pizza and a six-pack. Instead I’m stuffed into a starched tux, awkwardly balancing a plate of miniature lobster rolls and a glass of bubbly as I sign autographs for a couple of Atlanta silver-hairs.
If there’s anything a professional athlete loves more than eating puny portions of food while wearing uncomfortable clothes, I don’t know what that is.
Oh wait. Literally anything else.
But I owe Shelby a favor for that crosstown real-estate tagalong, and this is how she decided to call it in.
Okay, I can’t say that’s the only reason I agreed to come. Watching her ass sway in her slinky, skin-tight party dress definitely has an appeal. Not to mention seeing her in full pro form, the bright sparkle in her eye as she tosses her long hair this way and that, chatting up the players, expertly borderline-flirting while still maintaining her dignity as she accepts the checks they’re passing over to her for the donation fund.
I’ve watched more than one guy, halfway through chatting with her, hastily tear up the check he’d already written and dash out a new one—presumably for much more cash than he’d planned to donate.
She’s got a way with the guys, what can I say?
Though, when the defensive linebacker’s eyes linger a little too long on her assets after she waves him goodbye, and he exchanges a pointed I’d tap that look with one of his teammates, I have to clamp my fist around my champagne glass in order to resist the urge to smash it over his thick skull.
I think that’s enough bubbly for me tonight.
Deep breaths, Knox . I shouldn’t even be thinking about her, let alone getting tempted into protective violence on her behalf. She’s not mine, after all. She’s free to hook up with whomever she wants. Who knows? Maybe meathead linebacker there is her type.
At least this event has given me the chance to break the ice with a few of my blockhead teammates—Derrick, Hunter, Johnny, and Rick Menks, the gruff outfielder who’ll be my best insurance when I pitch one of those meatballs right down the middle of the plate.
Not that I really give a rat’s ass what those tools think of me. But at least I want them to know that I’m not fazed by the juvenile hat bullshit.
I see them loading up their plates at the seafood buffet and give them a thumbs up from across the room. Don’t forget to donate the required minimum $500, dicks , I think as we exchange grins.
Meanwhile, their stupid hat videos have kept on coming, with no sign of my cap working its way back into my possession. I’m going to need that before pre-season starts, or they’re gonna be real fucking sorry.
Keeping an eye out for Shelby, I walk over to a corner of the room to eat my tiny gnome-sized portions of food in peace. What is this ? I examine what appears to be a pink and white slice of cake, then take a bite.
Urgh. Salmon tartare.
I’m attempting to disguise the fact that I’m rolling up half this food to pitch into the trash, when an olive-skinned brunette in a backless emerald mermaid dress slides up beside me. Dirty martini. Legs up to her ears and the kind of perky little tits that don’t require much in the way of support. I can tell, thanks to her plunging neckline. I’m pretty sure she isn’t wearing any panties, either, judging from how low her dress dips down in the back. Hello there.
“You’re Cooper Knox,” she says.
“I can neither confirm nor deny that, ma’am.” For some reason, my eyes dart across the room to locate Shelby. There, by the slot machines. Her plump lips curl around a shrimp, right before she bites into that juicy morsel, and I have to swallow hard, tearing my eyes back to the mermaid here.
Luckily she doesn’t seem to have noticed my inattention. “What are you doing at a gala for the Atlanta Falcons?”
“Maybe I’m looking to follow up my trade with a historic cross-sport switchover,” I respond.
“That would be quite a gamble.” She smirks.
“Well, it is supposed to be a
If there’s anything a professional athlete loves more than eating puny portions of food while wearing uncomfortable clothes, I don’t know what that is.
Oh wait. Literally anything else.
But I owe Shelby a favor for that crosstown real-estate tagalong, and this is how she decided to call it in.
Okay, I can’t say that’s the only reason I agreed to come. Watching her ass sway in her slinky, skin-tight party dress definitely has an appeal. Not to mention seeing her in full pro form, the bright sparkle in her eye as she tosses her long hair this way and that, chatting up the players, expertly borderline-flirting while still maintaining her dignity as she accepts the checks they’re passing over to her for the donation fund.
I’ve watched more than one guy, halfway through chatting with her, hastily tear up the check he’d already written and dash out a new one—presumably for much more cash than he’d planned to donate.
She’s got a way with the guys, what can I say?
Though, when the defensive linebacker’s eyes linger a little too long on her assets after she waves him goodbye, and he exchanges a pointed I’d tap that look with one of his teammates, I have to clamp my fist around my champagne glass in order to resist the urge to smash it over his thick skull.
I think that’s enough bubbly for me tonight.
Deep breaths, Knox . I shouldn’t even be thinking about her, let alone getting tempted into protective violence on her behalf. She’s not mine, after all. She’s free to hook up with whomever she wants. Who knows? Maybe meathead linebacker there is her type.
At least this event has given me the chance to break the ice with a few of my blockhead teammates—Derrick, Hunter, Johnny, and Rick Menks, the gruff outfielder who’ll be my best insurance when I pitch one of those meatballs right down the middle of the plate.
Not that I really give a rat’s ass what those tools think of me. But at least I want them to know that I’m not fazed by the juvenile hat bullshit.
I see them loading up their plates at the seafood buffet and give them a thumbs up from across the room. Don’t forget to donate the required minimum $500, dicks , I think as we exchange grins.
Meanwhile, their stupid hat videos have kept on coming, with no sign of my cap working its way back into my possession. I’m going to need that before pre-season starts, or they’re gonna be real fucking sorry.
Keeping an eye out for Shelby, I walk over to a corner of the room to eat my tiny gnome-sized portions of food in peace. What is this ? I examine what appears to be a pink and white slice of cake, then take a bite.
Urgh. Salmon tartare.
I’m attempting to disguise the fact that I’m rolling up half this food to pitch into the trash, when an olive-skinned brunette in a backless emerald mermaid dress slides up beside me. Dirty martini. Legs up to her ears and the kind of perky little tits that don’t require much in the way of support. I can tell, thanks to her plunging neckline. I’m pretty sure she isn’t wearing any panties, either, judging from how low her dress dips down in the back. Hello there.
“You’re Cooper Knox,” she says.
“I can neither confirm nor deny that, ma’am.” For some reason, my eyes dart across the room to locate Shelby. There, by the slot machines. Her plump lips curl around a shrimp, right before she bites into that juicy morsel, and I have to swallow hard, tearing my eyes back to the mermaid here.
Luckily she doesn’t seem to have noticed my inattention. “What are you doing at a gala for the Atlanta Falcons?”
“Maybe I’m looking to follow up my trade with a historic cross-sport switchover,” I respond.
“That would be quite a gamble.” She smirks.
“Well, it is supposed to be a
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