ter what, he always supported me. I can’t even imagine how demanding it must’ve been for him to take on a ten-year-old while in his seventies, especially after losing his only child. My grandmother died before I was born, and with no cousins, aunts or uncles, I never knew anyone other than him.
Flipping open my laptop, I jot down everything Mel told me about her night with Asher.
After an hour of making notes, I’m finally ready to write. I fire up a new Word document and let everything pour out. God this feels good. My secret revenge on all the guys that ever made me feel like I wasn’t good enough or deserving of their attention, and for all the women that fall at their feet and get treated like shit.
Dear Asher Quinn,
It amazes me the little respect you have for not only women in general, but for the poor woman you call your girlfriend. I bet she has no idea what you get up to when she thinks football is keeping you out late at night. Or maybe she's just too naïve to doubt you.
There is a sentiment that seems to go hand in hand with getting signed to a major football team, and that is, you think it's your right to treat women like shit. Obviously the fame and fortune goes straight to your head and fries a few brain cells along the way.
I wonder if you would be able to get half as many women in bed if they knew upfront that you have a baby dick, and women have to fake orgasms when they are with you.
I have first-hand knowledge that you are terrible in bed; in fact, you’ve bored women to tears. She’s making a shopping list in her head whilst you were giving her head, and I don’t think you could find a clit if it had flashing neon lights all round it. All I can say is, I pity your poor girlfriend for having to put up with you for so long, and if she had any sense, she should throw you to the curb and get herself a real man.
You, Asher, are a perfect example of what is wrong with modern men. You footballers are in the public eye and should be role models to your young fans; but you are nothing but arrogant arseholes teaching the next generation of men to treat women like objects to be used and thrown away afterwards.
Asher you have given my life a new purpose - I’m going to be watching you and your friends, and any other players that stray or treat women like shit. I’m going to let everyone know all of your secrets. so watch out. I’m coming for you. I’m coming for you all.
Xoxo—just kidding. This isn't Gossip Girl.
Sincerely,
The Playbook.
I sit staring at the screen for a few minutes, unable to believe that I wrote this. I read the words over and over again, checking for errors because I need to make it perfect. The hard part’s done. Now I need to figure out how to get it out there.
Half an hour later, my new website, The Playbook, is complete. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I don’t care. For the first time in a long time I’m excited to write. I don’t expect this to go viral, but if one woman doesn’t fall into his bed because of my words, then my job is done.
I pour the last bit of the Pinot into the glass, and knocking it back, I hit the publish button. A buzz hits me as my angry words fill the screen. I resist the urge to call Mel.
I glance at the clock. Holy crap! It’s after midnight, and I have to be up at eight to interview the State Bowl’s champion. I turn off the laptop and throw my dishes in the sink. As I climb into bed, my mind whirls, thinking about the last twenty-four hours. The incident with Adam—or Adamgate, as I’m going to call it—feels like it happened days ago.
I cringe, having no idea where I’m going to get my morning fix tomorrow.
Chapter Four
Jake
I call ahead for my usual table at the Blue Rooms—an exclusive club in town—and jump into the taxi that's already waiting for me outside my apartment. I can't stop my foot from tapping the floor of the taxi as it accelerates out of the street. The driver makes small talk with me, but I just nod and mutter responses. I'm pumped and ready to go, still worked up from the conversation—albeit short—with Serj.
What I really need tonight is a hot, loose chick and plenty of alcohol.
Crystal fucking Hill.
I slump into the back seat, angry at the world, and already hating my new club. I hate half the players there and I know the feeling is mutual. In the past, I've made it my mission to go after as many as possible—on the field and off it—if given half the chance. I can’t even count the number of fights I've started with my new teammates. I used to look forward to playing them because they were so damn easy to mess with, and now I was one of them.
My anger focuses on Serj. What the fuck am I paying him for if he's allowing me to be traded to one of the worst teams in the league? He's supposed to be looking out for me and he lets this happen? Sighing, I stare out the window at the passing traffic. I know I've got nobody else to blame for this, but I need to put it on someone, and my manager is the obvious choice.
I glance at my reflection in the window, brushing my hand through my hair. I should've washed it, but know I look damn good anyway. I glance down at my new fitted jeans that Erin insists are going to be popular with the ladies—not that I really need help in that department. Having a sister who is working her way up in the world of fashion has its benefits, because the last thing I have time for is shopping. She scored a job right out of high school as a stylist because she has a talent for knowing what goes with what. She knows as much about fashion as I do about football, so I'll wear whatever she tells me is in—even if it does take me half an hour to get them off.
As the taxi pulls up outside the club, reporters gather by the front door armed with cameras, no doubt waiting for me. Maybe tweeting my intention of getting smashed here tonight wasn’t the smartest move. News of my transfer has traveled fast, so there are more of them than usual. I shake my head, refusing to think about that fucking joke of a club—my club. I pay the cab fare and climb out from the back seat, knowing better than to expect change from my twenty. I swear taxi drivers in London are better paid than hookers.
The camera lenses are already focused on me as I stalk toward the front of the line. I don’t hide my disgust as they shamelessly click. I'm in no mood for them tonight. Reporters hound me wherever I go, and to be honest, I'm sick of it. All I want is one fucking night where I'm not surrounded by vulchers trying to get that million dollar shot. Let's face it, the odds are in their favor that I'm gonna fuck up, because I do it a lot.
“JAKE! JAKE! How's it feels to be transferred to a team that you hate?” shouts one guy as he clicks his camera in my direction. I ignore him and keep walking toward the door of the club.
That's one good thing about London and being a famous footballer - access to the best private clubs in the city any time I want. That and the sheer amount of pussy waiting for you everywhere you go. It's so easy sometimes that it's not even fun anymore. Where is the challenge when everything is handed to you? These chicks are all the same, but I don't know what the alternative is. Falling in love? I snort. Not letting that happen again. Not after the disaster that was Ara. Biggest mistake of my life was almost marrying her. But that's a story for another day and a lot more alcohol.