Executive Engagement

I don't know how to reach Julianna. It's not like there has been much fraternizing between team owners and players in the past. And I don’t how to reach her if she’s not responding to my texts. I can't really go ask Coach Karl to set me up on a date with the owner. He'd smack me up side the fucking head with his clipboard.

The team was willing to forgive my locker room incident with Ethan. But this has them completely stunned. Because I apologized to them and then another tape showed up. Everyone on the team is walking on fucking eggshells.

Add to all this, the media has really been crushing our nuts lately. They've been hitting the Nailers hard. And they've gotten a special boner for screwing Ethan, me, and Julianna up the ass.

It's not a day that goes by without some girl from Ole Miss coming out and talking about how I fucked her at a Delta Sigma Rho party.

If I were an outsider, I'd actually be pretty entertained.

I mean, who knew Ethan fucked his math professor his junior year. Well, she just sold her fucking story to the News of the Times. Claims he banged the living shit out of her at least three or four times. Not for any grades or anything, mind you - just because.

Julianna - man, she's in a world of hurt herself. One of the dudes that used to drive her limo just did a tell all for the Enquirer. Talks about how she would come out of the club, pick up a guy, fuck him, and drop him off on the next street.

Wait a second.

Does that fucking remind you of someone?

No. I'm serious. I never really thought much about it before.

I sure as hell never made the connection either.

Fucking hell.

I don't know how long I've been standing on my balcony, looking down 22 stories at Park Avenue thinking this shit, when my doorbell rings and jars me out of whatever trance I was in.

I don't remember anyone asking to be buzzed up and I'm curious so I walk over and open the door.

Fuck.

It's Julianna.

I back away from the door to let her in, but other than that, am pretty fucking silent.

She's wearing black yoga pants and a tight, white t-shirt.

"I was just running," she says, looking at me. "I thought I'd stop by."

Right. I've never once told her where I live. Never once have I even had her over.

I walk into the living room, motioning for her to do the same. She follows me and I go over to the bar.

"Want a drink?" I ask.

She nods her head. She's quiet. Too quiet. I don't like it when she's fucking quiet. She's not normally like this.

"I haven't gotten a chance to talk to you in a while," she says as I pour the drinks but the moment I turn around she averts her eyes.

Well, it's too late for that right now. She's in my fucking apartment. I walk over to her and hand her drink.

"I've always been here," I tell her in response to her statement.

"I've just been told to keep some distance," she says, taking a sip.

You know how I know I'm really feeling this woman?

She takes a sip of the scotch I poured, and doesn't wince.

She doesn't make a face. She takes it down, and lets it burn.