19. Owen
When I was first drafted, though my rookie contract and signing bonus amounted to more money than I’d ever seen in my lifetime, I’d taken on every opportunity I could to make extra. A lot of what I’d earned I sent home to my mom, helping her take care of my siblings as well as making sure the bills for the ranch were paid. My dad may have been gone, but I’d be damned if we lost the ranch too.
The first time I sent a payment home, in the form of a fat ass check, my mom called me and threw an absolute fit.
“You know I can’t accept this, Owen! This is your money!”
“Exactly,” I said, smiling at her over Skype. “It’s my money to do whatever I want with, and I want to make sure the ranch doesn’t go under.”
“But five hundred thousand dollars!?” she protested.
“You do realize I signed a contract for over sixty-five million , right, Mom? Including an additional seven million dollar signing bonus? ”
“Over six years,” she quipped back. “You should save that. Invest. Buy a house.”
“I could buy fifty houses and it still wouldn’t put a dent in that money, and you know it.”
“I just…I can’t accept this, honey.”
“You can,” I assured her. “And you will.”
“Why are you doing this?” she asked with a sniffle.
“Because Dad is gone,” I said bluntly. “That means I’m the head of this family now. And as the head of this family, it’s my job to take care of y’all.”
“I’m the parent,” she said. “It should be me doing the caretaking.”
“Just let me have this!” I burst out. “Please, Mama.”
My mom sighed heavily before giving me a terse nod. “Okay,” she said. “But I’m setting some ground rules.”
“Here we go,” I muttered.
There was commotion in the background as the twins stumbled inside and appeared on the screen, West covered damn near head to toe in what looked like mud, Finn wearing a sheepish grin next to him. They were fourteen and absolute hellions.
Mama was on them in a flash, grabbing them both by an ear and towing them back out the door. “What have I told you two about staying away from that crick?!” Her shouted words floated back to me, muffled my distance, and I couldn’t help chuckling.
When she finally came back, she found six-year-old Aria seated in her place, showing me how she was teaching herself to braid on the hair of a creepy-looking, dark-skinned bust she called Sasha.
“You’re doing great, kiddo,” I told her warmly. “But Mama and I need to have a grown up conversation now. Go play in your room.”
“Okay, Owen!” she said brightly, hopping up and scuttling off to her room—the only one of the Lawless siblings to have their own.
“A young girl needs her own space,” my dad had said once.
Aria had always been his favorite, probably because she was the only one who hadn’t given him ulcers. Though, had he lived, I had no doubt she would’ve followed in our footsteps.
“Now about these rules,” I drawled as my mom retook her seat.
“You only send enough for ranch expenses,” she said. “I’ll send you invoices as we get them, and you pay them. Just until I can hire someone to take over and handle all of that in house.”
“Not necessary.”
“What isn’t?”
“Hiring someone to take over. You’ve got Cyrus there. He was Dad’s right hand for twenty years. I think he knows how to run the place.”
“Well sure he does, but don’t you think he’s ready to retire? The man’s nearing sixty!”
“Has he said he wants to retire?”
“No…” she said, rolling her lips together. “Actually, he said I’ve got his help for as long as he needs me.”
“Perfect,” I said. “One less thing you have to worry about. What’s next?”
“I can’t let you give me money to take care of the boys and Aria,” she said. “We’ll make due.”
“With what, exactly? Mama,” I said, exasperated. “The twins are fourteen and growing like weeds. Trey needs to be focusing on college, and Lane needs to worry about finishing high school. And what are you going to do with Aria? Dress her in the boys’ hand- me-downs forever? Give her even more of a complex about being the only girl in a family of men?”
“Who are you and what have you done with my son?” she asked, squinting at me in the screen.
I shrugged. “I had to grow up sometime.”
The conversation had gone on like that for another hour, my mom fighting me at every turn about every little bit of help I wanted to offer. In the end, we agreed I’d provide them with a modest allowance for groceries, clothes, and other day-to-day necessities. I set up a bank account with my and Mama’s names on it that she could draw from in case of emergency, and I’d pay all the ranch-related expenses only so far as operational or unforeseen costs went.
I’d told my mom I had to grow up sometime, and sometimes, I thought I’d grown up a little too fast. Even now, I was driven by the need to do everything myself and also to care for those around me. I paid my employees well, with benefits packages they wouldn’t find anywhere else. I took care of everyone and everything around me without blinking, without balking.
I’d spent nearly as long without my dad as I’d had him, and all I wanted was for him to be proud of me. Part of that was making sure my family didn’t have to worry about anything after he’d died, especially not my mother, who was grieving deeply but still had to keep six other humans alive.
All that to say, I’d pretty much said yes to every opportunity my agent sent my way: modeling underwear, jeans, socks, tees, boots—all of which I still received promotional packages of, all of which I still wore routinely—doing commercials for sports drinks and supplements, participating in State Farm insurance commercials for five years straight, and a slew of other things I’d rather not discuss because I was still too embarrassed to even recall them.
I’d racked up a lot of time in front of the camera in my day, had gotten quite good at playing a part, which led to brands still reaching out all these years later, wanting to work with me.
It’d been a long time since I said yes, but when my manager had passed along both of those opportunities—first, a Super Bowl commercial for NFL PLAY 60 and an ad campaign for a name brand clothing company—I knew what I had to do.
It just happened to work out that Delia wanted to go on a research trip for the bar, giving me the perfect opening to ask her to join me.
Though, when I invited her, I hadn’t expected shock as a reaction.
“You want me to come with you to New York?” she asked.
“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”
“But why?”
“New York is an epicenter of nightlife,” I said. “What better place for us to check out some bars and lounges to see what kind of vibe we’re going for at the distillery.”
She gnawed on her bottom lip, considering. “What kind of commercial are you shooting?” she asked. “Am I allowed to be on set?”
“It’s for the NFL’s national youth health and wellness program,” I said, “and we’re shooting in Central Park.”
“But you’re retired.”
I placed a palm over my heart in mock pain. “Ouch, Whiskey. You wound me. ”
She giggled and rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“I won’t be the only retired athlete participating, if that makes you feel better. There’s a decent mix of retired guys and current players. Should be a good time.”
“And what about the photoshoot?”
I named the brand, resisting the urge to nervously rub the back of my neck. “I’m not sure what exactly I’ll be modeling,” I added.
Her eyes widened. “Forget the commercial. I want to be on set for that .”
“You can have whatever you want if you come with me.”
“Deal,” she said quickly, and I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Perfect. I know it’s short notice, but I have to leave tomorrow.”
“How am I supposed to get a flight that fast?”
“Don’t worry about anything, Delia,” I assured her. “Just show up at the TC airport at ten tomorrow morning, and I’ll have everything taken care of.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I winked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Yes!” she shouted at my back as I left. “That’s exactly why I asked!”
My only response was to tip my head back and laugh.
Keeping her in the dark on our travel plans was made worth it when she pulled up the next morning and stepped out of her Jeep, jaw dropping comically.
“We are not going in that,” she said as she approached, a man rushing past her to get her luggage from her car.
“Sure are,” I told her, moving closer and settling a hand on her lower back, lightly guiding her toward the plane’s stairs. “You’ve never flown private before?”
“Nope,” she said, dramatically popping the p as she rounded the corner into the aisle bisecting the opulent cabin.
The entire thing was creamy, high-end fabrics and faux-wood accents. On a small table between two of the cushy armchair style seats rested a bottle of bubbly and two flutes on a shiny silver tray. The carpeted floor muffled Delia’s steps as she moved further into the space, spinning in a slow circle to take it all in.
“This is ridiculous,” she said.
I shrugged. “I’m not above flying commercial,” I said. “But with such a short turn around between getting the call from my manager and needing to be in NYC, this made more sense. Plus”—I moved to the bubbly and poured us each a glass, handing her one—“this is much more fun.”
“It’s definitely something,” she said, sipping the sparkling wine. Her eyes flew to mine. “This is CD.”
I scoffed. “Did you really think I’d make you drink anything else? I picked up a bottle from Birdie’s this morning.”
“You are…”
“Amazing? Wonderful? Incredibly sexy and handsome?”
“Those last two are kind of the same thing.”
“All of the above then,” I said, shooting her a wink.
Our flight attendant appeared then. “We’re about ready to taxi,” she said. “You should take your seats.”
Twenty minutes later, we were in the air, and an hour after that, Delia slumped back in her seat with a happy groan, her napkin landing on her empty plate.
“I’m never flying commercial again.”
I had to agree. It had been a last minute decision to have my chef at Birdie’s prepare me and Delia breakfast of eggs Benedict, home potatoes, and Greek yogurt parfaits loaded with strawberries and blueberries.
Simple, but delicious. Not to mention, I knew it was her favorite.
Delia and I had spent plenty of alone time together, but never like this. We were encased in a metal tube hurtling through the air somewhere over Canada. No prying eyes, no nosy sisters or financial managers here to barge in on us.
Something about it was almost romantic. And I was doing everything I could to avoid thinking about the fact that there was a bedroom not twenty feet away from where we sat.
I swore this woman could read my mind sometimes because, with a furrowed brow, attention zeroed in on the mimosa in her hand, she said, “Are you a member of the Mile High Club?”
In the middle of a sip of my own drink, I practically choked, coughing roughly to expel the liquid from my windpipe. When I collected myself and looked up again, Delia met my eyes with a Cheshire smile on her lips.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I—” Fuck. The last thing I wanted was to be talking about sex with this woman when I thought of nothing else. Actually, no. The last thing I wanted was to be talking about the fact that I’d had sex with women who weren’t Delia. But, she’d asked, and I wasn’t going to keep it a secret from her.
“I am, yes,” I rasped at last .
“What was that like? Who was it with?”
“I’m not talking to you about this,” I grumbled.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not important.”
“Why? You embarrassed?”
I looked her dead in the eye and said, “Because if I have my way, the next woman I fuck anywhere will be you .”
The last one too , I wanted to add, but I didn’t want to freak her out, and we still had two hours left of this flight.
Delia snapped her mouth shut around whatever she’d been about to say next and, apparently intent on ignoring me, withdrew a small, rectangular device from her purse. I watched as she clicked it on and, almost immediately, her eyes began darting across the screen.
“What’re you doing?”
She spared me the briefest of glances. “Reading.”
Okay then.
Though I knew Delia had been to the city before, I couldn’t resist pointing out all my favorite places as the hired car drove us to our hotel. I’d taken the liberty of booking us at the Ritz-Carlton Central Park, though it physically pained me to book us separate rooms. Not because of the price tag, but because I desperately wanted Delia to give into this pull between us, to stop fighting me. I was hoping the trip would finally do the trick.
Delia said little as we checked in and headed to our rooms to freshen up before we had to leave again, first to the Park for the commercial shoot, and then to meet one of my buddies for dinner.
“You know, you don’t have to come with me,” I said as the elevator deposited us on our floor. “You can stay here, or go shopping or something.”
“It’s fine,” she said. “I want to see you at work.”
“And you don’t mind going to dinner with my buddy after?”
“Not necessarily,” she says, her previous quietness suddenly yielding to perkiness and a mischievous glint in her eyes. “But I have a better idea.”
My eyes narrow. “And what exactly is that?”
“You’ll see,” she sing-songed as she moved down the hall toward her room. “I have to make some calls first, but maybe cancel with your buddy.”
“Done.”
Delia laughed. “Send my regards, but I promise this will be more fun.”
“Okay…” I said slowly, not entirely trusting her to keep us out of trouble. That expression—if I was a betting man, I’d say it was the physical manifestation of her inner chaos demon. “Meet back here in an hour?”
“You got it, QB.” With a mock salute, she disappeared into her room.
That woman was going to be the death of me.
An hour later, we were striding through Central Park in the direction of a group gathered in the middle of a flat expanse of lawn. A perimeter was staked out by numerous cameras and other various videography equipment. The day was slightly overcast, a chill in the air. I couldn’t wait to get moving, to let adrenaline warm my limbs.
As we approached, a tall Black man broke free from the group, his loud whistle cutting across the distance between us.
“Well, well, well!” he shouted, a wide grin displaying his straight, pearly white smile. “The Zero has returned.”
I groaned, though I couldn’t help mirror his smile. “You do know it’s just ‘Zero’ right?”
“You sure?”
“I think my stats speak for themselves,” I shot back, lightly slugging him on the shoulder before wrapping that arm around his neck and hauling him in for a hug.
“It’s good to see you, old man,” he said when we pulled apart.
“You too, kid. Saw that Hail Mary you threw last weekend. Your form is almost there.”
Jalen threw back his head and let out a deep laugh. “That pass was fucking perfect, and you know it.”
I did know it, but this was how our relationship worked. If we weren’t giving each other shit, something was seriously wrong.
That final season before I’d retired, the Mustangs had drafted Jalen Jackson. It wasn’t because they’d expected me to be on my way out before the next season started, but because we’d gone through a string of god awful backups. Guys picked up from other teams in an attempt to find someone who could fit into our offensive scheme well enough to pick up the slack if I went down with an injury.
Not that my shoes were particularly easy to fill. With a football in my hand, I felt more at home than anywhere else, save the ranch house in Dusk Valley with my chaotic family around me. Becoming an NFL quarterback was really an inevitability given my talent, though I still worked my ass off for every iota of success I achieved. I’d broken a long standing passing record in my first season, and threw for an astonishing thirty-five touchdowns in my rookie year. I was awarded the Rookie of the Year. By the time I turned twenty-five, having been in the league for four full seasons, I had broken several more records, and all of my stats pointed to me continuing to get better with age. When I tore my rotator cuff, I’d been at my peak, and I easily could’ve played another ten years.
But Jalen had stepped up when I’d gone down, slipping easily into that QB1 role. His rookie season had been nothing short of incredible—though not as impressive as my own, a fact I loved to remind him of every time we saw one another.
Jalen’s eyes connected with something over my shoulder, and I turned, having momentarily forgotten about Delia in the excitement of seeing an old friend. Her gaze was…assessing, as though dissecting the interaction between me and Jalen, then filtering the information she gleaned through the things she already knew about me.
It wasn’t that hard to figure out, honestly. Jalen was simply another younger brother, another kid I’d taken under my wing and made myself personally responsible for.
“And who do we have here?” Jalen asked, that grin now edged with something like appreciation.
“This is Delia Delatou,” I said, settling a hand possessively on her lower back, ushering her into our little powwow. “Delia, this is Jalen Jackson, starting quarterback for the Detroit Mustangs.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Jalen,” Delia practically purred, extending her hand for him to shake .
Jalen took it in both of his, lifting it to his mouth and pressing a lingering kiss to the back.
“The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Delatou,” he said, and their gazes lingered.
With a jolt, I realized they were the same age, and I had to admit, they’d make a gorgeous couple.
But Delia Delatou was mine . She wasn’t going to be something else Jalen took from me.
Fuck, it was going to be a long afternoon.