HATING THE PLAYER (Hating Him #3)

Great Expectations

Great Expectations

There’s always enough retribution to be dealt.

—Amber Silvia

COLTON

I don’t think I just blew it… I know I f*****g did.

It’s the only thought on my mind once I get into the car. The air is cold while the town car runs hot. A thousand blue-white, camera flashes go off in my tinted window, and as I slide in the back seat, my security right behind me, the other thought in my head comes flying out of my mouth.

“Drive,” I say to the driver. “And if the fuckers get in the way... mow them the f**k down.”

My new chaffeur winks from the front seat. “Will do.”

The door closes behind my personal security buff, Big Ben. The black SUV truck takes off with me in the middle aisle, taking a half a dozen photographers with it, and I don’t give a damn. Long as we don’t kill anybody. I glance behind us to make sure we don’t when I feel eyes on me from the front. I look up, only to find two pair of brown irises staring in my direction, smiling.

“Hey, kid. Eyes on the road. Don’t kill us in the process.”

“Sorry, boss.”

“And nix the ‘boss’ shit.”

The younger kid’s eyes lower from the mirror. “Right, boss.”

I sigh, looking at Big Ben. “What’s the word on the street?”

“I’m sure you already know but the social media is like a madhouse. Dizzy bastards are going crazy about your new tell-all, and it seems the press is, too.” He glances up. “They almost f*****g killed me.”

“They would have, if we’d stayed a minute longer. The news broke while I was in the press conference, if you can believe it. Some assistant probably leaked it, and now everybody in the free freaking world knows that I’m writing this goddamned book. Didn’t even have enough time to alert the rest of the security team.” I catch Ben’s eye and keep it. “Anything else?”

“Nothing interesting or… half-naked, like last night.” He gazes at me as I rub my jaw. “Your agent did call.”

“Ken? Jesus, what the hell does the fucker want?”

“Wants you to meet him now. Asked me to get you to his place. He knows you won’t pick up his calls.”

Or e-mails.

I glance at the last one he sent me, sitting there on my cell phone.

To: cevans@imail.com

You’re f*****g crazy. I hope you know that, right?

CALL me as soon as you get this. I don’t care where you are. Dead, comatose or knee-deep in some nympho.

Matter of fact… just text me if it’s the latter. Don’t need the nightmares.

I roll my eyes. “I don’t pick up Ken’s calls because he’s worse than a girlfriend.” I glance out the darkened windows at the fading dusk. “A needy one without all the f*****g perks. And by ‘f*****g,’ I do mean in every sense of the word. Fucker needs to get laid.”

And he wasn’t the only one. Three restless nights had prevented me from getting a whiff of p***y, and I lay awake all night for the last seventy-two hours, thinking, day-dreaming of the conversation that had started this little dirty trip down memory lane. I feel the need to punch all five fingers through my f*****g window.

I tap the back of the new driver’s seat. “You know what? Let’s go see Mister Ken Doll. Maybe he can make something out of this mess.”

The blond-haired man-boy up front nods. “Got it, bos—Mister, uh, Colton.”

He turns a corner, tearing off down the brightly lit Miami-Dade streets, and I lean back, taking it all in. Rolling the window down on the SUV, I let the humid November air lick at my skin, keeping me awake, thinking—reminiscing about what’s been the longest day of my f*****g life. Well, maybe the second longest. The first was two weeks ago when the news broke—news that would forever change the course of my career.

I close my eyes. Barely finding the edge of sleep, I feel the car jerk beneath me, rocking my body awake. I raise my head, looking around, only to find that we’ve parked outside of my sports agent Ken Kristoff’s expensive condominium. I glance out the window and then back at Big Ben. The gentle giant is sleeping soundlessly, his snores on hold for once.

I decide not to wake him, hopping out of the side door.

I shrug, sliding my hoodie further up my shoulders. Throwing the grey hood over my hair, I open the door, stepping out. With black sunglasses on my face, looking like a f*****g fool, I stroll inside the extravagant lobby, pressing the button for the thirtieth floor. The buzzer sounds, letting me in, and less than sixty seconds later, I avoid the doorman’s eye, making my way to the elevator, my heart and every other part of my body pulsing as the lift climbs towards Ken’s penthouse floor, my fist clenching, the blood rushing to my tingling fingertips and back again.

I knock on Ken’s door and wait, wondering how much longer I can go without sleep… or s*x. Or both. My nerves are f*****g shot. I need a drink.

Ken answers the door and without saying a word, I bypass him into the condo heading straight for the bar. I pour myself a vodka on the rocks. I’m inhaling it within seconds when I hear a voice from behind me, feminine and annoyed—the tap of a heel taking my attention away from the glass in my hand.

I look up.

That isn’t Ken…

“Ken,” I raise my glass, “you’re looking so much better these days. So thin. You grew your hair. The new breasts are great.”

“Shut up,” Ken’s fiancée, Bianca, snaps at me. “What are you doing here, Colton?”

“Your boyfriend invited me.”

“At this hour?” Her thin eyebrows raise.

“Sorry, Grams. Some of us actually go to sleep past nine.”

She rushes towards me. Ken steps in between. “Honey,” he looks at her. “Honey. Could you just… could you just go wait for me in the bedroom, please?” He kisses the back of her hand. “I promise I’ll be right in.”

The dark-haired brunette stares at me over her shoulder. She tightens the belt of a navy jumpsuit around her waist. Flicking her curled hair over her shoulder with sharpened nails, she turns her back on us, strutting towards the hallway. Her heels clomp the entire way.

“Good night, Bianca,” I call out. “Have a good night’s sleep. Hell, fall into a coma if it makes you feel better.”

She gives me the finger and walks away. Ken turns to me, his dark blond brows pulled into a scowl. “Could you have made a bigger mess of things?”

“Yeah, I guess I could have.” I swallow another sip of vodka. “At least, I didn’t kill anybody or shoot up drugs.”

“No.” Ken comes closer. “You did worse.”

“Worse?” I spin on him. “What did I do?”

“Coach Kloy’s wife…” He hisses in my direction. “And I’m sure he suspects. And then you antagonize the man—yelling at each other on the field, for Christ’s sake. And now this tell-all? How am I supposed to paint this perfect picture of you in the media, if you keep f*****g up?”

“Hold on a second. Just f*****g hold on, alright. Coach Roy doesn’t know and it will stay that way, so pull your panties out of your ass. And second: I never asked for this perfect image of myself. You fuckers put this on me. Trying to make me into the cookie-cutter version of Tom Brady when I’m perfectly fine being Colton Evans. f**k this phony shit.”

“This phony s**t,” he stresses, “pays for your astronomical expenses and bills. Football’s great, and I know you love it. But it’s the endorsements, the ads, the little kids screaming for your picture and autograph that make you a legend, that leave you wealthy for years to come or have you forgotten?”

He lets the statement hang in the air… and it f*****g stings. I rotate back towards the bar, pouring even more liquor. I pick up my glass.

“Yes, I know I grew up broke, Ken…” I down the rest of my drink. “You don’t have to remind me.”

His voice softens. “I’m not trying to mess this up for you, Colt. I’m trying to help.”

“Help me how?”

“I’m going to help you make this book happen…”

I sit down the glass, staring. “You f*****g serious?”

“That’s right. Three weeks. You give me a press tour and we’ll see how things go.” He walks towards me. Placing his hand in his suit pants’ pocket, the most paranoid sports agent in the world approaches me with a glint in his eye, the kind that speaks of greed and all things money. I’ve seen this look. Haven’t found it for a while, that kind packed with the promise of dollars.

But now I guess I need it. If this situation with my coach takes a turn for even worse, my whole career could fall apart, break to f*****g pieces.

The papparazzi, the reporters, fans. They would claw at those pieces until there was nothing left, and whatever piece was left after everyone had f*****g taken theirs would be left for me. For me…and this goddamned book.

I grit my teeth, knowing I’m making a deal with the devil. But who am I to judge? Because what does that make me? The man who hires Satan to do his dirty bidding?

I swallow thickly, folding my arms across my chest. I nod, not knowing what’s coming next.

“Okay, so give.”

“What?” Ken demands.

“The f*****g rules, Dad. You always have them.” He sighs, and I groan. “Quick… while Mommy Dearest is still sleeping.” I motion towards Bianca’s bedroom. Ken looks at me, his brows downturned, his scowling face turned serious. “Okay,” he says. “Here goes.”

“Finally.”

“No women.”

“f**k!”

“No women,” he repeats.

“f**k it. Fine. And?”

“No more banging the Coach’s wife.”

“Do you have to ask? Hell no. Next.”

“And whatever you do,” Ken finishes, “no more scandals. If any new rumors break, your whole contract is in jeopardy. There’s heat on the team already because of the injuries scandal. The National Football Association commissioner won’t risk another. You’ll be suspended.”

I nod, not even believing myself to hold true to my promise. But I have to.

Football is my home, my sanctuary. I’d likely be in prison without it… or even dead. To others, it’s just a sport. To me? It’s the holy doctrine that saved me… and I don’t even want to consider what I might become in a world devoid of the only religion my mind and body have ever believed in. I nod again, a knot forming in my throat that won’t let go.

I sigh, extending my hand to Ken. “Okay, you’ve got it.” I raise my chin. “Done f*****g deal.”