KICK IT | JENLISA

88

Lisa

He backtracked to the personal side. "I love you like you're my family, Lisa. An irritating and reckless family member, and you were on the edge of spiralling. You needed someone who wasn't impressed with you, who'd challenge you out of your own stupidity. Push the right buttons so..."

"So, that I would prove her wrong." Heaving my chest, I pushed out a loud exhale.

At a moment where I had the right to be entirely selfish, a pawn in whatever the fuck heart strings game Jackson pulled, my thoughts shifted to Jennie. What about her needs? She rejected my stupidity more times than I counted, but also clung to me in moments of need. While I deserved it in the past for ego-driven or dick-driven interactions, this wasn't one of those times.

She needed me. And I wasn't sure why, but I wanted her to need me. It filled a purpose in my life that I didn't know existed.

Leaning over, I rested my elbows on the cool, smooth island surface. A chill spread through my skin from the contact point and grounded me from the thick foggy clouding my brain. "Answer me honestly, were you interfering in my best interest or hers?"

"Both." He cleared his throat. "Lisa, I can't tell you Jennie's side. It's a situation where she has to open up and that's not easy for her. I'm not above begging on her behalf, but please be patient."

'Be patient' slotted itself into a close second behind 'you can't.'

"And?" I crossed my arms over my chest and frowned at Bambam's... flair for the dramatic.

Given Jackson sat in the General Manager's conference room, we didn't have time for whatever the fuck Bambam wrote on his clipboard for the last nine minutes.

Like any negotiation, Jackson came to the table with a ridiculous, bloated up-front bonus for past achievements structured contract, a moderate compromise back-ended with performance-based contingencies option, and a rock-bottom, 'I'll wash jock straps and refill Gatorade if you keep me on the team' offer.

Contract negotiations dragged on for hours, into a second day. Despite my off-season fuckups, Jackson dangled my terms in the free agency gossip mill. Six teams bit, none of which I was interested in. Only Dallas' close proximity to my parents would've tempted me out of Houston, my home, my football family. Jackson and I sang that pro-Houston song to every mic shoved in our faces, which increased as pre-season camp approached.

"Bam."

"Relax." the top of his head responded. Pen scratching, he continued the hums of 'hmm' and 'ahh' chorus he sang all morning as he tested my shoulder's mobility.

"Bam." I wasn't made of patience and flicked my fingers at my sides. What the fuck took him so long to write up? He was messing with me, had to be.

"Dotting an I." He stabbed his pen into the clipboard.

"Bam." My right eye twitched.

"Crossing a T." Another pen stab raised my eyebrows. "Aaaaand..." he drawled with a circular roll of his pen over his paper.

"Enough." I snatched the clipboard and groaned at a paper-sized smiley face drawn on a blank piece of paper. I work with a man-child.

"Relax, I sent Jackson the report ten minutes ago." Bambam's head tipped back, releasing a loud cackle. "I just like messing with you."

Flipping through pages of scribbled doodles that made Jennie's look like Picassos, I frowned at not seeing his assessment. "What's the number."

"Ninety-two."