CHAPTER 44 Dex Bradley
Lime Green Lambo
My dad’s lounge isn’t the only game in town, and I find myself at another VIP lounge that I frequented before my own opened up.
It’s where my buddies typically hang out, though none of my teammates are here tonight. They’re all probably in bed like good little boys while I’m out chasing thrills I can’t seem to find.
I play some Hold’em, lose a bit of cash, and grab some more whiskey. I’m almost ready to call it a night, but I’m not sure where to go. I don’t want to go home. It’s too early. She might still be awake, and I don’t want to face her. I can’t face her.
Not when she ended it. Not when that goddamn ring that belongs on her finger will still be sitting on the counter.
I just need a night.
So I get some more whiskey.
I’m half-drunk, maybe more, on a barstool when Cole Dawson, one of my incredibly successful buddies who owns a tech company, sidles up beside me and claims the stool beside mine.
“Heard you’ve got your own place now. What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Drumming up business,” I deadpan. I swallow what’s left in my glass.
He laughs. “You wanna race tonight?”
I turn and narrow my eyes at him. “You want to lose again?”
He winces as he recalls the last time we drag raced down the Vegas Strip. I kicked his ass.
“If I win, you come to my new lounge and spend some time there,” I say, and we both know that I mean money, not actual time.
“And if I win?” he counters.
“You do it anyway, but I give you an off-the-books personal line of credit.”
He laughs and sticks out his hand. “Deal.”
We shake.
“I don’t have a car here,” I say as I remember I was driven here.
“We can get you one.”
“Get two, and I get to pick,” I demand since I know Cole, and I suspect he’d give me the slower car if he knew the difference.
He laughs. “Fine. Deal.” He sends a text, and we make our way outside to figure out the logistics of how this is going to go down.
I shouldn’t get behind the wheel. I know that. But Cole will blow a shitload of money at my lounge if I can get him there, and I know I can beat his ass into the ground with a race.
I feel that old surge of adrenaline starting to kick in.
It’s a Wednesday night, so the Strip isn’t overly crowded, but it’s still a long wait for Cole’s guys to bring the cars around for us.
They finally do, and we’re on a side street. It took goddamn long enough that I’m pretty sure I’m sober now.
I choose the lime green Lamborghini, while Cole is left with the cherry red McLaren. I walk around to the driver’s side, and I’m halfway to seated in the luxurious driver’s seat when I feel a hand grip onto the collar of my shirt and pull me out of the car.
I turn with rage on the offender, ready to go the fuck off that someone thinks they can manhandle me that way, when I find myself face-to-face with Coach Lincoln Nash.
And he looks well and truly livid.
I am so fucked.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he demands.
“Racing,” I say calmly.
“Not the fuck tonight,” he growls, and he yanks me away from the car like I’m some goddamn child. But what can I do? This is my head coach. If I fight back, I’ll be suspended or worse.
I might be anyway.
I have no choice but to let him embarrass me in front of Cole, and for the first time, a rational thought enters my brain.
And it’s in the voice of fucking Ainsley.
It’s a good thing Lincoln showed up when he did.
Once Lincoln drags me into the front seat of his car, he starts driving before he starts yelling.
“The fuck you think you were doing out there, Bradley?” he asks. He doesn’t wait for my reply as he continues laying into me. “You’re acting like a child. Did you even consider what could happen if you got behind that wheel?”
No, I didn’t. I can’t say that, obviously. I’m already in pretty big trouble here, though he’s right. It could’ve been worse. Much worse.
“Minimum three games for a DUI from the league, not to mention the legal ramifications for reckless endangerment paired with a DUI. Stupid, Dex. Just plain fucking stupid.”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t have—”
“You’re goddamn right you shouldn’t have,” he interrupts.
“You’ve got a game to play this weekend in New York, and we need you.
I thought you were settling down. Thought you were pulling your shit together.
You have a kid now, and you’re still acting like this?
I’m disappointed, Dex. I thought you were better than this. ”
He thought wrong.
I haven’t grown. I haven’t changed. I’ve pawned my kid off on Ainsley, and the second things got tough, I reverted back to exactly who I was. Who I am. Who I’ll always be.
Silence spans across the car before I finally ask, “Where are you taking me?”
“Back to my place,” he mutters. “You can quietly sleep it off there and be at practice in the morning. On fucking time, or you’ll get stadium stairs.
And if you wake my kids after I let you into my home, stadium stairs.
You know what? Fuck it. You’re getting stadium stairs tomorrow either way, but you’ll get an extra set if you wake up my kids. ”
Stadium stairs are the literal worst punishment. They’re exactly what they sound like they are. I have to run up the stairs of one section and down the stairs of another, making my way around the entire lower bowl of our stadium.
Football stadiums are huge. It’s a lot of fucking stairs. And it’s not at our practice facility, which means I have to go do it on my own time.
And I’m going to be doing it hungover. I’m definitely not as sober as I thought I was, which is why I pass out as soon as Lincoln shows me his guest room.