Reckless (Bertoli Crime Family #2) (39 page)

“Get ahold of yourself,” I growled. I felt like Brad was being ridiculous.

Before he could reply, a tiny dog, a Yorkshire Terrier dressed in a tuxedo, came running to me.

“What the hell is this?” I demanded with a ridiculous laugh when the dog reached me, wondering what the hell a dog was doing here.

Brad eyed the dog and groaned. “That’s Katie’s little baby, Hercules. Fitting name for a five-pound dog, huh? She doesn’t go anywhere without him. I told you she’s an animal lover. Anyway, she insisted he be a part of the wedding. Sorry I didn’t tell you, but don’t worry, he’s well-behaved.”

I shook my head. “You’ll never learn to put your foot down.”

Brad grimaced. “That’s not all. He’s supposed to walk in with us.”

I turned on him and rolled my eyes. “Hey, whatever floats your boat. It’s your wedding.”

“Let’s go,” I ordered. “It’s time.”

Brad pulled himself together, and when Katie reached the altar, he looked in total control of himself. I was proud of him.

The priest began, and I found my thoughts drifting to Victoria and what the future might hold for us. I could see her with the guests, and she looked absolutely stunning.

“And now you may kiss the bride!” The priest cried exultantly at the end.

With a smile on his face, Brad locked lips with Katie, and the crowd went wild, confetti flying everywhere. Hercules even got in on the excitement, running from person to person, looking for attention.

Victoria smiled at me while clapping, and I made my way over to her, grabbing her hand. “I’ve never seen a best dog at a wedding before,” she said as we made our way to the punch bowl.

I rolled my eyes. “He’s cute, but don’t even get me started on that one.”

“I think I might want one just like him.”

“That’s going to take some serious convincing,” I said with a grin.

Victoria laughed, her eyes sparkling. “I was just kidding. Kind of.”

It was time for my speech. At first I was nervous as I got up onto the stage, not sure what I was going to say. I’d originally prepared a speech, but then I decided against it because I was usually good at talking off the top of my head. The words seemed to flow right through me and I found myself enjoying it, making light-hearted jokes about Brad and causing the audience to laugh.

“To Brad,” I said as I came to the conclusion of my speech, raising my wine glass to toast the audience, “and his new wife.”

The crowd went wild.

“That was a great speech,” Victoria complimented, coming up and wrapping her arm around my waist. She smiled up at me, and my heart jumped in my chest at the sight of her. She looked so beautiful and so happy. I was proud that she was mine.

“Wasn’t it?” I asked.

Victoria’s eyes sparkled as she looked up at me. “So, um, I think I have a little surprise of my own.”

I arched an eyebrow curiously. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

Victoria bit her lower lip in a teasing manner. “Well, you remember that deposit you made?”

I frowned in confusion. “Huh? What deposit?”

“The one you made after pounding me into submission,” Victoria replied with a mischievous grin that I daresay rivaled one of my own.

“Oh,” I said. “
That
.” I thought for a second before I grasped her meaning. “You mean I’m going to be . . .”

“A daddy,” Victoria said in excitement.

She ran her fingers up my shoulders coyly. “Are you ready?”

Sweat beaded my forehead, and I actually felt dizzy for the first time that evening—and I hadn’t even started drinking yet. Not from nervousness, but from the whirlwind of emotion now hitting me all at once.

“I am,” I said, smiling, picking Victoria up into an almost bear hug and planting a deep, passionate kiss on her.

"
H
ave a seat
, Duncan," Coach Bainridge says as I come in, my arm still in a sling. I'm feeling pretty good though, and I’m looking forward to ditching the damn thing as soon as I get out of the athletic complex. Three weeks of wearing the damn thing around is grating on my nerves. "How's the arm?"

"The elbow's fine. Only reason I'm wearing the sling is so that the Academic Director doesn't shit himself too early. You know he saw dollar signs evaporating into the air during the Green and White game."

Coach Bainridge winces at the memory, and I'm glad about that. It was his fault that I'd even been out on the field during the meaningless glorified scrimmage that does nothing more than give the boosters a hardon and a reason to pull out their credit cards. My side, the Green team, made up of offensive upperclassmen and defensive lowerclassmen, was comfortably ahead in the mock fourth quarter when Coach left me in for the second to last series, and I got pinwheeled by some backup junior named Derek Young trying to make a hit on the biggest star the Western University Bulldogs had. One flip over the jackass' shoulder pads, and I land on my left elbow, with chips in the elbow that required surgery a week later. It's now four weeks after the game, and I'm ready to get back to work.

"Duncan, you know that the AD cares more about your status as a healthy member of the student body than anything else."

Oh, now that's rich. I know the shit the AD pulls for the glory of Western. “We both know that’s bullshit. I'm an athlete-student, not a student-athlete that the conference likes to promote. The football team brings this university millions of dollars in profit each season. And you know that if your biggest offensive threat goes down for the year, those millions evaporate like piss in the summer sun."

Yeah, I'm arrogant. But it’s deserved. Last year I led the conference in receptions, yards after catch, and receiving touchdowns. Fuck, I even threw for one during a trick play during our opening game against Navy. I was first team All-Conference and second team All-American as a junior, and now as a senior, I am the best player on a team that has a chance to win the conference championship, if things go right.

And Bainridge knows it. He's been coaching at Western for a decade now, and his contract's up soon. He needs me more than I need him. Still, he tries. "Duncan, watch your language. You may be an important part of this team, but you’re not above the rules."

"Rules?" I ask, leaning back and laughing hard again. "In case you haven't noticed Coach, me and rules get along about as good as you and your ex-wife. How's that going, by the way?"

Bainridge's glower is funny, but he's wrong about something. I do have rules. In fact, I have four rules for football. I'm not the guy who came up with them, but I've never been someone who thinks I need to be overly worried about borrowing from others. Anyway, my four rules are quite simple.

Hit.

Stick.

Bust heads.

Talk shit.

On the football field, I hit
hard
. I may be a tight end, but I handle defensive tackles and ends thirty to sixty pounds heavier than my two forty without a problem.

I
stick
too, whether it's catching anything thrown within my reach or sticking a route. When I was in high school I played defensive end too, and I stuck plenty of helpless idiots there. Now that I'm in college, I run my routes perfectly, I block my assignments perfectly, and I
am
perfect.

Bust heads. Yeah, that's right. I'm going to bust your balls, take your heart, and stomp on it more than once before the end of the game. If you're on defense, you're my bitch, and I mean prison style too. I'm not going to go easy on you, regardless of if you're the best in the country, or some guy who's fighting for a spot on the team.

And of course, I talk shit. I'm going to tell you how good I am, and exactly what I'm going to do to you as I do it. It makes it all the better when I whip your ass, take your heart and your girl, and maybe your sister too if she's hot enough.

Coach Bainridge doesn't seem to agree with my assessment however, and his face turns a little pink as he listens to my question. It’s a low blow, I mean, it wasn't his fault his ex-wife ran off with a younger guy. "You little shit. You're lucky that you're even still on this team after the stunts you've pulled. I could throw you off the team, you know."

"And if you do, I declare for the supplemental draft that's coming up soon, get selected, and cash in early, while you get your contract bought out. I'll be in the pros while you're stuck doing what? Analysis on some second rate cable network? That's really supposed to scare me?"

Coach smirks, and for the first time in our entire conversation I'm somewhat disturbed. I'm the one that's supposed to be in charge of this conversation, not him. Then why does he look like he's under control? "I don't think so, Duncan."

"What's that supposed to mean? In case you don't remember, I'm not one of your scholarship losers. I'm fully paid up, my dad paid all of my way through this school. I can walk, and it doesn't hurt me. You can't hurt me."

Coach leans forward, putting his forearms on the desk, and shakes his head. "Oh but Duncan, I can. You say you can declare for the supp draft, and that's true. But try getting drafted if it comes out that you're a ball hog, a bad teammate who causes drama for any team that drafts him. The teams can find out about your party habits. The League nearly crucified the last little shit who tried to ride out the gravy train while having your sort of past. What's he doing now? Oh yeah, that's right, drug rehab in an in-treatment facility about an hour south of Santa Barbara with no contract and about ten million dollars of lawsuits sitting in his lap when he gets out."

Shit
. "You can't. I'll sue you for defamation of character."

Coach laughs again, like I've just told the funniest joke in the world. "Sue me? Duncan, first you'd have to prove that I did actually reveal any information, and there are so many sources out there. The reality is that for three years now, I've been covering for you, not revealing anything about you."

Like that matters. "Yeah, just like every other coach around college ball. You guys get a player my talent, and you bend over backwards to make sure we stay eligible and putting cash in your pockets. How much is that Nike endorsement contract the team signed last year worth to you, half a million a year?"

"That contract is written with the knowledge that players like you come in, and fade out. There's some who have a good year, then shit happens," Coach counters, still smiling a little smile that disturbs me. Maybe Bainridge knows something more than I do. “By the way, I know you had that agency do an evaluation of your potential draft position over the summer, and I know the results. Coming off the chips in your elbow, and as a tight end, regardless if you do have good speed and hands for that position and can play slot, you were looking at nothing higher than a third round pick in April's draft, weren't you?"

Damn, Coach knows more about me than I thought. Talking with an agent like that is technically against the rules, although I never did sign any contract with them, so there's nothing that can be proven. "Something like that."

Bainridge nods and continues. "But if you put up good numbers this year, you've got a chance at a first or second round pick, which doubles or even triples the money you get on that rookie contract. I know you don't give a fuck about the money — you care about the fame and your reputation. Being some third round scrub pick is nothing. Being a first or second rounder though, you come with expectations, and a greater potential of fame. You think you're the first egotistical prick I've had to deal with in twenty years of being a head coach?"

Of course I don't. It was one of the reasons I picked Western, I knew that Bainridge ran a program that produced League level players nearly every year. He'd just had a dry spell, and there were whispers that maybe he'd lost his touch as a recruiter, that he was getting too old to keep up with the modern game. Not that I cared, I cared that Western got a minimum of nine games a year nationally televised. "You covered for the other guys."

"Of course I did, you're right. But I also demanded at least a modicum of professionalism from each of them. Which meant that I overlooked their poofty, underwater basketweaving major schedules, the girlfriends that got stacked two and three deep at times, the parties, the drunken frat antics, all of it...
IF
they showed up and did their jobs for the team and produced on the field. Now, I will admit you've been a tougher nut to crack than most of the others. I could hold their scholarships over their heads. But I know what drives you, Duncan. I take away your ability to get fame, and you're stuck. So that's what I'm holding over you. You either get with the program, or some of the front offices in the League get anonymous, but easily verified reports about your antics the past four years."

Fucking asshole
. But he has me over a rock. "What do you want?"

"I talked with Coach Taylor, he says you've been avoiding coming down for a rehab."

"Of course. That meathead can't tell me what to do." When I say meathead about Coach Dave Taylor, that is exactly what I mean too. The guy has a neck larger than his head, and seems to think that the cure for everything is squats and deadlifts. If he got an AIDS diagnosis, he'd probably go do some power cleans to cure it.

Bainridge doesn't agree with my opinion, nothing new there. "Actually, he can. In fact, he's got a PhD in kinesiology, and rehabs more athletes in a year than some strength coaches and trainers rehab in a lifetime. So here's the deal. For your own damn good, I'm ordering you to go down to the weight room tomorrow as soon as your last class is finished. When is that?"

"Two," I grumble, knowing if I lied, Bainridge would just look it up anyway. He gets that information from the registrar's office every semester. "So three?"

"Two thirty," Bainridge counters. "Coach Taylor has an offseason lift with the volleyball team scheduled to start at three, and I won't let some prima donna player of mine screw with his schedule. So you get your ass down there by two thirty, and you talk with him. I don't care if he wants you to sleep in the weight room and do wind sprints before breakfast, you do them and you do them exactly according to protocol. If he says walk, you walk. If he says run so hard you puke, you better bring a bucket."

"Why the fuck are you doing this?" I ask, and I know I'm pouting. Still, this sucks, and I can't do a fucking thing about it. "You just want to see how hard you can push me for a year? Getting your rocks off or something?"

"Actually, whether you believe it or not, I'm doing this because I think you actually do have the talent to be a good pro ball player. In fact, you’re one of the most talented players I've seen on this team in the twenty years I've had at Western. But... you're lazy, and undisciplined. You take those habits to the pros, and you're going to be broken in half. So I'm going to make you learn discipline, learn how to work hard and be a man and not an overgrown boy. That it will just happen to benefit this football team is what is known as a win-win. Understand me?"

I nod, and I'm not happy but at least it's not as bad as I thought. He has what my father calls leverage, and most people with that amount of leverage don't exactly give it up this easily. Still, I couldn't be sure that this was all that Coach wants. "Okay, I'll be there. Now, is there anything else you want?"

Coach shakes his head, and points at the door. "You should probably get going, Duncan. After all, you have a doctor's appointment still this afternoon to make sure you're medically cleared to start your rehab tomorrow."

I get up, and resist the urge to kick the chair across the room. Instead, I grab my backpack and go to the door, pausing before I open it. "You know, Coach, I'm going to take this shit and shove it down your damn throat some day."

"Good. That means you'll be scoring touchdowns doing it, too. Now get out."

I leave the Coach's office, and I'm determined not to act like anything is wrong as I head out. I'm Duncan Hart, and there's no way that I can be made to look like a punk ass bitch. So I'm going to play it cool.

Unfortunately for me, I'm playing it so cool, especially when I see a couple of girl's volleyball players heading down the hall toward the gym they use for practice, their tight thick volleyball asses snug and tight inside those ridiculously hot short shorts they wear, that I'm not really looking where I'm going.

"Hey Linda," I say to the one I know. "Whatcha doing tonight?"

"Don't even try it, Touchdown," Linda replies, a little mix of hatred thrown in there. Okay, so I'd slept her twin sister, that didn't mean I had to be hated, did it? Besides, I noticed Linda checking me out even afterward, especially when I was wearing my football pants, which are nearly as tight as her shorts. She wants the Hart Attack. Her sister loved it, and I know they talk.