Chapter 3
Zamir
Iwatch those perfect curves swaying back and forth as she’s practically running away from me to get back behind the bar. I flop back down in my seat. My drink is untouched; all my ice, melted. Throwing it back in one swig, I feel the watered-down, smooth bourbon burn on it’s way down. This day has taken turn after turn, but I can’t say it’s been boring. Usually, I would just be back at my place after a practice like that, sulking. Letting some of my pent-up anger out earlier was a nice change up.
Ellie’s beyond perfect. Point blank. Period. I don’t think she gives a flying fuck about who I am—well, the football me. No one knows the real me. I keep that under wraps.
Her jet-black hair hits right below her shoulders; a perfect amount to wrap my fist around. She has thick thighs, an ass to drown in, and a whole sleeve of tattoos covers her right arm. She has on black jean shorts, cut off right below her plump ass, with some kind of shimmery black fish nets underneath that lead into her platform Doc Martens. Her Sleeping with Sirens band T-shirt is tucked into what I’m guessing is her bra so you can see a little sliver of her stomach. Combine all of that with her, I don’t give a fuck personality—my kryptonite.
I had to turn the charm on earlier after the jackass hit me in the head. Thank fuck he did though. I ended up in that office with her after and that’s how I know there is a spark between us; if she’d quit running off when we get close, I could see what it’s about.
Waving her over, I throw two, hundred dollar bills down. “Keep the change, but I’m going to need your number,” I shoot that off with a wink and what I hope is a panty-melting grin.
She gives me a side eye but quickly covers it with a smile. “Of course.” She turns around, going to the P.O.S. system quicker than I can blink. She couldn’t care less about my ass, and I’m making it my mission to claw down that calloused shell she has around her soul.
She returns with a napkin, and to my shock, her number is on it. I’m grinning like a moron now. I tuck the napkin in my back pocket and stride toward the door.
“This won’t be the last time I see you, Shpirt Im.” The shocked look on her face is enough to keep me going. I hit her with one more wink before I’m walking out the door.
I swing my leg onto my blacked-out Ducati, putting on my helmet and gloves. Coach and the team owner hate that I ride, but it’s the only sense of freedom and adrenaline I get anymore. Sports bikes and fast cars are my only real weaknesses—and I might need to add Ellie to that list.
After a grueling and equally annoying workout, I left the practice facility, wanting to wind down with a drink. So, I headed over to Shenanigans, the bar across the street. In my four years with the Vegas Rebels, I have been there only a handful of times. I don’t like to drink during the season, but it’s technically pre-season, and I desperately needed to chill the fuck out after the practice we had today.
I speed through the couple miles between Shenanigans and my 1high-rise apartment building. The other part I love about riding is the full-face helmet, giving me the complete anonymity I miss. Fuck, what I would give to not be known anywhere I show my face. I find myself going into stores with it on just to keep people away from me. I love my fans, but shit, it gets exhausting. The jersey chasers are usually falling at my feet, but if I’m being honest, it’s old now.
I never know people’s true intentions. Growing up around the worst humans you can think of, it wasn’t anything new to have to protect myself mentally from the ones who just wanted to use me. It got awful in college when they realized I had a one-way ticket to the pros, as long as I stayed healthy.
Being openly bisexual has brought even more unwanted attention. Not every day do you see a bi man open and out in any kind of professional sport, but football? Yeah, it’s unheard of. Open and out are the keywords.
I re-signed with the Rebels this season since I’ve been with them for four years, and my rookie contract was up. I was starting to think they weren’t interested in extending my contract, but my agent, Chip, was adamant that I had nothing to worry about.
That fuck back at the bar did send that jab right through my heart. My biggest insecurity was being thrown in my face. I think I would’ve taken a stab wound before hearing that. Chip’s a weasel, but he’s damn good at his job. Being a wide receiver, we tend not to have super long careers. We take vicious hits multiple times a game, and I never planned to play professionally. I’ve had a dark past, and I thought that would take me out before I had the chance to do anything with my life.
Thankfully, I wasn’t next in line.
As I’m pulling into the parking garage under my building, my helmet Bluetooth cuts through my music telling me my cousin, Alex, is calling. Hitting the button on the side of it to answer, I say, “Kush?riri.”
“Z, how are you, v?lla?” He sounds exhausted, and I don’t doubt he is dealing with my certifiable uncle and father back in Chicago. He’s next in line for the Prifti family.
I grew up with a ruthless father. Coming from a long line of Albanian mafia, having a ruthless father goes hand-in-hand. No one knows about that part of my past. If I can call it my past.
“Can’t complain. Now, what’s going on? You don’t just call to cut the shit, Kush?rir,” I grit out. I don’t like cutting the shit with any of them. I grew up with Alex; we’re close, but I can’t have him thinking I’m coming back.
They call, trying to lure me into the darkness that wants to come out so fucking bad some days. Alex is chiller about asking me to come back, but my father, on the other hand, thinks it’s my birthright to rule beside him like I didn’t just sign a twenty-five million-dollar yearly contract. If it was up to him I would’ve never been able to leave. They are keeping me here in Vegas for another four years at least.
“It’s Vito.” Oh fucking great, his dad. “I think he’s into some bad shit, but I don’t have any proof yet.”
There’s a long pause. “And you’re telling me this, why?”
“Because you know if my father’s in on the shit, Argon is right there following behind him.” Argon is my certifiable-ass father.
This soul of mine is murky, dipped in tar, tainted… I don’t like thinking about it, and if I had any doubt of who I was, or what family I was born into, my father made sure to beat it into me.
Argon’s favorite weapon of choice… beer bottles.
Reacting fast has to come to you naturally when you live in a home like I did. Surrounded by killers at all times… My own father being the one I had to watch out for most often. The beer bottle I took to the head at the bar didn’t even hurt compared to what I endured when I was younger. If I showed any kind of reaction to his abuse, it would only lead to him picking up the broken glass and carving my skin up until he saw fit… or I passed out. Whichever came first. It was enough to train my psyche to never show any weakness. It’s been a while since I’ve taken a bottle to the head, but I remember them all too vividly.
The dumbass at Shenanigans wanted an autograph. Usually, I wouldn’t hesitate. I love my fans, but I was just over it today. He just would not shut the fuck up about signing his fucking hand. Yes, his hand. I had enough and told him to fuck off, but he clearly didn’t take the hint. Once he hit me with the bottle, his fate was sealed. I wanted to do a lot more damage but figured doing anything super violent in public is never good when you’re a household name… I decided a dose of embarrassment would be plenty for him. Most of the time, embarrassment works better than pain. Some days, I do wish I was just the ruthless mafia enforcer my father bred me to be.
“Z! What the fuck, man? Are you okay?” Shit, I forgot he was talking to me through my helmet still.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just fighting with the rookie. Anyways, what do you want me to do about our fathers?”
“I just wanted you to know about it. Keep an eye out for anything suspicious.”
“I will. Keep me informed if anything goes south.” And I hang up.
I give our doorman a nod. “Hey, Tom, good to see you, man,” I say, jamming the button for the elevator. Tom’s not the typical old doorman you think of. He’s still ripped to shreds, and from what I can tell, he’s in his sixties. It’s giving “I’d fuck him,” if the man didn’t have a lovely wife and kids.
I ride in silence up to the twenty-sixth floor; the penthouses.
Marcello Barone owns this building, and when you live in Vegas, you know that name means steer clear of him and his men. He runs the Italian mafia here and also lives across the hall from me. I don’t think he knows of my ties back home, so I leave it alone. However, I knew the building would be secure with him owning it and also living here. That’s one thing about a mafia man. Nobody’s fucking with them, their businesses, or loved ones. I have one of the three penthouse apartments on the top floor, and to say I’m obsessed with it is an understatement.
I had this place decorated when I moved in. I didn’t want to take the time to do it, but the guy I hired hit the nail on the head. The living spaces’ gray and dark tones are minimalist, but it fits me well. The kitchen has light gray cabinets at the bottom, white cabinets at the top, stainless steel appliances, and industrial lights over the island. Being that this building is a little further out, the skyline of Vegas is framed by the floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s a great place to plaster a face up against while railing someone.
This place was one of the main reasons I didn’t want to be traded to a different team. That, and I love the coaching staff at the Rebels. My teammates are great, and the GM and owner aren’t terrible either. The teammates and I get along great; that is until this fucking rookie quarterback came marching in like he owns the goddamn place.
Nash Hayden.
The bane of my fucking existence currently. I typically get along great with the rookies. They usually stay out of my hair, most likely scared of me, but Nash has been a different story. He played for Palm University like I did, so I figured we would have more in common. He’s come in here like his shit don’t stink. Yes, he was drafted number one, and he’s good—I’ll give him that. That doesn’t explain the attitude though.
The quarterback and wide receiver have to have a perfect relationship or at least be able to communicate without being at each other’s throats. That’s all we’ve done since he joined the team the past week. He even fights with me while we’re in the weight room. That’s why I ended up at that hole-in-the-wall bar earlier, but I’m about to thank his dumbass for pissing me off. Blowing off steam there put me right at the feet of my new obsession, Ellie.
The only thing I can pinpoint to have upset him this much is when I called him pretty boy the other day in the weight room. I’ll just do it in my home language instead. It was the second time I had met him. I don’t usually comment on looks, but goddamn, this man could get a nun to question things. But whatever it is, he better figure it out before the darkness that’s been peeking out of me takes over one day and I knock his teeth down his throat. He won’t be so pretty then.
Zamir
Good morning, Shpirt Im.
Shpirt Im
Excuse me. Who is this?
Zamir
Zamir? From the bar last night. This is Ellie, right?
Shpirt Im
This is Ida. I wasn’t at a bar last night. I’m eighty-three years old.
Shpirt Im: *Incoming Call*
*Voicemail*
**Deletes contact info. Blocks number.
She gave me a fake fucking number, and it belongs to an old lady. She called and left me a joyful voicemail, yelling at me for texting her. Great, now Ida has my number.
What the actual fuck is going on? I really thought we hit it off. I may have read the situation all wrong, or maybe came on too strong? I don’t think I have ever had a fake number given to me. No wonder she wrote it down instead of just putting it in my phone and texting herself. That is not what’s going to happen next time I see her.
She’s not slipping out of my hands.
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