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He buckles over with laughter. “You lucky little bitch, you. Of course you've had her.”
“When they strip themselves naked before you can even talk, you do what needs to be done.”
“At least the endorsements are paying off,” he says, shrugging. “But hey, got a proper reason to make them ride that little pony now, don't ya?” He eyes my injured leg, slapping my upper arm with the back of his hand.
“Pony?” My brows arch. “Bro, you misspoke. You meant to say stallion.”
“Fuck outta here, white boy.” He stands from his seat. “You can have your little stallion. I'ma give her this Dragon.”
He does a lewd dance in the air just as the nurse knocks on the door, entering the room with more flowers. Stalling mid-hump, he straightens and tips a fake hat.
“Ma'am.”
Smiling his signature crooked smile, I shake my head and rub the back of my neck, knowing she was lucky enough to witness the thrusts by the flush of her cheeks.
“Don't mind him,” I say to her. “The paid stripper was just leaving.”
He backs towards the door, his mouth forever flapping. “Tips are much appreciated. It’s hard out here in these streets.” He trails a finger down his chest as he completes another body roll, causing the nurse to do a double take.
This poor woman isn’t paid nearly enough to endure this.
“Oh wait, I need my hug,” he shrieks, jogging back to me as I cringe.
He drapes an arm over me, grinning with his head on my chest. I sink into the mattress, backing away from him as far as humanly possible.
“Candy loves you, Lakey. Now don't you forget it,” he comments in a stupid tone before dropping something down against my side.
He backs away again, giving me a nod. “See you at the team meeting Thursday, my dude.”
I return the nod as he walks into the hallway, already hearing him call someonebaby girl. Rolling my eyes, I dig into my side, finding a brown paper bag. Opening it, I unroll an old issue of Playboy wrapped around a super-sized bottle of lube, with a post-it note on the magazine that says,Work out those aggressions, bro.
“Fucking Candy.” I groan.
The only aggressions I'm about to be working out are in the gym with that new therapist who better be ready to get me back on that field in record time.
3
Dylan
Andtherehesits.
Against the wall, ass on the floor, hoodie over his dark locks. His five o’clock shadow is in full gear, and it only adds to the whole depressed-fallen-athlete look he’s going for. He’s fit in Nike from head to toe, and even from his seated position, I can tell he’s too tall for his position as a running back. His legs are long and extremely toned, like some sort of genetically engineered cheetah.
The earbuds in his ears and loud muffled sounds that blast into his head almost scream to everyone around him, “I’m an entitled ass.” His elbow hangs from his good knee, hands dropped carelessly between the open space of his legs. He has an aura of self-importance oozing from his whole look that I fucking hate. I don’t have time for people like him.
I brush it off and get into professional mode. Regardless of how I feel, this is my career, my well-being, my livelihood, and I’ll be damned if anyone brings me down. I've come too far for someone like Lake Decker to get the best of me.
“Mr. Decker,” I say, standing over him and extending my hand. “Hi, I’m Dylan Crawfo—”
“Why did you send your friend out here?” he interrupts my introduction, looking down at his hanging hand.
He won't even look at me while I'm addressing him.
“Excuse me?”
“Why did you send your friend out here?” he asks again, enunciating every word slowly as if I’m an idiot.
I hate his arrogant ass already.
