She said she didn’t want to work with me directly, and I guess it’s because I’m just so damn distasteful.
I’ll show her what it means to be distasteful. She’ll get a big old eyeful. And she’ll either leave… or she’ll break her vow to stay away.
As I get on the phone with the guy who fills up my kegs with the finest beer—and my pool with the finest women—I wonder to myself if I want her to leave or if I want her to come raging up here with a scowl all over her beautiful face and give me the speech of a lifetime.
Doesn’t matter either way, Macklin. That woman is done with you, and she has every reason in the world to ignore you for the rest of your life.
She’s here though, ain’t she? I might as well give her a show.
***
By ten in the morning, some of the other early-rising players start to arrive and my keg man Craig brings in a big-ass shipment of Stella Artois and has it placed by the pool.
I’ve worked out, had a damn protein shake, and there’s a woman whose heart I broke in the guest house, plotting away at my future without my consent. By golly good damn, it’s time to start drinking. I get my icy cold mug from the below-zero freezer out by the pool kitchen and fill it up with the deep amber-colored liquid, pouring a bit of foam off the top. I bring it to my lips so I can start forgetting all the feelings that came over me when I caught a glimpse of Renata last night.
I take a big sip of beer and savor the taste. It’s already over eighty degrees in the shade by the pool, and there are a few girls in very skimpy bikinis walking around the pool. A subtle wave of relaxation pours over me as I down the first half of my icy cold mug, and I pause only to take my shirt off and have one of the women who arrived early put sunscreen all over my back and shoulders. Her fingers are soft and warm, and I try not to think about how Renata’s hands once felt on my skin.
How can I even think about a relationship from six whole years ago when I’m on the edge of the biggest linebacker career the NFL has ever seen…? And I’ve got about fifty girls pouring into the side gate, each of them less dressed than the last.
“Hey Craig,” I yell to the short, shirtless man as he sets up the last keg and pours a cold beer for himself into a red Solo cup.
He looks up and takes a long swig. “Yeah?”
“Put out the sign I had made—the one that says ‘Bikini tops optional.”
“All right man, can do. As long as I can stay and eat and drink.”
“Hell yeah you can stay, Craig. You brought the beer, didn’t you?”
I watch as Craig hauls out the sign, and I pour myself another beer. Another few of my teammates start showing up, and I wonder what that bastard of an owner and the damn tattle-tale of a coach would think of the shenanigans I’ve got going on here today. As the second beer goes down and the ladies start lining up for mugs of Stella, tops start coming off, and I start getting into the zone of not giving a shit about anything. I get the custom-made top and straw on the top of my mug and wade into the pool, positioning myself on a giant chair-like float in the center of the pool. Fortunately, the cupholders on this thing are so big, they each hold a mug of beer. Around noon, the food starts to get set up, and the quarterback is walking off with some topless woman to one of the rooms off the side of the porch.
“Who cares?” I say out loud to no one in particular. The cleaning team will be by again before midnight, and they’ll clean up every mess and even replace torn up sheets or curtains as they see fit. Everything is taken care of, and nothing matters.
One of the women sidles up to me in the pool, offering me a stuffed mushroom from the food table. “You’re Mack Pride, aren’t you?”
“I’m the one,” I say.
“Is it true you have the best parties in the league? That’s what you really like to do these days—isn’t it?”
I take the stuffed mushroom and shove it into my mouth, following it up with another long swig of beer. I gesture to Craig to get me another one, and he delivers before the woman—who strangely has her top on—wades even closer.
“That’s a fact. The NFL—behind the scenes—it might all sound like fun and games, but really, there’s a lack of good parties with scantily clad women. Unless you’re in Cali, that is. I’ve been to some good ones there. It’s my goal to start that kind of thing on the East Coast, and there’s no better place than the Carolinas.”
The woman nods and continues flirting with me, even though I can’t see her eyes behind her dark sunglasses. She’s attractive enough, with a nice damn body like all the other women here. She peppers me with a few curious questions here and there about my schedule, about how I bring in the women and the other players, and a few other things that seem to fade into the background once I’ve had enough beer to fill my system and my bladder.