Illegal Contact (The Barons 1)

“He didn’t sic me on anyone. So stop there or we’re gonna have a problem.”

Joe’s nostrils flared as I coolly stared up at him. If he hadn’t learned by now that trash-talking the Barons’ quarterback, and my best friend, was trouble—I had no problems dropping him. Despite being a little bit of a sleazy douchebag, Joe was mostly an okay guy who wanted the best for me, but he tended to overstep. And he was doing that right now.

Luckily, Joe backed off and went back to ranting about the news story.

“And I love how they conveniently forget that you won the Super Bowl for New York last year.”

“There ain’t no ‘you’ in team.”

“They smear your name all over the news, but a year ago, you were a hero.”

That was bullshit. A year ago, everyone had still hated me. Just slightly less since I’d scored three touchdowns in a game everyone had betted on us losing.

The media, and the fans, had given me credit for my part in the win, but they’d done it with commentary and hashtags about Brawley making up for his usual douchebaggery only due to his obsessive dedication to training and lack of a personal life. It had been grudging respect. Nothing more. And it would never be anything more. I wasn’t charming or endearing like other pro football players who earned millions in endorsements.

I was the one who walked off the field after a win with no dog-and-pony celebration dances or rituals. The guy who’d been known to have a temper since being scouted back in high school. My first year playing college ball, I’d received more flags than all other players combined during the entire season. And at my first major press conference for the NFL, I’d flipped off a room full of reporters after they’d unfavorably compared Marcus Hendricks, a running back and another of my few friends, to a rookie on another team.

People who didn’t know me talked a lot of shit, but my friends knew me for my loyalty, and that was what mattered. Well, to everyone but Joe.

“Yeah, I helped win, but everyone still called me an asshole and a bully, and focused more on where I grew up instead of what I did in the game. I could score a hundred touchdowns, and someone would still bring up my hardscrabble past.” I hated that fucking phrase, but reporters loved using it. “They’d still focus on how it’s responsible for my bad sportsmanship.”

“Because they paint you as an unprofessional jackass, and you live up to it every time.”

Joe started pacing again. He was upset enough for me to consider comforting him, but worrying about a suit was pretty low on my list of shit to give two fucks about. I was the one being banned from the field. I couldn’t even go to the games to cheer for my boys. I couldn’t leave this ridiculous mansion unless I was going to Joe’s office in Manhattan. If I was granted permission. If.

Even so, I knew it was better than being thrown in a cell for reckless driving and aggravated assault. Although if they thought that was me being aggravated, there was clearly a thing or two they didn’t know about Gavin Brawley. If that guy had never put his hands on me, I’d never have been triggered into smashing his face with a single punch. My only goal in following him had been to destroy the video of him and Simeon and, thanks to the wonders of Cloud technology, I wasn’t even sure it was really gone.

“Look, can we change the subject? I don’t pay you to nag me, Joe.”

“Right. You pay me to do the impossible. Make your life easy and keep your image clean.”

The word lit my fuse almost as fast as the news that some guy had been trying to blackmail Simeon not even ten minutes after scoring with him in the bathroom. I shot to my feet and towered a good eight inches over Joe. He took a step back.

“Fuck my image,” I sneered. “When I was bouncing between group homes, it was football that kept me sane. Not being clean. It was football that kept me from killing one of the asshole foster parents who thought taking me in meant they had an in-house servant and whipping boy. So don’t come to me preaching about the fake-ass persona you want me to have. It’s never gonna happen. All I care about is playing ball.”

Between my quickening breath and racing heartbeat, I was sure I was red-faced and wearing the infamous Brawley glare. I took a deep breath, then another, and squeezed my hands into fists. I hated how easy it was for people to set me off. Especially once someone identified my triggers and then spent their time poking and prodding until I flew off the handle.