AJ knew what I’d been up to and while he had no problems telling me how sadistic the plan seemed to him, he still supported me as my bro. I mean, AJ was the guy you called to help you bury a body in the woods.
“Pretty sure Macy’s already writing her ‘I Hate Lucas Stone’ song.”
He tossed a pair of dirty socks at me. “Well, good luck with that, dude. I hope you know what the fuck you’re doing. I’m headed to Nebraska to visit my parents and bring Sage home.”
Partying with Damian was exhausting. The man loved women, fast cars, and drinking, things I got out of my system during years one and two of college. We mostly hung out in Atlantic City casinos. Gambling. Drinking. Dancing. Groupies hounded us, hounded me.
“Lucas Stone.” Some curly-haired blonde sat down beside me at a casino bar. She was in a dress short enough to call a tank top, and too much makeup for my taste. “Me and my girlfriends have a suite and a bed with your name on it.”
She crossed her leg, dress hiking up high enough to show she was probably wearing no underwear. It reminded me of the last time me and Macy had sex, after she’d worn that dress to the Ball.
I steered clear of the curly-haired slut, having no interest in being the jerk who cheated.
Damian had already earned a media-worthy reputation as a playboy, so paparazzi followed us around like dogs chasing bitches in heat, snapping pics left and right, Damian seemingly enjoying every moment.
The weekend ended as fastas it came.
“How do you stand this lifestyle?” I asked as we returned back to training campgrounds Sunday night.
Damian shrugged. “What? All the beautiful women?”
I nodded. “Partying all night. A different woman in your bed every night. All the drinking.”
He laughed, slapping me on my back. “You only live once, my man.”
Macy had called over a dozen times. Texted me about five times that amount, each text, each call going ignored.
When I realized she’d left a voicemail after one of those calls, I readily listened to it before going to bed.
Lucas? Thanks to TMZ Live, I’ve seen you out and about, partying like you’ve got no woman, no fiancée, no best friend at home wondering what the fuck she did to make you crush the heart you so eagerly wanted to hold in your hands.
Her words, the sobs in between, were a kick in the balls, the burn climbing up from my gut all the way to my throat, promising to choke me for what I’d done.
Fuck. Me.
The week leadingup to next weekend trailed by.
Our camp schedule was insane, brutal as all hell.
Oatmeal and eggs for breakfast every day? Yeah, it sucked, and most mornings I was too beat up and sore to even want to shove food into my mouth.
Then it was mandatory that we head to the training room for treatment on all the injuries, if any, suffered the day before.
After that, weight lifting, which made me glad AJ and I took to lifting before camp.
Post-workout, there were meetings with the coach, and since I was a quarterback, I had the pleasure of attending our own meeting with team coordinators.
After all that, the physical practice took place, the first part going over plays discussed in the earlier meetings, followed by all the gridiron glory of acting like a bunch of gladiators out for blood.
By Friday night, I was banged up and beat, with no interest in spending another weekend partying like a rockstar.
I wanted to go home, wanted to see Macy.
By the time I got there, she was gone, and on the kitchen counter, her ring and a note with two words that shook my soul.
I’m done.
38
