Page 16 of Roughing the Player
“Yes. She followed us to Chicago.”
Followeduswhich would mean her child was born before Ellie moved up north. That would make her daughter seven or eight? I can’t imagine having a kid while in college, but Ellie must have. “That’s great.”
“Yes, it is.” She doesn’t volunteer more than that. Like before, I get the feeling she doesn’t want to talk about her family life. Fine. I get it. I drop the subject, even though I’m curious as hell.
After checking her wrap, we stroll toward one of the bar stations outside the ballroom where the dinner will be held. She orders a glass of white wine. Needing something stronger, I request a neat whiskey for me. Since I’m staying at the hotel, I don’t have to watch my alcohol consumption. That wouldn’t be a problem anyway. I’ve never been one to get drunk. My vices have always been women and a great screw. The more, the merrier.
We enter the ballroom to find Trevor coming toward us, a gorgeous woman on his arm. With her chocolate skin, slender figure and majestic height, she could pass for a model. Hell, for all I know, she could be.
When they reach our side, I introduce him to Ellie. “Trevor Johnson, my center. Trevor, my date, Eleanor Adams.”
“Pleased to meet you, Eleanor.” He points to the lady next to him. “My fiancee, Bonita Martin.”
“You’re engaged. How lovely,” Ellie says.
Bonita pats Trevor’s bicep. “Yeah, I plan to make an honest man out of him.”
I laugh. “Lucky him.” I mean it. Even though I’ve never married, I understand the attraction of a wife and a family. It centers a man, roots him in something real. Don’t know why I feel that way since I didn’t have a happy home.
“We’ve been assigned seating,” Trevor says. “You’re in the front, next to Ty Mathews and his fiancée.”
“Thanks for the heads up.”
The lights flicker, and I turn to Ellie. “Looks like they’re getting ready to start. Should we go grab our seats?”
She nods.
After a quick goodbye to Trevor and Bonita, I maneuver our way to the front of the room, holding Ellie’s hand all the while. Our table is easy to spot through the sea of black and red. Ty’s already seated there, a gorgeous redhead by his side. His fiancée, MacKenna Perkins.
We barely get to greet everyone at the table before the waiters fan out across the room with salad plates which everyone wolves down. Soon, we’re being served our entrees. Given the choices of filet mignon, veal parmigiana, and some chicken dish, I’d chosen the beef. I hadn’t known what Ellie would like, so I’d ordered the same for her. Too late, I’m kicking myself. What if she’s turned into a vegan? When the plate is placed in front of her, I lean sideways and whisper in her ear. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I guessed.”
She grins. “You did well. I love filet mignon.”
Going by the way she tucks into her meal, she’s not lying.
After dessert’s served and the tables cleared, the lights in the ballroom dim. As the room grows silent, an assistant coach walks up to the podium to introduce the first speaker, Coach Grohowski, who gives a rousing speech about the Outlaws’ success and everyone’s contribution to the big win. He follows through on his words by naming every single member of the team. Some draw applause when they stand; others get downright cheered, most especially Ty Mathews. Makes sense. He’s the main reason they won the Super Bowl.
When my name’s called, I come to my feet, expecting a polite reception. But to my amazement, I get an enthusiastic response. Dumbfounded, I briefly nod to the crowd and the coach before plunking my ass right back on the chair.
Once the applause dies down, Ty leans in to whisper. “Don’t be surprised. They know how good you are. They expect great things from you.”
I don’t have a humble bone, but right now, that’s my uppermost emotion. Who knew I’d be welcomed with open arms? “I’ll do my best.”
That’s all I get to say. Oliver Lyons, the Outlaws’ owner, is stepping up to the dais, and the room hushes once more.
“This is the best part,” someone at our table murmurs. Every player at our table is sporting a full-toothed grin, much like a kid’s on Christmas day.
I don’t have long to wonder why. Upon Oliver Lyons’s signal, women dressed in the Outlaws’ colors spread across the room and pass out envelopes to the players. The ones at my table eagerly tear them open. Some whoop and holler when they spot what’s inside. Others quietly slip the envelopes into their jackets. Ty shows what’s inside his envelope to his fiancée before sharing a kiss with her.
Since I wasn’t a member of the team during their winning season, I don’t expect anything. But much to my surprise, I’m handed a box with my name on it. I open it up to find a key and a message inside: “Your very own Porsche Cayenne with the Chicago Outlaws’ colors. Thank you for choosing to be part of our team.”
Ironic, since I didn’t want to come in the first place. “Wow. That’s very generous.”
“Oliver Lyons is a very generous owner,” Ty says. “You work hard, and he will reward you.” He drops his voice. “Just don’t screw up.”
I cut my gaze to his. “Meaning?”
“He hates scandals. Last season he fired our kicker. Granted he was a sorry excuse of skin, but he had a great leg. Didn’t matter. When Oliver found out about an old college scandal, he cut him from the team.”
