The Hot Shot Read online

  “Brooklyn, New York.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yep. But my dad is from here. He bought my loft as an investment property, but gave it to me after I graduated.” It is the one big surprise from them that I actually found myself extremely grateful for. Usually their gifts were well-meaning, but involved some sort of drama that I’d need to clean up. “I took out some equity on the loft to pay for my camera and equipment, which really helped as well.”

  “Your parents still in New York?” Finn asks.

  “No. I think they’re in Oregon right now. Or Idaho. I can’t remember. They sold their townhouse and bought one of those tiny houses that you can tow all over the place.”

  A startled laugh escapes him. “Really? You ever watch that show with the tiny house buyers?”

  Cringing, I can’t meet his eyes. “Mom and Dad are on an episode.”

  “Holy shit. Which one?”

  “Nope. Not telling.”

  “I’ll just do a search on their last name,” he warns.

  “Damn it.”

  Snickering, he gives my shoulder another squeeze before he looks me over. “So, Brooklyn, I’m guessing you know how to handle yourself in a rowdy crowd.”

  There’s something in his tone that has my steps slowing as we reach the main aquarium lobby. “What are you up to, Mannus?”

  He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nothing much. Just that you’ll have a couple of chaperones on this outing.”

  And by a couple, he means thirty. Ranging from the ages of six to thirteen, the crowd of school children give a big cheer and cry, “Manny!” when we round the corner.

  For his part, Finn gives them all high fives, learning each one of their names. Then he turns, surrounded by kids, the tallest one barely reaching the center of his chest, and beams at me. “Guys, meet my friend Chess. She’s never been to the aquarium, so we’ll have to make sure she doesn’t get lost. Let’s give her a big welcome.”

  Feebly, I wave as all of them shout, “Hi Chess” with various levels of enthusiasm.

  Finn winks at me before turning his attention back to the kids. And I grin like a loon because he’s adorable with them, like an overgrown kid as excited as they are at the prospect of seeing a shark or maybe petting a stingray.

  A blond woman in skinny jeans and a t-shirt with a schoolhouse logo on it comes to stand by me. “I’m Ally, the program director. Thanks for joining us.”

  “Sure. Although I don’t really know what all of this is about.”

  “We’re an after-school sports program for children, sponsored and funded by Mr. Mannus…” She flushes a bit. “Finn, I mean. He keeps telling me to call him Finn. Anyway, this outing is one of many Finn takes the kids on throughout the year.”

  We chat as Finn leads his crew to find the sharks. But as soon as we stop, I find myself pulled into his orbit. His big hand engulfs mine, as he tells the kids that his favorite shark is the hammerhead. This is met with much approval.

  “What’s your favorite, Ms. Chess?” a boy, who’s probably around eight, asks me.

  “Hmm…” I pretend to think about it. “I’m going with the whale shark.”

  The kid looks unimpressed, but a couple of others pipe up to agree that the whale shark is awesome.

  They race on to the next viewing window. Finn and I follow. He hasn’t let go of my hand. But I don’t mind. His is big and warm, the strength in his fingers tempered now by a gentle clasp. A hand worth around fifty million dollars in the eyes of pro-football. And it’s holding on to me as though I’m the valuable one.

  “Sorry I didn’t warn you,” he says at my ear.

  Little shivers dance along my skin. I ignore them. “I’m beginning to think you like surprises.”

  “I do.”

  “Thanks for letting me be a part of this. You’re great with them.”

  “Kids are easy. Completely unfiltered and ready to have fun. Kind of like football players.” He gives my fingers a light squeeze. “So you don’t want to run away screaming?”

  I’m not certain if he’s referring to the kids or football players. Either way, the answer is the same. “Only if you try to get me to touch a stingray.”

  “Now, Chess, that’s basically a dare.”

  Before I can answer, we’re swarmed by the kids, who’ve realized their hero isn’t in their midst anymore. Finn doesn’t let me go, and I’m swept up along with him.

  By the time we’re done, I know more about fish and sea life than I probably need to, and have been infected by a bit of Finn Mannus hero worship myself. How can I not be? When he lifts each kid who asks up for a better view. When he takes the time to shake employee’s hands and put them at ease when they get flustered.

  Parents show up, and Finn takes a picture with anyone who asks. Each time, he grins wide as if he’s standing next to a good friend.

  Finn might hate posing for professional cameras. But he clearly loves this part of his life.

  He ends the tour by handing out t-shirts with his jersey number on them.

  “You didn’t give one to your girlfriend,” a solemn six-year-old boy points out. “You’ll hurt her feelings.”

  I’m trying to figure out if it’s worth it to clarify that I’m not Finn’s girlfriend and my feelings won’t be hurt, when Finn catches my eye. A teasing smile plays on his lips. “You’re right, David. But I’m out of shirts.” He takes off his baseball cap with his team logo splashed over the front. “Think she’ll be okay with this?”

  “If she doesn’t want it,” an older kid drawls, “I’ll take it!”

  Finn shakes his head. “You got your shirt, Darrius. My girl here needs something special.” He looks over his flock. “Girls like special things.”

  A bunch of boys gag. But a few girls giggle.

  Me? I’m both trying not to blush and restraining myself from rolling my eyes at his antics.

  Finn’s expression, however, is soft and sincere as he sets the hat on my head, deftly tucking strands of my hair back behind my ears. The cap is too big, and sits low on my brow. I probably look like an idiot, but I’m not taking it off.

  A little cheer rings out. And, before I can blink, Finn swoops in and gives me a playful peck on the cheek. I feel the warm brush of his lips like a stamp on my skin, pressing there long after he’s moved away.

  * * *

  Finn

  * * *

  Losing sucks. Losing when you’re a quarterback sucks sweaty balls. And I don’t give a shit what they say; if the offense is crumbling, it’s the QB’s fault. Fucking fair weather reporters jump all over that: Has Mannus lost his touch? Can he handle the pressure? Is this just an off night or a sign of things to come?

  I’m lying on the grass, a three hundred pound slab of lineman sprawled over my hips. My head rings, white lights popping behind my eyes. Fuck, that hit hurt. I can’t breathe for a second. My entire body has seized with an internal shout of what the shit?

  Davis, the lineman who’d plowed into me like a tank powered by nitro, lifts his head and grins at me as if I’m his new bitch. I want to get to my feet and show him that his effort failed, but my head is still swimming and I can’t feel my legs.

  “Can I have some fries with that shake next time?” I ask lightly.

  His grin dies a swift death. He jumps to his feet—show off.

  I’m not so quick, because I hurt like a motherfucker. “Nice hit, bro,” I say, extending my arm, my hand out. Help me up, asshole. But I smile like it’s all good.

  Have I mentioned that part of the art of playing football is to mindfuck your opponent? It’s actually one of my favorite aspects. I might get knocked down, but you better believe I’m going to take the wind out the motherfucker’s sails in retaliation.

  Slightly confused, Davis silently helps me up and then shakes his head with a laugh.

  I laugh too, ignoring the pain in my ribs—I’m gonna feel that shit tonight—and give him a friendly slap on the shoulder before he jogs off. />
  Only when my guys surround me do I let my smile fall. “Dex,” I say to my center, “I don’t know what bug crawled up your ass, but get it together and pay attention.”

  He’s been addled the whole game and completely misread the defense on this last play. Resulting in me getting sacked before I could blink. I’m fairly certain the press digging into his personal life is getting to him, but we have a job to do.

  Glumly, he nods. “On it.”

  I slap his helmet. “Good man.”

  But it’s a lost cause. Whatever is going on with Dex spreads like a disease through the line. Soon, everyone is fucking up. Jake and Rolondo both drop passes. North, my tight end, can’t gain yards. Moorehouse, my running back goes down with a bad hit, and they haul him into the locker room for evaluation.

  As for me, I’m battered like a goddam piñata. I try to focus, try to rally. I might as well be attempting to hold water in my hands. All the while, Coach and my coordinators are having apoplectic fits. Most of which ring in my ears through the mic in my helmet.

  That this is an away game and the crowd is completely loving our defeat doesn’t exactly help.

  The distinct shout of, “Eat turf, pussy boy Mannus!” somehow makes it through the din of the crowd. Excellent.

  It is, as Chess would say, a complete shitcake of a game.

  By the time we hobble off the field, defeated and deflated, I am ready to sink into a hot bath and swallow down a mouthful of painkillers. But I’m not going to get to do that. I’m going to get reamed by my coach and then reamed by the press.

  I’ll have to stand at a podium, lights shinning on my face, and answer insightful questions such as, “Do you think you could have done something better?” Yeah, I could have fucking won. Or, “Do you think you lost because you failed to score during the second half?” Considering this game is won based on a points system, I would say not scoring had something to do with it.

  In the dank, echoing hall that leads to the locker room, I turn to Jake, who walks weary at my side. “Give me a reminder.”

  Since I ask this question every time we have a shit day, he doesn’t miss a beat. “Fifteen million signing bonus.”

  “I’m going to have to put that aside for new hips when I’m forty.”

  “When you’re thirty-five,” he counters easily. “And are we getting solid gold hips?”

  I laugh. “I’m going full on cyborg. Try again.”

  Jake smirks. “Willing women in every city.”

  “I’m too tired to screw.”

  Jake shoots me a glance. “Man, you are a sad sack today.”

  He’s right. I’m in full on pity-party of one mode. “I’m depressing myself,” I tell him.

  “Which is why you need to let off some steam. I’m going out as soon we get back. You want to join me?”

  I’m already shaking my head. “I’m going home, taking a bath, and getting some sleep.”

  “Jesus, you really are an old man now.”

  Maybe I am. But the prospect of going out and looking for a quick hookup is utterly unappealing. I’d rather call Chess and see if she’s up for dinner. And right there is what truly makes me a sad sack.

  I don’t get to dwell on that any longer. Because we reach the locker room and the reality of my job snaps right back into place.

  Grimly, I walk through the locker room doors and prepare to defend my performance and my men.

  * * *

  Chess

  * * *

  I’m mopey. Finn is at an away game, and James is in New York with Jamie again. It’s his second visit, and I gather things are getting serious between them.

  I’ve received two texts from James. One selfie of him and Jamie in Central Park by the Bethesda Fountain, the other of them all smooshie-faced in Times Square on the night they went to see Hamilton, the musical—the lucky bastards. A wave of homesickness had hit me, seeing those pictures.

  New Orleans is home for me now. But there are days I miss the fast moving rhythm of New York. Sometimes, I’ll hear a car horn and close my eyes and think of cabs and cars and trucks all vying for road space. I’ll remember the shouts and bangs and rattles as the city pulses around me.

  But then I’ll sit on my balcony and breathe in the warm air, fragrant with the basil that’s growing high, despite the fact that it’s fall, and I feel restored.

  Doesn’t stop me from being lonely.

  I have other friends I could call. Girlfriends I haven’t seen in a while.

  But that’s not who I really want to see.

  Finn has called and texted fairly regularly. But it’s not the same. When he’s in the city, we can find times to meet up, even if it’s for a quick bite to eat. When he’s gone…

  I feel it.

  Today, he sent me a package of gelato. Packed on ice and delivered by courier, there were a dozen flavors to choose from. It’s the best gift I’ve ever received.

  A little flip of joy goes through me as I survey my stock of gelato. There’s a flavor called Amarena, which, upon discovery, turns out to be sweet cream and sour-tart cherries, swirled with glossy crimson ribbons of cherry sauce.

  I eat it with a spoon, straight from the carton, slowly savoring it on my tongue. I love gelato, but this stuff? It tastes like sex. I lick the cold metal curve of the spoon and think of cherry cream rivers running down tight abs.

  “Jesus,” I mutter, flushed and jittery. “I need to get laid.”

  From out in the hall, comes the almost manic sounds of Miles Davis, played on full volume. My neighbor, Fred, is a jazz lover. And apparently nearly deaf. I glare toward the direction of the door, and help myself to another spoonful of cold, creamy sin.

  A shriek and a whiff of ozone barely register. But then the sudden loss of Miles Davis and the blare of fire alarms have me turning.

  Fred yells, the sound an echo in his loft.

  I get up, ready to investigate, when a series of loud pops goes off near my kitchen. In a blink, sparks fly from several outlets. And then it’s like I’m inside a live firework. Sparks explode outward, fire flares in hot lines as it races along plaster and up the ceiling.

  For one horrible second, I stand frozen in shock. Electrical fire and you’re fucked, flit through my head, and then I jump up. My heart rises in my throat, as I grab the laptop sitting by my side on the counter, clutching my spoon in the other hand.

  Alarms screech. I race for the door and run into a wall of black smoke. Fred’s loft door is open, the space engulfed.

  “Fred!” I choke on smoke, the flames pushing me back. I’ve never felt heat like this. The strength of it sears my skin and burn my eyes.

  If he’s in there, I can’t help him. The thought fills me with horror.

  I crouch low and stumble down the stairs, my spoon clattering to the floor. Overhead, the sprinklers start up. Water falls with stinging force, and the concrete stairs turn slick. I grip the metal banister and fumble along.

  Another man joins me on the first floor, and we travel together, going as fast as we can. We’re nearly at the bottom, when Fred comes racing up the stairs, face covered in soot, his ratty brown bathrobe flopping around his thin legs.

  “My records,” he cries, wild eyed and crazed.

  I hold out my free hand, trying to stop him, but he slams into me and we both go down hard. My computer flies in the air, my hand reaching down to catch my fall.

  The impact of hitting the ground is so fast and furious, I can’t get past it. Pain spikes up my wrist and ass in the same instant, white light exploding behind my lids. My breath escapes in a gasp. I can’t move my arm. Fred’s bony knee is in my gut. I might die here, smothered by smoke and Fred’s cheap chenille bathrobe.

  Fuck you, Fred.

  Then black smoke and blazing heat rolls over me, and all thoughts of Fred flee, leaving only one truth: I really might die.

  Chapter Eight

  Finn

  * * *

  “I hate flying,” Dex grumbles at my side. “And
I hate wearing a suit.”

  Having come directly to the plane from leaving what will now be known as The Game of Suck, none of us had time to change out of our suits. Most of the guys have ripped off their ties. Dex has his jacket wadded up on the armrest between us and is currently digging his big elbow into it as if he can somehow grind the poor thing into dust.

  “Flying sucks.” Make no mistake, we have it good in first class. The seats are big, the food is all right. But it still wears on you. There’s a loneliness to it. Especially when you’re coming home to an empty house. I used to like that. I’d crave alone time after being with my team for all hours of the day. Now, I think of walking into my dark place, reheating some chicken and rice to eat in front of the TV, and it just…sucks.

  “But every time I want to bitch about the suits,” I say to Dex, “I think about what women wear and shut the fuck up.”

  Dex grins, which makes him look downright mercenary with that thick beard of his. “Yeah. The heels are for shit. I don’t know how they do it. Although, I think I might straight up cry if they stopped wearing those pretty bras and panties.”

  There’s a slight flush on his cheeks that makes me think he’s got certain sets in mind.

  “You thinking about your girl, Dexter?” I grin, giving him a nudge.

  Dex leans his head back and closes his eyes as if in pain. “I try not to. Makes it worse, you know?”

  I almost tell him that I do know, the response so immediate that I actually gurgle. Because what the fuck? I don’t have a girl.

  Then who the fuck have you been thinking about all week? Why is it that your empty apartment now feels like a tomb instead of a refuge?

  Facts must be stated.

  I miss Chess. I miss her like I’m being denied air.

  Running a hand over my face, I stifle a groan. Doesn’t do any good. My mind is still filled with Chess. God, I actually sent her a care package of gelato. And got giddy as a preteen wondering if she’d like it and which flavors she’d try first.

  “So your girl,” I say to Dex. “She’s Ivy Mackenzie’s sister?” Ivy Mac, as our world knows her, is an up and coming sports agent and the wife of Gray Grayson, a brilliant tight end, who unfortunately does not play for us.