The Bully (Calamity Montana #4)(47)

“Cal, I had no idea.”

Not many knew. It wasn’t something I’d wanted to talk about, especially at school. “One of the cars was totaled, but the driver walked away with a few scrapes and bruises. But the other car . . . the guy was a father of four. He died on impact. So did Grandpa.”

Nellie reached across the cab, her hand almost settling on my shoulder before she pulled it back in exchange for a sad smile. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have hassled you about it.”

“You’re not the first person to razz me about my driving. It doesn’t bother me.” Most people who knew the story would drive slower too, at least when I was in the car.

“I’m still sorry.”

“Thanks.”

The remainder of the drive was quiet, though the silence wasn’t as unsettling. The tension was gone. Sad stories had their way of sobering the mood. But as the restaurant neared, a different emotion made my hands strangle the wheel—annoyance.

This visit of Wade’s was pointless. I’d told him as much the last time we’d talked, but he seemed certain that if we sat down and talked it through, I’d change my mind. He was about to be disappointed.

I pulled into the steakhouse’s parking lot, taking the last spot available. Then we both climbed out and made our way to the door. Together. Like a couple. Like we’d done this a hundred times.

Was that strange? There weren’t many people I felt comfortable with but Nellie was one. When it came to her, I knew exactly what to expect. She had no hidden agendas. She didn’t fake her way through life. She was the real deal.

Not many people would tell you to your face what they hated about you.

Which was why I’d only ask her.

“Hey.” I slowed my steps as we approached the door. “Thanks for doing this.”

She nodded. “I’m not doing this to help you. It’s because you’re buying dinner and a steak sounded better than leftover pizza.”

I chuckled. “It’s always brutal honesty with you, isn’t it?”

“It’s kind of my style.”

“Yes, it is.” I held the door open for her to step inside the darkened space. Then I followed, giving my eyes a moment to adjust. When they did, the first face I spotted was Wade’s.

“Cal! There’s my guy.” He clapped his hands together, the crack too loud for the small space beside the hostess station. But that was Wade. He was unapologetically boisterous and crass.

I’d opted for a pair of dark jeans and a button-down white shirt. But Wade, as always, was decked out in a tailored three-piece suit. This one navy and likely from Italy, paid for by the commission he’d earned from my contracts.

“Wade.” I shook his hand, not adding a good to see you or thanks for coming all this way. It would only be bullshit.

“Looking good, buddy.”

God, I hated it when he called me buddy. “Thanks.”

“And who is this?” His gaze raked up and down Nellie like she was a lollipop and he was licking her head to toe.

I shot him a warning glare, putting my hand on the small of her back. “Nellie Rivera.”

Wade held out his hand for a shake.

Nellie raised her chin and extended her hand. But instead of shaking it like a normal fucking person, Wade tried to lift her knuckles to his lips.

She ripped her hand away. “I don’t think so, Wade.”

I grinned.

“A fiery one.” Wade laughed it off. “I like that.”

Idiot. I really should fire him. But he’d scored me a huge contract to play with the Titans. He’d been with me from the beginning, and loyalty was a bitch.

“So should we sit?” he asked. “Talk about this incredible opportunity with ESPN?”

“We can sit. But I’m not taking the job. I’ve had enough cameras and reporters to last two lifetimes.”

“Come on, Cal. I came all this way. Let’s at least discuss it.”

“There’s nothing to discuss. I’m going to tell you exactly what I told you over the phone. I’m not interested.”

My reputation was bad enough. The last thing I needed was to rip a team to shreds during a halftime report only to be ridiculed for my opinion later. No matter what I said, it would be twisted to make me look like a dick.

Granted, in my career there had been plenty of on-camera moments when I had been a dick. But the media had searched for it. They trimmed clips and made sound bites to suit their needs. To make me the Cal Stark everyone wanted me to be.

The asshole.

“Cal.” Wade gave me a flat look. “Come on. This is huge. Only the greats get these chances. You’ll make millions per season as a color commentator.”

“I already made millions.”

“Then make more.” He meant make him more.

“It’s a no, Wade. A fuck no.”

His smile dropped and his jaw clenched.

“Now that we’ve got that out of the way,” I said. “Would you like to sit down and eat? Catch up? But if you’d rather hit the road . . .”

“Yeah.” His nostrils flared. “Think I’ll bump up my flight. We’ll talk later.”

“Not about this.”

“Fine.” He strode past me, his irritation as fragrant as the scents escaping the kitchen.