Chance likes to prod.
Aubrey gives it back two-fold.
“Look, if anyone knows what it’s like to end your career early, it’s me,” Chance sympathizes, his tone soft yet serious. “Give the bloke a break, okay? He’s doing it tough, and he needs to lay low while the media back the hell off. He can’t be alone right now.”
Aubrey’s sigh is loud enough to break the walls.
“Fine. Two weeks like you promised. Okay? We have a kid now, plus Pixie. Just make sure he doesn’t bring back any hussies.”
Chance doesn’t hold back, his laugh barreling through the house until their voices fade and they’ve left the room.
I continue to stare at the ceiling. It’s white, uninteresting, and a blank canvas for my thoughts. It’s dull compared to the rest of the room. Chance is into that whole recycled junk art thing. I’m not sure what is hanging on the wall—some scrap piece of metal bent into something artistic. Whatever the hell it is, it looks good against the pale gray walls. It’s obvious the artwork is the extent of Chance’s decorating abilities. The double bed is piled with a million pillows ranging from velour to something plucked from a peacock, and it screams Aubrey. Why women feel the need to scatter cushions all over a bed is beyond me.
But bed cushions are the least of my problems.
This is all shades of fucked-up.
My life, that is.
I’m Oliver-fucking-Madden, twenty-six, and Australia’s highest-paid soccer star.
Well—past fucking tense.
The nightmare replays in my mind. It’s taunted me every which way I turn. The red light, the green light, my foot on the accelerator, my brand-new Ducati mangled against a large gum tree.
I was supposed to count myself lucky. The damage could have been worse. It could have been a spinal cord injury leaving me paralyzed or even worse—dead. So according to my physicians, treating specialists and every fucking opinionated medical dickhead, a shoulder injury is the best outcome I could have asked for.
Right! An outcome which resulted in me being unable to play soccer—indefinitely.
I rub my hands against my face, willing the voices to stop. It’s as if time is standing still until I hear a creaking noise at the door causing me to flinch.
The goat.
What the hell is the name of this thing again? Princess? I don’t think Chance mentioned if it were a boy or girl. I recall it was a feminine name.
Fuck, it’s watching me.
It looks ready to attack—eyes staring at me with a deathly stare. That thing can smell fear, I’m sure of it, just like dogs.
I sit up, composed yet shuffling as close to the wall as possible, paying attention to our distance. “Hey, princess.”
Nothing. The silence instilling fear into me.
Okay, so maybe that isn’t the name. Like who has a goddamn goat for a pet? This is Hermosa Beach, not some hick-town farm in the country. Even back home in Sydney this would have been ludicrous.
“Penny?”
Nothing.
“Polly?”
Silence.
“Peta, Poppy, Penelope, Pixy—”
“Baaa!”
It strolls out of the room as if it’s marked its territory and leaves me again with my thoughts. I let out the breath I had been holding in, allowing my head to fall back onto the headboard as I continue my stare-off with the ceiling.
I will prove Aubrey wrong and find some other place to live in the next few days. Two weeks in this joint will suffocate me. I have my own penthouse apartment for Christ’s sake, with views of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and Opera House.
I keep reminding myself, this is temporary.
Temporary until I figure out my next move.
It’s Friday night, and unless I had a big game the following day, I can’t remember the last time I stayed in on a Friday night. I need to get out of here before Chance and Aubrey whip out a Monopoly board and call it a ‘family-fun night’ in. At least, I figure that’s what married couples with kids do.
Hermosa Beach must have something on tonight. Grabbing my phone off the nightstand, I type in ‘Hermosa Beach nightlife’ to be met with some possibilities. A few bars, known local establishments, and anything with the words ‘happy hour’ will suffice.
I grab a pair of fresh boxers, my black jeans, denim shirt, and towel to head straight for the bathroom.
“Where you heading to, mate?” Chance yells from the couch.
“Some pub or bar. I need to blow off steam, you know how it is,” I respond, just shy of the door.
Chance laughs, channel surfing with a Corona in hand. “A good ol’ blowie will cure the blues.”
It’s my turn to laugh. Despite Chance settling into married life, he hasn’t changed one bit. The guy was quite the ladies’ man back in the day. It’s odd to see him so committed to family life now.
“Sounds spot on. Don’t wait up. Tonight will be my lucky night.”
Chance raises his bottle. “Good luck, mate. I’ll see you for breakfast.”
If I have my way tonight, I’ll end up in some gorgeous woman’s bed blowing off some pent-up frustration. I can’t even recall the last time I’d been inside a chick.
Yes, you do. It was Bianca the night before the accident when you told her you loved her and promised her a ring, house, and two-point-five kids one day. Shut the fuck up, brain. No good will come from your negativity tonight.
“Don’t count on it,” I tell Chance with an air of confidence. “I’m gonna pull out the Aussie charm. These American girls won’t know what hit them.”
“The last time I pulled out the Aussie charm, I met the girl of my dreams. Be careful what you wish for, unless, of course, you wanna be just like me.” Chance smirks.
I move toward the couch, patting Chance on the shoulder. “Mate, there’s many things I want to achieve in life, but being pussy-whipped ain’t one of them.”
Chance
