I’ve spent every evening at Brooke’s home except last night, when she slept here with me at my condo. After a fantastic round of morning sex, I walk her to the door on Saturday and give her a long, lingering kiss goodbye. “See you on Monday,” I say.
“See you then,” she says, then breezes out.
The team flies to San Francisco tomorrow morning for a Sunday night game against Carter’s local rivals—the San Francisco Hawks. I hurry to get ready to head to the stadium for a review of the playbook before tomorrow’s kickoff.
But when I open the door to leave, I stop short.
Patrick stands outside, his fist poised to knock.
“Hey man, what’s up?” I ask, my brow furrowed. “I need to head to the stadium.”
“Just this little thing known as a meeting.” He taps his watch. “I was at the coffee shop down the block with Tavarez, waiting for you. To talk about the donations you’re making, the role he wants you to play. Pretty sure he wants you on the board. But you didn’t show. What’s up?”
Oh, shit.
I’m a dick.
“I’m sorry.” I drag a hand through my hair. “I totally forgot.”
He gives me a quizzical look. “That’s not like you. But that’s why I texted to see what was up. I called too. You didn’t get either?”
“Um,” I say, rubbing a hand across the back of my neck. Truth was, I was busy with Brooke all morning. My face between her thighs and all. Didn’t check my phone. Didn’t even turn it on. “Must have missed it. I’m sorry. I feel like a jerk.”
Patrick’s a chill dude, and rarely gets ruffled. But he’s clearly concerned. “You getting enough sleep?” His protective side is out in full force. “You’ve always needed a solid eight hours.”
I do the math. I’ve been nowhere close to that. More like six, maybe seven. But the sex and the conversations with Brooke are so worth it. “I’m close to that.”
“Good. I’m guessing you missed my message this morning because you were busy with your woman?”
It doesn’t sound like a reprimand. More like ahey, I’m looking out for you.I feel like a jackass, though.
“Is he still there? I can meet with him now.”
“He had to take off. Something with his kid. But we’ll reschedule. It happens,” Patrick says.
But it doesn’t happen to me. I don’t miss meetings. I don’t forget obligations. My mom taught me to show up, and I motherfucking do.
Maybe I have sex brain.
“I’ll do better next week. I promise,” I say.
Patrick claps me on the shoulder. “No worries. Glad you’re into her, man. Just keep your focus.”
He leaves, and before I take off for work, I send Paul a message apologizing for my no-show and telling him I can’t wait to talk to him about Young Athletes.
At the stadium, we review the game plan, and I put both the missed meeting and the woman out of my mind. I have tunnel vision the rest of the day and into Sunday morning as we board the plane for the hour-long flight. By the time we hit the Hawks field for kickoff, I’m in the zone.
We score first. But the Hawks are tough as nails. Their quarterback is fearless in the pocket and lasers in on his receivers on every damn throw.
The quarterback, Jason McKay, is a steely-eyed missile man, and he connects, matching the score.
But no biggie. I’ll keep putting my guys ahead.
Except on the next play, when I take the snap and hunt for an open receiver, I find nada.
I tuck the ball under my arm, ready to scramble for a few yards, when out of nowhere, a Hawks linebacker slams me to the ground.
All the air evacuates my lungs.