Foolish Games(13)
“That Natalie Morales is hot. Think she’s married?” Brody thought every woman was hot. And hot for him, which, given his cover-boy good looks and athletic superstardom, was probably true.
Will shoved Brody’s sneakered feet off the sofa and picked up a bottle of orange juice that was leaning precariously against the ottoman. “Show a little respect, Janik. This isn’t a frat house.”
“Jeez, Grandma.” Brody pulled himself up to a seated position before standing and following Will into the state-of-the-art galley kitchen. “You treat this place like a museum just because it’s been featured in Architectural Digest.”
He doubted Brody, who’d grown up in a wealthy Boston suburb, could appreciate the sense of accomplishment Will took in living in a place he actually owned. It had nothing to do with his loft’s appearance in national magazines. That was his buddy Gavin’s doing. Gavin, a successful architect, had helped to design and restore the bank of warehouse lofts in the trendy Federal Hill area of Baltimore, where Will now lived. For Will, the eighteen-hundred-square-foot loft represented a form of security he’d never felt growing up inside a drafty trailer parked in hurricane alley.
Standing in the galley kitchen decorated in varying shades of gray, Will surveyed his home. The kitchen featured concrete counters, stainless steel appliances, a glass-tile backsplash, and glass-front mahogany cabinets. The two-story living area and the large upstairs master bedroom gave the illusion of an abundance of space, but he was just one person living there. Where would he put Owen? And the kid’s crazy mother, if it came to that? There weren’t any parks or playgrounds nearby. Boys needed a place to run and throw balls. Owen couldn’t do that in Fed Hill.
He loaded a canister into the Keurig machine and contemplated his housing dilemma as Brody straddled one of the two bar stools, hooking his heels on the bottom rung. “I brought you some doughnuts.”
Will watched as Brody crammed half a chocolate doughnut in his mouth, sprinkles raining down on the counter like confetti. “Seriously, how do you eat such crap and still run the forty in four point six seconds?”
“Great genes.” At least that was what it sounded like around the doughnut.
Shaking his head, Will grabbed a piece of wheat bread and the peanut butter out of the pantry. When he was growing up, peanut butter made up two meals a day most weeks. He swore when he had money he’d never touch the stuff again. But when he was stressed, his body seemed to crave the familiar taste. After slapping the peanut butter on the bread, he pulled his cup of coffee out of the machine and took a tentative sip. He was reminded of Sebastian and his tea the day before, and he felt the squeezing begin at his temples again. “How’d you get in here, Brody?”
“You gave me a key, remember?” He tossed a key chain with a miniature bobblehead Blaze football player onto the counter.
“For emergencies.” Will picked it up; the player was wearing number forty-eight, Will’s number. He shook his head as he pocketed the key. “Like when that crazy porn star was stalking you.”
“She wasn’t a porn star. She made independent films.”
Will took a bite of his sandwich and arched an eyebrow at Brody. “Don’t give me the story you tell your mother.”
Brody crashed at Will’s apartment only when one of his four older sisters visited, which was often. They were constantly trying to fix him up with their friends, often forcing the tight end to seek refuge in space containing less estrogen. Why he crossed the line of scrimmage and picked Will, a defensive player, to be his mentor was still a mystery. Despite Will’s attempts to shake him, Brody had latched onto him during his rookie season and hadn’t let go.
Brody guzzled the rest of his orange juice. Will sensed the tight end was stalling. Unlike most of the world, Will never underestimated the man seated in front of him. Brody took great pains to portray himself as the immature jock who thought nothing of using his good looks and perfect smile to get ahead in the world. But behind those lazy blue eyes was a shrewd twenty-five-year-old who wasn’t always successful at hiding his brain beneath his brawn. Even his clothes, cargo shorts and neatly ironed T-shirt, looked haphazardly thrown together, but Will knew that a consultant, probably one of his sisters, had likely pulled the pieces into an outfit. Brody also was aware of his place in the hierarchy of the team. Despite being a marquee player, he would never show up unannounced at a more senior player’s home without a very good reason.
“There’s been talk in the clubhouse.” Brody flipped the bottle cap between his long fingers, but his eyes never left Will’s face. Despite the fact it was the off-season, many of the Blaze players remained in town for Organized Team Activities, which consisted of optional twice-weekly conditioning sessions. The OTAs not only helped the players stay in shape, but they kept the esprit de corps among the team.