Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 52440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 262(@200wpm)___ 210(@250wpm)___ 175(@300wpm)
"Thanks, brother." I hold my fist out for him to bump.
Coach blows a sharp blast on his whistle. "Kirby! Over here, now!"
"Damn, you in trouble again?" Tyson cocks a brow.
"Fucking probably. Shit. When am I not in trouble?" I groan, hauling myself off the bench.
Tyson's laughter chases me as I jog over to Coach.
"Your publicist is here," he says. "Go see her."
"Is everything okay?"
Coach shields his eyes against the sun, scowling at me. "I should be the one asking you that, Kirby. You're the one giving me a new goddamn headache every day."
"I've been on my best behavior for the past few days, Coach."
He snorts. "Your face is all over the gossip pages, Kirby. Your definition of best behavior and mine clearly differ."
"I'm not allowed to date?"
"You going to get into bar fights over her often?"
"Depends on how often creeps twice her size trap her against the bar, call her names, and threaten her," I say bluntly. "Because I won't be tolerating that bullshit."
Coach stares at me for a long moment before he laughs quietly, shaking his head. "I don't know why I even asked. You're too damn honest for your own good," he mutters. "Tell her to hire a fucking security detail, will you? It might actually save your career. And go see your publicist before you piss me off."
I don't bother responding before I turn to jog across the field. I swear to Christ, I can't figure the man out. Half the time, I'm convinced he's on my side. The other half, I'm convinced he wants to see me crash and burn. He's a conundrum. But I'm not going to lie to him. If motherfuckers insist on harassing Nadia, I'll handle it. Don't really give a fuck what the league or anyone else has to say about it. They can fine me, fire me, whatever. It makes no difference to me.
Emelia is waiting for me under the awning just outside the practice field, watching my teammates. It's too early for her to be dressed in a suit and stilettos.
"What happened?" I ask, instantly on alert.
"Why do you have such a suspicious mind?" she asks, cocking her head to the side.
"You're dressed for battle." I motion at her clothes. "The suit is never a good sign."
"I had an early morning meeting."
"With who? Beelzebub?"
"Close enough. Management."
"How'd it go?"
"My day is going great. Thanks for asking," she says, snark in her tone. "How is yours?"
"Cut the shit, Emelia," I growl. "What happened?"
"You're still on the chopping block," she says with a huff. "But they might be willing to let you off."
"What do they want?"
"Alcohol education and for you to pair with a charity for an image overhaul."
"Fuck no."
"Why not?"
"The charity is fine; I'll give them that. But I don't need alcohol education," I growl. "I'm not a damn alcoholic."
She eyes me doubtfully.
"I'm not," I snap. "I haven't even had a damn drink since the other night."
"Alcoholics can be functional, Teo. Some can even go for long periods between drinks."
I scowl daggers at her. "Do you know how often I drink?"
"More often than you should."
"Not that often," I snap. The problem isn't how often I drink. It's that most people assume I'm fucking wasted when I get into fights. I'm not. Most of the time, if I drink in a bar, it's one drink, never more. The few times I do get wasted, I do it at home, usually to drown out memories of Nadia.
But I'll never drink enough while I'm out to risk getting behind the wheel of a car. Our families almost lost Nadia in an accident that wasn't her fault. I won't put them through losing me in one because I was stupid enough to drink and drive.
People never want the truth, though. They just want a story. They never want to know why I hit an asshole in a bar. They just want to report that I hit someone else. And I'm not saying I should be hitting assholes in bars. Obviously, I fucking shouldn't.
Assholes in bars shouldn't be spiking drinks, harassing women, or otherwise being rapey pricks, either. Smacking around the rapey asshole in a bar I overheard talking about spiking a drink is better than half the shit I could have been doing. At least I'm using my issues to do the world a favor.
But why report the truth when an out-of-control, drunk football player starting bar fights sells better than a football player who smacked around someone who deserved it?
"And they've sent people to rehab who have never even picked up a drug," Emelia says. "It's about optics, Teo. You've become a problem for the league. As far as the world is concerned, you're an alcoholic with anger issues. If you didn't want to wear that label, you shouldn't have allowed them to brand you with it."