Sacked The Stylist

Chapter 2 - Pilot Part 2

***** Earlier That Day *****

The first light of dawn spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Nathan Bucket's Pacific Heights mansion, casting a warm, golden glow over the expansive space. The sunlight crept across his bed, slowly illuminating Nate's body, sprawled in serene slumber against the rumpled white sheets. The rays danced along the contours of his physique, tracing the powerful lines of his broad shoulders and the sculpted planes of his chest. Each muscle seemed etched by the hands of a master craftsman, a testament to years of discipline and sweat. His abs, a flawless array of ridges and valleys, glistened faintly in the early morning light, as though kissed by the dew of sleep. The defined V of his hips led the eye downward, a frame of strength and allure that hinted at the raw power of the athlete.

Nate's legs, thick and muscular, stretched lazily beneath the sheets, their shape a story of raw athleticism. His bronzed skin, sun-kissed from countless hours on the field, radiated a healthy warmth that the sunlight only accentuated. Even in repose, his face carried an undeniable magnetism: a strong jawline dusted with a day's stubble, high cheekbones catching the soft light, and lips slightly parted in sleep. The contrast between his rugged features and the vulnerability of his peaceful expression was captivating, like a lion caught in a rare moment of rest.

As Nate stirred, the sunlight seemed to follow him, its golden fingers tracing his form like a lover's touch. He shifted, muscles rippling beneath his skin as he stretched out with a low, contented groan, the sound resonating through the stillness of the room.

The faint throb of a hangover clawed at Nate's temples, a dull ache that reminded him of the excesses of the previous night. Blinking against the light, he became aware of the cool sheets against his bare skin, a stark contrast to the heat of the sun warming his torso. A smirk tugged at his lips as he registered his nakedness, it wasn't the first time he'd woken up this way, and it likely wouldn't be the last.

Sitting up slowly, careful not to disturb the figure lying beside him, Nate let his gaze sweep over the room. Dark wooden panels gave the space a rich, masculine feel, a stark backdrop for the gleam of polished trophies and signed memorabilia scattered throughout. Each piece was a monument to his career, a reminder of the triumphs and accolades he had earned. The air was faintly perfumed with the scent of cedarwood and the lingering traces of cologne from the night before.

Turning his head, Nate spotted her, a brunette, her curvaceous figure half-hidden beneath the crisp white sheets. Her hair cascaded over the pillow in dark waves, framing a face that was serene in slumber. The morning light painted her skin in soft highlights, her beauty undeniable. Yet as Nate watched her, a strange indifference settled over him. The night they'd shared was a blur, a haze of flashing club lights, pulsing music, and far too much tequila. Her presence now felt like an afterthought, a faint echo of his recklessness.

Carefully, Nate sat up on his bed with his back leaning on the backboard of the bed, and ran a hand through his messy hair. The events of the previous night flickered through his mind in disjointed fragments: laughter with teammates, the sharp burn of shots, the electric pulse of the dance floor. Faces blurred together in his memory, their details obscured by the fog of alcohol and adrenaline.

He sighed, a pang of regret flickering through him. He knew better than to indulge so freely. Training was relentless, and nights like these left him feeling hollow, his energy sapped before the day even began. His gaze drifted back to the woman beside him. She was beautiful, certainly, but there was no spark, no connection beyond the fleeting intoxication of the night before.