I didn’t understand that. We acted like any other red-blooded man who had a couple million to blow and the attention of short-skirted women. Apparently, that was a problem. The team and league were as big a pain in the ass as my publicist.
What was the point of being rich, famous, and sporting a nine-inch cock if you didn’t get to celebrate with it once in a while?
Or two or three times a week?
I only lived once. I owed it to myself to make the most of it.
The brunette freaked before anyone could enjoy their drinks. “Waitress, I ordered olives not onions.” She punctuated her displeasure by eating the onion anyway.
“Sorry!” The waitress gritted her teeth as the brunette tossed the martini glass at her tray. It splashed on her apron. “I’ll get you a new one.”
“With two olives. Or should we write it out for you?” She giggled at me. “Honestly, is it that hard?”
The waitress blushed and looked at me. “Anything else for you, M—Mr. Carson?”
“Call me Jack.”
“O—okay.” The waitress teetered between star-struck and terrified, like she stared down the entire defensive line of the Ashenville Hawks. “Anything for you, Jack?”
“Nah.” I watched Bryon grab another girl. He cornered her in the shadows, and that meant it was time to go. The guys were a little too rowdy, and my women were antsy. “Just whatever the girls want, honey.”
“Aw, come on.” Blonde halter-top tapped my beer bottle. “I thought Jack Carson liked to party.”
“Baby, the party hasn’t started yet.” I rubbed her thigh. She wore too much perfume and no panties. Too easy.
“Don’t you want to play?”
Yeah, but there was a fine line between fun and forgetting the condom. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, baby.”
I left half of my beer and gulped the rest of my water. If I wasn’t blacking out, no sense wasting calories. I planned to bulk, but we were doing it right. Chicken breasts. Eggs. Almonds.
Besides, my publicist had a shitfit the last time a story passed on the internet about me being drunk. I wasn’t even driving and, somehow, I became the bad guy for having fun.
Of course, the story also included the picture of the girl with her hand down my pants. And, if I remembered that incident right, we might have had an issue with some slight public exposure too. Nothing that embarrassed me, but, then again, what I packed deserved to be admired.
Still, we were supposed to be partying. If my publicist couldn’t understand that, then Leah needed to get laid instead of bitching about my image and bad publicity. My chosen friends were more impressed by the story of me bouncing three girls in my lap, but the league and media wanted ribbon cuttings and donations to charity. I did that too, but where was the fun in it?
The waitress dodged Bryon’s slap, juking just as good as he did on Sunday afternoons. If opposing defenses groped instead of tackled, she’d have made an excellent addition to the team. She hurried out, but two men from the general dining room rushed inside.
It amazed me how adult men could lose their shit when face-to-face with their idols. They were gruff, dirty construction workers probably having a beer after their shift, but standing in the presence of the team made them as happy as a kid getting a Playboy for Christmas.
The first man brushed the dust from his plaid shirt and hollered at the table in glee. The second, an older and balding man, tried to text with trembling fingers. I gave him credit. At least his phone had an Ironfield cover.
“Holy shit!” Plaid hooted. “Goddamn, I’m the biggest Rivets fan in the fucking world. Mind if we get some pictures?”
Bryon grunted, freeing his girl from the corner. “Man, we’re eating—”
“It’s okay.” I scooted the girls from my lap. “I don’t mind.”
Technically, I was told by my PR team not to mind. One of Leah’s fucking rules. Be gracious to the fans, even if they interrupt your dinner, your night out, or your score with three beautiful women. After the run-in with the drunk asshole who thought it’d be a good idea to grab my dick while taking the selfie, Leah clarified I also wasn’t allowed to punch any fans. Apparently having a bruise on my cock wasn’t an excuse.
Nothing was an excuse for Leah.
“Goddamn, Jack-fucking-Carson!” Plaid stumbled before me to shake my hand. “My oldest son played for Oakdale High School. He faced you every damn year. You whooped our ass.”
Everyone loved a local boy. “I broke every record Shawnee Hills had.”
“And State too.” He pointed at me, posing for the selfie. “Never saw a quarterback like you. You’re goddamned talented, Carson. One in a million.”