1
duke
Ihated New York.
Hated everything about it, from the weather to the social scene, to the hectic, fast-paced lifestyle. Then again, maybe I just hate it because it’s not where I thought I belonged.
It’s not the place or team I thought I’d be drafted to.
Texas.
Texas is that place, and it’s where I belong. And Texas is where I’m going to play now that I’ve just signed a new deal with a team I’ve wanted to play for since picking up my first football.
The Longhorn State is in my blood.
I wasn’t drafted to the Dallas Steers as a rookie like I thought I’d be;prayedto be, actually. Instead, I was fucked over by my agent and signed to New York, a deal I remained furious about even coming off a Super Bowl win.
Fuck you,New York Condors.
And fuck you, Aaron Lightner, my former agent.
Fuck him for screwing me over when I was too young to know better; too young to know I had a choice when it came to who I wanted to play for. I had options, and he didn’t tell me about them.
The greedy bastard decided for me.
Hefting my bag, I lower the ballcap over my eyes and put on sunglasses despite the fact that I’m inside the airport. It’s not easy concealing my identity—in fact, it’s damn near impossible—but I’m quick, wearing a disguise, and don’t dick around.
It’s not long before I’m climbing into a waiting black SUV at airport arrivals and on my way into the thick of the suburbs.
I’ve never visited the Midwest; not to play tourist, not to sightsee, and I’ve certainly never lived here.
Well, today all that changes.
Today, I’m hiding out there.
See, my agent lives in Chicago and has the keys to the house where I’ll be holing up—hiding—in what he calls a “family-friendly neighborhood,” where I’ve been guaranteed no one will bother me.
No one will notice me. I won’t have to go out in public, won’t have to be seen, won’t have anyone breathing down my neck—paparazzi or otherwise.
I only need a place to lay low for two weeks. The only one who knows I’m here is my new agent, Eli.
Should be easy to stay out of trouble, yeah?
Speaking of places to hide—when the driver pulls up to a red-brick house covered almost completely in ivy vines, I almost gag in my mouth at how stereotypically wholesome the entire scene is.
White picket fence out front, mailbox attached to the house on the front door, doormat on the brick stoop.
It reminds me of the brick cottage fromHansel and Gretelor, better yet,The Three Little Pigs.
The doormat saysShut the Front Door!
Great.
My roommate thinks dumb shit like that is cute and clever? Awesome.
Rolling my bag over the cobblestone sidewalk, I frown when no one answers the door after I knock. My eyes do a quick scan for any forms of life and find none; I even peer into the front room through the window, shielding my eyes with the palm of my hand against the glare.
Everything is as quaint as Eli described, complete with a pineapple-shaped doorknocker in lieu of a doorbell.