Page 70 of Nothing Less Than Everything

TATUM

Week 3. Our first two games of the regular season had been away. First in Arizona, then in Texas. Week 3 was our home opener. According to Mike Williams, our head coach, it was customary for the team owner to host dinner after the first home game of the regular season.

I was voluntold to be there while I was getting suited up for the game this morning. Unfortunately, no amount of griping got me out of it.

Wren and I had managed to keep things on the down low for over a month. A month of sneaking around, whispered phone calls, and apartment interludes under cover of darkness. The late-night visits and early morning escapes thoroughly fucked up my sleep schedule.

The team had milked the viral tackle video for all it was worth, which only encouraged lowlife paparazzi. Scumbags skirted the legal line of stalking, waiting to pounce outside Wren’s apartment.

The security team and lobby concierge in my building kept my place scum-free, forcing the shit weasels to overstay their welcome at the coffee shop across the street.

Wren didn’t have building security to dispose of creeps and their cameras. So, I took it upon myself to hire her a car service. She made a fuss when I threatened to place scary goons outside her door and outside the building. We compromised and hired the car service. Sam procured the driver, Kaya—a fellow veteran who served four tours in Kabul, then decided the private sector paid better. She took her risk assessment skills and turned it into a wildly profitable business that offered personal protection services and client transportation. I felt better knowing someone had Wren’s back whenever she left her apartment or office.

I hated that I couldn’t personally make her feel safe. It didn’t matter that I could pay for someone to do it. I wanted to do it my damn self.

And this fucking dinner tonight…

I threw my helmet into my locker cubicle and dropped onto the padded bench. The breezy seventy-three-degree weather had been great for sweat management, but shit for field goals. The wind blowing in from the harbor was brutal. Still, we managed a five-point victory.

Wren, in those microscopic red-hot pants, had an extra swing in her hips when I caught her eye in the third quarter. She wasn’t hard to spot. Cornsilk blonde curls, legs for days, an ass I dreamed about sinking my teeth into, and tits held up by scraps of fabric that I wanted to tear to shreds. She was a heart-stopper.

“Bryant!” Coach Tyson bellowed, weaving through the crowd of sweaty men in various stages of undress.

I shucked off my jersey. “Yeah?”

“You’re attending the dinner at the Elias family estate tonight.”

The Elias family made their millions—uh—billions in the media industry. Their ancestors immigrated to New York in the thirties. Decades later, they controlled newspapers and television networks. They had wisely accepted the looming digital era faster and better than their competitors and survived the decline of print news. Now, they pumped obscene amounts of cash into a professional football team. I, for one, wasn’t complaining.

“Yeah. Coach told me I didn’t have a choice.”

Coach Tyson snorted. “Same, kid. Get used to it. If you’re here for a few more seasons, you’ll get to see how the other half lives more than once. It’s you, me, Williams, and the rook.”

I groaned. Fucking Seth McBride. He finally started cleaning up his act off the field. Puking up your hangover in front of sports reporters was good motivation. Still, when he was on the field, he let his mouth write checks that his skills weren’t good for. He had a shit attitude and a chip the size of the stadium jumbotron on his shoulder.

“Not my choice,” Coach muttered under his breath. “You need a ride?”

I shook my head. I had planned on sneaking Wren over to my place tonight, hoping that if I played nice for the cameras before and after the game, that they wouldn’t swarm my apartment for a day or so. But she texted me before the game saying a commitment with the squad came up and she’d be out late. Probably a local watch-party appearance or some shit like that. The thought of her wearing that microscopic uniform in a dark room full of drunk assholes.

“Nah. I’m good.”

“Alright. See you there, kid. Wear a tie.”

I hurried through my postgame routine—shit, shower, and shave—then tossed on the dress clothes I’d worn to the facilities this morning and headed to my car.

The drive through East Greenwich and Jamestown provided a necessary break between the chaos of the stadium to what was sure to be a stuffy, suffocating dinner.

All I wanted was a goddamn beer.

The Elias mansion sat on a sprawling property at Ochre Point in Newport. It dripped with Gilded-Age opulence. I discreetly snapped a photo of the outside of the mansion to send to Wren as a valet took my keys. Sure, she didn’t actively use her architecture degree for its intended purpose, but the woman still salivated over ornate ceilings and dramatic façades. I should know. I suffered through a documentary on the life and work of Richard Morris Hunt.

The special was boring as hell but watching how happy she was when I sat with her made me happy. It made me even happier when she wiggled down the bed halfway through the documentary and tugged my cock out of my boxers. She spent the rest of the three-hour show with her head resting on my stomach, casually sucking my dick while I stroked her hair.

I jogged up the steps, buttoning my blazer. Lamps along tall stone arches glowed in the dusk light.

“Mr. Bryant,” an attendant in a suit said as he consulted a clipboard. “Thank you for joining us this evening. May I take your coat?”

I shrugged off the blazer I’d just buttoned, cursing wearing the damn thing in the first place, and handed it to the man. I pocketed the coat check slip, rolling my sleeves up to my elbows as I made my way into the dinner party.

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