Love on the Highlight Reel (Connecticut Kings Book 2) (3 page)

“I don’t give a shit about that.”

“But
I
give a shit. The team gives a shit. The NFL gives a shit. It’s time out for this “bad boy” mess, Jordan. You need to get serious. You’re one of the top wide receivers in the world right now. Fifteen hundred receiving yards your first year out of draft, and on the field, you keep getting better. But if you want the
big deal
endorsements, longevity on this team, high dollar contracts… Jordan, you are going to have to grow the hell up.”

There was silence for a long moment after that. More silence than Jordan could usually offer the world. Such a long silence that I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, but didn’t break eye contact with him. Finally, he nodded, looking away as he scrubbed a hand over his face.

“That’s how the Kings feel, huh?”

I said nothing, and he raised his eyebrows.

“Come on, Nicki. Speak up now. That’s how the Kings feel? Old Jordan is a fucking drag
now
, because I like to have fun? There weren’t any complaints when me and TB were taking this team to championships, but now that I’m here by myself, no fucking help on the team,
now
I’m a liability? Well guess what? I’m probably outta here after my contract is up anyway. How about that?”

Shit. Did not play this right.

“You’ll be a free agent, Jordan. You can do as you wish, but the Kings have been loyal to you, and obviously want to keep you here with us.”

“Oh don’t give me that bullshit
now
. Y’all are out here acting like I’m a damn problem, when I’m the same dude you couldn’t wait to get your hands on a few years ago. Nothing has changed.”

I swallowed hard, looking him right in the eyes. “And
that
is exactly the problem.”

He blinked once, then twice, and for a second the bravado slipped, and I saw… something else. But just as quickly as I’d noticed, he’d blinked it away, and rolled his eyes. “What-the-fuck-ever Nicki.”

“It’s Cole.”

“Whatever. Give me my phone.”

I wasn’t about to argue. I was drained enough from this completely unproductive meeting, that I couldn’t even remember what I’d hoped to accomplish from. I pulled his phone from between my breasts and handed it to him, and in true Jordan fashion, the first thing he did was lift it to his nose and inhale. “Why do your titties always smell so good?” he asked, in a tone that gave the distinct impression he meant it as a compliment.

I rolled my eyes. “The better question is, why wouldn’t they? Don’t answer that,” I said, raising my hand to cut him off. “While you’re with us, you need an agent, and you need PR. Chloe McKenna. I’ll set up a meeting.”

“I don’t need you to hire my people.”

I scoffed. “I insist.”

“I insist that if you wanna hire some people, talk to scouting about getting me some offense I can work with on this team. I want a fucking ring. If the Kings can’t do that for me this year… I’ll find a team that can.”

He turned around without saying anything else, and ambled out the door. I closed my eyes as the door shut behind him, finally taking the opportunity for a deep breath, the kind I hadn’t dared take the whole time we were alone in my office.

The door opened again, and my head popped up as Presley walked into the office, tablet in hand. “How did it go?” she asked, chewing at the corner of her lip. “Jordan looked unhappy.”

“Because he is,” I said, finally putting my glasses back on my face. “And we have to figure out how to make him… not that. Set up a meeting with him and Chloe McKenna please.”

Presley nodded, then left me alone in the office as I sank into my chair, fingers pressed to my temples. I wasn’t about to kiss Jordan’s ass – yet - but him not being on the team wasn’t an option. Especially not while he was
my
responsibility.

Twenty-eight years old.

Black.

Female.

I was already a unicorn around here, and I’d never live it down if I lost our star player.

Somehow, I had to make sure that didn’t happen.

Two.

I hated Wednesdays.

Especially the week after a loss.

Media all over the locker room for damn near an hour, saying whatever the fuck they wanted. After a win, whatever. I could handle it. But if we didn’t? The motherfuckers went for blood – which I could also handle.

The team just didn’t usually like the way I handled it.

“Jordan Johnson, Kendra Fulton with WAWG Sports.”

With a heavy sigh, I tightened the towel around my waist and turned around, already bracing myself for bullshit. I was tired – mentally and physically – from practice and morning meetings, and I was barely out of the shower, but apparently, none of that mattered.

I put on a smile, hoping that a little flash of dimples would grant me some mercy.  My shoulders dipped in relief when she smiled back – a pretty smile at that, so I grinned even harder.

“Just a few questions today Jordan,” she said, gesturing to her camera guy to start filming. “Is that okay?”

She was cute as hell – nice little body, big brown eyes.

“As long as you plan to take it easy on me,” I flirted, suddenly not so pissed about Wednesday. I hadn’t seen her around here before.

“Now what fun would that be?” she said in a low voice, obviously not intended to be heard by the mic as she held it away from her face. Her eyes grazed my bare chest and then went lower, before they came back. She winked at me, and then brought the mic up.

“We’re here with star wide-receiver Jordan Johnson today, subject of recent controversy after video surfaced of him partying in a local gentleman’s club. You seemed slower than usual during the game this past Sunday – do you think it’s the result of your frequent, wild, late nights?”

I narrowed my eyes. “I wasn’t slow at all. I actually had my best receiving game this season last Sunday, so you may want to check your facts.”

She smiled. “I’m well aware of the facts, Mr. Johnson. You also had your most dropped passes, and a fumble in that game. Were you hungover from Saturday night, or are you still struggling with your shoulder? We know you had surgery on it in the off season – are you not yet at 100%?”

“My shoulder is fine, and you may want to review the game film if you’re trying to pin this loss on me, Ms. Fulton. I get on that field and do my job every damn time, no matter what. Not everybody can say the same thing.”

“Are you saying your teammates aren’t pulling their weight?”

“I’m not saying anything except what the fuck I said. And I’m done talking.”

I turned away from her to emphasize my disinterest in finishing the conversation, choosing instead to start getting dressed for the second offensive meeting of the day. Behind me, she spoke into the camera to finish her clip.

“There you have it. Connecticut Kings wide receiver Jordan Johnson denying that he’s not recovered from the rotator cuff surgery he had this past March. He also staunchly denies that his habit of patronizing strip clubs and heavy drinking have any effect on his performance.”

“I like how you’re spinning that. That’s impressive,” I muttered, shaking my head.

“Also, as you heard, he pinned the responsibility of the loss squarely on his team, confirming rumors that he is unhappy. I can’t help but wonder how that will affect the team’s morale.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, turning around after I’d pulled my tee shirt down over my chest. “I didn’t confirm shit, so how about you not put words in my mouth?”

“I’m just stating the obvious conclusions from the information you gave.”

“Yeah, keep your fucked up conclusions to yourself and report the facts if you’re gonna talk about me.”

She sniffed. “There’s no need to be hostile, Mr. Johnson.”

“This ain’t hostile, Ms. Fulton,” I said, giving her a pointed look as I grabbed the edge of my towel. “Now unless WAWG wants the viewers to see my dick, you may want to get that camera off me. Don’t wanna put any eyes out.”

I didn’t give her time to react to that, but the camera guy was paying attention. He’d already turned it in a different direction by the time I’d dropped my towel to pull my boxers on, and I simply ignored Kendra until she moved on.

I didn’t stick around for any other interviews. I already had a good idea of how they were gonna go, so I snuck off with my bag, not returning until I was fully dressed and had my earbuds blasting, drowning out the sounds of anything else.

The media hour was winding down, so by the time I made it to the hall just outside the locker room, it was starting to fill with other players. I raised my head at a few in greeting. Others, I ignored. Truth be told, I was kinda pissed at 98% of those guys about our embarrassing record.

“Yo, JJ!”

I saw, rather than heard the words out of Kyle’s mouth as he approached, arms outstretched. He’d been on the team a little longer than me, offensive line, but relegated to practice squad after never completely coming back from a knee injury.  Everybody looked at me as if I was the party boy on the team, but truth be told, I learned from Kyle.

I pulled the earbuds from my ears, letting them fall around my shoulders as I slapped hands with him. “What’s up boy?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” he said, bumping shoulders with me. “Wednesday night at the usual spot? Watch some ass, eat some wings.”

I shrugged. “I guess I’m down.”

Kyle’s face spread into a broad smile, and he slapped my hand again. “That’s what the fuck I’m talking about. I knew you’d be down, cause you ain’t ever on no “brand new” bullshit. Always the same JJ.”

And that is exactly the problem.

I groaned as Nicki’s words from yesterday rang in my head, immediately making an uncomfortable feeling spring up in my gut. I ran a hand over my face, pushing out a substantial groan. “Man, shit… I just remembered I’ve got this meeting with new PR today. I don’t know how long that shit is gonna go on. Maybe next time, aiight?”

“Bet.”

We shook hands one more time and parted ways, even though we were supposed to be headed to the same place – Offensive meeting. All I
really
wanted to do was take my ass back home, but I knew that wasn’t an option. We’d started working through the official plan for the upcoming game, and I needed to hear the practice notes, know if any changes were made, everything. I wanted to be prepared to win.

Off the field, yeah, I had a certain reputation. But when it was game time, I didn’t mess around. Just like I’d told Nicki, and now Kendra, I did my job, no excuses. And yet… people still acted like I was just some fuckup.

My phone buzzed in the pocket of my sweats, and my shoulders tensed as soon as I saw the name flashing across my screen. I tapped the button to read the message she’d sent.

“Don’t wanna put any eyes out with your dick? Nice, Jordan. Real nice. Make sure you don’t miss that meeting with Chloe, okay?” – Nicole Richardson.”

Should have known.

Of course she’d already seen that clip – the whole world probably had, as quickly as shit traveled. And of course, the problem wasn’t some bullshit reporter fabricating quotes for a story –
I
was the problem.

I shoved the phone back into my pocket and shook my head.

Some things really
didn’t
change.

I didn’t go to that meeting.

Instead, I called Chloe’s people as soon as I got out of my last meeting of the day, and told them I had to reschedule, which was true. I didn’t have extra mental energy just laying around to figure out hiring an agent, or new PR. All of it was a distraction I didn’t need leading into this game in four days.

So what do you call the strip club on Sunday, Monday, and almost Wednesday too?

I grunted, then dropped onto the couch with a beer in one hand and the remote in the other, and closed my eyes. I tried to rationalize it. I
could
rationalize it, to myself at least.

Our record this year was fucking with my head.

Naked women cheered me up.

The strip club had naked women.

The shit was pretty damned simple.

But if I went, I was staying late. If I went, we were popping bottles, because I was Jordan Johnson, and why the hell wouldn’t I? If I went, I wasn’t gonna be in there acting like I was broke, either. The women were gonna be well taken care of. But then, the money brought attention, and suddenly my simple visit to see Cin was a wild-ass, loud-ass, expensive-ass party that I hadn’t intended, but certainly wasn’t about to shut down.

Because… it was another distraction.

My phone went off in my pocket, and I thought about ignoring it. Looking at the time gave me a pretty good idea of who it was. About twenty minutes had passed since I would have been finishing up my meeting with Chloe, and if I knew Nicki – and I
knew
Nicki – she’d called Chloe after to check in.

And now, she was calling me to go off.

I wasn’t interested in playing verbal punching bag though, not tonight. I was about to watch last Sunday’s game over and over until I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and then take my ass to bed.

The question of if I wanted to listen to the commentators while I watched was still playing in my mind when my phone started chiming again. This time, I pulled it out to check the screen, and actually smiled before I tapped the button to answer it with my thumb.

“Jess, baby girl! What’s going?”

“Hey big brother,” she said, and I could already hear her smiling through the phone. “Guess what happened?”

“You finally grew those extra four inches you’ve been praying about since you were sixteen.”

On the other end of the line, Jess giggled. I’d been teasing her about her height since we were kids, but at 5’8”, she wasn’t a short woman by any means – just not tall enough to follow her supermodel dreams. My baby sister had the looks, but not the inches. So instead of
being
a model, she dressed them.

“I wish,” she sighed. “But, I sent a dress to Nubia Perry, and she wore it to lunch today! Somebody asked her on Instagram where it was from, and she mentioned me by name, even tagged me. My social media has been blowing up today!”

I grinned. Jess had idolized Nubia growing up. “That’s what’s up, baby girl! Did you get to talk to her yourself?”

“No, but I’m hoping she asks me to make her something. Could you imagine?! Custom work for friggin’ Nubia Perry?! As it is now, I only got that dress to her because a friend of a friend of a friend works in the building where her offices are. I pulled a
huge
favor to make it happen.”

“But it paid off.”

“Yep.”

“
Without
any help from dad.”

“Yep. So obviously he’s going to hate it.”

“Obviously,” I grinned.

Greg Johnson was a very
his way or no way
type of man. Growing up, our home – however polished we looked on the outside – had been a constant battleground. Him against our mother.  Me and Jessmyn against him, while he tried his best to mold us into his image of what a football legend’s kids should look like. Be model members of Jack & Jill, attend his alma mater, greek life for Jess, and football for me. And we’d
done
that. Just… on our terms.