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I haven’t rested since Les received the first disturbing message on her phone. But last week, I returned home from the bar with Terrance to find out Les had received a photoshopped picture of Ambrosia and me sitting in the same bar. The photo suggested I’d been out with Ambrosia instead of Terrance. Les promised she understood the image was photoshopped, but I’ll never forget the sad aura surrounding her when she told me about it.
That day, I took things into my own hands and hired someone to investigate the source of the messages. I had already spoken with my team members who’d communicated with their wives, and no one had any clues about who was behind sending the messages. Either the ladies were tight-lipped, or the culprit kept their deeds a secret.
Now that I am taking things into my own hands, I finally have some results. I hang up the phone, my mind reeling over what the investigator discovered.
Leslie walks into the room and finds me in deep thought. “Wayne,” she says low and soothingly. Her presence is a breath of fresh air compared to dealing with our new stalker—the latest in a string of headaches since our relationship went public. “You’ve spent a lot of time on the phone and in meetings the past few days,” she states softly, her eyes searching mine. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
I sigh, running a hand through my beard. “I have uncovered some details about who’s sending the messages. Moey isn’t working alone. This isn’t just some petty drama among the wives,” I admit, finally coming to grips with the truth.
Her arched brows furrow, a mixture of curiosity and worry in her gaze. “I kind of figured there was something different happening. Moey is a social media bully more than anything, and she has barely been posting anything since the party. I would think she’d be all over Beyonce’s internet talking about what happened to her, but she’s hardly posting statuses. With her this quiet, the suspense is killing me.”
I walk over to the floor-to-ceiling window and stare outside at the greenery of my expansive backyard. I wish life could be as simple as enjoying nature and counting down the last few days to our wedding, but it’s not. I’m forced to contemplate how to handle a complicated matter that only exists because of my position as quarterback of my football team. Something I have fought for and wanted for years. Something I won’t easily give up.
“Someone I least expected poses a threat to me,” I state quietly, almost unwilling to say it aloud. Repeating it to Leslie will make it more real than it already is. I don’t want what I’ve found to be reality.
Leslie’s small, soft hand touches my shoulder, bringing me from my thoughts. “Wayne, what is it that you found out?”
I take a deep breath before facing her. “Moey Dash is involved, but she’s working with someone else.” I can’t say the man’s name that I looked up to, the one who mentored me. I still want to believe the private investigator's connection between Dariel Grant and the text messages is wrong.
Worry lines spread across Leslie’s delicate facial features as she observes the war inside me. Her doe-like eyes flutter. “Is she working with Ambrosia? That woman wants you, which is plain for anyone to see,” Leslie offers her suspicion.
I run my hand through my thick beard, that’s grown rapidly during the offseason. “Ambrosia is a pawn. She was just someone they brought in to upset you. She has nothing to do with the messages we’ve been receiving.”
“Then, who’s sending them?” Leslie asks, anxiety further disrupting the perfect contours of her beautiful brown features. “If it’s not them, then who?”
I stare off into space, deep in thought. “Moey has aligned herself with a man with a vendetta against me, one I didn’t know about.”
She gives me an incredulous look that swats away the idea that someone would have an issue with me. “A man that has a vendetta against you? Everyone loves you, Wayne—your team members, your friends, everyone. I have never heard about you having an enemy.”
My jaw ticks as I think about Dariel Grant’s underhanded way of getting back at me for taking his position. “You don’t make it to my level of success without someone hating it, and apparently, not everyone appreciates my new position. Some people want to create chaos in our relationship because of their hate toward me, to weaken us, which will weaken me.”
Leslie’s eyes widen, disbelief and shock mingling in her expression. “But who has something against you, though? And how do you know Moey is working with them. Talk to me, Wayne.”
I take Leslie by the hand and walk her over to the mocha-colored leather sofa positioned against the wall in myhome office. I sit on the couch and gently ease her onto the space beside me. “I hired a private investigator to follow Moey. The PI wiretapped her computer and cell and found out she’s been communicating with someone promising her a permanent relationship if she helps bring me down.”
Leslie nods. “We all know she will do anything to have a permanent relationship with a player.” Leslie stills. “Wait, you had her phone tapped?”
I leaned forward, elbows in my lap and hands clasped together. “I had to get to the bottom of who was contacting us. And while I don’t have all the answers yet, I believe they targeted our relationship to manipulate and control me.”
“Wayne, I’m confused as to why anyone would do this? Explain what you’re saying.”
“That message I got telling me to take any draft offers I receive, or they will do whatever it takes to make sure we’re never happy here in Washington makes sense now. Only one person would directly benefit from me being gone.”
Leslie’s lips part as she absorbs the weight of my accusation. It’s as if her mind sorts through scenarios and comes to a conclusion. “Only one person would benefit from you leaving the Saints. Dariel Grant,” she says with a gasp.
“Yes,” I reply disappointedly.
Benched by the medical staff due to a rotator cuff injury this past football season, Dariel Grant has been quietly recovering, or so we all thought. With his injury alone, he has an uphill battle to regain his quarterback spot. Add to his injury that he never took the team to the Superbowl during his tenure, and I would say his chances are slim of proving he deserves his spot back after I did just that in his position. But who am I to judge? I’m not the coach or the team’s owner.
Even with all that Dariel is facing, it baffles me that he let it come to this. He could have come to me, and we could have talked this through. But now, I don’t want to do friendly Wayne. I want to meet him at his level.
Leslie shoots off a litany of questions. “But why would he want to try to get rid of you this way? Why not just come back and earn his spot like he had before you were made the QB? What could he gain from ruining our relationship? You haven’t done anything to him.”
“He’s doing badly. We all thought he was recuperating from his injuries, but he has been missing his rehab appointments, deteriorating mentally, drinking, and according to the private investigator, he has started using drugs,” I regretfully divulge.
I really wanted better for Dariel. After all, would it be so bad for him to come back and play second string to me? I did it for him for years.
“He’s messing up his chance of ever returning,” Leslie acknowledges.
