Page 15 of Dirty Player
My head spun while I tried to figure out who he meant before he continued speaking.
“High school sweetheart. Gossip in the locker room is he loved the shit out of her. She used him as a meal ticket and once he made it big, she left him and took over half of everything he owned.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Not sure.” He shrugged and pulled back from a necklace charm before sliding his hand into the pocket of his jeans. “Beneath all the bullshit, all the asshole behavior, and all the crap that’s said about him in the papers, I guess I don’t think he’s that bad of a guy.”
It was as close to permission as I was going to get from Beaux. Not that it meant anything. I wasn’t going to be the next woman on Oliver’s arm on a photo spread of NFL player’s wives and girlfriends webpage, only to be replaced the following week.
“He’s been named captain of the team for a reason, you know. Is he right about you and your playing?”
For an athlete, Beaux was pretty humble. More than most. He was usually pretty open to criticism and always took feedback, evaluated it to see if it was true. Hell, he scanned his Instagram feed, reading comments from guys who couldn’t pick a decent fantasy football team, to see if their Monday quarterbacking had merit.
That he’d be so angry about Powell’s input told me it wasn’t the criticism getting to him.
“Yeah.” He looked up at me and grinned. It was lopsided and made a dimple pop in his cheek. “He might be.”
“Then you need to work harder.”
“And you need to get out of this office. Come to Kolby’s house with me tonight. He’s throwing a pool party.”
“Beaux—”
“Just a small gathering. Nothing big, I swear—not with our game in a couple days.”
My cheeks heated as I asked, “Will Oliver be there?”
“Fucking hell,” he moaned and dragged a hand through his hair. “Probably.”
“I probably shouldn’t.”
“You’re probably right.”
“I’m going.”
He grinned. “I figured you would.”
Chapter FOUR
OLIVER
The small crowd gathered on Kolby’s outdoor patio made my skin itch.
Over a dozen kids jumped and splashed in the pool. Long Styrofoam noodles, plastic wings, and inflatables tossed all over the place made the simple act of walking a minefield.
I was trying to relax. It wasn’t easy. Every year, the men on my team became younger and faster. They were tougher. They fought harder, partied louder, threw away their millions as soon as it hit their pockets.
For some, it filled them with a greater drive to succeed, to be the next big name known and shouted in small-town basements and garages all over the country for three months a year. For others, it became one big unending party…until the party came to a crashing halt.
I still hadn’t figured out our new quarterback. Beaux Hale had talent. That couldn’t be argued. But the man owned a fucking a RV that he drove around the country during the off season, partying wherever he parked it. He was determined on the field, a fucking clown off it. It was hard to take him seriously, and as his captain, it was fucking with our teamwork on the field.
I pushed him hard because his arrival meant we finally had a chance at the fucking coveted ring. Eight years in the league and I’d come close twice during my first two years. For the last six, it’d been a crapshoot.
Realistically I had two, maybe three decent years left in me. At thirty, I was becoming an old man. The pain in my knees, the hits to my ribs, the sore muscles…all of it took longer to recover from. I fucking ached everywhere already and the season hadn’t really begun.
I wanted to walk away with that damn golden ring so badly I could taste the metal in my mouth, between my teeth.
It was all so fucking close with the team we had this year. Hale was being touted as the guy who could take us there.
