There was only one woman’s number he was interested in right now.
“Well, well, well. Look who it is.”
They both froze at the familiar voice. Samson slowly looked up at the man standing next to their table, where the waitress had just been. What the fuck.
“Trevor,” Dean said, and his grim tone echoed Samson’s lack of desire to see this asshole.
Trevor Sanders smiled at both of them. Tall and still fit in spite of his retirement a few years ago, the Brewers’ former quarterback had the kind of blond good looks the media loved.
Samson was definitely not in love with him. “How did you find us here?” He’d dodged two more calls from Trevor, had considered blocking the number, but figured it was better to know what the snake was up to.
What the fuck was up with this trend of people somehow knowing where he was and showing up? It was one thing when Rhi did it, she wasn’t his longtime nemesis. Was this an L.A. thing?
Trevor’s toothy grin disappeared. “Dean posted a photo. It was tagged.”
Samson scowled at his friend. “Dean has clearly forgotten that he could have stalkers out there, and he will no longer be telling the world where he is.”
“My social’s private,” Dean protested. “But not private enough, I guess.”
“Look, guys, I get it.” Trevor pulled a chair over and sat down without asking them, which was a very Trevor thing to do. He paused to smile at Miley. “Cute baby, Dean. I love all the photos you post of her.”
Dean pulled a wet wipe out from somewhere. He carefully cleaned his hands, sanitized them with a squirt bottle, and grudgingly nodded. He wouldn’t turn down a compliment to his baby. “Thanks. And thanks for the baby present. We really love that stroller.”
“I’m glad. It was my girlfriend’s—well, ex-girlfriend’s—favorite stroller for our kid.”
Samson passed Miley to her dad and immediately wished he had her back. Therapy baby indeed. “I have nothing to say to you, Trevor.”
Trevor’s sigh was long and low. “Listen. I know you hate me, Samson. I even get why. But please, can I have like ten minutes of your time?”
Samson gritted his teeth.
Dean placed Miley carefully in her carrier. “Harris said you were starting an organization. That true?”
“It is,” Trevor responded.
Dean buckled his daughter in, then pinned Trevor with a stern look. “You going to ask Samson to help?”
What was Dean talking about?
“I am.”
Dean pursed his lips. “He doesn’t owe you—”
“It’s okay, Dean.” Samson didn’t want Dean in the middle of this feud. He could handle Trevor. “You need to get home, right?”
Dean glanced back and forth between them. Miley was due for a nap soon, but Samson knew his friend wouldn’t leave if he thought Samson needed him. “I guess . . .”
“Go on. Trevor and I will have a quick chat, and then we don’t ever have to talk again.” He kept his tone pleasant, though his stomach was coiled into a knot.
Trevor was smart, confronting him in a public place like this. Samson wouldn’t, couldn’t, make a scene. Too many people knew who they both were.
The last thing he wanted was another wave of headlines pitting him and Trevor against each other.
“He’s loyal to you, all right,” Trevor said, after Dean gathered up his baby and left, with another warning glare for Trevor.
“That’s what friends and teammates are. Loyal.”
Trevor flinched, probably because he’d said almost that sentence, verbatim, to a journalist the day Samson had walked mid-game, but he stayed seated. “Like I said, you have every right to hate me. But this isn’t about me. It’s about something bigger than both of us.”
“You always were dramatic.”
Trevor was silent for a beat. “I don’t know how much Harris has told you, but I’m starting a nonprofit. For retired players who are showing signs of CTE but can’t access the NFL settlement, either because they were denied, or because their symptoms don’t fit in the covered class.” When Samson stared at him blankly, Trevor continued. “The settlement only covers a narrow window of neurological, degenerative diseases like ALS or Parkinson’s. There are players out there with anger, depression, suicidal ideation. They have to cobble together their own emotional and financial resources. I want to create a central place they can go to for assistance.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“What?”
“You’re going to be the face of a CTE organization?”