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I look toward the bumper-to-bumper traffic in downtown Nashville with not a cab in sight. Just when I’m about to tuck my tail between my legs and go back inside, Poppy runs out and thrusts my giant purse into my waiting arms.
“I’m so glad I caught you. You didn’t have your money or ID. You better go, Paul is talking to Mom, and she looks fifty shades of pissed. Don’t worry, I’ll run a little interference with the parents while you’re gone. I love you. Be safe. Call me when you are ready to talk.” She pulls me into a quick hug before spinning me by the shoulders and pushing me away from the church and the mess that’s ensuing inside.
“I love you too,” I call over my shoulder feeling lucky to have her in my corner despite being left on my wedding day. Poppy always knows what I need and what I need right now is to have alone time to think and process. A vodka soda wouldn't hurt either.
The rain lets up, the closer I get to the sidewalk, and I’ve yet to see a cab. Although with how packed the streets are, even if I had one, we wouldn’t be going anywhere soon. Which is odd because there was hardly any traffic on the way to the church. And that’s when I notice the face paint, the car flags, and the endless sea of jerseys. Football game.
I take a deep breath, sling my purse over my shoulder, and hike up my dress. A little rain isn’t going to stop me. A football game won’t either.
Two
Ryan
That was a terrible fucking game. Like the worst game in the history of bad games. I’m not even joking, it was that bad. No one could hold on to the damn football. It’s almost like it was covered in lubricant—although I can damn sure hold onto my dick when it’s coated in the stuff. The plays were all disastrous, and don’t even get me started on the offensive line.
Fucking pathetic.
And yeah, I did a terrible job, too. I couldn’t catch the ball to save my life. I couldn’t avoid a tackle. The only thing that resembled a tight end on that field was my ass in these pants.
Things have been screwed up for a while, if I’m honest. This not exactly how I envisioned my second year in the NFL, and I need to figure out how to get my head promptly removed from my ass before the coach does it for me. Or worse, boots me off the team. It’s a humbling experience, going from one of the best college teams in Texas back home to Tennessee where I can’t seem to get it together. Or at least not yet. I didn’t get much playing time last year, and this season will be my chance to prove myself. Which hasn’t really happened yet.
“You know, when I decide to throw you the ball next time, you might want to catch it.” Gunner punches my shoulder as I chuck the jacket of my gameday suit in my bag.
I scoff, slinging the bag over my shoulder. If he were anyone else, I’d have told him to fuck off before he finished his sentence. But Gunner Rose is not only my best friend, but one of the two people in this world who get a free pass to say whatever they want to me—the other being my sister.
“Maybe next time, throw it somewhere in the general vicinity of a receiver. There’s a little free advice.”
Gunner smiles wide, cracking his knuckles before leaning down to tie his dress shoes. “Don’t want to make your job too easy.” He grunts and slips on his suit jacket. “Are you going home or…?”
Or going out to get your dick wet. He doesn’t say it but he doesn’t need to. We both know what I like to do after games. Especially after games we lose. I usually have some pent-up energy I like to relieve and while there are other options, burying myself balls deep in a willing stranger is at the top of the list.
“I feel like it’s going to be an option B kinda night.”
“You really should get yourself a girlfriend.”
“Like you?” I fire back. Pot meet kettle. Gunner is the last person who should be lecturing me on monogamy. He hasn’t had a real girlfriend since college. And she was… well, my mom always said if I didn’t have anything nice to say, I should keep my mouth shut. “Besides, you know I can’t do that. That solidly breaks rule number five.”
Rule number five: do not hangout with a woman in a romantic way more than three times. Period. No exceptions.
Gunner throws his head back and groans. “You and your damn rules.”
Yep. Me and my damn rules. They help me sleep at night. They keep me and my heart all locked up. The rules are how I survive—I don’t break them for anyone. I don’t care how cute she is or how much she begs to see me again. The rules are there for a very good reason.
I say my goodbyes to Gunner and make my way out of the stadium to my recently restored 1967 Shelby Mustang GT500R. My own little Eleanor. This beautiful piece of American muscle was one of my first investments after signing for the Aces.
The Mustang was the first model car I put together with my dad, insisting we go find one immediately after watching Gone in 60 Seconds. It still sits on my dresser with a few of the others we made over the years.
This car is sleek. Powerful. Sexy. It always elicits looks when I’m driving. Envious looks from men and how-you-doing looks from the ladies. Guys want to drive it and women want to drive me in it. Especially that one crossing the street in front of me in a tight little gold dress, throwing fuck-me eyes my way. Her boyfriend doesn’t seem to appreciate it as much as I do, but it’s not something I would ever act on. That would violate rule number one.
Rule number one: do not mess around with a woman who is married, engaged, or otherwise spoken for.
So I head to my favorite dive bar, a little Irish pub called Bangers. I like it for a few reasons: the bartender makes my favorite Black and Tan with the beer on tap, and there’s a hotel conveniently across the street. Plus, with a name like Bangers, all sorts of women show up there. Some because they think the name is funny—which it is—and others who are literally looking for just that.
It’s a little busier than usual but since there was a game tonight, it’s not surprising. People in Nashville come out in droves to cheer on anything football. Being a professional athlete in this town is as good as being a celebrity.
And it’s handy in situations like this where the crowds are parting for me as I shoulder my way through the throngs of drinkers to get to my favorite spot at the bar. It’s around the back corner so I can look out and watch the crowd without having to turn away from the bartender and the flowing drinks. The locals know to vacate that stool when I show up, and the occasional tourist gets booted before I get there.
I should’ve known tonight wasn’t going to be my night; not after that disaster of a game. I can see through the crowd that my favorite seat is very much occupied. I can’t see her face, but I can make out two delicate hands tapping polished nails against the gleaming wood of the bar top. She’s got a few people standing in front of her so I can’t make out any specifics, but it looks like she’s surrounded by a white halo. That can’t be right. Doesn’t matter anyway though, she can take her angelic ass and move it somewhere else. Whatever she has going on is not my problem.
