Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 85787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
“For this week’s game.”
“Really?” Indie stopped fanning and plucked a page out of her fan. “What did you learn from this one?”
It was a picture of Brody in his underwear. Tight black boxer briefs. “I was looking at his knee to see if the picture was taken before or after his surgery.”
“You were looking at his dick.”
“I was not. The guy is a dick.”
“Who does it for you.”
“He does not.”
“Does too.”
“Whatever.” I rolled my eyes. “You know . . . he definitely has a unique story. First-round draft pick at twenty. Car accident mid second season. He was injured, but nothing too bad. Cut from the team before the start of the third season. Rehab almost two years later, then makes it back to the lineup as a walk-on. Three years later, Super Bowl MVP.”
“I remember when he got cut. He was in the news more than when he was starting for the Steel. Drinking and partying. Became a boy toy for a bunch of celebrity women.”
“How do you go from being a first-round draft pick to being cut from the team?”
“Drugs and alcohol.”
“But he wasn’t really known as a party guy until after he was cut. I’ve been digging around, trying to piece together the puzzle of Brody Easton, and I just feel like a few are missing. There isn’t anything about him having any issues, and the team didn’t cite any when they cut him.”
“The league probably didn’t want a black eye. Maybe he got hooked on painkillers from his car accident or something.”
“He walked away with only a few cuts and bruises. He wasn’t badly injured in the accident.”
“Was anyone?”
“He was alone in the car, speeding, and lost control.”
“Hmm . . . I don’t know. But maybe you can ask him during pillow talk.” Indie stood up. “When are you back?”
“Monday night.”
“Can I keep this?” She held up the photo of Brody in his boxer briefs. It was definitely a keeper.
“By all means. I don’t want a picture of that arrogant ass.”
“Sure you don’t.” She blew me a kiss and disappeared.
Delta custom configured planes for professional sports teams. A regular Boeing 757 held more than two hundred, but the aircraft that the league used had seats removed for extra leg space. In the rear of the plane, a few sections of seats faced each other across tables, designed for coaches’ meetings during flights.
All fifty-three active players on the Steel roster traveled together two days before the away game, along with seventeen coaches and a few office staff. About a dozen reporters were riding along with the team. Since WMBC was an official team sponsor, I was one of those reporters. And . . . I hated to fly.
Five minutes before boarding, I popped a Xanax and chased it with a full glass of wine. The last thing I remembered before passing out was the pilot saying something about a short delay due to a stubborn flock of birds. Birds?
When I woke up, I checked the time on my phone. I’d slept for four hours of the almost six-hour flight to California. My mouth was dry and my eyes even drier.
“Morning, sleepyhead.” The voice startled me.
Groggy, I turned my head toward the aisle, confused. “Where . . . where is Alan?” I’d fallen asleep sitting next to Alan Coleman, a reporter for Sports Chronicles. Sitting next to me now was none other than Brody Easton. And he was smiling from ear to ear.
“I offered him an exclusive interview on the league's new alcohol rules if he changed seats with me.”
“Why would you do that?”
“To sit next to you.”
“Did you enjoy watching me sleep?”
“I did. You snore, you know.”
“I do not.”
“Yes, you do. Want to see the video to prove it?”
My eyes widened. “You videoed me sleeping?”
“No. But you do have a little dried drool.” He pointed to the corner of my mouth. “Right here.”
I wiped it, even though I wasn’t sure if he was serious. “Did you come back here to annoy me?”
“Pretty much.” He smiled. It was a real smile; even his green eyes participated. Damn.
Just then, the plane hit a bit of turbulence, and whatever calm the Xanax had instilled in me went out the window. I gripped the armrests with both hands.
“Nervous flyer?”
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“You should take something before you fly.”
“I did. But it must have worn off.”
“How about a drink to calm your nerves?”
“I shouldn’t mix any more alcohol with Xanax.” The plane shook again. “I’ll have a Merlot.”
Brody chuckled as he reached up and hit the button for the flight attendant. The leggy brunette responded quickly. She ignored me and spoke to Brody. “What can I do for you, Mr. Easton?”
“Can you bring us a Merlot and a bottle of water, please?”
“Of course.”
The minute it arrived, I gulped almost the entire full glass as if it were medicine. Looking over at Brody, I realized for the first time that he was dressed in a suit. He wore it well. “Nice to see you in pants for a change.”