Chapter 1 Steele
ONE
STEELE
“Piece of shit, motherfucking suitcase,” I mutter as I lift my luggage into the trunk of my rental car.
After being released from the Miami Rage—the team I’ve poured my heart and soul into for the past five years—and leaving my entire life behind over some unfounded bullshit, I was already at my limit.
The airline throwing my shit so hard that they broke the zipper, causing my underwear to fall out in front of about a million people, was just the icing on the cake.
I manage to get everything loaded, hopping into the driver’s seat as I pull up the hotel address on my phone and take off.
If I’m being completely honest, I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be less than Cleveland, Ohio, but what fucking choice do I have at this point?
The Rock City Renegades just may be the only team in the league willing to look beyond my past and trust that I’m not a piece of shit.
I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a showboat—and maybe a bit of an asshole—on the field.
But being raised with a twin brother who was always the loudest, coolest guy in the room, I had to get creative to be seen.
I learned at an early age that any attention was better than none at all, and that followed me as I got older.
Now, I’m known as the cockiest guy in the NFL, but I have no problem backing it up with my talent.
Had. I had no problem.
Now, I don’t even have a job.
Last year started off great. I was the star running back for the Rage, and analysts had me lined up for a record-breaking season. They were right, too—until it all came crashing down during week two of the playoffs.
I’ve known about my brother’s, Styles, gambling addiction since high school.
It started out small—a few games of poker between friends, then at the local casinos after he scored a fake ID—but when he found sports betting, everything went sideways.
He won almost two grand the first time he did it, which gave him the most bullshit idea that he’d never lose.
It only took about a month before he was stealing from our mom’s wallet to try to, as he said, make it all back.
It went on for years—a vicious cycle of him getting into trouble by taking out short-term loans that he couldn’t pay back, one of us bailing him out, and him promising not to do it again.
Our parents smartened up, cutting him off when they couldn’t take the lying and stealing any longer.
Not me, though. I’m the dumbass who sticks by his side, even when he could give two shits about me.
If he did, I’d still be in Miami.
I was an idiot for letting Styles use my bank card, knowing damn well I couldn’t trust him.
He was just supposed to get some groceries and household items from the store because my assistant was out of town.
The last thing I expected was for him to walk right up to a teller wearing a plain black hoodie, sunglasses, and a ballcap before withdrawing thousands of dollars in cash.
He didn’t even bring my food to the house—just drove straight to the casino and put ten grand down against the Rage in that Sunday’s playoff game.
As if it wasn’t bad enough that my own brother stole from me, he also didn’t believe in me enough to think that I was worth betting on.
I guess he was onto something, because we lost by six, after a very uncharacteristic fumble by me at the one-yard line.
Someone’s helmet hit my arm just right, knocking the ball loose before I broke the plane into the end zone.
It happens to everyone, and it’s never on purpose, but it certainly didn’t look that way after videos of me—or someone who looked very similar to me—at the bank, then the casino, were posted online.
It spiraled from there, and before I knew it, I was being accused of match-fixing.
In the end, the league’s investigation couldn’t prove that I did anything wrong, so I wasn’t suspended.
The fans in Miami weren’t as kind, which I can’t really blame them for, since my fumble crushed their shot at a championship.
The Rage had no choice but to listen to their concerns, choosing to make me a free agent for the upcoming season.
And to absolutely no one’s surprise, my phone hasn’t exactly been blowing up. In fact, it only rang once.
If you asked me to rank the franchises I’d want to sign with from most to least, the Rock City Renegades would come in dead last. Who in their right goddamn mind would want to play for a third-year expansion team full of misfits like them?
The only one who was worth a fuck was their veteran quarterback, Austin Baker, but their shitty offensive line couldn’t keep him protected.
His career-ending injury two years ago should’ve been the kiss of death for the Renegades, but they somehow got lucky and made it to the playoffs.
Everybody always talks about all the records they’ve broken, but I see them for what they really are.
Mediocre.
Sure, they’ve seen the postseason twice, but they choked both times.
They don’t have the type of cohesion the Rage has, which is one of the many reasons I loved playing for them so much.
We didn’t even have to speak to understand one another.
Everything we did was like second nature, and I know that’s something I’ll never experience again.
Especially not with the Rock City Rejects.
I should trademark that. I bet I could make a killing on T-shirts alone.
I’m so lost in thought that I barely recall the ride to the hotel, pulling into the parking lot, and heading toward the valet.
It’s nicer than some of the places we’ve stayed while on the road, which is great, because I’ll probably be here for a while.
When my agent called yesterday and told me that the Renegades had agreed to the terms for my contract, I probably should’ve found a realtor right away.
As delusional as it sounds, I was hoping the Rage would see that someone was willing to pay me and change their minds about letting me go.
I realize that’s not how the league works, but I was grasping at straws…
and now I’m essentially homeless because of it.
As soon as I’ve checked in and my luggage has been delivered to my room, I try to settle in, but my brain refuses to shut off.
The events of the past couple of weeks have done a number on my nervous system, from being released, to hitting the free agency, then getting called to Cleveland.
It’s been a roller coaster, to say the least, and I have a feeling it’s going to take more than just a night in to get my mind off it.
I need to blow off some steam.
Pulling my phone from my pocket, I fire off a text to the only person I know with ties to the city.
ME:
Hey. Think I can get into a room at Velvet tonight?
REX:
Anything for you, bro. Your info is already in the system. Just give the hostess your name, and I’ll make sure everything is set up.
ME:
Perfect. Thanks. Let’s catch up soon.
REX:
You got it. Have fun.
I met Rex Milner at Core Lounge, his high-end Miami sex club.
I don’t date much, but I’m a guy with particular tastes that usually can’t be met by random hookups.
So, going to a place where consent is taken seriously and everyone is on the same page is the best way to do it.
And lucky for me, one of Rex’s other clubs is located right here in Cleveland.
I’ve only been to The Velvet Curve once, but it was really nice, and the women were stunning.
A few hours in one of their private rooms should take the edge off, so I can focus on my meeting with the Renegades owner tomorrow afternoon.
My career may be a mess, but that’ll be a distant memory the second I take control.