©Ribnitin, 2021
This story was inspired by George Anderson's "February Sucks," a story that has more adaptations than COVID has mutations. I have not attempted to re-write George's story, but rather made up my own about what happens next.
George knows about this story, but bears no responsibility for it.
Marc is an asshole. He's good-hearted, he's intelligent, but he's still an asshole. I try to keep him in line when we're together during football season, but after the last game is done and we're walking off with the Lombardi Trophy (I wish), he's on his own. Everyone else on the team goes home, but Marc's year-round residence is in the city where we play. When he gets into trouble, it's always during the off-season. Usually it's fixable.
We both joined the team at the same time. I was drafted; he came through a trade. We grew close over the years, often setting plays up for one another. He's a Tight End; I'm a Wide Receiver. I would run a pattern as if I was the ball was heading for me, and while I would get the coverage he'd take a short pass and have open ground. If I was the Quarterback's intended target, he'd put everything he had into making a good opening for me.
Marc does a lot of charitable work, a lot of fundraising, and usually reflects well on our organization. He does have a weakness, though: beautiful women. He needs a constant supply of them in his bed. He treats them with respect, he doesn't abuse anyone, and no woman has ever refused him. That's what he always tells me.
So why do I say my friend is an asshole? It's because when he wants a particular woman, nothing will keep him from his goal, even if she's married. That's why I was in town now, near the end of a blustery March, trying to pick up the shards of his broken heart, and for the team, his broken reputation.
Marc had fallen for one of his bed-mates. He had spotted her in a club sitting next to her man, invited her to the dance floor and then to bed. Unfortunately she was married, and when Marc tried to keep the affair going she rebuffed him. That was bad for Marc's large, but fragile ego. To make it worse, word got out about the affair. It could have ended up in a thousand different ways; maybe in some alternate universe it ended up well. In ours, it was bad. The franchise owners were upset, though the bad press only lasted a few days. The team's good name had been tarnished. The woman's marriage was almost ruined, and Marc's value as a good-will ambassador plummeted. I went to pick up the pieces.
I'm a great Wide Receiver and make about twice as much money as Marc. I have a brilliant financial advisor, and he's built my outrageous salary into an outrageously successful investment portfolio. Ten thousand dollars is nothing to me; I can make that much in an hour from salary, investments and endorsements. I know it's absurd to get so rich from catching a pig-skin, but that's what you get with a free market economy. I'm not complaining about it, or about my life.
I graduated college with a 3.8 GPA, mostly in STEM courses. When I hang up my helmet, I'll pursue my studies in genetic engineering. I am wealthy, I'm smart, and also good looking. Marc had once challenged me, saying I couldn't pick up and bed women as easily as he could; I laughed in response. I love and chase women as successfully as he does, but I'm more careful about whom I bed. I won't fuck a woman just because I can.
It was too cold for anything outdoorsy when I arrived to pick up the pieces from Marc's failed relation, so we mostly hung around together. We played billiards, swam in his pool, watched TV, and chatted about nothing in particular. He hadn't been invited to community events, charity programs, or anything like that since the debacle, so it was pretty boring at his place despite the opulence, despite all his electronic toys. His agent came for a visit, breaking the monotony. I knew he wanted to lure me to his client stable, but I wasn't interested. Nonetheless the agent had an interesting proposition. After checking with my lawyer, I phoned him a few hours later to accept.
After a couple of days of utter boredom, it was time to go out, and we headed to same club in which Marc had picked up his troublesome, married woman.
"Maybe I'll see her again," he said. I prayed that he wouldn't. I was interested in finding a blonde; not too tall, but with long fingers and a medium chest. There's a reason I was picky.
People noticed us. Eyes stole glances. "It's Marc... Oh, my god, he's with David Markham!" Marc and I grinned. The hostess encouraged a group of four to give up their table, wiped it clean, seated us and sent over a waitress to take our orders. I asked for a light beer and two martinis. I looked around, then dropped a pinch of white powder into one of them. Marc arched his eyebrows.
I spotted the woman I wanted; she was one of the few not paying any attention to us. Rather she was chatting with and holding onto the arm of the man she was with. He, in turn, was casting anxious glances in the direction of Marc and me. Had he seen me with the powder? There were four couples at their table.
I finished off my beer. "Showtime," I said as I stood up. Marc gave me a fist-bump and settled back into the booth. The band played a fast song as I walked over to her table and extended my hand. "Hi. I'm David Markham. I want you to dance with me." She hesitated for about a quarter of a second, then rose. There was a platinum wedding band on her hand.
The jaws of her friends hung open, especially those of the women. The man she was with, her husband I presumed, looked away as his wife got up and walked with me onto the dance floor. It should have been humiliating for him. The next dance was slow, and I drew the woman closer, my hands dangerously near her buttocks. I tilted her chin upwards with a finger. "Hi, I'm David."
"Jennifer," she replied.
"I have a drink for you." I led her to my table and offered her the martini with the white powder. She drank it slowly.
"Good?"
She hesitated. "Tastes different." She glanced towards her table and raised her voice. "Yes, it's good. Thanks."
We went back to the dance floor and I pulled her closer yet. After three songs I bent down and whispered to her ear. "Are you coming home with me?" She immediately nodded "yes."
"Go back to your table, then go to the washroom with one of your girlfriends. Slip out the back door and look for a dark blue Lincoln SUV." I escorted her part way back to her table, winked at her angry-looking husband, and went out the rear exit. Marc was already at the wheel of the car, and I held the back door open for her when she came out a few minutes later.
She was surprised to find herself seated next to a large black man in an expensive-looking suit. I got in the front passenger seat, and turned to the back. "Jennifer, this is LeBron Willis. He's going to spend the evening with us, to make sure everything goes perfectly. He'll give you what you need."
Jennifer looked a little unsure of herself. "Okay," she whispered.
Mr. Willis smiled softly as he took her hand, shook and then released it. "You'll be fine."
We rode silently to Marc's. Jennifer did not seem comforted by LeBron's assurance.
"I've never done this before," Marc said as we walked into his airy front hall. "Are you sure we want um...?" Marc's home was designed with a soothing, understated elegance, but it didn't put Jennifer at ease.
"I'm certain. We all know what we're going to do now," Mr. Willis said, looking around. There was a touch of annoyance in his voice.
"I'll go upstairs and get you one of my robes, Jennifer. David, take everyone into the drawing room. See if anyone wants a drink."
