Linebacker's Second Chance (Bad Boy Ballers) (3 page)

And sitting there, I know without a doubt that I will still rise to the top of my field. I’ll be the best damn sports agent that the country has ever seen, and I’ll work with stars in every major sport.

That night, I pack my bags and drive into Charlotte. Before I go to the airport to book the next flight back to California, I drive by the hotel where the team puts up their new recruits. Something didn’t feel right about the words I exchanged with Mack on the phone, and even through my rage and my tears, I want to check one last time. After all, this is the man I love more than anything in the world. When I ask the concierge for Macklin Pride’s number, there’s no one by that name. Before I leave the lobby, I call him again, and the message reports the number has been disconnected.
 

Standing up straight, I walk to the revolving doors and out into the still-warm summer night. With the last money in my bank account, I buy a ticket straight for California and don’t look back.
 

Some things, well, some things aren’t meant to be.
 

That's what people say, anyway.

I push aside the voice that tells me something is deeply wrong with this whole situation, that Mack Pride has
never
been a drinker, and in all my time at Brooks University, I never once saw him with a real hangover.
 

“People change,” I mutter as I walk to my gate.
 

I decide I’ve wasted enough tears on Mack. Haven't I?

There’s plenty of time to find another soulmate. Right?

Six years later…

“Macklin get your sorry ass out of bed. It’s the last game of the season, and I can’t deal with you waking up like this one more day. I swear to the good lord above, when I went to work with you, this wasn’t what I bargained for.” I hear Wingate’s voice, and the world starts to fade in around me in a haze. There’s a girl in the shower—or maybe two girls. I’m not really sure. I know there were two last night, but I think one of them left in the middle of the night. That’s how they are, these football groupies. They follow Carolina with a passion, pick out one of the players, follow them home, and then they leave. Without fail, they come with their own condoms.
 

That’s good. Because Macklin Pride stays
protected. Clean
and
protected
. Tested every three months because by God, my body is a freaking temple. It’s my moneymaker—never mind the beer I put into it—that’s just calories. And calories are good for a linebacker like me. I chuckle and close my eyes again. My cousin Wingate doesn’t give a single shit that I’m in bed, that I’m probably naked—I can’t remember—and that there’s a young woman lingering around my house like a ghost. That’s what’s good about him, I guess. He’s a good manager because all he cares about is the game, and how well I do in it.
 

There’s a lingering, almost crushing weight that comes over me for an instant, and then it’s gone. If I had to identify it—and I don’t want to most of the time—it’s the thought that there’s a better manager out there. Not because Wingate is lacking in any way, but because there’s a manager who was supposed to be my partner in life, not just my partner in business. But there are debts I owed a long time back, things I got saddled with that I don’t even fully understand.

And that manager, the one I was
supposed
to have with me for every moment of my waking life—well, there ain’t a way in hell she’d want me now. Not how I am. I’m damn good at playing ball, but I don’t exactly have a pristine reputation with women.

Absently, I wonder if there’s another beer in the mini-fridge next to my bed. I could use a good wake up beer, or a joint if that young lady has one in her purse. All these girls, they got condoms—that’s one thing. And some of them have joints lying around. And since it’s the last game of the season, I don’t have to worry about getting tested much longer… If I have both the beer and the joint, it might drown out that
thing
I’m feeling. That
thing
that feels an awful lot like sadness, maybe tinged with regret. Well, not regret, not exactly. I looked her up the other day, and I know damn well if I hadn’t done what I did, she wouldn’t have an MBA from Berkeley, and she wouldn’t be out there, soaring to the top of her field and doing what she was meant to do.
 

I’d much rather have her doing all than saddled with me and all the things I had to take care of. She’s better off.
 

I reach over for the girl’s purse and open it up, leaning on one elbow.
 

“What the hell are you doing?” My cousin, college roommate, and constant companion looks at me with unbridled disdain, hands on his skinny hips. He sniffs the air as I pull out a thinly rolled joint from the girl’s clutch. And—without a split second of hesitation—he knocks it out of my hand and to the floor.

“What the hell you do that for, Wingate?” I sit up all the way, groaning. He doesn’t understand. I
need
something to make it go away, even if it’s just for fifteen or twenty minutes. That’s normally long enough to get my act together and make sure that I’m not going crazy, at least for a bit. “Game isn’t til seven tonight. I got plenty of time to do what I want and then sober up.”

“You need to make an appearance. You need to get out there and practice with your teammates. Be on time. Be
sober
. You’ve been plenty good at pretending on that last part for most of the season, Mack. But you’re not fooling me. And it’s beginning to become apparent to the rest of the players, the coach, and the
owner
. The one who writes your paycheck. Remember him?”

“He doesn’t
write
anything. He barely even shows his face for preseason. We just know he’s up in the stadium box, silently watching when we play home games.” I lean over and grab my last beer from the mini fridge before I hop out of my bed and pull on my boxers. There’s plenty of time between now and that game, and I need a little hair of the dog to get me back up to speed. And then I need coffee, a protein shake, and plenty of water. I’ll be fit as a fiddle in no time at all.

Or so I tell myself.
 

I shake off that last thought and crack open the beer, downing most of it before Wingate comes up to me and tries to knock it out of my hand. I twist my body just as he approaches and finish the rest of it. There was a time I didn’t like the taste of beer, a time when I was saving myself for the woman I was going to marry. A time when I was a good old country boy who didn’t get involved in a bunch of bullshit. Before the shame settles in, the beer takes effect, and I’m feeling quite a bit better. Wingate storms out and I hear the porch door clatter shut behind him. I shrug.
 

Typical
. He’s no football player. He doesn’t know a damn bit about any of it. Doesn’t know what it’s like to train so hard your muscles feel like they’re going to burst. Doesn’t know what it’s like to be lonely, even though you’re surrounded by women. Doesn’t know what it’s like to do it all on your
own
, when that wasn’t the plan at all. I shake the last droplet of beer into my mouth and pull on a pair of basketball shorts for practice. I wish Wingate were already making coffee in the kitchen, but I’ve pissed him off good, and he’s probably driving back down the road to his house.

Figures
. That’s how it goes when you employ your cousin. There will be disagreements. There will be spats. But he’s wrong. There’s nothing unusual about what I’m doing. There are a hundred football players out there right now doing the same thing, sleeping with the same number of women, and hosting the exact same number of parties as I am. Hell, maybe even more. I’m done with his bullshit. I’m going to do
me
, and I’ll be just fine. It’s the last game of the season, after all. What could go wrong before I start next season? Nothing at all. That’s what.

The pretty blonde who came home with me last night sashays out of the shower and stands on her tip toes to give me a peck on the cheek. It’s empty, that kiss, and she’s silent as she pulls on her little black dress. I nod at her as she leaves, and she smiles sheepishly.
 

Maybe she’ll come back around. Maybe she won’t. Who knows?

I put on my shirt and rub down my quads with China Gel before I go into the kitchen and make coffee.
 

That feeling from before, though, it doesn’t go away with the coffee or the protein shake or the water. And, as the beer wears off and I start my morning routine, the memory of
her
feels deeper than ever, like she’s right here, haunting me.
 

“She probably doesn’t think about you at all, Mack,” I say to myself as I start stretching my muscles. “She’s moved on a long time ago. And who would blame her?”

As I walk toward my door and down to my Escalade, I have the passing thought that if I met her now—if we hadn’t been tangled up together for every second of our lives leading to that day—well, maybe we’d be married now. I’m twenty-eight, after all. Maybe we’d be saying, hey, let’s stop using the birth control and try for a baby. Heat pricks at my eyes when I have that thought, but the tears don’t come. They dried up a long time ago.

I sigh, and get in my car, thoughts of Renata swirling in my head as I get on the highway and drive to the stadium. I’m only slightly hungover now. And no one will notice. Except maybe for the ten or so players who were at my party last night, and they’ll keep mum. Might not be the best behavior for a professional athlete, but there’s no way the team owner will get wind of this, not before next season.
 

As I drive, I let myself think of her for the first time in months.

What she’d look like now. If she keeps her hair long like she used to. If her curves are just as kickin’ as they once were. I bet they are.

What would it be like if she was here with me, in this house that we’d always talked about building together? Would it have been better if she was with me for the games and the workouts and the bruised ribs and that one concussion a couple years back? I even let myself wonder if she’s thought of me too, if she’s looked me up, if she knows what I’m doing for Carolina with each game I play. And, as I pull into the stadium, I have the fleeting thought that it might not be bad if she and I had another chance. Not that she’d grant me one. No sir.

When we start practice, I have the woozy, unsteady feeling that comes with trying to stave off a hangover, and my plays are shit. And what do you know—Eddie Davidson, the damn owner of the team—has decided to show up for practice this morning. There’s some girl with him who looks vaguely familiar. Like I’ve seen her on TV, or a commercial. Maybe the cover of an album on iTunes. Some celebrity chick—she’s not half-bad looking, and I see her looking over at me every once in a while.
 

For that matter, so does Eddie. Hell.

I keep up with practice, but there’s a feeling that this is
bad
. I know there are dark circles under my eyes. I know that this man watches his players for weaknesses, that he wants to craft the best team in the NFL, that he looks for weak links to get rid of. I remind myself over and over that I’m no weak link. I’m the strongest defensive player on the team, and I’m beyond reproach when it comes to playing. There are a few times I fumble with the ball, a few times where I forget to pass when I should, a few sprints where I’m slower than I should be. But he wouldn’t get rid of a player like me, wouldn’t believe the rumors circulating about me and the parties I throw.
 

No, he wouldn’t.
 

Macklin Pride owns the NFL, for real, with our without the woman he was supposed to marry. With or without sobriety. And no one is getting in the way of that. Not Eddie Davidson. Not the coach. Not the damn women following me around, no one. I keep repeating the thoughts circling around in my head. The wooziness takes me again at the end of practice, though, and I slip, falling among the lineup of other players. When I look up, Eddie Davidson is staring right at me, and the girl with him is whispering something in his ear. A sinking feeling takes over my gut, and I know that Wingate will have plenty to say about all this.

I look over to the seat where Wingate usually is and see him on the phone, scowling and staring right at me. As I get up, my friend Darius helping me to my feet, I feel like I can almost read the words on Wingate’s lips. What is he saying? But, then he hangs up the phone and slides it in his pocket.
 

Before the game, I shake it all off.
 

I can win this game, and that’s all that matters.

I’m Macklin Pride, and I can deal with anything that gets thrown at me.

No more sadness, no more fuck-ups, no more slips or falls. I got this.
 

The only thing is I
don’t
have this. We win the game, but just barely, and there’s no question I had nothing to do with that win. There’s no way Eddie didn’t notice. But maybe he’ll forget before the next season begins…