Chapter 2 #2
And if it weren’t, I doubt some of these guys would be acting the way they are.
On a table in the far corner, someone cuts lines of white powder—I’m not even going to assume what it is, cause I’d probably be wrong.
Your boy doesn’t fuck with drugs harder than melatonin.
Someone that I think might be a rookie tight end has a woman topless in his arms and his head between her tits.
And up against the glass, the big, man-bunned guy that I recognize as the Redwoods’ center has his quarterback’s hands pinned over his head and his tongue down his throat.
In short, this VIP area is exactly the land of debauchery I expected it to be, and I’m feeling extra thankful for the spray bottle of hand sanitizer tucked safely away in Franny’s front pocket.
Another scantily dressed server—this one in nothing but a jockstrap that seems to be doing a lot of heavy lifting—walks by with a gold-plated tray lined with fresh bottles of liquor and beer of every variety on his shoulder.
My brows furrow together in disappointment.
Between the private room and the free-flowing bottles, I’m not sure how I’m going to solve karmic injustices with booze tonight.
We’re separated from the non-athletes downstairs, and everyone up here already has access to everything they need.
I could still send drinks downstairs, but one quick look out the glass window shows the scene below is much like the one up here.
There’s drugs—albeit, the tiniest bit more discreet than up here—there’s alcohol, but you know what I don’t see?
Food! That’s something I can do, feed the hungry club-going patrons.
Maybe this place has a kitchen? I could order mozzarella sticks for everyone. That should alleviate the pain of waiting in line…
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I don’t have to check the screen to know it’s my dad.
He always does this at the beginning of every season.
He calls, drunk off his ass, and tries to get into my head by telling me what a disappointment I am.
I stopped answering a long time ago, and tonight is no different.
Even so, Dad’s phone number on my screen adds to my growing anxiety, and I can feel my teeth start to chatter.
“You look like you’re thinking really hard there. What’s on your mind, man?”
Someone bumps my shoulder and I turn, expecting to see Miles or one of my other teammates.
But I stop short, my breath stuttering when I’m met with the view of the single most beautiful human I have ever set my eyes on.
Tall, broad, and bulging with muscle, the mousy-brown haired man with the scruffy beard and the kind of mustache that my pathetic facial hair follicles could only dream of growing one day gazes down at me under thick, long eyelashes.
I can’t tell exactly what color his eyes are, but when a strobe light flashes across his face, I think I catch a glimpse of green.
His red and gold t-shirt is cut off at the sleeves and cropped high, showing off a set of washboard abs and a trail of hair that starts at his outie belly button and dips below the waistband of his shorts that hug his tree trunk thighs.
He’s perfect. Superhuman. The kind of man scrawny boys want to be when they grow up.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m big and manly in my own right.
I’ve also got muscles for days, but my floppy, dark brown hair and my inability to grow facial hair mean I lack a certain…
aura…that this guy gives off. I don’t think I’ve ever thought of another man as gorgeous before.
Objectively attractive, sure. But fuck me, this dude is just straight up hot.
“Earth to…whatever your name is. Are you good?” The beautiful stranger snaps in my face, bringing me out of the daze where my eyes are keyed into the furry divot below his belly button and back into reality.
“Good. Yeah, I’m good,” I stammer. “Just thinking about karmic injustice and your happy trail.”
Did I just tell this guy I’m thinking about his happy trail?
Jesus fucking hell. Why wasn’t I born with better brain-to-mouth control?
Now this dude is going to think I’m hitting on him or something.
I feel my cheeks heat, no doubt flushing a deep red that will inevitably spread down to my chest and let everyone in this room in on just how embarrassing I find myself.
Hopefully the dark ambience of this too-loud club will help me hang on to a shred of dignity.
“My happy trail, huh?” Mr. Beautiful smirks, rubbing a hand over his bare belly.
“Yeah. I mean, I like your shirt. I love a crop-top. I almost wore one tonight, but I had sushi for dinner, so…” I trail off, feeling like even more of an idiot.
“Ah, soy sauce bloat?”
“Exactly! You get it!”
“I do, but from the looks of you, I don’t think a little soy sauce and rice is enough to kill your vibe.
” Mr. Beautiful’s smirk grows into a full-fledged smile as he eyes me up and down, and I preen a bit.
I work hard to keep my body in tip-top shape for the ice, and it always feels nice to be appreciated.
“Well it’s not just the bloat I’m worried about.
I’ve got a bruise on my ribcage the size of Rhode Island and it's in the nasty banana-yellow phase of healing. I’m pretty sure the ultra violet lights in here would make me look like something straight out of Ghostbusters.
” His eyes go wide with surprise, and I chuckle.
“I’m Alex Holmes. Goalie for the San Francisco Thunder and magnet for slap shots that cut through regulation padding,” I say, holding my hand out for a shake.
Mr. Beautiful shifts his beer bottle from one hand to the other and meets mine in a firm grip that has the hair on my arms standing on end.
Damn, he’s got a good handshake, too. Tough, commanding, the kind of handshake that would make my dad say “Now that’s a man’s man. Why can’t you be more like him? Why am I stuck with a doughy idiot for a son?”
“Elliot Baker. Long kicker for The Redwoods. Can I get you a drink, Alex?”
“Oh, I’m good. I’ll grab some water next time I see someone walking by.
Or maybe some peppermint hot chocolate. Do you think they have that here?
Or is it too early in the holiday season to expect festive beverages?
They might still be in pumpkin spice season.
Maybe I’ll ask for a pumpkin spice chai instead. ”
“Uh…” Elliot says, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. “I don’t know about hot chocolate, but if they have vanilla vodka and cream I can probably find someone to mix you a sugar cookie martini?”
Blegh. My nose scrunches up at the thought.
“No vodka for this guy. I’m not a drinker, but thanks anyway.
” Never let myself get near the stuff after watching my dad drink himself to liver failure.
Because apparently, a “man’s man” not only has a firm handshake and a firm spirit, he also values the alcoholic content of a bottle of whiskey more than his family, too.
I don’t know how much the whole “nature vs. nurture” thing plays into the addiction gene, but I’m perfectly fine not tempting fate and steering clear of the booze.
“Not a drinker, and yet here you are in the VIP area of a club surrounded by alcohol.”
“Such is the life of a professional athlete,” I shrug. “What about food? Everyone knows that mozzarella sticks are the antidote to bad juju. But there could be vegans here, or people who are lactose intolerant. Oh! Maybe they have Baba Ganoush!”
I mean to do a quick scan of the room, looking for a door that might lead to a kitchen or a server that I can ask about appetizers, but despite my overwhelming desire to get ahead of this karmic juju, I can’t seem to take my eyes off my new friend, Elliot.
And honestly? I don’t think I want to look away.