Something tells me this girl doesn’t come when a finger is crooked at her. Behind me, my future teammates high five, assuming I’ve spotted the female I want to take home. Who is that? Why do I have a hard time breathing when I look at her? Before I even know I’m moving, I’m standing up and demanding to be let through the red velvet rope of the VIP section to the main club floor below. Her nose is screwed up, fists balled at her sides and she’s staring up at a man twice her size, ready to throw a punch. This cute little blonde who looks like she wants to murder someone. That’s what I start to say, but then I see her. Whenever I get the urge to be self-destructive or forget my scruples for the night, I remember what happened that night and the impulse goes away.
Don’t drink or party or bring home strange women, no matter how badly I need relief. The last time I slept with a woman, my freshman year of college, the unthinkable happened. Let’s get you a celebrity welcome to LA.” “You’re Eric “The Silent Assassin” Bentley. We’ve got the whole night ahead.” With a hand the size of a pizza pan, he gestures to the writhing mass of bodies on the nightclub floor, one section below us. “Tomorrow is a hundred years away, my dude. Looking forward to putting ink to paper tomorrow.”
I force a quick smile onto my face for the team’s power forward, Rashid. “Bentley!” One of my new teammates falls onto the leather banquet of the VIP section beside me, throwing an arm around my shoulders. Dallas, New York, Minnesota, Los Angeles. These places are exactly the same, no matter what the city. I massage the bridge of my nose, attempting to get rid of the pounding in my head, the overwhelming mixture of cologne and perfume making me nauseous. If my skill spoke for itself, I would be home right now instead of this dark, noisy establishment, a row of untouched drinks in front of me. Unfortunately, a lot of that faith is earned off the hardwood. I have to put in the time with them, show my face, earn the kind of trust that will translate to the basketball court. These are new teammates, a new city, and I’m signing a contract tomorrow that will make me their point guard. Most of the time, I can get away with an excuse or flat out tell my teammates to fuck off, but this is different.
I can name a hundred places I would rather be right now than a nightclub. If he wants a championship, he’ll give me Greta first. Her father is my new coach, but that’s not going to stop me, either. Unfortunately, my future wife is as stubborn as she is beautiful and if I want her forever, I’ll have to get creative. Considering I have plans to make her my wife, I have a serious objection to that rule. Greta Welding does not date basketball players.
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