JETT
I’m not supposed to be here tonight.
Although I’m on the team’s injured reserved list, I should still be at the offensive team meeting at Gibson’s house, or at home going over my playbook, or between the warm legs of a Nighthawks cleat chaser. What I shouldn’t be doing is sitting in the corner of some neighborhood bar and drowning my sorrows after breaking a bone in one of the most anticipated showdowns of the season.
The one thing Coach T asked me to do was to lie low, rest up, and get my personal shit together, but I can’t even do that right. I’m not supposed to be hanging out in random bars in New York City. What if someone recognizes me? The bad luck quarterback who just lost the game is now bar hopping? That’s how nasty rumors and headlines are born.
To remain incognito, I’ve come here wearing the rattiest sweats I could find and I’ve got my baseball cap pulled down as low as it can go over my eyes, but I’m not positive how well it’s working. I feel as if there are already dozens of people in this room who already know who I am. People have been staring at me since I arrived. Hell, I’m pretty sure the server recognized me ten minutes ago.
The credit card I gave her to run my tab is in my non-profit’s business name instead of my legal name, but it probably didn’t help that it was a black American Express. Not everyone has those. Only people who have a bottomless credit limit and money to pay for it. I’m sure she doesn’t run into those regularly, not in this bar anyway.
The way she was batting those five-dollar false eyelashes at me is a huge red flag. I’ve seen that look before. Her wheels are spinning and it probably won’t take her long to figure it all out. She thinks she knows me from somewhere but can’t place the face. She’s probably wondering: have I slept with him before, did I dance with him at the club last weekend, or did I sit next to him on the subway?
Yeah, I should have left twenty minutes ago.
Yet something about this sexy doctor’s heartbroken eyes and spunky spirit is keeping me firmly planted in my seat and ordering another round.
I spotted her the moment she walked into the bar. She’s the only woman here who isn’t half-naked, bone-thin or slathered in makeup. She’s drop dead gorgeous without even trying and has an air of confidence about her you don’t see in a woman until they’re way over forty.
She’s dressed in a casual t-shirt that skims her waist and her jeans are hugging every curve without mercy. She has the most lush heart-shaped lips, breasts that sit close together and heavy, and an ass that damn near makes me want to cry. Her mane of wild curls are thick and begging for my hand to slide inside and grip them at the roots.
I watched mesmerized as she sashayed those luscious hips over to the jukebox and swayed to the tempo of the song she selected before she realized the whole fucking bar was watching. That’s when I decided to approach. She was nothing yet everything I expected, which means my curiosity’s been piqued. I want to know more. I’m not ready for the night to be over, even though it probably should be.
I stick to a strict regimen during the season. I eat clean and drink very little alcohol, but I’ve been cooped up in the house for almost a week and I needed a mental health break. I love to paint, but only so many hours a day. I needed a different outlet.
My assistant, Bryan, was not on board with this brief excursion, but I pay him to do the things that I don’t want to do, not to have an opinion.
While the plan was to stay under the radar while I was in here, I have to admit that I’m taken aback that she genuinely has no clue who I am. In fact, I’m getting the idea that she thinks I’m some sort of slacker or the goddamn Unabomber. She’s not impressed by me at all… and that is some new shit for me. I’m definitely feeling some kind of way about it, especially because she’s the kind of woman a man wants to make an impression on.
The attention I received from girls started early because I’ve always played football. Football is like catnip for some women. The glorious thing about that is no matter your looks, your grades in school, or how well you can dance — you were guaranteed to get the attention of a girl if you played football. It only gets worse as we get older and make money and is probably why most of us behave really badly. We’re spoiled, we don’t have to work for shit, and the worst part about it is we know it.
Tonight is probably the first time I’ve had drinks with a woman who doesn’t have any ulterior motive towards me. She doesn’t know that I’m a celebrity or that I’m wealthy. She doesn’t need me to post about her new business on Instagram or lend her some money. We’re just two human beings who had a fucked up week talking in a bar. That’s it. It’s pretty clear that if I plan for her to see me as more than just a lame bar dude without revealing who I really am, I’m going to have to work at it.
Before I can respond to her basically calling me out on my exaggerated response, I take notice of the bells above the door entrance that jingle every time someone enters or leaves. They’ve been going off all damn night, but there’s something about the last chime that makes me glance at the door, and so does she.
She immediately recognizes the person coming in the door and drops one side of her face to the table as if she’s hiding. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why. It’s got to be the asshat who cheated on her tonight.
“Is it him?” I ask her.
She silently nods her head yes.
“Lift your head up,” I tell her. “You did nothing wrong.”
It’s clear that this dude has come here for her. There’s no way it’s a coincidence that the two of them have ended up in the same hole-in-the-wall bar just hours after he banged some chick in their bed, but I refuse to let her shrink in the corner like she has a reason to hide. Not while I’m here.
She reluctantly sits up and takes another sip of her drink, no doubt for bravery. He scans the room in an obvious attempt to look for her, and his face scrunches into almost a painful grimace once he notices that she’s sitting at a table with me.
I’m not usually the type to deal with people’s personal drama. I’m not going to fight some dude over a woman. There are too many single ones for that. That’s why I usually go for the uninhibited, unattached types; women who expect nothing from me but sex and a free dinner. But I’d feel like a total ass if I abandoned her now. She’s been through hell and back tonight, and right now she needs a friend.
Her boyfriend is short and light in the ass. He probably weighs no more than a hundred and sixty pounds soaking wet. He makes a beeline for the table, damn near toppling people over to get to us, and I definitely understand why. I don’t even know this woman’s name, but in the short time we’ve been sitting together, I already know she’s wifey material. And if you fuck up like he did tonight, you better try really damn hard to fix it. Women like her don’t come a dime a dozen. She’s a keeper.
“Adrienne?”
So that’s her name.
Adrienne.
Tumbling out of his pitiful mouth is not how I wanted to learn it, but I’m still glad I know. Her name is elegant and beautiful, just like she is. I can practically hear myself growling it into her ear the first time I make her come.
“What are you doing here?” she asks in a voice laced with pain and tequila.
“I knew I’d find you here.”
“How is that even possible? I haven’t been to this bar in over a year. Did Dena tell you where I was?”
The boyfriend looks at me, and I glare right back at him. I know silent man speak. He wants me to either excuse myself from the table or explain my reason for being here. I’m not doing either of those things unless Adrienne asks me to. So I stretch my legs out, prop my good shoulder against the wall, and settle in.
I ain’t going no damn where.