Chapter 9
Nine
August
I’ll think about it.
Pen’s subdued response to my plan runs through my head as I drive home. I messed up, fumbled the ball, what have you. I felt it with every word I’d uttered since blurting out that marriage proposal. I’m lucky she didn’t punch me in the nose.
My mouth twitches despite my worry. There were moments Pen definitely looked like she wanted to give me a good slap.
Turning onto Laurel Canyon, it hits me that I don’t like driving away. I haven’t seen Penelope in years, and already I’m missing her voice, her eyes, the way she suddenly felt comfortable enough to tease me. My hands twitch with the urge to turn the wheel and go right back to her.
“Great,” I mutter, and increase the volume on the radio. Unfortunately, the next song cues up to the Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction.”
Ordinarily, I love the classics, especially the Stones, but having Mick Jagger sneer about not getting any satisfaction isn’t helping my mood. Stabbing the forward button gives me a slight bit of satisfaction, thank you very much, Mick.
Until the radio blasts out the horrifying harmonizing of “Take a Chance on Me” by ABBA.
“What the fuck?” Now, I know that’s not on my playlist. And I know exactly who could figure out my password to add it. “That little shit.”
I hit the hands-free call button on my phone. March answers on the third ring. Since I haven’t turned down the radio, he hears the music immediately and laughs.
“Excellent,” he says.
“Fucker.” I’m trying hard not to laugh.
“Please tell me Pen is in the car with you.”
Scowling, I turn the volume down. “Why would Pen be in the car with me?”
I can almost hear him shrug. “You had the same flight out. Logic dictates that you’d offer her a ride home.”
“How the hell did you know we had the same flight— You know what? Never mind. I don’t know why I even ask.”
“You choose futility. I know everything.”
“Sure you do.” I make a right onto my street. “Just remember payback is a bitch.”
“Bro, you are on a different coast from me for months. I feel pretty safe.”
“Famous last words, squirt.”
He snorts. “I’m bigger than you.”
“Only in height.”
“And muscle.”
“Please. I can toss you like a bag of cookies.”
Outrage colors his laugh. “Like hell.”
“Hell is what’s going to rain down on you when I get my revenge.”
Again he snorts, long and exaggerated. Then his voice brightens. “So . . . How was the flight with Pen?”
It’s scary how well he knows me. And annoying. “Fine.”
“Fine, huh? You two crazy kids get along all right?”
“Sure.” I eye the call button. Maybe I can hang up on him and blame it on bad LA reception.
“Uh-huh. Did you ask her out?”
“What?” The car swerves, and I glare at the road. Fucking March.
“Don’t give me that.” He sounds bored. “There were definite vibes between you two—finally. You need to get off your ass and ask her out.”
If he only knew what I’d asked of her.
“What’s with you trying to put me and Pen together, anyway?” It comes out far more annoyed than I want, and any sign of weakness will make March dig in.
“Truth? Because you were looking at her the way you used to look before an upcoming football game. And I’m thinking if something gives you that feeling you go after it. But what do I know?”
The ancient SUV feels too close and too hot. I should never have asked March a question I didn’t want the answer to. Lesson learned.
“The flight was fine. I drove her home. End of story.” For now. Please don’t let it be the end of our story. Shit, I’m in so much trouble.
March, for once, doesn’t push. “If you say so.”
“I do.”
“Welp.” He sighs expansively. “If that’s all, I’m gonna text Pen and ask her what’s up.”
What! And, wait. That little . . . How the fuck does he have her number?
“Don’t you dare—”
He’s already gone.
“Shit!” Banging the wheel, I’m halfway to calling him back, maybe calling Pen and begging her not to say anything to March. But then I take a breath. March is bluffing. I know it. And if, on the off chance, he’s not, I trust Pen not to talk.
Even so, my head starts to throb.
“I need a fucking nap.”
Pulling up to my gate, I’m reminded of Pen all over. While her house, and its gate, are old Hollywood class, my place is new construction ostentation.
Since the new rules for college athletes went in place, I’ve been making money on endorsements for years.
Not the obscene amount of the NFL deal, but a lot, as have both my brothers.
My father immediately found us a money manager, and my savings were nice and plump long before the draft.
It’s a comfort given that the career of a professional athlete is short and brutal.
I invested in some properties, but I didn’t buy a home until I’d signed.
Punching in my code, I wait for the brushed steel gate to slide open and make my way down the small incline to my house.
Pen’s place—and it is her place no matter what she says—has old graceful trees and flowering plants, ripe with maturity, that lead you like a secret map toward the house.
My spot has a few saplings dotted here and there, opening to a flat expanse of new sod lawn that hugs the mountainside with downtown Los Angeles shimmering in the distance.
The house itself is a series of three interconnected and staggered flat squares made up of whitewashed concrete and steel windows.
Yes, I bought a soulless, overpriced, modern pop-up mansion that was slapped over the remains of someone’s previous home.
It seemed like a good idea at the time; I’d wanted a home not a rental, and the agent, who I’m not going to lie was smoking hot with a sweet smile, persuaded me that this was just the place to settle down in—at least for the next year or so.
Here, it isn’t uncommon for the wealthy to move around on a whim.
Looking at it now, with its twenty-foot maple-and-glass front door that opens on a whisper and the endless expanse of gray stone floor, it feels .
. . ridiculous. Why do I need a ten-thousand-square-foot house with two owner’s suites—upstairs and downstairs—an indoor and outdoor home theater, and three party bars. I don’t even drink that much.
A headache blooms as I park in my empty five-car garage and head into the house via my catering kitchen. Two kitchens and all I can do is make sandwiches. Honestly, what the hell was I thinking?
I wasn’t.
I was more interested in scoring with Jessie the real estate seductress.
Only, and here’s the kicker, I hadn’t. Oh, she’d been willing, I’d been wanting, and there’d been opportunity. And when it all came to a head? I couldn’t.
Everything in me had just withered like a fallen leaf in the sun. I might have felt humiliated if I hadn’t been so terrified. Nothing was right anymore. Not my sex drive, not my behavior, or my love of the game. I don’t feel like me anymore.
You did when you were with Pen.
The thought doesn’t help.
Sighing, I toss my keys in the little wooden bowl on the counter by the door and head into the main living area. Hot blocks of sunlight fall through the wall of windows and onto the floor. It might be impersonal here but at least it’s light filled—that’s what my mother said when she’d visited.
Evidence of her ensuing attempt to make it “homey” are in the thick cream-colored throw draped over the end of the low-slung sectional, and the various vases dotted around the bookshelves that flank my granite fireplace.
I know how it hurts Pen to worry about losing her grandparents’ house.
I understand it better than she realizes.
There’s nothing of me here. My mother’s house is still my home.
Not this place. I remember doing the dishes back in Massachusetts, and suddenly I miss Mom with a yawning emptiness in my belly.
Hefting my overnight bag onto my shoulder, I head toward my bedroom when I spot someone lying out by the pool. The bag plops on the floor, and I stride to the patio.
Trent Gellis, aka Jelly, my main tight end, doesn’t acknowledge me as I approach.
Sprawled out on one of my loungers, he’s oiled up, wearing a damn banana hammock that’s way too small, oversize mirrored aviators, and nothing else.
Coupled with his spiked bleached blond hair, I can’t tell if he’s going for an Iceman from Top Gun look or just trying to give me nightmares.
I step closer, and he deigns to lift his glasses to squint at me.
“You’re in my sun, Rook.” Jelly reaches for the glass of lemonade sitting on the side table next to him. Ice cubes clink as he sips through a pink flamingo curly straw—I’m going to guess he brought that with him.
“Is there a reason you’re lounging by my pool and not your own?” I ask conversationally. Jelly returned to LA with the rest of the team. After getting my ass chewed out by Coach, I was given two days “grace” to get my act together.
“You asked me to water your plants before you went to visit your ma.” He waves an idle hand in the direction of my house.
“I was being sarcastic. I don’t have any plants.”
“That’s why I’m sunning instead of watering.” Again his glasses come up. I’m treated to a dark-eyed squint worthy of old Clint Eastwood. “And sarcasm is unbecoming in a rookie.”
“Is this another hazing attempt?” I take a seat on the neighboring lounger. “Terrorize the rookie by sunbathing in a bikini bottom?”
“Nah. If I was terrorizing, I’d put you in the suit.”
“You could try. But you’d be limping back home.”
“That’s the fighting spirit. Even if it is deluded.” He threads his hands behind his head and settles in. “I’m working on my tan.”
His face, arms, and calves are ruddy brown. The rest of him, where his uniform usually covers, is pale ivory. I don’t fault him for trying to even out; I’d just as rather not have to witness the process.
“Would have gone in the buff,” he adds, with a rolling drawl, “but I didn’t want to rub sunscreen on my junk. That’s my girl’s job, and she wouldn’t come over with me. Said I was invading your privacy.”
“Smart girl.”
“Isn’t she just? And it ain’t a bikini. It’s a . . .” He frowns before his expression clears. “Mankini.”
I grab his drink and take a gulp. “The leopard print is a nice touch, really.”
“Monica says leopard print is in now. She knows these things.”
“I guess we’ll take Monica’s word on that.”
With a grunt, Jelly sits up and swings his legs over the side of the seat. He’s a good six foot six and his long legs fold up toward his chest before he parts his thighs. I avert my eyes. Honestly, nightmares about this for months are in my future.
“Tell you the truth, son—” (he’s only four years older than me) “—I’m here to discuss your poultry party proclivities.”
“Nice alliteration.”
“You want to throw SAT words at each other all day or are you gonna explain why you danced on a table like an inebriated chicken?”
Grimacing, I attempt to take another drink of lemonade.
He snatches the glass and raises his brow in warning before sipping through the straw.
Jelly’s my first true friend on the team, and despite his unfortunate attire, he’s a straight shooter who works hard and doesn’t fuck around. His disappointment in me stings.
“Won’t happen again.” I hold his gaze before looking out at the pool. Its opaline blue surface ripples faintly in the breeze.
“No it won’t. We don’t have time for fuckups. We got the tools, and we got the talent. I want a ring on this, son.” He holds up his massive hand. It’s hard and scarred, and ring-free at the moment. “And I ain’t talking about getting one from my girl neither.”
A laugh sputters out of me. “Fuck’s sake, Jelly. I’m a rookie. And you want a ring this year?”
He simply looks at me with those steady, squinty eyes the color of new football leather. “You can do it.”
My insides twist tight. God, I want to dive in the pool, sink down in its cool quiet waters, and rest on the bottom.
“You can,” he says again.
Of course Jelly expects a ring. He should.
It’s what the team paid top dollar for. A superstar.
The QB who could become a legend. Thing with being a legend is that it isn’t easy or common; if it were, we wouldn’t revere them.
My team can be the best in the world but if it isn’t in me to shine, then nothing will change that.
It’s a struggle to breathe, but I suck in a deep breath and look back at him. His broad face is placid now. He knows the struggle too. We all do.
“I won’t fuck up again, Jells.” My hand spreads wide over my thigh. “I don’t know if I can lead us there, but I’ll try my hardest.”
“That’s all any of us can do.”
I wish that were true.