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Chapter 1

Although smoking had been outlawed inside public establishments more than a decade ago, the bar still had leftover smog. Invisible yet pungent, it hung like an indiscernible cloud. Adding to it were eons of postadolescent hormones and a corner that never could completely ditch the smell of vomit. Aptly named the Bunker in this particular rural Pennsylvania college town, it was where college freshman managed to get served a few beers, and the owner could get away with it as long as neither acted like a jackass. The red-plastic-covered barstools and chairs were sometimes sticky from humidity and residual sweat from game-winning celebrations and defeat commiserations. When ordering pitchers of beer you didn’t look too closely at the glasses, telling yourself that the alcohol would kill any germs, which was part of the general belief that one was invincible. Still, the Bunker inspired the kind of nostalgia that made it a must-stop whenever former students attended homecoming.

Everyone remembers their old college hangouts. But while Tyson Palmer sat alone at a table in the barf corner of his alma mater, he was grasping for memories. Maybe it was the weed that dulled his senses. Or maybe the Percocet. He still believed he could hold his liquor.

“I’ll take another Jack Daniel’s on the rocks.” He jiggled the ice in his now-empty glass at the server making a pass across the room, his voice deceptively steady. “Make it a double.” Some of the recollections were so clear. Not too long ago, around these parts people had described him as promising and gifted. Tyson had been the classic success story, raised in a hardworking, middle-class family that met all the American Dream criteria, even if those requirements were throwbacks from the ’50s. There was one boy and one girl born to a mother who worked part-time when they were in school and dressed them up for church every Sunday. A dad who came home every night from his management job at a local building supply store at five fifteen on the dot to enjoy a cocktail with his loyal wife as she finished preparing dinner. Douglas Palmer was the kind of father who played poker once a month with the neighborhood fellas and never missed a peewee football or baseball game. Whose eyes lit up when he realized just how far and accurate his then ten-year-old son could aim. He tried to downplay his pride as the accolades began rolling in and coaches took real notice. Then, slowly but surely, he became the father who vicariously began to live his own variation of football fantasy through that son. After acting as his agent when Tyson signed with the Boston Blitz, his dad divorced his mom and moved in with a twenty-three-year-old exotic dancer.

Within the last three years, the adjectives attached to Tyson Palmer’s name slowly morphed into overrated, reprehensible. A real waste.

Wanting to stay in his father’s good graces, Tyson had often joined him in his downhill slide. Douglas Palmer proved a bad example. Tyson took responsibility for his mother’s heartbreak, stuffed all the hurt and pain deep down inside, and set the sequence on his time bomb to self-destruct.

Coming back here was supposed to be a kind of victory lap. But Tyson wasn’t being followed by throngs of alumni or asked to attend any ceremonies, not even the ones taking place on the football field. He wasn’t invited to any parties. Instead Tyson had been forced to retreat to the Bunker, where he was pointed at from a safe distance, like an animal in a zoo. Occasionally someone would approach him, politely engage him for a few moments, mostly about the weather, and be on their way. Nothing to see here—the phrase cops always used to move spectators along from a crime scene. His teammates and Blitz management had tried to be supportive . . . in the beginning. But it wasn’t long before Tyson’s shenanigans robbed him of his ability to lead, and they all had grown weary of him, even before he started racking up more interceptions than touchdowns on game day. He knew that within the next twenty-four hours his dirty drug test results would leave him jobless and probably tossed out of the league. The book they were getting ready to throw at him was heavy. I sure won’t miss those cold Massachusetts winters, he thought to console himself.

“Tyson?”

Bloodshot eyes focused on a face that was vaguely familiar. It was a wisp of a ghost brushing by him. Someone insignificant, but at the same time, not—pretty, but low maintenance. Dark hair, hazel eyes with a glint of determination magnified through the lenses of her glasses. When he’d seen her last, she had something he needed. And something he’d wanted.

 “Helen?” he tried to zero in. They had spent quality time together, at least for a while. He hadn’t seen her naked, but it probably wasn’t from lack of trying. Those whose pants he didn’t get into were much more likely to stand out. “Ellen?”

“Ella,” she said hopefully. “I was your English tutor, in your senior year?”

Now he remembered. A flash that was stark and vivid, from the predrug days, before those first few injuries that weren’t so quick to heal. She had been one of several students handpicked by the administration when he fell short on his classes during football season. Hired for several hours a week to basically cram the exams into his skull and dictate his essays to him. He wasn’t stupid, but he also didn’t make it easy. Back then he thought about nothing but football and was easily distracted when it came to anything else. “Right.” He smiled at her, feeling the warm nostalgic wave. Her last name was something Italian. “Ella Bella.”

He had made up the cheesy nickname for her on a rainy afternoon four weeks into that semester, after they abandoned meeting at the library in favor of his dorm room. When he decided he would rather make out than recite the answers to an upcoming test. She was appealing enough, fresh faced and makeup free, a sophomore that had held on to her freshman fifteen. Not girlfriend material, but he wasn’t looking for a girlfriend.

And after one delicious kiss, Ella Bella had shot him down. Not in cold blood, of course, she stammered through the willing-to-date-him speech, but he’d never asked her for a date, and casual sex was off the table. She told him that she was still a virgin and she planned on staying that way. Something about a virgin never failed to make a horny guy hum. Tyson jokingly asked her to bang him every time they were together after that, but he was hardly brokenhearted when she laughed him off. There was always someone else on the sidelines. It was more his way of telling her he was available if she ever wanted to change her mind. He began to view her more like a little sister, especially since she could talk football better than any other girl he knew at school, even better than some of his teammates.

“You remember?” She smiled back at him, and then giggled. He still had it. And clearly she knew nothing of what was happening in his world. These days he was on almost every woman’s shit list.

The server dropped off his fresh drink, but Tyson kept at the remaining ice in his drained glass. Pheromones were producing an equally worthy rush. Ella with the Italian name had barely changed at all. She was still cute. The bar was starting to wind down. It was after 1:00 a.m. The music had stopped playing, but the other drinkers in the bar didn’t seem to notice. Those in hushed conversations still were quiet, only now lip-reading was no longer required. Rowdy voices remained boisterous.

“Of course I remember. Thanks to you, I got a B.” Not sure if that was true, but he had a knack for mixing his caddishness with boyish charm, even when he was half in the bag. “You’re here for homecoming?”

“Yes, by default. I stayed here to continue on to my master’s. I graduate this year.”

“Congratulations,” he said, straightening up, envious that she would soon be rewarded for having learned all her lessons, including the one about resisting temptation. Suddenly being the biggest partier in the room was a dubious distinction. “Have a seat, let me buy you a drink. We’ll celebrate.” He slid his fresh drink across the table in her direction. “I’m not there yet.” She took up his offer for a seat across from him and ignored the highball of whiskey. “I still have to make it through the year. How are you?”

A loaded question if ever there was one. And the first time he was asked it all night without the asker trying to quickly take it back. By the kindhearted look on her face, she really wanted to know. But how is anyone who’s about to lose everything and become a social pariah? Who will have managed to fall from grace in such a spectacular fashion and in record time? Looking into the eyes of this innocent bookworm, who was still protected from the outside world by two square miles of college campus, he longed to answer honestly. To tell Ella Bella that he wanted to go home but couldn’t remember his own address. And then confess that even if he did recall it, he couldn’t go there anyway because the repo man was probably lying in wait to take back his Land Rover, the only thing he had left after his exceptionally beautiful trophy wife cleaned him out and left when the rumors started to surface and the police came calling. He wanted to admit that he couldn’t tell the difference between stoned and tired anymore.

“I’m doing great,” he replied, longing to pick up one of the conversations from his past. And if there was one thing he could never be accused of, it was being a whiner.

Her expression didn’t change, and she continued to study him with the same gentle smile.

“You don’t have to keep up appearances for me, Tyson.”

At first it didn’t register, and then he just didn’t want it to. He had already attached himself to the fantasy that she was too busy being intelligent with her nose in a book to be bothered with television. Or the Internet, where his life seemed to play out as he lived it. A train wreck he couldn’t stand watching even as he stood at the helm and drove. He resisted reaching into his pocket for another Percocet, opting instead to take back the Jack Daniel’s he had previously offered her. “Here’s to the good old days,” he toasted before taking a swallow.

He quickly put his hand and the glass back on the table, a trick he’d learned to feel grounded. Now was the moment for her to take her leave and join the ranks of those repulsed by him. But sweet inexperienced Ella wasn’t beating a hasty retreat. Instead she pulled her chair up closer and lowered her voice.

“I’d much rather toast to your future,” she said, picking up his half empty drink and polishing it off.

He didn’t want to pretend anymore. And he didn’t have to carry on the charade. She still seemed to be looking at him with the wide-eyed adoration she had in the past, only now with a shadow of Jack-shooting tough girl.

“I don’t have a future.”

“Of course you do,” she proclaimed, “and I want to help you get back on the field.”

Tyson leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long legs to one side of the table. He crossed his arms over his chest and let out a single chuckle. Not the follow-up he expected. And she said it like he should’ve known.

“Just how do you propose to do that, Ella Bella?”

“By being a real friend for starters, the kind that wouldn’t just sit idly by and watch you get hooked on drugs.”

“Nobody got me hooked on anything,” he said stubbornly, more defense mechanism than anything else. By the time the news broke that she was indeed correct, this conversation would be over and he’d never have to see her again. And he refused to blame anyone other than himself for his lousy choices.

“So it was just alcohol that influenced your decisions that night with Carla Dowe?” she asked, moving on to the next topic, sounding more like a sideline reporter than an old friend.

Tyson grimaced. That was one face he’d never forget. At least she got right to the point. Carla Dowe was the beauty he met in a nightclub outside of Houston. She had long hair, longer legs, and rode him like a cowgirl in his rental car in the parking lot where they shared a joint after drinking the night away. His other transgressions surfaced rapidly after she sent one too many selfies of them looking a little too cozy. Her tune changed altogether once her parents found out. In the lawsuits that followed and thanks to his expensive attorney, the bar that let her in and served her took the brunt of the fallout. The suspicion around him remained as the allegations intensified, and rightly so. Even he had trouble recollecting the events of that evening. His blackouts had become a frequent occurrence. Luckily, his own lawyer was ruthless enough to subpoena and systematically grill friend after friend of the girl’s to testify about that night and Carla’s delight at having landed herself the ultimate score, complete with all the smiles she snapped, captured, and sent. But it was a double-edged sword. She looked young and innocent. He looked like ten miles of bad road. Tyson was spared a jail sentence but convicted of being a total scumbag in the court of public opinion.

“I swear she told me she was twenty-one.” He tried to make it sound like a joke, but the embarrassment reflected in his bloodshot eyes. “And she was eighteen.” He added feebly. He wasn’t sure why he bothered. There was still the issue that he was married at the time.

“Four days into eighteen. Easy to lose sight of that fact given she was still in high school,” Ella replied, graciously making no reference to his now-ex-wife.

Tyson scowled defensively, before leaning his forearms down on the table between them. “Then I guess there really isn’t any story left to tell. Sounds like you know it all.” He was sorry he had offered her a seat, much less his drink.

“I told you, Tyson, I want to try to help you,” she reiterated. “Why?”

“Because I believe in you,” Ella stated with conviction, as if that was enough to earn his trust. But Tyson Palmer was long past trusting anyone, including himself.

“Why?” he repeated, now angry.

Ella looked down at the table for a moment then said quietly, “Because I remember the guy I tutored. Who was serious about his game and never had a problem taking no for an answer.”

He wanted to laugh in her naïve face. To mockingly tell her at the time she hadn’t been worth the pursuit, if for no other reason than to get her to leave him alone. He wanted her to stop looking at him in the way she was, like he was not a total disaster. But most of all, he no longer wanted to be reminded of when he was in control and held the world in the palm of his football-throwing hand.

“That kid doesn’t exist anymore. When you graduate and join the real world, you’ll realize that people change, usually not for the better,” he spat out cynically.

“I refuse to believe that.”

Tyson sighed and ran his hand through the shaggy brown hair that had outgrown his clean cut months ago. She was being way too persistent, but her sincerity was admirable, and part of him wanted to believe her.

“Okay. We’re friends, now what?”

She brightened with his acquiescence. And she really did have a pretty smile. “Now you let me be a good friend and help take care of you. You look so tired. ”

This time he didn’t hold back the laugh, and while it wasn’t exactly harsh, it still was hollow. She wasn’t able to help him any more than he could help himself. And she made it sound so easy, like she could perform some sort of exorcism and all his demons would flee. The more likely story was she was trying to get close to him under the misguided impression that he had something left to offer.

“You’re good, Mother Teresa. Why don’t we go someplace quiet where I can confess my sins and you can absolve me? Make sure you turn your phone on to record, so you don’t miss the good stuff.”

“You’re wrong, but I understand you being leery,” she patiently explained. “I . . . I always liked you, Tyson, and you were always so nice to me. You deserve to have someone on your side. I know this is all just your circumstances talking.”

“Sorry, not interested.” Tyson took back his now-empty glass and went back to sucking the last remnants of Gentleman Jack off the ice. Damn his mouth was dry, always so dry. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was closed. He wanted her to get out before he settled back into the dark side.

“What would it take for me to get you interested? For you to consider coming home with me, at least for a decent night’s sleep?”

Maybe it was the way she asked it, completely oblivious to the fact that the question itself made her sound like a hooker. Maybe it was the pity or her dogged insistence that he see himself for something other than he was, which was a lost cause. And then, like a lighthouse shining through the fog in his brain, it dawned on him. His cute little virtuous tutor had joined the ranks of pleasure seekers and was trying to get him into bed. At least that explanation turned the exchange from ludicrous to one that made sense.

“You still a virgin, Ella Bella?” He answered her question with one of his own, accompanied by a smile of complete impropriety.

Finally she blinked. Her grip tightened around the handle of the purse in her lap, and she stared at it before looking back up at him and meeting his gaze head-on.

“Yes.” She spoke her one-word answer unemotionally, even as the flush crept up to her cheeks.

Tyson sat back in his chair, the recesses of his drug-addled mind jarred. Wrong answer. She was supposed to have forsaken her outdated notion of chastity. She was supposed to have been tainted by now, like everyone he knew. As corrupted as he was.

“Hey Ella Bella, what do you say to you and me going someplace to get freaky?” Part of it was said in jest, trying to recover from just how badly she managed to throw him. Another part of him longed to engage in just a little bit of the same harmless banter from the days when she was a sweetheart and he was a hero.

“Your place or mine?” Her answer was so unexpected and sounded just as foreign to his ears.

She was supposed to have played along and let him down easy, as she had done a hundred times before.

Tyson shook his head, unsure if he’d heard her correctly. He took a moment to let it sink in. Perhaps she was just trying to be funny, to save them both from the awkwardness of his initial reaction. Or she was trying to show him she was all grown up.

“You shouldn’t be so glib, Ella,” he scolded her. “It could get you into trouble.”

She seemed to enjoy watching the emotions that played across his face. “Maybe I’m looking for trouble.”

Despite all his best intentions his body once again started to hum.

She had upped the ante.

“Are you suggesting what I think you are?”

“I want you to be the first person I make love to.” It sounded romantic, but romance wasn’t what he was currently known for. Or what he wanted. He wanted dirty, sleazy, guilt-free hookup sex, at least until they lawyered up. It was what he was used to. But not what he wanted for her. He was surprised that he even cared at all.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Not only did she not appear chastised, but by the set of her jaw, she looked more determined. “I’m a grown woman, Tyson. I know what I’m doing.”

The very idea was preposterous. They were little more than strangers. He knew better than anyone that strangers didn’t have sex to forge relationships. They did it to avoid them. Who in their right mind would make such an offer after so many years? He gave her some time to come to her senses, but she continued to stare at him, waiting for his answer. “You do know what they’re saying about me?”

He felt her foot clumsily begin to slide up his leg in response to the question. He gave a short laugh and then narrowed his eyes.

“You realize this ride has no refunds?”

“I do,” she confirmed.

“And when it’s over, I’m going to consider you just another whore?” He fully expected her to stand up and slap his face. To see him for what he was. To finally abandon the notion that she was going to save him and leave him to his misery. But she only tilted her head and studied him, every bit the sophomore he remembered, only now with her foot finding the inside of his thigh.

“No you’re not, Tyson. Quit trying to scare me away.”

He finally stopped caring. The hum had gotten loud enough to be heard through the numb. Nostalgia was grossly overrated anyway. And her smile was positively naughty.

“Put your shoe back on. The room’s on me,” Tyson said ungallantly, pushing away from the table and standing up. “You’re on.”

He gave her two of the last five one-hundred-dollar bills he had, and they checked into the local Motel 6 under her name while he waited outside. It was a condition Tyson insisted on, and he did it automatically out of self-preservation. There would no confusion as to who was initiating what, should she end up having second thoughts after it was over.

He wasn’t sure what to expect next from her and he had long forgotten how to properly execute foreplay. He half-hoped she would chicken out and run screaming into the night. He wasn’t even sure in his current state that he could adequately perform.

They took off their coats and Tyson sat on the edge of the bed. He thought about just lying down and dozing off. They could forget the whole thing. He watched Ella turn the television on and begin to surf, stopping on the motel’s promotional channel, which was the closest she could get to mood music. Nothing said romantic interlude quite like a picture of a continental breakfast with Muzak playing in the background. Then she began to dim the lights.

After checking the dead bolt on the door, she went and stood between his legs. She wove her hand into his hair and then gently fisted it, to tilt his head up to her and hold it in place. The fingertips of her other hand stroked over his cheekbone and down his jaw, then up over the bridge of his slightly crooked nose, the result of him playing through two quarters before having it set during his rookie season with the Blitz. He had considered that bump a badge of courage, even if it was the injury that became the catalyst to launch him into his new normal, courtesy of that first bottle of Vicodin being slipped into his locker by a team doctor. She was mesmerized, like she was walking around in her own amorous fantasy, her movements deliberate and calculated. She looked down and pulled his hair slightly to make sure his eyes were looking into hers.

“You really are still so beautiful.” She exhaled in awe before gently placing her mouth against his. She tasted him then unhurriedly ran her tongue over his upper lip before nipping at it. Her breath was sweet, Tic Tacs with traces of the whiskey they shared.

Whatever Ella’s teacher had been, whether book or movie, she had learned well, Tyson thought. His hands gripped around her waist and he roughly pulled her flush against him. His mouth opened wider as his hands drifted lower before coming to rest on her bottom, giving it a squeeze. Her response was to wiggle into his palms and draw his tongue into her mouth, teasing it with hers. This was no timid virgin, Tyson continued his inner justification, she was more like a vixen, and his body responded to it. Maybe she hadn’t been truthful and had just told him what she thought he wanted to hear. She wasn’t behaving like someone doing something she would regret. She was fully engrossed in her seduction. After that first kiss, he took off her glasses, placing them on the nightstand, and then stood. They took hasty turns stripping each other down, with kisses in between, beginning with Tyson and a sturdy tug at her cumbersome skirt. She pulled off his shirt in exchange for hers. What he uncovered was lush and curvy and a crime to keep hidden. She cooed words of encouragement as he unveiled her, becoming increasingly excited with each piece of clothing discarded, until there was only one thing left to remove. She wasn’t shy or inhibited as his hands freely roamed her nakedness, concentrating on boldly raking her nails down his chest, over the speed bumps of his abs, hooking them into the waistband of his boxer briefs. He kicked the boxers to the side, and his sex sprang to attention. Her fingers curled around him and she carefully pulled and caressed, her eyes lighting up with her discovery at his size, though she had nothing to compare it to. If she kept at him, he would lose it right in her hand. He pulled her hand away and lifted her, landing them both back onto the bed, careful not to crush her. He squeezed ample breasts and sucked at taut nipples. Her touch was hot, her skin supple, and her behavior nothing short of aggressive. Her lips moved to his neck, the beginning of a trail of kisses that slowly started making their way down his belly. She sighed in what he could only define as genuine pleasure, moving lower. It felt good, too good, and he stopped her before she reached her final destination, bringing her back up to him before pressing her back into the bed and covering her body with his own. She clutched him tightly, squirming beneath him in lust as his hand wedged between them to find her core. He toyed with her, using broad strokes from strong fingers until she was damp with wanting. She arched her back and began to whisper his name over and over, allowing herself the full pleasure of the sensation.

He left her on the brink and abruptly pulled away, unwilling to admit that he questioned his own staying power.

“I have to have you,” he groaned.

He pushed her back onto the bed, spread her legs with his own, and took her. He heard her sharp intake of breath at his penetration and his mouth captured hers again to avoid hearing her cry as he filled her. She was hot and tight and Tyson forced himself to remain still until her body relaxed. Her tongue found its way back into his mouth, and she wrapped a leg around his back. Then he began to slowly rock inside her. She wrapped her other leg and both her arms around him and found, then matched, his rhythm.

It seemed to be over before it began and despite all his efforts, he was soon shuddering above her, his release brought on prematurely by her enthusiasm and the lack of control over his own body. He couldn’t be sure she had gotten hers, and then he realized, albeit callously, he didn’t need to care. She had offered herself to him, on his terms. And by her own admission, she didn’t have any real experience. Still, no man wants to be thought of as a lousy lover. Tyson rolled off her and onto the bed, now discomfited by the whole encounter.

The Muzak was still crooning from the television. An electronic instrumental symphonic take on the Bee Gees’ “How Deep Is Your Love.” Ella tentatively began to curl up next to him. And to his own surprise, he let her, going as far as to wrap an arm around her and settle her on his chest. He had forgotten how much he missed human contact, the kind that didn’t end up giving him a bruise or a concussion. He had been caught up in his addiction for too long. He lightly stroked his hand up and down her back, appreciating her soft form molding against his muscles while he caught his breath. He fleetingly wondered if she was really as enchanting as she seemed. Booze and drugs had played tricks on him in the past. “Lady, you just blew my mind,” he told her, in the effort to explain away his lackluster performance.

“Ditto.” She smiled up at him, hugging him tighter. “I say we try that again.”

Even if she meant that she wanted to do it again because she was now free to enjoy and explore her sexuality, all he heard was criticism. Like a coach sending him back to the field after an interception. In fact, her eagerness only reminded him of exactly what he’d done and how he wished he’d done it.

“That’s okay, then let’s take a little nap,” she said, snuggling up closer to him and sighing. “We’ll have breakfast later, after we freshen up. And then I’ll take you home.”

Take him home? Was she serious? He began to feel cornered. “There’s not going to be any breakfast.” His arm fell away from her shoulder.

She picked her head up, trying to get a read on him. “Are you mad at me? Did I do something wrong?”

“No, I’m not mad.” But he was. When he had agreed to this idea, his plan was to sneak out after she’d fallen asleep. But she didn’t look too sleepy, and it wasn’t like he’d exhausted her, like he would have if he had done it right.

“I could totally fall in love with you, Tyson,” she confessed, blurting it out before she saw the look on his face.

Those words had fed his ego before, but it had been awhile. In this particular case, he’d never felt so undeserving. “You don’t even know me.”

His head was pounding, his ears were ringing, and the guilt was mounting. And his body was already starting to reach out for its next fix. He dislodged himself from under her and rose, beginning to search for his clothes.

“Tyson—what’s wrong?”

Everything was wrong. Coming back to his old college as a last resort to escape from reality, letting her sit down and fill his head with memories with her sweet talk and then trap him. Tyson stormed around the room, hating her and himself, while trying to quickly redress. Not bothering with his socks, he stuck them in his pockets while sitting down in the room’s only chair to jam his now-clammy feet into his shoes. Ella jumped up from the bed and scrambled to find her own clothes, which he had thrown all around the room. “Tyson, I don’t understand . . .”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the vial that was his only friend, his Percocet. He threw two down his throat without any water. The mere action seemed to calm him. He put the bottle back in his jacket and reached for the doorknob, stopped momentarily by the sheer desperation in her voice.

“Tyson, please don’t leave. You can trust me. I want to help you,” she pleaded.

He looked back at her, standing in the middle of the room in nothing but her underwear, tears of bewilderment and humiliation brimming in her eyes.

“I don’t want your help,” he stated coldly.

She swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice from trembling and the tears from falling. “But you . . . I thought . . .”

“Welcome to the big time,” Tyson told her cruelly before opening the door then staggering back out into the darkness and his downfall.

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