Sophie Oak - Siren in Waiting

Trevor McNamara looked around the office. It was a pristinely kept work space. It was neat and pin perfect, like the man who sat behind the opulent desk—a man Trev was sure had to be joking. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

The general manager of the San Antonio Bandits leaned forward. There was a slightly sympathetic look on Curt Goff’s face as he steepled his hands together. “You’re fired, Trevor.”

“You can’t fire me.” Trev said the words, but his brain was still trying to process those two words that threatened to end his football career.

The words didn’t end your career, idiot. You did that when you started in on the coke. The booze wasn’t enough, was it? You just had to go for more.

“I think you’ll find I can. In your contract, there’s a clause that states plainly if you flunk three drug tests in a row, I can fire you.”

Trev’s head pounded. How had he flunked the last drug test? He’d paid the tech off to switch the results. Panic threatened to swamp him. He couldn’t get fired. He had bills to pay. Lots of fucking bills. “I’ll call my union rep.”

Curt Goff nodded as though this move of Trev’s had been anticipated and potentially already blocked. Once upon a time, Goff had been the San Antonio Bandits’ quarterback, but he’d retired a few years back and now ran the front office. He was known as a shark. “I assumed as much. I think you’ll find the contract is ironclad. It’s possible that the union will sue, but I intend to hold the line. I won’t settle. I’ve talked to Frank, and we’ve decided that we’ll spend what it takes in order to enforce your contract.”

His stomach turned over a couple of times, and Trev wondered if the contents of his last meal weren’t about to come back up. Frank Boyle was the owner of the team. He owed Trev ten million dollars on the last year of his contract. A protracted legal fight could cost Frank much more. Why would he do that? How could this be happening?

“It’s happening because you can’t control yourself, Trevor.” Curt’s eyes pinned him.

Damn, he was far gone. He hadn’t even realized he’d said the words out loud.

“I’m going to call my agent.” Trev pulled out his phone. He glanced down. Fifteen messages. He hadn’t heard them. “You’re going to have to deal with my agent. He won’t put up with this shit. You can’t treat me this way.”

Curt’s face hardened. Trev had heard rumors about the man. He was into some strange shit. Supposedly he tied up his wife and spanked her on a regular basis. Of course, there were other rumors about his perpetual houseguests. Two of the veterans on the team lived at Curt and Tess Goff’s multimillion dollar compound and had for years. Pervert.

“I think you’re going to find out that your agent quit after this morning’s headlines.” Curt’s words fell in the silence with all the subtlety of a buzz saw.

Bile crept into Trev’s throat. Headlines? He didn’t remember much about the night before. He’d gone out with some friends. Friends. He didn’t have friends. He had people who hung around because Trev paid for shit. Trev had woken up in bed next to some bleach blonde with fake tits this morning. He didn’t remember her name. She could definitely be a stripper. Shit. What had he done?

He hadn’t gotten arrested. He would remember that. Fuck, when had he started to think a night when he didn’t get caught was a win? “Bullshit. Marty wouldn’t dump me.”

“No. Not bullshit. Marty has moved on to greener pastures. I informed him this morning that we would be using the clause in your contract to release you. The papers are running a story today on your night at the strip club. They have pictures of you doing lines of cocaine off strippers’ bodies. It’s not the image this club wants or needs. You tested positive for cocaine and marijuana. We didn’t run a test for alcohol, or you might have broken the equipment. Can you honestly tell me you’re not drunk right now?”

He’d only had a couple. Or three. It was the only way to deal with the hangover. It didn’t matter. He hadn’t driven himself anyway. He had a driver. Yeah, he wasn’t going to be able to pay the driver anymore. “I’ll go to rehab. I can be out in three weeks and ready for the season.”

He hated the whine in his voice. He hated rehab. It didn’t work. He’d be fine for a week or two, and then the need for a drink would call to him again. The pressure would build, and he would just have to have that first drink. It never ended with one. It ended in bottles, and when the alcohol stopped working, he moved on to the harder stuff. Just last night, he’d thought about sticking a needle in his arm just to see how high he could get.

God, he was going to kill himself.

“You’ve been three times, and it hasn’t worked. I don’t think conventional rehab works on someone like you.” Curt’s voice had softened slightly.

He didn’t have any money. He’d spent it all on the house, the cars, and the parties. The drugs. He’d spent so much on drugs. He owed more than he had. How had it all gone to shit?

“Trev, I have an offer to make you. You know my wife is a therapist, right?”

Curt’s wife was a pretty blonde named Tess. She’d run a few team-building exercises in the three years Trev had played for the Bandits. She was some sort of best-selling author. He remembered how Curt’s eyes had lit up when she walked in and started talking. Of course, Mike Cabrerra’s and Kevin Best’s eyes had lit up, too. How did that work?

Trev had never looked at a woman the way those three men looked at Tess. What would it feel like to love a woman so much he was willing to share her?

“Yeah. You think she can fix me?” He laughed as he asked the question.

Trev doubted it. A strange sense of fatalism fell over him. It was done. His career was over, and now he could find a bottle and never stop. It was where he’d been headed since that first beer. He’d been on a path, and now he could follow it without the pesky frustrations of having a career. He could focus on what was important. Liquor had always been more important than football or family or any girl. His so-called friends would just put beer after beer in his hands. In college he’d discovered whiskey. When he’d gotten to the pros, he’d found even harder stuff.

For some strange reason, he remembered an old friend from high school named Bo O’Malley. Bo had been a freshman when Trev was a senior. Bo had been a scrawny kid at the time. Bo had tried so hard to make the football team that Trev had taken the kid under his wing. For a brief period of time, he’d felt like someone needed him for something other than his throwing arm. Trev remembered Bo was funny, and when he’d hung out with Bo, he hadn’t felt the need to drink.

He’d dumped Bo when he went off to college. Trev hadn’t needed a puppy-like high school kid hanging around no matter how much he behaved like a brother.

Trev hoped Bo was doing better than he was.

Curt’s voice drew Trev back to reality. “She doesn’t do this type of work, but she’s come up with a plan. You might think it’s a bit radical. Here’s the deal. I hired a psychologist. He’s worked with men with impulse-control issues. He works in a very odd place, though. It’s a BDSM club.”