CHAPTER 2 Maverick Jennings
Cocktail Straw
I have practice tomorrow. I’ll be starting for my new team.
I don’t want to be here.
I guess I don’t want to be here anymore than I wanted to be in Dallas, but the difference is that here, the giant star tattoo on my shoulder feels traitorous.
But I don’t care where I play. I just want to play.
Getting traded in my tenth season is a punch to the gut. I haven’t bonded with anyone here because I don’t really want to. I didn’t bond with anyone in Dallas, either. Every time I tried, they’d leave anyway. Just like everyone.
So I stopped trying.
And that’s who I’ve become. The guy who hates everything and everyone except for my sport. My bad attitude is what got me sent here, though some would argue Vegas is likely the exact wrong place for someone like me to be.
Yet here I am.
I guess the Aces think they can fix me. Coach Nash can set me on the straight and narrow.
Good fucking luck.
People have tried, but not a single one has been successful.
I’m fine the way I am. It’s far easier not letting anyone in since every time I have, I’ve only ended up hurt.
My phone rings, and I click off the call without answering. It’s my agent. The voicemail will be there when I’m done playing poker. I can’t pick up a call at the table anyway.
I should get up. I should take it as my signal that it’s time to go. I should stop throwing money right into the pockets of whoever owns this godforsaken place and get a good night’s sleep ahead of tomorrow’s practice.
I don’t.
Instead, I just keep drinking. Just keep playing.
Just keep losing. Just keep chewing on that tiny little cocktail straw until I feel the sharp edges digging into my gums to remind me that I’m alive.
It’s the same reason I keep going back for more ink.
The needle injecting ink into my skin is fucking addictive, a reminder that I may have numbed the inside, but the outside can still feel everything.
Maybe it’s why I’m addicted to football, too. I live for feeling the pain because pain’s a hell of a lot better than the hollow feeling of being numb.
Every time the cocktail straw digs into my gums, I’m reminded of her.
I don’t want to think about her. I never want to think about her. When I do, sometimes a piercing ache slips through, and that pain is far worse than some temporary needle driving against my skin.
I raise my bet to give myself something else to focus on.
It’s a distraction technique. Raise the stakes somewhere else to combat the memory.
She’s the reason I choose to be numb.
A woman wearing a red slip dress with a black jacket over it sweeps past me, the scent of her perfume following behind her. It’s intoxicating, and my eyes flick to her ass and trail down to her tall, black heels with red on the bottom.
Could I see those heels wrapped around me as I pump into her? Abso-fucking-lutely.
Is it going to happen? Not tonight.
I’ve learned my lesson when it comes to women.
The occasional one-night stand is about all I can stomach these days, but I’m at a point in my life where even those are fewer and further between than they used to be. People know me—or they think they do, anyway. They know who I am, and it’s inevitably the same story.
The woman runs to social media to brag about her night with a future football Hall of Famer. It never has anything to do with wanting me for anything other than bragging rights.
I’m sick of it.
I’ve gone the nondisclosure agreement route, and the woman was offended—not because I asked her to sign one, but because she couldn’t brag about our night.
So I’ve written women off at this point.
It’s easier this way.
I’m not getting married again, and if someone did happen to come along who wanted me for more than bragging rights, isn’t marriage what she’d want in the end anyway?
It’s off the table.
And speaking of tables, I’m losing my ass at this one. I pull the straw from the clutches of my teeth and toss it into my empty cup, and I cash in.
I head to the bar for one more drink before I head home, and I sit on a stool while I wait for the bartender to bring my scotch over.
And that’s when the woman in the red dress slips onto the stool beside me.
I glance over at her, and my breath catches in my throat.
She’s breathtakingly pretty. Big, brown eyes that have this sort of edge in the way she’s looking at me like she wants to fuck me.
Smooth, creamy skin with a sun-kissed glow.
Plump, red lips that match her dress, ones that allow my rather vivid imagination to run away for a few seconds.
Long, dark hair that tumbles to the middle of her back in waves.
That same scent that followed her as she passed by me earlier swirls back to my nose here, giving me a hit of something unexpected.
So she’s attractive. Sexy as fuck. Gorgeous in red.
None of it matters.
I return my gaze to the bottles of alcohol stacked behind the bar.
“You’re Maverick Jennings,” she says matter-of-factly.
I grimace a little. “So says my jersey.” Not that I haven’t thought about changing that name considering where it came from.
“Jennings one,” she says, naming my number. “New to the Vegas Aces. You settling in okay here?”
“Fine,” I mutter.
She leans in a little. “I’m new to town, too. Trying to get my bearings.”
“Yeah, well, good luck,” I say, and I hope that’s the end of the conversation.
I war with myself over looking over at her again. One more glance, and it’ll all be over. I’ll go with her to her hotel room, or her condo, or wherever, and I’ll stay until we’re both satisfied. And then I’ll leave.
I don’t look over at her.
I should call my agent back.
“Thanks,” she says, her tone telling me she’s not getting up anytime soon.
The bartender drops my drink in front of me, and I immediately pick it up and take a sip. I should’ve just left. Instead, I’m stuck here trying to figure out the best way to let this gorgeous woman down. I tried being standoffish, bordering on the rude side, and she’s not taking the hint.
“So how’d you really feel about getting traded from Dallas?” she asks.
It’s a question I’ve been asked a hundred different ways in the last few months, and the truth is that I’m tired of answering it.
It sucked, but I don’t care where I land as long as I get to play.
Football is where I turned when I lost everything. It’s all that matters. I’m still young at just thirty-two, and it’s not unusual for quarterbacks to play well into their forties. I have a long career ahead of me, and I’m not worried about what comes next.
I don’t answer her question. I don’t even know her name, but what I do know is that she’s not entitled to anything from me.
Instead, I leave some cash on the counter, grab my cocktail straw, abandon my drink, and head home.