Keeping Score

I faced my two linemen. It was a stupid question. I cracked a smile and they both laughed.

“I’ve got press then I’ll meet you out.” The shower was calling my name.

“You know it.” They bumped fists and had a feeling tonight was going to be epic.

“Try to make the press conference quick, will you?”

I laughed. “That one’s not up to me. See you there.”

I walked into the tile enclosure. The hot spray of the shower slid against my sore muscles. My high from the game faded and in its place was an aching and soreness that could only be eased by promises of the after party.

Coming down off a win always sucked. The thrill faded and the adrenaline subsided far too quickly.

Not many other things in this world could equal the same kind of buzz I got when scoring on the field, but one of them came pretty damn close.

I loved women. I loved sex. But there was always a catch.

I had yet to find a woman who could be honest and up front about what she wanted. They liked to think they were going to be the one to finally snag the infamous Kane Hawkins. I let them believe whatever crazy fairytales they drummed up, when in reality I just wanted one night. Anything more than that and I knew it wouldn’t end well for her. I never pretended to be emotionally available. I was a sex junkie. I never denied it.

My agent, Savannah James, said I was her biggest pain in the ass and that’s saying something. She represented some pretty big douches, but their antics were preschool compared to mine.

My reputation started in high school. I was caught under the bleachers by the school principal fucking a hot ass red hea

d that just so happened to also be my biology teacher.

Twice.

Yeah.

That didn't end so well, but it fueled my reputation. A reputation I never cared about.

Playboy.

Asshole.

I've been called it all. There was a time it bothered me, at some point I started to ignore what the press said.

There was no reason to change. Why should I?

I always thought marriage was a joke. A game I had no interest in playing.

At least the way I’ve lived I’ve always been upfront. Women know what they’re getting when they decide they want a night with me. It’s never more than sex. And it sure as hell is never less. I played football like a rock star and fucked even better.

The DC Sharks were creatures of habits. We ate in the same restaurants. Drank in the same bars. Chased ass in the same clubs. Call us territorial bastards, but we liked to stake out our grounds.

As I walked into Catch, I smiled. I had spent practically every night here after a big win.

The succulent smell of perfume and sex hit my nostrils. I breathed in deeply. I fucking loved this place.

I walked to my usual table and waited for the rest of the guys. I thought I would be the last one. The press conference with Coach ran longer than I wanted, but the pundits and analysts knew how to spin a game. Even when we won. It came with the territory. I wasn’t much for reporter questions. We won. What else was there to talk about?

A cute little waitress saddled up to the table within moments. She looked young and innocent. Her uniform fit like a glove, tight in all the right places. Her breasts were pushed together, bobbing over the edge of her shirt. It was as if this moment was supposed to happen—this girl was meant to help me celebrate my win.

She nervously tucked her hair behind her ear. “H-hi. Can I get you something to drink?” she asked.

I leaned forward. I’d never seen her here before. She looked out of place. Almost too good for Catch. Too good to serve me. It was the lightness in her eyes and the way her blond hair fell over her shoulders in waves. She was a good girl. The kind of girl who should stay away from me.

“A couple of beers,” I answered. My eyes trailed her throat. Damn she was gorgeous.