Page 5 of Hot Route
“You’re not dying. You’re hungover,” He deadpans. “What the ever-loving fuck were you thinking? Partying the night before a shoot with the biggest shoe brand in the world. The brand that you signed a five-million-dollar contract with, might I add.”
I hear some ruffling on the other end of the line and I’d bet every dime I have that he’s rifling through his desk looking for some Tums. I have a gift for making his ulcer flare up. I couldn’t tell you why the grumpy old prick still puts up with me. Oh, yeah, I can. Because signing a five-million-dollar endorsement is not an irregular occurrence for me. Not only am I the top-paid receiver in the National Football League, but you can’t walk down the street in this city without seeing my face on a billboard or the side of a bus.
He must’ve found his antacids because I’m treated to his loud, open-mouth chewing before he continues. I can’t decide whether the sound makes me want to cry, puke, or punt one of these couch pillows into the fucking sun. But he’s already not very happy with me, so I keep those thoughts to myself.
“You need to straighten up, kid. Stop drinking and chasing women every time you have a night off. Not that youhadlast night off. You should’ve been in bed early, resting for your early call time.”
I get why he’s annoyed. I’m an amazing football player, but all the other stuff? The off-the-field part of being a pro athlete? I have a hard time keeping track. There’s always a photo shoot or appearance to be made. I spend long hours eating prepared meals from Tupperware containers while being carted from one location to the other. And now, I’ve started my own brand of athletic wear, which will just add more to my plate.
I sit up, wincing slightly when the pounding in my skull returns. “I think I need some help keeping my shit together,”I tell him. “Maybe I need to hire someone to take care of my schedule.”
“Actually, there’s a fairly new agency in Boston that matches people up with personal assistants. I’ve worked with them before and haven’t heard any complaints. I can get someone to come every day and make sure you know what’s going on. And if you have any extra tasks for them, that’ll be up to you.”
I scoff. “No thanks. Last thing I need is some stranger hanging around twenty-four seven, all up in my business. Just tell them I need help keeping my schedule straight and that I’ll possibly have them come along to shoots and appearances, so I don’t have to eat cold lunches out of plastic containers all day.”
“Whatever,” he replies. “Just do me a favor and remember the advice I gave you about not sleeping with anyone who works for you.”
“C’mon Mac. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you wanted me all to yourself,” I joke.
He tells me someone from the agency will be contacting me before we end the call. Now that I’ve given myself an accidental day off, I can chill here and let the remnants of last night leave my system before hitting the gym with my teammate Dalton this evening. I can't help but think about how my life is right now. All I do is play football, work out, and party with random women when I have some free time, which is limited these days.
As glamorous as it looks from the outside, I'm getting to a point where I'm starting to think that there must be more to life than this. Most of my teammates and old college buddies are in serious relationships. Some of them are even married with children. And here I am, missing important appearances because I was trying to get my dick wet with a woman whose name I can’t even remember. All this stuff was cute when I was a rookie, but maybe I need to think about what my future will look like when I'm no longer able to play the game I love.
“Fuck that. Live it up while you can, Becks,” I say to myself before drifting off to sleep.
SIX
MADS
As I pullthrough the gates of the massive housing complex, I almost go off the road several times, looking at the row of homes that I am driving past. Grabbing my Gucci dupe sunglasses from the center console, I slide them onto my face. There is no way I’m driving through this place and not pretending like I’m one of the Real Housewives of Boston. So what if I drive a busted down Chevy that sounds like the RV from National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation? It’s calledstaying humble.
“I bet Maury Povich lives here. Fuckinglovethat show,” I say to myself as I continue driving toward my destination.
Double checking the paper that was given to me by Tyler’s mom, I pull up to the address in front of me. The house is huge. As a matter of fact, this isn’t a house. I would say it’s a mansion, but I feel like maybe there is a better word for it. A castle? A Kingdom? I don’t know, but this is easily the biggest house I have ever seen. Surely, there must be more than one person living here. I’d be willing to bet it’s a senator and their family or something like that. I really hope I don’t get stuck wiping snotty noses and changing diapers. I just want to schedule some meetings, run some errands, and get my paycheck.
I shake my hands out after putting the car in park. Taking a deep breath, I try to calm my nerves as I double check to make sure I don’t have lipstick on my teeth. That would be embarrassing. I step out of the car and take a moment to get another look at the massive dwelling I’ll be spending at least half of every weekday in from now until I’m done with my internship.
“It could be worse,” I say to myself. “Be thankful you’re here and not riding on the back of a garbage truck.” Not that I have anything against garbage trucks. I’m just not built for that kind of manual labor.
Sucking in one last deep breath, I reach out and ring the doorbell. I hear some loud footsteps, what sounds like grunting, and then the door swings open abruptly. The man standing before me completely steals every last breath from my body.He towers over my five-foot-five frame. His messy brown hair is in direct contrast to his perfect face.
Say something cool, idiot. My brain wills me to stay calm for just one moment in my socially awkward life.
“You’re not Maury Povich.”Oh my God. I want to die.
“What?” he says, eyes wide as saucers.
“You know. Maury. ‘You arenotthe father!’”I say, using a deep, manly voice.
He looks at me blankly for a moment. “You were expecting Maury Povich? Wow. Sorry for the letdown. I’m Blaze Beckham. I play —”
“Wide receiver for the Boston Blizzard,” I interrupt him like an absolute cantaloupe, remembering how I almost got myself off looking at his shirtless photos a few days ago.
Please, God, just let me say something normal, and I promise you I will never ask for another thing as long as I live.
I shake my head, trying to get myself together. “I know who you are. And I wasn’t expecting Maury Povich, per se. I wasn’tgiven a name of who I would be working for. I was just caught off guard.”
Blaze quirks a brow. “They didn’t tell you that you’d be my new assistant? That seems a little weird. What if you hated me? What if you were a Miami Rage fan? You’renota Miami Rage fan, are you?”
