The Pickup (Imperfect Love 1)

“We would like to offer you a one year contract, ten million—”

“Absolutely not!” my father booms, cutting off Declan Thomas, the owner of the New York Brewers. “You know damn well Mr. Shaw is worth double those numbers.”

“If he’s successful,” Stephen Harper, the new coach, points out. “It’s a risk, but one I’m willing to take.”

“He’s hardly a risk,” my dad says. “You saw him out there with your receiver. This team’s about to get its first Super Bowl win in over a decade.”

“Henry, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,” Declan says.

“I’ll take it.” Everybody’s gaze swings to me.

“What are you doing?” my father hisses. It’s been over a year since I’ve even seen the man who walked out the door at the hospital and has barely spoken five words to me since then. When Killian mentioned our college playing days to the new coach, he asked to meet with me. Of course, that meant contacting my agent on file. My dad was on the next flight out, dollar signs flashing in his eyes—my mother right beside him. For a while there, I forgot why I was playing football. I was so caught up in trying to make my parents proud of me, I lost my love of the sport along the way. This last year has been eye-opening.

Now, playing football is about me—what I want. If I’m going to bust my ass, it’s going to be because of my love for the game and not because of the money, status, or fame. And it’s definitely not going to be to make my parents give a fuck about me. Being with Liv last night, I thought maybe was a sign—reminding me love could still exist—but her walking away only reconfirmed why I’m done. Football is the only damn love I have left, and I’m going to give it my all.

“We’re coming up to the end of free agency. I’m happy here, and I want to play.” This past year has been fun, like an extended vacation. I’ve worked hard in physical therapy, and I’ve partied even harder. But now I’m ready to get back out there and play again. I didn’t bust my ass this last year rehabilitating my throwing arm to be out for another year because I refuse to take a deal from a team who’s willing to give me a shot.

Sure, with a month left of free agency, there’s still a chance another team will offer me a deal, but what if they don’t? And even if they did, that would mean moving. Plus, signing with New York means playing on the same team as Killian.

“Does your ass hurt?” my dad asks. I know he’s pissed because, for once, I’m actually going against him. Up until I was injured, I’ve done everything he’s advised. Where to go to college, what to study, when to leave college, who to play for…but I’m done going along with everything he says.

“I’ll make sure to ask for some lube.” I shoot him a condescending smirk, and he throws his hands up in the air. He’s only peeved about this deal because the less I accept means the less he pockets. He doesn’t give a shit that I’m actually going to be on a team and able to play. He doesn’t give a fuck that I busted my ass day after day in physical therapy. Most guys at my age would’ve said fuck it and retired. I’ve made enough in the last eight years to last me a lifetime. I’m no longer playing for the money—I’m playing for the love of the game.

“There is one condition,” Mr. Thomas says slowly.

“Okay.”

“We need you to settle down.”

“What?” I ask, confused.

“This past year you’ve managed to party in probably every club on the East Coast, as well as screw most of the female population. You’ve lost most of your endorsements, and nobody is going to take you seriously if you don’t start acting like the thirty-year-old man you are.”

“I lost those endorsements because of my injury,” I point out.

“True, but you won’t get them back if you keep acting like the playboy of NYC.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, it’s time to settle down.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means no more partying. No more drinking. No more one-night stands.” Mr. Thomas places a piece of paper on the table. “You were seen leaving a hotel this morning in the same clothes you were seen in last night.”

I pull the paper closer to examine it. It’s a printout from something a trashy tabloid posted online. In the image my tall frame is hovering over Liv’s petite body, hiding her face.

“I didn’t know we were being watched.”

“You’ve spent the last year being filmed and photographed while partying. We can’t have that if you’re playing for this team.”