“I offered her a ride home,” I mutter, starting to suspect that I’m naïve and Bethany might be right.
“And she didn’t take it?”
“No…”
“Tony, if I was sick and you wanted to drive me, I would let you.” Turning back to me she adds, “I’m sorry, Eric.”
They’re all quiet. The guys know I wouldn’t have said Wren’s name on live television if I didn’t care about her. I was already calling her my girlfriend, a title I’ve given nobody, ever. “Doesn’t matter. I’m good.”
“Good?” Tony asks, brown eyes huge. “Man, you’re a fuckin’ star today. You think the offers were good before? The hero who yanked us out of the shitter and brought us to victory—with a hand blistered up like yours—he is getting some motherfuckin’ phonecalls, man!”
Mott grins, his deep voice filled with vibrato as he agrees, “It’s gonna rain sponsorships now. You are sitting pretty for the season, Super Bowl or no Super Bowl. Everyone’s gonna want your mug on their mug.”
“Nice,” Tony says, and they high-five.
I couldn’t care less. I have enough money. As the years pass, I’ll save more. And sure, it’s nice to have a cushion in case anything happens and I can’t play. But right now the last thing I care about is being the face on someone’s product.
It’s not my face I’m thinking about.
It’s hers.
She looked disgusted.
“I’ve gotta take a leak. I’ll catch you later.”
Tony calls after me, “Not coming drinking with us?”
“Hand hurts. Probably goin’ home.”
“No way! Come back to my place!”
Walking to O’Neal’s I call over my shoulder, “Maybe. I’ll text you if I’m feeling it. Otherwise, have fun!”
Sooks had been quiet this whole time but my abandoning the party inspires him to speak up, “Cocker, your ass is coming with us tonight! We’ve got all these girls here. They would be extremely disappointed if you didn’t go.”
Laughing I wave, “Do they know how squeaky clean your balls are, Sooks? If they did they wouldn’t want me and my Poison Ivy!”
As I disappear inside I hear Mott shouting at me.
I’m sure I’ll get a million messages from them demanding my attendance but the thought of some girl grinning at me, trying to get in my pants, isn’t interesting to me. There’s only one girl I wanted to spend the night with.
“Hey Mike! Eleanor! You guys mind, I’m gonna use the bathroom.”
They wave and I pass the bar-back whose name I don’t know. He smacks my arm with a proud fan-smile as I head into one of the two unisex stalls that just happens to be where Wren and I cleaned up. A frown pierces me at the memory. Loved to hear that laugh. I don’t have to pee, but I might as well since I’m here.
Might give me the time I need to figure out how to ask Mike about her without sounding…desperate. Washing my hands I stare at my reflection. Is this what insecurity feels like?
Fuck.
This.
Feeling.
Quick strides take me outside and over to the people with the answers. “Mike, Eleanor, was Wren really sick or does she want nothing to do with me? Give it to me straight.”
Blank looks stare back at me before shock registers and they both speak at the same time.
“She’s sick!”
“Are you crazy?”
My frown drops toward the sticky tile under my feet. “That’s what I thought.” Tapping the counter I head out. “Thanks, just had to check.”
Dion approaches me from outside. We slow down, me waiting for him to talk me into parties and orgies. But he pats my shoulder and passes me. “Don’t give up on her, man. She’s probably just sick.”
Over my shoulder I follow his strides and before he disappears I call out, “Hey!”
With his meaty fingers gripping the doorknob he glances back. “What?”
“You going after who I think you’re going after?”
Lowering his already deep voice he rumbles, “You see that shirt Eleanor had on? She knows that’s my favorite. That woman makes my balls throb, Eric, and you don’t let that shit get away.” He vanishes.
A grin flashes on my face, then freezes. Digging my phone out I text Wren:
Hope you feel better, Sweets. Here if you need me. I can bring soup, carry you to the hospital. Make you laugh so you heal faster. Whatever you need. – E.
At my car, the street quiet now, my chest pounds as I see the edge of a white cocktail napkin tucked under the driver’s side wiper-blade. Thinking it might be from her, I snatch it out, unfold it quickly, and slump. Mott’s ginormous scrawl stares back at me from it, saying I’d better show up or they’re taking the party to my apartment.
Can’t let that happen, so I text him that I’m on my way. Hopping in my Jeep, top down and doors still in the storage unit of my parking garage at home, I turn up the tunes. My cousin Gabriel’s playlist is all I listen to these days. He’s got four albums out now and I love them all. I mean, sure some are a little sappy, and some aren’t as good as his Number One hits, but music is as subjective as any art form.
There’s one song he sings that I love better than any of the ones that have made it to radio. Don’t Let Them Stop You isn’t like his ballads or anthems. It’s this great Rock & Roll number reminiscent of old music from The Police before Sting went solo. The shit is incredible. Uncle Jason produces all Gabriel’s stuff and they really knocked it out of the park with that song. Right up my alley.
But any of these make me feel better.
He’s my blood.
Gabriel’s career has only just begun.
And there he is, in love with just one woman.
Frowning, I let the wind and the music soothe me.
It’s sure
