The game ends with one more perfect pass from Danny, leading to another touchdown for the Nailers with seconds on the clock. When the referee finally stops the game (or shall I say the massacre?), some of the Nailers’ players start doing laps around the field, carrying Danny on their shoulders like he’s the second coming of Christ. There’s going to be a lot of money to be made selling Danny Manning jerseys tonight, that’s for sure.
“We should leave now if we want to beat the traffic,” I tell Christine, but she’s still staring at Danny’s victory lap, her eyes suddenly widening so much her eyes almost jump from their orbits.
“Fiona …” she whispers, raising one finger and pointing behind me. I turn on my heels, my eyes following the direction of her finger, and I can barely believe what I’m seeing. Danny’s jogging across the field, a grin on his face, and he’s coming straight toward us.
My legs grow weak, and the urge to simply run away takes over me. But I'm frozen in place, watching my mouth hanging open as Danny strolls toward me, an army of reporters trailing after him, and at least a dozen cameras transmitting the whole thing live.
“Fiona,” he says the moment he gets close enough. The reporters surround us both, recording the whole thing and snapping pictures, and I feel like I’m some kind of movie star in the middle of one important scene. “Can I have your number?”
I almost pinch myself. Is he really asking for my phone number, or am I dreaming this whole thing? He takes a pen out of the hand of a journalist and then just looks at me, waiting with that confident grin of his.
Still feeling as if I’m inside a dream, I give him my number and he jots it down on his forearm in big wide numbers.
“How does tomorrow sound? 8 pm at Per Se,” he asks me, lowering his voice so that only I can hear it, and I have to blink twice to understand what he’s saying.
“Are you asking me on a date?”
“I sure am,” he says, taking one step toward me. He towers over me, and I become so wet I might just pass out from dehydration, if that’s even possible. “8 pm at Per Se, I’ll meet you there,” he whispers, leaning in toward me.
“8 pm. Per Se,” I repeat after him, completely stunned. With one final wink, he turns on his heels and jogs back to the field, the army of reporters following after him.
“Holy shit,” I hear Christine say by my side, as stunned as I am. “You have a date with Danny Manning.”
Holy shit indeed.
142
Danny
The limo stops outside of Pink Elephant and I get out and survey the line waiting out the door of the nightclub.
You ever seen a NFL game and the post game highlights? Sure you have, if you don't live under a rock. Well, you always see some of the players dressed up to the nines, right?
Suit and fucking tie. All showered and changed. Despite the fact that just an hour ago they were sweaty and fucking gross.
Sure, they probably have scars, bruises, cuts, and even broken bones. But even with that internal bleeding they put on fly clothes. Dressed to impress.
Well, this is fucking why.
I pause for a second before the press realizes that I'm standing there, which they do soon enough. That's when the cameras go off and the flash bulbs burn.
I mean, don't get me wrong. There's about sixty guys from the team over here tonight. We're here to fucking celebrate a win that we weren't expecting after all.
Pink Elephant is only the hottest fucking nightclub in New York City right now. Situated in the Meatpacking District, it's got a vibe that gets the girls fucking wet.
I mean, you can just see from looking around. They're turned around, looking at the players. They're licking their lips, touching their breasts. They're bending over. They're turning around..
In short, their doing everything that you would expect these women to do for football players.
I'm not going to say I've never indulged.
Fuck, actually the opposite. I think I've probably fucked most of the girls in this line. But you know what? I never told them that I wanted to fucking marry them, or put a baby in their belly. Never even told them that I wanted to go steady or anything of the sort. Hell, I really never even told them that I would see them past the weekend. But that didn't stop them from dropping their clothes and getting on their knees. From taking my cock into their mouths and then climbing on top of me after they've gotten me good and fucking hard. From turning over and getting on all fours as I amorally shucked into them and gave it to them doggie.
By the morning, they were fucking forgotten, having been taken home by my limo.
But they still held hope. That one day ...
"Hey Danny," a random female from the pack yells. And all of a sudden, like a wave, they all seem to turn.