* * *
For once, Kai Santana kept his word.
His cousin did, in fact, own a bar in South Beach and that bar did, in fact, have a VIP room and so far we were, in fact, keeping a low profile.
It’s different coming here. No one knows us. We’re not instantly recognizable thanks to it being the off-season and our pictures aren’t plastered all over sports news channels in every bar in North America.
Tonight there aren’t any swarms of football bunnies and groupies chasing us around, begging for pictures and slipping us numbers.
It’s just us guys.
We’re tucked away in a lounge the color of the bottom of the ocean, the two of them sipping drinks that cost more than a drink should even with Kai’s cousin’s “family discount.” Music is pulsing through the club and every so often, people wander past the red velvet ropes, peeking in to see who’s here, but it’s too dark and they’re too smashed to make any sort of connection.
I haven’t known this kind of anonymity since my rookie year. I’d forgotten how good it felt.
“So.” Weston takes a sip of his Scotch, his elbows resting on his knees. He looks bored, but getting away from Gainesville was probably in his best interest tonight anyway.
We glance at Kai who’s standing on the other side of the velvet rope, chatting it up with a fake-titted cocktail waitress who can’t stop giggling in his presence, and we both know Kai’s not that funny.
“That fucker’s going to bring her back to the hotel tonight. Just watch,” Weston says.
“I don’t know why we’re sharing a room anyway.” I take a drink from my overpriced bottle of artisanal water.
“Because Kai’s the cheapest son of a bitch this side of the Atlantic.” Weston shakes his head. “Remember the fake Rolex he bought a couple years ago?”
We laugh and observe as Kai takes his phone from his pocket and programs in the waitress’ number before returning.
“Thought it was just a guys’ night?” Weston says when Kai returns.
“Fuck you guys. I’m getting laid.” Kai adjusts the collar of his shirt and glances toward the bar crowd. He hates not being seen. This is driving him crazy. “I gotta find the pisser.”
“Right,” I say, watching him leave.
“He doesn’t have to piss. He just wants attention,” Weston says.
“Should’ve fucking known. He’s going to blow my cover.”
Weston shrugs. “As long as you’re not drinking or getting crazy, you’ll be fine, man. Don’t sweat it.”
We look like lame fucking morons sitting in here alone. Just the two of us. Not socializing. Looking bored as hell.
But I guess it beats the alternative, and we drove five hours to get here, so nothing we can do about it.
Kai returns twenty minutes later, two drinks in his hand and a dopey smile on his face.
“We gotta get out of here. There’s a smoking hot blonde at the bar begging for a good fuck, and I have to make this happen tonight,” he says.
“Nah, man.” I place my hand up. “We’re not doing that. We didn’t come here for that.”
Kai sits his drinks to the side and holds his hands in front of his chest. “Huge fucking tits. Angelina Jolie lips. Long legs. I call dibs.”
Weston looks my way. That goddamned traitor’s considering it.
“Come on.” Weston points to my water. “You need a refill anyway.”
Groaning, I follow them outside the velvet ropes, toward the bar, and take a seat at an empty bar stool on the end.
“Excuse me.” A woman’s voice fills my ear a moment later. “Aren’t you on the Gainesville Cougars?”
I turn to face her, smiling and nodding. “Yep.”
“I’m a huge fan,” she says, leaning in closer to my ear. It’s a hell of a lot louder out here than it was in the VIP lounge. “Can I be annoying and ask for a selfie with you? I’m your biggest fan. I have season tickets and everything. I haven’t missed a home game in three years. I know all your stats. You’re even on my fantasy football team.”
It breaks my damn heart to tell her no, but I don’t have a choice. A photo of me at a bar with a pretty girl like her would be a huge liability, and there’s no way I could explain myself out of that if Coach caught wind of it. Besides, who knows what kind of caption this chick would place beside a photo of us? If there’s anything I’ve learned these last few years, it’s that some people seem perfectly normal at first glance when they’re anything but.
“I’m really sorry,” I say. “It’s not allowed. Thank you for being a fan though.”
Her sweet smile fades and her eyes flash dark. She doesn’t believe me, and I can’t blame her. It sounds like total bullshit.
“Screw you.” She storms off, not noticing Kai or Weston.
The pop and clink of breaking glass pulls my attention to my right, where a red-faced Kai is shouting over the music, his shirt doused in liquid and a broken martini glass at his feet.
“That fucking bitch,” he seethes.
I slide off the bar stool and make my way to where Weston is attempting to calm him down.
“Dude. Chill.” Weston grabs a towel from the bartender and hands it over. Kai dabs at his shirt, barely making a difference. Whatever he’s muttering under his breath is drowned out by the pulse of club music.
“What happened?” I ask, sensing the heavy stares of on-lookers around us.