She distracts me

Get it done

Roman Suarez

“I don’t care how you f*****g do it, just get it done Paul. That’s what you are paid for.” Roman snarled as he hung up on his manager. God he wished it was possible to slam cellphones sometimes. Instead he haphazardly threw it onto the patio table next to him, resting his forearms on the railing of the balcony overlooking the exquisitely crafted pool below. 

He forcefully exhaled the angry breath he had been holding, hanging his head a little until his forehead touched his arms. Sometimes he had a hard time controlling his temper, but dammit Paul knew better than to question him about anything. 

Angrily he yanked his t-shirt off over his head, mussing up his hair in the process. He walked over to a dresser against the wall, jerking the drawer open where he kept his swim trunks. Once he was changed he made his way down to the pool, throwing his towel and phone on a lounge chair before diving into the water.

 It was warm, both by a heater and the sun, kissing over his tired body as he stayed below the surface for a few strokes before emerging for breath. He had only been back in LA for three days and already he was ready to leave. 

As a professional soccer player it isn’t as though he got a real “off season” just a couple months over the summer where his obligations were fewer and games weren’t priorities. He always felt edgy at home, as though he weren’t himself if he wasn’t on the road, strategizing and planning, training and being around the guys. 

That was when he was alive. Even that was getting stressful so he had his manager and best friend Paul working on a solution. Roman was a private person, he didn’t like to let anyone in, it was safer that way. No distractions. For that reason, constantly vetting employees on the road and hoping for confidentiality was weighing on him. 

Who knew when a fake physical therapist would leak information about your injuries, or the next nutritionist would tweet about what a d**k he was, or an in-home chef would snoop through his stuff. Too many changing faces meant stress he didn’t need. 

He was a billionaire. He was the top grossing professional soccer player in the world. He made smart investments, didn’t live exceptionally lavishly and didn’t have anyone close to him trying to milk him of his money. What he did have was a deep desire to be left alone, to have staff that did as they were told, and to play the sport that was in his blood. 

Roman hoisted himself out of the pool, sitting on the side, water cascading off his powerful muscles as they rippled under his skin propelling him forward. He was in amazing shape. Running his hand over his abs as he flung water off himself and grabbed his towel. 

He practically had an 8-pack and that deep V leading to a paradise that made women drool. His dark chestnut hair looked almost black from being wet, intense green eyes that could sear the soul. Those eyes darkened as a niggling of guilt tickled at his brain.

He snatched up his phone, his brows furrowing as he considered calling Paul to apologize, his temper having cooled considerably for that to even cross his mind. Paul was the only true friend he had outside of his brothers on the soccer team. “f**k it. I’ll call him tomorrow….” he uttered out loud, heading inside the house, grumbling about heating up one of those prepackaged crap meals.