Page 59 of Mile High Coach
As for the players, they’ve stopped looking at me with pity, and started looking at me with respect again.
Somehow, the news that I’d clocked Jared Davis in the face did a lot more for team morale than any of the other scandals this year. Turns out, a lot of the players have wanted to do the same, so at least with them, it was seen as a positive.
“Here you go,” the bartender says, sliding a new whiskey in my direction, scanning me for a second. I want to remind him that this is only my second, confirm to him that I’ll walk back to my apartment after it. I have no interest in getting sloppy drunk in this bar.
I only came in here because it was the only place on the fucking street that wasn’t decked out in hearts and pink, glittery red and Cupid’s arrows.
Somehow, I’d managed to forget about the prospect of Valentine’s day until I found a little box of Conversation Hearts on my desk with a note from management, thanking me for being such a sweet member of the team.
Then, of course, I was flooded with images of what this night might look like if I still had her in my arms. Maybe a nice dinner out. I could take her to a place in Baltimore that wouldn’t make sense for any other Friday night, we could eat expensive shit—caviar and steak—enjoy red wine and laugh together.
Or maybe I would have just cooked for her at home. Maybe I could have planted her on my bed and had my way with her for hours.
Maybe, maybe.
Now it’s been almost seven weeks since Lovie left, and I’m starting to worry that she might never come back. Each time I pull my phone from my pocket, I think about texting. Calling.
But I don’t.
Not because I’m afraid of the legal repercussions, or what she might do to me for violating the contract. But because she toldme not to. And I’m not going to cross that line. I’m not going to chase after a woman who’s made it clear she wants nothing to do with me.
Instead, I’m going to sit here in this bar and think about how she’s probably—hopefully—thinking about me right now. About what this night could be like if we were together.
I’ll sit here and hope that Lovie, the smartest woman I’ve ever met, eventually comes to her senses and realizes all this shit isn’t important enough to keep us apart. That age and employment and all the differences in the world shouldn’t matter when it comes to the way we love one another.
“If I sit here, are you going to punch me in the face?”
At first, I think it’s actually Jared fucking Davis, having the gall to find me in the wild and sit next to me in a bar. When I turn, it’s with the full intention of knocking him on his ass, but a moment before I see him, the voice registers, and I realize who it is.
“Brad.”
His name comes out of my mouth before I can stop it, and he must take it as permission to take the seat, because he slides into it, carefully not meeting my eye.
“Hey, man.”
“Can this night get any fucking worse?”
“Well, I’m here with you,” he jokes, glancing at me and lifting his glass. “So, I’d say no.”
That reminds me that it’s Valentine’s Day, and there’s no reason he should be here with me, instead of with his wife.
My wife. My ex-wife.
“She’s pissed at me,” Brad says, then to the bartender, “Whiskey on the rocks, please. Whatever you have that’s top-shelf.”
The bartender leaves to get his drink, glancing at my drink, which is exactly the same thing, ordered in the same way.
“I fucked up,” Brad goes on, even though I’ve done nothing to indicate to him that I want to talk about this. “And I know that. I know this one is on me. But sometimes, in the moment, I just—I say stupid shit.”
As someone who has done my fair share of hurting Eliza, I understand. As a man sitting next to his traitorous best friend, there’s a certain sense of satisfaction in him not being able to get it right, either.
Although, maybe he’s already done much better than I did, with a teenage daughter and a marriage that’s lasted nearly as long as mine did.
“Came looking for the least love-obsessed place on the block,” Brad goes on, thanking the bartender when he slides the drink over to him. “And of course, I find you in here.”
I say nothing, staring down at the shining wood below my drink. We were always so much alike. It’s what made us fast friends, and it’s what helped us to bridge the gap between us, despite being from slightly different generations in the game.
He would have played a lot longer than me if that injury hadn’t taken him out. For the first time, I wonder if his injury might have had something to do with going after Eliza. Losing something we shared, going after something that was just mine.
