Diary of a Bad Boy(40)

“I can be more of a diva if you want.”

“Nah, that’s okay.”

Leaning back in his chair, he says, “So how’s therapy?”

Great, it’s going to be one of those meetings.

“Fantastic,” I answer with a smile and a tip of my water glass. Yeah, water, and not because Sutton thinks I shouldn’t drink during business but because Foster would probably lecture me, and I’m not in the mood for a lecture right now. Or ever, really. And why do I care that both Greens are lecturing me about drinking . . . Fuck.

He considers my answer and then says, “That sounds an awful lot like sarcasm.”

Nailed it; nothing gets past him. If it was written in a text by Sutton, my answer would’ve been put in asterisks.

“Some people are meant for therapy, some aren’t. I’m not a touchy-feely guy, so sitting through that hour of madness feels like pure torture to me.”

“Being open and expressive of your feelings is not a bad thing, you know. Doesn’t make you any less of a man.”

“I noticed that the day you bawled in front of the press when you said this next year would be your last. You could barely get two words out of your mouth.”

He smirks. “I’m an emotional man and hey, it landed me that sponsorship with Kleenex.” He knowingly points his finger at me.

“True, can’t forget that golden opportunity.”

“It’s more amusing than anything. Fans love it.”

I sip my water, hating that it doesn’t burn as it makes its way down my throat. “You know, I did hear the new requirement fans are looking for in a quarterback is ultra-sensitive and cries on camera.”

“It’s why the Steel have kept me on for so long; they love a guy who can please the fans.”

We both chuckle and I begin to level with him, knowing fully well he’s going to grow serious in the next minute, so might as well cut him to the chase. “I write in the diary every day.”

“You do? I thought you would have enjoyed the therapy sessions over the diary.”

I shake my head. “The diary is personal. I keep that to myself. The therapy sessions feel like I’m forcibly cutting myself raw for the therapist to judge. I hate that. Hate every second of it actually.”

“That makes sense. You’ve always been a private man.”

“If you ask, I’ll tell you, but I’m not about to hand out information like it’s a cookie at Christmas.”

“I can respect that.” He lets out a long breath. “As long as you’re making progress, that’s all I care about. You’re like a son to me, Roark, a son who makes me a lot of money.” We laugh. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”

You’re like a son to me.

Except I know that in Foster’s mind, it’s a positive thing. Unlike my pa who considers me a fuckwit and wants nothing to do with me.

“I appreciate that, Foster.”

He looks around and puts both hands on the armrests of his chair. “Not to spoil the intimacy of this conversation, but is there a bathroom nearby?”

I point behind us. “Down the hall on the right.”

“Thanks.” He takes off, and I pull my phone from my pocket to keep myself busy. And then I smile.

Sutton: Did you email Brock, Freddie, and Carmichael?

Roark: Always working.

Sutton: Someone has to. So did you?

Roark: Who says I’m not working right now?

Sutton: Are you?

Roark: At a lunch meeting.

Sutton: And you’re texting me . . .

Roark: Cut the sass, he’s in the bathroom. I multitask.

Sutton: A modern man you are. So did you email them?

Roark: If I didn’t?

Sutton: Roark! I asked you nicely.

Roark: And I asked you for a picture of your tits, and I didn’t get that.

Sutton: You could have had my *tits* a week ago.

Roark: I liked it better when you weren’t so sassy.

Sutton: Lies. Now please email them!

Roark: Already did, lass.

Sutton: Why, why do you torture me?

Roark: Because it’s easy.

“Look at that smile on your face,” Foster says, coming up from behind and startling the ever-living crap out of me.

“Christ.” I chuckle. “Didn’t know the prostate was working that well on ya, old man. Fast pee-er.”

“I might have some salt in my hair, but everything is still fully functioning.” He points at my phone. “I know that smile. It’s the smile of a man who’s smitten. Who’s the girl?”

And an actual bead of sweat forms on my back and rolls down my spine in the span of a second.

First of all, I’m not fucking smitten, never have been, and never will be. Second, there is no way in hell I’m telling Foster I’m texting his daughter, so I come up with a lie.

“No girl. Just something one of my friends sent me. Idiot shit.”

“Ah.” He nods. “Seemed like you were really into that text.”

I shrug, unable to respond. Was I into the text? I mean, maybe, I don’t really remember anything over the last few minutes. Sutton wrote the word tits. So, naturally, I’m thinking of hers. Surprised I can form words . . .

Trying to move on, I say, “Sutton has a real hold on the camp. She’s organized. Kind of whipped my arse into shape.”