Linebacker’s Second Chance(20)

I do remember one question, though, because it’s kind of a repeat of the first. And if I were sober, it would probably stick out in my mind as strange.

What are you hoping to gain with these parties, Macklin Pride?

I might consider paying more attention to her but the party starts heating up, and the men from the team grow louder and louder, floats and footballs getting thrown around in a flurry of sound and activity. I join in and throw the ball with a few members of my team, and every once in a while, I see that woman from the corner of my eye, talking to a bunch of different people on the team. But the beer keeps flowing, the food keeps getting eaten, and more of the girls start taking off their tops.

It kind of doesn’t matter anymore how the party goes—I know it’s a success because Renata is out of my mind for the most part, and not even sour old buzzkill Wingate has made an appearance to tell me what a disappointment I am. I call that a win of massive proportions—or is it? Did I want Renata to show up here and tell me off? Did I want to be able to show her exactly how much I don’t care about her being here? And exactly how much I don’t want to change my ways?

I brush off the thought and drink more. And eat more, throw more floats into the pool, have Craig call more people and get more caterers to bring more food. The party is an orgy of people eating and drinking and fighting.

I don’t quite remember getting out of the pool, but the next thing I know, I’m laughing so hard in one of the patio chairs that I fall on my ass and someone has to help me up again. I can’t tell if it’s one of the girls or one of the guys on my team, but I can tell by looking at the sky that it’s getting late. The sun is hanging heavy over the house, and I can see a shadow of the moon in the sky. Soon, people are leaving, and I’m still sitting out on the patio in the humid evening air, sipping a flat beer and eating a piece of pizza that went cold a long-ass time ago. Pizza gone, I drift off with my beer still in one hand.

I’ll be out here until the stars come out, and I’ll keep doing it until Wingate and Renata get the point and leave me the hell alone when it comes to my own personal business.

I have the vaguest hint of a sinking feeling before I fall asleep, similar to the times when I was a kid and my brother and I got into some kind of trouble that we knew was absolutely our fault. What if they’re right? What if they’re all right?

But Macklin Pride doesn’t think that way. He parties, gets any woman he wants, and he plays football like there’s no tomorrow.

Some time later, there’s a stinging sharpness against my face, followed by a splash of very, very cold water.

“I’ll throw you in the pool if you don’t wake up, Mack. And I’ll pray to the gods that you break your leg on the way in so we don’t have to worry about you playing football at all, asshole.”

Buzzkill did decide to show up. I snicker at him before I open my eyes.

But then I hear it. I hear her.

“Mack, what have you done?”

Renata.





CHAPTER EIGHT





My heart pounds hard as I stare down at Macklin Pride’s impressive physique. I’d forgotten what it was like to be in his presence—a wholly unique and singular experience. And when that body was touching mine—sculpted flesh, impressive bulk warm and near. Heat pools between my legs, which surprises me too. I still want this man, I realize. There’s no mistaking it.

I gulp. There’s no getting around it. I’m going to say what I have to say, and then I’ll hightail it back to the guest house.

“You’ve done it. You got me up here, Mack. I didn’t think you could accomplish that feat in only twenty-four hours of the plane touching down, but you’ve fucked up badly enough that I need to come here and talk some sense into you.” I’m not sure if Mack has heard a single word I'm saying or not, but his eyes are at least partially open now that Wingate has slapped him and doused his face with water. If I weren’t so pissed off, if I didn’t have so much adrenaline rushing through my body, it might be a funny sight. But Big Mack has gotten me to violate my own contract terms on my very first day of the most important job I’ve ever taken on. And there’s very little humor in that.

After a second splash of water from his equally pissed off cousin, Mack opens his eyes and stares at me through a food and beer-induced coma I’ve seen in a thousand football players in my time—especially in the ones who are like Mack. Man-children of the highest degree.

“Are you partially conscious, cuzzo?” Wingate asks. Today, Wingate is wearing a bright purple button down and very light khaki pants that look almost white. Again, his shirtsleeves are far too short. Unlike Mack’s perfectly proportional body, Wingate inherited his father’s unnaturally long arms. He’d be a handsome man—almost as handsome as Mack—if he spent some of his money and got his shirts and pants properly tailored. But Wingate’s never been much of one for thinking about anything but the task in front of him.