The Way We Touch: or Wrangling the Wide Receiver (The Bradford Boys)

“So you want to fuck another man.” I lift the tumbler of whiskey, jaw tight, despite the casual smile on my lips.

“Of course, that’s the first place you’d go.” The cool blonde sitting across from me crosses her mile-long legs, leaning them to the side beneath the table like a giraffe.

I admit, they were the first things I noticed about her. I’m a legs guy.

“Must you always be so cocky?” she continues. “Maybe if you acted like you cared once in a while, I wouldn’t have to expand our repertoire.”

“I prefer only one dick at the party.”

“That dick being you?” She tilts her head to the side.

“Always.” Stated with my usual bravado, my calculated cool.

A light laugh slips from her glossy-red lips, but it’s insincere.

Natalia van Norse is a six-foot, size zero supermodel with fake tits. Later, I learned she’s also an author and a Midtown influencer, which pretty much makes her a U.S. influencer.

Tonight she’s wearing a black dress covered in star-shaped sequins to match the décor of the restaurant, and her platinum hair is swept into an elegant twist off her neck complete with tiny gold stars scattered across the crown.

She’s picture-perfect, ready to document the grand opening of Galileo’s, the hottest new restaurant on West 53rd Street, which I was invited to attend. I’m invited to attend pretty much every opening, charity gala, red carpet affair.

I’d tossed the invitation aside, but she insisted we make an appearance.

The menu sounded like a prank, and I wasn’t in the mood for camera flashes blinding me all the way inside as soon as our car pulled up at the door. But I acquiesced, and here we are.

The host whisked us away to a private alcove off the main dining room, and now we’re nestled at a gilded table where midnight-blue velvet curtains separate us from the other, less-sought-after guests.

“You’re so provincial, Logan, I swear, it’s hard to believe you’ve lived in New York for eight years.”

“I didn’t know not wanting to share my bed was considered provincial.”

I almost said my girlfriend, but that term hasn’t felt right in a long time.

“And what about what I want?”

I roll a star-topped toothpick between my fingers thinking about the first time I saw this woman. I was out with Garrett Bradford, offensive lineman and my best friend, on our last free night before the start of the regular season.

I approached her purely out of ego. With her height and style and reputation, I decided she was the type of woman “Lightning” Logan Murphy should have on his arm.

Logan Murphy, star wide receiver for the New Jersey Pirates, most completed passes in last year’s season, and on track to win the very first MVP trophy ever awarded to a wide receiver in history—if the sports commentators are to be believed.

Our relationship was rocky from the start.

She was promoting her book of essays, and I liked to read. However, when I discovered her book was actually a collection of essays about how the modeling industry only cared about her body, I made the mistake of questioning the premise.

Isn’t being a model and complaining people only care about your looks the same as me being a football star and complaining people only care about my athleticism?

Sure, I graduated with honors from the University of Texas at Austin with a degree in communications, motivated by the fact that my father owns all the sports radio stations on the AM dial from El Paso to Jefferson City, but nobody gives a shit about any of that when the ball is second and goal in the fourth quarter with ten seconds left in the game.

I’m simply a player who’d better catch that fucking pigskin and get it across the line.

Then online sports betting exploded, and I was dehumanized even more.

The last time a dickhead cursed me out in the comments section, threatening my life because I fucked up a measly twenty-dollar parlay by simply doing my job, i.e., winning, I turned over all my social media accounts to a handler.

I’m not complaining. Much. We signed up for this life. It is what it is.

Natalia only glared at me, called me an un-evolved caveman, and we’ve been on the slow train to done ever since.

Not that I have time for a private life during the regular season anyway.

Studying the menu, I’m even less enthused about being here. Tang? Freeze-dried beef au jus… “It’s a quirky concept, but space food?”

“My hook will be, ‘It’s out of this world.’” Natasha waves down our designated waiter. He’s dressed in a white uniform like he’s part of NASA, and he hurries over as if his life depends on keeping us happy. “I’ll have another stardust martini, and may I see the kids’ menu?”

“Of course.” He nods, hastening away, and our eyes meet.

“I thought you promised to eat more.”

“I’m not eating this.” She flicks the menu with her fingernail. “I hope the children’s menu will have a cheesy pasta or some version of pizza.”

I hold up my hands. “It’s a smart idea.”

Natasha isn’t dumb. She only acts that way on social media.

The man returns with a small card, placing it on the bone china plate in front of her, and she lifts it, curling her nose as she reads. “Freeze-dried carrots, potatoes, and beef cubes—just add broth. Is it supposed to be a game?”

“That does it.” I take the napkin out of my lap and put it on my plate. “I’m out of here.”

“Logan! We can’t leave. I promised to take pictures of all the dishes and post them on my accounts.”

I hesitate in my chair, irritated by this entire night—by my entire state of affairs. Maybe I’m having a quarter-life crisis, but I keep asking myself why am I still with this woman? What am I thinking I’ll get? A do-over?

Reaching across the table, I place my hand on hers. Her brow furrows, and she seems confused by my sudden display of tenderness.

I’m not confused. I feel nothing, and it’s the moment of clarity I needed.

I make a decision. “What do you want, Natalia?”

“Sorry?” She shakes her head, and I return to her earlier question.

“Tell me about the new dick you want to bring into our bedroom.”

“Oh,” Her blue eyes light, and she wiggles in her chair as if she’s been planning this for a while. “Aristotle Drakos.”

“Wait…” I glance to the side. “I know that name.”

“You met him with Brittany on his super yacht in March, remember?”

Perhaps I am provincial, because I need to clarify. “Brittany, as in your best friend?”

“Of course! I mean, if I were to have a best friend.”

“I thought she was dating that guy.”

Air puffs through her lips, and she takes a long sip of her martini. “They have an open relationship. Everyone’s doing it now, very en vogue.”

I trace my finger along the base of my tumbler and consider Galileo. “Call him.”

“What?”

“Give him a call. Tell him to join us.”

“Okay…” The side of her lips curl into a smile, and her thumbs fly across her phone screen.

Exhaling slowly, I glance at the galaxies painted on the ceiling overhead. Galileo was an astronomer. He looked into the night sky and proved the universe does not revolve around us.

We are not the center of the universe…

They threw him in prison for it.

I think about how weary I am of the nonstop appearances, the social climbers, and the fakery. Eight years ago, my dream came true. I was a first-round draft pick, which meant I was a big fucking deal. It meant my father was wrong, and I wasn’t throwing my life away on a barbaric sport.

Two weeks ago, Natalia left for a modeling gig in Europe, and I realized how much I liked not having her in my space. I’d already decided to end things tonight, then she suggested a threesome.

“He’s on his way.” She lowers her phone, stretching like a cat waking from a long afternoon nap. “You’re going to like Aristotle. He’s very confident in a way that immediately sets you at ease.”

“It sounds like you two have a history.”

Her shoulder rises, and when our eyes meet, I realize she’s fucked him already. I also realize she’s on some sort of amphetamine. And I realize I don’t give a shit.

She flicks her wrist. “He mentioned something about your father being a billionaire, and how he must meet you. Must was his word.”

My brow lowers. “What does he want?”

She shrugs, shaking her head with a laugh. “I’m sure it’s some sort of partnership or business proposal. Everyone knows you’re considering retirement, and he’s wanting to get more into media.”

Pulling my chin back, I study her face. I’m not sure what to make of her sometimes. “I’ve told you I’m not interested in working for my dad. Did you lead him to believe I was?”

“No! I don’t know. He’ll discuss it with you.”

I motion to our waiter, and he hurries over again. “Yes, sir?”

“We have another guest joining us. Let me know when he arrives.”

“Of course.” He nods. “I’ll alert the host.”

“And put this all on my bill.”

He nods before scurrying away, and Natalia leans forward, wrinkling her perfectly-crafted nose. “You surprise me, Logan. I thought you’d require a little more convincing.”

“How long until he gets here?”

She glances at her phone. “Any minute, I’m sure.”

On cue, a familiar man with dark hair and olive skin wearing a bespoke suit strides confidently across the dining room in our direction. Our waiter shows him the way, and as he gets closer, the way his eyes roam my date confirms my suspicions.

Anger heats my throat, but it’s not jealous rage. He can fucking have Natalia, but he disrespected me by sleeping with her while we were a couple.

“Mr. Lightning. Your reputation precedes you.”

Standing, I catch his hand in a shake, gripping it hard and pulling him closer so he can feel my strength. He’s a few inches shorter than I am, and his eyes widen with surprise.

“You crossed a line.” My voice is low and level. “Good thing for you, I’m finished here. You can have her, but I know.”

He exhales a laugh, holding up both hands. “My apologies. I was given wrong information about your relationship.”

“Yes, you were.” I pass him roughly, headed for the door.

A swirl of air around me, and Natalia rushes up to my side. “Where are you going?”

“Away.” I do my best to keep my voice low, trying not to be overheard, but the entire room is craning their necks to look at us. “Have a nice life, Natalia.”

“But what about our arrangement?” She looks around at our growing audience.

“We never had an arrangement, and your new dick is waiting for you.”

The noise of cameras clicks all around us, and I have to get out of this spotlight.

The host meets me, and I follow him to the door, hurrying out to a waiting black Escalade. As soon as I’m inside, my phone is in my hand, and my thumbs fly over the screen.

Where are you? I’m hungry and I want to drink.

Garrett

Lightning! Get your ass to Blondie’s and get some wings. We’ve got a pool game going.

Garrett and I have been tight since he transferred to the team two years ago. He’s a giant of a man, six-foot-four and two hundred and sixty pounds of pure strength, and he’s the one person I can be completely myself around.

His family owns a pool bar and restaurant in his coastal hometown in Alabama, and that small-town, southern background is probably why we bonded right away.

He’s also the best offensive lineman on the team. Without Garrett, I wouldn’t be as close to the MVP trophy as I am.

Stop hustling the college kids.

Garrett

Don’t blow my cover, narc.

Exhaling a chuckle, I wrap it up with

On my way.

I tell the driver where to go, thinking how only Garrett could make me laugh after this evening.

It only took a few weeks of therapy to trace it all back to my dad, Kellan Murphy, billionaire CEO of MurKo Communications.

I don’t come from a family of jocks, but I knew the first time I caught a football, the first time I led a team to victory, this was the life for me.

I’d found a group of guys who cared about me, who noticed when I wasn’t okay and checked up on me. I had a real family.

My mother died before I was old enough to remember her, so growing up, it was just me and Kellan—and a string of housekeepers to cover the basics, a driver to take me to school until I was old enough to drive myself.

The only time I spent with my dad was at the formal dinners we shared every night in his sterile mansion in north Houston sitting at opposite ends of a long, polished oak table.

I would push the medium-rare steak around my plate wishing I could escape, and he’d try to think of questions to ask me.

How was your day?

Fine.

Did anything interesting happen?

No.

Silence.

Eventually, he’d give up, take his scotch, and leave, and I’d dash from the table, running down to the park where guys were always playing football. They didn’t care who I was or how much money I had. It was all about the game.

I’d strip off my jacket and get in the middle, calling plays and throwing passes. I wanted to be a quarterback, but when Kellan got involved, he changed my direction.

When I first told my dad I wanted to play football professionally, he’d frowned like I told him I wanted to be a professional wrestler.

Then I started making headlines when I was in college, and he started doing the math. He realized he could use my football career to benefit his broadcasting business—provided I continued to be the best.

That’s when his tune changed, and the pressure began. He said I should be a wide receiver because I almost never missed a catch and I was fast. If I could run, I scored.

No wide receiver has ever won the MVP, the Most Valuable Player award, in the league, and he said I could be the first.

Don’t mistake that for him being supportive and encouraging. He was simply stating his wishes before he disappeared into his ivory tower again. I was still young and naive enough to think he cared. He had a point, and maybe it meant he would take an interest in me.

So I changed directions and became a wide receiver, not considering outside of the quarterback, the wide receivers take the most hits.

Garrett has taken a lot of hits to keep me safe on the field, and I’ve managed to avoid serious injury and run the ball all the way to the top of the game.

The black SUV stops at the Upper West Side bar, and I thank the guy before hopping out. Outside of openings and other big events, I’m mostly left alone by the media—unless I’m dating someone interesting, like a fashion-model, author-influencer.

The bar is packed with a different game on every television, from baseball to soccer. It’s a sausage party with gym bros shoulder to shoulder holding bottles of beer and talking about the upcoming season.

Garrett is impossible to miss in the back corner holding a pool cue. He spots me when I walk in and motions for me to join them. I stop off and order a whiskey neat at the bar and a classic Angus burger before heading to where he’s clearing the table.

He makes a big show of not taking the guy’s money before slapping my back and walking with me to a standing table in the middle of the loud space.

“LL!” He clinks the neck of his beer against my glass. “You look like you just got an extra week of vacation. What happened?”

“I ended it with Natalia.” Now that I say it out loud, I actually do feel lighter.

“Thank fuck,” he shouts. “Of all the boney-assed bitches you’ve dated, she was the worst. Always posting shit on her damn phone and always criticizing everything you did.”

A petite waitress with red hair and curves hustles up with my burger and fries. She’s working hard, focused, and she looks good—or maybe she’s just bringing me food, and I’m starving.

“Yeah, I’m done with supermodels.”

“Don’t get it twisted. Some of those gals are a lot of fun. But not that one.” He grabs a handful of my fries while I take a big bite of burger. “If she made one more crack about you being a country mouse, I swear to the almighty football gods… She’s from freakin Hoboken!”

I laugh around my bite. Garrett is so damn loud, and I love it. I don’t even want to know how he knows where Natalia is from and I don’t.

I exhale a groan as savory meat and cheese fill my mouth. “We started at that Galileo restaurant tonight.”

“What did you think?”

“I can’t tell if it’s a prank or what. You’re supposed to pour hot water over everything to rehydrate it before eating.”

His brows tighten. “So it’s like DIY?”

Shaking my head, I take another bite. “Hell, I don’t know. I didn’t stick around to find out.”

My burger is gone in five bites, and he waves for another beer. “What now?”

Good question. Now that I have food in me, I can think, and I don’t like my prospects.

We’ve got a month before training camp begins, the last thing I want is to hang around the city alone. It’s as unappealing as going to Houston to work with my dad, as he keeps asking.

“Know anybody with a timeshare on the moon?”

Garrett grips my shoulder. “Come home to Newhope with me.” My hand is already up, and I’m ready to argue when he cuts me off. “My parents’ old house is huge, and it’s right on the bay. There’s plenty of room, and it’ll be perfect for clearing your head.”

“Last thing your family needs is another football player taking up all the space and eating all the food.” I know what we’re like.

“Dude, it’s my brother Zane and my little sister Dylan, and she loves when we’re home.” He waves to the waitress, and she walks over.

“Another round?” She blinks up at him, and I’m pretty sure she’s flirting.

“Just the check, Wendy.” Of course he knows her name. “Logan Lightning, meet Wendy the waitress. She’s a single mom, working to put herself through nursing school, and she will not make you wait for more beer.”

“Nice to meet you.” My voice is quieter. “Good luck with… everything.”

She shakes her red head. “Don’t tell my life story.”

“It’s a good story! You should be proud.”

Garrett is a giant, cocky, friendly bear with curly brown hair and a thick beard. He’s casual in a T-shirt and jeans, and his dimpled grin and merry blue eyes put everyone at ease.

By contrast, I’m lean muscle, dressed in a suit jacket with my dark hair styled and a light scruff on my cheeks. I study the world with my brow lowered, and there’s not many people I trust. Life has taught me to maintain a buffer.

All that to say, we’re pretty much night and day.

“Grab what you need and be at my place in an hour. I want to be on the road by ten.” He’s not giving me time to come up with an excuse, and I don’t really want to.

Escaping to a small town on the coast sounds pretty good right now.

“You know my dad has a private jet service. We don’t have to drive.”

“Nah, I gotta have my truck.”

Garrett and his truck. “I don’t know anyone who drives a pickup in the city.”

“They should. Most useful vehicle on the road.”

“Well, if it isn’t Low-gas Murphy.” The annoying voice comes from behind me, and I turn to see Ricky Berke, wide receiver for the Challengers swaggering to where we’re standing.

“Bro, that is the stupidest dunk. It’s not even close to his nickname.” Garrett leans on an elbow and still towers over Ricky.

My nemesis is undeterred. “I noticed you weren’t at the White Party this year, Murph. Losing your cool, old man?”

In the race for MVP, it’s down to me and this guy, three years in and completely full of himself. Just like I was, I guess, only I’d like to think I wasn’t a total asshole.

“Actually, I was in Houston with my dad for the Fourth.” And it was hot as the face of the sun and humid as a fucking rainforest.

“I heard you weren’t invited.” Ricky lifts his chin. “No surprise. Mr. Rubin only invites the best to his parties. Not sad ole has-beens like you.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Dick.”

I don’t bother defending myself. My father and I have been on the guest list for that annual summer party in the Hamptons since before I was in high school.

“I’m surprised you made the cut this year, Dicky,” Garrett steps up beside me, crossing his arms. “I heard Mike likes ass-kissing copycats even less.”

Ricky and I are the same height and build, but he has bright red hair, brown eyes, and pale skin covered in freckles. I’m a little faster than he is, and my secret weapon is Garrett covering my ass and helping me make the plays that keep the commentators talking.

“Like you know anything, Grizz.” He looks past Garrett. “Where’s Natalia?”

This guy is always swimming in my wake.

“I left her at Galileo’s. She might still be there if you’re interested.”

“I heard she spent last month on a yacht in the Mediterranean with some Greek mogul.” Ricky smirks. “And now ESPN has you trailing me in the MVP race. It really is a drag getting old.”

“It’s better than the alternative.” I slap his shoulder, not interested in engaging any further.

“And by alternative he means you.” Garrett points at him, a laugh in his voice, and he’s vibrating, hoping Ricky is dumb enough to take a swing at one of us.

He’s always up for a good bar brawl—because he always wins.

I put my hand on my friend’s shoulder. “Meet at your place at ten, right?” Turning to Ricky, I tip my head. “Natalia’s all yours.”

I don’t bother adding if it’s not too late, since she does have Aristotle on standby. Hell, he’s probably fine. She’s looking for a second dick anyway, and this guy is made to order.

Garrett can’t let it go that easy. The little waitress walks up, and he wraps an arm across her back.

“Wendy, I’m sorry we have to leave you with this guy. He’s a real piece of work, and a bad tipper.” He grips Ricky’s shoulder. “Try to resist the urge to spit in his drink.”

“Hey!” Ricky’s brown eyes widen in horror, but Wendy only laughs, waving him away.

“He’s full of shit. Just look at that grin.” She points up at my friend.

Garrett puts a hand over his chest like he’s shot through the heart, but it’s all an act.

I slip an extra twenty under our check just in case Wendy actually does get stiffed on her tips tonight. Then I drag him out of the bar ready to pack and see what the place he’s always raving about looks like up close and personal.

An hour later, I’m in the plush leather front seat of his maxed-out, gunmetal F-150 racing south on Interstate 95 with the radio quietly playing country music.

We’re facing a day-long drive, and I’m booking a room for us to crash in North Carolina. It’s the first time I’ve made a road trip like this since I moved to the city, if ever.

“I saw you slip Wendy that extra tip.” He glances at me, returning his eyes to the road.

I stretch in my chair, doing my best to get comfortable. We’re going to be here a while. “You made me worry about her.”

That makes him chuckle. “You’re a good man, LL. I knew it the day I met you, even if you do approach the world with your guard up.”

“Likewise.”

“This is just what you need.” Garrett glances at the lights of New York City in the rearview mirror. “Newhope will clear your head, get you back to square one, the basics.”

“Does the chamber of commerce have you on the payroll?” I tease because I love.

Garrett is the poster boy for his hometown. It’s all he talks about, but the truth is, at this point, I’m up for anything to kick me out of this funk.

I think about what he’s told me in the few times we’ve spent together, shooting the shit. He lost his mom young, like I did. He’s one of four brothers—all football stars—and a little sister. Although besides Garrett, only his brother Hendrix is still in the game.

I don’t know Hendrix well, but we’ve met. He plays for a team in Los Angeles, and he’s a bit of a rockstar tight end.

His second oldest brother Zane was a career kicker forced to retire last year after getting nailed pretty bad during a fake field goal. It was a dramatic injury, his foot dangling at the end of his leg like a freak show while he roared in pain.

It’s the kind of injury you like to pretend could never happen when you’re headed onto the field each week, and they played it on reruns every five minutes. Fuck, I still get chills remembering it.

“Jack said he’ll be picking his fall lineup while we’re in town.” Garrett’s large hand is propped on the top of his steering wheel, and he has a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. “I told him we could help him out, maybe give the boys a pep talk.”

His oldest brother is a retired star quarterback from Texas. I remember watching Jack Bradford on the field and wondering how anyone with that much talent could ever retire. He did, though, at the top of his game. A legend.

Now he coaches high school ball. Friday night lights.

“Sure. Whatever he needs.” I glance out the dark window wondering what my nineteen-year-old self would think of meeting Jack Bradford in the flesh.

Then I travel back a bit more, wondering what I would say to my fifteen-year-old self today. What would he even be able to hear? Certainly not that life at the top isn’t as great as it looks from the bottom. Or that no matter where you go, there you are.

Hell, maybe I’m just depressed. I haven’t slept with a woman in a long time, and the last time I did, it was with someone who was more interested in her social media following. I’m not being a hater. There was a time it was all I cared about, too.

“Dylan said Zane is laying low, but he’s healing fine.” My friend’s jaw tightens, and he shakes his head. “It’s going to be the first time I’ll have seen him since that accident, and it was a fucking nightmare.”

“Tell me about it.” My lips tighten, and my stomach cramps.

It’s a big switch to go from the nonstop schedule of a big game every week, seven months out of the year, traveling all over the country, being a celebrity to a certain segment of the population, to nothing.

Full stop.

From the roar of a stadium, to dead silence. Forgotten.

I’ve heard guys talk about the shock of retirement, and I’m not going to lie, I’m not looking forward to it. Even if I have been floating the possibility of this being my last year. It all depends on that trophy, even if that trophy means more to my dad than it does to me.

“That just leaves Dylan, but she’ll be working at the restaurant most days.” Nodding, I picture a kid living on the coast in south Alabama.

My mind travels a thousand miles down the dark road ahead of us, far from the lights of Manhattan. I think about the life I left behind when I graduated from UT.

Taking out my phone, I pull up my contacts and select my father’s name. In the glow of the dashboard light, I text him what I’ve been thinking for weeks.

I’m not going back there.