Just Rules (3 page)

He had more than enough reasons not to go to that damn dinner, and no desire whatsoever, but he got dressed anyway. He put on a black suit, a shirt with cuff links, a tie, and dress shoes. The whole works.

It was much more uncomfortable than the gear he would wear during games, or at least it seemed that way to him.

Before leaving the locker room, he turned to the mirror one last time and pretended that he didn’t realize just how bruised, tired, and old he was. He sighed and ran his fingers through his black hair, and clenched his jaw just like he did before starting a game. Avoiding the inevitable wouldn’t do any good.

He threw his bag over his right shoulder and went directly to the garage reserved for players, and when he got in his car it would be a lie if he said he wasn’t tempted to go home, but he drove towards L’Escalier.

The traffic lights were not on his side. They were all green. Boston had no sympathy and the streets were wide open for him. With each second that passed, that damn dinner seemed more tortuous to him. He made the last turn and realized that there was no turning back. A squadron of journalists spotted him in the distance and the flashes began to go off. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel as he drove the last stretch.

As soon as he stopped the black Jaguar, an employee from the restaurant opened the door for him and took his keys to park it, leaving Mac at the main entrance to L’Escalier, which was full of microphones and cell phones.

“Mac, Mac!” shouted a reporter. “Are you thinking about retiring?”

Bastard.

“Is it true that you broke up with Kassandra?” asked another, referring to the Russian model that he had been seen with lately.

“Have you resigned from the Patriots? It’s rumored that they aren’t going to renew your contract and that they’ve even found your replacement.”

Damn it, he had also heard those rumors, but he thought he was the only one.

Mac didn’t answer any of the questions. He learned his lesson years ago.

When he was just starting out he was very friendly with the press, until a tabloid twisted what he said and he ended up punching some journalist. He had to pay a fine, buy a new camera, and do community service, and it was all because a stupid journalist decided to make up a headline at his expense.

Now Mac only responded to questions during official press conferences, or if he had the misfortune of being invited to a television program. And he only talked about work, football, and the Patriots.

He walked into the restaurant and, ignoring the people who tried to greet him, went directly to the bar and ordered a whiskey. The waiter served him immediately. Mac brought the glass up to his face and in an effort to make himself feel better, breathed deeply soaking up the smell of wood. That was probably the only thing he had in common with his father, a weakness for good whiskey. Although they got along very well, Mac and his father were as different as they come. Mr. MacMurray was still surprised that his oldest son had chosen to dedicate his life to football.

He took a sip and felt it burn as it went down his throat. Mac didn’t drink much, that’s why when he did, he chose his drinks very meticulously, and the waiter at L’Escalier no doubt was up for the task.

He took a breath and sighed.

Perhaps he could just sit there, say hi to Mike and the directors of the Patriots, and disappear. He closed his eyes and rested the glass against his forehead to see if it would make his headache go away.

“Good evening, Mac.”

Shit. Of all the people he didn’t want to see that night, the owner of that voice was number one on the list.

Susan Lobato.

He usually liked to argue with Tim’s fiance. He thought it was fun and exciting, but not that night.

Not tonight.

He ignored her and drank a little more whiskey. His eyes were closed, but he could feel Susana’s presence to his right, just a few inches away.

“It’s polite to answer a person when they’re talking to you.”

As the tone of Susan’s voice penetrated his skin, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and his stomach started to burn. If Tim’s fiance didn’t leave immediately, they were both going to be very sorry, because he would turn around and tell her exactly how he felt about her. That night he wasn’t messing around.
But if you lose your temper with her, you will lose your best friend.
He counted to ten in his head. He shouldn’t have gone to that damn dinner.

You’re the captain of the team, and this may have been your last game.

He sighed giving in and he set his drink on the bar ready to turn around and tell Miss Steel Pants that he was tired and hurting and that the only thing he wanted to do was to go home and rest. He opened his eyes and was distracted by a beautiful blonde who suddenly appeared to his left. He turned toward the blonde, avoiding Susan.

Why did she look so familiar?

Did he know her?

“Hi, Mac.” The blonde ran her finger down his tie. “I thought you were going to call me.”

Shit, yes, now he remembered. That blonde’s name was Tiffany or Jennifer or something like that, and Quin, another player on the team, had introduced them at a dinner a few months ago. She was just as beautiful as she was boring, and in an effort to get rid of her, Mac had told her he would call her in a few days. It was stupid of him.

Apparently he had been acting like that a lot lately.

“Hi,” he said to the blonde, trying to sound as disgusted as possible. He didn’t have the patience to deal with her.

“Wow, I guess we’re not all invisible.” Susan’s sarcasm made Mac grab his drink and squeeze it, imagining it was her neck.

“It doesn’t matter. I forgive you —said the blonde, ignoring Susan’s presence and puckering her lips at Mac— if you make it up to me tonight.”

I would sooner have my skin peeled off
, thought Mac.

“I’m afraid, princess, it’s not going to happen tonight,” he said, trying to sound seductive. The comment from Steel Pants made him feel like flirting. “How about if I treat you to dinner tomorrow?”

The blonde gave a smile of victory, and Susan laughed to herself.

Mac squeezed the glass that was almost empty even more tightly.

“Perfect. I can’t wait.” She ran her finger down Mac’s tie again and walked away with a perfectly calculated, provocative strut.

“I’ll call you, and I’ll pick you up,” said Mac, trying to ignore Susan’s presence even though he could feel her staring at him from behind. Why wouldn’t she go away?

“I’ll be waiting for you,” smiled Kelly , was that her name?

It did not matter, Mac said goodbye winking an eye at her.

The blonde left and Mac thought that he needed to find an excuse to stand her up the next day. He would rather have dinner with all of Giants and let them rub in the fact that they won the Super Bowl, before going out to dinner with Miss Silicone.

“
Princess
,” muttered Susan, just before taking a sip of champagne. “You don’t know her name,” she affirmed.

That’s it.

That was the last straw.

They had lost the Super Bowl to the Giants, his entire body hurt, they had practically shouted to his face that he was too old to keep playing, and he had realized that a knockout blonde didn’t even turn him on in the least bit. Hearing sarcastic comments from a stuck up snob like Steel Pants was the last thing he was willing take. He gulped down the whiskey and turned around.

He was frozen stiff.

Susan Steel Pants had her entire back exposed and was wearing a beautiful, long pearl necklace that dangled on her skin. Apparently, while he finished his drink, she had turned around and the only thing Mac saw now was Susan’s never-ending back exposed, with rose colored pearls that caressed her freckles and radiated heat. She wore her hair up like she usually did, but a lock of hair had fallen out of place, caressing her shoulders. She had a freckle just next to her sixth vertebra, and the cut of her dress was so low that you see the beginning of her derriere.

Mac swallowed and clenched his teeth. He couldn’t breathe. What the hell was happening to him? That was Susan, the most dreadful woman on the face of the earth, and his best friend’s fiance. What was she doing dressed like that? He turned toward the bar again, at least that way he didn’t have to look at her, and he realized that he was turned on. Oh, no, it wasn’t because of her. That was a late reaction from the blonde, or from the whiskey, or from anything else.

“Pour me another whiskey,” he said to the waiter. And then he saw the young man walking toward Susan with a woman’s jacket in his hands.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Lobato —he muttered nervously, handing her the jacket— I don’t know what happened. I’ve never spilled a drink before. I’m really sorry about that, the stain has almost completely disappeared, but I insist that you send me the dry cleaning bill.”

Mac watched attentively, convinced that Steel Pants would demand to speak with the waiter’s boss, and that when the boss arrived she’d ask for the waiter’s head to be put on a silver platter.

“Don’t be silly,” was what Susan said to the waiter, smiling to try to calm him down, leaving Mac completely shocked. “It could have happened to anyone. Don’t worry about it at all, really.” She grabbed the jacket from him and smiled again.

It took Mac several seconds to realize that he could finally breathe again, and when the air entered his lungs, he realized that it was because Susan had covered her back and returned to being her usual self. The pearls were now hanging on the front of her dress, not on her bare skin turning her into the most sensual woman he had ever seen.

Thank goodness.

“Would you mind getting me the whiskey if you’ve finished looking at the young lady?” What he said sounded bad even to him, but that night was getting stranger by the second, and he had to do something to feel a sense of normalcy again.

“Of course, Mr. MacMurray.” The waiter nodded, embarrassed, and he hurriedly served him his drink.

“You didn’t have to be so impolite,” scolded Susan, turning towards him when the waiter was a few feet away. “That guy already got told off by his boss once tonight.”

Mac sighed, and he had no choice but to agree a little. He raised the hand he was resting on the bar and rubbed his forehead for a few seconds.

His headache had reached epic proportions.

“I haven’t had a good night either so to speak,” he defended himself quietly.

“But you will go home to sleep in your luxury cabin, and tomorrow you’ll go out with that blonde from before and spend more money than what that guy makes in a month.”

“And that’s my fault?” He wasn’t any snob. And although he and Susan always argued, they never attacked each other directly, nor did they talk about personal problems.

Mac had no idea that she really thought so poorly of him. And it bothered him.

“It’s not that guy’s fault either,” insisted Susan. “Having been born into a rich family and being a football player doesn’t give you the right to treat the rest of the world as if we were your servants.”

“I don’t do that. Besides, your fiance has way more money than I do. And don’t come at me with your moral values, Miss Three thousand dollar handbag.” He grabbed the drink, which seemed to have magically appeared on the bar, and took a sip. He knew perfectly well that Susan wasn’t with Tim for his money and that she had earned herself a good reputation as a journalist, but he was hurting, and fed up.

He was furious, so much so, that without realizing it he got off the stool and moved closer to Susana.

“My bag is not worth three thousand dollars,” she mumbled.

They look each other in the eye and it seemed to Mac that hers were different, that they shined in a special way. What was making her eyes shine? Was it Tim? He noticed a terrible pressure in his chest and he closed his fist which was resting on the bar. Had Susan always had that freckle on her right cheekbone?

Quit looking at her, Mac.

Why was he looking at her like that? Yes, the two of them had always argued, but deep down inside Mac had always believed that their relationship was sort of funny. Relationship? He shook his head.

“Mac, I’m glad you made it.” Tim interrupted them, giving him a slap on the back. “We’re sitting at the same table,” he announced, unaware of the tension that resonated between his friend and his fiance. “Can I accompany you, honey?” He stretched out his arm, which Susan happily accepted.

Tim didn’t realize that Mac hadn’t said anything to him, or that he was essentially incapable of speaking, as he walked away with Susan.

Mac waited for the couple to enter the dining area of the restaurant so that he could leave the bar and breathe deeply.

That night, without a doubt, was going from bad to worse.

He downed the whiskey, the second one, and stayed there until he couldn’t procrastinate any longer. He gave up and moved toward the table.

He wished with all his might that Susan would stay as far away from him as possible. It still hurt him to breathe and didn’t want to think about why.

Someone answered his prayers. Thank God.

Mac spent the rest of the evening sitting between Quin’s wife, one of the nicest girls, and the blonde from before, who wasn’t all that, and who was not named Tiffany or Jennifer, but Kelly. At least he got something right.

The food at L’Escalier was delicious and the drinks were generous, so Mac went with the flow and noticed that little by little his body and mind began to relax, thanks especially to the alcohol and the dull conversation with the blonde. Luckily, Susan reminded him again of the snob she always was, and the effect she had on him earlier had completely vanished.

The dinner was winding down, and Kelly’s hand suddenly appeared on his thigh under the table cloth. It took him a second to grasp what she wanted and when he did, he realized that his body refused to react. Shit, he was more tired than he thought, and if the blonde kept moving her hand toward the inner part of his thighs, it wouldn’t take her long to realize she wasn’t going to get a reaction out of him. That was a disgrace he wasn’t willing to deal with that night.