Page 6 of Tight Spot

“No sir.” I shook my head and took a seat I hadn’t been invited to take across from him at his desk. “I’m not trying to be funny. My sister told me he wasn’t leaving her alone. She screamed. I went to protect her. Guy said he hadn’t done anything, but by then, he and his friends were worked up, and I was pissed. Shoving happened, and I grabbed his shirt, but I didn’t throw him into the bar or slam his face into it. We were both shoved. He slipped. I was yanked back, and his head slammed into the bar, but I didn’t do it. Not on purpose.”

“So our press statement should just read, ‘Oops. My bad. Didn’t mean it?’”

I hated politics. Hated the marketing and the promotion, and I was shit at it. I was paid to do a job, and I did it well. Yeah, we were public figures. I knew that, too, but the focus on players should be on their job, not their lives. Every damn secret or mistake shouldn’t be swept across the internet for keyboard warriors to dissect when they knew jack shit, and the media should keep their mouths shut until the entire story was out. Before that, it was gossip and conjecture, and I hated that bullshit.

I’d leave the press release to him. If I had it my way, it’d say fuck off, and that’d only make things worse.

“How much trouble am I in?”

“Owners want you gone. You know that last year an online poll was done and you’re one of the top five most disliked players in the entire professional football organization?”

I’d seen that BuzzFeed poll that moved to Instagram and Twitter and all across social platforms. Cole had given me shit for it, too. We’d laughed it off.

Marchand was not laughing.

“I also score more touchdowns than any other tight end and some wide receivers.” Perhaps pointing out my usefulness doing the actual job would help.

“That’s why they’re not demanding you’re immediately let go. But there will be changes.”

“Like what? Smile for a toothpaste ad?” I gave him a fake, winning smile.

Had to hand it to the guy, he cracked a little. A barely there hint of a chuckle came before he went all serious again.

Then he laid out my future.

I was fucked in the worst ways.

Stay with the team. Settle down or ship out after next season.

How in the hell was I going to do that when I’d sworn a vow to myself at the age of fifteen I would never let a woman get close enough to my heart to destroy it like Mom had done to Dad?

* * *

By the time I returned home, Crystal had given up her need to go shopping. She was napping.

I took the time to pack up her shit. Given that she didn’t wake up or so much as twitch while I did it, I figured she wasn’t napping but passed out from too many mimosas. A peek at my kitchen counter told me she’d also switched to wine at some point.

She was a disaster. I should probably haul her ass off to a treatment facility. Somewhere in the Bahamas or some shit. Maybe that’d keep her out of my hair.

It was hours later that she woke up. I’d had to miss practice to deal with Marchand, but since I was suspended for a game during playoffs, for fuck’s sake, it wasn’t like I had to be there. I should have been. Definitely. Coach Bowles had already called and yelled at me, but Crystal took precedence.

Instead, while she slammed cabinets and doors in the guest bedroom, looking for her shit, I called her an Uber.

When she finally stepped foot into the living room, her face was blank of all emotion.

“Your shit is outside the door. Your Uber ride to the airport is coming now. Be here any minute. You’re leaving. I’ve transferred a million dollars into your account, and I want to see you again… never. You understand me?”

Her face went from blank to a wicked sneer in a blink. “You’re kicking me out? Just like Dad and Mom. Fuck you, Dawson.”

We’d been through this before. Many times. She cried. I caved. Round and round we went.

Not this time.

“I mean it, Crystal. I want nothing to do with you ever again. That shit from last night almost cost me my career today. My dream. You’re not worth it. Thought you were, tried to get you help, but now I know you won’t help yourself and I can’t force you into it.”

“I don’t need help. I need someone to give a shit about me.”

“Then maybe you should start by giving a shit about yourself and being a decent human being.”

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