I kissed him back. “I love you, too.” Then I took a deep breath and stepped out onto the stage.
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EXPERTISE
By Claire Adams
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Claire Adams
Chapter One
James
My head pounded. I cracked an eye open and barely managed to suppress a groan. It was bright out, and I hadn’t drawn the curtains. The evil elves that lived in the rays of sunshine pouring through the windows attacked my eyeballs with ice picks. Miserable bastards.
The inside of my mouth tasted like the floor mat behind a bar at the end of the night. It was more like two somethings had crawled into my mouth and died. I was pretty fucking sure they’d waged World War 3 in there and then had make-up sex before they died.
At least I knew where I was. Ryder’s house. My crazy ass wide receiver never failed to host a mind eraser of a party. Last night’s party was no exception. I barely remembered what happened the night before, but at least I hadn’t woken up on a cruise ship again, like I had last year on the Monday after the Super Bowl.
If there was one thing I could always count on Ryder for, it was a crazy story. On or off the field. Last February, one second I remembered being at Ryder’s party at his place in Miami, and the next, I was downing tequila shots at 10 a.m. with a fucking sombrero on my head. On a private cruise ship. The owner of which was no longer a fan of his friendly neighborhood Miami Dolphins.
I’d been told that the team’s wide receiver talking the man’s daughter into taking us out on a joyride on daddy’s boat, and the QB hooking up with said daughter, were contributing factors to our loss of that particular fan. Amongst a couple of other things.
At least this year, I’d managed to stay in Miami and on dry land. I chalked it up as a win.
After I established my whereabouts, I had to face the next problem. Two passed-out women lay on either side of me in Ryder’s guest bed. My 14-year-old self would roundhouse kick me in the balls to learn that a short 10 years later, it was considered a problem to have two naked girls passed out next to me.
Careful not to jostle the bed, I extricated myself from the pile of human limbs I was tangled up in and tugged on my jeans without waking either of the sleeping beauties.
Ryder’s front door was in sight in no time. I could practically taste freedom without the inconvenience of awkward morning-after goodbyes or a hopeful “call me.” Ryder’s voice interrupted my jailbreak.
“James!” he hollered from his kitchen. “I got a mean fucking hangover, man. Wanna share it with me?”
I headed to the kitchen, losing sight of my escape route. “Don’t you always say that you have to appreciate the hangover because you paid a ton of money to have it?”
“Yeah,” he said. “If I recall correctly though, you called bullshit on that little nugget of wisdom. Told me that while the hangover was a necessary evil, you sure as shit didn’t have to appreciate it.” He ran his hand through his jet black dreadlocks and winked at me. “You going soft on me in your old age, pulling that crap out on me now?”
“I’m three years younger than you, dipshit. Unless you’re calling yourself ancient at 27.” I knew which buttons to push when I wanted to. Ryder was my best friend. We’d met in college and hadn’t lost touch since. “Anyway, my misery doesn’t love company today, man. You’re going to have to face it on your own.”
“Come on, man; you’re my quarterback. If we can’t play in the Super Bowl, the least we could do is drown our sorrows together.” Ryder tried to pout but failed miserably in his attempt.
“Didn’t we do that last night? And we wouldn’t have sorrows to drown if we’d been playing in the big game instead of just fucking watching it.” My complaint came out harsher than I’d intended. “That should’ve been us.”
Ryder didn’t take offense to my outburst. “Sure, it should’ve been us, but the team’s been struggling for the last two seasons. Management needs to shake things up. Otherwise you’ll never get that ring, my man. None of us will.”
“Yeah, we have to do something to cut the dead weight. Otherwise, we’re dead in the water.” He and I both knew I was right.
He nodded absentmindedly, staring through his window at the ocean below. I knew that look. He was working up to something, but he wasn’t ready to say it yet.
I decided to preempt him. “Speaking of which, I’m thinking of talking to Ralls about restructuring my contract.”
Richard Ralls, the owner of the Miami Dolphins. The man who owned my ass and Ryder’s. For the moment, anyway.