Kicking Reality

“I’m on a tight schedule,” she announces, moving her eyes away from where I stand.

“Then don’t let us stop you.”

I carry my bag, walking straight past them. Inside my room, I throw my bag down, covering my eyes while leaning back on the door. She’s here. She’s real. She was no longer a figment of my imagination and no longer the person on my screen.

Opening my eyes, I try to get the image of the way she stared at me, out of my head. Her blue eyes always did that to me, like putting me in some sort of trance that stopped me from thinking straight or with reason.

Stripping down to nothing, I step inside my bathroom and take a long hot shower, relaxing my tense muscles. The only muscle I couldn’t relax was the one down below. Raging hard with no happy ending to cure the sadness it was currently facing.

I could have rubbed one out, but chose not to—a way to avoid the torture of reliving our moment in the hotel. Something I had done on too many occasions that only made everything worse.

I got dressed in my navy suit, white collared shirt, and matching navy tie. Splashing some aftershave on, I finish with placing my watch on then make my way to the living room to be greeted by only Ash.

Fixing my cuffs, I pretend to be uninterested asking where she had gone.

“I think back to her hotel.”

“Where is she staying?”

“Somewhere in London,” he responds without giving me much details.

I hide my disappointment, wishing I hadn’t acted like a dick because I was pissed off that she was still with Wesley even though I had no reason to be since we both agreed to have fun without getting involved. Probably the most-stupidest idea I had ever had.

“I’m meeting her tonight for drinks if you want to tag along.”

“We have a game tomorrow,” I remind him.

“Yeah, yeah I know. Just one drink. How often do I get to see my sister, huh?”

I tell him to get changed, we had only ten minutes to spare before the car arrived. Surely, ten minutes later he emerges fully dressed and looking presentable.

“It’s like you’re fucking Clark Kent,” I joke, always amazed at his ability to get ready with the smallest of time to spare.

“It’s called a wife . . . and an ironing board.”

“You’d be caught dead saying that in front of her,” I point out.

“Probably. She likes to suck my dick so I could save myself that way.”

We both laugh, closing the door behind us as make our way down to the hire car and towards the studios.

The panel took four hours for a one-hour segment. I had done several of these and being in front of the camera was no biggie. On panels—like today—we engaged in a healthy debate over club corruptions and how it affected the players and coaches. The debate lasted for most of the segment, and by the time we finished, I needed that drink.

The car service took us to the pub where Emmy and her crew were hanging out tonight. I dreaded seeing Wesley, knowing I had to restrain myself from punching him in t

he fucking face.

Then there was that part of me that wanted to play dirty.

A challenge—if you will—to make her squirm while under his watch.

The pub is located in the West End—small, quaint, with the usual drunken crowd that would frequent these types of joints on a Friday night. When me and Ash had moved here a few years ago, we hit all the pubs each weekend until it no longer became fun and the women were all the same.

Outside the pub, there’s a hoard of paparazzi standing by with cameras in hand. A few attempted to take photos through the glass, but appeared disappointed when they looked at their cameras.

Two of them spotted us, asking for a picture and whether we were ready for the game tomorrow. Ash talked their ears off, and I just pulled him along desperate to get inside.

Two bodyguards stood out front. Tall, built like fucking tanks that watched anyone who entered.