Grid Iron Bad Boy: A Football Romance (17 page)

“
I
said
, let’s fucking go,” I twist my fingers around my brother’s arm and yank him toward my car.

“Chill, bro. What’s your problem? I was just slowing down for Julie. You know how girls get when they’ve been drinking. I don’t need her breaking an ankle on her heels,” he explains.

“It’s Jennifer,” the young, platinum blonde with the siren red dress laughs. Her face is so contoured and caked on with make-up, I’m pretty sure she’d be unrecognizable in the morning.

“Yeah, what she said,” Jake laughs, jerking his thumb over at his pick for the night. Jennifer doesn’t seem too hurt by his little slip though. But then, girls like her don’t care about much as long as they get their score. And I’m not talking about getting fucked. The eight ball of coke Jake brought out with him is half finished and little miss YouTube make-up video face over here has been only too happy to help him devour it.

I sigh and open the doors on my car. It’s already three in the morning, but I know these two will be up to watch the sunrise. Or until the coke is gone. Whatever comes first. Chelsea was right, this is stupid. This entire night has been a shit-show and I just want to get back to my apartment and close my bedroom door and wait for my brother and his coke-whore to sleep it off and move on. Jake is normally fun to party with, but whatever normally keeps him from going balls-to-the-wall wild seems to have snapped. There’s been no off switch with him tonight. It’s like he’s hell-bent on self-destruction and I’m just here as his chauffeur. Of course, it’s no problem for me to drive because I’ve only been able to nurse one beer all night while I’ve been pretty much babysitting my brother. Between his determination to pick a fight, his dancing on the bar and him trying to fuck every girl in the club, it’s been about as much fun as grinding glass in my eyes. The non-stop trips to the bathroom to do another line every twenty minutes is just the icing on this turd mountain of a cake.

“God, will you get in the car?!” I snap at Jake and his girl as they lean up against the hood and jam their tongues down each other’s throats.

“What’s his problem?” Jennifer rolls her eyes at me dramatically. I clench my fist around my car keys until they pinch into my flesh, threatening to cut it.

“You two have plenty of time for that shit later. Just get in the car so I can go home,” I demand.

My brother practically pours into my passenger seat like beer from a tap. After several failed attempts, he manages to grasp his door and slams it shut. His hook up scurries into the middle of my backseat and I just about throw the car door at her, flinging it shut, sealing her inside.

I finally slip into the driver’s seat and shut my eyes for a second, taking in a long, deep breath. This must be what it feels like for a single mother trying to get a couple of toddlers packed up to go somewhere. Except, replace the cute faces of the kids with the slurring, drug-hungry faces of two grown adults. I mean, they do both drool a lot and both have about the same speaking skills.

Jake fumbles with his seat belt, slapping the parts together in an attempt to make them click. I reach over and jam the end into the buckle. “There. You good back there?” I look in my rearview mirror back at Jennifer.

“Ah-ya,” she gives me a wobbly thumbs up. I honestly don’t care if she’s managed to get her seat belt on or not. I’m out of here.

With the car out on the road home, I feel a sense of relief wash over me. This night is almost over. For me, anyway. With Jake heading out for his deployment in a couple of days, I won’t have to worry about any more surprise visits from my brother for at least six months. Not that I don’t enjoy seeing him, I do. When he’s sober.

“Jake-y,” the girl in the backseat whines, “I need another bump, honey. I’m fading here.” I watch as she slumps back against my seat. Hopefully they do both pass out, but not in my car. On my living room floor like respectable drunks. The idea of trying to pull their limp bodies out of my car in the middle of the night is awful. I turn on the music. Loud. Hopefully that keeps her awake. As if I’d even be able to pull Jake out. He’s got about forty pounds of muscle on me, but I wouldn’t be able to just leave either of them in the car overnight in mid-December either.

Jennifer lights up as the music blares around us like a mini-club. She throws her hands up over her head and shakes from side to side as she yells the words. Not that they’re hard to remember. This song was made for drunk people, “Let my body do the work, work, work, work, work, work, work! We can work from home, oh, oh, ohhhh!” She wails.

My minds drifts lazily to the future. Where will Chelsea and I be in six months? Married? Definitely engaged, if she says yes of course. The thought makes me smile. Mrs. Chelsea Armstrong has a certain ring to it, if you ask me. A ring. That’s exactly what I need to buy if I’m gonna do this right.

My ideas are burst like a pin pushed into a thought bubble over my head as my brother opens my glove box.

“Jake, what the fuck are you doing? Get out of there!” My eyes are drawn to the little light inside that looks like a lighthouse beacon inside the dark vehicle.

“Dude, chill,” he quickly grabs my binder full of insurance documents and receipts from inside and closes the box with his knee. “No biggie,” he shrugs.

“Put it back, man. I can’t lose that shit. It’s important.” I try to keep my cool as my brother tests the limits of my patience.

“And I don’t need no explanation! ‘Cause baby, you’re the boss at home!” Jennifer yells in the backseat. She leans forward and runs her long, red fingernails over my brother’s shoulder, “That’s like you, baby. You can be my boss tonight,” she slurs.

“Fuck yeah, I will,” he answers, but he doesn’t look back at her. Instead, he pulls out his baggie of coke and sprinkles some on my binder. The white powder falls in crumbles on my book, like a fresh snowfall.

“Jake! What the fuck. Get that shit off my book and put it away. I’m driving here, man.” I yell over the song.

“Can you make it clap, no hands for me? Take it to the ground, pick it up for me?” Jake’s whore yells along with the music from the backseat.

Beside me, the coke is being cut into long, thin lines on my binder as my brother ignores me completely. I have half a mind to pull this car over and pound the shit out of him. Sure, he’s bigger and stronger and taller and… never mind.

“Ladies first,” Jake hands the binder back over his shoulder like the fucking gentleman he is. Ahead of me, I can see a stop light coming up, but what’s going on beside me is taking up most of my focus.

“Jake, I said no fucking doing coke in my car! Fucking put it away!” I jerk his elbow and the binder flips out of his hand like a waiter who lost control of his tray.

“Oh no!” Jennifer cries out.

White powder flurries inside my car, down to the floor as my binder hits with a thud. It looks like when my mother used to sprinkle that carpet deodorizer all over the stairs before our Christmas guests came every year. I’m sure she’d be real proud of her boys right now. This would be a real Hallmark moment for her.

“What the fuck man? I fucking told you not to do that and now your shit is all over my car! Why can’t you just fucking listen?!” I scream at my brother.

“Me? It’s your fucking fault it’s everywhere. What a waste of perfectly good coke,” he mourns his fifteen-minute high.

“Are you shitting me right now? You can’t honestly be putting this on me!”

“Oh no!” Jennifer squeals, “Watch out, you’re gonna hit that guy!” I follow her finger pointing at the red car at a complete stop at the red light, but it’s too late.

Cree-unch! The sound of the metal of our cars twisting together is sickening. The airbags blow open and throw my head back as my foot grinds the brake pedal into my floor.

“Fuck!”

I throw the car in park and pull the keys out of the ignition. “Hey are you OK back there?” I yell to Jennifer.

“I’m, uh, no I’m good,” she rubs her forehead. “I just bumped my head, but I’m good.” She looks a little shaken up, but fine. “Jake? You good?” I look over at my little brother.

“Yeah, I’m not hurt. Fuck, I can’t do this though, bro. I can’t be here. Not when I’m supposed to deploy in a couple days. The coke and this,” he holds up his palm at the unmoving car in front of me, “dude, I won’t be going overseas, I’ll be going to jail. Oh shit!” He yells, slamming his fist against his door.

“Ok, calm down,” I tell him. “I’m gonna go see what’s going on with them,” I point to the car ahead of us. Attached to us is more like it, our bumpers are twisted together. “I need to see if they need medical help. Don’t move,” I open the door and slide around the deflating air bag in my lap.

I walk up to the other car cautiously. Smashing into someone’s rear end is never a good way to make new friends. I’m sure whoever is in there is pissed, if not hurt.

Suddenly, the blue car door flings open and a middle aged woman with short, curly gray hair stumbles out. She looks disoriented and the gash on her chin tells me she must have smashed her head on her steering wheel.

“Ahh, shit. I’m so sorry,” I start. “I’m gonna call an ambulance, OK? Just sit here and take deep breaths,” I lead her to the side of the road and help her take a seat.

“What happened? It was a red light.” She sounds confused and each time she tries to talk, more blood pours from her chin.

“I’m gonna get you a first aid kit, OK? I have one in my trunk,” I let go of her arm and head back to my car.

Popping open the trunk, I pull out the orange kit and watch as the passenger side door of my car flings open and my brother falls out onto the ground.

“Shit! Jake are you OK?” I start to move toward him, but he stands up and looks at me frantically.

“I just can’t do this. I fucking can’t,” his eyes are wide. Suddenly, he turns and runs down the street. Before I can think about what’s happening, he’s out of sight as he makes a left.

What.The.Fuck?

I look in disbelief at the door, still hanging open and the space where my brother no longer is.

The whir of sirens behind me makes me turn my head as blue and red lights flash over my car and paint my clothes. The police car comes to a screeching halt and the officers both pop out of the car like I’ve robbed a bank.

“Sir, put your hands where I can see them!” One of the officers yells to me.

I instantly raise my hands to the sky, still holding the first aid kit. This is a mess. A catastrophe is more like it. I look into the backseat of my car, where Jake left his one-night stand sitting, along with coke sprinkled all over my car and what’s left of his eight-ball sitting on my dashboard.

Fuck.

Everything I have to lose flashes in front of my eyes. My career. My degree. Chelsea.

This isn’t just the end of a bad night. This could be the end. Period.

E
very step
I take toward the staff room is an effort. It feels like someone carved my dress shoes from steel and welded them to my feet. I’m beat. Not only because of the little bean growing stronger inside me by the day. That’s just one piece of this exhaustion puzzle. Last night I probably slept three hours in total. After storming out of Cameron’s apartment, I expected him to call me. To apologize.

Instead, I spent more time than I’d like to admit checking my phone for ghost texts and messages that might have somehow squeaked by me, but never materialized. I understand that he doesn’t know about our baby yet, so I guess I can’t hold that against him. However, the fact that he chose his brother and a mountain of coke over my feelings doesn’t sit well in my gut.

Kinda like the lurching nausea that rolls around in my belly as I walk through the staff room door. My god, is someone chopping onions and scaling fish in here? My head swivels toward the offending odor as I clamp down my jaw in an attempt to keep myself from openly gagging.

Sitting at the center table, like the head cheerleader in a high school cafeteria, is Nancy Michaud. She flips her golden hair over her shoulder and laughs loudly at the principal, Ms. Gibbons, small talk like the little ass-kisser she is. Poised between her Pinterest-perfect manicure is a cracker topped with tuna salad. The stomach turning chunks of raw onion protrude from the milky mixture like even they’re trying to make a break for it to escape the pungent, fishy smell.

“Ohhh my goodness gracious! You look sooo worn out,” Nancy purrs at me as I walk into her sights.

The last thing I need right now is her passive-aggressive bullshit. It’s no secret that Nancy and I don’t get along. Years ago, when we were both trudging our way through the substitute teacher swamp in an attempt to get full-time employment, Nancy never took it too well that I got my foot in the door before her. To brush her off as just another competitive person, would be a huge understatement.

Nancy has taken every opportunity to make me look bad. Whether it’s been in her completely unethical spa days with our boss and school principal, or just terrorizing her class into earning more on every school campaign, she’s always been bound and determined to crush me.

“Thanks for your concern, Nancy. I’m ok though.” I try to keep my mouth from twitching with irritation as I fake another smile.

“Are you sure?” She presses me. Before I can answer, she stuffs another cracker topped with the most disgusting combination of food my pregnant mind can handle into her face. I watch with revolted fascination as cracker crumbs cling to the corners of her lips and drop off her face.

Somehow, I manage to pry my eyes from the white flaky flecks of Ritz covering her lips. My eyes float over to Ms. Gibbons instead of the disgusting compost pile of food growing in the corners of Nancy’s lips. The judgement in her eyes make me long for the crumbs on Nancy’s face.

That’s it. I literally feel a twinge inside as something snaps. I’m not going to stand here and take a second more of these two sneering down their noses at me like they’re watching some street urchin try to perform their favorite opera.

“I guess that’s the problem when you’re dating these football guys,” I smile slyly. “They’ve just got so much stamina; you know what I mean? Nancy?” I flutter my eyelashes at her innocently. I know that bitch hasn’t been laid by anyone sober in years. “I’ll have to talk to Cameron about how late he keeps me up at night,” I force myself to chuckle in their shocked faces.

To hell with their snooty faces. To hell with their judgements. I try not to smirk at the put-on shock that they try to out do each other with. I just grab my normal ham and cheese sandwich from the staff fridge and purposely sit at the next table over from them.

Picking up the remote for the archaic tv propped up over the microwave, I turn on the news. I gotta admit, my sandwich is tasting particularly tasty on my tongue along with my victory over Nancy’s prissiness. I take another huge bite and try not to choke as Cameron’s face takes up two-thirds of the television screen.

My ears buzz as they focus in on only the words being spoken by the news anchor.

“Good afternoon, Colorado. In today’s top story, Cameron Armstrong, the first line quarterback of the Colorado Buffaloes was arrested last night after what appears to be a night of binging and debauchery.”

I can feel my jaw hanging. I know it’s flapping like a flag in the wind, but I can’t seem to will it shut.

“Ted, can you tell us what’s going on with this?” The platinum blonde reporter hands off the story about my boyfriend like a hot potato to her co-host.

“Absolutely, Candy.” I don’t even have time to cringe at her name, my entire focus is on what is coming out of this man’s mouth. Thank god it’s not tuna salad on crackers.

“Last night, Cameron Armstrong, the star quarterback of the college football team, the Colorado Buffaloes, was arrested. He was found at the scene of a car accident with over two grams of cocaine in his possession along with another woman in his company.” News anchor Ted smiles at the camera like he’s making a birth announcement.

“What do you think this means for the Buffaloes this season, Ted? Is it over for them now?” Platinum mc-Blonde asks him.

“Only time will tell, Candy,” Our walking mid-life crisis, Ted retorts.

“Let’s hope that this all blows over in time for the play off season to begin, the over painted news anchor pretends to care about what’s happening to my boyfriend.

“Indeed,” Ted answers cheerfully.

When the news changes over to the weather segment, I realize where I am and who I’m surrounded by. I feel sick. I don’t have to look over to the ladies the next table over to see the smug smirks on their faces. Instead, I stand up and walk out of the staff room. There’s no point sitting here, like a moron waiting to be roasted on a comedy special.

No. Why would I need them for that?

Especially when the Colorado news and my boyfriend seem to have an agreement on how they can best publicly humiliate me.

Jesus Christ, Cameron. Another woman? My hand flutters up to my stomach as tears spring to my eyes. I can’t shake the feeling that this is the beginning of the end. The end of my dreams. The end of my future with the father of my child.

The end of us.