Charitable Contributions

2: Dodging Bullets

I left her speechless, seated eye-level with my crotch and full, pouty lips parted. Later tonight, she would recall our exchange in a much more personal, pleasurable version. Probably came while wearing my jersey or pulling up my picture online. She should thank me for the clit-flick material. Wouldn't be the only one. The entire room eye-fucked me.

My car's reflection in the car next to it caught my eye. "What the fuck–"

"Sam, do I need to use slow words again?"

I frowned at a keyed line on the passenger's side. Fuck, my MC20 was two weeks old. Candace got her implants, and I spent another year with my rusty pickup and her A-cups before pulling the spending trigger. Sleek as fuck, the Nero Enigma color gave it a liquid appearance. Correction: it had that look. Fucking local punks. It still had the new car smell. Also, like Candy's tits, I hadn't given it a test drive. Yet.

"Sam, you're a PR nightmare." My agent poured on his schmooze, the cool, even tone he normally reserved for securing arrangements that worked in my favor, not against it. "We're all behind you. I'm committed, Jeremiah's committed, Ashley's committed. Simone's even on board with your image makeover."

"Because I fucking pay y'all to be behind me." I trailed the pad of my thumb over the scorching hot key mark. It was impressively straight. "And I don't need an image makeover!"

"Let's see." Rustling paper sounds crinkled in my ear. "Samuel Pearson, Houston's Golden Quarterback, found–"

"Shut up, Mike." I dragged a hand through my damp hair and got in my car with a grunt. "Shut the fuck up."

"What should Ashley lead the media with, you blowing three hundred grand on a car and breast implants?" Mike's unusual forwardness continued as my phone synced to my car. "Do I need to remind you about the accident parts Ash ensured weren't reported?"

I liked him better when he kissed my ass, except, again, he was right. One mistake could cost my entire NFL future. Blue ball irritation and unwanted pokes in my personal life aside, they bailed my ass out of an even worse PR situation. I was also lucky Candace stayed with me, another reason for me to get home and fuck her brains out. The ache in my dick agreed.

"Sam." His exhale crackled static in my car's interior. "I want what's best for you, which is not the direction you're headed. Take a good, long look in the mirror. You'll know I'm right."

Following Mike's suggestion, my eyes flipped up to the rearview mirror. Lowering my glasses down the bridge of my nose, a nine-figure, athletic, handsome devil smirked back.

"What we all need is you, on the field, drawing attention to how much you deserve a contract extension. Houston's draft–"

"I know who they drafted." I smashed the remote start. "My benchwarmer."

"Your backup," he snapped. "And potential replacement, with a sparkling reputation the entire franchise is embracing to cover up your piss poor judgment."

Where was his tough-love approach coming from? I didn't know, but I didn't like it and hit the wheel. "It's my fucking franchise!"

"It's yours to lose, along with your endorsements," Mike clipped in a tight voice. "Which you will, if you don't get your shit together this offseason. Jeremiah pitched some alternatives, but I think a change will give you some...mental clarity."

Mental clarity? What the fuck, Mike? I palmed the shoulder in question. "Jer says I'm almost there."

After a long pause, hesitation soaked Mike's voice more than the shirt clinging to my torso. "You're not there yet, Sam."