The Total Package (3 page)

Her lips moved to his neck, the beginning of a trail of kisses that slowly started making their way down his belly. She sighed in what he could only define as genuine pleasure, moving lower. It felt good, too good, and he stopped her before she reached her final destination, bringing her back up to him before pressing her back into the bed and covering her body with his own. She clutched him tightly, squirming beneath him in lust as his hand wedged between them to find her core. He toyed with her, using broad strokes from strong fingers until she was damp with wanting. She arched her back and began to whisper his name over and over, allowing herself the full pleasure of the sensation. He left her on the brink and abruptly pulled away, unwilling to admit that he questioned his own staying power.

“I have to have you,” he groaned.

He pushed her back onto the bed, spread her legs with his own, and took her. He heard her sharp intake of breath at his penetration and his mouth captured hers again to avoid hearing her cry as he filled her. She was hot and tight and Tyson forced himself to remain still until her body relaxed. Her tongue found its way back into his mouth, and she wrapped a leg around his back. Then he began to slowly rock inside her. She wrapped her other leg and both her arms around him and found, then matched, his rhythm.

It seemed to be over before it began and despite all his efforts, he was soon shuddering above her, his release brought on prematurely by her enthusiasm and the lack of control over his own body. He couldn’t be sure she had gotten hers, and then he realized, albeit callously, he didn’t need to care. She had offered herself to him, on his terms. And by her own admission, she didn’t have any real experience. Still, no man wants to be thought of as a lousy lover. Tyson rolled off her and onto the bed, now discomfited by the whole encounter.

The Muzak was still crooning from the television. An electronic instrumental symphonic take on the Bee Gees’ “How Deep Is Your Love.” Ella tentatively began to curl up next to him. And to his own surprise, he let her, going as far as to wrap an arm around her and settle her on his chest. He had forgotten how much he missed human contact, the kind that didn’t end up giving him a bruise or a concussion. He had been caught up in his addiction for too long. He lightly stroked his hand up and down her back, appreciating her soft form molding against his muscles while he caught his breath. He fleetingly wondered if she was really as enchanting as she seemed. Booze and drugs had played tricks on him in the past. “Lady, you just blew my mind,” he told her, in the effort to explain away his lackluster performance.

“Ditto.” She smiled up at him, hugging him tighter. “I say we try that again.”

Even if she meant that she wanted to do it again because she was now free to enjoy and explore her sexuality, all he heard was criticism. Like a coach sending him back to the field after an interception. In fact, her eagerness only reminded him of exactly what he’d done and how he wished he’d done it better. Tyson’s hand stopped moving and his sense of afterglow quickly dissipated. “Once was enough.”

“That’s okay, then let’s take a little nap,” she said, snuggling up closer to him and sighing. “We’ll have breakfast later, after we freshen up. And then I’ll take you home.”

Take him home? Was she serious? He began to feel cornered.

“There’s not going to be any breakfast.” His arm fell away from her shoulder.

She picked her head up, trying to get a read on him. “Are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, I’m not mad.” But he was. When he had agreed to this idea, his plan was to sneak out after she’d fallen asleep. But she didn’t look too sleepy, and it wasn’t like he’d exhausted her, like he would have if he had done it right.

“I could totally fall in love with you, Tyson,” she confessed, blurting it out before she saw the look on his face.

Those words had fed his ego before, but it had been a while. In this particular case, he’d never felt so undeserving. “You don’t even know me.”

His head was pounding, his ears were ringing, and the guilt was mounting. And his body was already starting to reach out for its next fix. He dislodged himself from under her and rose, beginning to search for his clothes.

“Tyson—what’s wrong?”

Everything was wrong. Coming back to his old college as a last resort to escape from reality, letting her sit down and fill his head with memories with her sweet talk and then trap him. Tyson stormed around the room, hating her and himself, while trying to quickly redress. Not bothering with his socks, he stuck them in his pockets while sitting down in the room’s only chair to jam his now-clammy feet into his shoes. Ella jumped up from the bed and scrambled to find her own clothes, which he had thrown all around the room. “Tyson, I don’t understand . . .”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the vial that was his only friend, his Percocet. He threw two down his throat without any water. The mere action seemed to calm him. He put the bottle back in his jacket and reached for the doorknob, stopped momentarily by the sheer desperation in her voice.

“Tyson, please don’t leave. You can trust me. I want to help you,” she pleaded.

He looked back at her, standing in the middle of the room in nothing but her underwear, tears of bewilderment and humiliation brimming in her eyes.

“I don’t want your help,” he stated coldly.

She swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice from trembling and the tears from falling. “But you . . . I thought . . .”

“Welcome to the big time,” Tyson told her cruelly before opening the door, then staggering back out into the darkness and his downfall.

CHAPTER 2

THE WEEKS THAT
followed were nothing more than a blur. Tyson went back to his now-empty house and spent some quality time ignoring foreclosure notices and other bill collectors. Within days of getting the official word that he was suspended for the rest of the season and subsequently cut from the team, he packed up some of his clothes and cleaned out his medicine cabinet. He ended up in a fleabag motel near the now-deserted Blitz training camp. He just couldn’t think of anywhere else to go. He wandered, mostly on foot, around the streets that were his old hangouts, where he no longer felt welcome. Every night was spent in local dives blathering randomly to anyone within earshot whenever football came on television. He celebrated Thanksgiving alone with a fifth of Wild Turkey and a ham sandwich from 7-Eleven. Not even Tyson’s cell phone was invited to his pity party. The one message from his new agent was,
Talk to you next year. Get your act together. Stay off social media
. He didn’t want to hear from well-meaning friends either. In his mind, he had no friends and those trying to intervene were just trying to ruin the only good times he had left. His family back home was fractured and hurting, he couldn’t add to that burden. He just wanted to do his own version of
Leaving Las Vegas
and be done with it.

That’s when Tyson met the Goons.

There wasn’t much of an introduction. They broke down the door to Tyson’s room and hauled him off the floor by his armpits, then they dragged Tyson out to a waiting car and punched him when he started waking up on the tarmac of a small airport. The next time he awoke, it was with a splitting headache and in a comfortable bed in what looked to be someone’s guest room. It was spacious and tastefully decorated, even the sunlight smelled fresh. The headache, though, was completely familiar.

“Where am I?” The words hurt his ears, and the dryness in his mouth and throat was ever present. He put a trembling hand up to his face, to shield his burnt-out retinas from the light streaming through the window.

A man sitting in a chair near the foot of the bed spoke up. ‘You’re in my home. If you’re going to throw up, there’s a bucket on the right of the bed.” The Goon standing at the man’s left shoulder took a step and pointed in the direction of the receptacle, to make sure they sufficiently had Tyson’s attention.

“I need a drink.” Tyson rasped out the same four words he had started every day with for the better part of a year.

“There’s water next to you, on the nightstand,” the man replied. He was soft-spoken with a country twang. “If you’re looking for something stronger, I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”

Tyson tried to focus on the man through his painful tunnel vision. He was someone Tyson felt like he knew, or at least knew of. He was sixtyish, trim, sporting a full head of silver hair and a weathered tan face all packaged neatly in a brown Hugo Boss suit.

“Who the hell are you?” Tyson asked irritably.

“I’m the man who’s going to save your career.” He had the nerve to sound nonchalant, even soothing, “And considering all the scuttlebutt surrounding your pathetic display around Blitz training camp, probably your life.”

Hearing the words got under Tyson’s already stretched skin. Making matters worse, the man was standing in the way of Tyson’s hair of the dog.

“Let me guess.” Tyson tried to sit up despite the hammering in his head that increased with movement. “You’re my guardian angel and we’re going to take a tour of what the world would be like without me.”

The man smiled. “Yes, I’m the patron saint of party boys. Call me Saint Mercenary.”

The Goons snorted in unison from their positions on either side of the chair and then went back to looking menacing. The man added, “Sorry, son, I’m not that noble. I’m just a businessman who enjoys a good challenge.”

Tyson eyed the trio from the middle of the queen-size bed. Whoever this man was, he was able to pull off a kidnapping, had at least two vicious-looking henchmen, and a really nice bedroom. Tyson glanced down at the stained, grungy Blitz T-shirt he’d been wearing for five days straight. He could remember when the word
challenge
filled him with vision and determination. Currently, standing on his own two feet without falling over would be about all the challenge he could handle.

“I’m still waiting for you to tell me who you are,” Tyson said, dropping his head into his hand and attempting to rub his eyes free of the double vision that, added to the smell of his shirt, was making his stomach churn. One of the Goons snorted again, this time in disgust. Apparently he took Tyson’s lack of knowledge of the importance of his host personally.

“My name is Clinton Barrow,” the man replied evenly. “I’m one of the owners of the Austin Mavericks.”

Tyson knew the name. Barrow was one of those high-profile dudes whose family made their fortune in crude. Clint and his oil baron cronies started the Mavericks a decade ago after deciding that the fine people of Austin shouldn’t have to choose between the Cowboys and the Texans when it came to professional football. He prided himself on being a hands-on guy who was loaded but classy. While he wasn’t above the occasional spectacular stunt, he didn’t drive a big Cadillac convertible with steer horns mounted on the grille.

“I didn’t recognize you without the hat,” Tyson said, referring to Barrow’s signature ten-gallon Stetson.

“The missus doesn’t like me to wear it in the house.” Clint grinned. “But I didn’t bring you here to talk about wives. I’m sure they’re not on your list of favorite topics either.”

Tyson rubbed his face again. Jessa Thompson, the former Mrs. Palmer, wasn’t on any of his lists. Tyson really couldn’t blame her. She had been one of his last attempts to make himself appear an upstanding citizen. It was a whirlwind romance that started when he met her after her failed Blitz Babes cheerleading audition. He swept her off her feet and provided her with a lavish and highly publicized wedding. She was beautiful and sweet and they made a lovely couple. Tyson tried to be a good husband at first, but he was already too far gone. And he never took into account just how shrewd his wife was. She remained unassuming and adoring, right up until the day TMZ broke the Carla Dowe story. By the time he rushed home, she had blocked his number from her cell phone and packed up all her belongings (plus some of his) and gone, leaving behind only a note with her lawyer’s contact info. He had signed the papers that officially ended his marriage while in a stupor over a month ago.

It was clear that Clint Barrow had done his homework on him, but why?

“At this point, I would’ve thought there was something wrong with Jessa if she stayed,” Tyson said, sighing, giving up and falling back onto the bed. “You still haven’t told me what I’m doing here.”

“I have a proposition for you,” Clint said. “A one-time deal designed to mutually benefit both of us.”

Tyson stared at the ceiling, trying to gather his bearings and sighed again. “I don’t know anything about the Blitz that can be of any use to you.”

Clinton Barrow shook his head. “I’m not looking for insider information. That would be cheating, and I abhor cheaters. What I have in mind is more of a long-term investment. This one is all about you, if you’re man enough to accept the test.”

Tyson steadied himself on his elbows to get a better look at his would-be benefactor. “Go on.”

Clinton Barrow waited a moment. The smile was gone and he became all business. “I’m going to buy your contract at the fire sale, and you’re going to win me a Super Bowl.”