“Is that the consensus on the squad? That I got my ass whupped?”
Marcus cocked his head and tapped his lower lip. “Yes. Well. Nah. Special teams dudes think you’re pretty cool.”
“Yeah, because they’re like twelve,” I said with a scoff. “What about Bill or Henry?” I asked, referring to the head coach and offensive coordinator.
“I don’t really have in-depth talks with them, man.” Marcus shrugged. “Crosby apparently whines about needing you at every meeting, though.”
That was unsurprising. The tight end coach loved me since I was, according to stats, the best one in the league. He’d already begun texting me multiple times a week to make sure I was staying in shape. But at the end of the day, he wasn’t the one I needed to keep on my side.
“Whatever,” I grunted, turning back to the dartboard. “We interviewed twelve people, and they were all flaming heaps of trash fire.”
“How you figure?” Marcus waved around one résumé. “This chick is hot. I’d pay a hundred bucks an hour just to have her sort my mail.”
“Joe said she was too hot.”
“Joe’s a boner killer and a cock block.”
“Facts,” I muttered.
“What about this one? Mary Cloutier. I bet she’s French.” Marcus flipped through the papers. “Yup. I was right. She’s French, man. You can’t pass up a literal French maid.”
“She’s not a maid.” I stalked across the room and yanked the darts out of the board before returning to my spot. “Whoever it is, if it happens, is an assistant. They run my errands, make my appointments, and . . . whatever else. The idea of someone cleaning up after me makes me want to shoot myself.”
“I get it,” Marcus said. “Since you’re doing a badass job of taking care of this place on your own.” He craned his neck to look around the massive game room. It was in an open space on the second floor of the mansion, and the railings gave easy views of the lower level. “I love what you’ve done with the place in the past year, by the way.”
I said nothing. I was well aware that the place was seventy-five percent unfurnished. It seemed pointless when I only used three and a half rooms, counting the bathroom. I’d bought the damn mansion in a moment of indulgence after moving out of the huge estate I’d previously shared with Simeon and Marcus in Southampton. So far the only thing good about living alone was that I got to avoid their wannabe frat boy shit and massive parties during the off season, but I could have done that in a place an eighth of the size.
“I bet Mary Cloutier would love to help you spruce up this big motherfucker,” Marcus said. “Unless you really love that office building look.”
“Women hate me.”
“More like women ain’t in a rush to hang out with a rage monster unless they’re trying to make it with you,” Simeon piped up. “Let’s look at the dudes.”
“I already said it’s a wrap. I’m not hiring anyone.”
They simultaneously waved me off.
“Imma rate ’em by hotness,” Simeon declared. “Or dick size. They put that on résumés, right?”
“That’s your area of expertise, S. I’ll look at the job creds,” Marcus said.
Nothing like a little teamwork to get on my already frazzled nerves. I stopped throwing darts. Any minute, Simeon was going to stumble upon the guy that had effortlessly managed to make me emote all over Joe’s office about the wonders of football.
“Look, I’m not—”
“Holy shit.” Simeon held up Noah’s résumé and attached picture. “Did you not notice them dick-sucking lips?”
Oh, I’d noticed all right. Just like I’d noticed the steel blue eyes, thick black hair, and trim body that had clearly been fit and defined beneath his shitty suit. What had really caught my attention had been Noah’s fingers. Long and slim and graceful. They’d look great wrapped around my dick.
All of those things had run through my mind before Noah had even opened his mouth. Then he’d ruined it by being disparaging about my career. And the sport that had saved my sanity.
“He’s an asshole.”
“Says King Asshole,” Marcus said. “His résumé is random as fuck, though. He was like . . . saving poor gay kids in Manhattan. Real super-hero shit. Why’s he trying to be your assistant?”
Because he was apparently broke and desperate.
“He looks like a hotter Clark Kent.” Simeon was still leering at Noah’s picture. “That mouth is giving me wood. I’m about to call him up and pay him to assist me.”
“Okay, shut the hell up.” I strode over and confiscated Noah’s picture, and tried hard not to take another look at his wide mouth. I snatched the résumé from Marcus. “I don’t need you two going off about this stupid shit. I get it enough from Joe.”
Marcus held up his hands, not about to argue the point, but Simeon’s brow crashed down, which meant he was up for a fight.