to one of my games, my senior year of high school.
It had just rained, and the roads were slick.
Someone ran a red light, and Mom lost control while trying to avoid them.
Her car slammed into a concrete wall, killing her instantly.
Dad immediately blamed me. She wouldn’t have been on the roads had it not been for me.
She’d still be here. Still putting up with his shit.
Dad was a drinker before she died, but afterward, it became his entire personality. I think the last time I saw him sober was probably the day we picked up her urn, fourteen years ago.
In some ways, it gives me a little peace knowing that he’s slowly drinking himself to death.
Maybe she’s waiting for him. It’s possible that he’s ready to go, desperate to be with her again.
But my petty side wants him on Earth, miserable and alone, because he’s made my life hell since well before she died.
When it became clear that I was naturally gifted at football, Dad put tremendous pressure on me to succeed.
He became a manager of sorts, handling all the discussions with college scouts, created a workout plan for me on top of what my high school wanted, and regularly attended practices to keep track of my progress.
Even choosing a college across the country didn’t sway his single-minded focus.
He sold my childhood home, bought a camper, and showed up one day, only two months into my freshman year of college.
When I turned pro, I believe he would have continued following me, but I struck a deal with him.
If I paid for everything, including his house and car, he’d stay put.
Not surprisingly, he leaped at the deal.
Now I get the weekly phone calls where he lambasts my every move.
“You better get your name on these lists, Maddox,” he snarls, jarring me from my walk down memory lane. “Don’t make me come out there to teach you a lesson.”
“Are you seriously threatening me, Dad?” I ask incredulously, chuckling. “Alright. I’ll give you one right back. Don’t make me sell the house out from under you, and stop paying for all of your booze.”
“You miserable piece of shit! Don’t you dare threaten me!” he booms. “Just you wait. I’m coming. Gonna beat that sass right outta you.”
I hear a click as he hangs up on me, as is how our conversations typically end. Closing my eyes, I shake my head, sending up a silent message to my mom. How am I supposed to continue dealing with this? Have I let it go on too far? It is my fault you’re gone. I wish you were here. I miss you, Mom.
I hate this. I hate that I have no one to talk to about my father. Who could even remotely understand what has become of this relationship?
For a brief moment, I wonder what Claire would think.