Page 12

Chapter 12

Andy

I sigh, eyelids cracking open to the morning light.

It’s ungodly early, but Harlow rose earlier to pee and throw open the curtains, before climbing back into bed with me to cuddle a bit, and we stayed like that until my alarm went off.

Time to jet.

Twenty minutes to get my shit together and get my ass down to the lobby.

“Car will be here soon.” I look down at the fancy digital watch circling my wrist. It’s sparkly and so fucking expensive and was a gift from the first team I signed for, after we made it to the playoffs. “I have to go.”

I haven’t been up to my own room since last night, and my things are still strewn all over my suite because I’m not exactly tidy when I travel. Occasionally I get stuck rooming with a teammate during away games, and occasionally he’ll be hyperorganized and keep me in line, but for the most part, if something gets dropped to the floor, it tends to stay there until it’s time to pack up and go.

Together, we shuffle to the door, Harlow then leaning against the doorjamb while we say our goodbyes. She smiles and wraps herself in a bathrobe emblazoned with the hotel logo.

So cute, even with a massive head of sex hair.

Her long brown hair is sticking up in a million different directions, and it makes me want to kiss her and fuck her all over again.

“So.” I level my tone so I sound cooler and more casual than I’m feeling. The truth is, I’m reluctant to leave. “Can I look you up the next time I’m in Green Bay?”

“Sure.” Harlow nods. “Yes.”

I stare at her like an idiot. “I’ll need your number.”

Can’t remember the last time I asked a woman for her number; normally they’re passed to me without an invitation.

“You’ll need my number?”

“Yeah—how am I supposed to get a hold of you without it? I might want to message you as soon as I get in the taxi.”

Her brows go up as if she doesn’t believe I have any real intention of getting in touch with her once I’m gone, but I do—why would I ask for her number if I didn’t?

With a smile she reaches for my phone, adds a contact, and enters her information; my eyes fasten to her hands and fingers as they tap away at my screen.

Delicate, petite hands that were all over my body last night.

“Here you go.” She grins at me, going up on tippy-toes to wrap her arms around my shoulders and embrace me in a hug, tits pressing against my chest.

“Thanks for the guided tour around New York.” Her lips gently press themselves on my neck, and maybe I’m imagining it, but I’m pretty sure she took a whiff.

“Thanks for being the perfect partner.”

She pulls away, stuffing her hands into the pockets of that white robe.

“Talk to you soon?”

One of her shoulders rises and falls. She looks kind of sad. “Sure.”

Sure.

Does she not want me to contact her?

I hope she doesn’t consider this a one-night stand , but there is no time to have a conversation about it. The clock is ticking because I have a flight to catch.

Fifteen minutes later, after I’ve dashed up to my suite and tossed all my crap into my bag, I’m folding myself into the back of a black SUV, my knees hitting the back of the front seat, my brain unable to shut itself off.

I’m not really looking for a relationship. Paisley did a number on me and humiliated me in the process for her own personal gain, making it seem like I was the asshole in the breakup, when in reality, it was her. So am I ready to jump back in with both feet?

Maybe.

Do I think Harlow is fun and could be a good friend? Maybe a friend with benefits?

Yeah, I do.

Whether she wants the same thing remains to be seen, but I can’t afford to let her know everything I stand to lose if our relationship goes south, especially in the press. She has no idea what it’s like and possibly never will.

This level of fame is something few people will experience, and I haven’t decided yet how I feel about it; I only ever wanted to play football.

Grunting, I lean back against the seat, closing my eyes to get some rest en route to the airport—I need the sleep, but my mind slowly wanders back to Harlow.

Obviously.

My eyes pop back open, and I look at my phone.

Stare at the screen and bite my lower lip. She wouldn’t care if I texted her already, would she? Just to see how she’s doing and all that? It’s not too soon? I’m not coming off as ... needy?

Unsure, I shoot a text to my agent: On my way to the airport.

Trent: Thank God.

Me: What’s that supposed to mean?

Trent: It just means that this weekend you felt like a loose cannon.

Me: What do you mean by that?

Trent: You gave me a GD heart attack flaking on that meeting and getting yourself sick.

Me: Well, it all worked out so calm down. And I didn’t flake on the meeting, I ate some bad chicken.

Trent: Yeah, well—your lucky

Me: *you’re

Trent: Don’t be a dick

Me: LOL sorry I couldn’t pass that up.

Trent: Yeah—you could have

Me: So what’s next?

Trent: That’s entirely up to you. New York wants you and is backing that up with an incredible offer.

Just as we assumed they would.

I tilt my head to the back of the seat again, mind on football and New York and the amount of money they’re willing to pay me to play there. Sick, absurd amounts of money.

Mind-numbing numbers, actually.

Numbers so big my parents will shit themselves when they hear the price New York is willing to pay me. I’ve involved them in the inner workings of my career since day one, since the day I was drafted. They’re as instrumental in my career as my agent is. Technically they were my first managers and continue to offer their opinion and influence.

New York wants me.

Baltimore wants me.

My knee bounces impatiently, one more hour in the back of this SUV to go.

I pull up Harlow’s contact and stare at it.

Me: Miss me yet?

There. So clever and to the point.

Flirty and teasing without being too serious.

Harlow: Who is this?

Me: Uh. Andy??

Harlow: I’m kidding—I knew it was you, you’re the only person I gave my number to this morning.

I relax into the plush leather seat.

Me: I knew you knew it was me.

Harlow: Did you now . . . ?

Me: No. LOL.

Me: So what are you up to?

Harlow: Well. You’ve only been gone about 30 minutes, so—shower. Pack. I’m leaving in a few hours. I will have just missed you at the airport.

Me: Two ships passing in the night, that’s us.

Harlow: I should probably check to make sure everything is on time. I’m one of those nervous flyers that likes to get to the airport early.

Me: How early are we talking about ...?

Harlow: 2 hours at least.

Me: Oh shit. Damn, that’s early. I like to get there with just enough time to almost miss the flight, hahahaha.

Harlow: You’re heading to Ohio?

Me: Yeah, gonna spend some time with my parents; we don’t get a lot of alone time together. Haven’t seen them in a few weeks.

I mean, I do actually see them often enough. Plus they’re huge fans of video calls. They come to as many games as they can, but we’re always surrounded by people and fans and my teammates if we see one another at all afterward.

Most times they fly to whatever city I’m in, watch the game, then fly home the next morning.

Harlow: Did they keep your bedroom the same as it was when you were a teenager?

Me: Haha no—they moved out of that house a few years ago.

I bought them a newer, bigger house—with cash—in a gated community because fans love seeing my folks as much as they love seeing me, and they needed more privacy and security than their old house could provide.

Mom fucking hated fans showing up and standing in the street to take pictures.

Weirded her out.

Weirded me out too.

Harlow: How long will you be in Ohio?

Me: At least a week? Maybe not? Few days, at least.

Harlow: So you have No plan ...

Me: I mean, when you say it like that, yes, I have no plan. The plan is to have no plan at all.

Harlow: Well I hope you have a good time.

I hope you have a good time?

What’s that supposed to mean? Does she actually mean I should have a good time? Or is she trying to end this conversation?

Shit.

Me: I’ll keep you posted.

Harlow: Please do. LOL

I toss my cell on the seat beside me and throw my head back again, squeezing my eyes shut. I pass out and manage to sleep for the remainder of the drive to the airport.

I manage to sleep on the flight too. Then I’m happy to see my father’s face when he picks me up from the airport, and my mother pounces as soon as I walk through their front door.

She doesn’t waste a single second, dragging me straight to the kitchen.

I plop down in my usual spot at the kitchen table and wait for the barrage.

Mom loves a good gossip session. Loves hearing about the team, any trouble my teammates get themselves into, and their personal lives.

I am at her mercy, always.

“I bought the new GQ magazine,” Mom says, snapping me out of my stupor when she finds me staring at my phone, willing Harlow to text me.

“I’m sorry, what?” I look up at her when she doesn’t explain further, taking in the sight of the apron around her waist. But the joke is on us—she’s not wearing the apron because she’s cooking. She’s wearing it because she wants my father to think she is.

Current status: Mom is taking food out of take-out containers and putting it into casserole dishes of various sizes so she can slide them into the oven.

Sneaky little shit.

“I said I bought a few of the new GQ magazine. You’re on the cover this month.” She licks a serving spoon before setting it in the sink. “They hit the newsstands yesterday.”

I scrunch up my face. “Who even says newsstand anymore? Do those exist?”

“Don’t be a smart-ass,” Mom scolds, opening the cabinet door where the garbage cans are stowed and stuffing the cardboard to-go containers into the trash.

“I don’t know why you bother buying those. I can have Trent get you magazines for free.” I pause, stealing an orange from the bowl in the center of the table, and begin peeling it. “And how many magazines do you have?”

She shrugs, wiping her hands on the apron. It’s blue and white and has embroidered strawberries on the pockets, and I’m pretty certain it belonged to my grandmother.

“Dozens.”

Dozens? Doesn’t surprise me. “Where do you keep ’em?”

“Dad has a file cabinet in his office.”

By office she means: the Landon shrine.

Thank God I don’t have siblings, or I’d never hear the end of it. The closest I have to a brother is my best friend, Dex, who plays for Arizona. I was traded two years ago, but we’re still as tight as we’ve ever been.

Maybe more so.

Which reminds me—I gotta call him and tell him about my twenty-four hours with Harlow. He’d get a kick out of it. And her.

“What do you do with the magazines?”

Mom rolls her eyes. “What do you mean what do we do with them? You’re our son—we give them to friends, and I have a scrapbook.”

I laugh. “Oh, I’m so sure your friends want magazines with my face on it—especially the new issue of GQ .”

On the cover I’m wearing dress pants with leather loafers—but I’m shirtless, oiled up, and have a suit coat draped over my shoulders like the biggest wanker known to man. Not that it was my idea; some stylist got me dressed. My job was to show up on time and do what they told me to do, the main cover line shouting Landon’s Next Move !

Mom sets the dishes on the table, making a show of arranging them, going back and forth to the fridge for the condiments, fussing, clearly thrilled to have me home.

Not home home—but their home.

Mom loves this house. It was the largest purchase I made after receiving my first big football paycheck, plunking down a few million to buy it for them.

Dad couldn’t give a shit about the house they live in, obviously, but my mom?

Dream come true.

Fact: you won’t find too many pro ballers who don’t feel they owe most of their success to their parents; the gratitude is as endless as the number of hours and miles they spent driving me to and from football and to and from football camps.

Anyway, she continues to fuss about the kitchen, anxious to have me here, yelling for my dad, who’s been MIA the entire hour I’ve been sitting here. I consider going online and having a rental car delivered to the house, so I don’t have to be driven around by my parents like a teenager without his license. Which they fucking love.

They love this shit. They love spoiling me.

Love having me here. Dad especially loves to talk about the game, the players, what’s going on with management, always sniffing out new information.

There is nothing they don’t know and nothing they don’t have an opinion on—particularly when it comes to my personal life.

Goddamn, they disliked my ex-girlfriend.

Mom couldn’t even stand her name . And before Paisley? There was Danica, an athlete in her own right that played on an American soccer team. That “relationship” lasted a mere three months. Before her, a string of models, an influencer approved by my publicist, and a country singer.

So what kind of woman does Mom want me to date?

The girl next door, probably, although we’ve never actually sat and discussed it. It’s not as if I’ve ever asked their opinion—they give it openly and freely as two people actively invested in my career since its inception: my birth.

Dad walks into the massive breakfast room, where Mom and I relocated because it’s more comfortable. And, yeah, the house is so damn big it has its own room for breakfast—or a sunroom or whatever it’s called. Fancier than when I was a kid. I ate at the kitchen counter like a normal person ’cause we didn’t have a dining room, and now here we are, eating in this monstrosity because it makes my mother happy.

Dad slaps me on the back—his version of a hug, which he reserves for games. The games we win.

“Glad you’re home.”

I nod, already eating one of the buttery rolls Mom set down before me, stuffing my face as if I haven’t eaten today, which isn’t the case because I ate on the plane, and it wasn’t half bad.

“Same.”

“How long you stayin’?”

I shrug. “Don’t know.” Sit back in my chair, crossing my arms. “I met with New York this week.” I’m not sure how much information to share at this point; they don’t need to know Trent had to take the meeting for me.

He nods, pleased.

He’s a fan of the team and the money they would bring me.

Dad looks around at the table Mom just finished setting and grins. “Thanks for making lunch, Beth. I’m starving.”

Mom smiles proudly. “I was in the mood. Hope you like it.”

He does. “Love me some chicken.”

She blushes as if she’s spent the entire morning in the kitchen cooking—happy to lie to my father to make her life easier.

I roll my eyes and serve myself.

Yawn through most of the conversation, already ready for bed.

“Why are you video chatting me, dude? What the hell?”

At first I thought it must be a butt-dial, but no—Dex Lansing meant to call me. I can tell by his shit-eating grin that he’s pleased I’ve been properly irritated.

“I miss you, man—is that a problem?”

“No. It’s just weird.”

He pauses, staring at me through the phone. “Dude. Where even are you?” He pauses. Squints. “Is that football wallpaper?”

Yeah. Yeah it is. “I’m in my dad’s man cave. Apparently this is how he wanted to decorate, like my teenage bedroom.”

“Holy shit, that is literally the same shit my grandparents had up in my dad’s bedroom growing up.” He laughs. “Vintage.”

“Shut the fuck up. He likes what he likes.”

Dex holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m not knocking the guy; I’m stating facts. I’d never judge a man for his wallpaper—unless it was some lame sport like hockey or soccer.” He sniffs. “You should see my old man’s office; it’s like a shrine to yours truly. Every trophy or medal I ever received is in a frame, on a shelf, or behind glass. Like a goddamn funeral memorial.”

We both laugh ’cause we know exactly what the other one is talking about.

Neither of us mention the signed jerseys, signed footballs, signed football cards, and other memorabilia in our fathers’ offices or man caves. It’s an expensive hobby, but not as expensive when your son plays in the NFL. You wind up with loads of free shit that could fetch a fortune.

I get to the point. “What do you want? Why are you calling me?”

He lets out a low whistle. “Can’t a man call his best friend to see how his meeting in NYC went?”

Dex is the only person besides my parents who knows what I was actually doing in New York, although the media had its suspicions. It’s not a crime for a player to visit other teams, but it is fucking sus.

“He can, but next time, actually call.”

“What. You’re not feeling pretty?”

“No, I’m not feeling pretty. I was on a flight this morning and have been up since the ass crack of dawn. I feel like total shit.”

Tired, run down, drained: pick one.

“That’s a lie.”

“What?”

“That you were up at the ass crack of dawn.”

“Dude, I was.” Why is he arguing with me?

I lean back in my dad’s leather recliner, resting my head, sinking in. I’d be comfortable if I didn’t have to hold the phone away from my body so I could chat with this moron, but there’s no getting around it. I’m stuck with my arm suspended because of the phone in my hand.

I blow out a puff of air. “I met someone in New York.”

“Yeah. Isn’t that what you went there for?”

He is such an idiot sometimes.

“No, dude—I mean, I met a woman.”

“What kind of woman?”

Jesus. “A cute one.” A sexy one. A clever one with a smart mouth.

“And?”

“And ... we texted back and forth when I was on my way to the airport this morning, and she hasn’t texted me since.”

Dex pauses.

Stares.

Lets out a loud laugh so fucking annoying I want to end the call and put my phone down.

“What’s so GD funny?” I’m scowling now.

“ You. You’re funny.” He’s laughing so hard now he swipes at his watering eyes. “Please tell me there’s a woman on this planet whose panties aren’t wet for hotshot Landon Burke himself.”

I casually shrug, unsure how to start my story. “In my defense she doesn’t know I’m a hotshot.”

Which is the truth. But it is kind of annoying that we haven’t had any communication since her last text, which was hours ago and entirely my fault because I have no idea what to say. Where have my balls suddenly gone?

“What’s that supposed to mean, she doesn’t know you’re a hotshot?”

Jeez, this is embarrassing. “She didn’t recognize me.”

Dex shrugs. “So?”

“She literally had no clue who I was and doesn’t watch football and knows nothing about the sport. So when she started asking questions about me ...” I shrug again. “I didn’t tell her the whole truth. Because it felt nice.”

“What. Like you lied?”

“No. When she asked what I did for a living, I told her I was between gigs.”

“Not really a lie. That’s facts.”

“Okay, bro—she thinks I’m unemployed.”

That makes him laugh harder, and for a few seconds he disappears off to the side of the screen, falling off whatever chair he’s sitting on and rolling on the floor.

Dipshit.

Seriously. He’s being an asshole.

“Wait.” He can hardly speak he’s wheezing so hard, waving a hand in front of his face as if that’s going to help him breathe—or talk—the motion reminiscent of a teenage girl trying to catch her breath. “Do you mean to tell me she thinks you’re broke as a joke and was still flirting with you?”

This is where my story gets personal. “We spent the night together.”

“She spent the night with some tool she thought was Unemployed ?” His head is shaking. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Okay—you’re carrying on way too long over this, get over it, bro. Move on.”

“I can’t. Who dates someone they think might live in their parents’ basement?” He considers this. “Where does she think you live?”

“I told her I live in Seattle, but she knows I’m spending some time with my parents. Fuck you, dude, whatever you’re about to say. Harlow is cool.”

“Ohhhh, it’s Harlow now, is it? La-di-da.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Don’t be a pussy, stay and argue with me.” He’s laughing again. “This shit is too good.”

I bring my phone closer to my face. “You better not repeat any of the shit I’m telling you, I swear to God.”

“When have I ever repeated anything you’ve told me?”

Never. But there’s a first time for everything. Especially during press interviews, which we routinely have to do, and those fuckers in the media will ask anything. They know Dex Lansing and I are friends, and he’s not exempt from an inquisition during a postgame interview.

He knows it and I know it.

He’s being obtuse on purpose.

“So her name is Harlow.” A plate of food suddenly appears in his lap—pizza—and I wonder if he has a woman in his condo or if his housekeeper is there.

I’m assuming it’s the latter and don’t ask.

“Yes.”

“Where’s she from?” He takes a bite of one slice, and I can’t help but notice it’s covered in meat, his favorite.

“Green Bay.”

“Oooooh, the frozen tundraaa . . .”

“Would you stop talking like that?”

“Talking like what?” He’s chewing with his mouth open, and it’s disgusting. Did his mother teach him no manners?

“Dragging out the words like there’s some hidden meaning.”

He continues chewing—loudly. “I don’t know what you mean.”

God, he’s so obnoxious. Why am I friends with him?

“What else? She’s from Wisconsin, she doesn’t know you’re a professional.” More chewing and swallowing. “Does she know your real name?” He laughs around a chunk of crust.

“Yes, she knows my name is Andy.”

“Dude, no one calls you Andy.”

“My parents call me Andy.”

“Not the same.”

“Literally the same. Everyone from my hometown calls me Andy, my family calls me Andy—my close friends call me Andy.”

“Screw you, dude.” He’s not insulted—I can tell from his tone.

“You call me Burke, same as everyone on the team. What are you bitching about?”

“I might want to call you Andy.”

“Fine,” I say. “Call me Andy.”

He thinks this over. “Now I don’t want to.”

“Well, do you have any advice for me?”

“What kind of advice? I’m single, what the fuck do I know?”

Not a lot, that’s for sure. Dude hasn’t had a serious relationship in the time I’ve known him, which spans at least five years. His pecker picks worse chicks than mine does, and his publicist sets him up on dates nonstop, which isn’t saying much.

“What the fuck do you know? That’s the realest statement you’ve ever made.”

“Thank you.”

“You think that was a compliment?” I grin.

“Sounded like one to me.” Another slice of pizza materializes, and he goes to town on it. “Tell me more about this Harlow person. Are you gonna see her again?”

“I don’t know how I can. She doesn’t live in Ohio or Seattle.”

“But you aren’t going to be there long. And”—chew, chew—“there’s Green Bay.”

Yeah, there is Green Bay.

It hadn’t been on my radar, mostly because of the location. It’s not like they suck—in fact, they’re a championship team, regularly making it to the playoffs, and have won the Super Bowl enough times for me to give them a look. It’s been several years, but maybe they need new blood; they’ve had the same damn quarterback and receiver for a few too many years.

“Nah. How fucking stupid to look at a team just ’cause of a woman.”

My friend inspects his pizza before taking another bite. “Eh, we make decisions based on dumber shit.”

“Who’s we?”

“Guys.”

He’s not wrong about that; guys do make dumb decisions based on stupid shit.

Dex studies me for a second before asking, “So did you bang her or what?”

“Dude. You know I don’t kiss and tell.”

“You told plenty when you were dating that snotty bitch Paisley.”

True, but I didn’t think she was snotty at the time.

“That was the old me,” says Dex. “This is the new me; the new me doesn’t repeat gossip.”

Huh? “Is it possible to gossip about yourself?”

“Sure.” Dex swallows.

“How many slices of pizza do you have?”

“I don’t know—how many slices come in a pie?”

“Eight?”

He nods. “Eight sounds about right.” He makes moaning sounds as he eats.

“Have you always been this obnoxious?”

He nods again. “ Obviously. ”

“So what should I do?”

“About this Harlow chick?”

Yes, about this Harlow chick. “Yes, about Harlow.”

“You’ve already lied to her—she’ll be pissed about that. I’m no expert, but once she finds out who you are—if she finds out who you are—shit is gonna hit the fan.”

“How could shit hit the fan?”

“I don’t know, man—because she doesn’t like being lied to?”

“It was a lie of omission. I didn’t actually lie lie, I just never told her what my actual job is.”

Which is true. I’m everything I said I was, minus the celebrity professional football player part.

Whoops.

“Then go for it, bro. Text her again and see what she says.”