Juked (4 page)

T
he bleating of the alarm on my phone jars me from sleep.

Fuck. I hate mornings. I especially hate mornings when I don’t know where I am.

I blink rapidly for a few seconds, looking around the room. Ah yes. Hotel room. Los Angeles.

Blonde hair is splayed across the pillow next to me. I scan her from top to bottom. Flawless, porcelain skin, hourglass shape, nice-sized tits. LA certainly doesn’t disappoint in the beautiful women department.

Hmm. If I wasn’t supposed to be in a van going to the airport in twenty minutes, I might think about a morning quickie. But coach would have my ass if I missed the flight home.

I fling back the covers and get up, looking at the woman in my bed. Nice ass, too.

I take a quick shower before packing my bags, making sure to put the dirty stuff on top for quick sorting when I get home.

I clutch her phone and my wallet and take a quick glance around the room.

Used condom in the trash can? Check.

Credit cards still in my wallet? Check.

Naked pics of me on her phone? Negative.

I’m good to go.

Does it suck I have to check those three things in particular whenever I hook up with someone? Sure. But protecting myself is way too important. I’ve known guys who’ve ended up with either a kid, an empty bank account, or plastered all over the internet in all their glory. That won’t be me. I’m smarter than that.

Tucking my wallet in my back pocket and replacing her phone with my own, I pick up a pen and some complimentary stationary off the desk.

I leave the note under her phone and sneak out the door, closing it quietly behind me.

Calling her babe in a note seems really personal, but after our wild night, it’s doubtful I’ll remember her name. I rarely do. It’s nothing against her or anyone else I’ve ever hooked up with. I respect a woman who wants to get her rocks off as much as I do. Not everyone can separate emotional intimacy with straight up sex and I appreciate it when they can. But that doesn’t mean I’ll remember her name.

And really, last night was wild.

After a five to four win over the Galaxy, we were in the mood to party as a team. And party we did. The drinks were flowing and the chicks were willing. Plus today is a travel day, which means if you’re gonna nurse a hangover, today’s the day to do it.

From the looks on half of my teammates faces as I climb up the stairs of the bus, they’re all happy to not have practice or a game today.

“How do you not look like death right now?” Christian asks me, looking a weird shade of green.

Christian and I have played soccer together since college. We weren’t best friends or anything back then, but we were good teammates, and our social circles overlapped.

After college, I came straight to Houston while he was recruited to Seattle. When we both ended up in Houston a few years back, it was like we had never played for rival teams. He’s become one of my closest friends.

I laugh and slap him on the back. “Because unlike some of you, I didn’t believe the hot bartender when she said a couple of fireballs wouldn’t do a lot of damage.”

“She lied, man,” Christian says with a whimper. “She lied so bad.”

I chuckle and sit back, ready to get this bus moving and go home.

“Did you end up bringing that hot blonde back to the room with you last night?” he asks quietly, rubbing his temples.

I smile. “Yup.”

“I take it her tongue can do more than just tie a cherry stem in a double knot?”

“Yup,” I say again, not willing to give any more details than that. I may have no problem with random sex, but I do have a problem giving other people personal details of our time together. To me, that’s disrespecting my partner, and I refuse to do that.

“Nice,” Christian says and fist-bumps me. He knows that’s all the information he’s going to get.

I know what some of my teammates were up to late at night. I’ve seen the blowjob races and walked in on the sex trains. But cleat chasers aren’t my thing. I want sex to be pleasurable for both of us and something I can really take my time with, not something to be rushed through so I win a bet. I am a gentleman that way. Plus, as the captain of this team, it’s my job to be a role model to my fellow teammates and I want us to be known as a team that’s respectful.

As our coaches board the bus and start with roll call, I lean my head against the back of my chair and close my eyes. I may be a gentleman the morning after, but there was nothing gentlemanly about what I did last night. I need the rest.

Within minutes, we’re on the road, headed to the airport for a seven a.m. flight.

“Hey, Zavaro!”

My head whips forward as I startle from the beginnings of a nap. “Sir?” I answer, not clear which coach is talking to me. Man, I’m more tired than I realized.

Coach Dawson, one of the offensive coaches, walks down the aisle and plops down on the seat across from me. “You becoming a family man, Zavaro?” he asks, slapping a newspaper in my hand.

My whole body runs ice cold. No pro athlete wants to hear those words come out of their coach’s mouth.

I snatch the paper out of his hands and unfold it. Next to me, Christian looks over my shoulder.

The headline reads
Daniel Zavaro Plays Mr. Mom at Walmart. Is The Long-Time Bachelor Trading in His Cleats for Baby Booties?

Underneath it is a picture of me sitting on the bench by the pharmacy, holding a baby.

I huff out a laugh as my body temperature returns to normal. “Nah, Coach,” I say as I peruse the rest of the sports headlines. “That’s just some girl I met the other night when I went shopping. She was having trouble with her baby, so I helped her out.”

“What do you mean, she was having trouble with her baby?” he asks. “And where was the dad?” As a recently divorced father of two, Coach Dawson is always a little sensitive when it comes to kids and their fathers. He was pretty heartbroken when his wife left him and took the children with her.

“Don’t know,” I answer honestly. “She had just gotten custody of her nephew or something, and no one even told her what kind of formula to get him. The kid was screaming, he was so hungry. So I helped her out. No big deal.”

He nods in approval, probably glad he isn’t going to have to deal with the PR mess of a random illegitimate child. “How’d you know what to do anyway?”

Christian chuckles. “Man, have you met his family? Do you know how many of them there are?”

Coach cracks a smile and shakes his head. “I’ve met your parents at a couple games, but that’s it.”

“That’s because I only get two comp tickets per game,” I said with a smile. “Those cheap bastards, also known as my siblings, won’t shell out the money to come to a game. They have way too many kids to pay for them all to come. And inevitably someone’s feelings would get hurt if they didn’t get tickets for everybody, and someone would end up throwing down at Thanksgiving next year.”

Christian throws back his head and laughs. “It’s true, Coach. His family is full of crazy Mexicans. God, I love them.”

With as many siblings as I have, and their spouses and kids, it can definitely get crazy. And not always the good kind of crazy. But as much as I love my independence, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I never would have pegged you for a family man,” Coach said, snatching his paper when Christian tries to look through it.

I scoff. “Just the one my mama gave me.” I lean my head back again, making myself more comfortable. “I am perfectly happy with my life the way it is. Don’t need a long-term relationship. Don’t want one.”

“Says the man who’s coming down from last night’s hot blonde.” Christian snickers, then yells “Ow!” after I punch him in the shoulder.

“As long as I don’t see your name in the papers and have to get PR involved,” Coach says as he stands, “whatever you and the hot blonde are up to is none of my business.” He swats me on the shoulder with the newspaper and walks toward the front of the bus.

I close my eyes, perfectly content to enjoy another day in the life other guys only dream about.

I
’m so fucking tired, and yet my mind won’t shut off.

Once again, I’m wide awake in the middle of the night. I thought making bottles before bed would help me get a little more sleep, since I wouldn’t have to actually think when it was time for Chance to eat overnight.

But it doesn’t really matter because my mind won’t stop spinning. All I can think about is Sarah and the last conversation we had.

The movement of the turnstile inside the microwave is almost hypnotic as the bottle goes round and round. It lulls me into a false sense of calm. And just like that, the memories start to invade my mind again.

“You’re doing what?” I screech into the phone. I’m going to be late for work if I’m not careful, but once again Sarah has to be talked off a metaphorical ledge.

“Quincy, I know you’re mad,” she said. “But things have changed—”

“You are less than two years away from a degree,” I chide. “Two years! Why the hell are you going to throw away two-and-a-half years of college to go to vocational school?”

I dump the contents of my make up bag onto the counter. It sucks putting makeup on one-handed, but I don’t have a choice with this ridiculous conversation happening.

“It’s not vocational school,” she says quietly. “It’s a program to get my administrative assistant certificate. I’ll be learning all the latest computer programs, plus filing systems and shorthand which most people don’t even know anymore, so I’ll have that extra skill for my resume.”

“Right. So vocational school.” I roll my eyes. It’s not like I should be surprised. Sarah has always been flighty. But being a television reporter has always been her dream. And after this long and this much effort, I really thought her degree was a sure thing.

“Call it whatever you want but when I’m done, they’ll help place me in a job. A good job.”

“Dad would be so pissed at you,” I mumble, mouth stretched wide open as I swipe on mascara. Mascara, eyebrows, and lip gloss. That’s all I have time for today. “The money he left us was so we could get an education and you’re telling me you want to waste all of it.”