Grid Iron Bad Boy: A Football Romance (37 page)

H
ow is
it that I’m parked at yet another police department to pick up yet another one of my guys? Mack was told that he’s free to go after being detained for a couple of hours. He called and asked me to pick him up. Of course I said yes, but not because I’m happy to do so. Him and I need to have a serious talk. Things have gotten out of control.

Mack must have spotted me when I pulled in here, because he’s quickly crossing the parking lot toward my car. From his casual strut and easy smile, you’d never know he was the same guy who dragged a poor man out of his car in a terrifying melt down this morning.

He opens the door and ducks his head down to look over at me. “Hey gorgeous, thanks for springing me from the joint,” he teases, his eyes sparkling.

“Get in, Mack.” My voice is like a flat line on a heart monitor. My happiness isn’t far behind it.

Mack’s smile turns down at the corners as he closes his mouth, but he doesn’t push it. He slides into the passenger seat and closes his door with a thud.

“How about we go out for dinner? I’ll buy us a nice bottle of wine and then I can make this all up to you when we get back home. Your sweet nectar can be my dessert,” his eyes narrow and his voice drops low.

He’s so sexy. I could lose all of my senses, my sight, my hearing, my smell, and still know that. It would still radiate from him and permeate my soul. The idea of his face buried between my thighs is certainly enough to distract me for a second.

But, it’s never going to be enough to fix what happened today.

“Mack, we have to talk,” his smirk slips off his face and he refuses to look at me. Instead, he pushes his jaw out as he stares straight ahead.

“Lauren, look, I know things got a bit crazy today, but it’s all going to be fine. The police didn’t think it was a big enough deal to press any charges, so I don’t think we need to rehash it.”

If this was a foreign film, the subtitle underneath him would be two words long: Drop It.

Part of me wants to let it go. To believe that this was just a one-off situation. That nothing needs to change.

That part of me is a fucking liar.

“No, Mack. We do need to rehash it ‘cause this can’t keep happening. Do you even remember what you did today? Do you remember dragging a father out of his vehicle in front of his wife and kids and trying to drive away? Because that’s a scene I don’t think I’m going to ever forget.”

Mack’s eyebrows furrow together like storm clouds rolling in across a darkening sky. I watch his face for a flicker of recognition. For some small sign that he does remember, but the vacant, million-mile stare in his eyes tells me he doesn’t.

“The police filled me in on it,” he finally mumbles.

His eyelids look heavy; like he hasn’t slept in days. It’s clear that he hasn’t left the war behind. He may have escaped Afghanistan with his life, but his soul is still trapped over there, a POW being slowly tortured to death.

“Mack, I …” my mind searches. I want to be gentle with him. I want to find the right words to say what I need to. However, I know he’ll just smell the bullshit through the flowers. “I want you to get help. I want you to go to therapy.”

“No.” There’s no anger attached to his voice, but his single word hits me like a sucker punch to the gut.

“Mack, please, just listen.”

“No, you listen,” he drops his head and his voice is barely a whisper. “There’s nothing wrong with me. I don’t need some quack analyzing me and asking me whether or not I loved my mother. I’m a soldier, Lauren. I’ve been to war and I watched my men die. I have bad days, that’s the way that goes. I don’t need to go to some Kumbaya preaching, hug-me sessions to know that.”

“Look, I’m not a doctor, ok? So, I’m not going to pretend I can diagnose you or anything, but I think you might have PTSD, Mack.” He puffs out his chest and his lips twist in protest. “There’s no shame in that!” I quickly add, trying to smooth over the blow to his ego. “Hell, after what you’ve gone through, it would be more shocking if you didn’t have some kind of residual scars that need healing. I just want what’s best for you, and our family. I can’t have you walking around like a ticking time bomb in Chris’s life.”

“Don’t talk to me about bombs, Lauren. I’ve seen enough of them go off. You’re the one blowing this whole thing out of proportion. I’m not gonna go sit on some therapist’s couch just because I had a bad day. It’s not happening. End.Of.Fucking.Story.” He slams his fist into his palm with every punctuated word.

A huge part of me just wants to let that be the end of the story. Our son’s face as he watched Mack in a fit of confusion and rage is burned into my brain though. I can’t let this be the end of the story. Chris needs stability, he needs a father, and Mack is in no position to be either.

“It’s not just one bad day, Mack, and you know it. Chelsea told me about what happened by the fruit truck, ok? I know about that. Chris told me about how you got shaky at the grave. Mack, you even threw me to the ground that day at the track. Do you remember? I thought you were just trying to screw around, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot. It was because of that car that backfired, wasn’t it? It’s not just one thing, or one day. It’s getting worse and I can’t let this become everyday of our lives.”

I reach across the car and place my hand on his. He peers up at me, just like his son does when he needs reassurance. Am I getting through to him?

Suddenly, he flings my hand off of his like it’s a mosquito about to bite. No. No, I’m not.

“You said it yourself, you are not a doctor, Lauren. You’re not a therapist. The last time I checked, you were a nurse. So, how about you let the big boys do their job and you worry about yours, ok?” His eyes flicker with rage and his face burns crimson. “For the last time, there’s nothing wrong with me. I’m not some delicate flower, got it? I don’t need to sit around and cry about my feelings. And I’m not going to fucking therapy!” He spits out the last words like they’re tainted in poison.

Silence builds like a tidal wave, drowning us.

“Fine.” I find my voice and look down at the steering wheel. “If you won’t get help, then you need to leave. I can’t take you to my place, Mack.” Tears sting my eyes as I realize what I have to do.

“What are you talking about? Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“Blackmail? No. This is an ultimatum. You either get the help you need, or you can’t be in our lives anymore. I can’t always be wondering and waiting for you to explode again. This time you pulled an innocent man out of his car. Do you know how upsetting it was for Chris to see that today? What are you going to do next time? Beat someone to death? No. You either get help, or you leave.” My voice wavers, but my mind is made up.

Silence again. It hurts my ears more than anything Mack could yell or say. I keep staring at the wheel, hoping that Mack will listen to reason. That he’ll put his family, not to mention his health, above his inflated ego and pig-headedness.

“Fine,” he sighs.

Oh, thank you God. I silently pray. Thank you!

Mack reaches over to the door and opens it, stepping back outside of the car before I fully understand what’s happening. “Then, I’m leaving.” He slams the door in my face and storms back to the police station as I watch in disbelief.

Mack Forrester had only just walked back into my life a little over a week ago, and now he’s leaving me again. And this time, I think it’s for good.

T
he oak table
under my arm is solid and the beer in my glass is frosty cold. Both sensations are keeping me grounded in the present. After what happened on the drive today I know being grounded is just what I need. Lauren’s furrowed brows and soft eyes linger in my mind and all of a sudden I don’t want to be grounded anymore. I want to be fucking drunk.

The pub is pretty much a ghost town at only four in the afternoon with the exception of the bartender, a young couple laughing in a booth and a slovenly drunk guy who’s cozied up to the bar like it’s a replacement for the wife that surely left him.

Across from me, the twenty-four-hour news station is passing off their opinions as facts. The news anchors keep yelling at each other like children competing for their mother’s attention. They discuss every point like it all has the same weight, whether is about a drunk driving accident or Kim and Kanye, the fervour is the same.

“Are high-tops the new flip-flops in hip hop? Find out about this summer’s latest fashion craze coming up in the next hour.” The voiceover tries to titillate us with the hard hitting stories coming up. Seriously? Is this the news or Dr. fucking Seuss? It’s annoying and little more than a background noise. Until my face flashes on the flat screen.

Oh, that ain’t good.

Of course, they’re using my military grad picture where I’m in full dress uniform. How long do you have to be out of the military before they stop using those pictures? Five years? Ten?

My mind flashes back to my first day at West Point, when Staff Sergeant Skillnick formed us up in our civvies and gave us his introductory speech. “Welcome to West Point, ladies and gentlemen. Let me make it clear to you, that will be the last time anyone in your life refers to you that way. From now on, no matter what you do. No matter where you go. You will always be known for your military service first. It’s an honor few are ever awarded and not one to be taken lightly. So just remember this, whether you’re buying your first house or getting arrested for your first crime, it will be you rank, your service and this United States military that will open those doors for you, or that you will tarnish with your bad decisions. Choose carefully.”

Fuck.

My attention snaps back up to the television and I strain to listen to the same newscasters that only moments ago I was hoping would choke to death on live tv.

The blonde with the severe make-up and over processed hair jumps in, “clearly, Captain Forrester has lost it.” She shares her unbiased, professional view. “Have you seen the video footage?” She drawls. “It’s just disgraceful. In my opinion he should have to give back the medals he was awarded. A man like that shouldn’t get to keep the highest award for courage…”

“Hey,” I interrupt the program and wave my hand at the bartender. “Do you mind turning the channel?”

The guy behind the counter doesn’t even look up from his phone. He just picks up the remote and clicks it one channel higher to an afternoon cooking show.

“Hey, man. Sorry I’m running behind,” Cameron Armstrong comes up behind me and plops down on the chair across from me. “Have you been waiting here long?” He looks down at the beer I’m one swig away from finishing.

“Nah, I’ve just had the one,” I hold up the bottle and finish the last mouthful.

“Ok, well, I’ll get us a couple more.” He pops back up out of the chair and heads over to the bar.

How about a couple dozen more?

I distract myself by peeling at the label of my empty Stella and Cameron clunks two more down on the table and shimmies out of his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair. “I’m glad you called, man,” he looks at me earnestly. “I was hoping we could get some drinks sometime.”

“Thanks for coming out. I know it’s on short notice.” I lift up the new bottle and tilt it toward him in a silent salute.

“I didn’t have much going on today anyway, so this is perfect.” His jacket erupts with a sound of bubbles surfacing on water and Cameron reaches into the pocket and pulls out his cellphone. “Shit, sorry about that,” he swipes his thumb across it and a huge pair of brown titties fills his screen in a text message. “I forgot to set it to vibrate. I’ll do that now,” he leaves the tits and changes his settings.

“Looks like you’ve got it pretty rough there, Armstrong,” I nod to the phone. “A hard knock life, huh?”

My old Corporal shrugs it off. “You know how it is, all these girls are all flash and no substance. Not like what you’ve got with that Lauren chick. That shit looks like the real deal.” He chucks his phone back in his pocket and takes a long gulp of his beer.

Twist the knife, why don’t ya?

Instead of getting into any of that mess, I just down another third of my beer.

“You know, it’s the craziest thing,” he continues, looking down the neck of his bottle, “I’ve got all this easy poon chasing me left and right, but I haven’t been able to get Lauren’s sister out of my head since the game. Did she, uh, mention me at all?” He looks up at me.

“Huh? Oh, no. Not to me anyway. Her and I aren’t really close or anything.”

His mouth twists to the side like he’s in deep thought. “Hey man, do you think you could bring her to another game for me? Or, maybe give her my number?”

“Seriously? Armstrong, what are we? In high school? Do you want me to pass her a note in science class too?” Irritation is sewn through my words like the lace on one of Mr. Star Quarterback’s footballs.

“Jeez man, who pissed in your cornflakes?” He frowns at his bottle and I watch a wave of realization wash over his face. “Oh, uh, you know what? You’re right. My bad, man. I know it’s been a shit day for you.” He looks up from his drink sheepishly.

I sigh. Obviously he knows about the incident today. I guess everyone knows. That’s a hard pill to swallow. “No, don’t worry about it,” I wave my hand like I’m trying to sweep away the bad vibes. “I’m just being pissy cause Lauren and I broke up.”

Cameron slowly swallows the beer in his mouth, and his eyebrows shoot sky high as he looks over at me. “I didn’t know, that sucks man.”

“Yeah, I’m just trying to figure out what to do. I thought I might be living at her place, but now I need to figure out a ‘Plan B’ I guess.”

“You’ll stay with me.” Cameron quickly interjects. He’s not asking me. It isn’t an invitation, it’s a statement.

“That’s nice of you, but you don’t have to do that. Trust me, that’s not why I asked you to come out or anything.”

“Fuck that. You’re staying with me. It’s done. You’ll crash at my place as long as it takes to get yourself sorted out… uh, I mean settled.” He looks up at me nervously.

“Thanks.” Somehow the word feels too small for the gratitude I feel.

“Don’t mention it,” he shrugs it off. “It sounds like you’ve had one hell of a couple days. If staying at my place helps, it’s all yours. I can never repay you for what you did for me, Captain. There’s not a lot of men who would’ve risked their life like you did to save me. If crashing on my couch is something that can help you, then you can stay as long as you need.” He states matter-of-factly.

“You’re a good man, Armstrong.” I take another drink of my girl Stella and she goes down easy, just like I like ‘em.

“Don’t mention it, but, Captain?” His eyes dart up to mine and he nervously licks his lips.

“Yeah?”

“I just want you to know that I’ll help you in anyway I can. Like, if you need a hand tracking down someone to talk to or anything, I can help with that too.

“I don’t need help, thanks.” My words cover our conversation in frost.

Cameron picks at the label on his beer as the awkwardness marinates us. He looks torn. “I think you do.” He finally answers, his voice is barely above a whisper, but the push back is undeniable.

“Listen, I don’t need help,” I stress for the third time today. “If this is the kinda strings your offer to stay with you comes with then forget it.” I thump my bottle on the table and get up to leave. Where I’m going, I have no idea, but I’m not going to sit here and listen to this shit.

On the television the five o’clock news flashes on across the bar and a shaky cellphone video of earlier today leads the day’s stories. I stop and watch in horror as I see myself, frantic, panicked and screaming at the poor man in the minivan to drive. The terror on my face in undeniable and my stomach flops like a fish on a line as I have the out of body experience of seeing myself pull the guy from his vehicle. “In today’s top story,” the crimson lipped news anchor somberly tells the camera, “Captain Mack Forrester, West Point graduate, and the famous hero veteran who lost his leg saving several lives in the Afghanistan war, was arrested for the scene you just witnessed.”

I slump back down in my seat, defeated. I drag my fingers through my hair and down the back of my neck as I try to digest what I just watched.

Fuck.

I look up at Cameron, and swallow hard to try to shake this feeling like a dump truck just dropped a ton of bricks on me and left me for dead.

“Ok, man.” I nod my head and close my eyes, forcing myself to say the words: “I need help.”