A familiar swirling sensation tiptoes around my stomach. He will keep me safe. He always does. I add that quality to my list of necessities for my future man: can trust him with my life.
I toss back the shot and let it burn my throat as the table bursts into shouts and cheers.
“Just go check on her so you’ll quit obsessing,” Jamal says, pulling my attention back to the table where I immediately stop tapping my finger. We’ve been here almost three hours now, and usually the guys would have run up an alcohol bill that could easily pay for a new car, but not tonight. We’re all on strict diets to keep us in top shape, which means little to no alcohol, lean proteins, and lots of vegetables. We’re not messing around.
Well, all of us except Bree. She’s been knocking ’em back like a toddler with a juice box problem. I usually wouldn’t mind, but tonight it’s making me feel guilty, because I think I’m the reason she’s drinking so much. When she found out I’ve been paying her rent and then on top of that found out I’m celibate, I think I basically flipped her life upside down and shook all the change out. I didn’t mean to tell her I’m celibate, but I sort of had no choice when Kelsey’s article was spreading lies. The honest truth is I’m celibate by choice. I don’t know, one day I just woke up and realized I was done trying to trick myself into thinking I wanted anyone other than Bree. If it’s not with her, I don’t want it.
Geez. Now I’m realizing how absurd that sounds. Jamal is right—I’ve got to do something about this friendship or I’m going to die a lonely, pining, sexually frustrated man. I can’t keep going like this forever, but I feel stuck. And the look on Bree’s face when I hinted that she might be the reason for my
celibacy…I’d rather be punched in the stomach than see it again.
“I’m not obsessing. I’m just…”
“Obsessing,” the rest of the table states obnoxiously in unison.
I smirk and shake my head, looking down at my phone to see if Bree has sent me any rescue texts. None from her, but I have two missed calls from my agent followed by five texts updating my schedule for the week and adding more meetings to an already packed agenda. There’s also a whole slew of messages from my mom with her own notes about how I could have played better in my last game.
* * *
Mom: I was just watching the highlights from Monday night’s game, and you were looking a little sluggish.
Mom: I think you should fire your nutritionist and go with the woman I found for you.
Mom: And you’re holding on to the ball too long.
* * *
Cool, now she’s my offensive coach.
* * *
Me: I’m out with friends right now. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.
Mom: You’re still out right now? It’s late. This is not going to help you play better. You need to—
* * *
I stop reading there and pocket my phone. She lives in Malibu now, but somehow her expectations still reach me in Long Beach. They’re nothing new though. She’s been pushing me to play my best game since pee wee football. I know I shouldn’t complain too much because she helped get me to where I am, but it wears on me. Mostly because she does accurately point out my weak spots. It makes me feel like I should be up earlier tomorrow to watch the tapes and see if I am holding on to the ball too long.
I pull my thoughts back to Bree. “You guys know how she gets when she’s been drinking.”
Jamal laughs. “Yeah. She gets cute and talkative. You’re the unbearable one.”
“When I drink?”
“No. When she drinks. You hover around her like a bodyguard and just scowl at everyone who looks at her. So go on.” He’s pushing me out of the booth with the toe of his shiny dress shoe. “Go check on your woman before you bring this whole party down. We’re already obnoxiously sober because of you. Don’t make us all start biting our fingernails too.”
“Agreed. Go find her,” says Price.
Lawrence shrugs. “I think it’s kinda nice how he’s always looking out for her.”
Jamal points at Lawrence. “Don’t encourage him.”
I shake my head and leave the lounge. Thankfully the bar is really dark and the VIP area is tucked back away from the main space, so I’m not immediately faced with fans wanting an autograph. I slip down the hallway and stop just outside the women’s bathroom. I knock and open the door a crack to yell inside. “Bree Cheese, you good in there?”
I hear a drunken giggle immediately and relax. “That’s me! Bree cheesy cheese,” she says, probably to no one in particular in there.
But then a second later, the door opens fully and a tall, dark-haired woman appears. She’s dressed professionally and wearing a smile that has a bite to it. I worry for a second that she’s going to be an obsessive fan and get handsy in the hallway (it’s happened several times), but then she opens the door to the bathroom wider and hitches her thumb over her shoulder. “I think your friend here needs a little help.”