The pretty blonde who came home with me last night sashays out of the shower and stands on her tip toes to give me a peck on the cheek. It’s empty, that kiss, and she’s silent as she pulls on her little black dress. I nod at her as she leaves, and she smiles sheepishly.
Maybe she’ll come back around. Maybe she won’t. Who knows?
I put on my shirt and rub down my quads with China Gel before I go into the kitchen and make coffee.
That feeling from before, though, it doesn’t go away with the coffee or the protein shake or the water. And, as the beer wears off and I start my morning routine, the memory of her feels deeper than ever, like she’s right here, haunting me.
“She probably doesn’t think about you at all, Mack,” I say to myself as I start stretching my muscles. “She’s moved on a long time ago. And who would blame her?”
As I walk toward my door and down to my Escalade, I have the passing thought that if I met her now—if we hadn’t been tangled up together for every second of our lives leading to that day—well, maybe we’d be married now. I’m twenty-eight, after all. Maybe we’d be saying, hey, let’s stop using the birth control and try for a baby. Heat pricks at my eyes when I have that thought, but the tears don’t come. They dried up a long time ago.
I sigh, and get in my car, thoughts of Renata swirling in my head as I get on the highway and drive to the stadium. I’m only slightly hungover now. And no one will notice. Except maybe for the ten or so players who were at my party last night, and they’ll keep mum. Might not be the best behavior for a professional athlete, but there’s no way the team owner will get wind of this, not before next season.
As I drive, I let myself think of her for the first time in months.
What she’d look like now. If she keeps her hair long like she used to. If her curves are just as kickin’ as they once were. I bet they are.
What would it be like if she was here with me, in this house that we’d always talked about building together? Would it have been better if she was with me for the games and the workouts and the bruised ribs and that one concussion a couple years back? I even let myself wonder if she’s thought of me too, if she’s looked me up, if she knows what I’m doing for Carolina with each game I play. And, as I pull into the stadium, I have the fleeting thought that it might not be bad if she and I had another chance. Not that she’d grant me one. No sir.
When we start practice, I have the woozy, unsteady feeling that comes with trying to stave off a hangover, and my plays are shit. And what do you know—Eddie Davidson, the damn owner of the team—has decided to show up for practice this morning. There’s some girl with him who looks vaguely familiar. Like I’ve seen her on TV, or a commercial. Maybe the cover of an album on iTunes. Some celebrity chick—she’s not half-bad looking, and I see her looking over at me every once in a while.
For that matter, so does Eddie. Hell.
I keep up with practice, but there’s a feeling that this is bad. I know there are dark circles under my eyes. I know that this man watches his players for weaknesses, that he wants to craft the best team in the NFL, that he looks for weak links to get rid of. I remind myself over and over that I’m no weak link. I’m the strongest defensive player on the team, and I’m beyond reproach when it comes to playing. There are a few times I fumble with the ball, a few times where I forget to pass when I should, a few sprints where I’m slower than I should be. But he wouldn’t get rid of a player like me, wouldn’t believe the rumors circulating about me and the parties I throw.
No, he wouldn’t.
Macklin Pride owns the NFL, for real, with our without the woman he was supposed to marry. With or without sobriety. And no one is getting in the way of that. Not Eddie Davidson. Not the coach. Not the damn women following me around, no one. I keep repeating the thoughts circling around in my head. The wooziness takes me again at the end of practice, though, and I slip, falling among the lineup of other players. When I look up, Eddie Davidson is staring right at me, and the girl with him is whispering something in his ear. A sinking feeling takes over my gut, and I know that Wingate will have plenty to say about all this.
I look over to the seat where Wingate usually is and see him on the phone, scowling and staring right at me. As I get up, my friend Darius helping me to my feet, I feel like I can almost read the words on Wingate’s lips. What is he saying? But, then he hangs up the phone and slides it in his pocket.
Before the game, I shake it all off.
I can win this game, and that’s all that matters.
I’m Macklin Pride, and I can deal with anything that gets thrown at me.