The Last Guy

My thoughts turn to Trent. He loves to celebrate, and there’s no telling where we’ll end up tonight. Last year he’d rented out a warehouse and organized an all-night rave for his twenty-fifth. I can only hope tonight will be on a smaller scale. I scoff. Who am I kidding? Trent never does anything small.

I love the shit out of him. Too bad my father doesn’t.

And just like that, familiar anger rushes to the surface.

Growing up, Trent had been a soft-spoken kid who’d loved acting and music. He didn’t have a shot playing football with his slender frame, plus he couldn’t run for shit. Still, my father pushed him, signing him up to participate in anything athletic. Trent rebelled his senior year—by announcing he was gay to my parents. In the middle of my senior year as quarterback for the University of Texas, I’d dropped everything to come home and be the buffer for the drama between him and my father.

It hadn’t worked.

Dad demanded that if Trent wanted to live under his roof, he had to attend a camp where they got the gay out of you. That didn’t fly at all. I’d delved into my savings and paid for Trent to have an apartment close to home and attend an online high school.

Now it’s eight years later, and any mention of Trent makes my father clam up.

I shove those memories away. Forget your father. Focus on the birthday boy—who should have texted me by now with where he is with his mob of friends.

As if he reads my mind, my phone pings with a text from him.

Done eating with the Old Dragon? In a bad mood yet?

Yes and yes. What’s the plan, birthday boy?

He’d assured me earlier it was going to be low-key.

I don’t believe him.

Pussycat Club on 959 Highland Street in one hour. Leave your suit at home and bring some dolla bills.

Pussycat? It doesn’t ring any bells. I picture a blinking neon sign outside with Girls, Girls, Girls flashing.

This a strip club??

I’m not necessarily opposed to a strip club, but now that I’m a sportscaster who delivers news to a mostly conservative audience, I have to think twice about where I make public appearances.

He sends me a long string of the laughing/crying emojis. Even better. Drag show. Strip clubs are for jocks and straight men.

Fucker. I grin.

Why do I need dollar bills? I type.

In case you want to tip your bartender. Get your head out of the gutter. Drag queens are classy.

I bark out a laugh. I’m not sure about this place or if I should even go since I have to work tomorrow, yet part of me is amped up and ready to do something. Maybe it’s the run-in with Stone. I keep picturing her flouncing across that parking lot in her heels.

Stop thinking about her.

Right.

I heave out a sigh, weighing my options for the evening. Trent is going to keep me up late, and there’d be copious amounts of alcohol involved. Maybe I should pass on the clubbing tonight and just chill at my place.

A long slender hand curls around my bicep, and I gaze down at Maggie Grace.

Tonight she’s dressed in a black lace cocktail dress and high heels. Her white blonde hair is swirled up in some fancy style and her lake blue eyes are studying my face.

I assume she’s reading my stony What now? expression because she sighs. “Look, I’ve already apologized for crashing your dinner. But I happened to be in town for the day and your dad called me.” She pauses and stares at the ground. “And . . . I didn’t want to miss an opportunity to see you, Cade. It’s been weeks since we ran into each other at the polo match—”

“We’re not getting back together, Maggie Grace. You’re just lonely because you broke up with someone.” Yeah. She’d been dumped a few weeks ago by some senator’s son.

She blinks rapidly and a shimmer of tears appears. “We had a good thing. I miss it.”

Fuck, what is it about me and women crying today?

My mouth tightens as I remain firm at the sight, not wavering—which is clearly not what happened with Stone in the restroom earlier. Interesting.

My eyes bounce off her and stay glued to the road and the missing valet. Where is my goddamn car?

“We spent a year living together, Cade,” she says, a pleading tone in her voice. In typical Maggie Grace style, she’s not giving up.

My teeth grind together.

She blots at her eyes with a tissue she pulls from her clutch. “I’m set to inherit Aunt Anne’s shares at HG. We’re going to see each other at some point. I can’t help how I feel—”

Frustration erupts, and I can’t stifle my groan. “Just stop orchestrating us bumping into each other. We are over. Go find another guy—or better yet, find yourself.”

She inhales a sharp breath. “There’s a part of you that still cares about me, Cade.”

I had loved her, but when I’d blown out my knee, things had gone haywire and within a few months of me being retired from the NFL, she’d left.

I give her a hard look. “You walked out on me three years ago when I needed you the most.”

She bites her lip and shakes her head as if the memory of it hurts. “Fine. I made mistakes. I was young and stupid, but I’ve grown up since then. I know that everything isn’t about me anymore. Can’t you forgive me?”

I exhale, close my eyes, and then open them. I don’t want to encourage her, but . . . fuck . . . in the end, her ditching me had been for the best. The girl I want in my life isn’t anything like Maggie Grace. I want someone who doesn’t give a shit that I can’t run down a football field anymore.

“Cade?”

I rock on my heels, considering her.

Maybe she needs closure.

Anything to get the hell out of here.

“Yes,” I say finally. “I forgive you for getting on with your life when you obviously weren’t happy. There. Is that what you want to hear?”

“And we can be friends?” Her eyes are wide and hopeful.

“Of course.” I nod rather absently, already checking my phone again to see if Trent texted me. “Friends.”

I shift and ease myself away from her as I see the familiar headlights of my black Escalade. I step to the curb, ready to dart inside as soon as the wheels stop turning. I send her a small wave, feeling more magnanimous now that my escape route is here.

“Look it was . . . nice . . .”—fuck, that’s a lie—“seeing you, but I have to go.”

“Call me sometime,” she yells out as I walk away.

I tip the valet a twenty as he opens the door for me and I slide inside. Heaving a sigh of relief that this part of my evening is over, I give her a nod and pull from the curb, headed to my penthouse a few blocks away.

After parking in my reserved spot in the basement, I catch a ride up in the elevator to the twentieth floor.

Because it’s been a stressful evening, I pop in the shower to relax. I’m just getting out when my phone pings—Trent again.

HELLO? Where did you go? The show is on in half an hour. It has five stars on Trip Advisor. A “must see” in Houston.

I grunt and type a reply. Bob’s BBQ has 5 stars and gave me food poisoning. Nearly put me in the hospital. I add a puking emoji.

His reply is instant. This isn’t some redneck food joint, and you won’t be eating, you’ll be drinking. IT’S MY BIRTHDAY.

I stare at my phone, pondering what to do. Trent has a way of making everyone around him happy, and after the shit dinner I’d had tonight . . .