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“I wish I could, Alex, but I have things called responsibilities and people who count on me. You have them, too; you just don’t care. That’s the difference between you and me. And it’s time for you to grow up and get your shit together. I’m not doing this every night until the end of your career—if you even have one after this season.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he growls. “Stop pretending like you know me because you don’t. You don’t know shit about me.” His voice sounds sad before he trails off. “No one does. Not anymore anyway.”
I suck in a deep breath and blow it out, frustrated and somewhat upset by our exchange. “You have one chance. That’s it. Consider yourself lucky that the media hasn’t found out about your binge drinking because I can promise you that we wouldn’t even be here right now if anyone knew. What they saw online just looks like you were out one night, getting drunk, not that you do it on a nightly basis. You’re right; I don’t know you, but what I do know about you is that you’re an alcoholic man-whore who can’t keep his dick in his pants. But you’re also a great player, and you’re wasting that talent and this opportunity by continuing down this path of destructive behavior.”
He sighs but doesn’t respond, hopefully letting it sink in—though I’m sure he’s too drink to absorb anything I’m telling him.
I have to hold on to the doorframe to get Alex into the bedroom without slamming into the wall. We almost take out the flat screen television on top of an oak chest as
we stagger over to the bed. I’m about to dump him on the mattress when his foot tangles with mine, tripping me in the process, and we fall sideways onto the comforter.
With my head next to his, our mouths only inches apart, his glassy gray-blue eyes meet mine, and I can’t find the courage to pull away from him. Being this close, I want to kiss Alex, find some form of comfort in him even if it’s only for one night. He’s a gorgeous mess and a complete train wreck, and like the rest of my clients, he needs me.
Alex raises his fingers to my cheek and begins to cup my face with his big hand. “You’re really pretty,” he says, sounding like a child with the way his voice reaches a different octave. “Too bad you have a boyfriend.”
At first, I’m confused until I realize he thinks Jamie and I are together. I don’t respond to his comment because it’s probably for the best. Pulling myself up and into a sitting position, I grab Alex’s shoulders and help him slide toward the head of the bed. He props his head on a stack of pillows and looks over at me, his eyes slowly closing.
“Good night, Alex,” I say, running my hand through his shaggy brown hair that’s damp with sweat.
He’s burning up like he has a fever.
“Night, Coach,” he slurs.
I hop off the bed, remove his sneakers, and throw them on the floor. His clothes are drenched in sweat, and I contemplate whether I should remove them before tugging at his shirt.
Distracted by his abs, I stop for a second to take in the sight of his body. For someone who drinks so much, he’s in incredible shape, not an ounce of fat. I have to remind myself that the purpose of this exercise isn’t to gape at his pelvic muscle or think about what he must look like naked.
“C’mon, Alex, sit up for me,” I say, placing my hand behind his back so that I can remove his shirt.
He’s useless at this point, snoring and whacked out of his mind. To get a better angle, I slip back onto the bed and straddle him, my hand still holding him up. The position is awkward and killing my lower back. I move his face closer to my chest in an attempt to peel his shirt up and over his head.
Internally, I consider this a small victory. His face is shoved between my cleavage, and he’s breathing so heavy that I don’t know if I should call Mickey’s concierge doctor, the one he uses for situations like these.
No, I’ve got this. I’ve been here before.
Lowering his head onto the pillow, I pull my arm out from under him, and a sheen of his sweat glistens on my skin. Still on top of Alex, I move my fingers down to the button of his jeans. I pop it open and then pull down the zipper. It takes all the strength I have and about ten more minutes to remove his pants.
I get off the bed and walk toward the door. Then, I flip the light switch.
This is all I can handle for one night. I’ve had to do some unimaginable things in my life, especially since I’ve become a professional sports agent, but Alex is the one that’s hit me the hardest. He’s throwing away his life, wasting his potential, and he reminds me of someone—my father.
In four years, we went from a single home with a beautiful view of Lake Michigan to a housing development on the south side of Chicago. My parents were too high to even notice that I was still alive most of the time. Most nights, I would sit up in my bed and pray that they would make it until the next morning.
Now, here I am, standing at the entryway of the bedroom, staring at Alex as he sleeps, and hoping that he isn’t too far gone.
A few minutes pass where I listen to him breathing before I head into the kitchen to get something to cool him down. I need to get his fever to break, or I’ll have no choice but to call Dr. Rothman. And that’s the last thing I want to do because that also means a phone call from Mickey.
I can’t handle a conversation about how I let him down. He’s counting on me to whip Alex into shape. I thought that staying away from Alex would be best for both of us because I think too much about him in ways I shouldn’t, and it’s that type of thinking that will get both of us into trouble. I don’t date clients, and I especially don’t date ones with addiction problems.
My own breathing is somewhat erratic by the time I walk into the kitchen and open the cabinets to look for anything that will cure his fever. This is too much like my last encounter with my parents, except Alex has a fighting chance and they didn’t. Leaning on the counter, I try to compose myself. I can do this.
You can do this, Coach.
I take four small ice packs from the freezer and wrap them in dish towels. Then, I grab a handful of aspirin from the cabinet above the sink and two bottles of water from the refrigerator before gathering them in my arms. My trip back to the spare bedroom makes me sick to my stomach. But I need to make sure Alex is okay.
Lowering his body temperature is my first priority when I sit down on the bed next to him. He’s sprawled across the navy-and-white-striped duvet, his right hand over his face, the other limp at his side. I rest the aspirin and water bottles on the nightstand and place the ice packs on his forehead, chest, and legs, which is probably overkill.
In only a pair of black boxer briefs, Alex is by far the most attractive man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Every part of me craves his touch, wants to know what it’s like to be one of Alex Parker’s puck bunnies, but anything more than a client relationship isn’t possible when it comes to my players. I can’t cross that line. But I want to every time I’m around him.
