Rubbing at my eyes with the back of my hand, I yawned. “Who’s where?” Then it hit me. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?” He had class at eight in the morning.
“My professor isn’t coming in.”
“Okay…”
“I’m at that bar by my house. You know which one I’m talking about?” He didn’t give me a chance to respond, but I knew where he was referring to. We’d gone there together a few times in the offseason. Marc continued, “Kulti’s here. Been here. The bartender cut him off a while ago, but I think he’s asleep. The bartender’s been asking if anyone knows him, but I guess I’m the only one.”
He breathed loud, continuing. “This is some shit, Sal. I thought about taking a picture of him to sell it, but that’s kinda fucked up. Imagine if anybody recognized him.”
I could imagine and I cringed a little. The WPL’s focus on morals and family values flashed through my head. If it got out our brand-new superstar of an assistant coach was passed out drunk at a bar before the season even started... it’d be a disaster.
“I figured you’d know what I should do,” Marc finally ended.
Jeez. What a mess. A small part of me didn’t want to get involved. He wasn’t my friend, and it wasn’t like he’d been particularly friendly or kind in any way. But the point was he was a member of my team. That part of me that battled between being a dick and saying he wasn’t my problem lost to the bigger part of me that made me do the right thing. My mom would be horrified if I was an asshole. I wouldn’t want to give her another reason to be disappointed in me.
I bit back a groan and stood up with a sigh, already looking through my dresser for a pair of pants. “Can you call him a cab?” Please, Jesus. Please.
“I asked the bartender who checked his ID, and he said it wasn’t a Texas driver’s license. He either wasn’t paying attention or doesn’t care who he is,” Marc explained. “I don’t think he has any car keys on him either.”
If I was drunk, famous and what seemed like mainly alone in a foreign country, would I want someone looking through my pockets? Or, I don’t know, videotaping me when I wasn’t at my best? Definitely not.
Pulling my pants up, I sighed. “I’ll be there in fifteen.”
* * *
I shoved my phone back into my pocket with a tired and slightly frustrated sigh. Sheena hadn’t answered her phone and neither had Gardner; then again, what had I been expecting? It was almost one in the morning, and apparently I was the only idiot that left their ringer on overnight.
The warm yellow lights from inside of the bar made me sigh again. What the hell was I doing? A man I hardly knew was sitting inside, drunk and possibly on the verge of making an ass of himself if people realized who he was. I wasn’t naïve enough to believe that if he were recognized, people would brush it off. That wasn’t how people worked. I could already envision the videos being uploaded and going viral and all the hell that would come from it.
Was it totally unfair? Of course it was. Most people had too much to drink at some point or another, and no one ever thought twice about it.
Shit.
I sighed and threw the door open, not thinking about the fact I was in gray six-dollar sweatpants and an old, stained sweatshirt that I’d thrown on over the baggy shirt I usually slept in. Marc must have been keeping an eye out for my car because he was waiting at the door for me. In a T-shirt and jeans, he looked like a cleaned-up version of the man I spent nearly every afternoon with. He was showered, his hair was styled, and he had his nice set of glasses on, so that was pretty fancy. He had a striking resemblance to Ricky Martin when he wasn’t dressed in his work clothes. Dark hair, dark eyes, tan skin and he was just... well, pretty.
“Over here,” he said, waving me toward a booth in the back.
The figure hunched over the table was unmistakable, at least to me. That shade of short brown hair was the same I’d been seeing in person for the last two weeks. It was definitely Kulti. The fact he didn’t have on any team-related clothing like the polo shirt he had on earlier in the day was a small blessing, I guess. His beanie was slouched pretty low on his head, another bonus.
For the first time I thought, what the hell was he doing getting drunk at a bar in Oak Forest? This side of town was predominantly a middle-class neighborhood that had slowly been getting taken over by the upper middle-class with small houses being demolished and bigger, near-mansion-like homes taking over. It was a family neighborhood, not one you’d expect a rich single man living in.
“I’m sorry,” Marc said over his shoulder.