Smolder (The Road to Rocktoberfest 2024)

2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Sanders "Sandy" Kensington

“I need a simple favor.”

Famous last words from my little brother, Marshall. It was never a favor, and it was never simple.

“No.”

I hooked the barbell on the weight bench clips and sat up. He’d been spotting me in my basement gym, and I needed to get rid of the guy before he talked me into something I would never want to do.

“You don’t even know what it is, Sandy.”

I didn’t have to. I’d known the kid for thirty-five years—his whole life—and he was a pain in the ass. Always had been, always would be.

“How’s Tina?” I stood and went to the linen closet by the stairs to get two towels.

It was hot in my basement because when Marsh came downstairs to work out with me, he started bitching that the place smelled like a cantina, so we opened the doors. I was sweating out a lot of tequila from a night out I didn’t want to talk about because there wasn’t anything to tell, and Marsh was a whiny asshole.

“Her name is Juliana, and she’s history. I swear to fuck, Sandy, do you ever listen when I talk?”

“Close enough. What happened?” I didn’t give a shit, really, but if we were talking about him, we weren’t talking about me and my epically fucked-up life.

“She wanted me to introduce her to Ross Wilson from Begging for Trouble, another band CEA represents, so I did. Now she’s fucking him instead of me. How long are you planning to wallow in self-pity?”

I handed him a towel and opened the fridge, grabbing two water bottles. I tossed one at him, and he barely caught it, making me laugh. “I see why you quit playing with any balls other than your own.”

“Ha-fucking-ha. I got all the good looks and charm in the family, you fucking shit-house.”

That made both of us laugh. My lovely granny gave me that nickname when I hit a growth spurt at thirteen and shot up almost a foot from one Christmas to the next when we visited her in Michigan. The next semester, the football coach at my junior high school in Cupertino started harassing me to train so I could play varsity football during my freshman year of high school.

“I do miss old Maude. She was a ballsy gal. Anyway, have you talked to Mom and Dad lately?”

Our parents moved to Stanford, California, when Dad got a job teaching at the university the year I went to college on a football scholarship. Marsh was just starting high school, and our parents had some grand idea that he would go to Stanford Law. Dad hoped he could get a break on the tuition, which was exactly what happened.

The only flaw in the plan was Marsh got his MBA and went into entertainment law instead of corporate. He lived in Los Angeles most of the time but came to visit me when he wanted something—like now.

“Talked to Mom on Thursday. Dad’s up for department head next year. She doesn’t want him to get it. She wants him to retire, but of course, he doesn’t want to. You can call them, you know.”

I guzzled the water and tossed the bottle into the recycling bin. “Leave it alone, Marsh.”

My brother sat on the weight bench and stared at me. “Why won’t you tell me what happened? Mom and Dad don’t care that you’re gay, Sandy.”

I put my hands on top of my head, twining my fingers. “I beg to differ. Look, it’s been a year, and they haven’t tried to get in touch with me after everything happened. Leave it alone.”

Marsh was silent for a moment before he glanced at the bench. “Dude, seriously? That stupid story about you dating the owner’ teen daughter was ridiculous. It was all over the papers about you getting arrested for soliciting an undercover cop at a gay sex club in Albany when you were there for a game. It was a members-only club, Sandy. How the hell did you get in?”

I was ready to crawl out of my skin, so I changed the subject. “What’s the favor?”

Marsh’s face lit up. “Fine, don’t tell me. I’m representing From the Ashes as a favor to Alicia. Her dad represented them back in the late eighties, early nineties. They were a hair band, which was popular then—they were signed by RayCom, and when John, Alicia’s father, left the company, he took them with him. They were his first clients.”

One thing about Marsh—he liked to ramble like a narrator in a historical movie. “Marsh, cut to the chase. How do I come into this?”

“The drummer and lead singer had a heart episode yesterday. He had an emergency angioplasty. He was in the middle of having sex with his two ex-wives, if you can believe that shit.”

“How old is he?” I laughed along with Marsh.

“Sixty-five. Fucker has had more tail than I’ve ever seen in my life. Anyway, he’s engaged to a twenty-five-year-old girl, who is stirring up a whole lot of shit.”

“I swear to god, Marsh—”

“Okay, okay. Harmon Studio is currently in post-production for a big action movie to be released next summer, and they want one of the band’s old songs for it. They want the song re-recorded, and we have studio time booked for the end of June. I’m trying to set up a summer tour schedule. It’ll only be five cities from San Diego to San Francisco to road test the updated song before we send it to the studio. Regal Ashe, the frontman, wants his oldest son to collaborate on the rewrite, but the two of them don’t get along at all.”

“So, what do you want me to do? Lock them in a room together until they kiss and make up?”

That was a load of bullshit. Some relationships just weren’t meant to be—even between parents and their children, as I’d learned the hard way after my arrest.

The fucking owner of the club—Hot Sauce on the Side—got in trouble with local law enforcement over a drunk driving charge, and he allowed the cops to stake out the club and arrest people for lude and lascivious behaviors, me for propositioning a police officer for sex.

The guy had been eyeing my junk all night, and I was riding a high because I’d caught an interception and got a sack that night, so I was down to at least get my dick sucked. I was arrested before the guy pulled down the zipper of my pants.

It was ruled as entrapment when the prosecutor reviewed the case, and all charges were dropped against everyone caught up that night, but not before the news about me being arrested in a sting at a gay club spread like wildfire.

I embarrassed myself, my team, and my family. I resigned from the Chicago Breeze after a heart-to-heart discussion with the general manager, who strongly urged me to talk to a former teammate, Jackson Delacroix, who had been plagued by bad press after he got caught with his then-boyfriend on a tropical vacation.

I decided to save the Breeze from another scandal, and I “retired” after my phone call with Delacroix. The fucker was damn happy now—not one, but two gorgeous husbands, kids on the way, and the world by the ass. Last I heard, he was opening his own gym in Chicago.

How the hell had the Cajun gotten himself out of his mess and into such a great life when I couldn’t get out of my own fucking way? My indiscretion had cost me nearly everything, but most of all, it cost me my parents. I’d been spinning my wheels for a year. I was sick of it. Hell, I was sick of myself.

“No. All I want is for you to pick the son up at the airport on Friday. He’s coming to town to see his father, and I want you to make sure he doesn’t change his mind. He lives in Peoria, as a matter of fact.” Marsh laid back on the weight bench and braced his hands on the bar, so I moved over to spot him.

“You think you can lift this?” I’d been working out like it was still my job, and I could bench three-fifty, which was currently loaded on the bar. Marsh was nowhere near my size.

“What’s on it?” He sat up and started adding up the weight I’d just finished lifting. I waited for him to take off his shoes to get a final count.

“Fuck you, Sandy. I’d die if I tried to lift that.” He stomped over to the fridge and grabbed a beer.

“Hey, you just plopped your ass down on the bench. I didn’t know if maybe you had some skills you’ve been keeping secret.” I unloaded the weights and put them on the stand before I sprayed and wiped down the equipment, grabbing a beer for myself.

“You need me to be sure the guy gets to his parents’ place? I don’t have to make sure he stays, do I? How big is the fucker?” I sat at the bar in my mancave just outside the gym and stared at him.

“Nope. Just pick him up at the airport and take him to his mother’s animal rescue in Cupertino. His mom, Hope Ashe, will take it from there. She’s going to talk him into working with his father, she thinks. I don’t know the guy. He’s probably thirty, and judging by Regal Ashe, he’s probably not too big. If you can bench three-fifty, I’m sure you can handle him.”

I took a gulp of my beer. “Fine. I’m not taking my car.” I had recently purchased a Maserati MC20. I wasn’t risking my baby on some guy with daddy issues.

“Fine. He’ll probably have luggage anyway. I’ll rent an SUV and have it delivered here on Friday morning. You pick him up and take him to his mom’s place.” Marsh pulled out his phone and pecked in something before he put it on the bar.

My stomach growled, echoing off the walls of the basement. "You hungry? Let’s get cleaned up, and I’ll let you buy me a steak.”

Marsh nodded, and we each grabbed a beer to go upstairs and shower. I enjoyed having my brother visit, though I didn’t tell him so. I didn’t want him to come and go as if he lived with me. No matter—I was sure he wouldn’t have shown up if his client hadn’t had a heart attack.

I didn’t like getting roped into a favor, but it wouldn’t kill me. Marsh was my kid brother, and I loved him. I’d do anything for him—I just didn’t want him to know that.

Friday morning, I went for a run before the sun came up, having snapped awake from what I wished had been a nightmare but was, unfortunately, a bad memory from my last days with the team.

That October morning, my phone had rung as I stepped out of the shower to rinse off the stench from my night in jail. “Kensington, get your ass up to my room right now.” It was the coach, Beau Richelieu. I’d known I was in fucking trouble.

“I’ll be right up, Coach.”

We had returned from the Albany County jail at three in the morning after I was released into Beau’s custody. The front office had promised to square it so I didn’t have to return to Albany to go to court. I’d been charged with solicitation of a police officer, but in my own defense, he’d been a hot fucker and was in the club, so I’d assumed he was available. Why would I expect anything different?

When I arrived at Beau’s room, he had a plane ticket for me to fly commercial back to Chicago—not with the team for the next game. “What’s this?”

“We’re going to Denver instead of back to Chicago so the guys can get acclimated before the game on Thursday night. You’re going back to Chicago to meet with the GM. He’ll probably tell you to clean out your locker and turn in your keys and pass to the front office. I believe they’re gonna cut you, Sandy. They’ll concoct some story to try to cover for you getting arrested for soliciting a cop, but the team can’t go through another scandal like we did with Delacroix. I’m sorry, son. I don’t give a good goddamn who you fuck, but the backlash from Delacroix was hard on the club’s morale.”

“Does it matter that the cop approached me?” I’d been standing at the bar when the hot cop had come up to me, not identifying himself as an undercover police officer, though I guess that was the motivation behind the undercover part.

“I’m sure the lawyers will be in touch with you. For your sake, I hope they can get the charge dismissed without much fanfare. Hell, son, you’re thirty-seven. You’re about at the end of your career anyway. Hopefully, the press has a short memory.” With that, I’d been bounced on my ass like a rubber ball.

In the end, the lawyers got the charges dismissed and the arrest removed from my record. Mr. Orr paid out my contract, and my football career was over.

The sight of my house pushed away the memories I couldn’t shed the previous night, and as I walked up the driveway, I saw a black Suburban parked in front of my house. I hurried up the steps and onto the front porch, sliding off my running shoes before I made my way inside, down the hallway, and into the kitchen.

Marsh was at the breakfast bar, sipping coffee as he read shit on his phone. “You eat already?”

He glanced up and pointed to the microwave. “I made scrambled eggs. There’s toast in the toaster oven. Do you always run so damn early in the morning?”

I filled a glass with water from the front of the fridge and gulped it down. “Gets too fucking hot to run later. How’d you get the SUV here so fast?”

Marsh smirked. “I’ve got people, big brother. Anyway, the flight comes in at eight on Southwest. Here’s the information and my tablet. I have no idea what the guy looks like, so use the tablet with this graphic I made.” He handed me the tablet with “Skyler Ashe” on the screen.

“Sure. Look, I’m sorry I was such a prick yesterday. I’m sorry I embarrassed the whole family, Marsh. I just wanted to have a good time. The charges were dismissed because it was a dirty sting, but I still did something that violated the morals clause in my contract. I gotta get over it.”

Marsh stood and walked over to the microwave, taking out my plate and reaching into the toaster oven to grab two pieces of wheat toast. He set them on the counter in front of me, along with a cup of coffee.

“Thanks.”

I reached for the fork, but Marsh pulled it away. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Sandy. You were trying to live a double life, and I hate that you felt it necessary. I love you, bro. I want you to find your happiness.”

He handed me the fork, but he grabbed my hand. “I want you to be happy, Sandy. Don’t ever forget that.”

I cleaned my plate like a good boy and hurried upstairs to shower and get ready to pick up Skyler Ashe. I hoped he wasn’t an asshole.

I stood at the security exit with Marshall’s tablet in hand. I was dressed in a suit with a white shirt unbuttoned—portraying the professionalism my brother wanted—and watched everyone leaving the Southwest security exit.

I saw all kinds of men walk out of the exit—old, young, tall, short. None of them were my type. I was just about to leave because being a fucking chauffeur wasn’t my gig, but I remembered I was doing this for Marsh and turned back around.

A gorgeous guy walked up to me with a nervous grin. “I’m Skyler Ashe.”

I sucked in too much air for a second. He was fucking stunning with blond hair and golden-brown eyes, but knowing his father was a rock star, I was sure the pretty boy was a stuck-up brat. I decided not to engage but not be rude. “Do you have a checked bag?”

“I, uh… No. I only brought this. Should I have brought more?”

He seemed quite unsure of himself, and why the fuck was that so sexy? His short blond hair and beautiful smoldering eyes had me dumbstruck—which wasn’t as hard to do as one might think. Too many tackles during my time on the field.

Skyler asked questions, and I nodded or shook my head in response because I wasn’t sure how my voice would sound if I tried to speak. I couldn’t take my eyes off the guy in the back seat, and I’d much rather imagine him as a sexy mute than a spoiled rich boy.

I drove Skyler Ashe to his mother’s strange little rescue farm. I hadn’t spoken more than three words aloud. After I dropped his duffel at the door and returned to the SUV, I drove away, vowing to never think about Skyler Ashe again.