Lennon’s still expectantly waiting, and I finally find my words.
“Thanks, but, uh, I shouldn’t. I have a boyfriend.”
Lennon sits on the stool next to me. “Is he the reason you’re here at eight p.m. on a Tuesday night?”
Yes. He is. Because it turns out when the love of your life doesn’t love you back, it hurts like a sucker punch to the nuts. Maybe that’s why this place is called Nuts and Butts.
“What’s your reason?” I deflect.
“Wanna get laid. Is there any better reason than that?”
I chuckle. “Guess not.”
“This place is dead, which means I have time if you wanna talk about it.”
“I’m sure you have better things to do than listen to me whine about how my boyfriend chose his career over me.”
Lennon’s mouth hangs agape for a beat too long. “That deserves a drink.” He motions for the bartender to give us another round, and that’s how I end up drinking with a Beatle.
Lennon puts in extra effort to cheer me up and is a great distraction when he tells me about all the times his name has given him issues, and I know his misery shouldn’t be funny, but with the self-deprecating way he tells it, there’s no option but to laugh.
A strong hand lands on my shoulder. “What are you doing?” Damon barks.
“Talking to Ringo Starr. Seriously, the guy’s name is hilarious.”
“Making me love my name even more, Noah,” Lennon says.
“Did you forget your name is This Ass Belongs to Someone Else?” Damon asks.
“Hmm, that doesn’t sound quite right,” I say.
“Is this the boyfriend?” There’s something suspicious or surprising in Lennon’s tone that I can’t work out.
“Oh, good,” Damon says. “You haven’t totally forgotten about the guy who offered you the world and you rejected it. You can’t be pissed about that.”
I stand so fast, my barstool skids across the floor. “Well, ain’t that some more bullshit right there.” Ain’t? I’m talking like Matt now? I shake it off. “I rejected him? He’s the one who was offered a contract in New York and didn’t tell me. He’s the one who moved to Chicago when he could’ve stayed. He’s the one who chose football over me.”
“If you believe that, then clearly you’re not as smart as you think you are. Why do you think he wouldn’t take a contract worth ten times more money than his contract in Chicago? Forget for a second it was in New York. Say Seattle offered him the same contract, what would make him say no to a shit ton of more money?”
“He said he wanted the ring. That’s more important to him than anything. Including me.”
“The Warriors haven’t won a Super Bowl in decades. Yeah, they have a chance this year, but New York has just as much a shot. He was willing to give it all up. For you. You said no, so he took the Chicago contract.”
“He wanted me to ask him to stay. That’s different to giving it all up for me. That’s me forcing him to give it up. He wanted the decision taken out of his hands so that when he regretted leaving football, he could blame me for his misery.”
Damon takes a few steps back, and his scrutinizing stare burns into me. “You truly believe that, don’t you?”
“Well, what am I supposed to believe? Enlighten me because I’m obviously missing something.”
“He’s an idiot for not telling you in the first place, but it’s also not my thing to tell. He asked me to keep quiet, and if he wasn’t my client, I wouldn’t listen, but I’m going to keep my word. He rejected millions of dollars. For you.”
“Why?”
Damon’s lips form into a thin line. “Does the name Rick Douglas mean anything to you?”
“No idea who that is,” I say.
“He’s the owner of the New York Cougars,” Lennon says behind me.
We both spin to face him. “How do you know that?” I ask.
Damon narrows his eyes. “You were at the press conference.”
Shit. Fucking shit. I’ve messed up big time. “You’re a journo?”
Lennon at least has the decency to look guilty when he nods.
I charge toward him, but Damon pulls me back as Lennon throws up his arms in surrender. I try to think if I’ve said anything that could be misconstrued or taken out of context, but all I can remember talking about so far is his stupid name. Shit, and the fact my boyfriend doesn’t love me. “You followed me here for a story?”
“No, I didn’t follow you. Me being here was a coincidence, but I saw you, wasn’t one hundred percent sure it was you, but maybe, I thought I might’ve been able to get a story if I got you drunk enough.”
I lunge for him again, but Damon still holds me.
Lennon seems unfazed at my advance. “Then I realized your story’s the same as every other football wife out there. Trust me, you don’t have anything anyone wants to read. No one cares about the hardships of missing family while being paid millions. First world problems and all that.”