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The busty girl strolls over to me, a Corona in her hand, and without an invitation, she plops down on my lap. Before I can shove her off, she hands me her beer. “Hold this for me, love. I need to put on some lip gloss real quick.”
After working so hard to clean up my image, the last thing I need is for someone to see me drop this girl on her ass—where she belongs. I don’t understand why some of these girls think that, just because they put out, they can hang on me. Even before I met Charlotte, I could never stand the clinginess of some of the bunnies. But I was usually too shit-faced to notice or care, and it wasn’t long before I was taking them back to my room.
She applies a coat of shimmery gel to her lips and smacks them together. Girls can’t honestly expect men to want to kiss them while they have that shit all over their face. No, thanks. That’s one of the things I like most about Charlotte. Whatever makeup she does wear on her eyes is so subtle, all neutral tones, that I can hardly tell when she’s wearing it.
Unlike this girl, who has about a gallon of powder caked onto her face that shines when the light hits it at the right angle. Her lashes are so long, they must be fake, covered in a pound of dark clumps that make her eyes look bigger and brighter but also draw more attention to the fact that she’s trying way too hard when she probably doesn’t need to.
When I think I’m finally getting rid of her, she decides to lean back, hook her arm around my neck, and plant a kiss on my cheek.
What. The. Fuck?
The sticky shit she smeared on her lips is now stuck to my skin. I try to wipe it away with the back of my hand, but it’s like a thick paste that smells like apples. My tolerance thins along with my patience.
“You need to get up,” I tell her. “Right now!”
She pats me on the shoulder and whispers a bunch of things she would like to do to me and with me into my ear, and of course, I decline.
I’ve had enough of her shit, so I stand, still holding her beer in one hand and her hip with the other, and set her onto her feet. She giggles, and that’s when I see a camera flash in the dimly lit restaurant. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t think twice about having my picture snapped. But, now, I’m with Charlotte…and she’s going to kill me.
Looking around the room, I spot several people staring at me, one of whom is the girl sitting on Kane’s lap. I make my way toward her first, snatch the phone from her hand, and delete the picture.
“Hey, what are you doing?” She hops off Kane’s lap and yanks at my arm, but my grip is too firm. “Give it back. That’s not yours.”
“You had no right to take that picture, and I have every right to delete it.”
She swats at my wrist, and I take a step back, flipping through the pictures to ensure I’ve deleted them all.
“Your friend is an ass,” she says to Kane. Then, she glances at her friends. “C’mon, girls, let’s get out of here. I think our table is ready.”
“Chill, Parker.” Kane opens his palm for me to hand him the phone. “What’s one picture? No harm, no foul, right?” Then, he pulls the girl into his arms and runs his fingers down her side. That shuts her up as she leans back against his shoulder. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, practically feeling her up at the table.
She giggles and whispers something in his ear.
I’ve had enough of this night.
I hand the phone back to the girl who is now sitting on Kane’s lap and then look to my teammate. “You haven’t had to go through some of the shit I have over the last year. I don’t expect you to understand.”
“C’mon, bro,” Kane says before taking a sip of his whiskey.
“Don’t bro me.” I shake my head, frustrated and hoping that I can convince or bribe the other people in the restaurant to delete the pictures they took. My entire life is like one big circus, and I’m the main attraction.
I start to walk away and turn toward the table one last time. “I’ll see you guys at practice tomorrow.”
Coach
Either I’m being punked or my birthday changed to April Fools’ Day. Because that’s the only explanation for the picture I have not been able to stop staring at since it popped up in my email. Of all the people to deliver the bad news, it had to be Chuck, the junior agent who turned into more of an assistant after our trip to Los Angeles.
And, of all the days, it has to be on my birthday, my least favorite day of the year. What started as an upload to Facebook and Twitter quickly made its way across the Internet with the title Parker’s Puck Bunnies. Apparently, bad news travels fast.
The image that concerns me most is the one from last night, allegedly taken at the steak house he had dinner at with Kane and Donovan. His hand is on the waist of a brunette with huge tits, and a beer is in the other. I broke my rules for him, and he broke the only two that mattered to me.
I’m meeting Jamie in twenty minutes for our monthly lunch date. I’ll never hear the end of this from Jamie. I just hope he withholds an I told you so because I already know I’m an idiot for believing that Alex could change.
The phone on my desk buzzes, and my secretary, Kayla says, “Hey, Coach, I have Alex Parker on line one, and Kennedy Lockwood from Sports Buzz on line two.”
I press the button down and sigh. “Tell Parker I’m unavailable. What does Sports Buzz want?”
This outlet appears to be responsible for most of the stories about Alex. It’s not my go-to news with my morning coffee, but they have interesting exclusives that other magazines don’t seem to cover, which make for better reading material, though I’m not so sure how they get some of their so-called news. They’re like TMZ, the sports edition.
