Chapter 2 Andy
Chapter 2
Andy
“Dear God, take me now.”
Swallow me whole, this is a nightmare.
That chick might have been right about the chicken.
Correction: not might have—she was—and I’m paying the price, right here in the middle of Central Park.
As I hunch over a green trash can, sucking in a breath before I vomit into the dirty, bee-infested abyss where garbage goes to die, her sassy words come back and haunt me: You can get sick from undercooked meat , and You might as well wear a sign that says ‘I have salmonella poisoning.’
How the hell did she know it would be undercooked?
What kind of sorcerer is she?
I retch again, damning Reyansh and his feeble promise not to do me dirty. He said the words to my face. I’ve been visiting his food cart for the past three days, but this was the first time I’ve ordered anything other than a hot dog, and now I may not live to regret it.
Bastard.
Feeling as if my stomach is going to fall out of my ass, I lift my eyes to see if anyone is watching me—or worse, filming or photographing me—adjusting the brim on my baseball hat, dragging it down lower over my forehead to shield my eyes. The last thing I need is someone to recognize me, snap a picture, and sell it to the press.
I do not need images of me vomiting into a trash can all over social media.
Picture the headline: Landon Burke, Drunk in the Middle of the Day, Vomits in Central Park with Families Nearby.
Yeah, no.
I don’t have time to be sick like this.
I have shit to do, people to see, places to be.
Did I say Shit to do ? I meant things . Things to do, people to see, places to be.
Ignoring the fact that I just made a rhyme, I wipe the saliva from my mouth with the hem of my T-shirt.
The gurgling continues.
“This cannot fucking be happening.”
Oh, Andy, But it is .
Me.
The most badass bro in America.
And only an hour before my impressive, important meeting this afternoon. I can’t show up smelling like puke and looking like total shit.
But.
Silver lining, I am the honored guest. And though they wouldn’t be able to tell me to my face that I’m abhorrent, management would be thinking it. Wondering what kind of teammate I’d make, wondering if they’d made a mistake inviting me here, wondering if all the hype was because of a PR machine.
On the other hand, I’m not the one trying to sell myself—they invited me here. I’m not the one putting on this production of a presentation. I’m not the one who has to dress to impress.
I am in town to see what their clubhouse is like. Take a tour of the facility, though I’ve been in both the stadium and the visitors’ locker room as an opposing player many times before. They’ll give me a figure, a monetary amount of what they think I’m worth and what might get me to play here.
If they’re smart, they’ll offer me the sun, moon, and stars to play here. Anything less and my ego will be butt hurt.
I make the mistake of glancing down at my shirt—the entire situation could probably have been avoided if I’d listened to that bossy little monster. The fact I have to search the fabric for literal chunks of meat is embarrassing.
My stomach churns.
Actually bubbles . . .
That is not a good sign.
I haven’t been this sick since college, where I may have partied a little too hard on the occasions when I could, and God forbid this problem comes out the back end while I’m strolling around the park.
Checking my watch, I frown. If I don’t hurry, I’m going to be late for this meeting in Jersey. On the other hand, if I hightail it, I just may shit my pants.
This has escalated into a no-win situation.
Back to the hotel it is.
I take a healthy chug of my cola, hoping the carbonation settles my stomach, though I doubt it will, considering I most likely have food poisoning.
“I should probably call Trent,” I groan painfully, referring to my agent before slowly migrating toward the city stairwell that descends into the ground, my sluggish gait a direct counter to the threat of diarrhea.
“Please don’t s-shit yourself,” I stutter, officially the kind of guy who wanders around New York City mumbling to himself. “Dude, do not shit. Your. Pants.”
This is not okay, man.
I glance over to find a teenage girl openly gawking at me. She pulls a face, going straight to her phone, probably messaging her friends about the old guy by the subway about to defecate in public, and of course I’m sweaty and gross and this would be the day I’m wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt.
I don’t think I’ve shit my pants since I was a toddler, vaguely remembering a time I battled Mom over going doo-doo on the toilet like a big boy. But I preferred shitting in my Pull-Ups diaper to going in the porcelain god.
I was the worst when it came to potty training, and it’s coming back to haunt me. Everything comes full circle, don’t it?
If you don’t get sick or shit yourself, come find me. I’ll buy you dinner. If you do get sick ... you owe me.
What a smart-ass she was.
What a random thing to say to a stranger!
To me, to my face.
She clearly had no idea who I am.
I mean, it’s not as if I were doing that great a job hiding it. The baseball hat usually doesn’t conceal my identity all that well, especially in a city like this, full of superfans. I have a recognizable face, and ever since I became a free agent, the frenzy has my mug plastered on every media outlet.
Who is he going to sign with?
Speculation is rampant. I can’t go within pissing distance of a city without someone writing about it online.
Landon Burke Seen in New York Meeting with The Panthers
Landon Burke Seen in Philly Lunching with The Rockets
But this is New York, and I assumed not many people would give a second thought to who was standing next to them in line at the hot dog cart, not when so many celebrities call this city home.
Today, I was Andy from Cleveland, Ohio, visiting Central Park. This afternoon I’ll be Landon Burke, wide receiver with three Super Bowl rings and ready for a new team, a new city, a fresh start—and a fourth ring.
That young woman didn’t have the faintest clue who I am.
If you don’t get sick or shit yourself, come find me. I’ll buy you dinner. If you do get sick ... you owe me.
Ha.
She’d have to find me to collect on that bet, and in this city that would be next to impossible, though I wouldn’t mind seeing the look on her face when I admitted she was right—on both counts.
She seemed like the type who would enjoy a good groveling confession.
As I stand in the subway terminal waiting for the next train to arrive, I fix my eyes on the rails. Stare at the coal-and-soot-covered rocks. The miles of metal. Listen to the distant sound of the engines, the squealing brakes. Feel the heat of the exhaust as it filters through the station, kicking up and creating a fine layer of grime.
If I stand here long enough, I’ll be filthy.
My stomach is in knots now, damned if it isn’t, the timing absolutely horrible.
The train enters the terminal.
Whizzes by.
Car, car, car, windows, car, people, car.
The sight makes me nauseous.
“Don’t puke, don’t puke,” I chant, putting my head down. Don’t shit your pants, don’t shit your pants ...
I fight down bile before turning in the direction I came, taking the stairs two by two, my long legs desperate to escape, fingers fumbling for the keys on my cell, texting my agent.
Me:
I have an emergency. Can’t make it to Panthers.
Trent:
What the fuck do you mean you can’t make it to the Panthers? Dude, the meeting is supposed to start in an hour. They are Sending a car for you.
Me:
I know that, bro, but if I don’t get my ass back to my hotel, I’ll end up taking a massive dump on the sidewalk.
Trent:
You can’t just take a shit in a restaurant like a normal person? You’re Landon Fucking Burke for God’s sake—since when are you a diva?
Me:
Since I got food poisoning and decided to throw up in the park.
Trent:
For serious?
Me:
Yes. Don’t ever eat the chicken kebabs.
Trent:
Wait. You ate Chicken in the park? On a day you have a Fucking Meeting ?
Me:
Dude, start yelling at me in all caps, bro, I’m about to barf again.
Trent:
I knew I should have met you at the hotel, I’m a goddamn idiot for trusting you to make this meeting on your own.
Me:
Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.
Trent:
Where are you right now?
Me:
Jogging back to my hotel after ducking into a coffee shop and clogging up their toilet. You’re lucky I’m texting you at all. Do you know how hard it is to multitask when you’re on the verge of vomiting?
Trent:
Please tell me you’re joking. This is a sick joke.
Me:
You think I’m enjoying this???
Trent:
I never said you were enjoying this, I asked if this was a joke.
Me:
Negative, ghost rider . . .
Trent:
What the hell am I supposed to tell Dan Sherman? You should see the look he’s giving me.
Me:
Tell him whatever you want—this is why I pay you the big bucks.
Trent:
Shit.
Me:
Exactly.
Waiting for the hotel elevator, I grip the wall beside it.
The wait feels like an eternity as sweat beads on my forehead— I can feel it dripping out from under my cap from my hairline , wetting the brim.
I am a mess.
I slouch, focused on pushing through the stomach pain, grasping for the doors before they’re all the way open.
Blindly I climb inside, oblivious to everything.
My only goal is getting upstairs as fast as I can so I can make a beeline for my room on the top floor.
Yeah. The penthouse.
Not to brag because I’m not the one who booked it, nor am I the one paying for it, but it’s a sweet pad.
“Whoa there,” a female voice says. “Are you okay?”
Dread instantly fills my stomach at the sight of the woman from the park. Is she going to make a production out of seeing me like this, or is she going to let me die in peace?
“Oh crap, it’s you.” She looks me up and down before beginning to step off the elevator and into the lobby. “You look like total shit. No offense.”
She stresses the word total as if she cannot stress it hard enough.
“Gee, thanks.” I barely have the energy to be sarcastic, but somehow I manage.
Her lips curve into a smile, and my brain registers that she’s wearing lipstick. And she’s wearing a dress. And she’s wearing perfume ...
... perfume that roils my stomach.
“Oh God.” I hold the elevator door open, leaning against it for support. Yes, I have to shit my pants. But she doesn’t have to know that.
I play it as cool as I can.
“Are you going up?”
Weakly, I nod.
Her hands go out as if she were about to lift a baby. Me. I’m the baby. “Do you need help? I can get someone—I don’t think I can carry you myself.”
“You won’t have to carry me.” I wave a hand in front of my face. “I’m fine. It’s fine. These things are fast, I’ll be upstairs in no time.”
“You’re sick, aren’t you?” She flips her wrist and fusses with her watch, checking the time. “Only took you a few hours, eh? That’s got to be a record for food poisoning; doesn’t it usually take a while?” She pauses again, shifting on her heels. “Not going to say I told you so but ... looks like you might owe me.”
“Yeah,” I croak. “What are the odds we’d bump into each other again?”
What are the odds I would actually get sick?
What are the odds she’d be stepping out of the elevator while I was trying to step on?
What are the fucking odds?
She moves aside so I can step all the way into the elevator car, my stomach bubbling again.
My face blanches. I can feel it.
“Well. Clearly you’re not feeling well and probably want to get to your room, so I won’t keep you.” She has the balls to laugh. “And I have to get going too. I’m in room 905, you can send up a message.”
Nine oh five, nine oh five.
“A message for what?”
The doors slowly begin to slide closed—at a snail’s pace, of course—the young woman from the park giving me a cheeky wave through the crack.
“Dinner. You owe me, and do I look like the kind of girl who passes up a free meal?” She wiggles her fingers. “Toodles!”
I stare through the doors, all three inches of the gap.
And just before that gap in the door is gone, she winks.
Actually fucking winks.