10. Player
PLAYER
The trip to New York takes way too long for my taste. I don’t have a lot of free time during football season, and I have to admit, nothing irritates me more than having to show up at my father's penthouse in the heart of Manhattan.
As the elevator doors slide open with a muffled whisper, I feel an overwhelming urge to flee. Most people dream of living in such luxurious surroundings, but as far as I'm concerned, this is nothing but a freaking gilded cage.
"Good morning, sir."
My father's butler stands there like he has nothing better to do with his days. He has that uptight expression that's always gotten on my nerves. I don't even bother greeting him, instead saying, "Bolton summoned me."
I watch for a sign of annoyance or disapproval when I use my father's first name, but he remains stone-faced. Either he's too used to my behavior, or he's super professional. Either way, his lack of reaction irritates me even more.
"Your father is in his office. I'll..."
The rest of his sentence is lost behind me as I make my way through the vast apartment. The penthouse occupies the top three floors of a building constructed on the edge of Central Park. From here, the view of the park is incredible, but I'm too worked up to care in the slightest.
I take the imposing marble staircase that connects the three levels down one flight of stairs before turning into a hallway.
The walls are paneled with wood treated by some sort of esoteric Japanese burning technique.
I don't know why I'm thinking about this aspect of the decor, maybe because I've heard my stepmother talk about it thousands of times.
"You're late."
My father's comment shoots out the moment I set foot in the immense room that serves as his office. The locker room I share with my Jaguars teammates could easily fit inside this room.
"You should have come to me if you wanted punctuality," I retort. “You know how busy college football schedules are.”
My gaze slides over my father's face before settling on the shelves behind him.
The room hasn't changed one bit since we moved into the penthouse ten years ago.
While my stepmother has free rein to redecorate the entire apartment whenever the mood strikes her, the same doesn't apply to my father's office, this is his territory.
The thing with Bolton Boardman is that he considers the entire Earth as his property, and the people who inhabit it are, in his eyes, merely pawns he can move according to his whims.
I move closer to the huge windows overlooking Central Park. If I once appreciated how lucky I was to live in such luxurious surroundings, I quickly learned it wasn't free. I can only enjoy my father's fortune and all the advantages it conferred on the condition that I obey his every command.
My fists clench. I thought I could spread my wings and leave everything behind, but unfortunately, I made the wrong choices, and I'm paying dearly for it.
My father's voice rises behind me. "How's college going? "
His question fuels my anger. I want to scream, to break everything in this room, but I'm forced to control myself. My father holds my life in his hands, and he knows it. That's precisely why I'm forced to waste time in college.
"It's going," I comment soberly. “I know you at least heard about me starting.”
A silence stretches between us, and I finally glance at Bolton. Sunk into his chair, he stares at me without expressing the slightest emotion, but I've learned to be wary of still waters because there are always undercurrents threatening to drag me into their depths.
Memories try to resurface, but I push them back forcefully. I hate who I become when I'm facing my father. I feel like I'm that terrified little boy again.
Bolton eventually nods as if answering a question only he heard, then he stands up. His silhouette doesn't intimidate me as much now that I'm taller and more built than him, but an unpleasant shiver runs down my spine.
He walks around his desk before approaching me. I have to make a huge effort not to back away. It's absolutely out of the question for me to show any sign of weakness in front of him.
His gaze locks with mine, and with all the coldness he can muster, he declares, "You will go to class, and you will succeed in your studies. And next year, you will be the full-time starting quarterback."
I'm not mistaken, this is neither advice nor an order, but a threat. And he doesn't even need to specify his underlying thought because I clearly get it, if I don't get my degree and make the Boardman name even more influential, I'm finished.
"I've invested a lot of money in you," Bolton continues, "and it's an investment I fully intend to make profitable."
He has the attitude of the Wall Street wolf he's always been, and I'm the lamb he intends to devour.
My teeth almost grind and my fists start to ache from clenching them so hard.
Part of me wants to escape this cursed place, while the other part wishes to end things with Bolton once and for all.
But I'm not a criminal, at least not that kind, so nothing happens at all.
"I advise you to enjoy the few years you have ahead of you at the university," he adds.
The sentence has just been handed down again, and it hasn't changed—no probation period granted, no release for good behavior either. I know what I have to do, and this prospect doesn't excite me at all.
Without paying me any more attention, Bolton heads for the door. He doesn't bother to say goodbye or give me another glance; he simply ignores me completely.
The meeting is over.
To say that my mood is foul would be a mild understatement, and by the time I get back to OMU, I'm about to lose it. Unfortunately for me, night fell long ago, and I can't take out my frustration on the field, though some good hard tackles would have been ideal to calm me down a bit.
The first thing I see when I enter the common room is stuff scattered across the table. I don't need to get closer to know they belong to Alabama. For some reason I can't fathom, she's made a habit of studying here when she has a perfectly fine room, or the library, or a hundred other places.
I take a few more steps before stopping short. Alabama is stretched out on the couch. Covered by her throw blanket pulled up to her chin, she's fast asleep. Seeing her lying there should infuriate me because we all have beds, and not without reason, but I feel my anger deflating like a soufflé.
Without even realizing it, I move closer to get a better look at her. Her face is completely relaxed, her lips slightly parted, a dark strand of hair crossing her cheek.
What is she wearing? This incongruous question pops into my head and starts running on loop.
The memory of her tank top that barely hides her breasts comes back to me, so tempting, so arousing.
My hand moves of its own accord and, with my fingertips, I pull back the blanket.
The bare skin of her shoulder appears. How would she react if I woke her by caressing her breasts?
Shit! I'm spiraling again. This girl isn't for me; besides, I don't even like her. She's too naive, too young, too...
I don't know if Alabama feels the temperature change or my presence near her, but her eyelids flutter. Her gaze finds mine before her eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
We don't exchange a word, and I remain motionless above her.
Her brown eyes probe mine as if trying to figure out why I'm there.
To be honest, I'm wondering the same thing.
Alabama gives me a small smile that brings me back to my senses.
She better not imagine that I'm checking her out or something like that.
She opens her mouth to speak, but I beat her to it.
"You haven't grasped the concept of dorm live yet, Alabama.
You have a bedroom and a bed for sleeping, and even a desk for studying.
You're not supposed to camp out in the common room! "
She blinks several times before sitting up. The blanket slides around her, revealing that infamous tank top. I look her up and down shamelessly and notice her nipples are hard. Alabama blushes, but she doesn't cover herself.
"You're hardly ever here, so what does it matter to you?" she retorts.
"There are rules when you live with people."
Alabama snickers before replying, "You're the one saying that? Seriously? "
I stare her down without answering.
"Well, you can go to bed now," she adds.
I don't move, and a questioning look crosses Alabama's face. "What now? Are you the sleep police?"
"Why aren't you sleeping in your bed?"
Alabama's jaw drops in surprise, but she recovers quickly. "I don't see how that's any of your business, but Keri has a very active sex life and she's rarely alone at night..."
Automatically, I glance toward their bedroom door before turning my attention back to Alabama. "You could join in," I comment. "I've heard she's pretty open-minded that way. But I guess that's too wild for you."
Her eyes widen in surprise, and I think for a moment she's not going to answer me, but she surprises me by declaring, "My sex life is none of your business."
I shrug, faux nonchalant. "Just a suggestion."
"How kind of you to be concerned about my well-being," she says sarcastically. "Do you have any other precious advice for me?"
My gaze drifts to her chest, and suddenly I imagine her without the tank top, my cock sliding between those generous globes.
The prospect would be tempting if it weren't Alabama.
I give her one last look before turning on my heel.
I've taken two steps toward my room when her voice catches up with me.
"If you had any humanity, you'd let me use the empty bed in your room. "
I turn around before answering her. "Watch out, Alabama, if you keep this up, I'll think you're surrendering."
She purses her lips and shakes her head.
"In your dreams, Player."
"I don't dream about you."
"Then what difference would it make if I sleep in the bed next to yours?"
She's challenging me. If I'm alone in my room, it's because I decided it that way, and I have no intention of sharing my living space, especially not with her.
Alabama leaves the couch to approach me. I watch her warily. What exactly does she have in mind? I'm certain she's trying to trap me one way or another.
Her gaze locks with mine, and she says, "Are you afraid I'll hear you snore?"
"I'm not afraid of anything, especially not you."
"No?"
She places a hand on my chest, but I grab her wrist to stop her little game.
"You have a bed, Alabama. It's not my problem if your roommate has an exciting sex life unlike you." A flash of something crosses her eyes, and I give her a twisted smile. "You know what I'd do in your place?"
She doesn't answer, but I continue:
"I'd invite a guy or two over to fuck all night, just to give her a taste of her own medicine. But then again, I doubt you're capable of that."
Strangely, I'm curious to know what she thinks about threesomes. Has she ever done it? I catch myself immediately: Alabama is a little innocent, anyone can see that at first glance.
She pulls on her arm and I release my grip. "I don't need your advice, Player."
I look her up and down, thinking about what she does need. "On the contrary, I think I could teach you a thing or two... but I prefer watching you struggle. It's much more entertaining."
"You're nothing but a sadist."
I place a hand on my chest, over my heart. "Thank you, that compliment touches me deeply."
Alabama makes a face before turning on her heel. She lies back down on the couch, and I watch her chest disappear under the blanket.