Best Of Luck (A Luck Brothers Box Set) - Liv Morris

BEST OF LUCK A LUCK BROTHER BOX SET

LIV MORRIS

KIKI PRESS

CONTENTS Hard Luck Copyright Connect One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty-One Twenty-Two Twenty-Three Twenty-Four Twenty-Five Twenty-Six Twenty-Seven Twenty-Eight Epilogue Tough Luck Copyright One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen

Nineteen Twenty Twenty-One Twenty-Two Twenty-Three Twenty-Four Twenty-Five Twenty-Six Twenty-Seven Twenty-Eight Epilogue Extra Dear Reader Connect with Liv Books by Liv Morris Acknowledgements A Sneak Peek Introduction Marry Screw Kill One Two Thank You

Copyright © 2016 Liv Morris All rights reserved Editing by Word Nerd Editing Proofreading by Proofing Style Formatting by CP Smith Affordable Formatting

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Dedicated to Taryn P., a true penis–handler, and Erin M., a true Chicago girl.

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ONE

BRADY

AUGUST…

MEAN JOE SANDERS eyes me while holding the ball hidden away in his glove. He shuffles his feet and a dust cloud surrounds his legs. His solid, angry stance reminds me of a bull right before it charges—and Joe’s a true bull in this league. His stats top all the other pitchers and he has a wicked inside curve ball I fucking love. It’s the best pitch for my swing. Joe brings his glove to his chest, then winds his arm over his head. Twisting his body at the waist, he lifts his left leg, unwinds, and releases the ball with lightning speed. The pitch is gonna be low and inside, so I pull back my arms and lean toward the plate while letting her rip. My bat connects with a glorious crack and the ball heads out of the damn park. A booming roar from the crowd follows as I toss my bat to the side and start my victory lap around the bases while watching the ball sail over the ivy-covered wall. In a measured stride, I make my way around the diamond. No need to hurry, so I might as well bask in this intoxicating spotlight while I can. I raise my hands and pump my fists in the air, motioning for the crowd to yell louder. “Lucky! Lucky!” the fans scream their nickname for me, their coordinated shouts echoing around the stadium as I head for home plate. This hit is my second grand slam of the night, and we’re winning against Saint Louis eight to nothing. I raise my hands over my head and pump my fists into the air. Stopping just short of home plate, I hop onto the bag and the crowd goes fucking ape shit. My other three teammates who scored on my homerun are waiting for me just outside the infield line. I run over to them and they hoist me up on their shoulders. “This is our year,” one of my teammates shouts.

“We’re fucking unstoppable,” I respond as they carry me to the dugout. The fans join in the celebration. I can’t imagine any high being better than the experience of having the crowd screaming after my grand slam. It’s like a baseball player’s fucking nirvana. The last two innings go by in a blur and the guys gather in the locker room after the game. Everyone can feel the hope in the air that this may be the year Chicago finally wins the World Series, but I need to stay lucky and keep on this winning streak. I was on a Sports Illustrated cover last week with the headline “LUCK: The Answer to Chicago’s Bad Luck.” The franchise hasn’t won a World Series in over one-hundred years. Our team has the dishonorable title of North America’s longest sports drought. I should feel the pressure of winning like a two-ton weight on my back, but I don’t. It’s like I can see the future ahead of me—and it’s all winning. Getting ready to hit the shower, I see coach in the distance. He catches my eye and his pointed stare tells me he’s got something to say. “Luck,” the coach calls out. “Got a minute.” He turns and heads to his office before I can reply, obviously not asking. I follow him in and he closes the door. Next thing I know, I’m in some awkward bear hug, but he lets go of me before I can react. “I’ve never been prouder of a player than I am of you.” He’s facing me now at a comfortable distance for two straight dudes. “I didn’t want to get all sappy in front of everyone, but seriously, you are the best I’ve ever coached.” “Wow,” I say, running my hand through my hair. Coach isn’t one to disperse such compliments, so I’m struggling on how to handle this. “Thanks.” “We’re off tomorrow and I want you to go out with the guys tonight and have some fun.” He waggles his brows. Fun to him means getting my dick wet. Usually we have a self-imposed curfew and I try to refrain from going out too much during the season—or if we have a game the next day, at least. “Happy to follow your orders.” I flash him a knowing smile and he laughs. “I remember what it’s like to be young.” Coach pats his paunch of a belly. “I can only imagine the women tripping over themselves to get with a good-looking hotshot like you.” “Yeah, they want the D. This one time, these three chicks were climbing all over me, practically humping my leg and acting like my dick was the secret to eternal life. So, my solution? The Luck train! All three girls at once—boom!” “Get the hell out of here, kid,” he says with a twisted grin. “And I’ll deny that hug until I die.” I throw him a quick nod and leave. I have a shower to take and a hole to drill…with my dick. “Brady,” Lance calls out as I exit the shower. I give him a tip of my head. “Wanna go to The Wit with us?” “Is that even a question?” Lance gives me a thumbs up. “I’ll get my driver to take us. Cool?” Lance walks over and gives me a high five. “More than. No game tomorrow bro.

P. A. R. T. Y.” “Damn right.” I leave off the fact that Coach is endorsing my time out tonight, which is a first. Thirty minutes later, the three of us arrive at The Wit. It’s like we’re the single dude posse, since we’ve been wing-manning it for two seasons. We gather on the sidewalk before entering the bar. “Okay. Our VIP spot should be ready.” Lance is the social director of the group. He’s got the owners of all the hotspots on speed dial. The biggest problem we face is crowd control, but the owners make sure their staff handles things for us. “You all ready?” he says with a smirky grin and a raise of the brow. “See these fingers.” I hold up my hands and wiggle my digits. “They’re needing two things. Shots of Jameson and pussy.” “I hear you, man,” Shaun says, clapping me on the back. “Let’s do this, and a few of them.” We all laugh and head for the entrance. Shaun opens the door and the guys let me lead. I duck under the doorframe and stand tall once inside. Heads turn and the normal buzz in the busy bar stops. You could almost hear a plastic stirrer hitting the floor. “Gentlemen.” A smoking hot blonde whose blouse is open to her navel greets us. My eyes trail over her assets—and damn, she’s fine. “I’ll show you to your table.” The three of us look at each other and smile. It’s the beginning of our unspoken wingmen language for the night. We tend to communicate with our eyes, subtle brow movements, and tilts of our heads. We walk past a table on the way to the VIP area when I spot a pretty brownhaired girl. She looks smart, and professional—an unlikely candidate for a onenight stand. More like the kind of girl my mother would love to see me date, marry, then pop out a few kids with. She’s not a pump and dump. She’s the forever kind. Well, that ain’t gonna happen, but this girl’s as cute as can be, and her eyes and mouth are opened wide in shock as she stares at me. Maybe it’s cruel, but I give her a quick wink and she brings her ringless hand to her throat. I tap her on the nose and she jumps from my touch, loses her balance, and falls for me, literally. She ends up on the floor in a heap in front of me after sliding off a barstool. Being the sometimes gentleman my mother raised me to be, I scoop her up and sit her properly back on her vacated seat. She’s tiny—hell, I’ve lifted equipment bags that weighed more. She’d be easy to fuck against a wall for sure. What the hell? I mentally slap myself. She’s looking up at me with sweet eyes of innocence and that’s not what I’m after. “You okay?” I ask to the now red-faced beauty. “Fine,” she says in a whisper while inspecting her clothes. “Just…horribly embarrassed, but I’ll live.” She turns up toward me again, bringing us a few inches from each other, face to

face. She tilts her head and goes all dreamy-eyed on me. I’ve seen this look a thousand times and need to leave the scene before I commit a moral crime and try to make this good girl bad. “Glad to hear it. Have a nice night.” I give her one more wink and she sighs. I feel a nudge in my side and turn to see Shaun. He’s shaking his head and laughing. “Come on, buddy,” he says, signaling Lance to move on. I twist around one last time to see Ms. Brown Hair again. “What’s your name?” I ask before I’m out of hearing distance. “Cali,” she replies, but my friends keep pushing me toward our reserved table and the moment is gone—probably for the best. “Californication,” I mutter under my breath, because that’s exactly what I’d like to do with her. “Who was that girl?” Lance asks. “No clue. There was something different about her, though,” I say more to myself than the audience of players walking with me. “Yeah, if you like the virginal girl next door type,” Lance says, and he’s right. “Besides, who wants to date when we can fuck a different piece of ass each night?” “Not me,” Shaun says as the hot blonde shows us to our table by the back wall. “I’ll save those boring dating days for after retirement. I’m all about getting laid now.” The instant we take our seats, another busty blonde sets drinks down in front of each of us. Clinking our glasses, we toast each other for the game we played earlier and the hookup games still ahead for the night.

MY HEAD IS POUNDING and my mouth tastes like ass. Opening my eyes, I see the dark wood of my dresser and my framed poster of Kate Upton. I sigh in relief, realizing I’m in my own bedroom. The shades are drawn, immersing the room in darkness. And thank fuck for that. The sun would be a killer for my headache. I stretch out in the bed and my foot touches something—or, more likely, someone. I glance over at the pillow beside mine. “Fuck,” I curse under my breath. The chick from last night didn’t leave after our hookup. Shit! This is just fucking great. I’m breaking rule number one: never let them stay past the last orgasm. The minor leagues were the last time I woke up to find a woman in my bed the next morning. I sure as hell don’t need that kind of trouble again. I grab my phone on the nightstand to check the time and see it’s only eight o’clock, which is early for me on a no game day. I look closer at the girl sleeping next to me. Long, raven hair hides her face. I search my mind for a face from last night, but honestly, all I remember are black eyes matching the color of her hair. Damn, I was pretty wasted, but I do remember two unforgettable details about

the woman lying next to me: her tits were awesome and real. Make that three: they fit perfectly into my eager hands. “Hey,” I say to her in a soft voice while tapping her sheet-covered shoulder. “Time to wake up...” I have no clue what her name is, so I go with my usual standby, “baby.” The chicks dig it. She doesn’t stir on the bed next to me. Instead, I listen to the even pace of her breathing. The chick is zonked out. I decide it won’t harm anything if she sleeps a little longer, so I hop out of bed and take a quick shower—five minutes, tops. When I open the locked bathroom door, the raven mystery woman is nowhere to be seen. Tossing my towel on the floor next to the dresser, I pull out a pair of sweats, put them on, commando style, and head out of the bedroom to see if she’s left. God, I hope she’s gone. Seeing her now will be all kinds of awkward—mostly because I have no clue what the fuck her name is. As soon as I enter the hallway, the smell of bacon cooking gives away her location. Helpless to stop myself, I follow the ambrosia filling the air like a starving animal—which I am, despite my horrible hangover. I pause before I walk into the kitchen, peek around the corner wall, and see the raven chick standing over the stove, flipping bacon in a skillet. She’s wearing a black dress that pushes her boobs out of the top. If she sneezes, I’m sure they’ll pop out. Her black hair is braided and still reaches down to almost her waist. Her pale skin contrasts with the dark hair, and in the light of day, it gives her a spooky sort of look, like the mother on The Addam’s Family. I have a flashback from last night when I met her at the bar. She sat on my lap with her raven hair cascading around her shoulders. I thought she was exotic then, mysterious. But in the light of day, she looks more like a gothic vamp walking around modern day Chi-town. Avoiding the fact that she’s here in my house will not make her disappear, so I walk into the kitchen and she lifts her head at my movement. “Morning, handsome.” She has a distinct accent—kind of southern and kind of Spanish. Hearing her voice triggers another memory. She whispered dirty promises into my ear that made me bring her home, which was a big mistake. She stayed over and the women I fuck never do. I can blame plowing her on being plowed. “Morning,” I say, shifting from side to side. I check out the bacon in the skillet and decide I can at least wait until she’s finished cooking. After that, she’s gone. “Feeling hungover?” she asks. “Maybe a little.” I move around the farthest end of the island, purposefully keeping my distance from her, and reach the coffee maker on the opposite side of my kitchen. “Little java will help, though.” Taking a cup from the cabinet, I look over my shoulder. She’s looking at me with her brow raised, so I grab another cup for her. Fuck me! Getting her to leave my apartment is going to be beyond awkward. I don’t utter a word while I make us both some coffee. I stand on the other side

of the island and hand her a full cup. Reaching for it, her fingers graze over mine and I shudder as chills run down my spine—and not the good kind. I lift my eyes, trying to keep the grimace off my face. Her lips are turned up at one corner in a smirk and her eyes seem knowing…though I’m not sure what they know. There is something off about her. I just can’t figure out what. “Thanks,” she says, and I nod in response. “Bacon’s ready. I wanted to cook you eggs and toast, but you’re out of everything. We should go shopping this afternoon and stock up,” she says, turning around to face the cabinets. Taken off guard, I spit coffee out of my mouth, coating the granite and my stomach. This girl is Looney Tunes, for sure. Fumbling to wipe up the mess and not seem as off balance as I feel, I think back to last night. Did I say anything to lead her on—like ask her to move in with me? I’ve got nothing, but flashes of Fatal Attraction stream through my mind. “Um, I have plans in an hour. Team stuff.” I wipe the coffee off the counter and myself. She’s acting like we’re an item, and it’s freaking me the fuck out. “No problem,” she says while turning around. “I’ll run out for food while you’re gone. Any allergies?” I want to say, yes, I’m allergic to hookups that never leave, but I hold my tongue. “Um…” I don’t even know her name. Shit. “Yeah, today’s not gonna work for me.” She narrows her eyes at me and quits moving, the plate of bacon she was almost ready to set in front of me now frozen in mid-air. “What do you mean? I thought you said you never wanted me to leave your bed,” she spits out, venom lacing her words. The plate lands on the granite in a crash, but it doesn’t break. High-dollar stoneware paid off this time. “Well…” I pause, trying to figure out the best way to make my you-need-toleave speech without her turning into a raging lunatic. She’s already fuming; one wrong step here and my future may look a little like ground beef. “I’m waiting.” She crosses her arms in front of her and her black eyes hit me like daggers. “We had a great time last night,” I start, though I have no clue if it’s true. I don’t remember anything, and to be honest, I might’ve said that about my bed and her never leaving it. Fuck, I need to work on new lines—ones that have no promises attached to them. “You screamed my name several times.” I twist my lips to the side and furrow my brows, beginning to wonder if she’s delusional. I have no idea what her name is now, so I’m pretty sure I didn’t know her as anything but “baby” last night. “See, I am not interested in dating. It’s me, not you,” I say, and cringe. “So, what? I was just some random girl you brought home?” She paces across the kitchen floor, her arms flailing about. Knowing there’s no way I can answer her question in any way that will satisfy her, I reach for the cookie jar on the island where I hide some extra spending cash and pull out enough money for a cab and a new pair of designer shoes. I use the

money mostly for when I order food and emergencies—and damn if this isn’t a fucking five-alarm fire. “Here…” Taking hold of her moving hand, I place a wad of hundreds in her palm, curl her fingers around the money, and wait. “Should be enough for you to get a taxi home.” I move away from her before she reacts, mostly because I have no fucking clue what she’s capable of. She stops dead in her tracks and looks at me with a murderous glare. “I’m not a damn whore.” Well…that didn’t work. “Where’s my bag,” she yells, frantically searching the kitchen area and then the adjoining living room. When she comes up with nothing, she rushes to my bedroom and I follow behind her. I’m not letting this chick out of my sight. She crouches down next to the bed and rises up holding a black bag so large, it could be used for weekend getaways. I take another step back, imagining what type of arsenal she might be packing. She puts on her stiletto heels, mumbling under her breath, and I stand there like a fish out of water, having no clue what to do next. Should I say something—do something? I fidget, trying to decide, while listening to her incoherent babble. Between her accent and rapid fire talking, the words all blur together. “Listen, I’m sorry if—” she slaps me in the face before I can get the rest of the sentence out. “Ouch,” I cry out cradling my face. What the fuck? That sure as hell stung. “You will be sorry, Brady Luck.” She struts past me on her heels and flings her bag over her shoulder with ease. Girl’s got some muscles in those arms. Please let her be heading toward the front door, I think to myself as I follow behind her, rubbing my jaw and hoping she didn’t leave a bruise. I have dinner at my mom’s house tonight. Instead, she stops at the kitchen island, sitting her behemoth bag on the granite countertop, and I groan internally. “Your luck ran out, Lucky.” Throwing back her head, she cackles, causing the hair on my arms to stand straight up, and I wonder if she’s wanted back at the psych ward. She opens her bag and pulls out an odd-looking doll. It’s more like a stuffed ragdoll with black buttons for eyes and knotted yarn for hair. I move closer, trying to get a better look. When a pin sticking out of the stomach of the doll comes into view, I nearly lose my footing. I shake my head back and forth while stumbling a little, not sure whether I should haul her ass out or be thoroughly terrified of the voodoo doll hanging out in my kitchen. An eerie heaviness fills the air as she begins to chant in a foreign to me language. Raising the pin up, she plunges it into the doll’s groin and I flinch. Jeez. She waves her hands over the doll and gives me an evil glare. “Yes, you’re cursed now, and it will take a special woman to break it. Your days of fucking like an animal are over.” Picking up her doll and throwing it in her bag, she heads toward the door, leaving me standing in the kitchen with my jaw dropped open. I don’t believe in

voodoo—or, at least, I don’t think I do, but I’ve never been voodooed before either. My eye twitches and I shudder as another chill crawls up my spine, freaking me out. “God help the woman you end up with,” she says while turning the door handle, “because God will have nothing to do with you now.” The door slams behind her and I try to shake it off. It’s all make-believe, I tell myself after checking the front door a couple times to make sure it’s locked and glancing in the peep-hole to see if she’s truly gone. Her little shenanigans are just a game. She was just trying to scare the shit out of me. Besides, I’m Catholic…on occasion. That has to count for something. I walk back toward my bedroom with the urge to pull out a can of Lysol and some bleach. A condom wrapper lies on the floor next to my bed and I let out a long breath. At least I was smart about one thing last night. Talking myself out of torching the bed, I yank the sheets off and wad them up in a ball, along with her pillowcase, ready to chuck them out the window. My phone rings from the nightstand and I nearly jump out of my skin. “Get it together,” I mumble to myself while picking up the receiver. “Hello,” I say, my voice a little uneasy. “Brady, have you seen the papers?” my brother greets me in his typical nongreeting way. Bryce, who plays quarterback for the Bears, is a couple years older than me and twenty years wiser, or so he thinks. “Haven’t been up long enough.” I hate conversations with him that start this way. They’re never about my grand slams or great plays on third base—it’s always a lecture. “There’s a pic with your tongue down Marie Lafayette’s throat. Do you know who she is?” Ah, Marie…at least I now have a name. “Well…” I trail off, not needing to say anything more. “You’re such a dumb shit. She’s a self-proclaimed voodoo queen.” My blood turns cold. “She’s bad news, Brady. The stories I’ve heard from guys on the team…” “Er…what stories?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even. I wonder if any of the Bears have had her pull out that fucking voodoo doll on them. “Bad stories. Scary as shit stories.” “Like voodoo doll stories?” “Don’t tell me she pulled that voodoo shit on you, too?” “Um…maybe,” I sort of confess. “You’d better call mom and catch her before mass starts. She needs to light a candle for you.” He sighs into the phone. “Mom’s going to be all over your ass at dinner tonight, so get ready.” Shit! Hanging up the phone, I blow out a breath, trying to come up with an excuse to get out of this dinner…

TWO

CALI

MY CLOSET RESEMBLES the aftermath of a tornado with more clothes lying on the floor than the plastic hangers. Grumbling, I search below the top layer of jeans and discarded tops in hopes of finding my brunch appropriate heels. They’re not too tall, but still give me some needed height. At only five foot two, I get mistaken for a twelve-year-old way too often. I stopped wearing my hair in a ponytail, so at least that helps me look like I’ve graduated high school. Voila! I find both shoes in less than five minutes under the dress I wore last Sunday and chalk that up to a miracle. Glancing at the ceiling, I hold them in the air, half in thanks and half in victory that I won over the mess. Luckily, I never face this closet on workday mornings. Since I’m a physician’s assistant, I wear scrubs at the office. It’s a dream wardrobe and the upkeep is as easy as pie. Wait, pies are one bitch to bake. Who made up that crazy saying? Betty Crocker? Anyway, all I do is wash the shapeless maroon tops and bottoms, and keep them stashed in a hamper along with my work approved shoes sitting close by. Scanning the clothing explosion on my floor as I slip on my heels, I spot my favorite Chicago jersey in the corner with the name LUCK written across the back and the number 7 beneath it. Weak-kneed, I lean against the wall, remembering last night and my close encounter with Brady Luck. Well, it was more than a close encounter. He actually picked me up off the bar floor after I humiliated myself by swooning into a heap of mushy Jell-O in front of him. I still can’t believe he asked for my name, or even noticed me. Then again, how could he miss the human lump he had to step over. My face flushes as the mortification comes back. At least I have this one meeting to remember for my lifetime, because I’m sure I’ll never get another chance to feel his touch again. But the way I reacted is something I’d rather forget. I push off the wall and straighten my white dress with its conservative black floral print. It’s bright but professional—somewhere between office and club attire.

I rush out of my apartment on my sensible heels and make the trek to the restaurant for brunch to meet my clan of besties. The sun shines overhead and warms my exposed arms. I didn’t think to grab a cardigan before I left, but I’m lucky the wind is non-existent today—an uncommon occurrence in Chicago. I arrive at Lark’s a few minutes late and spot my three close friends, Taylor, Erin, and Laurie, in the corner, each of them holding a full mimosa. I wave to get their attention and start my walk toward the back of the restaurant. Taylor, my best friend who witnessed my Brady encounter last night, seems way too excited to see me. She places her drink on the table and starts talking with her arms flailing about. Everyone at the table flashes their eyes from her animated storytelling to me in a rapid back and forth motion. It doesn’t take an IQ above a housefly to know she’s retelling my bar debacle. I’m tempted to turn around and retreat, but my need of a mimosa is much more important than a little humiliation. “Here she is,” Taylor announces as I slide into the open seat left for me at the table. There’s a full glass of the good stuff waiting for me at my place setting and I bring it closer. “The penis handler.” “Whatever brownnoser,” I quip back at her. “When will you two stop making fun of your professions?” Laurie asks. “Never,” Taylor and I reply in unison, then glance at each other and laugh. “We need to laugh to keep sane,” I add, because it’s true. Taylor and I met our freshman year in college while pursuing degrees to become physician’s assistants. We studied together while our friends were out partying and it helped to have a friend in the same position as me. No one likes being stuck in a dorm room on the weekend alone with their nose in a book. After graduating a few months ago, I found a position working for a urologist focused on men’s health, which helped me earn the title “penis handler.” She landed at the proctologist office in the same building and deals with assholes all day—literally. “Taylor told us about last night,” Laurie says while leaning forward with wide eyes. “Did you really fall on the floor after he touched your face?” “If swooning were an Olympic sport, my fall to the floor would’ve been a perfect ten.” “Ouch,” Erin says with a wince. “That had to hurt.” “Only bruised my self-esteem.” I pause and take an overdue gulp of my drink. “Besides, I don’t have a chance in hell with a player like Brady Luck. He’s a god in this town with women at his beck and call and I’m not a slut.” “You totally pinged his radar last night, so there’s that,” Taylor pipes up. “So did that girl in the gossip column this morning,” Laurie adds, and I glance over the table at her with narrowed eyes. “What girl?” I ask. “You should’ve kept your mouth closed,” Taylor scolds, and Laurie mouths, “Sorry.”

“Cough it up. It’s not like he’s cheating on me,” I laugh. “There’s a photo of him from The Wit last night. He’s with some black-haired girl. She’s straddling his lap and his hands are on her ass. Rumors are he left with her,” Laurie dishes the sordid details, and boy how I wish I’d been the girl with his hands on my ass. “Whatever,” I say as any delusional hope of more with Brady Luck dies inside me. “Besides, athletes don’t make faithful boyfriends. Believe me, I should know.” We all look down at the table and take sips of our mimosas. They know I swore off discussing my painful breakup with Mitchell Davis, the star baseball player for Northwestern, and now the Yanks. We dated for two years until he dumped me after leaving college to head to the pros. He’s in the past and I need to keep him there. I raise my now empty glass in the air to catch the server’s eye. I need a damn refill. The server nods and brings a mimosa-filled pitcher my way. We come here on Sundays for the fifteen-dollar unlimited brunch drinks, though there is a twohour limit. “They’re called players for a reason,” I add, my fresh mimosa in hand, leaving out the part about me having a weakness for them, especially baseball players. Their tight pants that show off even tighter asses, gunned up biceps, and those cocky attitudes flip my hormonal switch. Give a guy a ball glove and I turn to goo. “You’re probably right. But I’d still love to hear the play by play from last night. The before the fall stuff.” “It started with me dragging her butt out of her apartment.” Taylor sits up and sticks her chest out like she accomplished an impossible feat, and maybe she had. I can’t remember the last time I went out to a club. “I’ll admit I’ve been on the hermit side this winter.” I can’t go clubbing too often, because I still have a ton of debt left to pay on my student loans. “No more staying at home,” Taylor gives me an ultimatum. “Okay, as long as you’re picking up the bar tab,” I jab, but halfway mean it. She’s from the North Shore, or what I call the old money area of Chicago. She even has season tickets to watch Chicago. Since she doesn’t have a boyfriend at the moment, I am her sidekick to every game. Lucky me, I get to drool over Mr. Luck from the third base sideline. “More of the story,” Erin says, drawing me back to Brady. I sigh. “Taylor dragged me to the bar where the hot threesome hangs out.” “She’s been avoiding the place,” Taylor adds. I start to protest, but shrug my shoulders instead. I am not a social butterfly and groups of hot single guys make me nervous as hell. Add those hot guys being baseball players…my stomach turns into knots just thinking about it. “She made me get a blow out, buy a new dress that barely covered my ass, and wear heels I could only shuffle my feet in,” I say, outlining Taylor’s pre-bar prep work of me. “And she stopped Brady Luck in his tracks,” Taylor adds. “My push to get you

out and noticed succeeded.” “Getting noticed is one thing, going out with him is another,” I confess. “Baby steps,” Taylor says. “Besides, those guys don’t date, they fuck around.” “Just once I’d like to go out with a decent guy,” I say, finishing off my second mimosa. “That’s bullshit. Decent guys are boring for smart girls like us,” Taylor starts, giving her usual take on why we crave the bad boys. “We need a mental challenge in our lives to have happiness in the bedroom. It goes back to Anthropology one-ohone. We are all desperately seeking a cave man. Yours just tend to be wearing baseball uniforms with numbers on their backs.” “You’re right. What am I supposed to do about it though?” “Chicago’s back in town next Saturday. We’ll try The Wit again after we go to the game. You know who they’re playing?” Taylor asks with a pointed stare. “Don’t tell me. The Yankees, right?” “Yep, one of those interleague games from hell,” Taylor confirms my fears. The team my former boyfriend plays for seldom comes to town. The Yankees are on the American League side versus Chicago being in the National League division. “At least we sit by Brady on third, and not the first base line where Mitchell plays for the Yanks.” “That’s not much consolation.” I hope he doesn’t try to reach out to me while he’s in town, because I’ll likely cave and see him. “And no texting with him. Got it?” “What are you now? A mind reader?” I quip. “No, I’m your best friend.” Taylor gives me a side hug, and much to my delight, we go back to discussing our jobs and the new boutique that opened on Michigan Avenue. All thoughts of baseball and the boys who play it float away in my mimosa soaked brain for now.

THREE

BRADY

I CARRY the flower bouquet I bought on the way to my mother’s house up her front steps. She wanted a wide porch with a bench swing and my brother and I made sure her wish came true when we bought her this home. My flowers are a peace offering for the disappointment I’m sure I caused from another round of hookup photos in the paper. I ring the doorbell out of respect, even though she always scolds me for not just walking in, but it’s her house and I want her to feel this way. She holds the deed and keys, not us. “Brady,” my mother says after opening the door, her brow knitted into lines of worry. I don’t like this look on her face, especially since it’s now obvious she’s seen the gossip news surrounding me from last night. “Get inside.” Shit, she’s more pissed than normal. She normally says hello, even if I’m caught with a nameless babe on my arm. This time she didn’t even give me a hug. I hand her the flowers with a broad smile and she raises her brow at me. She’s not overlooking my offense today, and doesn’t look at peace one bit. “Thanks, dear.” She takes the flowers and reaches up to pat my cheek with a sadness reflecting back at me in her eyes. At least I know she still loves me. “They’re your favorite. Gerber daisies,” I add, trying to suck up, just a little. “I’ll go put them in some water,” she says while moving toward the kitchen, and I follow. “Your brother and I have been waiting for you.” “Oh really?” I ask, aware I’ve likely entered into hostile territory. “Where’s Bryce?” “Sitting at the table staring at the fried chicken.” I lick my lips, almost tasting my mother’s cooking. “I fixed your favorite cheesy potatoes, too.” “Thanks, Mom.” I give her a kiss on the cheek as she fills a vase with water. She turns to face me with tears in her eyes and my heart sinks into the wooden floor. “I’ll to try to behave,” I mutter under my breath, embarrassed and ashamed that

I have no control over my dick. I also know my promises will never stand. Saying no to pussy is impossible. I can’t do it. “Son,” my mother says, brushing a finger below her eye, “go sit down and join your brother.” I bow my head, unable to bear looking at her right now this close up. I walk through the kitchen into the dining room, feeling about as big as an ant. Once I’m through the opening to the room, Bryce starts shaking his head at me. “Brady, you’re one fucked up piece of shit,” Bryce begins. “Hello to you, too.” I pull out my chair and sit my butt down. We have assigned seats to keep us apart while we eat. My mother learned boys with flying elbows and fists should be separated while eating, so my mom sits at the head of the table with Bryce and I in seats across from each other. Though, we have been known to bruise each other’s shins under the table. “Your stupid shenanigans are breaking Ma’s heart,” Bryce adds to the pain I already feel. “I know. I know. I fucked up,” I say, arranging the perfectly set silverware. “You say this every time.” Bryce hits his fist on the table and I jump. “When are you going to learn to play around out of the spotlight? Let the rumors be just that— rumors with nothing concrete to back them up. You’re killing Ma with practically fucking these women on camera. Leave it for your penthouse or a hotel room behind closed doors.” “You had college to work out your wild oats. I’m still sowing mine.” It’s my lame defense. “Poor excuse, bro,” Bryce says, shaking his head. “Quit going out for a while. Maybe try dating a nice girl.” “Wait, what happened to the whole, ‘don’t settle down until after I retire’?” I ask. That’s been the advice from him since I moved up to the big leagues. “Well, you’re a dumbass who forgot the second piece of advice. Be discreet.” I have no defense now at all. Discreet isn’t something I do. I like to go out and have the best pick of the hot chick crop. “And this last woman is dangerous.” “So you say.” I want to know more, but maybe it’s best to pretend the voodoo lady never happened. “She’s been through most of the offensive line, and sadly, she left a mark on one of them.” “A mark?” I gulp and place my hands over my dick in a reflexive motion. “What is up with this chick? Does she think athletes cum gold, then get pissed when they don’t give her what she wants?” “Pretty much. Thomas the Tank can’t play like he used to. He swears she put some curse on him. Did you get any voodoo vibes from her or were you lucky?” “Lucky, I guess,” I tell him a big fat lie, still freaked out by this morning’s dose of crazy. “Good,” Bryce says in relief as I try to mentally bleach the voodoo scene out of my brain.

“It’s not like you don’t have hookups all the time.” The stupid remark comes out of my mouth before I can think. I blow out a breath, wishing I could take it back. It’s not the time to challenge Bryce. “It’s all about being smart. I left my latest’s apartment right before I came for dinner. Some chick who got drunk on too many mimosas at brunch.” Bryce smiles and licks his lips like he’s remembering something delicious. “I guess I’m just unlucky,” I admit. “There’s this look in their eyes. You’ve just been too drunk to see it when you’re with them.” “A look?” I ask. “Lust or longing,” Bryce answers, his tone matter of fact. “Explain.” I eye him across the table. “Lust means they’re looking for the same thing I am—a hot as hell fuck.” He raises his brow and nods. “The others have this look in their eyes that says, ‘take me home and I’ll show you why you should keep me there.’” “Hell, they all want me to take them home.” There’s no way that will help me decide who’s crazy. “They have this barely hidden hint of desperation. But you have to be somewhat sober to recognize it. My advice: don’t hookup until you know whether she’s a clinger or just looking for a good time.” “You’re something else. I’m not that calculating.” “No saints in this house, except Mom,” Bryce states more damn facts. “When Mom comes in here, I want you to throw her a bone and tell her you’ll go out with Charlene, the neighbor girl she’s tried to fix you up with,” Bryce demands, and I cringe. “The one with hygiene issues?” I ask, shaking my head. “She’s not that bad,” Bryce states. “Her teeth are green,” I say, incredulous. No way in hell am I doing more than waving to her from across the yard. “I’ll apologize and keep myself out of the papers, but no dirty girls—and I mean that literally.” “One more incident and she’s going to be your punishment.” Bryce leaves no room for me to argue, so I nod. Fuck, I hate being the younger brother. Mom comes into the dining room carrying her vase of Gerber daisies and sets them down in the middle of the table. “Did you boys have a good talk?” She eyes me while Bryce pulls out her chair for her to sit down. “We did,” Bryce answers back. “I think it was an enlightening conversation. Don’t you, Brady?” “Super enlightening,” I mutter under my breath. Reaching out, my mother pats my hand and I glance up, hoping to see the worry erased from her face. “Good. Now, let’s eat.” She smiles widely as she passes me the platter of fried chicken. I genuinely smile for the first time today, and it’s not just because she let me have first dibs on the chicken. Her forgiveness lifts a huge weight from my

shoulders. I just hope I can keep myself together next week when we play the Mets. More so than any place we play, the chicks in New York City are hot for the opposing team’s players. They practically throw their pussies on us while foaming at the mouth. Yeah, it’s going to be hell to deny them. Maybe I should discuss that look in the eye thing with the guys.

FOUR

CALI

I’M WEARING MY TRUSTY, worn Chicago jersey—the one with the name Luck on the back. I might have slept in it a few nights since my short encounter with Brady last weekend, but I washed it yesterday afternoon, so at least it’s clean. It’s been a stressful week as a Chicago fan. Brady hasn’t hit a homerun since the night I fell at his feet. He’s barely stepped on first base, which has everyone in Chicago holding their collective breaths. The city feels wound up tight, like a coiled spring. It’s a mix of crazy dread and fear that this year isn’t going to be any different than the last one-hundred. Digging in the top drawer for my Chicago earrings and necklace, I finally locate them hidden beneath my blue scarf. It’s too warm for the scarf today, so I push it to the back of the drawer—my way of organizing. “Hurry up, Cali,” Taylor shouts from my living room, which is only separated by a thin wall. But it’s a wall, an amenity I’ve earned since my new job as a PA let me upgrade from a studio to a one-bedroom. It’s the little things in life that make me feel like an adult. “Coming,” I say, inserting my earrings and tying the side of the baggy jersey into a knot. The thing is several sizes too big and I could almost wear it as a dress. I have on a pair of skinny jeans so I don’t get mistaken for a dude. “Why are you hiding your curves under that tent shirt?” “You mean T-shirt?” I ask. “No, tent is more like it. You could be hiding a circus creature under that thing. Go back in your room and change. We have a mission today and it’s getting you a date for next weekend.” “No! I’m wearing Brady’s jersey, and that’s final,” I shout back at her, stomping my Chicago blue Chuck covered feet. “Okay, okay. I give up on you. I truly do.” Slinging her purse over her shoulder, we head out my door while I preen about getting my way. Maybe even skip a bit,

too. Winning in the clothing department doesn’t happen often with Taylor, or at all. She has an innate style from shopping at the finest department stores since birth. Me? I’ve never had enough money to shop much beyond Target, so I kowtow to her suggestions. Only Brady Luck himself could get me out of this jersey, though. The thought of that makes me tingly. Maybe Taylor is right, I do need to get laid— caveman-style. We exit my building and hear the roar from Wrigley Field, Chicago’s longstanding ball field. My place is almost in sightline of the stadium. After walking a block, the brick sides of Wrigley come into view. It’s a baseball institution and I love being its neighbor since it was a big part of my childhood. My father left my mother when I was small, but her brother filled in the gap as my dad. I still send him Father’s Day cards. He would bring me to Wrigley as often as he could on his tradesmen’s salary. He hasn’t married and likely never will. I think his high school sweetheart broke his heart when she ran off with his best friend. Some heartaches just don’t heal. I rub over my chest, knowing mine has some ways to go too. I don’t know why Mitchell Davis did such a number on me. I guess I made the mistake of giving him every piece of my heart and suppose it takes time to have them all return to the same place. “So, what do you think is up with Lucky?” Taylor asks me as we join the mass of humanity walking on the cobble-stoned sidewalk toward the stadium’s entrance. “I don’t know, but I feel like this entire city is on edge waiting for Brady to come out of his slump. That’s all it is.” I bite my lip hard, a habit that rears its head when I’m either worried sick about something or in the ecstatic throws of passion. Mitchel used to make fun of my silly habit. Which reminds me… “The jerk has been texting me since he landed here.” I don’t need to give the details. There’s only been one jerk in my life—or guy, for that matter. “I really despise him,” Taylor spouts, disgust clear in her voice. Taylor’s bossy and opinionated, but also the most loyal friend I’ve ever had. She’d walk on glass for me if it would make me happy or gain a boyfriend. Everyone needs a Taylor in their life, and I am one lucky gal to be her best friend. “I know you’re wondering. I didn’t text him back. I blocked his number instead.” I add a skip to my step at the mention of blocking his ass. “Oh my God,” Taylor says, yanking my arm and pulling me to a stop. “You did?” She beams, and I nod back at her. “It was easy.” Well…after I sat and stared at the block option for a few minutes —or was it an hour? “This is major. I’m so damn proud of you. I think it’s the beginning of you really getting over him. “I hope so. I really, really do. It just seems like he haunts my heart.” “You need a stellar orgasm from a man’s tongue. Trust me.” I look around to see if anyone heard her say that, but everyone is too busy hustling by us to pay any

attention. “Maybe you’re right.” “No maybes about it.” Taylor and I enter the stadium and make our way to the awesome seats her father’s company bought for her. They’re right by third base and I can’t wait to see Brady warming up. It’s my favorite part of the game. I watch him bend over to pick up the ball, throw back his arm, then send it sailing to first. He repeats this motion over and over again, putting me in a fan girl trance. Occasionally, he’ll step away from third base and chat it up with a teammate. I love to watch him toss back his head when he laughs, but he’s not laughing today. I frown, biting my lip. The Yankees start walking onto the field and my heart drops into my lap when I see Mitchell taking a few throws. His golden hair catches the light of the sun and my breath hitches. Damn him and his glorious hotness. “Stop it,” Taylor admonishes. “Keep your eyes on third base. He’s the one worth staring at, not that piece of shit.” “Thanks. I needed that reminder. Do you ever think seeing him will get easier?” “Yes, I do. He did a number on you and it just takes time. Falling in love with someone else will be the ultimate remedy, and it will happen. I promise.” “Thanks.” I lean into her side and she brings her head to mine. We sit back up in our stadium seats and watch the men get ready to start the game. The umpires call for the start and the first pitch is thrown. The player hits it right to Brady and he stumbles toward the line drive. I hold my breath as he regains his footing and sends the ball to first base. The ball arrives just in time for the out and I swear the entire stadium lets out a big sigh as the umpire makes the call. Something is definitely not right with Brady. His game is off and I fear my lip will have permanent teeth marks by the last pitch. After a few innings, Mitchell is forgotten, for the most part, my attention staying on Brady. He paces around third base as an unmistakable frustration pours off him. A few of the players have ended up on third base and I believe they’re taunting him, rubbing in that his game is falling apart. When Mitchell hits a triple and lands on third, I can’t tear my eyes off either of them. Mostly because I know Mitchell and his love for hitting his opponents where it hurts the most. Mitchell turns to Brady and says something, his usual cocky grin in place. Brady stops and faces Mitchell, turning away from me so I can only see him from the side. Stepping closer and bending at his waist, Brady raises a finger to his face and I’m pretty sure Brady’s answer to Mitchell contains curse words that are likely well deserved. The heated interaction between the two catches the eye of the third base ump. Walking over to the base, he moves between Brady and Mitchell and says a few words while looking between them. Brady steps away and Mitchell wears that cocky smile on his face I remember so well, thinking he won the exchange because he got

under Brady’s skin. “Mitchell’s a douchebag,” Taylor says through gritted teeth. “He’s also a pro at honing in on people’s weaknesses and kicking them when they’re down.” “Another reason why I always hated him.” “From the start?” I ask. “The first time my eyes landed on him. He’s always rubbed me the wrong way. When he broke your heart, my worst suspicions came true.” Taylor never liked Mitchell, but this is the first time she’s confessed to having hated him from day one. “It’s not like you to hold back something like this.” Taylor is a good judge of character and intuitive. I could’ve used her insight with Mitchell. My heart might not be so scarred and battle weary. “I hoped I was wrong for your sake.” “I wished you’d been wrong, too,” I sigh, “but I’m totally over his sorry ass now.” Mitchell scores on a single hit from the next batter up, giving the Yankees a five-point lead. This game looks over until the last inning when Chicago starts making a comeback. Two Chicago players take a base on single hits to right field, and a third walks to first after getting hit by a pitch. The tension is high after the pitcher’s aggressive throw made contact with the batter’s thigh. “Ouch.” I flinch, moving my hand to my thigh. “That had to hurt like hell. Some of those fastballs are over ninety miles an hour.” Brady swings his bat in the warm-up area and I fixate on him—or, more like, certain parts of him. I watch the pumping and flexing of his muscled arms. The ones that picked me up off the floor like I weighed nothing. When he twists at the waist during a practice swing, I imagine the lean muscles of his abs rippling with the movement. The thought of my own fingers actually touching those hard ridges brings back that same dizzy-swoony feeling from last weekend. At least I’m not puddled on the concrete beneath my feet this time. I fan myself with the game program in hopes of cooling off. It’s likely no use, though. It’s my body’s reaction to the serious attraction I have for Brady. There’s just something about men in baseball uniforms—they make me heat up… everywhere. Brady starts his walk to the plate by taking slow steps. His long, powerful legs mesmerize me. When his athletic thighs stretch the fabric of his uniform pants, the blue stripes become wavy and I’m even dizzier than before. I really need to get a grip, but I can’t turn my eyes away. As I keep staring at home plate, I notice Brady’s shoulders are lower than normal and his head is down. He’s missing the usual confidence he wears like a second skin. He takes a couple practice swings before planting his feet in the batter’s box. I

grab Taylor’s hand and we hold on to each other as the pitcher does his windup. “You know what they call four strikeouts in a game, right?” Taylor says in a hushed tone. “Would this be his fourth strike out?” I think back through this game. He’s been up to bat three other times and each time he left the plate on a missed swing. I’ve never seen him play like this in even a small way. A drop of sweat trails down my back and the greasy hotdog I consumed makes my stomach do flip-flops. I scan the loaded bases and say a little prayer. This season, Brady’s been Chicago’s go-to guy and has earned the title “grand slam man.” That is, until this past week. His bat has gone cold. “They call it a golden sombrero.” Taylor gives my hand a little squeeze and I hold on tighter. “I can’t imagine him doing it again, though. He’s just having a dry spell. All the greats have them. He just needs one good hit.” “I can’t look,” I whisper, closing my eyes. The sound of a bat hitting a ball rings out and I peek through my lashes. Brady isn’t moving to take first. Instead, he stands at home plate watching the ball fly left of the foul line. Once it hits the stands, greedy fans scramble to retrieve the ball. “Dammit,” Taylor curses, along with most of the people around us. Chicago needs to score. But even more, Brady needs a home run to end the shitastic week he’s had at the plate. “Lucky! Lucky! Lucky!” people start chanting. In a few seconds, everyone in the stadium stands up and joins them, including Taylor and me. “Please, no golden sombrero,” I mutter to myself, and the ballpark angels, hoping he sends the next pitch sailing over the back center wall of Wrigley. The pitcher sends one over the plate and the umpire calls it a strike. Walking a few steps from the base, Brady hits the ground with his bat, frustration rolling off him as he walks back to the batter’s box. The umpire leans toward Brady and holds up his hand, most likely giving him a warning for his behavior. Tensions are high and so are the stakes, but the umps are paid to keep the game under control. Brady nods back to the umpire and takes the batter’s stance—bat up over the shoulder and butt out. Since he’s a right-handed hitter and our seats are close to third base, I have a delicious view of his tight ass. I bite my lip, knowing I shouldn’t be thinking about his lovely assets when he needs me cheering for him, but I just want to squeeze his buns and see if they’re as firm as they look. During my hormonal daze, another ball sails over the plate and Brady swings. This time, there isn’t a crack of the bat or cheers. Instead, there’s an eerie silence, like the air was sucked right out of the stadium. “Out!” the ump gives his audible, breaking the quiet surrounding us. Everyone sighs and slumps back into their seats. With Brady’s out ending the inning, Chicago’s players leave the loaded bases and return to the dugout—all except Brady.

Taylor tugs on my arm to get me to sit down, but I stay standing, frozen in place as I watch Brady move to the right of the plate and hit the ground with his bat, making divots so large, I can see the bare dirt. “Shit,” I say loud and clear. Taylor tries to get me to sit down again, but I pull on her arm for her to stand up with me, needing someone else to witness Brady’s breakdown. Being the good friend she is, she gives in. “What’s the matter with him?” “He’s losing his shit,” Taylor says, sighing. The home plate umpire removes his gear and runs closer to my wild man. Well, he’s not mine, but he has gone wild. The way he’s swinging his bat is too dangerous for the ump to get right up next to him, but he shouts at Brady, his face beet red. The third base umpire rushes to the plate, along with Chicago’s coach. Before they arrive, Brady hits the ground one last time and lets the bat fly out of his hands, landing against the wall not too far from the opposing team’s dugout. “He’s outta the game,” a dude says from somewhere behind me. “Do you think so?” I ask, turning to Taylor. When I see the defeated look on her face, I know the answer. “Maybe even a week or two suspension. That bat is like a deadly weapon. The commissioner isn’t going to like this.” The umpire continues to shout, but gives the you’re-out-of-the-game sign. The entire crowd explodes like a firecracker, shouts turning to boos. I want to go around and slap the booing jerks. Brady doesn’t deserve this kind of abuse. Chicago’s coach grabs Brady by the shoulders when he shifts to charge at the umpire and moves in front of him, creating a barrier. Brady throws up his hands and starts shouting right in the face of his coach, anger pouring from him in streams. While focused on Brady and his coach, I didn’t notice two of his teammates coming to stand next to him. One on each side, they grab him by the arms and drag him off the field. “Listen to them,” I scream in frustration while turning around to face the assholes shouting. “Are they booing Brady or the umpire?” “Who knows? Haters gonna hate,” Taylor says with a shrug as she sits back down. Worried sick about Brady and defeated by the entire scenario, I join her. “What’s happened to Brady? It’s like the wheels have fallen off.” I direct my comment to Taylor, but the blue-capped old man sitting in front of me spins around. He pinpoints his beady eyes at me and I sit back like I’ve been struck. “He better get those wheels back on. They’re paying him fifteen million a year to hit that damn ball.” The old man’s wife, or so I guess, taps her husband on the shoulder to get his attention. “Sal,” the wife says, “don’t take your anger out on this dear girl. She’s likely as worried as you are.” Boy, oh boy. This lady has no idea.

FIVE

CALI

“YOU SHOULD SEE the tall hottie in the waiting room,” Deidra, the office manager, says as she grabs my arm and moves me into an empty room. “He’s wearing Ray-Bans and a Sox cap like he’s a celebrity or something.” “Sunglasses inside?” She nods her head. “What’s his name?” We can’t discuss much about patients between the office staff and medical team, but names are okay. “Brad Luciano,” Deidra says, adding a sigh. I raise a brow at her, wondering why this guy is here to see us. “He looks about our age, too.” Her face glows with excitement. I take a deep breath and remind myself I’m a professional fully capable of separating a hot guy from his hotness. I can look at him as a normal everyday patient…I hope. Besides, the young men who come to our practice are usually pill shoppers looking for Viagra so they can have non-stop sex. Those players make my skin crawl. If he lands in that category, it will be a quick exit out our doors for him. We don’t play the player game here. He’ll have to score his pills on the streets where he belongs. In fairness, I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. A patient in his mid-twenties came in a few weeks after I was hired and I assisted the doctor during his visit. After the examination and test, the patient was diagnosed with testicular cancer. The guy had surgery and is going through other treatment, but will likely be okay. “Is Dr. Richards going to see him?” I used to say that name while trying not to giggle when I first joined this practice. Dr. Dick in a practice where all we see are dicks. Dicks, after dicks, after dicks. But the doctor is a woman and plays ball for the other team, so this is all the dick she ever sees. “I don’t know where the doctor is. She was on the phone. Something about the hospital and a baby.” Deidra’s forehead wrinkles in worry. “Meredith’s due date is next week.”

“I’ll go talk to her. When’s Sunglasses’ appointment?” “In fifteen. He’s still filling out the paperwork.” She tilts her head toward the door to the waiting room. “Better get back to reception. I don’t want to miss him walking up to the desk.” I shake my head as she sashays away from me. I need to find Dr. Richards and see how her wife is doing. She and Meredith have tried for years to have a child, and finally, their dream baby is almost ready to be born. I head straight for her office. When I get there, the door is partially open and she’s sitting at her desk, holding a cell phone to her ear while gathering up some papers. After a couple seconds, Dr. Richards glances up and sees me. She drops the papers and motions for me to come inside. I open the door and move to stand in front of her desk, waiting patiently for her to get off the phone. “Okay, Meredith. I’ll be right there.” “Holy shit,” Dr. Richards exclaims, “the day has arrived! Meredith is leaving her doctor’s office and heading to the hospital. Her water broke when he examined her.” “Holy shit is right. This is so exciting. How can I help you?” I couldn’t be happier for these two people and the love they share. “I need you to take my patients for the day. Is that okay?” Dr. Richards stuffs the papers she was shuffling into her work tote bag and mutters under her breath. “Sure,” I say, trying to swallow back the sudden anxious feeling in my stomach. “All of them?” “Only the ones with dicks,” she says with a nervous laugh. Good to see her crazy sense of humor is still intact. She pulls out the papers inside the tote and lays them back on the desk, knocking over a cup holding a million pens. I move to help her gather them up. I don’t think she has a clue which end is up. She’s acting like the nervous spouse who drives to the hospital and forgets to bring the soon-to-give-birth mother with them. “I’ve got you covered. No problem.” I pray. “I’ll have Deidra call the routine patients and see if they can reschedule a few. You’re great, Cali. You don’t have to worry about a thing.” “Thanks, but I’ve never handled the patients without you or Doctor Tanner here.” “Doctor Tanner won’t be back from the erectile dysfunction conference until tonight. I just need you to take the rest of the case load for the afternoon.” “Thanks for believing in me.” “Of course. I trained you after all.” “Yes, you did.” “Oh my God, I’m going to have a baby!” Joy breaks out all over her face. “Is it normal to be this freaked out?” “More than.”

I want to tell her all new experiences can make us nervous. Like me taking on the day’s patients without her, but she doesn’t need my worries added to hers. “Okay. I’m heading out like a baby.” We both laugh at her joke, though hers is laced with nerves. I follow behind her as we make our way to the front desk. Pausing before opening the door to the waiting room, she turns toward me. “You know. I’m walking out of here and don’t have a worry in the world. You’re that good.” She pulls me in close for a quick hug and I swallow the big lump in my throat. She’s always been so supportive, giving me guidance and praise as I made new strides as her assistant. But this kind of encouragement emboldens me and makes me feel like I’m ready to take on the challenge. It’s just what I needed to tackle all the dicks I have ahead of me. “Thanks, Dr. Richards. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you saying that. Now, go be with Meredith. She needs you.” I reach around her and turn the knob on the door. “Will do.” Her eyes dart around the office. “I feel like I’m forgetting something.” “Nah, you’re just excited you’re getting to meet a new someone.” “I’ll call or text you with updates.” She starts to leave, then her eyes go wide. “I forgot to tell Deidra about rescheduling.” “I’ll handle it.” I pat her on the shoulder, hoping she’ll forget about the office until the next time she steps foot inside it as a mother of a newborn. “Thanks. I know you will.” I walk down the hall to the back part of the reception office. Deidra has her own area away from the hubbub of the front desk. “Dr. Richards just left and I’m taking her patient load. She did ask that you reschedule any routine patients if possible. Maybe for next week?” “Oh my gosh. The baby is here. Or almost.” Deidra jumps and claps in her seat, looking like a five-year-old who gets to stay up past her bedtime. “Don’t plan on seeing her around here this week. Doctor Tanner and I will cover for her.” “Gotcha.” She glances around her small area and motions for me to come close. “You know sunglasses guy?” I nod in answer. “He just paid the office visit fee in cash instead of giving us any insurance. He also used a false address.” She points down to the clipboard. “False address? How do you know?” “When I saw it, I could’ve sworn it was in an industrial part of the Southside. My uncle’s business is not far from the place he listed. I checked, and sure enough, he gave us the address for a gravel pit.” “That’s messed up, and I’m not just talking about his address. You shouldn’t be searching a patient’s address.” “I was worried he might be crazy. Hot guys can have loose screws too—or is it that they are loose screws?” She laughs at her joke and I give her a half-smile,

keeping my doctor/patient hat on. “No more searching online about the patients. Okay?” “Sure. It wasn’t his name or anything. Just the address I confirmed to be fake, unless his house is a bulldozer.” “That is weird. Hand me his chart.” Deidra places the clipboard into my hands and I look over the first page, starting with his name. Brad Andrew Luciano. D.O.B. 1/15/1991. The address listed means nothing to me, since I was raised in a western suburb of Chicago. I peruse the rest of his listed information. Height: 6’ 3”. Wow, he’s tall like Deidra said. Weight: 215. And a rather large guy. The spaces where he would list his insurance are blank as is all other contact information. All the missing information makes me wonder about this guy. Something doesn’t add up “I can see why you searched the address now.” I glance up and Deidra nods her head. “Lots of missing information. Just next time, let us know if you’re concerned.” “Will do. Are you still going to see him?” “I can’t refuse him medical care. Who knows what the real deal is with him.” I’m more curious now than concerned. It’s not like a terrorist is going to start World War III at an urologist office. “Go ahead and have Jenn bring him back to room five.” Jenn’s our office nurse and checks all the vitals of the patients once they’re in a room. Heading back to Dr. Richards’ office, I leave the door completely open and lean against the desk, trying to act casual. My new angle gives me a perfect view down the hallway leading to room five. Footsteps sound out on the tile and I hold my breath until Jenn comes into view. She turns the corner down the hallway, giggling like a schoolgirl. The next person in my line of sight is a tall hunk of man dressed casually in dark denim jeans that contain a very tight and high ass. The heavy sweatshirt Mr. Luciano is wearing doesn’t fit the warm weather outside. The thick material and hood make him appear broad in the shoulders, and his arms swing at his sides like big guns. A Sox hat covers his head. I catch a glimpse of dirty blond hair peeking out under the cap and continue to watch his slow, cocky swagger, wondering what his face looks like and what problem led him here. Jenn escorts him into room five and shuts the door, but not before a few more giggles fill the air. Whoever this hottie is sure knows how to charm the ladies. I mentally put up my professional force field. It is a silly mind thing I do to ward off both the good and bad I encounter. My patients are counting on my medical expertise, not my emotions or feelings. In this case, it might be my hormones I need to tamp down. I lift the top paper on his chart and look over the next page he filled out. My eyes

narrow in on the reason he wrote down for his visit. My equipment is having issues. I scoff. I’d bet one-hundred dollars he requests blue pills from me before I can say “turn your head and cough.” I walk to the room and wait for Jenn to exit, wanting details from her introduction to Brad Luciano. Maybe she can tell me if he’s a rich player throwing money around in hopes of getting an unlikely prescription from me. Our medical office is reputable and truly here for helping people in need. His type of need is best found elsewhere. After another five minutes, Jenn leaves the room. She shuts the door and turns toward me with a startled gasp. “Oh, Cali. I had no idea you were right there.” She holds her hand to her chest, her face flushed. “I wanted to know how things went with the patient.” I point my head toward the door and hold his chart to my chest. When her eyes get a faraway look in them, I have my answer. “He’s dreamy. I promise.” She crosses her heart in a pledge. “You’re so lucky to be seeing him. Do you need any assistance?” She waggles her brows and I roll my eyes. “I’m sure I can handle him.” She gives me a sly smile and I groan, realizing what I said is laced with double entendres. “Oh really, Jenn. You know what I meant.” “I’m not sure I do,” she singsongs. “I’ll be waiting for your thoughts after you’ve seen him.” “Does he still have his sunglasses on?” I ask as she starts to walk away. “Yes, and good luck. You’ll need it.” She gives me a little wink. “What aren’t you telling me?” I give her a pointed stare and she just continues to give me a knowing smile. “My advice. Hold on to your panties. He’s a panty dropper,” she says while walking away with a sway in her hips. I brush her remarks off and straighten my white coat. After taking one deep, cleansing breath, I open the door to face Mr. Sunglasses with the tight ass. He’s removed his sunglasses, and now I know why Jenn warned me about my panties. “Whoa,” I squeak out as the door shuts behind me. A smirky grin on a face I would recognize anywhere, since I dream about this man almost every night, greets me. Brady Luck sits on the tissue-covered table, or his identical twin brother…if he has one. There isn’t a force field around that will work against the crush I have for this man and I’m the lone woman standing with no other doctors around to save me. I’m also royally screwed. I’m about to ask Brady Luck to drop trou so I can examine his cock, balls, and the ever elusive prostate. I’ve never needed to changed my panties after seeing a patient, but there’s always a first time.

SIX

CALI

“HEY, you’re that girl from the bar the other night.” Brady’s eyes meet mine and I want to tell him he has me confused with someone else. Who wants to admit they practically swooned at another person’s feet? Jeez, how I wish the other doctors were here. I’d march out of this room and push one of them inside to take over for me. This conversation may turn too personal, which is the complete opposite of professional. Just the mention of the word “bar” and I’m sunk. “I recall meeting a man named Brady,” I say, turning the conversation back around and leaving the rest for him to fill in. “About that.” Brady, AKA Brad Luciano, looks down and stares at his glorious thighs. I follow his line of sight, my crazy hormones raging as I imagine myself sitting on top of his thighs and riding him. I lean against the sink counter area in the room for support. If he has a big cock, certain parts of me may actually combust into flames. “I need to keep this appointment on the down low.” He looks back up at me again, a cocky grin on his face. My knees grow weak at the sight. I feel my head start to tilt to the side and my mouth open in swoon-mode. I quickly stand tall and try to wash away his sexual magic. As if. “No problem,” I say in a low, sexy voice I didn’t realize I had. I sound like he just asked me to remove my clothes and I agreed. “I’ve heard there’s this law called HIPAA. You can’t discuss what happens between us. Kind of like an NDA.” Of course he would understand an NDA. He undoubtedly has women signing them before he sticks his dick in them. There’s probably a pile of them and a pen sitting on his nightstand. “Let’s start this entire appointment over, Brady. Pretend everything up to now was just a warm-up.” I take a deep breath, trying to go into medical mode.

“My name is Cali Jones. I’m the physician’s assistant at this practice. I’m going to ask you a few questions about why you’re visiting today. You can answer them or not. Whatever we discuss in here will not be discussed with anyone other than the medical staff.” “But what about my name? Can we keep it to Brad?” What to do? What to say? I’ve never had this come up before. If the other doctors were here, I’d ask them for advice. I feel backed into a corner. “This type of request is new to me.” I move toward the spinning black chair by the desk and ease onto the cushion. There will be no more falling at this man’s feet, outside of the bedroom. As if that would ever happen. “I’ve never been in a situation like this before either,” Brady confesses. “But something’s up. I was just suspended by the commissioner for five games, so my coach told me to get things figured out.” “Sorry about your suspension,” I say, and I truly am, though not surprised after his outburst with the bat. He’s lucky no one was hurt when he threw it. “Thanks, but I lost control yesterday.” He takes off his Sox hat and stuffs it into the kangaroo pocket on his hoodie. “I hate wearing this thing since we’re rivals and all.” “You had a tough week.” I itch to reach out and comfort him by tapping my hand on his thigh, but I think better of it. Honestly, I’m surprised he’s confessing all this to me. Maybe it’s the medical scrubs I’m wearing that make him feel comfortable. “Did you see it?” Brady asks in a tentative way, like he’s hoping I have no clue what he’s talking about, but I do. “I was at the game.” And staring at your sweet ass. “I’m sure things will get better for you. Just have some faith.” I scoot my chair a few inches and face the computer screen on the desk. I enter my password and open the file Deidra started for Brady—I mean, Brad. “So, tell me what brought you here today.” “Things aren’t working right.” He points to his groin and does this low jazz hand like circle over the problem area. My gut reaction is to laugh at his comment, but by some miracle I don’t. Instead, I let a small smile escape, hoping he sees it as encouraging and not mocking. “Could you be more specific?” I keep my gaze locked on his face. Enough of my staring below his belt, it’s time to doctor up. “Can a dick need a break from sex? Like, it’s been overused and needs a vacation?” Brady asks, his face deadpan, and I try not to laugh out loud. No one has ever complained of an overused penis. It’s usually the opposite. Whatever brought him here today is serious to him, yet I’m not sure what the problem really is. “You’re having erection issues?” I ask. I can’t believe I’m actually talking to Brady Luck about his dick. I’d rather be discussing what it could do to me instead. “Something like that.” He looks away. I’ve never met a man while working here who’s comfortable with this conversation. And it has nothing to do with me being a

woman. It’s more about their masculinity in general. Men are their penises. “A penis normally needs a recovery period between acts of sex. What do you mean by overuse, though?” “Well, I’ve gotten around and maybe it’s been too much.” “How many partners are you talking about?” I ask, needing to rule out a sexually transmitted disease. “I’ve probably had sex over two-hundred times in the last two years.” My eyes go wide in surprise. “With different people?” I say in a weak voice. “I’m not one for repeats.” His response lacks any hesitation or shame. What a manwhore. The number shocks and disgusts me, sort of. I remember the feeling of being in his orbit at The Wit. He has a powerful pull and I might’ve been part of those twohundred women, if he’d given me a chance. Still, I’m disappointed there are so many. “That’s a hefty amount. Do you use condoms?” “Religiously.” Funny, that might be the perfect word to use since women seem to worship his cock. “Well, you need a blood test to rule out any STDs. And I need to give you a physical exam.” His lip curls on one side in a cocky grin and I feel the smile between my legs. Damn him. I clear my throat and refocus. “I’ll give you a couple minutes to change.” “Whatever you want, Doc.” He gives me a little wink and my face heats up. I should tell him I’m not really a doctor, but I need to get the hell out of here and regroup before I see him undressed. Reaching inside the cabinet, I pull out a gown. “Remove your clothes and put this on.” I hand the gown to him while avoiding looking him in the eyes. Who would’ve thought I’d be asking Brady Luck to get naked, even if it is strictly in a professional way. “I’m good at that,” Brady quips. “No kidding,” I say under my breath as I leave the room. “That’s likely what got you into this mess.” As soon as I have the door closed, I race to the bathroom a few doors down and splash some cold water on my face. While dabbing it off with a paper towel, I resist the itch I have to call Taylor. I can’t experience this entire episode and not tell her, but I can’t say a word. Fucking HIPAA. Pulling my tinted gloss out of my scrub pant’s pocket, I run it over my lips and straighten my hair. I stare at myself in the mirror and begin to laugh. What the hell am I doing? It’s like I’m in a bar restroom primping myself for the hot guy waiting outside the door. I mentally slap myself and stuff the lip-gloss back in my pocket. He’s a manwhore with ED. What’s sexy about that? If I’m honest, everything, when the subject is Brady Luck.

I exit the bathroom, resigned to take this head on. I have to laugh, because I’ll be examining the head of his dick in a minute. “Cali,” Jenn calls to me from down the hall in a shout-whisper. I stop and turn toward her before knocking on the door to room five. She motions with her hands for me to come toward her and I walk to meet her a few feet way. “It’s him. Can you believe it?” I give her no hint that I know what she’s talking about. Keep it professional, I say to myself. “Our patient is Brad Luciano. Understand?” I squint an eye at her, giving her no room to argue. “I do,” she says in defeat. “I fucking hate the HIPAA.” I put my hand on her shoulder and nod my head. No words need to be spoken. Walking back down the hall, I stand in front of the door that will lead me to an unclothed and gowned Brady Luck. I take a few deep breaths and glance down the hallway to see Jenn giving me the thumbs up sign. I chuckle at her audacity and knock on the door. “Ready in there?” “Yep,” Brady replies. Opening the door, I walk in and stop in my tracks. Brady has the gown on backwards. The ties and opening are facing the front, exposing the majority of his legs. I bite my lip and scan—or more like lust over his strong, defined thighs and calves. He gives me a loopy smile. I smile back without thinking and wonder if he did this gown thing on purpose. One can never underestimate a manwhore. “Your gown.” I stay close to the door, pointing in Brady’s general direction, “it’s not on correctly.” “It is?” he says with way too much shock. The jerk knows he did it wrong. “All my equipment is upfront. I figured you would want better access.” “Access is one thing you know a lot about,” I say in a huff. “What was that?” “Never mind,” I mutter, reaching for the latex gloves in the dispenser by the sink. I push my fingers through the openings and give the edge a nice snap for effect. “Any latex allergies? Oh, wait—you’ve used over two-hundred condoms in the past two years. I’d say you’re okay with latex. Please, step down onto the floor.” He stands tall and I smile to myself as I take a seat on the black stool in front of him. I enjoy bossing him around. “Now, stand with your feet apart.” When he parts his legs, the Brady promised land greets me. My mouth drops open wide in awe of his cock. The man is hung. Like a good eight inches long limp. I might stare at the thing for a few seconds longer than is professional, but I can’t help it. His cock is stunning on every level. “That’s pretty much the reaction I get from all the girls.” I take my eyes off his

beautiful cock and look up at him. His grin tells me one thing: he’s a cocky bastard —literally. I squint my eyes at him, determined to press forward with the examination and carry on despite his smugness. “Well, I’m not a girl. I mean, I am a girl, but not that kind.” Reaching through the front of the gown, I take his balls in my hands and let my fingers travel the surface, checking for anything irregular. My head is turned to the side with my eyes closed, because I want to rely on touch only. I examine him in a medical way and feel nothing out of the ordinary. Turning my head back toward him, his penis hits me in the forehead—a perfectly hard penis that is likely nine inches long. It resembles something from a porno. My mouth drops open, which seems inappropriate, considering his cock can almost touch my lips. But his erection stuns me, and I have no idea what to do. He came to me because he couldn’t get in this situation and he is clearly hard as a rock. “Holy shit. Look,” Brady says, grabbing his cock. “You’ve healed whatever I had going on. Maybe my dick just needed a vacation after all.” I push back on the stool, scooting away from Brady. He’s pumping the hell out of his cock. If he blows, I’m going to be covered in semen. I don’t know what to do at this point. I’m tempted to just leave the room and ask him to get dressed as I shut the door. “I didn’t do anything. Promise.” I look up at him and his eyes are hooded and dark. “You don’t know how good this feels.” Brady smiles, rolling his head from side to side with his eyes closed, savoring each pump of his hand. I stand up and move toward the door. “Listen, I’m going to let you have some time to yourself. I’ll be outside, waiting.” He nods his head as his hand moves faster. I want to stay and watch, but it would be majorly unethical, so I dart out the door. Holy shit. I lean against the hallway wall. I massaged Brady’s balls and now he’s jacking off in the office. How the hell am I supposed to write this interaction in his file? Patient became erect and decided to masturbate. Hell, I didn’t even get to examine his penis or prostate. There could still be something medically wrong with him. One erection doesn’t mean everything is fine. “Ahhhhhhh.” A wail comes through the door of room five. I can’t believe I let a patient openly come in the office. It’s okay for a test sample but this incident was purely for pleasure. I pace outside the door and glance at my watch. I’ve spent too much time with Brady and now my appointments will be backed up all afternoon. “Mister, ah…Luciano?” I call through the door. “Yes. Come in,” he responds. Opening the door, I walk in and swallow hard, facing his perfect ass in tight,

black boxer briefs. I have to plaster my arms at my sides to keep from reaching out and touching that sweet tush. “I’m so relieved,” Brady says, pushing his long legs through his jeans. He turns to face me as he grabs his sweatshirt off the table. “I bet you are.” My response sounds bitter, but for Pete’s sake, he just orgasmed after I touched him. This is all kinds of wrong. He pulls his head through the opening of the sweatshirt and tilts it. “I’m sorry about that, but I’ve been trying for days to get off.” He pulls the Sox cap out of his pocket along with his Ray-Bans and puts them on. These actions signal the conclusion of our time together. “I’m still concerned you might have other issues that haven’t been addressed.” He moves toward me and I step backward, but he keeps coming in closer. My backside hits the surface of the cabinet, boxing me in. “I have no idea what you did, but I’m fine now.” He bends down and gives me a little peck on the forehead, more like a kiss you would give a cousin. Dammit. “Brady Luck is back. Thanks, darlin’.” He taps me on the nose like he did at The Wit and turns to leave the room. Nothing comes out of my mouth as I watch this God of a man with the perfect penis leave. When the door clicks, I fall onto the small stool and move to the computer screen. How do I describe what happened with Brady in medical terms? If I write the exacts, that I let a patient jerk off in the exam room, my job is on the line, but I doubt Brady will tell a soul about today. Deciding to play it safe, I list his main complaint as erectile dysfunction, then add that the patient experienced an erection during examination and left before the examination was completed, leaving out the fact that he completed himself. “Cali,” Jenn opens the door and comes in, “there are three rooms with patients waiting for you.” “I’m sorry, but Mr. Luciano was a handful.” “I bet he was.” Jenn winks at me and I laugh while entering applicable medical codes into Brady’s chart. “You have no idea,” I say as I follow her to room three. “What’s up next?” “Sixty-five year old man. It appears his equipment isn’t working either,” Jenn says with a tease. I shake my head. “I’m going to need all the wine tonight.” I grab a hold of the doorknob and take a cleansing breath before entering. Here goes equipment failure number two.

SEVEN

CALI

TWO DAYS HAVE PASSED since Brady walked into the office and I still can’t shake off the experience. The sight of his long fingers gliding over his perfect cock, the way his face looked when he closed his eyes in ecstasy—those images are branded in my brain permanently. I close my eyes and Brady appears in living color, but the memories have come in handy at night when I’m alone in my bed. Sitting at Dr. Richards’ desk in front of the computer screen, entering the details of my last patient’s medical situation, I’m struggling to focus. I need to bleach Brady out of my mind. With Dr. Richards gone, I’m up to my elbows in dicks, balls, and prostates. Dr. Richards and Meredith are the proud parents of a newborn girl named Charlotte, and I can’t wait to see her. Dr. Richards promised to bring her by on Friday afternoon, right after we close the office. Which reminds me, I need to go shopping later this afternoon for a baby gift. “Cali…” Jenn peeks through the open crack of the office door. “Hey. What’s up?” I peer at her over the screen. “You have a call on hold. It’s a Brad Luciano.” She waggles her brows. “What?” I ask in total shock. I didn’t think he’d have the nerve to contact me after the “incident.” “He’s asking for you by name.” Jenn gives me a knowing look and moves inside the office. “His exact words were, and I quote, ‘I need to talk to Cali, the hot doctor with the pretty blue eyes.’” “Holy shit,” I exclaim in a long breath. The man has put me in the most unprofessional and awkward positions since he walked into this office. He’s exasperating and hot as hell—and the hot part is too hard for me to ignore. “Line one, sweetie.” Jenn gives me her standard thumbs up and a quick nod, then closes the office door behind her as she leaves. I straighten in my chair and try not to picture a cell phone lying against Brady’s

scruffy, chiseled jawline, but my thoughts go there anyway. Damn him and his crazy sexiness. I take a deep breath, clear my throat, and remind myself to act professional, even though I feel like a sixteen-year-old girl who hopes the guy on the other end is asking her out. Taylor’s right, I need to get laid like yesterday. “Hello, this is PA Cali Jones.” My tone is steady and calm, like I have no idea who’s on the other line, but my heart flutters in my chest, not to mention my hands are sweating. “Doctor, I need to see you again.” “First off, Brady,” I say, refusing to play games and use his fake name—there’s no need, “I’m not a doctor. I’m a PA. And second, you need to make an appointment. I would suggest you make it with Dr. Tanner. Let me transfer you to the front desk.” “Wait, Cali. I don’t want to see anyone else and I don’t care about the PA, doctor thing. I need you.” He needs me? “What do you mean?” I tap my fingers on the desk blotter as I wait for his answer. He sounds so sincere and helpless. Like I’m his last hope. “I tried to fuck two other women and nothing happened. Nothing. But hearing your voice right now, I’m hard as a rock.” Who in the hell does he think he is—or, more like, who does he think I am? His good luck sex charm? And the guy has some nerve talking about who he’s trying to fuck. “You’re repulsive, Brady,” I say with complete and total contempt. Like he’s the most despicable creature in the universe, though I know he’s not. He’s hot as hell and I might find humor in the fact that I’m the one who gets his “equipment” working. But I’m his health care provider, not some chick he met at a bar…even though we did meet at a bar. Shit, this is so messed up. “Please, Cali? I can’t think straight. Not to mention everyone is counting on me.” I sit taller in the chair, determined not to cave into his demands, no matter how desperate he sounds. “What do you want to do? Call me on the phone when you’re in bed with your next hookup?” Boom. Score one for Cali. “Would you mind?” Oh my God. I glance up at the ceiling, not believing what he said to me. What a pig. “You’re a spoiled, prima donna who only thinks of himself.” “What’s a prima donna?” “An asshole. Goodbye, Brady.” I slam the receiver down on its cradle and pump my fist in the air. I can’t believe his audacity. It’s downright humiliating, to be honest. I mean so little to him, he would consider using me in such a base way. Are all baseball players so egotistical and self-centered? Mitchell cheated on me and broke my heart. Brady wants to use me so he can get hard. Do they even consider me as a real, caring person? Or do they just care about themselves and their game?

Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to have anything more to do with Brady or baseball—ever again. I think I need to switch to hockey. The Blackhawks have been on a winning streak, too. I pick up the phone and ring the front desk. “Alice, if Brad Luciano calls to make an appointment, could you please tell him we don’t have any appointments on the days he’d like to come in.” “We’re refusing him?” Alice asks. “Just not giving him an appointment for now.” “He was that hot guy, right? Why can’t he come back?” She sounds like I took away her puppy. Oh brother, does she care to know what deplorable behavior lies under all that hotness? Probably not. That’s how he’s scored two-hundred times in two years. Girls just want his dick and don’t care if he is one. I am ashamed for womankind.

EIGHT

CALI

I LEAVE the office at five-thirty and head to my favorite coffee shop for a chai tea. Nothing too strong to keep me up all night, but I need a pick me up after today. The Brady incident left me rattled and the patient charts took me an extra hour to complete. Dr. Richards’ absence has upped my workload, but it’s only temporary, so I’ll deal. Brady Luck, on the other hand…I hope I don’t have to deal with his crazy anymore. I place my order and pull out my wallet to pay the kind person giving me caffeine, when someone from behind me says, “I’ll pay for this.” A male someone with a voice I recognize. Brady. Angry, I spin around to face him, finding his trademark cocky grin plastered across his gorgeous face. I sigh, forgetting how pissed I am for a few seconds as I stare up at him in a daze. Then he moves his lips—the ones I’m focused on. “Keep the change,” he says. I swear, if a voice could wink, his would. Swagger is his middle name, dammit. “What are you doing here?” I ask in a weak voice that matches the state of my knees. “Just in the neighborhood.” There’s a teasing gleam in his eye, convincing me his appearance here is on purpose. “Right,” I huff. “Do I have the word ‘fool’ written across my forehead?” I move over to the “pick up order” area. “Nope, but sexy is written all over every inch of you.” He’s incorrigible. I don’t know whether to slap or hump him. Considering it’s a public place, I should do neither. “Nice line,” I spit out, though, deep down, I truly hope he does think I’m sexy. I must have a loose screw, because I shouldn’t care what he thinks about me. What is it about this cocky guy? It’s like he’s clit crack and I have no control over myself. I glance around the busy coffee shop and see everyone staring at us…or him,

more likely. He’s the all-star manwhore. I’m the five foot nothing nobody. A few people take photos with their phones and I bring my long hair closer to my face for a curtain. I sure as hell don’t want to be seen with him. He’s my patient— or Brad is—but it’s still the same thing. He’s off limits. “Chai tea,” the worker calls out. Saved. I grab it in a flurry. Without a glance in his direction, I force myself to leave his sexual pull. It’s powerful and hard, but I turn on my heels and head to the door. “Hey, wait up,” Brady calls after me. I push the door open to exit the coffee shop and see camera flashes firing around me. Great, just great. Once outside, a warm summer wind greets me and my hair goes flying in all directions. I probably look like Medusa. “Please, Cali,” Brady pleads. “Leave me alone, Brady,” I tell him over my shoulder as I continue down the sidewalk. I have a baby gift to buy at Nordstrom and I’ll be damned if I have time to talk about his beautiful cock and its issues. Is there such thing as a hate crush? I think I have one with Brady. I kind of hate him, but I might be talked into going out with him, if he paid. But I don’t want to be number two-hundred and one…do the failed attempts from this week count? Isn’t it ironic, as the song states. A week ago, I would’ve given anything to talk to him. Maybe even slept with him the night we met at The Wit. Now, the curtain has parted and I see the true Brady—an arrogant mess of a man. The thought makes me want to give him a comforting hug with my thighs. I close my eyes in hopes of regrouping to a less hormonal state, if possible. “Where are you headed?” “Did you even hear what I said?” He’s likely never had a woman tell him to bug off Bridget Jones style. I hide a smile knowing he’s chasing me, or at least trailing my tail like I can bring his dick back to life. Men and their cocks. Their world revolves around them. I stop in my tracks, because it hits me, sadly and squarely like a ten-ton truck. I turn around to face Brady. My face scrunched up in anger and eyes blazing. It must scare him because he jumps back when he sees my scowl. “The only reason you’re talking to me is because you think I can solve your erectile dysfunction issue,” I shout, poking him in the chest with my index finger— or is it a wall of steel? It sure as hell feels like it. When laughter breaks out next to me, I glance to my right. Two women have their phones out and are snapping away. If I’m identified while talking to Brady about ED, I might be in trouble with my job, even if Brady’s known as Brad. “Okay, you might be right,” Brady confesses, and I nod back at him in victory. The player admits to being as shallow as a baby pool. Score another one for Cali. Then he brushes my possessed wind-blown hair out of my eyes. His touch is so gentle and sweet, alarms go off inside my head and panties. I need to get away from him pronto. All I want to do is grab his linen shirt, pull him down to my lips, and

molest his mouth—and that can’t happen. “I have nothing more to say to you.” I face the direction of Nordstrom and set foot toward it like my life depends on it. I know for sure the state of my panties and dignity do. “I like you, Cali Jones,” Brady says from right behind me. He’s stuck to me like a fleck of glitter. I glance over my shoulder, and boy is it a stupid mistake. I catch him staring at my ass with a big, I-want-a-piece-of-that smile. As if. I put a little more sway in my shake as I walk-run down the sidewalk. I shouldn’t egg him on, but I can’t help the shameless flirting. It’s not every day a dreamy guy like Brady stares at my assets. Seeing the tall glass front of Nordstrom a few feet ahead of me, I pray he doesn’t follow me inside the department store. I find him walking behind me, instead of moving to my side, which is unsettling too. It’s not like my stride is longer than his. I’ve seen his legs and those long, sturdy thighs. He has to be lagging behind me on purpose. I grab a hold of the front door handle and Brady’s large hand overtakes mine. “My mother would shoot me if I didn’t open the door for you.” “What would she say about the doors you’ve shut on your two-hundred hookups?” The Luck brothers are known in Chicago for treating their mother like she’s a queen, so maybe this will make him think beyond himself. But I’m not going to bet on it. True to his self-centered track record, Brady throws his head back and laughs while we’re standing together in front of the open door. I stare at his Adam’s apple, which looks lickable from this view. Well, fuck him and all his fuckableness. He never answers my “gotcha” comments or questions, typical for a narcissist. Plus, I’ve never mentally used the word fuck so many times. He’s dangerous to my virtue and career in so many ways. “You’re one sassy chick. I dig that.” “You’re probably not used to anyone calling you out, except the umps.” Brady’s entire disposition darkens and I wish I could take it back. He may be a total ass, but I am not one to hit a person when they’re down, and his game is in the cellar. “Sorry, Brady.” I apologize with a heavy sigh. It’s like I can feel my third grade teacher, Sister Mary, giving me the evil eye if I don’t. “You just frustrate me to no end.” “I get frustration. Believe me, it’s been my best friend lately.” “I know, but it’s just a phase.” I reach out and rub his arms to let him know I care. They feel just like his chest—solid steel. With a herculean effort, I pull my hands back to my side. “I hope so.” He sounds so defeated, and it breaks my Chicago baseball loving heart. “Hey, look who it is!” someone says. I scan around us and notice a crowd has

gathered, taking shot after shot on their phones. Brady doesn’t seem fazed in the least. In fact, he’s got his dazzling smile on full blast. Me? I’m freaking out. “Brady, will you sign these?” a blonde woman about my age asks, stepping between Brady and me, her cleavage on full display. Batting her obviously fake eyelashes, she points to her boobs. She’d probably let him do more if he asked. Oh my God, she’s likely going to be his next conquest tonight. No wonder he’s fucked his way through Chicago. Big Boobs hands him a Sharpie and pulls the top of her shirt wider, displaying the top of her breasts almost to her nipples. I roll my eyes at her lack of shame out in public. Lost in the sea of fans, I blend into the crowd and turn to walk away, using this as my chance to make an escape. I’ve had my fill of Boobs and her Sharpie. Finally, I walk through the entrance door and fist pump the air, thinking I’m home free. “Cali, wait,” Brady calls out before the door closes. Spinning around, I find him looking at me over the head of the blonde seductress and give him a dazed stare. It’s shocking that he took his eyes off her boobs long enough to even notice I left him on the sidewalk. I hesitate for a moment. Should I turn and go—leave him to the blonde and her happy-to-screw-him eyes? I take a deep sigh type of breath and shake my head. “Yes?” I ask in an annoyed tone. Everyone turns their heads toward me, and the blonde gives me dagger eyes. I smile mockingly back at her, raising one shoulder and a brow. She returns my smile with a murderous glare. Whatever. “I’ll meet you inside after I sign. Okay?” The blonde smiles in victory, pressing her boobs closer to Brady. My stomach roils at the thought of him touching her. “Don’t bother,” I fume, letting the entrance door fully close behind me. Once inside the store, the fan noise disappears. I should feel happy to be away from him and his heartbreaking hotness—elated, in fact—but I’m not. Devastatingly hot guys who swing bats are my innate weakness. I stop at the shoe department first, since shoes are my other weakness. I buy a pair of red sandals with a stiletto heel that are on sale for seventy percent off, which are perfect for the new summer dress I bought at a thrift store last week. Taylor wants to go to the Drum Bar tomorrow night and these shoes make my outfit complete. “Where’s the baby department?” I ask the associate who helped me with my shoe purchase. “Upstairs next to lingerie,” she says. “Thanks.” In full Nordstrom style, she comes around the counter and directly hands me the bag with my shoes in it. I scan the main level before riding the escalator to the second floor. Brady Luck is nowhere to be seen, and he’s hard to miss at six-foot-three. Surely he’s finished up with the fans out front and left by now. I exhale and progress toward the pink and blue department. All the newborn clothes resemble something that would fit a baby doll. I find an

adorable pink dress with a lacy overlay and white bows sewn on the front around the empire waist. Charlotte will look like a pink princess. I can’t wait to meet her tomorrow. “I love this dress. It just came in yesterday,” says the associate as she rings up my total. “That, that—” she stutters before going silent. I quit digging in my purse for my wallet and glance up at her. Her mouth gapes open, her eyes wide in shock, and I close mine. The saleslady’s face and the feel of heat behind me add up to one thing: Brady Luck. It’s like my body knows when he’s in my atmosphere. “Found you,” Brady whispers, and I keep my eyes closed to savor his closeness. When his lips graze my ear lobe, chills run the length of my body and my nipples harden into cutting glass mode. I turn toward him with my hand on my hip. There is a red lipstick mark on his cheek. I think back to Boobs with the Sharpie, certain the color matches her red lips. “I’m surprised you’re here instead of with Boobs,” I quip in disgust. “She left her mark on your cheek.” “Boobs?” He knits his brow in confusion, but there’s no way to explain my comment without sounding like a jealous girlfriend. Maybe I am a little more jealous than I care to admit. I mean, if I were wearing a mood ring, it might be emerald green. “The blond sharpie girl.” Brady laughs at my description. “Oh, her.” I nod and purse my lips. “Yes, Twin Peaks.” “You’re funny, you know that?” Brady says with a smirk. I shake my head and squint my eyes at him. Honestly, I’m pissed about caring for him more than I should. I also want to take a tissue to his cheek and wipe her foul imprint off him. “Miss,” the associate says, “sorry to interrupt.” I turn toward her and she’s looking straight at Brady. I might as well be invisible. “No problem,” I respond. She glances at me, then returns her gaze to the big hunk of delicious man meat behind me. She appears to be starving…and my mother’s age. Forget charisma, Brady’s like a magnet pulling women to him and panties down. “How do you want to pay?” I blink a couple times and remember why I’m standing here. “Oh, the dress,” I exclaim. “I’ll take care of this.” Brady reaches over my shoulder and hands the smitten lady a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. Like hell he’ll buy this gift for Charlotte. “Thanks, but I’ve got this,” I huff, trying to push his hand away from the counter, but he’s stronger than me by about one-hundred pounds, so I lose this battle. “Done,” Brady states. The sale lady giggles at him and takes his money. As if

she’s going to tell Brady no. Score one for Brady. In utter defeat, I lay my head down on my arm as it rests on the counter. How the hell am I supposed to deal with him buying this gift? I don’t want to owe him a thing. He may expect payment in other forms and that thought worries me. “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend, Brady.” I pop my head up and stare at the woman. Girlfriend? “I’m not his girlfriend. Promise.” I cross my fingers over my heart about ten times for good measure. “Sure could’ve fooled me.” She gives me a knowing smile as she wraps the dress and settles it inside a small gift box. “What makes you think we’re together?” I ask, needing details so I can avoid looking like we’re a thing. He’s my patient and I don’t want to get in trouble with the licensing board. I just got the official you’re-a-PA certificate two months ago and one Brady Luck will not screw that up for me. I grab my stomach. It’s been either queasy or fluttering since Brady came to our practice. Right now it’s kind of a queasy flutter. “You fight like you’ve been together a long time.” She nods her head at us and Brady moves next to me, placing his hand on the small of my back. And damn, I like it. He’s also been as quiet as a mouse since the woman labeled me as his girlfriend. I look up and search his face to find him smiling, like her words are totally fine with him. Hmmm… “Please just give me the present,” I beg. The lady looks at me with startled eyes and hands me the gift. No walking around the counter for this exchange. “Thanks,” I mutter under my breath. “Gotta run.” I move away from Brady’s touch and head to the right, but he’s quicker than me and stands in front of my path. “What’s up? Not even a thank you?” he asks with a crestfallen sadness. “Thank you?” I tilt my head to the side, because I have no clue what he’s talking about. “The gift,” he replies. I knew it. He’s pressing this because there are strings attached and they are likely correlated with the area between my legs. But how rude was it of me not to even say thanks? Very rude. Especially since I’m an over-thanker at heart. Thank you, Sister Mary. “Okay, thanks, but I am not happy you paid for the gift. I should’ve protested more, but I didn’t want to cause a scene. I hardly know you.” “You get me hard, baby,” he says, and it sounds like a purr of some sort. “Oh my God,” I huff, trying to walk around him. “I knew you two were together,” the sales lady pipes in, and I throw my head back in complete frustration. “We aren’t,” I say in a non-inside voice while the lady nods with a knowing smile. I give up and turn to Brady. “I’m surprised you didn’t melt when you stepped into the baby department.” He

chuckles at my remark and grins. “I love babies,” he says. I raise my brows in shock as I imagine little blue-eyed Brady babies with blond hair. The thought makes my ovaries explode. “Well, God knows you’re a pro at what it takes to make them,” I deadpan, intending to punch him below the belt where his perfect baby maker sits. “I am.” He slowly nods his head in agreement and wiggles his brows. “You have no shame.” “No, it’s never been a problem for me.” “And here I thought your mother raised you Catholic.” “You seem to know a lot about me.” His smile shines even brighter and I cringe. Kill me. “Lucky guess,” I deflect. “Why don’t you go out with me tonight?” Brady walks closer to me, invading my personal space, but I stand my ground…barely. He’s so close, I can inhale a whiff of his cologne. I take a short breath to take in more of it. Maybe I have no shame either. But I do, along with self-respect, even if my traitorous body wants to jump his big bone. “You mean sleep with you?” I whisper, not wanting to bring the saleslady into this conversation and give her more fuel for our not-in-love fire. “I’d be okay with that,” he says with that adorable lopsided grin. He’s cocky through and through. “I’m going to have to decline.” I pull away from him and turn to head toward the escalator to make my escape, but it takes effort. The force is strong with this one. “What? You’re turning me down?” “Down and out of here. Bye, Brady.” I raise my hand and wave toward the back of me where I hope he’s standing. He can’t follow me, or shouldn’t, but will I be disappointed if he throws in the towel? I make it to the opening of the escalator and take a step onto the first moving piece. As I begin to descend, I lose my fight to turn around to see if Brady’s there after all. I gasp at what I see by the counter where I bought the baby gift. Brady is standing where I left him with his hands in his pockets and his head down, but the saleslady is now in front of him with a finger pointed in his face. The scene reminds me of a mother giving her errant child a scolding. I wonder how much she overheard, likely enough to take his sweet ass to the woodshed. I smile as I exit Nordstrom’s a Brady-free woman. I saved my heart from likely getting broken by another stuck up, sex-crazed baseball player. Now, if only I could convince my body sex with Brady is a bad idea.

NINE

BRADY

“WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TODAY?” I say out loud to break the silence in my empty highrise penthouse. I look out the wall of glass windows and see nothing but the late evening sky as the sun sets in the West. I’m so high above Chicago, it’s like I’m sitting alone in the clouds, and I fucking hate it. My only friend tonight is my favorite bottle of Kentucky bourbon sitting on the coffee table in front of me. At least it doesn’t talk back to me. I pour another three fingers of the good stuff into my empty glass, lift it to my lips, and throw it back, hoping it helps me forget the fact that Cali Jones totally dissed me today. And I needed her. Dammit. I don’t get it. A woman not wanting a piece of me? That shit never happens. I usually have to shake the chicks off. I run my fingers through my hair for the millionth time since the Nordstrom’s army sergeant berated me. She got off on calling me a jerk for only wanting sex with Cali. Whatever. I’m young and looking for some fun and dick assistance. And every time I see or speak with Cali, I’m as hard as stone. I’d be losing my shit right about now if that weren’t the case. I refill my glass and check the time on my phone. Coach wanted me to call him at nine. It’s a couple till, so I pull up his number and hit call. He answers on the first ring. “Luck, how’s your evening been?” he asks. “Not so good,” I confess. I spoke to him before I saw Cali at the coffee place when I was in a better mood, hopeful she’d give me a fun night, but she shot that idea to hell. “What’s up? Did practice go shitty?” He has me on a tight schedule of morning and afternoon sessions with a hitting coach. The guy works as a shrink too, asking

me what I’m thinking about when I hit. The thing is, I never think, I just do it. “My spark is gone,” I sigh. “Well, you need to find it. Chase it down the street and carry it home if you have to. Snap out of it, Brady.” “Believe me, it’s not that simple.” “Something else is going on. You’ve turned into a powder keg. No one turns on a dime like this without a reason.” “How’d you get so smart?” I take a deep breath, preparing to confess. What the hell? He’s the closest thing to a father I have in this world. Plus, my brother would only rib me from now until my grave if I turn to him for help. “Years of dealing with knuckleheads like you,” Coach laughs into the phone. “Here’s the deal. My mojo isn’t just off in the batter’s box, it’s also messed up in the sack.” “Are you talking sex?” Coach sounds confused, and God knows I am too. “You’re a damn chick magnet.” “I’ve had some issues,” I mumble, the words painful to say. “Like with your dick?” he asks, his tone turning serious. “I think a hookup cursed me. Nothing’s been the same since I slept with her.” How do I explain this without going into details? “Wait a second. Those photos with you and that voodoo chick were right before your hitting went to hell in a hand basket.” “Yeah, I pissed her off. She spouted some weird stuff at me the morning after. Told me I was now cursed and it would take a special woman to break it. Then she hightailed it out of my apartment and I now have issues.” “I don’t know about that black magic stuff, but we’ve got to get you back to hitting again. If a guy’s dick isn’t happy, everything else falls apart. Our jobs depend on you swinging the damn bat.” “There is this one girl.” Even thinking about her now gives me a semi, but it’s not enough to jack off. “Things work when I’m around her.” “Well, what’s the problem then?” Coach asks, and I wish I had an answer to his question. “Fuck if I know. She’s avoiding me.” At every turn. “From the sound of it, she’s got you hoodwinked.” The concern in his voice relaxes me. I’m glad he’s not blowing my feelings off. “Are you thinking she’ll solve your problems?” “I can’t get her off my mind, and wonder if she’s the woman who can reverse the curse. Not to mention, I’m moving on two weeks without sex. Coach, I can’t remember when I’ve gone two days without it.” I feel like I’m confessing my problems to a priest. But instead of telling me to abstain and go say a few Hail Mary’s for my penance, I’m hoping he’ll help me get Cali in my bed. My mother would slap me across the face for even thinking this way. “Email me everything you know about this woman and I’ll get to work on a plan.

I have an idea already.” I sigh in relief. I feel like my life is unraveling. “Okay, but I only have a short list of things I know about her. She’s a PA and pretty.” I decide not to say she gets my dick hard. It’s been implied already. “I’m more a stranger than a friend, really.” “Your problem isn’t in your pants, it’s between your ears, and you’re convinced she’s the one to get you hitting at home plate and in the bed.” Coach’s comments make me think. Is it all in my head? I’ve never had any mental issues with my game or dick, so I’m not sure why they’d start out of the blue. Add the pin-to-the-groin incident at my house and I’m wondering if the curse thing is true. Either way, I’m fucked. Coach continues. “Leave it to me to get this straightened out by the time you’re off suspension. I’ll call you with more details. Better get your guest room ready and buy some girlie shit for the bathroom.” “I am not for chicks staying over. That’s what got me into this mess.” Coach wants Cali to move in with me, but after today, I don’t see how that will ever happen. She didn’t want to breathe the same air as me. “If you want to get past this slump, then trust me,” Coach says, and I do for some strange reason. “I’ll get my personal lawyers on this. No team business. Are you willing to cough up some money?” “How much?” I ask him, even though my bank accounts are overflowing with my salary, bonus, and endorsements. Still, one major injury, or a slump like I’m in now, and my career is over. “I’m hoping the low seven figures.” “Holy shit,” I whistle in shock. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?” “Trust me, Brady.” We end the call and I feel encouraged for the first time in days. I have no idea what his plan is, but I’ll sign up for just about anything to get my homerun streak back. I close my eyes and lean back on the leather couch, wishing I’d chosen anyone but that voodoo chick to bring home that night. Then, it hits me. I met Cali that night, too. There was something about her. She stood out in the crowd with her innocent blue eyes and hopeful expression that said “date me” versus “fuck me.” I should’ve listened to my instincts and chosen her. Hell, she fell at my feet once. Maybe with Coach’s help, she will again.

TEN

CALI

“YOU SHOULD BE WEARING sunglasses as a disguise,” Taylor states as I sit down at the bar, and I shoot her a look of surprise. There’s no way she knows Brady showed up in his incognito getup the day of his appointment. I’ve told no one about his appointment. “I mean, you’re almost a celebrity now. At least your backside is.” “Too funny,” I huff. “Since no one posted photos of my face, I’m the unnamed, unknown girl with Chicago’s baseball prince. I still can’t believe you figured out it was me.” I keep checking the Chicago papers and sports gossip columns, and so far I’ve dodged a bullet…or a baseball. I’m still holding my breath, though. One post on social media of my face and I’m out in the open as “the girl” having the heated conversation with Brady. “You were wearing the dress I let you borrow. The one I’ve been meaning to get back.” “I’ll get it dry cleaned for you. I wish I hadn’t changed out of my scrubs, but I hate going to nice stores looking like I just left the exam room.” “I still would’ve figured out it was you anyway. No one wears maroon scrubs like you do. So, what is it? Two run-ins in two weeks with Brady? There’s something you’re not telling me.” Taylor gives me a pointed stare, searching my face for a reaction. “Especially with this last one.” I want to tell her every last detail, but I can’t. It all begins with the fact that he’s my patient and ends with the HIPAA law. It protects the patient’s information, even if he’s been the one chasing me. “Think Fight Club.” I throw her a little hint, but that’s it. If she pushes me, there’s nothing more I can say. “Brady is Brad, I’m guessing,” Taylor says with a knowing smile and my eyes go wide. She’s closer than she realizes with the whole Brady being Brad Luciano thing. “I can neither confirm nor deny.”

“Right, what happens in Fight Club stays there or doesn’t exist. It’s worse than Vegas. As your best friend though, I wonder.” She eyes me over her Cosmo, waiting for a reply, but this Brady talk needs to end. Shrugging, I break her gaze by looking toward the bar area—and I’ll be damned, literally. Brady is there standing in all his gorgeous glory with a hot blonde practically humping his leg. His hair is perfectly gelled with a sexy, just fucked look. A touch of stubble across his angular jaw makes him look more masculine than usual, and delicious. He’s wearing a fitted navy jacket that looks like it was tailored just for him, and likely was since he’s rich as sin. Under the jacket, his yellow buttoned-down shirt pops against the navy, making his blue eyes look even bluer. He resembles a model in a glossy clothing ad or billboard. No wonder he gets so many sportswear endorsements. Women want him, and guys want to be him. The blonde moves her hand to rest on his chest like she’s staking her claim and I can’t deny the jealousy that’s making my blood boil, or the fact that I’m attracted to him. However, I’d prefer a non-player version of him who won’t break my heart. Because this Brady, the one who has slept with some two-hundred women since he landed in Chicago, would tatter it to pieces. I glance at Brady to see his reaction to her forward advance, expecting him to be all over her too. Instead, his eyes are like laser beams on me. Maybe it’s my imagination, but my face feels warmer from his stare. I glance back down at the table and sink into the booth. This is bad, bad, bad. “I see who you were looking at, and he’s not taking his eyes off you.” I try to look everywhere in the Drum Bar except where Brady and his teammates are holding court, looking like gods. Suddenly, the room feels too warm with not enough air. “Whatever,” I say back to her in a dismissive, please-move-to-another-topic tone. “You have to be kidding me, girl. It’s your man, Brady, and the hottest guys from the team.” Taylor flashes her lashes like they could see her from far away. I shrug my shoulder as I inch down even further into the booth. I swear, my chin is almost on the tabletop. “What’s the matter with you?” She gives me a punch of a look, and on a normal day, I would take it like a champ. But nothing about this day is normal. Or yesterday. Or even the last two weeks. “I think I’m switching from baseball to hockey.” I say it like I’m just changing toothpaste brands. Taylor drops her jaw, staring at me like I have two heads. She looks so shocked, I almost check to see if another has sprouted. And she’s right, I’m not a hockey fan, too much fighting for me. Though, I do love a man with a big stick. “But you hate hockey! You’re more of a baseball nut than I am.” It’s true, until Brady became my patient.

Our love for baseball started back in our Northwestern days. We were a two girl cheering section for the Wild Cats. Even the guys who showed up to watch lacked the over-the-top passion we had for the game. To show our loyalty, we swiped swatches of black eye shadow under our eyes. Nothing says soul sister like baseball war paint. “A girl can change her mind, right?” I blow off the change of heart, because my mouth needs to stay closed like a vice when it comes to Brady. Helpless to stop the pull I feel when Brady is near, I glance over at the bar one more time and connect with blue eyes so vivid, they remind me of a crisp summer sky. But there’s steeliness or determination in them that wasn’t there on Wednesday. Overwhelmed by the intensity of his stare, I drop my gaze down his granite-like body, stopping at his thighs. They’re covered with dark jeans, but I remember their strength close-up. He’s pure man, and all those inches of him. “Ladies,” a server interrupts my Brady daydream. “Drinks from a gentleman at the bar.” The server motions to point out the man, but I don’t look. There’s no need. I’m sure the drinks came from my hot as hell patient. The lines are blurring and I need to reinforce them again. They’ll protect me from so much damage. He’s bad news, no matter how good he looks—and he’s looking beyond fuckable at the moment. “Please tell the person who bought us these drinks, thank you, but we respectfully decline.” The server doesn’t listen to me and sets them on the table. She probably doesn’t want to face the hot shot Brady with news that I refused the drinks. No one wants to upset the hero. “Ouch,” I cry when Taylor’s Louboutin connects with my shin. “Like hell we’ll ‘respectfully decline’ them,” Taylor argues and grabs a Cosmo while the server glances to and fro between us before scurrying away. I slump my shoulders in defeat instead of enduring another bruise on my shin. “You’ve been acting peculiar since the night of the Brady swoon, then the photos of you on the sidewalk with him…” She taps her finger against her lips in thought, which is dangerous. “I know, but I can’t talk about it. Believe me, if I could, you would be the first person I’d tell every detail to.” I reach for the other gifted drink from Brady and suck about a third of the fruity Cosmo down. “I bet it revolves around that tall hunk of man staring straight at you. As a matter of fact, since when have you rejected drinks from a hot guy? I just wish you could tell me why.” Taylor pitches her brow and gives me a cough-it-up-sister stare. “You’re relentless. I can’t talk because it’s work related,” I confess, though I doubt she’ll stop hounding me. “I don’t get it. You see old guys who can’t get it up.” Taylor regards me over the last of her drink. I have only one way to escape her questions and Brady’s gaze, and

that’s leaving the Drum Bar. “Listen, I hate to do this, but I’m calling it a night. Besides, Erin and Laurie should be here any second.” “You’re going? Now? It’s not even nine o’clock. I’ll quit talking about Brady and prostates. Promise.” She gives me an incredulous look. Add the frown, and she’s not happy either. “Trust me this once. I have to go.” I scoot to the end of the booth and stand, a little wobbly at first. Maybe that Brady Cosmo is the issue, but I didn’t finish it off. More likely, it’s nerves. All my senses are on overdrive under his stare. “Let’s go shopping tomorrow.” “Okay, but whatever is troubling you better leave you alone. I want my Cali back,” she says, her brows knit in concern. “I’m still the same me. I just don’t want my heart broken by a player again.” I glance over at the bar where Brady’s standing. He’s still focused on me like a hawk, but the blonde is no longer pressed up against him. Good. “And Brady would.” The thought sobers me. I bend over and give her a kiss on the cheek. Her sad eyes make me feel miserable too. I hate abandoning her before the others arrive, but Brady may try to talk to me if I stay. He’s already bought me a drink, which is a guy’s first attempt at saying hello. “So, it does involve Brady.” Taylor looks up at me with her hazel eyes, her wheels spinning as she tries to figure things out. “No more talk about him,” I say in a firm tone. “I just need to forget the last two weeks and everything will be back to normal.” “Maybe you’re just tired. God knows having to deal with dicks and assholes all week is exhausting.” There’s no humor in her words like there usually is around our jobs. “Here’s to the weekend.” She lifts her Cosmo up, but only has a ghost of a smile. “We’ll talk in the morning, but not too early. Eleven?” Taylor nods while I push my purse over my shoulder. Turning to my right, I see Erin and Laurie a few feet away. They haven’t mentioned the photos of Brady and me this week, so I’m betting they don’t know it’s me. Taylor better keep her mouth shut after I’m gone. However, keeping secrets isn’t her strong suit, so the odds aren’t in my favor. “Hey, guys,” Erin says as she and Laurie walk up to the table. “You just getting here?” Laurie asks with a puzzled look. “Leaving, actually.” I don’t want to go through the whole spiel again, so I focus on what Taylor said, which is probably true. “Hard week in the trenches. I’m beat.” “I understand. Some Friday nights, I just want to curl up on the couch and watch TV. But you look too great to go home. I love that dress on you, and are those new shoes?” Laurie asks as she admires the red sandals I bought while escaping Brady. “Bought them Wednesday at Nordstrom.” Taylor gives me a knowing eye, which I return, as I mouth, “No.” She rolls her eyes and I pray that means she’ll keep my secret.

“Brunch on Sunday, right?” Erin asks and I nod, and then give her and Laurie an air kiss hug. Looking over their shoulders, I see Brady pushing off the bar starting to walk toward us. Crap “It’s tattooed on my calendar. Gotta go, ladies. Love you.” I’ve already started to walk away as I throw the last bit over my shoulder. I head to the door as fast as my heels can carry me. A quick glance behind me shows Brady isn’t on my tail. I rush to open the front door and exhale in relief when I see a yellow taxi down the block heading my way. Standing on the edge of the curb, I wave my hand in the air and the cab comes to a stop in front of me. Just as I reach for the door handle, something warm presses against my ear. “Leaving without at least saying hello first?” I don’t just hear his whisper, it dances over my skin and lands right between my legs. He’s caught me in more ways than one.

ELEVEN

CALI Brady stretches his arm around me and opens the cab door before I can even blink. Damn, he’s fast—or has had a ton of practice. I’ll go with both since he did the same thing for me as we stood in front of Nordstrom after I left him on the sidewalk with his adoring fans. A smart woman would walk away from him again, but his cologne smells divine and it’s making any resolve I have disappear. I glance up at him, which is a mistake. He looks so incredible, I’ll probably swoon again at his feet. “Get in, Cali.” Brady motions for me to climb inside the open door. “Who said you can tell me what to do?” I ask. A small shiver of excitement rushes through me at the thought of being in the backseat with him. My sex-deprived self wants to jump in the cab and drag him in with me, but warning bells go off in my head, reminding me about getting tangled up in blurred lines. I imagine Robin Thicke smiling somewhere as this war between my heart and hormones rages, and it’s not helping anything one bit. “Cali,” Brady says in a firm tone, “get the hell in this car.” I stiffen and shake my head to give him my final answer. “Please,” he begs in such a way, it makes me wonder what’s so important. “It’s a matter of life and death.” He forgets I saw his fine ass as well as his hard cock when he was in my office. There isn’t a single thing wrong with this man, except his inflated ego. “Yeah, it’s your life and the death of my job. Remember you’re my patient, so why should I do a thing you say?” I cock my head and eye him, waiting for a response. “Not here,” he hisses while bending down to whisper near my ear. “We won’t be alone.” He points to a few people gathered close by, which isn’t a shock. He’s the crowd favorite of Chicago—or he has been until recently. I can only imagine what’s going through their minds. Hotshot baseball stud desperately seeking a stubborn woman.

I briefly wonder who comes off as the bad guy in this story and figure it’s likely me. “You’re not making your case very well. Maybe I should yell for help.” My words are more a bait than a threat as I poke Brady in the chest. I move a little closer to him and feel his angry breath against my cheek. “I just need to talk to you. Like I said—” Here we go again. “Right, it’s a matter of life and death,” I finish off his sentence as he moves so close, his lips are nearly touching my cheek. I focus on them through my lashes, all shame and restraint falling into the gutter by my feet. “Okay, but I don’t want to see you again after tonight,” I say…with absolutely zero conviction. He smiles widely at me, like I can change his world. “I’m only doing this because I don’t want to end up in some gossip sports column with you.” I slide onto the backseat in a huff. We are both seated in the cab when Brady gives the driver an address that isn’t familiar to me. “Where the hell are you taking me?” I raise a brow, my lips a thin line, and scoot to the farthest corner of the backseat by my door. I want distance. Brady looks too damn tempting for my peace of mind and ethical code. Never date patients, I remind myself even as that idea flies right out the window. In my defense, no patient has wanted to date me or me them, until now. Ethics are great until you have to apply them. “Would it scare you if I said I was kidnapping you?” I grip the door of the cab and glance up at the driver. He has an amused smile on his face. I’m sure he knows who shares the backseat with me. Brady is the golden boy of this city. He owns the title with every homerun he hits, both on and off the baseball field. Plus, his good looks are hard to forget. God knows I’ve tried. Two weeks ago, if I had this same conversation with Brady, I would’ve been demanding him to take me back to his lair for a lap or two around the bases, but I met him while wearing scrubs and examining his fine body with latex-gloved hands. I can’t remove my professional hat no matter how bad he makes me want to remove my clothes. “You owe me an explanation,” I say, choosing to ignore the kidnap comment altogether. It plays straight into a dirty fantasy of being at his mercy and the last thing I need is more fantasies. “I’m taking you to my coach’s apartment a few blocks from here,” he replies, his tone nonchalant, like kidnapping a woman is normal. “Does he need medical help too?” I ask, my confusion clear in my tone. Why would he take me to his coach’s place? “Are you kidding?” Brady appears stunned by my question. I answer him with a shake of my head. “He wants to talk to you about me.” “Your coach knows me? What’s really going on here? You’ve shown up everywhere I’ve been like you’re stalking me.” Brady shifts his eyes away from me and lowers his head. “Wait! You have been, haven’t you?” I demand. “Maybe. But I have a very good reason.” He looks up with his crystal blue eyes. They twinkle at me even through the dim streetlights, the happiest of sighs

swallowing me as I lose myself within them. I have stupid girl thoughts that he’s fallen madly in love with me during our brief encounters, especially the one in the exam room. I glance down at his crotch in memory and swallow at the thought of all those inches, even if he would be next to impossible to fit in my mouth. I have seen cocks of all shapes and sizes, but his was flipping beautiful. And his ass…well, it was tighter than any skinny jeans I’ve tried to fit into. “I’m waiting for a good answer.” I lock my eyes on his perfect face with lips I want to kiss. Why does he have to be so hot? “It’s complicated,” he says while running his long fingers through his glorious, thick hair. How many times have I dreamed of having his head between my legs since he joined the team? I’ve lost count. I close my eyes. I am in deep shit here. “It’s complicated on my end, too,” I reply back to his non-answer response, which frustrates the hell out of me. Sane people don’t kidnap people without an explanation. Then again sane people don’t kidnap people at all. Maybe the pressure of bringing home a trophy to Chicago’s rabid fans made him snap. “You’re my patient and I can’t cross the personal line with you.” No matter how hard I want to. “I’ve severed all ties with your office. I’m no longer a patient at your practice.” “Right? You’re cured now.” I peek down at the general area where his former issue was and then back up at his eyes. “Let’s say I know who can cure my problem.” “Who?” My voice is as quiet as a whisper, but from the intense look in his eyes, I know he heard me. I brace myself for his answer. “You.” Well, shit!

TWELVE

CALI Brady pays the cabbie after we arrive at his coach’s high-rise building. It’s in the swanky Gold Coast part of Chicago, a place I’d love to live after all my student loans are paid off, or if I win the lottery. Winning the lottery is more likely since I financed my entire gazillion dollar Northwestern education with Uncle Sam. I climb out of the cab onto the circle driveway entrance and wait for Brady to follow. Placing his hand on my back and pressing against me, he begins to walk forward with me in tow, heading toward the front entrance. A couple passes by us dressed in black formal attire. They give Brady a semi-smile. When they glance at me, their faces go blank and I feel suddenly out of place in my off the rack dress—at least my shoes rock. A uniformed man opens the glass entrance door. “Good evening, Mr. Luck. In for the night?” he asks, and I believe he’s paid to do this task. Who knew rich people couldn’t handle a door by themselves? “Evening, Mario. And I’m not sure.” The man turns to me and winks with a teasing smile. Is he flirting with me? I blush at the thought. He has to be as old as my father. After a few steps, I ask, “What’s with him? He seems to know you pretty well.” “He’s my doorman. I live here too,” Brady confesses, and now I understand the wink. “Oh no! He thinks I’m your number two-hundred and something.” I stop in the middle of the marble lobby of the building with my hands on my hips. I don’t want Mario, the doorman, to see me as just another conquest. I don’t want to look cheap and stupid. “Don’t worry, he’ll be seeing a lot of you.” Brady tips a corner of his lips up and nods his head. “He will?” I ask. “What’s going on?” “Come with me,” he says while taking my hand. I gasp at the intimate touch and look down at where our hands are joined. His

large one covers mine to where his fingers are all I see. The warmth of his touch spreads through me as I glance up at his face. He’s gazing down at me with an expression I can’t read. I wonder if he feels the buzz between us, or is it just me? He tips his head, directing me forward, and I’m powerless to hold my ground or ask more questions. We walk to a bank of elevators and I expect him to drop my hand since I’m complying with his wishes, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stands closer to me and brings my hand to his side where it grazes the denim of his jeans. I push my hand against his leg and feel steel once again. “You know, you’re like Superman,” I blurt out before thinking. “I wish I had his X-ray vision,” Brady says with a smirk. I roll my eyes. Of course he does. Jerk. “You’re disgusting,” I say through gritted teeth, pulling my hand out of his grasp. To think I was about to compliment his hard body. As if. “I’m just being honest. What man wouldn’t want that?” I roll my eyes and turn away to hide a smile, because Brady’s right. All men are animals, though some are more domesticated than others. Players like Brady never change their spots—or is it stripes? He’s just like Mitchell. Living for action now that he’s in the big leagues. We enter the elevator and I take the wall opposite from Brady, needing space to breathe and think. Plus, I get a better view of him from a distance, and he’s a gorgeous sight to gawk at in his navy sport coat. Brady swipes a keycard, then pushes the PH button. “Penthouse?” I ask, though I’m not surprised. The professional sports lifestyle is totally out of my league—and ninety-nine percent of the earth’s population. Hell, I can barely afford my one-bedroom apartment in Wrigleyville. “Top floor,” Brady flashes a million-dollar grin, likely what his Coach’s apartment costs and then some. “Does your coach give the access card out to all the guys or are you just special?” I raise my brow in challenge. “Just the ones who live across the hall from him.” “What? You’re kidding me,” I say, bringing my hand to my chest. He shakes his head at me and laughs. He gets perks all right. No wonder he’s so conceited. He is to-die-for handsome, has a big cock—when it’s working—and can afford a place high above this city. At only twenty-five, he’s like the prince of this city. I cross my hands over my chest and wait for the elevator to finish its ascent. “You’re really a spitfire,” Brady says with a wink. “Every girl’s dream accolade.” I roll my eyes at him and he tips his head back, laughing. I huff at his display and stare up at the numbers appearing above the door. Finally, the long trip ends. The tension was about to make me scream or jump him. Damn his sexiness and cocky airs—they fucking turn me on. We leave our respective corners of the elevator and exit into the hallway. Once again, Brady’s hand lands on my back to guide me. His thumb rubs back and forth

over the silk of my dress and I try to ignore the tingles erupting over my skin. It’s not a forward touch, but it spells trouble for me. It makes me wish his hands were all over me, and God knows that would be a horrible decision…I think. “First door on the right,” he directs me, and I have to laugh. “There are only two doors. I guess your place is the left one.” “I knew you were smart,” he quips back, and I scoff. “Listen, I came with you, so you better play nice.” I look up at him with a death glare. He towers over me, appearing as tall as the hallway ceiling. “You’re a big guy.” “You should know,” he chuckles, and I punch him in the arm. My poor knuckles didn’t care for that move one bit either. “Ouch.” I wiggle my fingers to relieve the pain. “Hello,” says Jimmy McDermott, Chicago’s legendary coach, standing in the doorway to his penthouse. Funny thing, neither Brady nor I knocked on it. “Heard you two fighting from inside.” “Coach, I want you to meet Cali Jones.” Coach McDermott laughs while shaking his head at us. “Pleasure, Ms. Jones.” “Please, call me Cali,” I respond in a weak voice while shaking his hand in shock. “Honor to meet you.” My mouth hangs open as I stare at him in disbelief. Chicago’s coaching legend is talking to me. He joined Chicago as head coach when I was fifteen. Jimmy, as his fans call him, has reporters laughing at all his news conferences with his wicked sense of humor, even when his team’s losing. “Come in, you two.” Coach moves away from the door so we can enter. Brady motions with his hand for me to go first. I step over the threshold and stare in awe. I’m standing in Coach McDermott’s apartment. “Cali, I’d like you to meet my better half, Eve.” His beautiful wife reaches out her hand to me. She has kind eyes and a calm peace about her. She’s the exact opposite of her husband. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” “You have? I mean. It’s nice to meet you, too.” I am at a loss here. Truly baffled that she even knows who I am, let alone has looked forward to meeting me. Who’s the royalty here? “Come with me, dear.” Her soothing tone makes some of the butterflies in my stomach flutter away and I follow her deeper into the apartment. I glance back at Brady and he’s still by the front door, whispering to his coach. They both look at me with unsettling grins and I can’t help wondering what the hell is going on. Eve leads me to a living room that faces a wall of windows overlooking downtown Chicago—a far cry from the brick view I have at my place. “Wow,” I say in admiration. I walk to the windows and look down at the twinkling lights of the city. I’m so far up, I can’t even make out the cars on the sidewalk, only their headlights illuminating the street. “Chicago looks so

cosmopolitan from up here.” “I hope we never leave,” Eve says from behind me. “It all depends on this year. Jimmy’s got to bring the World Series to town or he’s out.” I turn to face her, angry to hear Jimmy’s job is on the line. “They can’t do that to him,” I protest. “The owners have lost their patience. They’ve given him a team of players that should take it all. So it’s all or nothing, I’m afraid.” She sighs and I want to hug her, but that would be weird since I don’t even know her. “This is the year,” I try to encourage, but she looks at me with doubt in her eyes. “I thought so until Brady quit hitting,” she says, glancing over at the men standing at the edge of the room. “That’s why you’re here.” “I don’t understand,” I say, pressing my lips into a tight line. Someone better start explaining why Brady brought me here or I’ll walk out the door. The silly notion that I could play a part in a Chicago victory is starting to freak me out. “Have a seat, dear.” I follow Eve into the living room. She sits down on the white leather sectional with her hands in her lap like everything is perfectly normal, but it’s not. Not even a little. I’m on the edge of my seat, ready to bolt if needed. “Can I get you anything to drink? Wine, perhaps?” “No thank you. I just came from having drinks with a friend.” Sobriety is important when you’re facing the unknown. Though, once I find out what’s going on, I may need a stiff drink. “As you know, Brady is having trouble with his game. Jimmy thinks it’s all mental, but Brady swears it’s more. He told Jimmy a woman cursed him. I guess he met her at a bar and thinks she put some kind of bad spell on him.” “The woman he left the bar with the night I swooned at his feet,” I blurt out. Brady’s game has been off after that hookup, and he hasn’t been photographed with anyone else since. “Swooned? I’ve not heard that word in years.” She laughs and brings her hand to her chest. “Well, two weeks ago, I was at The Wit with my best friend. Brady stopped at my table to talk to me on his way to the VIP section of the bar. I accidently slid off my barstool, onto the floor. Right in front of him.” “That was a swoon.” Eve pats my arm and smiles. “Why do you think it was that woman, though? God knows there’s been a parade of them walking down the hallway since he moved in.” “His game has been off since that night.” “Well, whoever the woman was, he’s convinced you’re the solution to reverse the curse, so to speak.” “You’re kidding, right?” I ask, deadpan. Break a spell? Clearly she has the wrong person. Other than him claiming no one can get his dick hard but me, I don’t see how I have anything to do with this. And surely she didn’t curse his cock. “He told Jimmy that certain things only work when he’s with you.” She makes air quotes when she says “certain.” “It’s messed up his mind and his game. It’s like

you’re his lucky charm.” “Wait, I’ve never been with him in that manner,” I protest, though I can’t tell her what I do know about ‘certain’ things. Even if Brady is no longer a patient at our practice, which I haven’t confirmed yet, I can’t discuss his visit without his consent. “Interesting…” She rubs her chin and glances over at the guys now lingering by a glass dining room table that fits at least twelve. They’re watching our conversation like spectators at a sporting event. It’s rather unnerving. “Brady talks about you like you two are very close.” I spin my head to face Eve. “He’s also mentioned your blue eyes to me. And he’s right, they’re beautiful.” “That’s crazy. I’ve only seen him a couple times over the last two weeks,” I say in a shaky, disbelieving voice. This whole scene in Jimmy’s apartment with Brady looking at me with needy eyes makes me wonder if I’m dreaming. But it’s not a dream—or even a dream come true at the moment. And someone needs to tell me why Brady brought me here. “So, what’s the real reason I’m here, Eve?” Enough of the chitchat, I need answers. “My husband is going to ask something of you and I wanted to speak with you before he did. Jimmy promised I could. I am not a fan of what he wants from you. Just to make it clear.” “Nothing’s clear,” I say in frustration as I try to remain calm. “It will be soon. Whatever you decide, Cali, I’ll understand.” Eve squeezes my hand and motions for Jimmy to join us. “And I’ll be here if you decide to sign or not.” “Sign what?” “I’ll let Jimmy explain.” Eve stays by my side as Jimmy and Brady begin to walk toward the sectional. Jimmy’s emotionless expression is a contrast to his demeanor when I arrived. The atmosphere in the room has shifted to serious as shit. Even the permanent smirk on Brady’s face has faded to a thin line. Jimmy and Brady sit in the two chairs across from Eve and me. Brady stretches out his long legs and I scan the length of them. Brady’s eyes meet mine and his smirk returns for a split second. He’s caught me checking out his fine body. I shrug my shoulders as a confession of my guilt. “Before I share why Brady brought you here,” Jimmy begins. “Kidnapped me is more like it,” I interrupt, even though it’s bad manners, but so is kidnapping. Some people even go to jail for it. I glance at Brady, who has a devilish grin on his face. He’s not denying how I got here at all. Kidnapping may be a stretch, but it’s not too far off the mark. “I was heading home to escape him.” “Wait, escape me? I’m harmless.” Brady brings his hand to his chest like he’s shocked. Eve laughs because she knows the truth. He’s dangerous to a woman’s virtue. I try to fight off a grin and dammit, I find myself smiling back at Brady. “You need to wear one of those, ‘no women were harmed permanently’ labels.”

I force myself look away when I make a straight face. His good looks will cripple my resolve. “Cali, you’re free to leave, but I hope you stay,” Brady says in a hushed tone. I turn to meet his gaze and look for truth or lies. He’s good at the lines and all, but his stare is fixed and serious without a hint of the joking guy from two seconds ago. “I’ll stay.” For now. “If you two are finished flirting, I’d like to get on with the show. It’s been a long ass day for me,” Jimmy sighs. The woes of bringing Chicago the evasive World Series—and when I say evasive, I mean historic. The last World Series for Chicago was before the Titanic sunk. “So, here’s the deal, Cali,” Jimmy begins in an abrupt, to-the-point fashion. I take a deep breath to prepare for God only knows what. “Brady needs your help. His teammates and I need your help. Hell, the city of Chicago needs you.” His appeal sounds like the future of the entire world sits on my shoulders, which is ridiculous. What could I possibly offer that would be so important? “Really?” I ask, looking to Eve for support. She gives me a comforting smile. Without her beside me, I’d be out the door. “I think you have me confused with someone else.” “You’re it, Cali, but first things first. I need you to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Are you familiar with NDAs?” Jimmy asks. “Yes, it’s something that will keep my mouth shut.” I glance between Eve, Jimmy, and Brady, hoping their body language clues me in to what’s going on. “What’s at stake, though?” “Sharp girl,” Jimmy mutters, and Brady nods his head. “Told you so,” Brady says with a crooked smile on his utterly distracting face. “Seven figures.” Jimmy announces as he gets up from his chair. He picks up a legal-sized folder with a one-page document lying on top of it. Wait—what did he say? “Like millions?” My mouth is open so wide, I could fit two ballpark franks in it, including the buns. I manage to take the folder with its lone paper from Jimmy, but I’m stunned and freaked out. “One cool million to you. Who the hell knows how much to Chicago. We’ve gotta get our boy back swinging again.” Jimmy reaches in his pocket and hands me a pen. “You sign this NDA and agree to what I am going to propose, you’ll be a rich woman, Cali.” Why do I have this nagging feeling something’s amiss? Maybe it’s because I learned from an early age nothing is free. Well, except the love of my mother, and what I wouldn’t give to buy her a new home, free and clear. I could pay off all my student loans. The thought alone makes a weight disappear off my shoulders. Then there’s my addict brother who needs rehab. I could afford a good place for him. I haven’t signed the NDA or heard how they want me to sell my soul and I’ve spent about half of it. Way to go, Cali. But I can’t help the thought of going to the

store and not giving a flying fuck about the price. I would care, and shop at Target like I do now, but I could buy those designer jeans I’ve been eyeing for months and not have to eat ramen noodles for an eternity to afford them. “All right. I’ll sign your NDA, but only to hear you out.” I scribble my name across a line with my name typed below it. I date the document and hand it to Brady to hand to Jimmy. Jimmy inspects my signature and nods his head, appearing pleased. I lean toward Brady. “So, is this how you get all the girls to keep their mouths shut?” I whisper, and Brady just laughs. Why can’t he ever take my sarcasm seriously? I don’t want him laughing with me. I want him uncomfortable. Problem is, he’s too comfortable just being Brady. “Only the ones I need something from. And, baby, I need you.” Boom. That was the sound of my panties dropping to the floor. Well shit, he had me at baby. Like, I want to have his and practice a lot to make one. I try to imagine us not having sex with his beautiful cock as Jimmy starts to speak. Thank God it’s a perfect distraction. “The long and short of it. I’m asking you to become Brady’s fiancée until this season is over. You’ll get a million dollars. Five-hundred now and five-hundred when Brady has his last trip to the batter’s box this season.” “Wait a second, a million dollars to be his fiancée?” I turn to Eve, my sort of ally. Her silence and knitted brow tells me I heard right. “This is crazy. I haven’t even been on a date with Brady. No one is going to believe that me, the anti-party girl, has scored Chicago’s most eligible bachelor. It’s ludicrous.” I rise from the couch and walk away from the way too intimate setting. I stand next to the window and watch the lights of Chicago blinking back at me. Jimmy, Brady, and even Eve, are crazy if they think anyone will buy this scheme. My hands begin to shake as I think about the consequences, mostly as they relate to my profession. A PA needs a pristine reputation. Spotless. This type of lie has the potential to get very messy and painful, especially to my heart. I glance over my shoulder at beautiful and perfect Brady. He’s perched on the edge of his seat, like my yes or no to this harebrained idea holds the key to his future. The weight of his expectations hit me. I am barely able to find my own happiness as a human being. This burden will be a challenge no matter how gorgeous and sexy the man behind the issues is. But can I tell him no? Do I even want to? Maybe it’s the princess fairytales from my childhood, but I am willing to entertain the thought of being his, even if our relationship is a complete façade. However, the prospect of being tied to a heartbreaker like Brady scares me. I could fall in love with this cocky brute in two days flat. Damn baseball players. “I need to know all the details.” I put on my game face and take a seat in a chair away from everyone, including Eve. “My personal attorney drew up a contract. Almost everything is negotiable,”

Coach says as he hands me the folder. I rub my hands over my dress before taking the folder. I open the top cover and legal-sized papers spell out one thing to me: whatever Jimmy is offering, in regards to Brady, will be binding by law. The thought makes my stomach knot up. I’m just an average woman, how can I stand up against the weight of Chicago’s coach and hero in a lawsuit? Suddenly, I feel small, and glance at Eve, who gives me a reassuring smile. “I don’t have my lawyer handy tonight,” I joke, though I wish I did have one. I’ve never needed a lawyer before now. “I think he’s helping Giselle with her Brady.” Laughter breaks out in the room and I shake my head. I wasn’t trying to be funny, more sarcastic to make a point that I’m not like them. In Brady and Jimmy’s world, everyone has attorneys and personal assistants, probably even someone to wipe their ass if they need it. “She’s always saying funny shit,” Brady says through a chuckle. “Never met a girl who makes me laugh like her.” Well now, that’s good to hear—or is it sad? I’m not that funny. I imagine most of his hookups giggle at everything he says, not the other way around. “She’s going to keep you on your toes, Brady,” Jimmy says, clapping Brady on his back. I squint my eyes and peer at Jimmy. “Is that so?” I interject, spoiling their brotherhood bonding. “I haven’t agreed to a damn thing yet.” “Of course, Cali. I was only joking about your joke.” The smile vanishes from Jimmy’s face as he tries to cover his tracks. This time, I have the last laugh and all the power as everyone in the room eyes me, the woman who supposedly holds the future of Chicago’s baseball team in her hands. And to think it all started with me holding Brady’s balls. I take a deep breath and decide I might as well hear them out. Besides, being asked to actually marry this manwhore could be worse. Engagements are broken every day, because unlike Cinderella and her Prince Charming, fairytales seldom happen in the real world. “I’m ready to go over this contract.” I look down at the document in front of me, glance over the lines of legal lingo, and skip to the meat. I spot the million dollars outlined in a paragraph. My breath catches and palms begin to sweat. This shit just got real.

THIRTEEN

BRADY Cali holds the contract in her hand, but hasn’t looked up or said one single word in several minutes. I have no clue what she’s thinking or if she’ll give this engagement thing a chance. I’ve tried to play it cool tonight, but my stomach is tied up in knots. What if she doesn’t agree and walks out the door? My season will be sunk, along with my dick. Besides, I like having her around. She makes me laugh and is hot as fuck. My predicament was obvious at Drum Bar tonight. The moment I saw Cali, my previously inactive dick was ready for action and doing a full on salute. Even the hot blonde, who whispered how she wanted me to fuck her brains out, didn’t do a thing for me. And that shit never happens. For whatever reason, Cali is the only woman my dick likes. At least it has damn good taste. Cali continues to read and crosses her long legs. I can’t take my eyes off of them and imagine what it would feel like to wrap them around my hips and fuck her senseless. I adjust myself and wait for her decision, though it’s killing me. I glance at Coach and give him a please-help-me look. He nods and clears his throat. “Cali,” Coach breaks the tense silence in the room. “Let’s walk through the points together. You can ask questions as we go along.” “Jimmy,” Eve pipes in, and we all turn toward her. “Give her a minute to read over your offer.” A minute? She’s had like fifteen. My patience is fucking gone. I bounce my leg to direct this bottled up energy somewhere. I’m about ready to snap with so much on the line. “It’s okay, Eve,” Cali responds and looks at Coach. “We can start.” “Let’s go point by point,” Coach says, eyeing Cali for approval. She nods her head and he continues to read. “First, you agree to be known as Brady Luck’s adoring fiancée, both privately and publicly. I added the adoring part, but it will

help everyone if you can act in that fashion.” “I adored my cat. God rest Mr. Socks’ soul.” I scoff because she just compared me to a fucking furry feline. “Moving on.” Jimmy uses a tone I recognize. He’s growing impatient. Cali sits up in her seat, looking determined. “This is the agreement. You will move in with Brady starting tomorrow.” “Wait. What? Like in his bed? I hardly know him. I’m not a hooker for hire here. No matter what,” Cali protests in a huff. She’s digging in her heels, but I have my ways. She did get those dreamy eyes the first night we met. It’s time to charm her panties off. “What does or doesn’t happen between you and Brady is your decision.” Coach warned me this arrangement doesn’t hinge on sex, but damn if I don’t want to fuck her seven ways to Sunday. Cali directs her gaze straight at me and gives me a wicked grin. “I’m saving myself for marriage. Hell, we’ve made it to our engagement, what’s a little more time? Work for you, Brady?” I want to wipe that sassy smile off her face. I’m thinking my lips slamming into hers would do the trick. One kiss from me and I’d bet those fucking hot legs would open up. “Funny,” I deadpan. “You think I’m kidding.” There’s a definite challenge in her eyes. “Besides, I just rented a new apartment. I can’t break my lease.” “The costs of your apartment will be covered under this contract. Movers are on standby, if you sign, to arrive at nine a.m. tomorrow. They will pack up your personal items and set them up in the guest room at Brady’s penthouse across the hall.” Cali glances back at me when Jimmy mentions my name. Her tongue slips out and licks her upper lip, and my dick reacts by coming to life. “How many bedrooms do you have?” Cali asks. “Enough,” I answer. “Brady can show you his place before you leave tonight. While the movers get things situated tomorrow, you have an appointment with a personal shopper at Nordstrom around ten. All expenses are covered to get the ball rolling, so to speak. You also have an appointment at Maison on Michigan Avenue at two. You’re free to have whatever services you want there while this agreement is in force. You can thank Brady for that one.” “Wow. That’s the nicest spa in downtown,” Cali exclaims, and I smile at the excitement in her voice. I like her happy. “A massage sounds wonderful. This whole ordeal is stressing me out as it is. I’ve worked too hard to get where I am. I work with two great doctors and I don’t want to blow this job.” It’s time for me to speak up here. One thing I admire about Cali is her determination. It’s sexy and powerful. “I don’t want this to wreck your life,” I say. I want to add that it will be fun, but that angle might work against me and I don’t want to push my luck.

“Okay. But if being your fiancée interferes with being a PA, I’m bailing. I’ll give back every last cent.” Shielding her from the press’ onslaught will be tough, but I’m up for it. She’s my fiancée, after all. Fake or not, she’s mine to the world. “Fair enough. We can add something to the contract. My attorney’s on standby in case of any changes,” Jimmy adds. “I guess everyone’s on standby for Chicago’s star player.” Cali rolls her eyes while shrugging a shoulder. She’s got an edgy side. I bet she’s a fireball in bed. “I told Jimmy not to have his attorney here tonight,” Eve explains. “Nothing like a man in a suit and tie to get nerves frayed. I imagine you’re already feeling outnumbered here.” “A little bit. But I can hold my own.” Cali sits up and squares her shoulders. Yep, she’s feisty. “The hardest thing you face, besides living with this guy’s ego, is the press,” Coach laughs, pointing to me. I shake my head at him and pretend to disagree, but I’ve hit homeruns like they’re second nature, and until that voodoo chick, they were. “Even Rod, my agent, is clueless. Too many tongues wagging and the secret won’t be a secret anymore,” I say. “Here’s what I told Rod. I said we first met at The Wit, and then a few times after that. I mentioned things were getting serious between us and to stay tuned.” I leave out the part where Rod asked if Cali had a golden vagina. He couldn’t recall the last time I saw anyone more than once—twice tops—and he’s right, but I have to get my curse reversed and it starts with Cali. Once my dick is happy, things on the field will work out. They have to. “I think Rod bought it too. You know, the bigger they are, the harder they fall.” I wink at her and waggle my brows. I lean forward, waiting for her answer. Suddenly, Cali turns pale and her eyes go wide in fear. She picks up the contract and fans herself with it. “Cali, are you okay?” Eve rushes to her side. “I don’t know. I’m feeling lightheaded all of a sudden.” Cali drops back in the chair and leans her head against the cushion. Her eyes flutter for a split second. She looks about ready to pass out. Then she pops up straight. “Oh my God! My name will be in the paper with my photo next to a big headline, ‘Brady Luck’s Girl of the Hour.’” “Eve, maybe some water?” Jimmy asks. “Water isn’t going to help Cali.” Eve levels a glare at Jimmy and me. It’s the don’t-fuck-with me look she has perfected. “You all have scared the daylights out of her.” I need to do something, but I have no clue what. She’s right. Her quiet, private life is about to get turned upside down and there’s no getting around it. Most girls fucking love the attention they get when they’re around me, but Cali’s not most girls. She’s different—in a good way. “Can’t I just be his girlfriend until he gets his hitting groove back?” She claps

her hand over her mouth and I bury my head in my hands. “Brady needs more than just a girlfriend. I want him off the single circuit. Undistracted,” Coach tells her the same line he told me when I asked him the same fucking question. “A player’s game starts between their ears, no matter their skill. He’s convinced you’ll get his confidence back.” “Eve, I think I’d like that drink you mentioned earlier,” Cali breathes. “Liquid courage,” Coach laughs. “I think that’s a good idea for all of us. We can toast to being neighbors. Right, Cali?”

FOURTEEN

CALI Unable to speak, I nod back at Jimmy. I must be certifiable to agree to this fake everything. My entire life is going to be like one big probing prostate exam. Everything I do will be put under a microscope. Since everyone has a cell phone these days, I can say goodbye to randomly picking my teeth in public or fixing a wedgie when my underwear creeps up. The entire city of Chicago revolves around Brady at the moment. He sneezes and people speculate whether he’s sick. If this supposed curse or mental block doesn’t change when I appear in his life, I’ll likely be the scapegoat. I’ll probably have to move out of town when this is over, or maybe change my name and dye my hair blond. I take a deep breath and wait for Eve to come back from wherever she went to get us champagne. I don’t remember ever needing a drink or an entire bottle of something as bad as I do now. To make matters worse, Brady is walking around the coffee table to me with a victory grin plastered on his lickable mug. In one quick move, he removes his navy jacket and throws it on the sectional where I once was sitting. In slow motion, he rolls up the long sleeves on his shirt with his skilled fingers and hands. When his forearms appear, I bite my lip. His muscles look molded out of steel like the rest of him. At least he leaves his shirt on. He pulls a chair up by mine. “Mind if I sit here?” he asks, all sweet and gentlemanly. His charm is deadly and effective—likely how he’s fucked most of Chicago. I hate this side of him. It makes me want to forget the cocky, self-absorbed Brady lurking behind his sweet words. “Sure, it’s not my place. Besides, you tend to get your way around here.” “About that…” He turns the chair facing me and sits down. We are knee-toknee and eye-to-eye. I glance over his shoulders to see if Eve’s back with the drinks. Dammit, where is she? “I wanted to thank you for agreeing to this.” He takes my hand in his and I give into his touch. That odd calm comes over me

as he wraps his fingers around mine. I must be imagining things; only my mother’s hugs have had this effect on me. “Well, I haven’t officially signed anything yet. You know how contracts are,” I say, curling my lip into a lopsided smile. “Things can change.” “I do know how contracts are.” I remember his last one took a few weeks for his agent to negotiate. He held out for the largest amount ever paid to a rookie. “I hope you sign.” “So, you’re closing me now, are you?” “Can’t blame me for trying,” Brady confesses. “But why me?” I ask, still confused why I hold so much power in his eyes. “Surely it’s more than just you getting hard around me.” “Well, there is that,” he whispers, “but there’s more. I’m convinced you’re my good luck charm.” “So, I’m like a genie in a bottle, but instead of you rubbing me for your wish, I’ve been hired with the hopes I’ll rub you in certain places,” I whisper-hiss. “Well, I do need you, Cali.” He says my name like it’s a desperate plea and it likely is since he thinks I’ll get his cock back in commission. I think about the simple and powerful word need. No man has every said he needed me before and I want it to fill my heart, but it’s not enough. I want a man who wants me for me—no strings or World Series hopefuls attached. “You need air, food, and water to live. Touching you isn’t going to happen.” I try to sound convincing. My attraction to Brady started out as a crush from afar, but now our fake relationship could crush me if I’m not careful. “Children, quit bickering,” Eve says with a chuckle. “We have Cristal, the finest champagne known to man or woman.” She gives me a wink, but my level of being impressed isn’t very high since I’ve never heard of this brand before. I tend to drink Two Buck Chuck from Trader Joe’s. It’s another example of the divided world between Brady and me. Jimmy rises from his chair and Brady and I follow suit. Jimmy’s been distracted on his phone, likely texting his attorney about the changes I want to make to the contract. Jimmy walks toward Eve and takes the flutes off the tray she’s carrying. He hands one to Brady and me. Setting the tray down, Eve joins us and we form a circle in the middle of the room. “To neighbors,” Jimmy says with a smile that borders happiness and relief. “To neighbors,” Eve and Brady echo while raising their flutes. I remain silent and wait longer than I should before I bring my glass to join theirs. Once our glasses clink together, it’s as good as signing the paper. I glance up at the beautiful Brady, who’s looking back at me with eyes full of expectation. For some strange reason, I can’t let him down. The thought is crazy, but I lift my hand despite it. Glass dings against glass and everyone except me exhales a deep breath. I’m still holding mine.

AFTER THE LAST of the Cristal is gone, Brady walks me across the hall to his penthouse. Coach is waiting on his attorney to fax him the contract changes and I want to see where I’ll be living for the next few months. After unlocking the door and cracking it open, Brady pauses in the hallway and gazes down at me. “I feel like I should pick you up and carry you inside.” “What? That’s for when people get married. We’re not even officially engaged yet.” I shake my head at him. How dare he play into my fairytale fantasies that will never happen. The nerve. “Oh, right,” he says, motioning for me to enter before him. I step into his apartment and get hit by a bachelor pad large enough to house three of my apartments—just in the main room. His place is a sparse modern décor of black and grays with chrome metal, not a hint of color. It also looks unlived in. I imagined he lived in a place that displayed all his trophies over a fireplace. But as I scan the room, I don’t see anything connecting him to baseball at all. “How long have you been here?” I ask, feeling a little sad at how sterile the place looks—and expensive, I bet. For shame. “Right after I signed my motherfucking five year contract.” He puffs out his chest and I laugh at him. “Not bad for a poor Chicago kid.” “Not bad if you like high dollar bland,” I say before thinking. I turn to face Brady and his smile has disappeared. He’s proud of this place, even if it is as inviting as a bank lobby. “Sorry, Brady. That was rude. It’s just not that homey.” “I know,” he sighs. “But I grew up with secondhand everything, so when the designer showed me her ideas on paper, I was all in. I kept waiting for the finish. One day, I called her after she didn’t show up for two weeks and asked when she was coming back, but she said it was done.” “You just need a splash of color,” I say, trying to make up for my stupid comment. “Like a few red pillows to replace the gray tweed ones on the couches.” I walk over to them and let my fingers graze over the material. “They’re scratchy, too.” “You should touch the fancy as fuck blanket on the chair. It’s like sandpaper.” “I’ll have the movers bring some of my cuddle-worthy pillows tomorrow. If that’s okay?” I ask, searching Brady’s face. I don’t want to overstep, but I’ll never be able to relax here after a long day at work. “Please, anything you think would help. Let me show you your room.” Brady places his hand low on my back and guides me through the room to an adjoining hallway. His thumb caresses, moving in small circles, and tiny sparks fly across my skin. It’s like the entire universe starts and stops where we connect. “You’re the second door on the left. The first one is a bathroom.” “Where’s your room?” I ask. “Next to yours. Last door. We have adjoining walls.”

“It’s the only thing we’ll have adjoining,” I add with a laugh, and he joins me. “We’ll see about that,” he remarks with a smirk. I want to protest, but he’s probably right. I haven’t even moved in and the sexual tension between us is better than any foreplay I’ve experienced. He’d probably have me falling over the edge with the barest of touches. He opens the door that should be my room and I peer inside, my eyes widening in shock. “There’s color in here?” I ask, baffled. The room is a vivid blue that almost matches the color of the sky with yellow silk bedding that looks feminine and soft offsetting the walls. “Do you like it?” Brady asks with a bit of hesitation. “Love is more like it, and it’s so unexpected.” I brush my fingers over the bedcover, enjoying how soft and inviting it is. “I’m glad you like it. I picked out the color just for you.” “You did this?” I ask, raising a brow. He just said he had no clue about decorating. “Not really. I had my personal assistant handle it. She asked what color I wanted for your room. I said blue and she gave me a few choices. This one matches your eyes.” I search his face to see whether he’s kidding or serious. I have to go with serious, and crash—score one for Brady as another brick falls down from the protective wall I’ve put up around him. “You can be the sweetest manwhore,” I say, shaking my head. “Thanks for the compliment, and I love this blue.” “Me, too,” Brady says, his eyes piercing into mine, clearly not referring to the room color. I blow out a breath, feeling antsy and hot under his dark gaze. Damn him. Brady leans against a white dresser and crosses his long legs. I follow them up to the crotch of his jeans and my gaze stops. The bulge he’s sporting isn’t easy to look away from, but I manage—barely—to make it up to his face. “See something you like?” he quips. “Remember, I’ve seen yours and hundreds like it.” I throw my head back in a dismissive way. His brows narrow together as he gives me a disapproving look. “What’s the matter?” “I know you’re lying.” He pushes off the dresser and stalks toward me. “Nine inches of fine doesn’t come into your office often, does it?” “What did you just say?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at him. “You heard me. Nine inches, baby.” “Inflated.” “That’s where you come in,” he emphasizes, adding a wink. “You’re so subtle and smooth,” I say, hitting his arm. “I’ve been called smooth, but subtle? Never.” “I bet not. You’re totally focused on scoring, both on and off the field.” I shake my head as he laughs, but humor has to have an ounce of truth and his life is

simple. He gives new meaning to the term “hitman.” It all goes back to my working motto that men are their penises and the reason I’m here finally hits me. If his penis isn’t working, he isn’t hitting. It’s not so much about fucking me, though I’m sure he would right now if I dropped my panties and spread my legs, it’s about his cock working in general. The hope of being able to fuck is all he needs to swing the damn bat. And for the first time since I was propositioned with this crazy ass engagement, I don’t feel like the contract is making me his fuck buddy for a few months. Brady sees me as the girl who gives him hope that he’s okay. Like Jimmy said, I can help make things right between his ears. As long as he believes I hold the key to his cock’s performance, he’s going to beat this mental block, or curse, or whatever the hell it is, and win for his team. “Enough about scoring,” he says while adjusting himself. Yep, he’s not subtle. “I want you to see the bathroom.” He leads me into the connected bath. It’s a lighter shade of blue than the bedroom, the towels are a bright yellow, and the vanity has a beautiful floral arrangement. “How many days did you have to do this?” “One.” “Wow. I’m amazed.” “Here’s the linen closet. I had her buy a lot of different things for you. I wasn’t sure what you liked.” Brady opens a door and I peek inside. The shelves are lined with every imaginable product for hair, skin, and body care. “It looks like a store shelf.” There are brands I’ve wanted to try since forever, but were out of my budget. I try to hide the vapid excitement I feel at having so many goodies at my fingertips. “If you need anything else, just make a list and it’s yours.” Brady picks up a bottle of shampoo from the shelf, opens the lid, and smells it. “I like this one.” “I’ll have to try it.” I sound like a girlfriend wanting to please her guy, but I do want to smell good to him. I’ll chalk it up as part of the gig. “What would you have done with all of this if I hadn’t agreed?” I ask. “I help out at a women’s shelter. The ladies there would have loved to have it,” Brady says while shutting the door. Crash, boom goes yet another brick. Just when I think Brady’s only out for himself, he shows there’s a sweet guy underneath all the cockiness. Mitchell would never think this way. The difference in the two guys makes me glad Mitchell’s barely a memory in my life. “We better get back to Jimmy and Eve’s.” The movers come early tomorrow morning and I need to get home. My apartment is a disaster and they’ll probably think someone robbed the place if I don’t get it straightened up. “First,” Brady says, and my attention moves to him, “are you happy with everything here? “Everything but the scratchy pillows,” I say in a tease. “Thanks for making this

room feel like me.” “Well, have at the rest of the place. But no pink,” he adds with a wink. I roll my eyes and give him a smirk. I just might make some changes—or a complete overhaul.

JIMMY HAS three copies of the contract splayed across his glass dining room table. After reading over the changes, I decide they’re good. If my job is threatened by my new status, the contract will be void and I’ll receive a prorated sum for my services. The rest of the contract is straightforward—hell, my gym agreement was more complicated. “Ready?” Jimmy asks while glancing between Brady and me. “Yes,” Brady says with conviction, and I glance up at him to get some reassurance before I speak. He smiles down at me and bends over to kiss my forehead. A flush of warmth arises, like the exact opposite of brain freeze. “Ready,” I squeak out. Jimmy hands us each pens and we begin to sign the contracts where indicated. When the last one is signed, Jimmy hands me a copy. We each get one for our records and the attorney keeps one in his safe. The contract is privately binding, but it’s not like Brady will take me to court over it. No guy wants to be on the side of a girl faking anything related to them. “I’ll text my driver and get him to take you home,” Brady suggests. “Don’t tell me, he’s been on standby, too?” It’s nice to be so rich that people are at your constant beck and call. “As a matter of fact, he’s been parked outside the building waiting for my text.” “Figures,” I laugh and turn to Eve. “Thanks,” I tell her, needing her to know I’m grateful for her support throughout the evening. “We’ll be seeing a lot of each other, especially on away game nights. You can come over and watch them on TV with me.” “Girls’ night.” I smile back at her. “Cali, thanks for agreeing to this.” Jimmy puts his arms around me and squeezes tight. Once he releases, I begin to breathe again. “It’s all about taking one for the team.” Jimmy shakes his head at me and laughs. “You’re good for my guy in more ways than one.” Leaving the beaming Jimmy and gracious Eve, Brady and I head downstairs where his driver waits. I take in my surroundings on our way to the lobby and a calm settles over me. Unlike any other time we’ve been together, not a single person seems fazed or dazed by Brady’s presence. It’s like an unspoken rule to leave him alone—a haven from the public eye. We approach the doorman, Brady’s hand low on my back, seemingly his favorite

place to rest it. He seems to need the connection, and who am I to deny myself the tingles he gives me? “Leaving already, Miss?” the doorman asks. “She’ll be back, Mario,” Brady says to him. The doorman’s eyes widen in shock. “He’s going to be the first of many Chicagoans to hear about our news,” I say while Brady and I exit his building. “The buzz when this hits the wires will be epic.” “Great,” I mutter. “There’s my driver. His name’s Stuart Butters.” “You’re kidding,” I spit out between fits of laughter. “Hey, don’t judge.” Brady glares at me, but a smile breaks out after a few seconds. “He’s British, so it fits.” I rein in the giggles as Stuart drives a black sedan up to the curb of the circular driveway. Brady steps down on the pavement and I start to follow. “Wait there,” Brady commands with a hand raised. Stuart lowers the passenger side window and Brady speaks with him in a hushed tone. Brady walks back and stands on the pavement in front of me. It makes him not so giant next to me. “I’d like to do something, if it’s okay with you,” he says while inching closer to me. “Actually, I’ve been desperate to do it since I saw you at The Wit.” “What’s that?” I breathe and lick my lips. Brady moves closer, his body heat enveloping me. “Taste you,” he whispers, his words resonating in parts of me that would love a private kiss. “Let’s seal this agreement with a kiss.” Taking a deep breath, I nod and his strong arms instantly wrap around me, as if he was poised and ready to pounce. One hand cups the back of my neck as the other lands on my ass, pulling me to him, melding us together. Closing my eyes, I grip onto the waist of his jeans, giving in to the exciting sensations racing through me. I need an anchor to keep me from floating away. When his lips crash into mine, I press right back and moan against them. Brady deepens the kiss, his tongue meeting mine in a dance unique to us. Damn, he knows how to kiss. He leans me back and kisses my neck as his lips graze over my skin. His erection presses against me, confirming why I’m here with him. “You’re sweeter than I imagined,” he mumbles. Somewhere to the right of me, I hear some clicking before a flash of light has black dots swirling behind my lids. “What’s her name, Brady?” a man calls out. Straightening in Brady’s arms, I turn my head toward the shout and freeze. “Shit,” Brady exclaims. “Let’s go.” Taking my hand, Brady pulls us the couple feet to the car and we pile into the backseat. Stuart starts to pull away the second our door is shut. “Fuck,” Brady swears under his breath. “Sorry about that. I should’ve known better.”

“It’s okay. No one knows me yet, not even your driver.” I glance at the front seat and see a smiling Stuart in the rearview mirror. “Stuart, this is Cali.” “Nice to finally meet you in person.” I knit my brow and turn to Brady. “Finally?” “He’s been helping me stalk you. How do you think I knew you were at Drum Bar tonight?” Brady gives me his usual cool smirk. “Nice to meet you, Stuart,” I say before turning back toward Brady, shaking my head. He’s staring at me with laughter in his eyes that does wicked things to me. He’s cocky, sweet, and dangerously handsome. I never stood a chance at saying no. “So sure of yourself, aren’t you?” I scold. “It’s one of my better qualities,” Brady boasts with no shame, as usual. Stuart chuckles from the front seat and I roll my eyes. God help me. Even though I didn’t tell Stuart the address, we arrive at my apartment minutes later. That he already knew my address should unnerve me, but at this point, I just shrug it off. My world is about to collide with Brady’s, so I better get used to it. After exchanging phone numbers and emails, Brady tells me his personal assistant will show up tomorrow with the movers to assist me—the perks of him having people to help him with everything. Brady gives me another scorching kiss before I head into my apartment building. Stuart had the decency to get out of the car and wait for us to finish. My lips are tingly and swollen from his passionate onslaught—both sets. Who am I kidding, though? This make-out session has taken place about twohundred times, at least. I think of all the other women who’ve been kissing his lips, their nameless faces like a cold bucket of water. The sobering thought helps remind me to slow this train down before it crashes. “I have to go,” I say. “Stay, please?” he begs with hooded eyes. Part of me wants to straddle him and bounce around on all nine of his inches, but the sane, reasonable part says to get out of the car before it’s too late. I move out of his arms and reach for the door handle. “Good night, Brady.” “You’re killing me here.” Brady leans his head back against the seat and blows out a long breath. I glance at his crotch, and even in the dark, the hard lines of his erection stand out. “At least things are working now,” I say, opening the door. I climb out of the car, Stuart standing close by. He closes the door, but not before I hear Brady calling out my name. “Night, Ms. Jones,” Stuart says with a smile. “Night,” I respond, walking toward my entrance door. Once inside, I take the elevator up and open the door to my apartment. Blowing out a breath, I prepare myself to conquer the ungodly mess and spend the next hour arranging the piles of clothes in my disaster of a closet, making more organized

stacks for the movers. Deciding a loss is a loss, I change into a tank and sleep shorts and climb under the covers of my bed, realizing this may be my last night here until October if Chicago makes the Series. I pull the sheets around me tight and close my eyes, but my lips still buzz from his kiss and I can’t get rid of the ache between my legs. Lying awake, I wait for sleep to come, but it’s useless. I pull out my favorite vibrator from the nightstand drawer and turn it on, needing to rid myself of my Brady-induced lust fog. Closing my eyes, I touch myself with the magic vibrations and picture Brady with his perfectly messed up hair, his lips red from our kissing, and glazed blue eyes like he had for me tonight. In ten seconds flat, I fall into a Brady-inspired orgasm. It leaves me breathless, boneless, and unable to keep my eyes open. Finally, I drift off in hopes of having a naughty, nine-inch dream.

FIFTEEN

CALI “What the fuck?” I mutter against my pillow as pounding and muffled shouts echo from my front door. I glance at the clock by the bed and groan. The damn movers weren’t supposed to come until nine. How rude of them to wake me up at seven-fifteen, and just when Brady was getting ready to fuck me senseless. I roll over and pull my comforter over my ears, hoping I’ll be able to fall asleep and get back to the good part, but the banging on the door doesn’t let up. Fuckers. “Coming,” I yell from my room, wishing it was what I was actually doing. Finding a fluffy robe on the floor of my closet, I stuff my arms into it and pad out of my room, recognizing the voice behind the screams. “Open up, Cali,” Taylor spouts while banging on the door. The photo frames shift and rattle on the wall with each of her thuds against the wood. “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask while opening the door. “Oh my God,” she huffs as she walks inside my apartment. “This.” She throws a Chicago Sun-Times newspaper at me and it falls to the ground. Bending over to pick it up, I straighten out the pages. “The newspaper?” I ask. Taylor crosses her arms over her chest and eyes me. “You have some explaining to do.” Panic hits me and my eyes dart over the black and white papers. A bold headline pops out at me: “Luck’s Leading Lady.” A photo beneath the words shows Brady and me kissing from last night, my body pressed against the length of his. My hand moves to my lips as I remember the feel of his taking mine. Under the photo is a caption that includes my name. I close my eyes for a split second, bracing myself to face Taylor. “I see you know what I’m talking about now. What is going on, Cali?” She looks at me, her brows knitted together. “And please don’t tell me you can’t talk about it.

I’m your best friend and you’re swapping DNA on a sidewalk with Brady Luck,” she says, a hint of hurt shining through for finding out about Brady this way. I breathe in deep. Nothing about this day or the next couple months will be easy. I have to lie, lie, lie. It’s not a natural thing for me at all. “I need some coffee before I start.” Setting the paper on my kitchen table, I make a beeline to the counter and pull some coffee out of the cabinet. “Let me read the article to you first.” Taylor sits at the table and places the paper in front of her. “Ladies, it appears Brady Luck is unofficially off the market. Luck was caught passionately kissing Cali Jones, the unidentified mystery woman from this past week. The couple’s intimate goodbye occurred on the sidewalk outside his highrise last night. Rumor has it Brady may have found the one. According to Luck’s agent, Rod Tidwell, Luck and Jones have been seeing each other privately. The now public relationship could signal toward Luck planning to make Cali Jones a permanent fixture in his life. Let’s hope love gets his swing going too. Stay tuned for updates on Chicago’s hope for a World Series and his lady luck.” “I can explain.” Most of it. “I hope so, because nothing make sense,” Taylor sighs. I bring two mugs of coffee to the table and prepare to tell the first batch of lies to my dearest friend. “It’s true. I have seen Brady privately,” I say, accentuating the word since I can’t tell her it was because we were behind the closed doors of an exam room. “Since you fell at his feet?” “Yes,” I nod. “Between you and me, that was the beginning.” “And last night?” she asks. I sigh, though I try to hide it. This question is hard, but I can’t avoid the fact that I wanted to dismiss his offered drinks. “It was a dispute between us. He followed me outside and I left with him.” I take a sip of my coffee, hoping the caffeine kicks in. “Interesting,” Taylor says. She leans her elbow on the table and taps a finger to her lips. “I get the feeling he’s the one who’s been chasing you, care to elaborate?” “Can’t fool you,” I conclude, ignoring the question while looking anywhere but at her. She can never know why he’s been chasing me, plus the thought of telling her I make his cock hard so he wants me is too embarrassing to say out loud. “You have been, though, and it’s not like you to keep something like this to yourself. I had a feeling something was up last night when he sent us drinks.” “There’s something wild I still need to tell you,” I say, steering her away from her thoughts. “All ears.” Taylor leans closer toward me. “I’m moving in with him today.” Taylor’s eyes bug out and her mouth falls open. “I thought your banging was the movers coming early.” “Stop it,” she laughs. “No fucking way.” “Yes way.” I shake my head at her. “I need more coffee.” “Let’s go across the street for breakfast. This conversation requires some carbs,

preferably in the form of pancakes.” “Let me change,” I say, getting up from the table. I head back to the closet of doom and find a clean pair of jeans along with a pink summer tee. Slipping on my favorite tan sandals, we leave my apartment for some food. Taylor and I stand outside the diner an hour later, stuffed after eating a pile of chocolate chip pancakes with a side of bacon. Taylor has started to believe this thing between Brady and I is real, because I answered a thousand questions to her liking. Maybe it’s because she’s always trusted me to be honest with her. I cringe at the thought. “Tell him one thing for me, as your bestie.” “Sure, you earned that title.” I smile at her. “If he breaks your heart, I’ll kill him. A slow, painful death,” she says in a way that makes my hair stand on end. “You think I’m kidding?” “I think you’re serious and scary,” I tease, but she is leaning more on the freakme-out side at this moment. “Okay, you can replace the kill for maim, but that’s as easy as I’ll be on him. I don’t want to see him hurt you like that sack of shit Mitchell did.” Taylor was the friend that wiped every tear away when Mitchell left me. I owe her so much for seeing me through that heartache. “This time, I’ll even help you with the maiming if he does.” I give her a hug, thankful to have her as my friend.

THE REST of my day resembles a whirlwind. Brady’s personal assistant, Heather, arrives at my apartment with the moving crew in tow. Heather is about forty years old and looks like the type that chews nails for breakfast. I don’t think her face knows how to smile, but I immediately know I want her on my side during the zombie apocalypse. When she gives the movers their instructions for the move, she leaves no room for confusion or questions. I bet she keeps Brady in line too. Boy, I hope to see that someday. They begin packing everything from my closet and dresser drawers. I place a few personal things I will need over the next couple of months on my bed and wonder what I should do about my vibrator. I guess I’ll leave it for now. I can always come back for it later. It’s not like my apartment is going anywhere and I can never step foot in it again. The time with Brady will be more like a long vacation than a permanent move. According to Heather, all my items will be unpacked and placed in Brady’s guest room for me later today. It will be the first and only time everything will be hanging up too. “Thanks for everything,” I tell her and the guys, who have box tape flying in the

air. “Just part of our job, Ms. Jones,” Heather states as she scans over her phone. “Well, I appreciate it.” “You have an appointment at ten and two today, correct?” Heather asks, but continues before I can respond. “Dinner with Brady will be at seven.” “Do you make his dates for him?” I ask, a little snide. I’m not a fan of how impersonal scheduling every aspect of my day feels. Or of her telling me when I’ll have dinner with Brady. Call me old-fashioned—though I really didn’t feel this was an outdated gesture—but I want the guy to call me up, not receive an invite from a personal assistant. “Honestly,” Heather looks up from her phone, “Brady never dates. You’re the first.” A stupid girl smile spreads over my face, but there’s no reason to grin. I’m not the first, I’m the one being paid for a fallacy—big difference, even if I want to pretend, in some magical world, I truly am Brady’s girl. I need to shut down these feelings before it’s too late. By the time I leave for Nordstrom, I’m running late as usual. I exit my building and a familiar driver leaning against a shiny black car greets me. “Good morning, Ms. Jones.” Stuart rises from the car and opens the door for me. “Morning, Stuart.” I stop at the door before entering. “I didn’t know you were coming here this morning.” “Brady insisted,” he replies with a nod and a smile. “Seems he wanted you safe.” “Well, Nordstrom can be dangerous. All those price tags screaming at me. Purchases that rob me blind and cause my charge card to go over its limit.” “I believe today’s purchases are on Brady’s account.” “Then he should be the one needing protection. You know I’m kidding, right?” I ask while climbing into the backseat. “I hope not,” Stuart says with a laugh before closing my door. The second he does, my phone rings from my purse. When I find the phone and look at the screen, I see my mother’s number. Shit. Shit. Shit. She’s likely found out about Brady, too. “Mom,” I say after accepting her call. “Don’t ‘mom’ me, young lady.” Yep. She’s beyond pissed, bordering on enraged. “How do you think it feels to have every woman in the church calling me about my wayward daughter and that baseball player you’re snogging.” “Mom, his name is Brady, and we’re not British,” I respond. My mother has an obsession with everything across the pond. In addition to a new house, I’m taking her to relive Pride and Prejudice with a special English countryside tour. She’s dreamed of it for years. Now, back to round two of me lying about Brady and me. I can’t remember the last time I’ve lied to my mother. Likely back in college about Mitchell. Boys and their trouble seem to be the common ground.

“Tell me what’s up, Cali. Or was it just one of those modern hookups? Every one of my friends says you’re his girl for the hour literally.” Ouch, that stings, but I’m not surprised since Brady’s not so stellar reputation is summed up in one word: manwhore. “I get it. He’s been around the bases, so to speak.” No need to sugarcoat the truth. “Lots of homeruns, too.” If she only knew it was over two-hundred. “I don’t want my smart and beautiful daughter being another tally on his scoreboard.” I have to silently hold back a giggle. Being as much of a baseball nut as I am, my mother nails the double entendres. “Well, let’s consider me a new game, and I have not let him score yet,” I say. “Really?” She sounds surprised, and I can’t blame her. I am, too. He’s paying one million dollars without a sample or guarantee there will be more. And I thought I was the crazy one. “I am proud of you. You know what I’ve always said. Why pay for the milk when the cow gives it for free.” “Well, I’m not a cow, Mom.” And even if he does taste the milk, it will cost him seven figures. “When were you going to tell me?” she asks, her voice now ringing with hurt. “I was going to call you this afternoon. Promise. Those photos weren’t supposed to happen. I wanted to make sure he was going to stick around.” Nothing like an inked contract to guarantee he’s not going anywhere. “I hope you know what you’re doing. Remember last time…?” her words trail off. “No forgetting Mitchell.” Some relationships just leave a mark—or a shitty hash mark. “But I’m over him.” And it’s true. Blocking his number when he texted me during his team’s Chicago road trip means it’s over for me. Now he’s electronically erased from my life, and in this social media crazy time, that’s like saying, “you’re dead to me.” “Why can’t you date a nice baseball player, like Matt McDonald?” she asks, and I shake my head. “Mom, he’s married with a baby on the way.” “Oh, I didn’t realize. All the good ones are taken.” “Brady’s not bad,” I say, then draw my brows in. Now I’m defending his manwhore ways—what’s up with that? “Promise me you’ll be careful. I can’t choose your friends anymore, but I worry.” “That’s the last thing you need to do. I’ll be fine, promise.” My mother has aged since my brother was arrested for selling drugs four years ago. It was just pot at the time he was busted, but the harder stuff most likely wasn’t on him. “You know I’ll always worry about you. I love you too much not to.” And with those words, I decide the little tidbit about moving in with him can wait. One revelation at a time. Maybe I’ll tell her Monday night—our usual catch up on the phone evening—before the week gets out of hand and I’m too exhausted

from juggling balls and penises all day. Men are such odd creatures. “Love you, Mom. I need to run.” Stuart pulls up to the curb of Nordstrom just as I end the call. Perfect timing. He comes around to the side of the car and opens my door. “Good luck with your shopping, Ms. Jones,” Stuart shoots me a broad smile as I step out. I’m glad he’s not the stereotypical stuffy chauffeur. “I feel like you should call me Vivian today,” I say, giving him a wink. “Vivian?” he asks. “From Pretty Woman.” I start to walk away. “A rich man made her look classy, too.” “Some people are born classy.” I turn back around to find Stuart nodding his head. “Me?” “Yes. You have more class in your pinky than all the others combined.” Ouch at the reminder of all the others, but yay to me for being standout. I walk back the couple feet separating us, and in a total Vivian-type move, reach up to lightly kiss him on the cheek. “Be cool while I’m gone,” I say, like I’m truly channeling Vivian. “Text me when you’re ready to be picked up here and taken to your next appointment.” Stuart hands me his card. Pretty fancy. “Got it.” I give him a thumbs up and stash the card in my handbag. Now the fun begins. I walk inside Nordstrom and glance around, lost. I was hoping the words “Personal Stylist” would be lit in a flashing neon sign for me to see, but this place isn’t Eamon’s pub. I text Heather with a desperate question. Where is the personal stylist? Help. Two seconds later, Heather replies. Good thing she programmed her number into my phone this morning. 2nd floor, right, through designer dresses. Ask for Donna. Thanks. Lifesaver. I am already riding up to the second floor when she replies. It’s my job. My finger hovers over a smiley emoticon, because sending a heart is definitely out of the question, but I decide texting nothing back is the best option and place my phone back in my bag. I step off the escalator and straighten my clothes, truly understanding how Vivian felt when she walked into those snotty boutiques on Rodeo Drive. But this is Nordstrom, a much friendlier place. After weaving through racks of Oscar, Valentino, and Dolce, I find the sales associate working in designer dresses. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Donna, the personal stylist. My name is Cali Jones. We had an appointment at ten and I’m running late.” “Ms. Jones.” I turn toward the sound of my name. A woman in a stunning black

suit with peep toe heels stands behind me. “Donna White.” She holds out her jeweled fingers and we shake hands. “Good morning. I didn’t hear you.” “Carpeting,” she answers while looking down. “You’re more lovely than the photos I saw of you this morning.” I lower my head. “Yeah, those.” “It’s my job to get you ready for shots just like that.” She locks elbows with me. “So, let’s get to work.” “Okay,” I say, feeling much more at ease. I like her already. “This is going to be fun. Let’s get you undressed,” she giggles as we enter the fitting rooms. “I love saying that.” “Nordstrom has been more torture for me than fun.” She looks at me with a blank stare. “Student loans,” I elaborate, and her mouth forms a small O. “Gotcha, but not today. My client, Mr. Luck, has asked for me to remove all the price tags from the items you try on.” “Why would you do that?” I ask. “He wants to spoil you, darling. Shower you with gifts and have you not think about the consequences. Rich men like to do that for the women they love.” I laugh at her remark. Love? As if. He’s in love with the fact that I can get his love machine running again. But buying me clothes is sweet of him regardless, and I certainly wouldn’t want to be ungrateful. Even Vivian took all the gifts…well, she took his cock too, but that’s another story. Fun to Donna ended up being a complete two-week wardrobe down to new panties and bras. Hours later, I have amassed a wardrobe Beyoncé would envy. Well, that might be a stretch, but at least I feel like the queen with all my new clothes. They even fed me lunch while we shopped. “Listen, if you need anything, and I mean anything, call me.” Donna hands me a white business card with her name on it. I add it to my handbag along with Stuart’s. I have “people” now. It’s so odd. “Will do,” I say, though I likely won’t need another thing. I wear maroon scrubs every single day of the workweek. It will take me forever to mix and match the hundreds of items she piled onto Brady’s charge. I look around the room and wonder how many bags Stuart and I will be carrying home today. Which home is another question too. “There’s so much here. I’ll text Brady’s driver and get help.” Before I can even reach to grab my phone, Donna interrupts, “Oh, sweetie, we’ll deliver it to your place, or is it his?” She gives her eyebrows a wiggle. “His,” I whisper, because I publically declared with a three-letter word I shack up with him. Donna may be professional, but she’ll talk, and pretty soon, my living arrangements will be in the fucking headlines. I sigh. “Here’s my favorite dress of the day, along with matching accessories for

tonight. Also, some frilly undergarments.” Donna hands me a large bag filled to the top. “Even nightwear,” she adds with a wink. I look inside the bag, finding black lace peeking out of some tissue wrappings. Great. I finally own expensive lingerie and have no one to share it with. I’ll be damned if Brady will see it tonight, and try to convince myself this will be the case every night until October when his team is either in or out of the Series, but I doubt even a nun could withstand Brady’s charisma and persuasion—and I’m not a nun, that’s for damn sure. Stuart drives me to Maison for a hair and body appointment, though I have yet to learn what “body appointment” means. I should text Heather since she’s the one who set this whole day up, but I’ll live on the edge and find out once I arrive. “Ms. Jones,” Jean George, the owner himself, greets me as I walk through his spa’s doors. I can’t believe the attention everyone is paying me. Any other day, I’d be just another young woman who could never afford this place. “Welcome to Maison.” “Thanks,” I say as he ushers me to a corner of the salon area. “You have more than great bones. They’re fabulous. And your blue eyes. No wonder Brady is head over heels.” He sits me down in a beauty chair and turns my head to each side. He smiles at me in the mirror, appearing giddy. I can’t imagine why though. “Will you trust me?” “The last guy who asked me that broke my heart.” Jean throws his head back and laughs. “You’re perfect for our Brady,” he says while wrapping me in a black protective cape. “We’ll see,” I add, my tone dripping with sarcasm, and he chuckles. I hear a text ping from my phone that’s buried somewhere under my cape. “Excuse me, Jean.” I find my handbag, then phone, and there’s a text from Heather. Brady will pick you up at your apartment. Crew’s working late setting up your room. Instead of texting her back, I push call. “Yes,” Heather states, like I’m the biggest pain in her day. “Listen, I know you’re doing your job and trying to help Brady with everything, but the personal stuff between Brady and I will not have a go between. He can pick up his damn phone and text me. He has my number. Unless it’s too hard for him,” I end with a punch and a smug smile. I glance up in the mirror and Jean is doubled over with laughter. Shit. I can’t pull this kind of crap in public. Oh well. More fodder for the gossip page. “Well, look who has a spine.” Heather laughs, but it’s not a cruel one. “I like you, Cali.” I couldn’t be more surprised with her statement, unless she asked me to have a sleepover where we did each other’s nails and makeup.

“I like you, too.” I think. God, this conversation has turned weird as shit. “From now on, all communication will be from Brady, unless he’s out of pocket or something. No more playing the middle man for him.” I do like her after all, and think she respects me more now. “Perfect,” I answer. I hand my phone back to Jean after ending the call. “I need it close by. Brady should be texting or something.” “I love you,” Jean says, eyeing me through the mirror’s reflection. “If I weren’t gay, I’d give Brady a run for his money.” “Well, he has a ton of it, so it’s good you’re gay.” Jean laughs and shakes his head. “I hope he knows what he has in you,” he states in a more sober tone. “You’re the real deal.” I have to look away from Jean’s gaze. Brady knows exactly what he has in me— the woman who made a deal for a cool one million dollars.

SIXTEEN

BRADY “Mr. Luck, are you okay?” Stuart asks from the front seat of the car. “We’ve been sitting outside Tiffany’s for over ten minutes, and we’re parked in the bus lane.” Stuart has no idea why I asked him to drive me here while Cali is at Nordstrom, and I’d rather he find out from me than the stupid media. “Just taking a few deep breaths before I pick out an engagement ring for Cali.” There’s silence in the car. I was expecting some type of noise, a laugh perhaps, or maybe even Stuart choking upon hearing my words. God knows I almost did saying them. “You’re not kidding, are you?” Stuart asks. I shake my head as he eyes me in the rearview mirror. “I’m going to pop the question tonight.” Or make it official, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Well, I’ll be damned.” Stuart grins at me. “I didn’t think you had it in you. You sure did pick a winner. Congratulations, Mr. Luck. I hope she says yes.” “Remember who you’re talking to, Stuart. She’s a done deal. Put a fork in her, bro.” Though, I’d rather it be my dick. I need to get laid so fucking bad. Maybe once she has a ring on her finger, she’ll cave. “A bus is approaching, Mr. Luck. Better jump out or let me circle the block.” “Getting hit by a bus might be less painful,” I mutter under my breath as I open the door and land on the sidewalk. Once inside Tiffany’s, a man comes striding up to me. His black coal suit and trademark turquoise tie are a dead giveaway. He’s management. “Mr. Luck, I’m Darren Smith, the store manager. I spoke with your PA, Heather, this morning,” he declares as he reaches his hand out to me. “What a pleasure to have you in our store today.” “Thanks,” I say, after an over-the-top handshake. I half expect him to pull out a ball for me to autograph for his kid. I can spot a

fan a mile away, and I’d be happy to sign one. It’s all about the fans, after all. They fill up the seats and help pay for the ring I’m about to buy. “We have a viewing room ready for you in the back. Maureen, our top associate, will assist you. Heather didn’t mention what you were interested in on the phone. We do have some finely crafted watches for a gentleman, or perhaps a gift for your mother?” “Nothing for me or my mother today.” “Interesting.” The manager leads me to a room in the back of the store. A blond woman stands from her chair and walks toward me. She’s somewhere in her thirties and hot as hell, but in a classy sort of way. She licks her red lips and eyes me as she approaches. “Good afternoon, Mr. Luck,” she greets, and we shake hands. Her eyes are fixed on mine as her fingers touch every inch of my palm when she pulls away. She should just tell me to unzip her dress for how subtle she’s not being. “I’m Maureen,” she says, purring at me like a cat. When women sound like this, I’ve found it’s really their pussy talking, needing to be stroked. Forget a little harmless flirting, her actions suggest one thing: she wants to fuck. Wait until she finds out why I’m here. It’ll shock that sexy smile right off her pretty face. “Nice to meet you,” I say as she motions for me to take a seat at the table. She sits in a chair across from me and bends over so her tits are the main attraction. “What can I help you with today?” She licks her lips again, but this time slower and with the very tip of her tongue. Normally, my dick would be hard as a rock, but nope—nothing’s happening. Damn broken dick. “I’m looking for something big.” “Yes, to match the man,” the saleswoman says with a definite wink. “Or the woman’s heart?” she adds, pushing her chest out even further. Holy fuck. Next thing I know, she’ll get up and start doing a strip tease on the table. Time to shut this shit down. “Since you mentioned heart, do you have any heart-shaped diamond engagement rings?” “Did you say engagement rings?” Her mouth falls open and her eyes are as round as quarters. “Yes, for my girlfriend, hopefully soon-to-be fiancée.” I lean back in my seat and wait. “The girl in the paper?” I nod. “Wow, that was fast.” “You know what they say about insta-love—it’s instant.” I lean my head to the side like I’m thinking of Cali, and funny thing, I am. It’s those blue eyes of hers. “Well, I’m happy for you and her,” she says, straightening up in her seat and wiping the drool off her lips. She takes a deep breath, seeming to regroup. Her smile changes from sexy to salesperson. Thank fuck. “Thanks,” I respond. “I am lucky.” To have found the woman my dick likes.

“So, we have solitaires and our beautiful Halo heart stoned ring is beyond words. More of a diamond is wasted to make the heart shape, so the stone is more precious.” “Well, I don’t know if I’ll ever get engaged again, so let’s go for the best. Let me see the Halo one.” “Would you like to see the coordinating wedding bands, too? For your bride-tobe and yourself?” “Just the engagement ring for now,” I say. A wedding band isn’t hitting my finger anytime soon. Maureen pivots to a professional sales person and helps me choose the most awesome ring. Like the one I’d buy if this were real and I were head over heels in love with Cali. I figure I can reuse it down the line, after I retire and decide to tie the knot…or is that an asshole move? Maybe I better rethink that. Carrying a blue bag with a little blue box, I head back out to the car. Inside the box is a ring worth over six-figures. The hit to my wallet sure made this day seem real. I’m definitely holding on to that receipt. Wanting to make sure Heather has the movers on target for Cali’s new room being ready tonight, I have Stuart head back to the apartment. I want her coming through the door happy she made this decision. Hell, she’s been uprooted from her apartment and set down in mine—that kind of a shift can fuck with your mind. Next up is a call to my agent. Rod has no idea I just bought an engagement ring and will shoot me in the ass if the media alerts him first. I wouldn’t put it past Maureen to be on the phone with the Chicago Sun-Times right now either. I hit call and the line rings. “What’s up, Brady?” Rod answers, sounding upbeat. I wonder just how upbeat he’ll sound when I tell him my news. “The press ate up you eating that girl’s face last night. I’m surprised you gave me her name. Usually they go nameless, mostly since you don’t know their names anyway,” he trails off, laughing like he’s splitting a gut. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Keep laughing. Actually,” I say, my tone sobering, “I’m calling to tell you something about her.” My stomach knots up and I blow out a breath. Telling him makes everything seem real and fucking freaky. No more chasing pussy this season for me—not that my dick would let me anyway. “Well, I just bought an engagement ring for her.” “Why would you do that?” he asks, his tone shifting, seeming flabbergasted. Not that I can blame him. The idea of me getting married to anyone is so far removed from who I am…or was. “Because I’m going to ask her to marry me.” “What are you talking about? You’ve seen her like how many times, five?” he says, disbelief in his voice. I sigh, dreading having to tell my brother too. He’s going to flip his shit. “I’m going to ask her to marry me tonight.” Technically, I don’t have to do this, but Coach is insisting I make a public proposal—the down on my knees in a fancy

restaurant kind. “Well, it’s your funeral kid, or your johnson’s,” he laughs. I want to tell him my dick’s already dead, but why bother? After that enlightening conversation, I spend the next couple hours at the penthouse. I’m not sure why I’m so wound up about having Cali here. I guess the last woman who stayed over didn’t leave the best impression. Heather tells me there’s no food in the house, so I order a shit load from Trader Joe’s for delivery. I have no idea what Cali likes to eat. Fuck, for all I know she’s a vegetarian. She does drink, so that’s in my favor, but we are virtually strangers, like those arranged marriages where they meet for the first time at the altar. At least it’s not a lifetime commitment, just a temporary fix until things in my pants improve. I can stick this out until after the Series, if we are lucky enough to end up there. Around six, I shower and forgo the usual shave, leaving the day’s scuff on my jaw. Chicks seem to dig it, and Cali may too. Coach wants the world to capture this proposal on film for some crazy assed reason. Maybe to pin Cali and me to the agreement? So I’m taking her to The Signature Room atop the John Hancock Building. It’s all open and white tablecloths. It will serve the night’s purpose. Heather reserved a table for two by the window and in full view of the rest of the patrons. I imagine the first thirty minutes will be me signing shit and taking photos, but after that, I want to have a nice steak, if my stomach will let me. This getting down on my knee business has me on edge. I walk out of my room, ready for Stuart to take me to Cali’s apartment, when Heather stops me on the way to the door. “Did you call Cali about tonight?” “What do you mean? I thought it was all settled.” Heather tsk tsk’s at me and I prepare for her to set me straight. “I told you Cali wants you to call her for dates, etcetera.” “Shit, I thought that was going forward, not tonight.” “You’re such a knucklehead. Even more tonight since you’re going to propose.” “How did you know that?” “Coach. Plus, you buying something for a women’s finger that fits inside a small blue box already hit the wire.” “Great. Just fucking great. I hope Cali doesn’t hear about all this.” “Me, too. Better call her now and clear this up first. You don’t want her saying no, do you?” “First Stuart and now you. What’s with everyone wondering if she’ll say yes? I’m Brady Luck, baby.” I try to air kiss Heather and she swats me away. “Call her,” Heather demands like a bossy big sister. Cali picks up on the first ring. “Hello,” she says.

“Cali, it’s Brady.” “So the caller ID says.” “Well, wires got crossed and I’m calling to ask you to dinner tonight.” “It’s almost six-thirty. What if I have other plans?” “Do you?” “No, but I might’ve.” Her voice has a warning in it, a silent “don’t fuck with me”, but damn, I want to. “Well, I would love to take you out for dinner, if you are available?” Who the hell am I? I sound like I’m asking her to prom. “Let me check.” Oh my God, is she really putting me on hold? “Looks like I can swing it after all.” “Thank fuck,” I whistle before thinking. “Nice language. I guess we are past first impressions.” “You are moving in with me after dinner, so I think we’re past the formalities.” “Don’t you wish,” she says, and I can see her teasing smile in my mind. Funny thing, it makes me smile too.

SEVENTEEN

BRADY Stuart drives me to Cali’s apartment. I knock on her door, my most charming smile in place, ready to woo the pants—hopefully—right off her, when someone who is not Cali opens the door. “Taylor. Best friend,” a black-haired chick with matching black eyes introduces herself. The smile drops from my face as she raises a brow at me and places a hand on her hip. “Brady, boyfriend?” I cough out the word. “So I’ve heard.” Taylor eyes me up and down and I shift on my feet. “May I come in?” I laugh to myself. Me standing outside a girl’s apartment asking to enter, I don’t remember the last time this happened—if ever. Usually my hookups and I fall into my apartment, a mess of legs and limbs from making out in the elevator and hallway. Add the fact that I don’t do dates and I bet it’s been high school since I stood outside looking in. “Sure, just watch the landmines,” she jeers at me when I glance up at in confusion. “Just kidding.” “So, you’re the interrogator?” I ask. “Yes, and I’ve just started with you.” She wants to toy with me, and I can’t think of a place I’d rather not be. No wonder I don’t fucking date. She’s giving voodoo chick a run for her money. “Taylor, you promised to be nice,” Cali admonishes as she comes into the main room. “Quit giving Brady too hard a time.” My breath leaves me as I stare at Cali. “Wow!” I exclaim. “You look…” I am at a loss for words. Finally, I find one. “Stunning. Completely stunning.” “Thanks.” She smiles and moves from side to side in a small twirl. It makes the lower part of her light blue dress move around her shapely legs. I can’t take my eyes off of them, or her. She looks so damn beautiful, I want to parade her around on my arm for the world to see—and they will soon.

What the hell kind of talk is that? I better shut that down now. “I see you’ve met Taylor,” Cali says, gathering her purse. “We had a brief introduction,” I say, summarizing our thirty seconds. “You came out too soon,” Taylor complains with a pout. “I didn’t get to warn him. You know, about the castration.” “The what?” I squeal. “Yep. If you screw with her, it’s your fate,” Taylor says, moving toward me. There’s a glint of danger in her eyes and I’ve decided it would be in my best interest to stay on her good side. I don’t want to see the other—ever. “I will, promise.” I hold up two fingers like in my old Boy Scout days. “Here’s me watching you.” She holds up two fingers like Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction and does that eye-to-eye thing. “For goodness sake, Taylor,” Cali says. “Cut it out. He’ll behave.” She winks at me, and she’s likely right. At least for tonight.

CALI and I arrive at the Hancock Building and I guide her through the entrance with the hand on her back. Even in her fuck-me-while-I’m-standing-here heels, she’s tiny next to me. The Signature Room is on the ninety-fifth floor, and there’s only one way for Cali and I to get there. People gawk at us and click their camera phones while we walk through the lobby to the elevator bank. Standard shit for me. I scan the crowd with a smile on my face and a couple head nods. Fucking love my fans, but Cali has drawn so close to me, her entire body is nearly plastered to my side. “You’ve got this one, Brady,” a young kid yells out. I wave a thumbs up at him and smile. The grin on my face has something real behind it, though. I’m ready to get this suspension over with and return to my team. Just being around Cali the last couple days has improved my mood. Maybe Coach is right. It’s all in the brain, not the head on my dick. But all this attention isn’t anything Cali wants or asked for. I need to remember that. “You’ll get used to it. Promise. Besides, they’re just checking out my hot as fuck date.” “Stop it,” she says, giving me a forced smile. I reach down for her hand and spread my fingers through hers. Looking up, she smiles at me and my stomach twists, for whatever fucking reason, but not in a bad way. Whatever I’m feeling is foreign, but not bad. Matter of fact, I kind of like it. “Why are you being so nice?” Good question. “I guess I like you. As a friend.” This time, her smile back at me reaches her eyes. “Thanks. I’m sure I’ll get used to it around the time I move out.”

“We’ll see,” I reply with a squeeze of my hand, not sure whether I’m referring to her moving out or her getting used to the attention. It has to be the attention. This thing between us has an end date, and thoughts like that need to stay far away from my mind. “Mr. Luck.” A man approaches us with one of those security type earpieces. He pushes the device closer to his ear and nods his head like he’s listening to someone on the other end. “I’m getting them now.” “Sorry about that, sir. I’m Greg,” he says, gesturing for us to follow him. “Heather phoned ahead and informed us of your arrival. We have a special back elevator for high profiles.” I glance down at Cali, who’s also looking up at me. “Stick with me, kid. I’m a fast way to the top.” She grins while rolling her eyes. We arrive at the rooftop and I step off the elevator with the same pressure in my ears I get from flying. The man who escorted us to the elevator also escorted us up and hands us off to a hostess. “Good evening, Mr. Luck and guest.” She winks at Cali, which is odd and welcomed. I don’t want people flirting with me tonight. Maureen was enough for one day. I shake my head. Wanting women not to flirt with me has never crossed my mind—not once. What the fuck is going on with me? I follow behind Cali and enjoy the sweet wiggle her ass makes in the blue dress and heels. If I weren’t behaving, I’d give it a little swat for good measure. A hum starts in the place as we weave through the tables. Same old song and dance—people point, whisper, and click. I pull out Cali’s chair and she gives me a look of surprise. “Remember my mother tried to raise me right,” I say with an emphasis on tried. “Kudos to her for the attempt,” she replies while sitting down. Was she being sarcastic? It’s hard to tell at this point. A waiter takes our drink orders the second the hostess leaves the table. This is what I call player service. It’s the usual in this town, even if we’re losing. Chicago fans are long-suffering. “How do you do it?” she whispers. “Do what? Order a drink?” I tease, already knowing what she’s implying. “This,” she scans the faces all turned in our direction. “It’s like we are two goldfish in a bowl for them to stare at.” A few kind souls turn away when they’re caught staring, others use it as an opportunity to get my attention. They’ll approach me for an autograph even in fancy five-star joints like this. A father and his son rise up from their chairs while talking between themselves and looking at me. “Seekers. Ten o’clock,” I say to Cali with a slight nod of my head in their direction. “Seekers?” she asks as she follows my eyes and sees the duo a couple feet away. “Oh, I get it.”

“Excuse me, Brady.” They always call me by my first name. I’m in their living rooms from spring to fall, so I’m like a familiar friend, even if they do cuss me out from time to time. “My son is your biggest fan. He dreams of playing for Chicago, too. Would you mind taking a photo with him?” “I’d be happy to.” I place my napkin down on the table and wink at Cali. “Excuse me, baby.” She looks shocked at the term I use for her, or maybe at how naturally it rolled off my tongue. I take a few selfies and posed shots with fans for about five minutes before the restaurant manager shuts down the show. I tell everyone I’ll take more if they’re around when I leave, which pretty much solidifies they will be. “You know, you’re really great with your fans,” Cali says. “I’m impressed, to be honest.” “Well, they’re everything to me. I’ve been a Chicago fan all my life too, and I’m lucky enough to play ball for them. Can’t take that shit for granted.” “I guess your cockiness is saved for the ladies,” she quips. I want to whisper back that no woman has complained about my cock or cockiness, but I wouldn’t be sitting here with her if that were true. We both order steaks, and I grin. All the meat I ordered from Trader Joes is safe. Other things I’m learning about her since we sit down is she’s fucking gorgeous, for one. Her brown hair is shiny and curled in waves over her breasts. I lick my lips when I try to imagine them bare. I would say at least a C-cup, maybe more. Either way, she’s real for sure. I haven’t sat and stared at her like this, face-to-face with nothing between us, or alone in our conversations. Well, there are people watching our every move, but they’re only background next to her. “Tell me something?” “Like what?” She takes another sip of her red wine. She said it goes better with red meat, so I caved and ordered a glass too. First time for everything. I rub my chin and look toward the ceiling, which happens to be over two stories tall. “What’s your favorite movie?” “The Notebook. Hands down,” she declares. From her tone, I can tell it’s not to be argued about. However, I’ve never heard of it. “Oh, is it about kids at college?” She shakes her head at me and wrinkles up her nose. My question seemed logical, since she’s just out of school. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” she asks with a look of disbelief. “I’ve never heard of it,” I retort. “It’s not like it’s Star Wars or a Cohen Brothers’ movie.” She laughs a little too loud and a couple heads turn. I wonder if people realize she’s laughing at me. “Well, it’s the most beautiful love story in the world. Ryan Gosling is in it. Ring a bell?” “Sure. He’s in this great movie called Drive. Violent as shit. He goes around blowing brains out.”

“Great dinner conversation,” she quips, but our plates were cleared minutes ago. “So, what makes your movie so special?” I ask, prepping for chick language and love talk. “It’s the story of two people. How they fought to be together at the beginning and then it shows them at the end of their lives together. The man’s wife can’t remember him, so he makes a notebook of their lives together. He reads it to her every day. Some days, she remembers. Some days, she doesn’t.” “Wow, that’s some movie,” I say with a straight face, though it sounds like fucking torture. The put-a-fork-in-my-eye kind. “Quit lying,” she says with a pointed stare. “You don’t fool me. You’d last two minutes with this movie. Tops.” “Does that include the opening credits?” I ask, and we both laugh. “Okay, it’s my turn for a question. Have you ever dated anyone or thought you were in love?” She searches my face and waits. Jeez. “Where did that come from?” “Answer the question. I did yours,” she singsongs. “It’s pretty easy really. Yes and yes.” “Wow, really?” Cali tips her head, eyeing me. “Care to elaborate? Or too chicken to actually talk about yourself?” Now she’s trying to get a rise out of me. I’ll show her that I can talk about my feelings, even if I would rather jump off a cliff, which kind of feels like what I’m about to do. “It was a long time ago. Senior year of high school.” She leans over the table to get closer to me, which makes me shift in my seat and pull at my collar. I never talk about this shit with anyone, let alone a woman. Even my mother doesn’t know the full story. “Brady, I think this girl broke your heart,” Cali says while reaching out for my hand that’s resting on the table. She wraps her fingers around mine, and damn, it feels good. “Like I said, it was a long time ago. She wanted a guy who was going to college. Not some dumb athlete slinging a ball around a diamond.” “Well, she was a fool.” She squeezes my fingers before releasing my hand. “It helps me understand why you fuck bimbos.” I spit out the sip I was taking of my wine. “Bimbos?” “Girls who have bigger boobs than IQs.” She assesses me from across the table. “They’re not going to hurt you.” Is that true? Whatever, I like big boobs and girls who use their mouths for things besides talking. Enough of all this feelings shit on just my side. “Since you asked about my past, what about you? Been in love?” I ask, leaning back a tad in my chair. She looks down at the table and starts fiddling with the only fork left, the

dessert one. “Yep, college for me.” “And…” I roll the word around in my mouth for a couple seconds. She finally looks up into my eyes, but I’m not prepared for the sadness I see in them. “I’m over him, but it took a while.” “Does he live around here?” I ask, hoping the answer to this question is a big fucking no. Not sure why, but I’d rather this dude be a million miles from her. “He lives in New York City.” I shout a silent, “yes.” He’s likely one of those educated and polished guys who wear a three-piece suits. “Wall Street guy?” I’ve turned into one nosy son of a bitch, but she hasn’t shut me down. Maybe because I was open with her. It’s like show me your ugly love and I’ll show you mine. “Actually, he’s in sports,” she mutters, reaching for the dessert menu. “Dessert?” “Sports. Is that right?” No way is she changing the subject now. This is my wheelhouse. “What’s his name? Maybe I’ve heard of him.” The sports world is pretty incestuous. Agents change clients and teams trade players all the time. One morning a player might be swinging a bat for Cincinnati, and by dinnertime, he’s hitting homeruns for Atlanta. Change is the only sure thing in the game, so you tend to see the same faces on the merry-go-round. “Mitchell Thomas,” she states, and returns to the dessert menu. “How does chocolate mousse sound?” “Wait, you’re not talking about the Yanks’ Mitch Thomas, are you?” Blood rushes to my head at the thought. That dude is an asshole. A scumbag of the worst kind. A total douche. Even his teammates hate him.

EIGHTEEN

CALI Brady exhales a couple short breaths and the veins on his glorious neck pop out. Mitchell appears to be a hot button topic for him too. This news isn’t going to be easy to break. “Afraid so.” I glance back down at the dessert menu and realize it’s upside down. “I would rather not talk about him, if you don’t mind. He’s the past.” “He’s an ass,” Brady spouts while he shuffles, looking like he’s about ready to jump out of his seat. “Everyone in the league hates him. Honestly, you’re way too nice of a girl to be with a fucker like him. He’ll never be a good anything, including a boyfriend or husband.” “Believe me, I saw it firsthand. Just took me a while to get past all his charming lies. Besides, same thing happened to me that happened to you. He dumped me. I wasn’t good enough in the end.” “Bull-fucking-shit,” Brady says way too loud. A woman at the next table gasps and I glance her way, shrugging. She ends up smiling back at me. Brady’s forgiven for everything it appears. “What is it about him you hate so much?” I ask, my brows knitted. By the hostility he has toward him, there has to be a reason. I can’t even conjure up this type of emotion when I talk about Mitchell now. “Well, um…I guess I don’t like the idea of him being with you. You know,” Brady lowers his voice and raises his eyebrows at the last words. “I’m afraid I don’t. Care to explain.” I place an elbow on the table and lean my chin on a hand. “He’s touched you and all.” I roll my eyes at his comment. “True. You didn’t pull me out of a convent for this contract. We did meet at a bar the first time, remember?” I say, straightening in my chair. “Are all men such cavemen?” “Yeah, well, he’s been around a lot,” Brady says in a serious tone, and I burst out laughing, like a full-blown roar. My eyes start watering and I spit out, “Oh my

God,” between chuckles, not even caring that every person in this place is watching us. “Mr. Two-hundred saying this is like the pot calling the kettle black,” I whisper across the table while wiping the wetness from my cheeks. “It’s different.” He reaches across the table and laces a hand with mine. “You’re not like those kind of girls.” My heart does this thing at his words I can only describe as a sigh. Maybe it’s one of relief that he doesn’t see me as another bimbo he wants to get blown by, or maybe it’s feeding my fairytale fantasy that he will fall for me and I’ll be his Cinderella. I need to derail both of these trains before I get my hopes up to only crash. It’s time to focus on the reason I have a contract for one million dollars. Brady hired me to be a good luck charm for his cock. A harsh reality when I think of it in those terms. Also, I refuse to let myself turn into a stupid girl. I’ve been down that track before—never again. “But I’m no different,” I state in a firm tone that makes him sit back. He furrows his brows and regards me across the table. “Of course you are,” he says in my defense. “You have an IQ much bigger than your boobs.” “Thanks,” I scold and roll my eyes. “But you’re wrong. I may be worse. I signed my life over to you for a few months.” I fold my hands on the table. The walls need to come back up. Even if we do have fun together between the sheets and elsewhere, he’ll forget me before the last stream of the ticker tape falls on the streets celebrating Chicago’s victories. Sure, I’ll walk away a rich loser, but he’ll have the entire world in the palm of his hands. Brady glances over my shoulder and his eyes go wide. “Oh, shit,” he mumbles, pulling his fingers through his dirty blond hair. I glance over my shoulder and follow where he’s looking. A gentleman dressed in a black tux, looking like he just left a performance at the symphony, is approaching the table carrying a violin. I spin back around to face Brady, expecting him to be in his chair, but he’s kneeling on one knee beside me. He gives me a shaky smile and digs in his pants pocket, pulling out a small blue box with a silk white ribbon tied into a loose bow. No, please no. Fuck, this is a nightmare. Why is he proposing? Next thing I hear is the sound of a beautiful melody from the violin man and I’ve never felt sadder in my entire life. Brady begins to open his mouth and I brace myself for his words. “Cali, will you marry me?” Before I can say a word, the entire restaurant is up on their feet, clapping and whistling like Brady just scored a homerun. I lower my head, wishing I could be anywhere but here. I try not to let the tears fall, but they do. One after the other, after the other. “Look, she’s crying tears of joy,” a woman close by to us says. Sadly, even in this intimate moment, Brady and I are like fish in a bowl for them to observe.

“Cali, what’s wrong?” Brady asks, and I realize I haven’t answered him yet. “It's too perfect,” I blubber through my tears as I wipe my eyes. “And that's bad?” Brady asks. “I’ve dreamed of this moment since I was a little girl, hoping the man I love would propose like this, and you even added violins to top it off.” My crying has turned to sobbing, snot and all. I grab my napkin from dinner and wipe my nose. “I’m sorry?” he pleads, taking my hand in his, still kneeling in front of me with the violin still playing. But it feels more like a funeral death processional. Everything is fake, and most importantly, there’s no love. Why did he have to do this in public? Why?

NINETEEN

BRADY

CALI STARES at me with big tears falling down her cheeks and it guts me to see the heartache etched on her beautiful face. Her eyes are light clouds of blue. Tears aren’t something I experience with women. I never stick around long enough for them to cry over me. There’s no attachment, which means there’s no breakup. I’m at a loss at what to do. Coach said for me to give her the best and make it seem real. Never in a million years did I expect her to react like this. I wave off the violin player. What a stupid, over-the-top idea he was. Thanks, Heather, for that last minute arrangement to further twist the knife into Cali’s heart. Fuck, if I’d only known. I set the blue box on the table and take her hands in mine. “Listen, we can leave now. I truly am sorry, Cali.” I mean every last word too. Taking a deep breath, she frees a hand from my grasp, reaches up for the Tiffany box on the table, and fiddles with the bow. “We can’t make a scene,” she says through her tears as her eyes dart around us. “Your fans expect me to accept.” “Screw them. I’m worried about you,” I say, bringing her one hand still in mine to my lips. I kiss the soft skin and look up at her from my kneeling position. I brush away a tear from her face and she forces a smile, though her eyes remain pained. “Yes, Brady Luck. I’ll marry you,” she says, louder than necessary. The quiet crowd that has been watching our exchange, and likely holding their breaths, cheers once again. “The ring, Brady. The ring,” says some fucker a few feet away. It’s like a sporting event with play-by-play commentary. “I’ll let you open it.” I pick up the box and hand it to her. Her fingers are shaky

as she takes it from me. Slowly, she releases the ribbon and removes the outer shell to reveal the special keepsake box. Cali closes her eyes for a second and inhales before opening the lid. When she lifts the top, her eyes blink rapidly and tears form all over again. “It’s a heart!” she exclaims. “I’m making this worse, aren’t I?” She nods her head, unable to speak while small rivers run over her cheeks. She holds out her hand with the ring finger and I gently lift her hand and ease the ring down over her knuckles. “Of course it fits perfectly,” she says through sobbing breaths. “Let’s get out of here, what do you say?” She nods her head in agreement and I throw a few hundreds on the table. It’s plenty and then some to cover the bill. The fastest way out of here is a straight line to the hostess station, but we will have to weave through table after table of fans and neither of us are in the mood to mingle with the masses, so I scoop her up in my arms and dash toward the elevator we came up in. “Brady,” she says as I weave through tables and people congratulating us. “Put me down.” I ignore her request and pull her even closer to me. She weighs nothing, but feels like everything in my arms. “Almost there,” I say into the waves of her hair. Damn, she smells good. She wraps her hands around my neck and looks up at me. Her tears have stopped, which makes me a very happy man. “You okay?” I ask in hopes of hearing a yes. “Better,” she replies. “I hope you know the photos of our engagement in the papers tomorrow will be of you carrying me through this place. It’s very Notebook of you.” She smiles for the first time in what seems like forever. “Yeah, me and Ryan, we’re good at sweeping women off their feet.”

“I’M CURIOUS,” Cali says, leaning against a side of the elevator as we ride up to my penthouse. “Yes, you are,” I interrupt. “It’s one of the few things I do know about you.” She laughs at my joke, but it has a hollow sound to it. She’s still not recovered from the proposal. “Did you pick out the ring or did Heather?” She gives me a pointed stare, daring me to tell her. “I went into Tiffany’s and selected the ring by myself.” I turn my head a touch and nod. “I can do romantic.” “My uncle gave me a bridal dress-up set when I was about four. There was a costume heart shaped ring in it. I’ve never forgotten it after all these years,” she says, new tears forming in her eyes. “I’ve always wanted a heart diamond, but there’s no way you could’ve known.”

I take a stride to her in the elevator and bring her into my arms. I should’ve asked before I acted, but she collapses into me. “I thought I could do this fake thing,” she says, and I rub my arm against her back in a soothing motion. If only I could take back the events of tonight, but there’s nothing that will put the genie back in the bottle now. To make it worse, the media will be captioning the shit out of our photos. Social media sites are likely on fire with the buzz. Thankfully my phone is turned off or it would be vibrating nonstop with notifications. Cali looks up at me with searching eyes. I want to say something to make her feel better, but nothing comes to me, so I do the one thing I am good at with women: I react physically. Bending down at my knees, I grab her sweet face in my hands and kiss her lips, which are parted in surprise. I expect her to back away, but she stills for a split second, then presses her lips against mine. Her reaction is like a yes for me, so I deepen our kiss. It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve been with a woman, so my pent up needs are on overdrive, but I don’t remember ever having a kiss like this one. I feel the connection of our kiss down to my fucking toes in an all-consuming sensation. My needy dick gets as hard as a rock and all I want to do is rip her clothes off, wrap her legs around my waist, and bury myself balls deep inside her. I control the desire for more raging inside me and pull away, remembering we are in the fucking elevator where our every move is being watched by security. But holy shit, no woman has ever brought out the animal in me like Cali. “Wow,” I say, looking down at her. She gazes up at me with hooded eyes, gone are her tears. “Double wow,” she whispers through short breaths. “Was that okay? I mean, I don’t want to push you.” Who the hell am I asking a woman if it’s okay after I kiss her? The thought has never crossed my mind. Well, until Cali. “Kissing is okay, I guess. But no sex.” My hands are still holding her delicate face. I can’t seem to let her go. “Good. I didn’t want to have sex anyway,” I say, and her brow forms a question. “You don’t?” she asks, her voice a mix between disappointment and hurt. “Fuck no. Of course I want to have sex with you. It’s all I can think about.” “Oh.” A ghost of a smile plays at her lips. The elevator stops and the door slides open. “Come on. I have something to show you.” “Wait. What about no sex?” Cali stops in the hallway before walking toward my penthouse door. I spot a smile starting to crack on her face. She’s teasing me. “I was talking about your new room, pervert.” I reach for her hand and pull her toward me. “But I’ll be happy to show you that too. Remember, I’m nine inches of fine. I’ve got a ruler in the kitchen desk if you’d like to medically verify it. Something to add to Brad Luciano’s closed file.” “You’ve measured yourself, haven’t you?” she accuses with her words and eyes.

“Who, me?” I raise my brows and look up at the ceiling, feigning innocence. I mean, what guy hasn’t? “I’d rather bend you over and spank you with it,” she huffs while crossing her arms over her chest. “That can be arranged too,” I laugh and waggle my brows.

TWENTY

CALI

“KEEP YOUR EYES CLOSED,” Brady commands as we stand outside the closet door in my bedroom. “Hello? Your big bear paws are covering my entire face. I can barely breathe.” “Voila,” he announces like a game show host while dropping his hands and opening the door. “Holy shit,” I say like my tongue is caught in slow motion. Everything that was once on the floor of the closet in my apartment is hanging up and coordinated. Pants are in one area and arranged by colors. It’s the same with the tops, dresses, and even the jeans, which are sorted from light to dark. “You like it?” Brady asks as he hovers over me. It’s so big, there’s even a chaise lounge sitting in the middle of the room. “It’s like one of those housewife shows.” I walk to the chaise and lie down on the plush velvet cushions, flinging one arm over my head like some lady in waiting. Bethany Frankel, eat your skinny heart out. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just commune with my clothes for a while,” I giggle. “I’m glad you like it.” Brady moves to the end of the chaise and sits his gorgeous frame on the edge. He corners the market on all things big, and makes the chaise look like children’s furniture. He’s so adorable sitting here with me, returning my smiles with wider ones and blinding me with his handsomeness. How could I hold anything against him? He’s forgiven for the shit show tonight…well, for the most part anyway. “Like?” I laugh. “I fucking love it.” I run my hands along the long line of clothes neatly hung and spaced on a bar. I’ve never had an organized closet in my entire life. I rebelled against my neat freak mother with a constant clothing explosion on my floor. Problem is, I’m still rebelling. Maybe it’s just me and my nature. “I’m going to let you get settled.” He stands from the chaise and pulls out his

phone. “I hate to even turn this damn thing on.” He runs his finger over the screen. “Here we go. Prepare for ugly,” he chuckles. “Fuck,” he whistles under his breath. “Ten voicemails from my agent. Six from my brother Bryce.” His fingers fly over his phone. “I’ll start with the texts. Easier.” “Good luck,” I call after him as he starts to leave my room, kind of missing his company already. “You know where to find me if you need anything.” He gets to my door and stops. He turns around and gives me the cocky smirk that turns me to goo. “Mind if I tuck you in later?” “I have to warn you. I sleep in the buff.” The look in his eyes is priceless.

I’VE SORTED through everything in my closet. It’s weird having people set up all my personal belongings and then going through to locate everything. It’s like a fairy godmother waved a magic wand and all my stuff appeared here all organized. In a bathroom as big as my old bedroom, I rummage through the linen closet and all the different products Brady bought for me. There are shampoos to body scrubs and everything imaginable in between. It’s like a stroll through the best aisles at Sephora. I might be having a moment. Maybe I’m just high from opening all the bottles and smelling the contents. But the closet and bathroom are too organized for me, so I dig through the racks, find a familiar pair of old jeans along with a T-shirt, and toss them on the closet floor. I step back to view my uniquely me touch and nod. Now it feels like home. Give me until the end of this workweek and the closet will resemble a tornado’s aftermath once again. Setting out to explore the rest of the penthouse, I wander around the kitchen for a few minutes, opening drawers and cabinets. I peek in the refrigerator to find the shelves and drawers stocked full of meats, cheeses, fruits, veggies, and God only knows what else hidden deeper in the back. It’s a sad contrast to my usual Lean Cuisines and Greek yogurts, but I smile, finding myself excited to actually cook. I grab some grapes and note a carton of brown organic eggs and the thickest sliced bacon know to porkdom. Breakfast is my favorite meal to cook and I feel giddy about showing Brady I know my way around the kitchen. Not that it will matter really, but at least he’ll get some warm breakfasts out of the deal since I’m not warming his bed. At this point, we are nothing more than roommates, though I’m not sure I can resist him until after the Series—or if I even want to. I can’t help the feeling that I’m only delaying the inevitable while waiting for him to profess feeling something more for me than just a warm body that gets him off. After rinsing the grapes and finding a small plastic bowl, I head back to my room. When I turn the corner, I run straight into the brick wall known as Brady.

The sudden jarring throws me back a little and the grapes and bowl fall out of my hands onto the floor. “Ugh,” I gasp, then realize the big obstacle in my way is a shirtless, sweaty version of him. Suddenly, I can’t breathe. “You okay?” he asks, picking up my grapes. I watch his back muscles ripple as he bends and stands back up. He’s wearing black cycle shorts that leave nothing to the imagination. Not that I have to imagine. “I’m fine. I didn’t see you there. Sneaking up on me?” I hit his arm and meet all muscle. “Been working out?” “Missed my batting practice today and I needed to work off some frustrations— you know, the lack of sex. Unless you’d like to help me in that department,” he adds with a wink. “I plan on leaving my door unlocked, if you'd like to do the cuddle thing, or whatever.” “Cuddle?” I shake my head and take the grapes as he hands them to me. “I didn’t know that word was even in your vocabulary since your ‘friends’ are kicked out before the condom is pulled off.” “That’s true,” he gives me that cocky grin, “unless there’s hope for a round two.” “Tell me why I agreed to this?” I ask the air around me. “Because my dick likes you and I was willing to pay to make him happy.” Can’t fault him for being honest, even if it makes me even more like Vivian than I care to admit. “There are other things you can do besides full on sex.” He waggles his brows and I raise mine at him, my face deadpan. “I agreed to inspire your dick, not get asphyxiated by it.” Brady laughs in that wicked way he does when I make fun of him, like he’s in on the joke too. It’s maddening. Damn him. To further torture me, he removes the white towel slung around his shoulders and I see his bare chest for the first time. It’s like I’m at The Chicago Art Institute standing in front of a sculpture. I blink a couple times and spot an upturned horseshoe tattoo with the number seven inside it over his heart. It’s not large, but definitely there. “I didn’t know you had that.” I’ve stalked him since he came to Chicago two years ago, surely I would’ve noticed it on a photo of him before now. “When did you get it?” “Not too long after I turned eighteen. The horseshoe works for my last name and I’ve always worn the number seven on my jersey.” Without thinking, I trace my fingers over the horseshoe. His skin is so soft, even though it’s like a slab of granite beneath the surface. I let my eyes travel from his sculpted chest down to his lower abs where his perfect V disappears, sadly hidden by his cycle shorts. “Oh, sorry,” I say, pulling my hand back to my side. I want to slap myself for being so dazed by his body. Talk about sending the wrong message. “No problem. I enjoyed it.” He gives me a lopsided smirk.

“Doesn’t take much for you, does it?” “Not when you’re around.” It amazes me that I do it for Brady Luck. I can’t begin to process this fact as my heart does a little flutter. “Gotta grab a shower, and it looks like it’ll be a nice long one.” I glance down at his crotch. Sure enough, he’s at full mast or close. “Care to join me?” He throws me a wink and I want to slap him for being such a charming devil. “What happened to the sensitive guy in the elevator who asked about kissing me?” My question is more a tease, because this ornery version of Brady is likely the real one. “Even after an hour plus on the bike, I am still worked up, as you can see.” He nods down at the magnificent cock outlined by his black shorts. My fingers itch to trace it like I did his tattoo. I lick my lips instead and decide I need to escape back to my room before I do or say something I’ll regret. “Enjoy your shower,” I say, focusing my eyes on his face, since it’s possibly the least dangerous part of him. “I’m going to go call my mother and Taylor. Maybe watch a movie in bed.” “Can I join you later if I promise to behave?” “I don’t think that’s possible.” “Me either,” Brady says, and follows it with a quick peck on my lips. He turns and walks away and I stare at his awesome ass with my mouth wide open. The view gets me all hot and bothered. Add the sweet kiss, and it further breaks down my defenses to hold him at bay. When he turns a corner down the hallway and disappears from sight, I sigh in frustration—and relief. He’s a dangerous sight for my sex-deprived body. I head back to my over organized closet and lie down on my chaise, contemplating sex with Brady. It’s boiled down to a should I or shouldn’t I, like a perverted Shakespearean question. However, there’s only so much a woman can withstand in close quarters with a gorgeous guy who packs a nine-inch cock. I wonder if I can make it past the weekend. If I do, it will be a miracle.

TWENTY-ONE

BRADY

AFTER TWO ROUNDS of hand-to-dick combat in the shower, my need for Cali still hasn’t been quenched. All I can think about is how sweet she smells and how soft her lips are when I kiss them. Add those innocent blue eyes of hers and I want to devour every square inch of her. Getting ready for bed, I pull some clothes out of my dresser to sleep in, stuff my half-inflated dick into a pair of boxer briefs, and laugh. Here I was worried about my dick being dead and now it’s like a heat seeking missile with a bullseye set between Cali’s legs. Before crashing, I decide to go check on the legs in question to see if they need anything, or Cali needs anything—her, too. I spray on a shot of cologne for good measure and walk toward her room. Standing outside her closed door, I listen for any sounds from inside. When I don’t hear anything, not even music playing in the background, I wonder if she’s fallen asleep already and knock lightly on the door just in case. “Come in,” Cali calls out. “Door’s unlocked.” I open the door and find her sitting against her headboard with her laptop. “Good time?” I ask. “I guess.” I can’t miss the stress in her voice. “I just got off the phone with my mother. She’s freaking the hell out about our engagement. I couldn’t tell her I’m living in your penthouse, but I know she’s going to find out.” “I had a similar conversation with my mother. I won’t even go into what my brother said.” Bryce asked if I was off my meds and needed a straightjacket. I told him to go fuck himself, he said I was the one who was fucked, and I ended the call shortly after that. “Anyway, my mother wants to meet you tomorrow. My brother’s having a pool party at his house and we’re invited. You up for it?”

“It’s part of my gig,” she says with no enthusiasm at all and draws her mouth into a straight line. I hope she’s just tired. I clear my throat and reach to grab the door handle. “Well, I’ll let you get some sleep.” “I was going to watch a movie on my laptop. Care to join me? You’ll have to stay on top of the covers, though. No touching beneath the sheets.” “What are you going to watch?” I let go of the handle and take a few steps into the room. “Um, The Notebook,” she answers, and I roll my eyes, trying to think of any reason not to watch it, but how can I say no to her favorite movie? It’s the least I can do for the hell she’s getting from her family. “Are there boobs in it?” I tease. “Maybe,” she singsongs, patting the empty side of the bed next to her. “I can work with that.” I ease onto the bed and scoot close to see the computer screen. Her scent hits me and I take a deep breath. “Damn, you smell really good.” “Thanks. It’s called Black Opium.” She moves her cursor and clicks play to start the movie. “Perfect name,” I mutter, feeling high just from being near her. I move my nose closer to her hair and inhale. “Are you sniffing me?” she asks, turning away from the computer to face me. Our faces are so close, her breath washes over my skin. Our eyes lock and my world stills until soft piano-type music begins to play. “The movie,” she rasps, “it’s starting.” “You don’t say?” I whisper back, so tempted to consume her lips. “Watch it with me,” she pleads. Hell, I can’t say no if I want to. This moment has me—hook, line, and sinker. “Okay. Bring on the sappy shit.” She hits me in the arm and I flinch in surprise. “Ouch, what was that for?” “Quit being a big jerk.” She scoots away from me and though it’s only a couple inches, I don’t like it one bit. I want her back and Black Opium hitting me with every breath. “Okay, okay.” I hold my hands up and settle against the headboard. “Promise to wake me up when the sex starts.” “Shut up, Brady,” Cali orders with a side-eyed look that would make me cringe if she weren’t so damn cute. The movie begins and I wonder when the romance crap is supposed to start. “It’s just a bunch of old people running around a nursing home. Maybe I don’t want you to wake me up for the sex after all.” Cali gives me an elbow to my ribs. She’s as bad as my brother with all this punching and jabbing. But I can overlook the slight pain, since her killer rack is barely hidden behind her tank top. Shit, I see the perfect outline of her nipples too. I can make it through this movie as long as I have this view. “Be patient,” she says with a sigh. “The old man is telling the woman a story

from back in the forties.” Finally, Gosling appears and I relax. Things are starting to look up. Until this fiery redhead named Allie won’t go out with him. “Well, shit. She just dissed him.” “She makes him work for it. It’s part of the fun between them.” “The chase,” I conclude as he stands around waiting for her at a Ferris wheel. “Something like that.” She searches my face and something passes between us, “but when he finally catches her, it’s worth every bit of the struggle.” “We’ll see,” I say in a challenge, and she laughs. “What the fuck?” This Noah dude is one crazy ass motherfucker. He’s purposefully dangling from the spokes of a Ferris wheel trying to get Allie to go out with him. “Are your hands sweating?” Cali asks in a tease, but my palms are sweating. “She better tell him yes fast.” Finally, Allie agrees to go out with him and I’m thinking he won the battle of wills until she pulls down his pants while he’s still hanging there. “Shit, that girl’s got balls. I like her.” “Told you it was a good movie.” Before I know it, I’m sucked into Allie and Noah’s story. I even quit talking and just enjoy the movie, which shocks the hell out of me. Occasionally, Cali will glance over at me and smile. Other times, I’ll do the same and catch a tear rolling down her cheek or hear a quiet sigh. Yawning, Cali leans her head against my shoulder. “Tired?” I ask as I put my arm around her. “Exhausted. This getting fake engaged wiped me out.” She eases down on my chest and I gently run my fingers through her hair. This type of touching, the kind that doesn’t lead to fucking, is intimate and foreign to me, but I like the feel of just holding her—I like her in my arms. After realizing she hasn’t moved in well over fifteen minutes, I say her name in a quiet voice, but she doesn’t stir. I should lay her down against her pillow and turn off the movie, but I have to watch it to the end now. I don’t like Allie’s father and her mother does everything she can to keep them apart, but they’re stronger than all the forces pulling at them, including another guy. He seems like a nice guy, but he’s not Noah. That dude is made for her. I cringe at my thoughts, already hearing the laughs from the team if they find out I watched this chick movie and liked it. It’s not even a funny chick-flick. The guys on the team will never let me live it down. Maybe I should add this incident to Cali’s NDA.

TWENTY-TWO

CALI

ONCE WE’RE inside his penthouse, Brady closes the door with a slam and spins me around. Resting his hands on my shoulders, he looks down at me, raw hunger in his eyes, and I can’t turn away. “That kiss in the elevator was only a warm up, baby.” Shivers run down my spine and my nipples tighten under my clothes. He bends down, places his hands under my ass, then lifts me up. Wrapping my legs around his waist, he presses my back into the door with the length of his body. And shit, speaking of length. His big cock pushes into me at just the right spot and it feels beyond good. I moan, unable to suppress what he’s making me feel. “You like that, don’t you?” he asks while attacking my neck with kisses. Lost in the sensations, I roll my head from side-to-side as he trails kisses up to my lips. “Yes,” I breathe, “but we shouldn’t do this.” “Please, we’ll leave our clothes on,” he begs. “Just a little harmless dry humping like in middle school.” “That was late high school for me.” “I was progressive.” “You were a teenage manwhore.” “Yeah, but I learned a lot of tricks. Let me show you.” He circles his hips and my eyelids flutter with each pass over my clit. “The night we met. I thought about fucking you against the wall.” “You did?” I ask through his thrust. “I thought of pressing you up against a wall in the back of the bar and fucking you senseless,” he continues, his dirty talk edging me closer to an orgasm. “You have to quit saying things like that.” “Why?” he asks as he continues to swivel his hips while pressing up into me. “Because I’m about to come,” I moan as he grabs my hands and holds my arms over my head, pinning me to the wall with his cock and hips.

Soft cries and mewls escape my lips as I close my eyes. He thrusts upward a few more times and I throw back my head, imagining what it would feel like being impaled by his nine inches. A tightness builds at the thought and I come with a spectacular cry. I begin to open my eyes and realize the dry humping was all a fucking dream— literally. My heart races as my body comes down from the post-orgasmic high. Holy shit, I just had a wet dream involving Brady. I try to move, but a heavy weight is wrapped around my waist. Before my eyes are fully working, I reach down to feel what has me pinned to the bed and find Brady’s arm. Shit. The first night here and I’ve not only slept with him in my dreams but also my bed. I glance over my shoulder. Brady’s fast asleep next to me, but lying on top of the covers. I let out a quick breath knowing we didn’t actually touch skin to skin under the sheets. It’s too soon. Slowly, I turn onto my back so I can look at him closer. When he’s awake, there’s something about the look in his eyes and the nearly permanent smirk. They combine to make him that adorable cocky player I have crushed on for two years. But asleep, his face is totally relaxed, making him look younger and less edgy. His long lashes rest against his high cheekbones and his dirty blond locks are a beautiful mess, but it’s his lips that draw my eyes. Full and slightly open, they are way too inviting. I want to kiss him, maybe even nibble on that glorious jawline of his, which has the most delicious covering of scruff. Then I wonder what the hell I must look like. I am not like Brady where sleep only makes him hotter. I slide out from under his arm, sneaking out of bed to protect my dignity, and tiptoe to the bathroom. One look in the mirror and I’m glad I escaped when I did. My hair is a rat’s nest of tangles and I look like a raccoon with mascara smeared under my eyes. After a quick shower, I get dressed in yoga pants and a tank. Brady’s out cold, because he hasn’t moved an inch, even with me stirring around the room. I wonder how much of The Notebook he watched as I spot my computer folded closed and sitting on my nightstand. I leave him asleep and head to his—I mean, our, kitchen to fix him some breakfast. As soon as the sinful aroma of bacon permeates the air, Brady appears, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. My jaw hits the floor as all six foot three of him stretches, relaxing his sleep stiff muscles. “Morning,” he says, smiling at me. I close my mouth, trying to recover. “Hungry?” I squeak out, but I’m not just asking about the food. Lord knows I’m hungry for a taste of him. What woman wouldn’t be as he stands before me, all rumpled sexy from bed. “Very hungry,” he says, giving me a direct stare. I look away from him, more to hide my own desires than deal with his.

STUART DRIVES us to Bryce’s house for the pool party and we arrive around one o’clock. Bryce lives in the upscale Chicago suburbs of South Barrington, complete with an ornate metal fence surrounding the property as well as a guarded gate. I suppose he needs privacy from crazed fans and the media, but it’s more a fortress than a home. “Wow, your brother has some place.” “Wait until you see the pool. It’s obnoxious.” “Not any more than your bachelor pad in the clouds.” “True, but you’ll swear you’re at The Ritz.” “Um, Brady. I’ve never been to that hotel, or any like it. Remember, you and me,” I point a finger between us, “different worlds.” “Not anymore, baby. My cloud is your cloud.” “Whatever,” I say, upping the sarcasm, but liking the fact that he’s seeing me as part of his life. It eases the feeling of being an interloper. I think the hearty breakfast I fixed helped, too. After all, a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I glance over at him and he smiles. Yeah, I’ve already won over his cock, I wouldn’t mind having his heart. A girl can dream, even though I know fairy tales belong at Disneyland. Brady walks me through Bryce’s home and it reminds me of his own penthouse —bachelor pad city. “You two have the same designer?” I follow him deeper into the house, but other than a couple paintings, the place has no color. “How’d you guess?” Brady asks with a wink. In the distance, I hear shouting and laughter followed by a large splash of water. We pass through one more opening and enter a huge open room where the outside wall is one big glass window with a view of the pool beyond. Brady was right. The thing is obnoxious. A wall of large rocks creates a waterfall into the pool and there’s even a swim up bar staffed with a bartender. “Jeez. It’s ridiculous,” I laugh as he takes my hand and leads me outside. My stomach flutters and flips as I scan the crowd around the pool. It’s like a beautiful people convention. Shapely blondes, curvy brunettes, and sultry redheads hang on the arms of the men. I recognize many of the guys as fellow Chicago football players. Everyone’s wearing swimsuits, though some of the women’s bikinis look more like scraps of fabric and show off more tits and ass than I expected. I suddenly feel like I have too much covered in my sundress. “Isn’t your mother coming?” I ask. She’s the reason I chose to wear something conservative and simple—a big mistake, obviously. Instead of blending in, I stick out like a nun at a hooker convention. “She’s over by the food.” Brady points to a gray-haired woman filling her plate with the spread on the table. “I’ll introduce you to her first, if we can make it that far.”

“Okay,” I say, following behind him around the pool deck. I hang my head and cower behind Brady when Kevin Reynolds, a football player from Northwestern, approaches us. He plays pro ball for Chicago now and is a friend of Mitchell’s—or was, in college. There’s no way he won’t recognize me since we hung out for over two years while I dated Mitchell. “Brady, man, how the hell are you?” Kevin claps Brady on the back. “Hitting’s been in the shitter.” “Thanks for bringing that up,” Brady quips and looks to his side for me, but I’m more behind him now. “Who you hiding?” Kevin says with a laugh. “Straggler from last night?” Yep, he’s still the same old jerk he was in college. He and Mitch were two peas in a pod, or two sweaty balls in a jock strap. “Haven’t you heard?” Brady asks. “Let me introduce you to my fiancée.” “What the hell?” Kevin yells, laughing hysterically. “How did I miss that? I haven’t recovered from last night’s fuck and whiskey.” Such a nice mouth he has on him. I can’t wait to shock the shit out of him. Walking out from behind Brady, I keep my head lowered with my hair forming a curtain, then slowly raise it and make eye contact with Kevin. His mouth hits the deck. “Cali?” he whispers after a few seconds, his brows knitted in confusion. He looks back and forth between Brady and I. His gaze drops to where Brady has his hand protectively covering mine. “She’s your fiancée?” “How do you know her?” Brady steps in front of me, his tone accusatory, and I have to chuckle. He sure is taking this fake thing to heart. “She dated Mitch Davis,” Kevin announces. I peer up at Brady and watch his jaw tighten. This is going to be fun. “So I heard,” Brady spits out. “Sorry excuse for a gifted athlete.” “Well, Cali sure didn’t think so back in college, and even a time or two last year.” Kevin uses his words like a knife and I flinch. I want to tell Brady it was only once when I was lonely and weak, but that would confirm what I want to forget. Mitchell must’ve told Kevin, because I’ve told no one —not even Taylor. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Brady steps up and pokes his index finger into Kevin’s chest. “Getting into a fight already?” says Bryce Luck, Brady’s brother, who walks up by our side to referee. “I was just telling Brady congratulations on landing Mitchell Davis’ ex-girlfriend for his fiancée.” Kevin gives Brady a mocking smile and I want to slap it off his filthy face. “His what?” Bryce asks, looking between Brady and me. “I’m confused. Are you Cali?” “I am. It’s nice to meet you.” I smile at Bryce, then turn to give Kevin the dagger death glare. What a fucking asshole. “I dated Mitchell back in college. Brady knows.

It’s in the past.” “Not sure Mitchell thinks the same,” Kevin claims in a way that implies Mitchell cares, but I know he really doesn’t. “You know you’ll likely be playing the Yanks in the Series, Brady. The former boyfriend versus the current one. Should be fun to watch.” “Get lost, Kevin.” Bryce throws him a don’t-fuck-with-me look and Kevin starts to laugh. “You Lucks sure are easy to piss off.” He drains the remaining bit of his beer and tosses the bottle in a nearby trashcan. “Anyway, I need another one.” “Don’t listen to that fucker,” Bryce says as he holds out his hand to me. “Welcome to the family. I hope you know what you’re doing.” “Thanks,” I reply. “I’m a big fan.” Great, Cali, I think, just announce you’re a total fan girl. “Well, you’ve got season tickets for life if you stick it out and marry my brother.” Bryce searches my face, like he’s trying to assess me. I blink and bite my lip, unnerved under his scrutiny. “You’re way too pretty and smart for him, though. How’d you pull this off, Brady? Did you have to pay her?” Bryce laughs at his joke, but Brady and I just look at each other, waiting for the other one to speak. Finally, Brady breaks my stare and turns back to Bryce. “Something like that,” he says, squeezing my hand. It’s a subtle reassurance that we are on the same team, and I appreciate the gesture. “Brady, is this her?” The woman Brady pointed out as his mother stands by Bryce with the widest smile on her face. Her blue eyes twinkle just like Brady’s. “Cali, this is my mother, Millie.” “Oh my, dear. It’s so lovely to meet you. I am super surprised to hear about your engagement, mind you.” She gives Brady a reprimanding look. “But thrilled to learn one of my wayward sons has found someone.” “It was all very sudden, no doubt,” I say in my and Brady’s defense. She takes my hands and holds them to the sides. I feel like she’s inspecting me and I want to pass muster. “You’re beautiful and perfect for my Brady. Not like the others wandering around here with no clothes on.” I give myself a mental high-five for wearing something that covers my assets— even if I feel like I popped out of the fifties. “So nice to meet you,” I say with a sincere heart, and she gives me a big, mother-type hug. “I’m afraid I can’t stay for this hedonistic party,” she says, looking around the pool deck at Bryce’s friends. “I have a church meeting, but stopped by to meet you. I have always wanted a daughter—and grandchildren.” What? This is going too far, especially knowing in a few weeks Brady and I will part ways. I look to Brady for help here, and he shrugs his shoulders, like it was almost expected. “Mom, we haven’t even set a date.” “Let a mother dream.” She kisses my cheek and hugs Brady goodbye, making him promise to call her more. In this regard, she and my mother would likely be

best friends. “Bryce, will you walk me to my car?” “Sure, Mom.” Bryce links arms with his mother. “Back in a minute, you two.” “We will talk soon, Cali,” Millie says. “Sounds good.” She pats my cheek in a loving way and smiles up at Brady. We watch them walk away and I exhale, hoping the weight on my shoulders lifts. This lying part sure is exhausting and makes me feel like shit. “Sorry about the grandchildren part,” Brady apologizes after his mother leaves. “What can we do?” I say with an understanding smile. “My mother will likely tell me the same thing. It’s the fake part that feels wrong to me. She’s too sweet of a woman to lie to.” “I know. Guess I never thought about all of it. Coach made it sound so simple.” He runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. “I head out early tomorrow morning to meet up with the team. It’ll be my first game back since suspension.” “You’ve got this, Brady,” I encourage, because he needs it. “I’ve been avoiding the media the last week, but I know they’re going to be on me tomorrow.” “Let’s have fun and forget about it. Want to swim? I brought my suit.” I hold up my large bag with my newly purchased bikini in it. Donna insisted on the one I bought. It shows off my curves nicely she said. “You did?” Brady shifts on his feet and looks around. “I guess it’s okay, but I have batting practice in a couple hours. Coach will have my ass if I skip it.” “Where should I change?” I look around for a pool house, but don’t see anything resembling one. I guess the pool bar took priority. “Inside. Follow me.” Brady shows me to a restroom off the cavern-sized TV room. I slip into my suit and open the door to leave, only to find Brady leaning against the opposite wall. His mouth drops open when he sees me in my suit. “You can’t wear that out there.” “What do you mean?” I glance down at my bikini to make sure all the important parts are hidden—not a nipple slip in sight. “I don’t want them seeing you in this.” He walks into the bathroom and grabs a big white towel from under the sink. “Wrap yourself in this.” “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I protest, crossing my arms over my chest. His eyes lower to my breasts and go wide. I look down and so much for nipple slips not being in sight. “Oops.” I rush to move the fabric of the top to cover myself. “Look what you’re doing to me.” He points to the bulge in his pants. “I’m going to need to jack off now, but I don’t want you going outside without me.” “I’ll wait. It’s not like I haven’t heard you jack off behind a closed door before.” “Are you kidding? I’m not going to jack off now.” Brady sounds disgusted with himself—or maybe me, for thinking he would. “You need this more than me then.” I hand him the towel so he can wrap it around his waist, and he does, but it only shows off his issue more. “Maybe I’ll just stand in front of you,” I laugh, but he doesn’t.

“Funny,” he mutters under his breath in a pissed off tone. “Seriously, those guys better not look at you,” he warns, an edge to his voice. “What will you do if they glance at my assets? Beat them up?” I laugh at the thought, but he gives me an impassive stare with a jaw so tight, I’m afraid it may snap.

TWENTY-THREE

CALI

THE BOTTOM of the pool is too deep for me to touch, so I cling to Brady for support. His large hands splay across my ass, holding me to him. I grip onto his shoulders for support and wrap my legs around his waist, causing his erection to press into my needy clit. Our position seems fairly innocent since we have clothes on, but when I look at him directly, his eyes are dark and hooded. Occasionally, he lifts my body and my pussy glides over the length of him. I should say something, like “stop, you horny fucker,” but it feels too damn good. I don’t want to dry hump in front of his brother and teammates though—or is it wet humping if we’re in a pool? Either way, I’m not making a great first impression if we stay out here much longer. The up and down motion over his cock has almost turned in to a continual rhythm and we’re the only people floating around in the water. Everyone else is standing around the deck or lounging in chairs being social. “Brady, we should get out of the pool. My fingers look like prunes.” I show him my fingertips, but he doesn’t seem bothered by their wrinkly appearance. “Let’s stay in the water a little while longer,” he whispers into my ear. My skin hums as his breath blows over me. I have to close my eyes and remind myself we are basically in public. “Why can’t we get out?” I swear, if he keeps these movements up, I’m going to come undone. “I don’t want anyone to see you,” he mumbles while looking away from my gaze. “You have got to be kidding me,” I say a little too loud. “This is why you’ve kept me covered in water up to my neck?” “Maybe,” he says with a sheepish smile, but his cute cockiness isn’t going to work this time. “Jesus, Brady,” I mutter, shaking my head. I wiggle out of his arms and swim to the steps. Walking out of the pool, water dripping everywhere, I find the white

towel we brought outside with us. “Hey, Cali,” Kevin calls, and I turn to face him. “Give me a smile. I’ve got to send a pic to Mitch. He’s got to see what he’s missing.” A roar sounds from behind me before I see Brady running full steam toward Kevin. Brady swings his fist back and before I can yell, “stop,” the crunching of bone against bone sounds out. Kevin’s head flies back, his entire body landing over a lounger and his phone at Brady’s feet. “No!” I scream as I run toward them. Picking up Kevin’s phone, Brady tosses it into the pool and I shake my head in disgust.

“WAIT, Cali,” Brady calls after me, hot on my trail as I charge out of Bryce’s house, heading toward Brady’s car. Stuart relaxes against the trunk of the black sedan, reading something on his phone as I storm up. “Ms. Jones?” Stuarts asks, looking up from his phone and appearing confused by my sudden appearance. “I’m ready to leave. Please.” I grab the door handle, but Brady’s hand covers mine before I can open it. “Listen, I shouldn’t have punched Kevin,” Brady whispers into my ear, his body leaning over mine. Closing my eyes, I try to regroup and tell myself I shouldn’t want him after what he just did to Kevin. “But he was egging me on. Admit it.” I spin around and face him—which was a bad idea. Our faces are now inches apart and there’s fire in his eyes too, but it’s more than anger at me, it resembles desire. Feeling more like smacking him with my lips than my hand, I break eye contact. “He was only taking pics on his phone.” I lean further against the door, but Brady hovers closer to me. “Right,” he laughs with a slight toss of his head. “He was taking shots of you to send to Mitchell. No way in hell was I going to allow that to happen.” “Do you really think he was going to do that? Even if he did, Mitchell doesn’t give two shits about me anymore.” I turn back around toward the door and open it. Twisting around Brady, I climb into the backseat, having enough of this conversation. Hell, Bryce basically kicked Brady out of his house, telling him to leave and get his shit together—for his team and me. “You’re my fiancée, Cali,” Brady says, following me into the backseat, though I scoot as far away from him as I possibly can. “That makes you mine.” “I’m yours?” I bunch my brows together and shake my head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” “To the world, you are.” Brady reaches across the seat and tries to take my hand in his, but I swat it away. “Kevin is a jerk. Always has been. He was trying to get a rise out of you, not a

black eye.” “I don’t know what came over me. He started pointing his camera at you and I saw red.” “You don’t have to defend my honor to him or anyone else.” “But I wanted to,” Brady confesses, his eyes boring into mine. “For the first time in my life, it mattered.” “Well, it’s just your pride that’s wounded,” I sneer, annoyed by his basic caveman thinking. He saw me first and doesn’t want to share. I roll my eyes. “It was more than that. He was disrespecting you. Using you for a laugh. I couldn’t stand by while he did that.” “Let me repeat this loud and clear. I don’t need you defending my honor to him or anyone else, understand?” Brady takes a deep breath and looks away, though I can feel him wanting to say something back to me, like it’s on the tip of his tongue. Stuart gets into the car and starts to pull out of Bryce’s driveway. “Back to the penthouse, sir?” “Yes, please drop Cali off there, then take me to Wrigley. I have batting practice the rest of the afternoon. Plus, I need to get ready to join the team tomorrow.” “Yes, sir.” Stuart leaves Bryce’s estate and heads back to Chicago along the crowded interstate. I keep my eyes focused out the car window in an effort to avoid acknowledging Brady on the way home. Every time I think about the scene by the pool, I feel my temperature rise, and not in a good way. “So, you were pretty serious with Mitch?” Brady asks in a hushed tone. I huff and shake my head, shocked he still wants to continue down the road to my past. Pivoting toward him, I see his eyes still burning with anger. But why? Could he be jealous? I don’t understand how that could be. “What do you want to know? How many times we fucked?” I whisper, knowing Stuart can hear me from the front seat. It might be a crude thing to say, but Brady has no right to bring up my one and only serious boyfriend, especially since his cock has been in hundreds of women. “The thought of that fucker touching you,” he growls through gritted teeth, “drives me fucking nuts.” “Why does it bother you so much?” I ask, searching his face for an answer. I’m his cock’s paid companion—a girl who Brady believes gets his rocks off. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to be more. “I don’t know,” he says, sounding defeated as he exhales. “I really don’t know,” he repeats on a whisper, more to himself than me. Brady and I don’t even say goodbye when Stuart drops me off at the penthouse. A few reporters gather on the sidewalk and yell at me to answer questions or turn toward their cameras, but I don’t even glance in their direction. A doorman has security escort me to the elevator and I’m thankful for being able to avoid all the camera flashes. I guess Jimmy’s right—there is more protection for

me here at Brady’s place from the media and fans. I decide to quit avoiding my public situation and spend the rest of the afternoon returning communications from friends via email and Facebook. Even the doctors at my practice are concerned about me, and shocked. I assure them I’m fine, and I will be. I have my eyes set on paying off my student loans and buying my mother a house, both made possible with the money Brady is giving me. Plus, I’d like to help my brother get clean. Alone in the penthouse, I fix myself some dinner and catch up on some Netflix. By nine, Brady still hasn’t come home. I pick up my phone to see if I missed a call or text from him and mentally slap myself. Only a girlfriend or fiancée would be checking up on Brady like this—and I’m neither. Turning off the lights to my room around ten, I crawl under the covers of my bed. I try not to check my phone before I start to drift off, but I cave, needing to see if Brady at least said goodnight to me. My phone shows nothing from him, though. I toss my phone on the nightstand. “Fuckity fuck,” I mutter under my breath, rather disgusted with myself. After Mitchell shredded my heart to pieces, I swore I’d never fall for a cocky player like Brady again. Plus, I know Brady’s crazy hookup numbers. The sum should scare the shit out of me, but I can’t deny the truth: baseball players attract me like metal to a magnet. Since the day my uncle sat me down in a seat at Wrigley stadium, the men on the diamond have been my idols. I guess the attraction to these bad boys as a grown woman was inevitable, especially now that I love how they fill out their pants. Damn Brady and his fine ass. I wonder if it feels as hard as the rest of him and can’t help but hope for another dirty dream about him tonight. It’s been one hell of an exhausting weekend, so I nestle down in the soft covers of the bed and close my eyes, but all I see is Brady with near fury in his eyes as he spoke to me about Mitchell. Why he was so jealous is a mystery to me. It’s almost like I am truly his. I banish that silly thought out of my head, or at least try to as my mind drifts to sleep.

TWENTY-FOUR

CALI

A LOUD BANG wakes me up, followed by shoes tapping on the marble tile of the hallway. The sound of footsteps stops at my closed door. I take a few shallow breaths. It has to be Brady coming home from wherever the fuck he’s been all afternoon and night. Still, I gather the covers around myself and strain to hear if the person standing at my door walks away. Minutes follow, and I’m met with silence. The doorknob turns and my heart begins to race. It doesn’t stop when the door opens wide to reveal Brady standing there in a white linen shirt that glows in the darkness. It makes him look like a ghost. “Brady?” I ask in a trembling voice. “You know what you do to me,” he rasps, walking toward my bed, his words more a statement than a question. “You drive me crazy.” “I do?” He stands next to me by the bed and I catch a whiff of whiskey as his heavy breathing reaches down to me. The masculine scent and his deep voice make me want him like never before. “I tried to forget about you tonight,” he confesses in the shadowed darkness as he pulls his fingers through his dirty blond hair. My eyes flutter, imagining doing the same. “Were you with someone else?” No. I lower my eyes, scolding myself. I can’t believe I just asked that. I regret my question the second it leaves my lips. It makes me weak and silly and stupid, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to wondering if he added another hookup to his tally. And why does he need to forget me? Other than a couple kisses where he barely even gave me tongue, we’ve never even been together together. “Fuck, no,” he practically yells, and I flinch under the covers. Brady places a hand on the headboard and leans over me. The whiskey smell hits me harder, making my nipples hard too. “Hundreds of women were around me tonight, all

willing to come home with me, but I didn’t want any of them.” “You mean your dick didn’t,” I throw out the snarky comment, but I need to know. Did he turn them away because he thinks his dick won’t be “up” for the challenge, or was it because he didn’t want to be with them? “It’s not about that anymore, Cali.” He lowers his free hand to my face, caressing my cheek. His light touch ripples like a wave of desire throughout my body and stops between my legs. I feel like I’m going to burst. “It’s about real want.” “What do you want?” I breathe. “I want you in my bed,” Brady murmurs back as his fingers still linger on my face. “Okay,” I whisper without a thought, because he doesn’t just need me, he’s admitting to wanting me. Every wall falls down and any reason to say no fades away as I toss my cares to the wind. I’ve wanted him from afar and now he wants me. Brady pulls the covers off me with a snap of his wrist and I gasp. “Brady, what are you doing?” I bring one hand up to my chest while the other lowers in an attempt to cover my thin tank top and one-size-too-small boy shorts. “Taking you to my bed,” he growls while lifting me up and throwing me over his shoulder Viking-style. He wraps one arm around my legs, securing me to his hard body. My top half dangles behind him, my head hanging right above his tempting ass. My mouth is positioned where I could easily take a quick nibble of it. Never in a million years did I think tonight would go like this, but my whole body is on fire at the promise in his words. We are about to go beyond a point of return, but there’s no way in hell I’ll stop him now. I’m all his—at least for this night. “I hope you’re ready to be fucked senseless,” he says as we walk out of my bedroom and down the hallway toward his suite. “Yes,” I say while exhaling, wondering if he heard my response. He’s taken my breath away and I can hardly speak. “Good,” he responds on a growl, proving he did hear me, “because I plan on keeping you up all night.” He slaps my ass with his free hand and I flinch, not expecting it. “Hey,” I protest, slapping him back on his ass. And it’s as firm as hell, lucky me. “Feisty,” he laughs and pulls my shorts down over my ass, rubbing my exposed cheeks. “I fucking knew you would be once you opened up to me.” I close my eyes at the thought of opening myself up to him—all those glorious nine inches. I can’t wait. “Get me to your damn bed,” I demand, trying to kick my legs, but he holds me tighter. “Behave, or I’ll have to tie you down,” he threatens, his voice teasing. “Or maybe that’s what you want.” He follows with a sexy laugh that makes me squirm in his arms. He pushes open his door and it ricochets against the wall with a thud. The lights

stay off, but the large glass window lets in the glow from the streets below. Brady stops in the middle of the room, and I twist around to see we are by his bed. I prepare for him to throw me down, but he grabs my waist with both hands and pulls me down the length of his body, dangerously slow. My toes land on his feet and he holds me in his grasp, looking down at me with hooded eyes, dark with desire. Reaching up as far as I can, I bring my hands to his neck, wanting my fingers in his blond hair where I can twist and twirl the locks. “Brady.” His name leaves my lips as his crash to mine. His hands roam over my body, gliding to my ass while he pushes me against his erect cock. So hard, so big, and all mine for the night. “Cali,” he breathes my name between scorching kisses, “I’ve never wanted anyone like this. I need to consume you and leave nothing untouched.” My head falls back as he ignites an electric trail down my neck with his tongue. He pulls my tank top down on one side, uncovering my left breast. The cool air makes it pebble. Brady nibbles on the skin around my breast, then bends to take my hard nipple into his mouth. “Fuck,” I moan as he continues to lick and nibble. Feeling needy, I wrap a leg around his hips and grind my pussy into his leg. How long has it been since a man has touched me like this? Never. No one has unleashed this overriding passion in me before. His words, his body, his touch—it’s never felt like this. He’ll likely ruin me for all others, but I’ll submit to his carnage without regret. “Lay down,” he commands while releasing me from his hold and stepping away. I want to cling to him, afraid I’ll wake up from a dream, like the one I had this morning. “On the bed?” I ask, not wanting to let go of him. “Where the fuck else,” he laughs. I shrug. He makes a good point. “Get your sweet ass on there now.” He nods to the bed, but it looks so big and lonely. I comply, taking my time crawling toward the center. My ass still shows since he never covered me back up, so I wiggle a little more than necessary. “Damn,” he whistles between his teeth. I give him a sultry smile as I position myself with my legs stretched in front of me. He touches my ankles and inches his fingers up the outside of my legs. Landing at the top of my boy shorts, he grasps the edges and pulls each end apart. The flimsy material tears under his strength, shredding it. Tossing it to the side, his lips replace his fingers and he kisses along my hipbones. “Brady,” I moan, needing more. “Please.” “Please what?” he asks, moving closer to my clit, but not close enough. “I need you,” I beg, widening my legs in an open invitation. “Like here?” His fingers part me and his tongue finds the place needing him the most. “Yes.” I grab his hair as he sucks, licks, and nips almost to the point of pain.

“Such a sweet pussy. Just like I knew it would be.” I raise my hips at his words, seeking and craving more. He enters me with one finger, then another, adding to the feeling and bringing me closer. Just as I get ready to break over the edge, he removes his fingers. “What are you doing?” I give him a pained look and sigh heavily. “It’s called the plateau, each one higher than the next until I decide to let you go to the top.” “But I’m ready,” I plead, trying to tug his face close to my area of need. I’d sell my soul for him to get me there now. “Trust me,” he coos, and I whimper as he returns to torture me. Over and over, I ascend and he pulls back at just the right second to keep me from falling into a delicious orgasm. I writhe on the bed, squirm in need on the covers, and claw at his head, but he continues to unleash his wicked tongue on me. And he’s right—each time the plateau is higher and getting to a near release is shorter. He has me in his thrall as a prisoner. “This time, Cali,” he urges as he returns his attention to my body. I’m near incoherent when my legs begin to shake and a scream leaves my mouth. I bite my lip to focus on the pleasure as it rips through every cell of my body. It’s like the force raises me off the bed and I float down back to earth a changed creature. I lie there and roll my head from side-to-side. “Was that a dream?” “All of it was real, baby.” He gives my sensitive clit a last lick and I nearly convulse. “Now, I need to fuck you into tomorrow,” he declares, ripping his shirt from his body. Buttons fly, seams rip, and it’s hot as fuck. “Please…” I reach up to caress his now bare chest and glide my fingers over the solid planes and strong angles. He’s like a God made of stone, but all flesh and bone. Removing his pants, he tosses them to the floor and walks around the bed in his black boxer briefs, the tip of his cock peeking from the elastic. I lick my lips, wanting to taste him, too. He opens a drawer on his nightstand and pulls out a condom. I imagine him doing this two-hundred times before tonight and my mood of bliss lifts. Dammit. I won’t think about them—the ghosts of orgasms past. He could have had someone else tonight, but he wanted me. “Where’d you go, baby?” Brady asks, and I blink my eyes. He’s no longer at the nightstand. Instead, he stands at the foot of the bed, boxers gone and a big, lovely cock pointing straight for me. I breathe deep and run my tongue over my lips. “I was just thinking.” “Just feel tonight, Cali. Feel me fucking you.” He rips the condom from the package and rolls it on before I can blink. “I’m going to fuck you senseless.” He climbs on the bed and grasps my ankles while pulling me down toward his knees.

“But I’m one of so many.” “You’re the one and only.” He stares at me, his gaze serious, without a flinch in his proclamation. He truly means it. He raises one ankle and begins to kiss it. “I ran into the woman who cursed me,” he says, his tone matter of fact. She’s the last person who slept in this bed besides me. A wave of jealousy rushes over me. “She congratulated me on my engagement. Seems the curse she put on my dick can only be cured by one woman.” “She said that?” I ask, my mouth hanging open. “Do you think she’s right?” “Let’s find out,” he says, angling himself above me.

TWENTY-FIVE

BRADY

I WANTED to run when I saw Marie approaching me tonight at the bar, but at the same time, I wanted answers. People can’t go around fucking with a guy’s fucker like she did—and she messed with more than my body. My mind has been fucked up too, making my game shit. Marie said if my dick was functioning properly, Cali must be the one woman who can break the curse. She mentioned seeing my engagement in the paper and put it all together, I guess. I told her Cali and I were none of her business and she threw her head back in laughter. Her final words still freak me the fuck out. She said I was lucky because football player, Thomas the Tank, the one Bryce said hooked up with Marie, still hasn’t found Mrs. Right. It gave me chills. He’s been benched for a full season and sports announcers say he’s washed up. Fuck, that could’ve been me. But as I hover over Cali, ready to fuck her brains out, I don’t care what led me to her. Gazing into her hungry eyes, I spread her legs and position myself at her entrance. I rub my dick over her clit and gently push in and out an inch or two, prepping her for my size. Shit, she’s so ready for me, and looks like a beautiful goddess with her hair spread over the bed. Gorgeous tits, full and perky, begging to be touched, a small waist curving down to her slender hips—she’s so fucking stunning, and all mine. “Please, Brady,” she begs, and I don’t want to keep my woman begging. She’s so damn wet, and it turns me the fuck on too. “Wet, for me and no one else.” “No one,” she echoes. “I’ve never felt like this. You touch me and everything ignites.” “Hold on. I’m going to fuck the sense out of you,” I say through gritted teeth as I push into her full force. “Oh my God,” Cali cries out. “So deep,” she continues to cry out. I smile

knowing she’s never had anyone as big as me. Fuck you, Mitchell. She’s mine, dammit. “You’re so damn tight. Made for me,” I moan, stilling inside her fully seated. I close my eyes and let the feeling of being inside her wash over me. “Never been like this, Cali.” I begin to move my hips in a circular motion as the air hums between us. I look into her eyes and the oneness we share passes between us. Wanting to be as close to her as possible with my hands free to explore her body, I sit up on my knees and bring her with me. She answers by wrapping her legs tight around my waist and I rock my hips to push up into her. “You’re even deeper. Don’t stop, please,” she says in a whimper, throwing her head back. I lick and suck on her neck, then bend to reach her nipples. I want to devour every inch of her skin—own it, possess her. “So beautiful.” I grip her hips, pulling her up and back down on my dick. She bounces on me and moans, her eyes shutting. She seems to get lost in my movements, allowing me to control her pleasure. “I’m coming again,” Cali mumbles, almost incoherent. I wrap one arm tight around her back and draw her tighter to my chest, the rhythm of my thrusts never breaking. Bringing the other hand to her swollen clit, I press hard while making slow circles over it. The feel of her at my fingertips clouds my lust-soaked brain. “Fuck, Cali,” I whisper, sucking the soft skin of her exposed throat. Raising her head, she brings her lips to mine and kisses me with an abandon I hadn’t thought possible from her. There’s no hesitancy as her tongue takes mine. She digs her fingernails into my back, marking me as hers. The passion she shows me as we get lost in each other unravels me. It’s like we’ve found what we’ve been hungry for and don’t want to quit tasting it. She breaks away seconds before she comes, her head swaying while her teeth bite down on her red, swollen lips. Lost in concentration, she contracts around me and I lose all restraint on my control. After a couple more pushes into her tight heat, I come undone. “Cali,” I yell as the force of my orgasm hits me. It’s a feeling that radiates through me, making Cali the center of my world. All my pleasure comes from being inside her. As we descend from our high, she goes limp in my arms. I rise off the bed with her still in my arms and carry her to the shower, her head resting on my shoulder, her breathing slow and deep. She’s completely blissed out and I smile knowing I fucked her into a sexual coma. I sit her on the built-in bench in my shower and she leans against the back wall, a smile on her face that makes her look like she’s stoned out of her mind. “I’m going to clean you up, baby.” I turn on a spray of warm water from the showerheads on the wall and overhead. I step out of the shower to dispose of the condom and return to find Cali standing under the overhead spout with her face tilted up. Leaning on the glass door, I watch the water curve over her body in streams. Graceful, sexy, and petite—

her body calls to me and my dick is hard all over again. I climb back into the glass-enclosed shower and she glances at me, then down to my problem. “I can help you with that,” she says with a mischievous smile. “I sure as hell hope so since you’re the cause.” I take two steps toward her and she drops to her knees. She wraps her hand around my base, pumping with one hand while cupping my balls with the other. I gently run my fingers through her hair, but never take control. I’ll let her own me in every way. Given her job as a PA in men’s health, she knows her way around a man’s junk and it fucking shows. I close my eyes, thanking every deity known to human kind for her talents. I am a fucking large guy, so when her lips encase my length and pull me inside her hot mouth, it shocks me how deep she can take me. She hums around me, then sucks with all kinds of wicked pressure, slowly easing to the head. Over and over, she repeats this mind-blowing move. No one has done anything like this to me before. Pressure builds inside me and I tighten my grip on her hair in warning. “Coming,” I say through gritted teeth, holding back to give her time to unwrap her mouth from around me, but fuck, I hope she doesn’t. Her hand encircles me tighter while she sucks even harder. Unable to hold back any longer, I blow apart under her increased efforts. I have to lean both arms against the shower wall to stay standing as I release everything. “Fuck. That was amazing.” With weak knees, I collapse to the floor and fold her into my arms. After we shower, I dry her off, rub lotion from the stash I bought all over her body, and dress her in one of my baseball jerseys, leaving the buttons open to the waist. She doesn’t complain when I reach through the shirt to touch her boobs, but when she tries to put on underwear, I tell her no fucking way. The night’s not over yet. “I feel like I’ve already been fucked to within an inch of my life,” she laughs as I carry her piggyback style to the kitchen. For some reason, I don’t like her feet touching the floor when I’m around. It’s like I want to be her slave—and God knows my dick already is. I sit her down carefully on the edge of island. I need to feed her. “You need some food. Protein.” She starts to protest, but I press my finger against her lips. “It’s only one. The night’s still young.” “But I work tomorrow,” she says, sticking her full lip out in a sexy pout. I want to bite it. “I fly to Boston at seven.” Walking to the refrigerator, I pull out a couple Greek yogurts and give her a strawberry one to match her red lips. “I’m officially off suspension.” “I wish I could go with you, but I have to work. One of the doctors is still out on maternity leave. But you’ve got this Brady. Don’t worry.” She takes her first bite of

yogurt and I watch her tongue lick a remnant from her lip, which makes my dick come to life again. He has no off button around her. I smile knowing this beautiful woman’s my cure. “You’re my lady luck,” I say, convinced it’s true. “Or the lady your cock likes to fuck?” she says with sass. I take the yogurt from her hands and toss it, along with the spoon, into the sink. “You have a spot on your lips,” I say while spreading her legs to move in closer. Cali wraps her legs around my hips, pushing me into her bare pussy, her heat encompassing me even through the layer of my sweat pants. I cover her lips with mine and pull my jersey from her, baring her completely to me. “What round is this?” she asks through my onslaught of kisses. I trace a line from her mouth to behind her ear. “It’s round never enough,” I whisper. And it’s true. She’s all I want or need. I push down my sweats, quickly glove myself, then thrust forward into her wetness. I need to show her my clean test results later, but for now, I’m covered. After we catch our breaths from hot counter sex, I have a surprise I want to share with her—one I’ve never shown another woman. “Come with me.” I take her hand and lead her through the penthouse. Grabbing a blanket from a closet, we make our way to a door that opens up to a hidden staircase. “What’s this?” she asks me. “I thought you were on the top floor.” “I am on the top floor, but this gives me direct access to the roof.” I open the door and motion for her to take the stairs first. She saunters up each step, her ass peeking at me from below. I follow her up with a smile on my face and a hard-on in my pants—nothing new there, though. “Open the door,” I say as she stands at the top step. “Holy shit,” she utters while walking out onto the roof. An almost full moon shines down on us, catching the glow of her skin. “Come over here.” I lead her to a decorative railing and look over the edge with her. We are above the street so high, the cars are hard to make out on the street. “It’s like we are flying above the city,” she says, leaning over the railing. I pull her back, uneasy with her position. “But we don’t have wings, wild one,” I laugh, holding her in my arms. She yawns and covers her mouth. “Sorry, you’ve worn me out.” “Let’s lie down.” I walk her over to the thick cushioned loungers I made for the space. One’s more like a queen size bed than a chaise. “I’d be out here all the time if I were you,” she says while lying down and securing a matching pillow under her head. “It’s a great place to come and think. You know, I’ve never brought another woman up here.” No one’s been that special to me, I want to say. No one except you. “Thanks, Brady,” she says through another yawn. I have fucked her senseless all

right. “It’s magical up here.” I scoot to lie next to her on the lounger and she places her head on my chest. Tossing the blanket over us, I hold her as she falls asleep in my arms. It’s almost as good as fucking her—almost. I stare up at the stars wondering how my life has come to this moment and have one thought I can’t shake: I slept with the wrong woman and it led me to the right one.

TWENTY-SIX

CALI

OCTOBER…

“I CAN’T BELIEVE my girl’s going to be on the Ella Winfray show today.” Taylor lounges on the chaise in my closet as I scurry around trying to get ready. “You sure have hit the big time.” “I thought you came over to help me,” I complain, throwing my hands up in the air while ankle deep in clothes. My closet floor is back to its old, familiar condition. “Wear the peasant dress with ruffles. The one that falls off the shoulders. It’s also Chicago blue,” she instructs, or more like bosses me, but doesn’t even glance up from her phone. I roll my eyes at her. “Look at me for a second,” I say, since I’m wearing the blue dress. “That was quick,” she quips, and I officially give up. “Did you see the latest article about you and Brady?” “Brady’s banned me from all news ever since the pictures of me all bloated were posted and they said I was pregnant. Can’t a girl have her period in peace?” My blood still boils when I think back to the caption of my pooching tummy. “Well, this one you need to see.” I promised Brady I would steer clear, but one little peek can’t hurt. “Hand it here,” I say, and Taylor passes her phone to me. “What the fuck?” I shout after reading the article. I look at up Taylor and toss back her phone. “Mitchell is claiming I cheated on him and hooked up with Brady —broke his heart. The fucker doesn’t have one to break.” “I can’t believe him. Then again…” she says, her voice fading away. “God, I want to call Brady, but then he’ll know I looked. Shit.” I pace the room looking for my blue heels that match my dress. Clothes start flying left and right until I locate them.

“I see why you don’t share a closet with Brady, but you really should’ve had his housekeeper help you with this closet.” “Why?” I snap, frustrated. I need to be down in the lobby like five minutes ago. “It would only end up back like this.” “Listen, Mitchell is trying to get under Brady’s skin. He’s coming back to play in today’s game. His delicate turf toe is better,” Taylor says, disdain in her voice. “True. It’s also the game where Chicago could take it all.” Chicago leads the Series three to nothing. One more win, and they will take it all. My phone chimes from the other room. “Stuart’s downstairs.” I gather up a bag and throw in game clothes to change into. “Walk down with me?” “Sure.” Taylor finally gets her ass off my chaise. It’s her favorite place in Brady’s penthouse. Once in the lobby, we say our goodbyes. “You have the tickets to the box seats?” I ask. “Are you kidding?” she says, eyeing me like I’m crazy. “This ticket is a once in a lifetime for me. See you tonight, and break a leg at Ella’s.” I exit the building and scan the area for Stuart. I don’t recognize him at first because he’s standing next to a long stretch limo, not his usual black sedan. “Stuart?” I ask when I approach him. “Did Ella’s show make you drive this?” “No, Mr. Luck did,” he says with a sly smile. Something’s up, and Stuart is in on it. I eye him, speculative. “We’re heading straight to the studio, right?” Stuart opens the door for me. “Yes, ma’am.” I hate when he says that. “Please, even my mother hates to be called ma’am.” Stuart laughs it off. In some ways, he is very much like Brady, especially when it comes to never taking my rebukes seriously. The men around me can be so frustrating. I toss my bag onto the back floorboard and climb in after it. The second I’m in the car, an arm grabs me and pulls me to the backseat. “What the fuck?” I gasp, and look up to see Brady holding on to me. “Hey, baby,” he says, pulling me into his lap, which I end up straddling. And as usual, he’s as hard as a rock. “You planned this, didn’t you?” I kiss the smile off his face knowing this was his idea to get me alone before the game. “I wanted a quickie on the way to the studio. The limo is closed off and Stuart is none the wiser.” “Problem is, Stuart is too wise. He’ll know you’re fucking me.” I continue to kiss his jawline and begin to take off his belt buckle. “We better hurry.” “Fuck yeah,” he whistles as he pulls my dress down to reveal a shear lace strapless bra. He pulls my breasts out of each cup and sucks a nipple into his eager mouth. “Turn up the radio. You know how I love to scream.” I think Brady’s nine inches has flipped my nympho switch. I’ve never come on dick alone until him. I ease off Brady’s lap and take his cock into my mouth. We only have a few

minutes before we arrive at the studio and I can’t disappoint my favorite appendage.

BRADY HELPS me straighten my clothes before we leave the sexed-up backseat. Good thing the show does my makeup and hair. A staffer with a clipboard waits for us as we exit the limo. “Mr. Luck, Ms. Jones, I’m Kathy Murray. I’ll be directing you today and basically act as your gopher. You need something, I’ll go for it,” Kathy laughs at her own joke. I immediately like her. She makes the butterflies settle in my stomach. They have been giving me havoc since I agreed to do this TV thing with Brady. We are ushered to the green room. I always thought the room was green, but it’s more like an open family room with a kitchen and standard continental type food on a counter. With the nerves taking over full force, I can’t imagine eating a thing. I could use a drink, though. “Did you bring a flask?” I whisper to Brady. He hushes me and chuckles. “Hey, I’m nervous. This is nothing for you. I’ve never been on TV before.” Brady removes his hand from the small of my back and encloses my hand in his. “Baby, it’s going to be fine. Ella is cool. I’ve been on her show before. Besides, everyone loves you.” “You mean everyone loves you,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Don’t think so, Ms. Lady Luck,” he teases, using the new nickname the city gave me. Brady and I go our separate ways for makeup and hair. I end up looking like a Real Housewife from Orange County with my hair in long curls and obnoxious eyelashes that might actually be butterfly wings, but the makeup artist assured me I need a dramatic look for the camera. Back in the green room, Brady has me sit on his lap. He says it’s to calm my nerves, but from the bulge in his pants, I have a feeling it’s more for his benefit. I wiggle around to drive him crazy. “You’re doing that on purpose,” he scolds, tapping my butt. “I have no clue what you’re talking about. I’m just nervous,” I say, batting my butterfly wings at him. I swear they make a small breeze. “Brady. Cali,” a voice calls out, and we turn to see Ella walking toward us. I want to jump off his lap, but his arms encircle me. “Look at you two lovebirds,” she laughs, holding out her hand to me. “I can’t believe I’m meeting you,” I say in a breathless rush. “I’m a big fan. I started watching you when I was in grade school. Every afternoon when I got home from school, my mother and I would get a snack and turn on your show. It was a daily ritual.” Oh crap, I sound like a pathetic fan girl. I can feel my face turning red. “Thanks.” She seems sincere and not offended by my obnoxious gushing over her. “I’m looking forward to having you on today.”

“Brady, how did you get Jimmy to agree to this?” She smiles at my man. Well, he’s kind of mine. We have been inseparable for the last two months—and by that, I mean his dick has been inside me every chance it gets. He travels with the team and I have my job at the dick clinic, as he calls it, so sometimes it’s days before we can connect. But the engagement contract is one thing we haven’t really addressed. Are we going to break up after the Series? He’s declared love for my pussy, my mouth, ass, tongue, boobs, and my cooking, but me? He’s never actually confessed those three words to me. “Cali?” Brady calls to me as he runs his hands in front of my face. “Where’d you go?” “Sorry. Nerves,” I laugh in a high pitch. “No need to be nervous. I haven’t killed a guest yet.” Ella smiles and winks at Brady and me. “You two will come out last for about five minutes.” Ella glances at her watch. “I need to go prep. See you two soon, and stay out of the janitor’s closet.” Ella walks away and I try to suppress a laugh. “Was she referring to us fucking before the show?” “Probably. I wonder if she can read minds. I was just thinking about sneaking off.” I hit Brady’s chest, then give him a kiss on the cheek. “We’ve already had sex two times today,” I scold, but I feel my body heating up at the thought of him inside me again. “We better quit talking like this,” He says, while pushing his pelvis up into my ass and his problem becomes evident. “Down, boy,” I command, as if anything I say will work. I know better. Once he’s hard like this around me, we have to fuck in some form or another. “I can’t go on the set like this. Ella said no janitor’s closet, but there’s a small bathroom down the hall.” “Blue balls on game day would be tragic,” I tease, kissing around his jaw and swiveling my hips on his likely aching cock. “Hold on,” he says before standing with me in his arms. Brady literally runs down a short hallway to a small single-type bathroom. Shutting the door with one foot, he places me on the sink counter, locks the door, and turns back to me. The darkness in his blue eyes as he stalks back to the counter says only one thing: pleasure to my pussy. Lucky me. “Wall sex?” I ask in a sweet voice, though I’d be willing to beg for it. “Yes,” he growls, lifting me from the counter. I wrap my legs around him and hit the wall. God, I love being pinned in place by him. “Never get enough. Never,” he mumbles into my neck while fumbling with his belt. The sound of his zipper going down echoes in the small space before he pulls my

panties to the side and fingers me for a few seconds. “Already soaking wet,” he rasps. “Always.” Brady pushes into me and I cry out. The sweet sensation of being held up by him and taken at the same time is too much. Though we’ve been warned, I can no longer remain quiet. He covers my mouth with his to silence my moans. After a few minutes of his beautifully relentless thrusting, I fall over the edge, and Brady joins me seconds later. “Fuck, Cali,” he moans with two final pushes into me. Sitting me down on the counter, he helps me clean up. I spin around and look at my hair. Shit, it’s a fucking mess of wall head. Flattened out in the back and tangled. I stare at myself in disbelief. “Look at me,” I say in panic. “I can’t let the world see me like this.” “Freshly fucked is about your permanent state when we’re together.” Brady gives me that sexed-up smirk I love, but right now, I want to cry. “We should’ve waited.” I straighten my dress and try to fix the rat’s nest on my head. I open the door to the bathroom and leaning against the wall across from me is the makeup artist and my hairstylist with knowing smiles on their faces. Busted.

“WELCOME BRADY LUCK and his lady luck, Cali Jones,” Ella announces to the crowd. I may pass out. “You’ve got this, baby,” Brady whispers as he grabs my sweaty hands and walks me out onto the stage. The crowd is standing and clapping, but the sound seems distant to me, like I’m not in my own body. I should’ve brought a flask or two. “Have a seat, you two.” Ella shakes our hands and we sit on a loveseat-sized couch next to her while still facing the audience. Someone starts yelling, “Lucky. Lucky. Lucky,” and Brady throws the crowd a big smile and air kiss with his hand to his mouth. A couple women try to catch it, and I get it. He’s fucking hot, and hot at fucking. I try to concentrate while Ella asks Brady some basic baseball questions about the Series, but my eyes keep wandering to the camera. I probably shouldn’t be looking at them directly, but I can’t help it. “Cali,” Ella says, and I turn back to her, realizing I was staring, open mouthed, at Camera One. “It’s her first time on TV. Let’s hear it for Chicago’s lady luck.” The crowd claps, but it’s not as wild as it was for Brady. Makes sense since ninety-nine percent of the women here probably hate me or want to be me. “I have to admit, I’m super anxious,” I giggle, my tone panicked. “Well, everyone’s saying you’re the person who’s broken the curse.” I glance at Brady, my brows knitted. “The curse?” I mouth to him.

“The Curse of the Billy Goat,” Brady says, and I exhale, relieved Ella hadn’t dug around and found out about Brady’s cock curse. I immediately worried she knew about our fake engagement too. “Fans are saying you’re the best hope of ending it since nineteen forty-five.” “Wow!” I exclaim. I didn’t realize everyone felt this way about me. Brady’s ban on media worked to keep me in the dark. “For everyone not familiar with this legendary curse,” Ella explains, “the Curse of the Billy Goat started when Billy Sianis brought his goat inside Wrigley to watch game four of the nineteen forty-five series. And game four is exactly what Brady is playing tonight. Coincidence?” she asks the audience, who begins to clap wildly. “The problem started when Billy’s goat got gruff, or at least began to smell gruff. Both were kicked out of Wrigley and Billy left the stadium, saying, ‘The Cubs, they ain't gonna win no more’.” “So, on behalf of our Chicago staffed show, I think you know who we’ll be rooting for.” “Thanks, Ella.” Brady squeezes my hand and smiles down at me. I think we survived—or I did. He takes all the media stuff in stride. “So, when are you two tying the knot? I haven’t heard anything about a date being set.” Ella gives us a wink and I want to disappear into the couch. “Nothing’s set yet,” Brady responds with his standard answer, and I exhale. “Keep us posted.” Ella leans over toward us. “And I thought I told you to stay out of the janitor’s closet before the show.” The audience laughs at her comment. “It was the bathroom,” Brady says in our defense, and I’m about to die. My mother, all the office staff, and the entire country just found out we fucked backstage before the show. “Well, you know what they say about people when they fall in love.” Ella turns to the audience. “They have a lot of sex.” The world around me begins to spin and I start to see spots. Shit, I’m going to pass out.

TWENTY-SEVEN

CALI

“YOU FEELING BETTER NOW?” Eve, Jimmy’s wife, asks me as I enter the box suite for the wives and girlfriends at Wrigley. “I’m worried about you.” “It was a day of double humiliation.” I lower my head in shame. “Not only does everyone know we messed around in the bathroom at Ella’s show, I passed out cold. It was only for a second, but still.” I close my eyes and shake my head, hoping the memory will dislodge from my brain. Sadly, it’s still there to torture me. “You should’ve seen Brady’s face when you fell like a limp doll onto his shoulders,” Eve says, inching closer to me. “He was as pale as a ghost himself.” “I am mortified, if you want to know the truth. Utterly ashamed to show my face.” I point to the sunglasses and ball cap pulled down to my nose in true Brad Luciano style. “Nonsense, dear,” Eve asserts while locking elbows with me and leading me toward the special bar. “It makes you more endearing. Even the haters love you now. It’s like you and Brady are Chicago royalty. Our own version of William and Kate.” “I’ve never wanted any of this, Eve, and now people thinking I’m the one who might break the curse? It’s too much pressure. If they lose, I’ll be blamed. Someone has to be the scapegoat, if the goat curse remains.” “Funny, they’re saying it’s more the love Brady has for you.” “The love? You know the truth about us. Brady’s a player and I’m a fun distraction. There’s no love, just lust. Lots and lots of it on his side.” “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but he's threatened to pummel Mitch. I guess you heard about the news today.” “Yes, but Brady didn’t say a word earlier at the show. It never came up.” “So like him. He’s fiercely protective of those he loves. He feels it’s his battle.” She pats my hand. “When players like Brady fall in love, they’re the last to know. I’ve seen it countless times in the leagues.”

Could Eve be right? He hasn’t mentioned our arrangement in weeks and it feels like we are living together like an engaged couple. I even trust him when he’s out of town and with the other guys on the team. But if they win tonight’s game, what will tomorrow bring? Will Heather have movers carrying my things back to my old place? Tears start to well up in my eyes. “I don’t know, Eve,” I say in a scratchy voice, trying to keep from crying. I swore I wouldn’t let him have a piece of my heart and I failed. Instead, I think he has all of it. “After the Series, I’ll be wiped out of his life.” “Don’t be so sure. What you need right now is a strong drink.” I look around at the bar. I do want to drown my worries in some vodka. “What are you having tonight, Cali?” the bartender asks. We’ve become acquaintances over the last couple months. “The usual?” “Sure, but make it a double.” He nods his head and fixes me a strong screwdriver. I have an hour before the game starts and should pace myself, but everything about today is telling me to get rip-roaring drunk.

TAYLOR WALKS through the box suite entrance about fifteen minutes before the game starts and finds me next to the buffet. Feeling tipsy, I load up my plate with traditional Chicago foods, like meatballs and chili-covered fries, choosing the delicious, greasy hangover-type food as a preemptive strike. I need something to fill my stomach or I’m going to get sick. “Hey, Cali,” she calls, waving to me. I raise my plate at her and she comes up beside me, giving me a much-needed hug. “I’m glad you finally made it.” Taylor has been my plus one in the special wives and girlfriends box suite at every home game. I told Brady I needed someone from my world there for support. I was thrust into his life, both figuratively and literally, and having someone from my life would help keep me from snapping under the pressure. “Great performance today on Ella’s.” Taylor grabs a plate at the end of the buffet table and joins me. “I mean, I knew you were nervous, but wow, that was worse than you falling at Brady’s feet. You okay now? They interrupted Wheel of Fortune after Ella’s was over to report on your condition.” “I’m fine. I was super stressed and forgot to breathe. Basically, I hyperventilated.” I really want to change the subject. “We need to get you a drink.” “Next stop.” She piles some potato salad on her plate, along with some barbecue chicken wings. “So, this could be the game.” “And Brady’s got a chance at MVP if they win.” Butterflies start fluttering in my stomach again. “He’s taking the game in stride, though. Nothing seems to rattle him.” “He’s got MVP in the bag. Everything in his game improved the day you became his fiancée. Still no date?” She eyes me and I look away while shaking my head.

Leaving Brady in the next day or two will break my heart, but at least I won’t have to lie to my best friend anymore. Fuck, this whole fake relationship thing has become so confusing. My feelings have overridden all logic and contracts, but I knew this was going to happen. I started falling in love with Brady the second I met him as Brad Luciano—the man without the big ego who actually needed me. When the players start to warm up on the field, everyone in the suite takes their seats. Game time is only minutes away. I wipe my palms over my jeans. “Guys in baseball uniforms,” Taylor sighs while tilting her head. “It’s the tight asses in back and the bulging cups in front. I hardly ever look above the belt.” “Spoken like a real dude,” I tease, though I’ve never heard a man complain about a woman focusing only on his assets. A few of the Yanks walk out onto the field and Mitchell stands not too far from Brady. He’s not directly approaching him, but it’s clear to me he wants to be seen. “Do you see that?” I say, nudging Taylor and pointing in Brady’s general direction. “Check out third base.” “Sorry, I was staring at the second baseman’s butt,” Taylor laughs, but then abruptly stops. “What the hell is Mitchell doing?” “Oh shit,” I cry out while grabbing a hold of Taylor’s arm. “He’s walking toward Brady and yelling at him.” For the second time today, my head starts to spin.

TWENTY-EIGHT

BRADY

“HEY, Luck,” someone shouts from behind me. I spin around to see it’s none other than Cali’s piece of shit ex, Mitch Davis. Fucker’s delicate toe must be feeling better. “You stole her away from me, asshole.” “Fuck off, Davis. She was never yours to lose,” I say, turning back around to face the field. I don’t want to give his ass the time of day. Plus, I know he’s just trying to get under my skin. The crap he said to the press about Cali was directed right at me. My agent told me to ignore it and I agreed—until the last out is made in the Series. After that, the gloves will come off. My hand tightens into a fist at the thought. “Like hell I will.” His voice sounds closer as he speaks. I glance over my shoulder and sure enough, he’s two steps behind me. Coach runs out onto the field toward me, his eyes full of panic. “Davis, get off the fucking field,” Coach screams while waving an umpire over to where I stand by third base. I place my glove on my hip and face the bastard, ready for a showdown, but Coach moves between us. “No way am I letting you get kicked out of this game over a woman,” Coach says to me. “Head back to the dugout. Warm-ups are over.” Davis gives me a death stare as I walk away, and I gladly return it. Once in the dugout, I throw my glove at the wall, fucking pissed I couldn’t punch the shit out of Davis. He deserves a black eye or two for the shit he’s been spewing. “Hey, guys.” I get the attention of Lance and Shaun, my posse. “Davis has to go down today. I don’t want him getting on base. If he gets anywhere close to third, I may end up kicked out of the game.” The guys nod their heads and look at each other, a silent agreement being made between us. Lance is the starting pitcher for today’s game and Shaun covers first base. Between us, we’ll keep him off the diamond.

THE FIRST EIGHT innings are deadlocked. No one has scored on either team and only two guys have gotten on base for Chicago. I’ve been up to bat twice and struck out both times. The tension is high in the dugout and stands. Fans and players are on edge with a buzz of anticipation humming in the air. Coach has chewed through two bags of sunflower seeds and has gone silent as we approach the last inning. If we lose today, we are still two games ahead in the race for the World Series, since it’s the best out of seven games—and winning the Series without at least one loss is rare for any team. If we take it all in the first four games, it would be practically unheard of, but we want to do the impossible and break the goat’s curse once and for all. We are at the top of the ninth inning and Davis is up to bat. Lance’s first pitch to Davis is low and inside, but he swings at it anyway and misses. Davis steps away from the plate and eyes me, then points his bat at the left field stands, signaling his intended target. Cocky asshole. Lance glances at me from the pitcher’s mound. “Strike his ass out,” I call out to him, and he responds with a quick head nod. The next pitch is perfect and Davis swings with a grimace on his face. He makes ear-splitting contact and I watch the ball sail out to left field, flying over the ivycovered back wall. “Dammit to hell,” I hiss at the motherfucking homerun. I kick the dirt and walk away from third, not wanting to be anywhere near the asshole when he touches the base I protect. Lance walks over to me from the pitcher’s mound and shrugs. “Fuck. Sorry, Brady,” he apologizes. “Don’t worry, man. You’ve pitched out of your mind this game. I may still have one more chance at bat and we will not lose if I do.” Davis has me all fired up. I want to pound my fist into something—like his ugly face—but that’s guaranteed to get me kicked out of the game. Fuck. I need to calm my shit down if I want to help Chicago win the Series tonight. As Davis rounds third to run to the plate, he slows to almost a walk. “Luck,” he shouts. “Cali still bite her lip when she comes? Or maybe your dick doesn’t get her there.” I throw down my glove and start to charge at Davis, needing to wipe the mocking smile off his face. “You’re a dead man, Davis,” I yell, but someone grabs me from behind and I stop in my tracks. “Stop, Brady!” Lance shouts in my ear, gripping my arms. “He’s not worth it, man.” But I’m seeing red and want to make him pay for dissing my woman. An ump appears in front of me and I straighten up. I have to. “Brady, you are on the edge here. Take your position or I’m kicking you out of the game. Consider this your only warning.” “Yes, sir,” I say, nodding my head. He’s right. This isn’t the place for a street

fight, but dammit, you don’t mess with what’s mine. It’s a fucking miracle, but I keep a cool head until we have three outs and the Yanks’ ups are over. Our team heads to the dugout to get ready for our turn at bat. The mood as we enter the dugout is heavy with so much at stake. We’ve played like shit tonight—all of us except Lance, who’s only given up one run. At one to zero, it’s sink or swim time for Chicago. “Luck,” Coach motions to me, “what the fuck is going on between you and Davis?” “It’s about Cali.” “A woman has you about ready to blow this game?” “She’s more than just a woman—she’s mine.” Coach’s angry face turns into a sly smile. “I fucking thought so,” he says, patting me on the back. “Do you hear yourself?” I nod at him. “Eve’s the only woman I’d ever think about losing my shit over in a game while bringing my team down with me, wanna know why?” “Why?” I ask, knowing if Lance hadn’t held me back, I would’ve beat the shit out of Davis—and still may. The game’s not over yet. “Because I love her more than this game,” he laughs, and his words hit me hard. Love. The four letter word. “You think so? We’ve only been together two months.” “So, she’s free to go after she meets the terms of the agreement?” Coach asks in a hushed voice, not wanting anyone to overhear. “When she gets the last payment, she’s gone, outta your life. How does that sound?” “Like fucking hell,” I admit, and rub my chest. I get this odd ache when I think about her not being at the games cheering me on or in my bed. Who’s going to fall asleep with me under the stars on my roof? God, I think I do love her. “Well, don’t be a dumb shit and blow it,” he warns with a pointed stare. “Have you told her how you feel?” “Well, no.” How could I tell her when I just figured it out myself? “Jesus, youth is wasted on knuckleheads,” he mumbles under his breath. “First things first, Luck. Let’s get this team fired up. Wouldn’t it be funny if one curse helped break another?” Gathering the players together, Coach tells us to forget the game and pressure and just remember why they’re here—the fucking love of the game.

WHEN IT’S my turn up at bat, Chicago has the bases loaded with two outs. It only takes one run to tie, two to win. The feeling of defeat has turned to wild chants and deafening cheers in the stadium. The place has fucking come alive. I bound up to the batter’s box feeling like a grand slam is mine. It’s a life defining moment for me. I will either strike out and the game is over or I will help Chicago win the World Series.

I think back to where this journey all began. It was at my first little league game and the same love for baseball runs through my veins twenty years later. I fix my gaze up to the box suite where I know Cali sits watching me. Pointing a finger in the air up toward her, I blow her a little kiss. The crowd goes fucking ape shit, yelling, “Lucky! Lucky!” The first pitch flies by me and I don’t swing. The ump calls a strike, even though I thought it was too high. I let his call go; it ain’t worth stirring up shit. The next ball looks low and inside, so I swing and all I hit is air. Fuck. It’s okay, I tell myself, the next one’s mine. And it better be. I have one more swing or strike left before I walk off the field and Chicago loses the game. I tunnel out everything. The crowd, their screams, the pressure—everything disappears except the pitcher and his next movement. The wind up, then the release, and it’s mine. Fucking mine. A low and inside pitch. I swing and my bat cracks in a heavenly sound while the ball sails into the atmosphere. I toss the bat to the side and watch it fly over the back wall. A walk off grand fucking slam. I start to first base and realize what this means—we fucking won! Chicago takes the World Series in four games. I raise my fists into the air and pump them. The cheers and chants carry me around the bases as a high like I’ve never had in my life takes hold. It’s almost like an out of body experience, but with each pounding step I take, I know it’s all real. Our dugout has emptied and fireworks go off in the distance, lighting up the sky like the Fourth of July. The entire team waits for me as I round third to home and I fight a tear trying to escape. Whoever said there’s no crying in baseball has never brought home a World Series for their team. I land on the home plate with a two-footed jump, then Lance and Shaun lift me onto their shoulders and carry me to a big huddle on the field. The next ten minutes are a blur of men shouting—some crying tears of joy, others jumping up and down. Security officers usher the team to the makeshift stage where the baseball commissioner stands next to the official World Series trophy. “Luck,” Coach says to me, “you’re up on stage.” “I am?” I knit my brows. “You’re the MVP,” he says with the biggest smile on his face. “No fuck?” I ask. “No fuck,” he replies with a laugh. “What?” I can’t believe it. I’m just two years in from the minors. This is beyond my wildest dreams. “Who the fuck deserves it more than you?” I want to say Lance does, he pitched a near perfect game, but I guess my walk off grand slam took the cake. “Shit,” I say, smiling. “I need to find Cali and celebrate. Do you think she knows?” “I’m sure she knows. The entire fucking world does,” Coach says, smiling and shaking his head. The crowd cheers as the baseball commissioner announces Chicago as the

winner, then hands the trophy to Frank Kern, the team’s owner. “It’s been over one-hundred years and the curse is finally broken,” Mr. Kern says with a shaky voice. He continues to thank the diehard Chicago fans. “I’d like to pass this off to Jimmy and his team,” Kern announces while handing the golden trophy to Jimmy. “Thanks, Frank. Finally, Chicago has won the World Series and broken the Curse of the Goat. Thanks to the fans and the guys on this team. I’ve never known a better group of players in all my years.” Coach turns to face me with a big smile on his face. “And, Brady Luck, your performance shows the world what I’ve known. You’re the best damn player in the league. Congrats on being the Series MVP.” The crowd goes wild and I say thank you into the mic. I glance around the crowd in front of me to see if they’ve let the wives and girlfriends onto the field yet, but I don’t even see Eve. Shit. The team exits the stage and some MLB staff congratulates us. Mr. Kern tells the guys to head back to the locker room where they’ve set up a big celebration for us. I enter the locker room to find streamers and champagne corks flying, but all I can think about is Cali. I want to celebrate this moment with the woman I love. The players are all passing around official World Series hats with the team emblem on them and I grab one for Cali and me. Heather, my ever faithful and solemn PA, walks over to me with a serious look on her face. She’s in game mode. “Congratulations, Luck.” “Wow, thanks,” I say, surprised she can’t even muster up a little excitement in this moment. “The press has set up an interview for you outside.” She scans over my halfdressed body. “Get some clothes on and follow me.” I throw on a dress shirt and change into jeans, but I leave the hat on. I fucking earned it. Heather leads me to a group of reporters gathered around a podium with a mic and I realize they’re waiting for me. “The stage is yours, Luck,” she says, gesturing toward the podium. I walk up and stand in front of it. “Great game, Luck,” a reporter for Fox says. “How did it feel?” “How did you think it felt?” I laugh. “Like my whole life’s dream was realized in one damn swing of the bat.” “What was up with Davis and you? Was it about Cali Jones?” I give the ESPN reporter a death stare. How dare he bring up Davis and his asshole behavior. I just won the Series. “No comment,” I say with as little emotion as I can, but it’s hard to suppress my anger. “So, the curse is broken. Why do you think this team had the magic?” What a dumb ass question. Like I would know about magic. Ask me about voodoo though, and I’d have a few things to say. “It was just our year. The stars aligned.” I scan the crowd and spot a brown head

bouncing in the back. I smile when I move to the side and see who the head belongs to. Cali’s waving at me with joy in her eyes. I give her a wink and all the reporters turn to see who’s getting my attention. “So, Brady, have you and Cali set a date yet?” a woman from Sporting News asks. The joy disappears out of Cali’s eyes at the question. She thinks it’s over between us, and why wouldn’t she? I’ve given her no reason to think otherwise. “As a matter of fact, I need to say something, if you’ll allow me a minute.” The reporters all nod their heads. “Cali, would you please come up here?” Cali brings a hand to her chest, her eyes wide in surprise. I step away from the podium as she walks toward me. Her brow knits and she looks around. I give her a grin to ease her worries. When she stands in front of me, I fall to one knee and take her hands in mine. “What are you doing?” she whispers. “Repeating something I’ve asked you before.” Tears begin to flow from her baby blue eyes. “Cali, I love you. Will you marry me for real?” I nearly shout the last word. “Yes,” she utters. “I love you, too, Brady.” I stand up and take her in my arms. Jumping up, she wraps her legs around me and my hands go to her sweet ass to support her. I take her lips with mine, like I’ve done so many times before, but strangely, this kiss is different for me. My brain finally understands what my heart has known from the start—I’m kissing the woman who’s made for me. I deepen our kiss and we’re all tongues and moans, forgetting the reporters and the rest of our audience. Well, I didn’t really forget, I just don’t give any fucks. Cameras click around us, flashes taking in our display. I break away after a couple moments and swing her around to where she’s sitting piggyback behind me. I love carrying her. In my arms, on my back—anyway she’ll let me. Her laughter fills the air around me as I bounce her into place. “Ladies and gentleman, the interview is over. I need to go celebrate with the love of my life.” I walk away with her clinging to me, the joy of winning the Series coming in second to winning her heart.

EPILOGUE

CALI

“SEE you after the president’s speech, baby,” Brady says while lifting me up to meet his lips. After a quick kiss, he lowers me back to the ground. I swear he barely let’s my feet touch the earth. “I’m so proud of you.” I smile up at him with bright eyes. He taps me on the nose before heading up toward the stage. A content sigh leaves my lips as he walks away in his custom-made Armani suit. I don’t miss the heads of everyone turning as he passes them by. Forget charisma, the man has magnetism—everyone is drawn to him. “Cali, up here,” Eve calls out from the front row, motioning me toward her. I wave back and work my way through the crowded East Room. Today is a pinnacle event for Chicago baseball. The President of the United States is about to honor their World Series victory. Finally, I break through the crowd and make it to the front. “Hello, Eve,” I say while giving her a big hug. “I’ve missed you so much,” she says, returning my embrace. “It’s been two weeks, but it seems like forever.” Brady and I traveled to Europe for a vacation and came straight to Washington DC this morning from Paris. “I saw the latest proposal,” Eve says with a sly smile. “How many is that now?” “Oh my God, I’ve lost count,” I say, looking to ceiling then back at Eve. “Let’s see. Not counting the first one, of course, I think it’s three. Wait, four. At his MVP press conference, on Michigan Avenue in front of Nordstrom, at The Wit where we first met, and then yesterday at the Eiffel Tower.” “Ah, Paris. That’s the most romantic one of all. Though announcing his love for you on TV was something out of a movie. What’s the latest bling?” Each time Brady proposes to me, he gives me a new piece of jewelry. I keep telling him he’s more than made up for the fake proposal and all the tears I’d shed, but he’s an athlete and has turned proposing into a sport.

“This was his gift,” I say, showing her the diamond heart necklace resting below my throat. “It matches my engagement ring.” “Beautiful, Cali,” Eve says, admiring my new gift. “My theory stands. The cockier they are, the harder they fall. And Brady has fallen hard.” “So have I.” Eve nods her head, giving me a knowing grin. We talk for a couple more minutes while the team finds its place on the stage. Brady is standing directly behind the podium with Jimmy next to him. A man dressed in a black suit wearing a serious expression walks to the podium. “Please welcome the President of the United States.” Everyone sitting down stands to their feet and claps as the president walks on stage. He shakes some hands and claps a few players on the back before taking the podium. “I’d like to welcome the entire Chicago team standing up here with me today.” Loud applause breaks out as the president turns to acknowledge the men behind him. “I see the esteemed owner, Frank Kern.” Mr. Kern nods his head with a smile so wide, it might split his face in two. “Also with us is manager and coach, Jimmy McDermott, a man who’s winning his way to a spot at Cooperstown.” Eve squeezes my hand. I look her way and there’s a tear running down her cheek. “Oh, Eve,” I say, and she smiles at me through her proud tears. The president continues. “We are here today to honor a team that didn’t just win a World Series, they also broke a curse. As a former resident of Chicago, I can speak to this legendary curse and say the team won two victories instead of just one.” Laughter and more clapping follow his words. “But one man amazed me and the world this year. Brady Luck.” The president turns toward Brady and shakes his hand. “At twenty-five years old, he’s already proven to be one of the best players in his generation. He set the record this year for most grand slams in a season. But his finest performance was his walk off grand slam to give Chicago the elusive Word Series win.” Now Eve is squeezing my hand as tears flow down my cheeks. “But winning a World Series doesn’t fall on one man’s shoulders. It takes a team, a mighty and tenacious group of players. Congratulations to Chicago. And may the team never fall under a curse again.” The crowd rises to its feet and gives Chicago a standing ovation. Brady looks directly at me and winks. I blow him a kiss and he tries to catch it.

“JIMMY SECURED a special tour of the West Wing for the team. We get to bring a plus one.” Brady takes my hand and we follow the team through a door off the stage. “But I’ve heard that section of the White House is closed to the general public.” “Special visitors get special exceptions.” Brady brags with his smug smile. “What he said about you is true,” I say, and Brady rolls his eyes.

“Wait, you’re acting like me. Take a compliment. You won the MVP trophy for a reason.” “Enough about me,” he says, bending and tapping me on the ass, “we need to catch up with everyone else.” The tour guide leads us down a long hallway with portraits of past presidents on the wall. He stops at an open door and we gather around him. “This is the Lincoln Bedroom. Oddly, Lincoln never slept here. He used it as an office and library. Over the years, many famous people have stayed here. Some claim the room’s haunted.” The room’s centerpiece is a large wooden bed with a crown canopy fixed to a wall. The décor is a regal gold with classic lines. It looks too stuffy for a simple man like Lincoln. The guide fields a few questions before the tour crowd starts to walk away. I begin to follow, but Brady pulls on my hand. “Wait,” he whispers. I wrinkle my brow at him. “What’s up?” I ask in a hushed tone. “Follow me,” he says, leading me into the middle of the Lincoln Bedroom. He then moves to shut the door. “What the hell are you doing?” I whisper-scream. “Hopefully you,” he says, locking the door with a skeleton key. “You’re crazy,” I declare, marching toward the door. I try to get the key from his hand, but he holds it up over my head. No amount of jumping will let me grab it either. He places it on top of the door jam, totally out of my reach. I cross my arms over my chest and tap a foot. There might even be steam coming out of my ears. “Come on, Cali, baby.” Oh great, here comes the sweet talk. “Just a quickie. No one will notice.” He places a finger under my chin and I look up at him. Blue eyes twinkling, blond hair a sexy mess, a deadly smirk on a killer jawline—yeah, I’m shit at saying no to that. “Okay,” I agree, but hold up three fingers. “You have three minutes.” “Two,” he starts to undo his belt and the bulge at his crotch tells me two minutes might be enough. “Take off your panties, but leave everything else on.” “I can’t believe we are doing this. Fucking in the Lincoln Bedroom is probably against the law or something.” I pull down my panties and Brady stuffs them in his pocket. “I’ll give them back later. Now, get on the bed,” he says while whipping out his nine inches, and I grin knowing they are all mine. I edge toward the bed, but it doesn’t feel right. “Brady, I can’t do this here.” “What do you mean?” he asks while standing there, his cock pointing at me. It’s a distractingly beautiful sight, but it can’t overcome one thing: Lincoln worked in here. “Maybe the president decided to go to war in this room. It’s sacred or

something. I just can’t.” “Okay, forget the bed. Lean against the door.” He takes my hand and walks me to the door. I press myself against it and he drops to his knees. “What are you doing?” I ask. “Lubing you up with my tongue,” he says, pushing my dress up and bringing one of my legs over his shoulder. His tongue meets me and I close my eyes. Shit, this is going to happen. He takes my other leg and props it over his other shoulder. He’s only done this position one other time, but the sensation of him solely supporting and devouring me drives me to a climax faster than anything else. “Oh, Brady, please,” I cry out as he licks and sucks. “Hush, baby,” he mumbles, but it’s no use. I’m coming and moaning before I can stop it. Maybe it’s the forbidden, but my orgasm hits me deliciously hard. “This is going to be fast,” Brady groans as he stands up while still holding me against the wall. “You’re so wet and swollen.” He places his cock at my entrance and thrusts up. “Shit,” I moan as he fully seats himself inside me. He grabs on tight to my ass and moves in and out at a frantic pace. “Damn,” he exhales the word against my neck, pushing toward his release until all motion stops; the only sounds in the room are our heavy breathing. What is it about wall sex with him that sends me to the stars and back? He says it helps strengthen his forearms, which is great for batting, and it’s by far my favorite way for him to fuck me. “How long has it been since the last time?” he asks. “About two hours,” I laugh as he brushes kisses across my jaw. “Remember that mile high on our chartered flight?” “Well, it feels like it’s been forever.” He looks at me with deadpanned eyes. “Seriously.” “The forbidden makes it hotter.” “Fuck, we’ve been in here five minutes,” Brady says after looking down at his watch. “Oh my God, they’ll be looking for us. This was a wild and really stupid idea.” I find a mirror and glance at my hair, appalled. I look freshly fucked and then some. Freaked out, I start to hyperventilate. “Take a deep breath, Cali. You’re killing the afterglow.” He kisses me on the lips and I forget for about two seconds where we are and that the president of the United States lives a few doors down from this room. “How do I look?” I run my hands over my dress a couple more times. “Beautiful,” he says, wrapping me in his arms. “No one is the wiser, sweetheart. Let’s find the group. We can tell them we were looking for the bowling alley if anyone asks.” “Okay,” I say on an exhale. Brady brings the key down from atop the door and unlocks it. “Just think, we can

tell our children about the time I locked their mother in the Lincoln Bedroom.” “Children?” He’s never said a word about kids, at least not in relation to us having them. “Hell yes.” He opens the door and we look outside to see Jimmy leaning against the opposite wall right next to a portrait of Kennedy. Fitting, I suppose. “Holy shit,” I murmur. “You two are in some kind of trouble,” Jimmy laughs and the sound does something to erase the feeling of dread hovering over me. “You’re kidding, right?” Brady asks, a touch of worry in his voice. “I had them erase the tape,” Jimmy jokes—I hope—while walking away, and we follow. “What?” I ask. “They taped us?” “Only the sound made it. The camera was pointed toward the bed.” I shake my head, not sure whether I’m going to laugh or cry. “It’ll be like World Series Gate if this gets out,” I say, my voice quivering. “Oh, Cali,” Jimmy says, stopping to look straight at me. “I’m kidding. No one taped a thing. Promise. Besides, honey, the president could tell you stories about that room. Remember politics is a dirty, naughty business.” Jimmy’s laughter fills the empty hallway as we walk to meet the other players in the Rose Garden where a reception’s being held. “Want a drink?” Brady asks as he points to a makeshift bar. “I’ll take a bottle of anything red.” He chuckles and leads me to the bartender. He thinks I’m teasing, but I’m not. From the time I slipped off my chair at The Wit to this moment at the White House, my life has been an unpredictable journey. Who would have thought a penis handler would end up with an MVP? Brady hands me a glass of red wine. “What you thinking, babe?” “Just wondering where life’s going to take us. Especially after today.” “One thing’s for sure, it’s going to be a wild and crazy ride.” “I can handle that as long as you’re with me.” “Forever yours,” he says, bending down to seal the promise with a kiss. And true to everything else about Brady, it’s the perfect answer.

TOUGH LUCK

Copyright © 2016 Liv Morris All rights reserved Editing by Word Nerd Editing Proofreading by Proofing Style Cover Design by RBA Designs

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

In 1969, a young woman stood on a bridge with her whole life ahead of her. This story is dedicated to her, and the friends with her that day.

ONE

ONE YEAR AGO…

BRYCE

“BUD LIGHT OR COORS?” Brady, my younger brother and Chicago’s third baseman, yells from my kitchen. I have a large bag of ice on my shoulder as I sit on my couch, and he’s my official beer delivery guy for the night. “Whichever is the coldest,” I answer while skimming through the channels to find ESPN. “Bud it is,” he replies. I live in a secluded area of Chicago’s north suburbs along with most of Chicago’s football squad. It’s quiet and lowkey. When I go out to the grocery store, I’m not mobbed like Brady, who has an apartment downtown. If he hits the sidewalks outside his building, a crowd forms. That shit would drive me crazy. I need my downtime. Football is a game of reflection—one where I rehearse each play in my mind so I can perform on the field without thinking. It’s rote memory to me. Brady and I don’t see each other much once football season starts, but he drove out to the ’burbs to watch the late football game with me. For a few months, our playing times coincide and both our teams played at home today. “Here you go, bro.” Brady hands me a cold brew and I flinch when my body moves forward to reach for it. Fucking shoulder. “Thanks, man,” I say after the short agony subsides. “Shoulder still tender?” Brady asks as he takes a seat on the other end of the couch. “It’s about the same as it always is after a game. Key thing is my mobility, and it hasn’t been this good since college.” I had an operation to repair my rotator cuff and spent the entire off-season

rehabbing my throwing shoulder. The ligament wasn’t completely torn, but damn near close. “I don’t know how you take all those hits. My biggest worry is having a wild pitch smash my johnson.” Brady looks at me with wide eyes. “Like the other night. I swear, the pitcher wanted to ruin my chances of getting pussy ever again. He aimed right for it, man.” “Your dick likely hits more homeruns than your bat,” I quip. Brady nods in agreement, owning his player reputation. “You’re just jealous because you don’t fuck around during the season.” Brady compares me to his lifestyle, but he has no idea the pressure I live under as a quarterback. Chicago’s fans hold their breath if I even show a slight limp when I leave the field, or take too long to get up after a hard tackle. If people catch me out partying, rumors will fly and my dedication will be questioned. Sure, I want to fuck around, but the cost is too great. “Try having an entire team’s season centered on your every move or mistake.” “True. You really are it.” Brady shrugs, but he’s right. Quarterbacks are the foundation of a football franchise. One crack can make the whole team crumble. “Plus, I have an eager replacement standing ready on the sideline. That will sober your drunken dick up fast as shit. Remember what my college coach told me?” “How could I forget? A sexing quarterback is a slipping quarterback,” Brady drawls, shaking his head. “I would go out of my mind without fucking for months. It’s inhuman at your age.” “Lots of quarterbacks wait until they retire to get married.” “Who’s talking about marriage? We are in our prime for this town’s best pussy.” I shake my head, because it’s true. Women drop to their knees for guys like us, but those women won’t make me happy in the end. Been there done that—or them. Brady will learn. “Okay, Don Juan, I’ll let you have my share during the season,” I joke, and we tap the necks of our beers. “Deal.” After the game ends and all the pizza and beer is consumed, Brady sticks around to watch the late night newscast with me. It’s past ten o’clock and my ass needs to hit the mattress, but I want to see the local take on my play time today. Brady hit a homerun to win the game, so they’ll be singing his praises, no doubt. Not so sure about me, though. I only played half a game. We suffer through the regular news updates and weather reports. Finally, after we hear how warm and humid the area is, the sports section comes on. The sports anchor switches to a reporter standing on the sidelines of the stadium, our team logo in the background. It’s hard to keep my eyes off her. She’s beautiful, and her full lips have me licking mine. “Here’s the new hot chick. Amelia something. Fuck, her tits are about to explode out of her shirt. I think I see her nipples too.” Brady moves closer to the

TV, probably hoping he can reach out and touch them. “Wonder if they’re real,” I add, gripping my beer tighter. She has an insanely awesome rack. “You’re such a boob man.” Brady gets ready to jab my arm, then thinks better of it when I shoot a death stare his way and point to the icepack. “Shut up for two seconds so I can hear what she says,” I admonish him, even though he knows what I like. And Amelia’s are fucking hot. “I’m here at Soldier Field as serious questions loom over the stadium. Is Luck’s shoulder ready to take on the Giants defense next week? Before today’s final preseason game, Chicago’s medical team claimed Luck was ready, but was he?” Amelia pauses to let her insane remarks sink in. My heart races at the thought of doubt trickling into people’s minds. “Of course he’s fucking ready,” Brady curses at the screen. I throw a pillow at him so he’ll stop talking and he catches it with the natural reflexes of a third baseman. “After three interceptions and a fumbled snap in today’s game,” Amelia continues, “some wonder if his shoulder is shot. His stats over the last three games could mean one thing: Luck’s luck has run out. Good thing Chicago has former probowler Deion Smith as their backup quarterback. He might want to take a few snaps this week during practice, just in case. Back to you, Michael.” “What the fuck?” I let the words fly off my tongue, enraged she labeled me as pretty much finished. “Who the hell does she think she is? “Don’t listen to her shit,” Brady counters as he moves to the edge of the couch. “Everyone knows starters hold back during the preseason. Those games serve as more of a warmup to the real thing. “Switch the goddamn station,” I yell into the air. How dare she give her opinion without any facts. Sure, I didn’t have the most stellar game, but I also didn’t have my usual offensive line. Coach was trying out rookie wide receivers during the two quarters I played. It’s not my fault my guys missed my throws and the other team made an interception. Hell, I didn’t even get an earful when I hustled to the sideline after the turnovers. My blood boils because she’s forecasting my doom in the league. I can’t remember ever being this pissed off over a reporter’s analysis. I’ll show her and everyone else I’m better than ever. Brady picks up the remote and presses buttons until another Chicago newscaster appears. “Last time I watch her, even if she’s the hottest chick in town.” My cell phone starts buzzing and I scan over the screen as texts from my teammates and agent flood in. News travels fast in this business, but bad news gets delivered at lightning speed. I toss the phone on the coffee table in disgust, sure as hell not interested in rehashing the newscast right now. When my phone starts to ring, I hesitate until I see my mother’s name lighting the screen. Shit.

“Hi, Mom,” I say in a calm tone, trying to hide the anger bubbling up inside me. “Bryce,” she says in a shaky voice, “I just saw a young woman on TV. She said you’re practically washed up.” She sniffles into the phone. Dammit. That bitch made my mother cry. I hang my head and take a deep breath. I need to suppress my anger so I can convince my mother everything’s okay. “Don’t worry about me, Mom. She made up lies to get a story out of the game. I promise you, I’m going to have the season of my life. Just you wait.” One thing is for damn sure, I’ll make sure she’s lost access to reporting from our sideline. She’ll have to work from the stands or press box. Fuck her and her awesome rack. She’s going down. I’ll prove Amelia wrong if it’s the last thing I do. No one upsets my mother.

TWO

PRESENT

BRYCE

IT’S my last free day before the season starts, but instead of relaxing by the pool before I get caught up in the whirlwind, I find myself headed to Darren Hunter’s house for a season kickoff party. He’s our illustrious team owner who has more money than sense. My fingers itch to get the first game underway. All the buildup and anticipation reminds me of the day before school starting as a kid. Nothing will help me until I get the football in my hands and the scoreboard’s clock begins to count down. I pull up to Hunter’s mansion and the guard at the gated entrance waves me to a stop. I exit my car and toss my keys to a college-aged valet. The kid smiles at me and twirls my keychain around his fingers like he’s the real owner of my BMW Z4. I throw my head back and laugh, remembering the days when I worked at a country club near my childhood home and dreamt of driving a sweet ride like mine. Raised by a single mother who struggled to put food on the table, I will never take my success for granted. Letting this young guy behind the wheel is a gamble, but maybe it’ll give him something to aspire to. “Careful with my baby. She’s delicate,” I say with a knowing grin while caressing the hood like it’s as fragile as silk. “Yes, sir,” he says while positioning himself in the driver’s seat and gripping the steering wheel. I chuckle when he bounces on the leather in excitement. “Mr. Luck, you win, hands down, for the best car at the party.” “Thanks, but that means Matt Mills isn’t here yet,” I say. He’s my go-to wide receiver and drives a fucking Aston Martin. “He drove some tank-sized SUV. Shame, too. I wanted a spin in his Aston.” The valet can’t disguise the disappointment in his voice.

“You can drive a stick, right?” I ask as the valet revs the engine. “Born with one in my hand,” the cocky kid replies. “Okay, but stay in first,” I admonish while closing the door. When the car putters away to a side parking area on the grass and nearly stalls out a couple times, I cringe, but choose to ignore it and continue up the stone paved driveway, past the perfect landscaping. As I bound up the steps, the front door opens before I even knock. A tall solemnfaced man in a tuxedo stands motionless in the foyer. He could almost pass for a wooden statue. “Come in,” he says in such a formal tone, I wonder if his name is Jeeves. “Mr. Luck, the party is out back by the pool. This way please.” “Thanks,” I respond, and follow him back through several massive rooms. The ceilings alone have to be two stories tall in the open living area, and I hear music and chatter from the party before we arrive at the glass doors leading to the pool. So much for being socially late. Judging by the crowd, it appears I might be the last to arrive. “Enjoy yourself, Mr. Luck,” Jeeves says as he opens the sliding glass doors separating me from the rest of my team. Nodding, I step out into the humid air. “Nice to see you finally decided to show up, Bryce,” my teammate, Tony Prescott, says from somewhere in the crowd. I spot him as he moves toward me with his hand held up for a high-five. “Was there ever a doubt?” I ask as we clap hands. “Luck will never let you down.” “Never has,” Tony says with a smile. “You need a beer, man.” “Already on it.” There’s a tap on my arm and I swing around to see Vivian Woods staring up at me with stars in her eyes. She’s the coach’s nineteen-year-old daughter and my constant shadow when she sees me. “I brought you a beer.” “Thanks, kiddo. You better not be drinking, though,” I say, ruffling her hair as I take the beer from her hand. I met her seven years ago when I was drafted by the team. To me, she’s still the twelve-year-old tomboy with braces and banged-up knees from playing ball with her older brothers. “Gosh, I’m not a child anymore, Bryce. I’m a sophomore in college,” she says, straightening her hair and pushing her chest out at me. I can’t ignore that her boobs appear bigger than normal. Not that I’ve looked too closely before, but now she’s bursting out of her swimsuit top when I remember her being almost as flat as a pancake. “Notice anything different?” she asks in a singsong voice as she looks up at me through her lashes. “With that, I’m outta here,” Tony says as he slithers away with a crooked smile. Asshole. So much for being there for your teammates. Vivian moves closer while she waits for an answer. Swallowing the obvious yes instead of saying it out loud, I glance around in hopes of an escape, but a group of

Chicago cheerleaders encircles us, trapping me in. Shit. “Um…” I mutter, fumbling for a change in conversation. “Vivian,” a brunette from the crowd around us starts. Her wide eyes are directed at Vivian’s chest as she gapes. “I can’t believe you finally did it!” So much for a distraction from the topic at hand. I take a step back, then another, parting myself from the crowd. But as I start to turn away to make my escape, Vivian hooks an arm through mine, anchoring me. Great. How the hell can I get away from discussing boob jobs now? I’d rather relive discussing why I have wet dreams with my mother. “Well, at least someone noticed.” Turning to me, Vivian glares before rolling her eyes and spinning back to the brunette. What did she expect me to say? She’s like a little sister to me. “Thanks, Suzie. I’m so happy with my boobs,” Vivian squeals. “The doctor did such a wonderful job. They look real, too. Don’t you agree, Bryce?” “Wait. What?” I ask. All the women surrounding us raise their brows, waiting for my answer. “I need to find the food,” I whistle out, unhooking my arm from Vivian’s in hopes of leaving this circle of hell. “Can I touch them?” a blonde in an orange bikini asks, stretching out her hand and blocking my way forward. Holy fuck. I run my fingers through my hair, wondering how I can shut this shit down. The girl wants to feel Vivian up in front of everyone and turn this into a lesbian porno. If Coach catches me standing in the middle of it, he might blame me for this sideshow. Taking the blonde’s hand in mine, I move it back to her side. “Yeah, ladies. Why don’t you take your party to the restroom?” I tilt my head to the side in the direction of the pool house. “Coach won’t approve of you getting handsy for all to see.” Even though he probably paid for your implants. I wonder how Vivian talked him into it, or most likely bribed the money out of him. I shake my head. That’s none of my business at all. “Great idea, Bryce. I can take my top off and give you all a full show!” I force myself to bring up a memory of a younger Vivian in overalls with dirt on her face, and let out a grateful sigh when it wipes away the visual I was heading toward. Much to my relief, Vivian gathers her boob friends and walks away to the pool house, and I blow out all the air in my lungs. Feeling like a freed man, I turn to my right and walk toward an extravagant buffet a few feet away. The party might be salvaged after all. Grabbing a plate off a tall stack, I view the spread before me as my stomach growls. The healthy stuff is at the beginning, so I decide to start with a green salad and work my way to the fried chicken. “Fucking grape tomatoes,” I mutter, trying to capture a couple slippery red orbs with a pair of salad tongs. Surrendering, I toss the utensils from hell aside after several fruitless attempts, pick a few up with my hands, and plop them down on my plate, not giving a fuck about the salad dressing coating my fingers—or the other people who may want

some. “Nice manners, Bryce.” My agent, Rod Tidwell, sidles up next to me while I lick my digits dry. I give him a pointed sideways glance. He has no room to judge since I’ve heard him belch in some of Chicago’s finest establishments. “The person who created these damn food tweezers should be condemned to picking up grains of rice with them for life.” I point to the tongs, move along the chow line to a safer dish like potato salad, and scoop a nice helping on my plate with a feeling of victory. “A quarterback with your hand-eye coordination should be able to conquer small vegetables. Love to see you using chopsticks.” He follows his comment with a mocking laugh. “Forks were made for a reason,” I protest. “To stab food.” “Where’s your smile hiding today, Dimples?” I sneer at him and answer in a growl-like huff. Dimples. The nickname has stuck to me like glue since my first day of life when my mother saw the little indents in my cheeks. It sounds like the name of a demented clown, but the chicks seem to dig them. After selecting a couple drumsticks, I walk away from the food, Rod tagging along beside me with his plate. “Where’s the Blonde du Jour you were talking to?” he asks. “That was Vivian. She’s in the pool house showing the other girls her new boobs.” Rod howls and I give him a shut-the-fuck-up nudge with my elbow as we make it to an empty table by the edge of the pool. We set our plates down and each take a seat. “Her new rack threw me off from a distance. Makes your shadow look less like jailbait,” Rod says through his laughing. “Here I thought you finally hung up your single status by bringing someone to an event.” “No serious relationships until I hang up my jersey, remember?” He should know me better after being my agent since I was drafted. “How could I forget? You practically have it tattooed across your forehead.” “Not a bad idea,” I kid back. “Hey, maybe you can help me with something.” “That’s what an agent’s for, right? Shoot.” “Why all the fake shit? From Botox to boobs, all the women I date—and I use that term loosely—tend to load up on the fake to look hot. Hell, Vivian is only nineteen.” “MTV,” Rod deadpans. “It singlehandedly started the downfall of the last two generations.” “You can’t be serious,” I say, shaking and scrunching up my face. He’s nuts. “Totally. Though, now, it’s all porn on the internet. But MTV was the beginning of the end.” “Who knew you were so puritanical,” I laugh, knowing Rod’s slept with at least two cheerleaders from the team—something I’ll never do. “You’re really in a hell of a mood today, Rod.”

“That I am,” he concurs. No use denying the truth, I guess. “You seem on edge. What’s up?” “I need to tell you something you won’t want to hear.” “Wouldn’t be the first time.” Placing my fork on my plate, I give Rod my full attention, and he glances down like he’s trying to gather his thoughts. I raise my eyebrow at him, even though he isn’t looking, resisting the urge to motion for him to get on with it. “The reality show Hunter mentioned to you…” Rod begins, and then stops. He glances around the deck area and pulls on his collar. Something’s up. About two weeks ago, Hunter dropped by the locker room and pulled me aside into an empty office. He said season ticket sales were off by twenty percent—a huge hit to his bottom line—so his PR team came up with an idea. To pull it off, he would need my support. I asked him what he had in mind, thinking it was something like promo spots of me on the field, something lame. Wrong. He wants people to see inside our daily lives, mainly mine. Identify with the players in a more personal way. When he brought up filming me—more like trespassing into my daily routine—I shook my head at him and left the room, telling him he was asking the wrong guy. I might’ve been okay with controlled still-shots, but not a moving camera. In the pros, I lived under the advice from my college coach. He told me to keep a rather impenetrable wall up between my private and public life. So far, this path has worked for me. To the public, I remain a mystery without a trace of scandal. People have referred to me as the enigma, mostly about the women in my life, or lack of them, as some say. I maintain my relationships out of view, hidden, and I plan to keep it that way. I’ll let my wild brother, Brady, star in the gossip columns. He has my mother worried sick too. Idiot. “Is he still pushing that crazy idea? I thought he was blowing smoke up my ass.” I can’t believe I’m discussing this. “Well, he’s ironing out the details with a local station.” “What does ‘ironing out’ mean? And with a TV station?” I raise a skeptical brow at Rod, watching him shift in his chair. “I better not be a part of this crazy scheme.” Hunter never came back to talk about his idea, whatever the hell it is, so I figured it was just a crazy thought. But with Rod’s out-of-character hesitancy, I have a feeling my answer would’ve been no—not that he cared enough to ask for my permission. “He wants you front and center. Here’s the tough part. Hunter wants your favorite TV sports reporter, Amelia Adams, to be involved. Sorry about this, Bryce,” Rod apologizes, and my head spins. “I thought we agreed to never bring her up.” My shoulders tense into a hundred knots. “Between us, yes. Believe me, I didn’t want to tell you.” Rod glances across the pool, then back to me. “She’s standing over there,” he says, nodding toward the

other side of the pool. “What?” I swivel in my chair, my eyes landing right on Amelia. “Hunter invited her?” I ask, though I already know the answer is yes, since everyone on the team knows my feelings for her after she told all of Chicagoland my career was D.O.A. But, dammit, she was wrong. I ended up having the best year of my life last season. Every complete pass and touchdown had me saying, “See that, Amelia? Bryce is back.” I stare out over the shimmering blue water, and can’t deny she looks hotter in person. Dammit. Her wavy blond hair blows in the wind, and her long legs are bare and dangerous in ways that will have all the guys standing in line to meet her. But no matter how luscious her ass is, and it does look lush, I still hate her. Always will. She’s standing next to Rich Sanders, the team’s biggest womanizer. He bends closer to her, whispering something in her ear, and I narrow my eyes at the display. Amelia reacts to Rich’s actions by tossing her long hair over her shoulder and laughing. Rich touches her on the arm, letting his hand linger while rubbing lightly. I’d bet my yearly bonus he wants to fuck her. He’s the male version of a slut. I continue to stare at Amelia in hopes she feels the heat of my angry gaze, but she carries on like I don’t even exist. “I saw her, up close, when I walked in. They look real, by the way.” “Of course they are,” I mutter to myself. She’s hot and curvy, and I would bet she didn’t need a drop of Botox to pull it off. “Listen, I just heard about it before I found you fighting with those tomatoes. I’m not happy about it either.” He takes a draw from his beer, as if he needs to regroup. “Here is Hunter’s plan. Amelia will tape behind-the-scene segments over the season. Some directly football related. Others, not so much.” “This is utter bullshit,” I say, peering back at him. Hunter bought the team after he sold his tech company for a cool billion at the age of forty-two. I believe the team is more of a hobby to keep him busy than a serious business, especially since he wants to turn us into a gridiron version of the Kardashians. “I told Hunter you’d be pissed.” “You’re fucking right I’m pissed,” I hiss. I shake my head at him in disbelief. Hunter signs my paychecks and thinks he owns me, but he knows I despise this woman. “So, it’s a done deal,” I say, pushing my plate to the side. Rod nods, signaling I’m screwed. “This better not fuck up my game. I’m used to playing ball a certain way without a woman hanging around all the time—especially one I despise.” “Boy, who knew you were such a sexist. Or is it more that she’s smoking hot? That might go against your sworn monkhood.” “I get plenty during the off-season,” I fire back, even though he’s right. When it comes to women, I live a rather secluded life from them by choice. “I hope Hunter is ready to hear an earful from me. I’m going down on Amelia

without a fight.” I catch myself as Rod chokes on his beer. “I mean, she’s going down on me,” I stumble around my words and give up. “Whatever. You know what I mean. Not what I say.” “Interesting.” Rod waggles his brows, and I punch him in the arm. “Ouch. You don’t pay me enough to take hits off the field.” “Like hell I don’t.” Rod rubs his bicep and I point down to his shiny new Gucci loafers to make my point. “Sorry, man, but I have a bad feeling about this.” Movement catches my eye and I direct my gaze back to Amelia as she turns her head and looks over her shoulder. Her eyes land on me and I swear the corners of her red lips turn up in a smile that goes straight to my crotch. Fucking twitchy dick. I raise my chin to acknowledge her and she does the same in an unspoken hello. Fuck, I should’ve just given her the bird instead of that stupid head bob. I swore I would have it out with her if we ever met. “Look at you two,” Rod comments as I take a deep breath and return my gaze to my nearly empty plate. “What did you think I’d do, give her the finger?” “Well, your eye-fucking sure makes me wonder if you wish it were your fingers,” Rod laughs, and I scowl. “Shut up. She disgusts me.” Her tits and ass might be another story, though. “Whatever. It’s time you got over that two-minute snippet from a year ago. You proved her wrong. Move on.” “Easy for you to say. My mother called me crying, worried sick. She still asks how my shoulder feels a year later.” “Fine, hate Amelia for life. It’s your choice.” “Damn right it is,” I quip. “I don’t get it. Others have questioned your skills after those two interceptionfilled games when you came back. Why so much hate toward Amelia?” Rod asks. “Are we back to the girl thing?” “She didn’t question my return or health. She decided I was finished in the league.” I down the rest of my beer and look toward the bar. “You’re going to need another drink, buddy,” Rod says in a way that makes me suspect another unpleasant discussion is headed my way. “The reason being?” I ask, my tone dripping with sarcasm. I can hardly imagine how anything he says could make me feel worse. “I was asked to introduce you to Amelia.” Rod backs up in his chair like he’s hoping distance will make him safe. “Now.” “Hunter, right?” I ask, glaring at him. Rod nods and exhales. “He’s a prick for doing this without telling me beforehand.” “Very unprofessional.” Rod may agree with me, but he doesn’t seem ready to stand up against Hunter. I have to wonder if there’s more to the story than Rod’s telling me. I glance over at Amelia and see a smiling Hunter, AKA the team owner from hell, standing next to Amelia. “He wants celebrity-type fame, but I want to give him a

legacy as an owner.” “If things get out of hand, I’ll fight Hunter for you on this. Hostile work environment, etcetera.” “You can count on me asking for just that.” I push back from the table and rise to my feet. “Let’s get this fucked up thing over with.”

THREE

AMELIA

“YOU’RE TOO hot to be single, but there isn’t a ring on your finger,” Rich Sanders, allpro running back and all gross, whispers into my ear while trying to touch my hand. “Tell me you didn’t forget to wear it.” “What a charmer you are,” I say with a hair flip. No matter how far I scoot away from Rich, he moves closer. He has earned the special nickname I give men who need to be flicked away. “Well, Glitter, if having a husband gets you to leave me alone, the answer is yes.” “You called me Glitter,” he says with a smile. “I like that, and you. I think I’ll call you…” he pauses and rubs his chin. It’s a nice chin for such a jerk. What a waste. “Feisty.” “I’ve been called worse,” I scoff. From the look in his darkened eyes, I realize he’s not going to quit making passes at me any time soon. Mind made up, I dive into a lie. “Mostly by my husband’s mother. You know mother-in-laws.” “Well, shit. I knew it,” he states on an exhale, disappointment in his voice. “Hell, if you were mine, I’d never let you around these animals.” Funny he used the plural since he’s the only animal wanting to sink his teeth into me. “I can handle myself just fine,” I conclude with confidence, hoping he gets the hint and my statement conjured up some disappearing magic. “That you can,” Rich laughs, glancing over my shoulder. “Oh well. Party’s over. Here comes the boss.” Turning in the direction Rich is looking, I find the team owner, Darren Hunter, walking toward us. He’s smiling at me, then narrows his eyes at Rich. I have the distinct feeling Mr. Hunter is like the cavalry coming to my rescue. I exhale in relief. “Sanders,” Hunter says while clapping Rich on the back. “I see you’ve met Amelia Adams.”

“Well, I’ve met her and been shot down,” Rich complains with a shrug. “Good,” Hunter says as he reaches his hand out to me. “Smart move, Amelia. Thanks for coming today. I should’ve warned you some of our players are players off the field too.” “Come on, boss. How could I resist this?” Rich gives me the once over while using his hands to showcase me like I’m being judged at the county fair. He’s really disgusting. Rich accepts defeat as fast as I blink an eye and waves at a pretty woman in the distance. The poor woman’s eyes shift from side to side like she’s looking for an escape. Run, I want to shout when Rich starts walking toward her. “Forget him, Amelia,” Hunter says, and I plan on doing just that. “He’s a great running back, but a social nuisance.” I nod my head. Even though I’ve only been a reporter for three years, guys like Rich are a dime a dozen. It’s like there’s a skirt-chasing marker in their DNA. I’m the only woman in Chicago who reports sports on a local channel. It’s tough being a lone ranger in the male-dominated field. Most athletes think I should have pompoms in my hand instead of a microphone. It’s easy to spot who they are too, because they usually talk to my boobs during interviews. If only my boobs could talk, I’d get better interviews than Roy Firestone. He’s the guy who makes all the athletes cry like little babies. Oh, what I wouldn’t give. “Thanks for inviting me. Your place is amazing,” I say while glancing around the pool. It’s the first time I’ve hung out at a billionaire’s pad. I would compare it to a resort, down to the doorman who greeted me in a tux. It’s uber-fancy. “Well, I wanted to introduce you to Bryce in a relaxed environment, away from the field.” I physically cringe at the reminder. “Hey now, don’t be nervous.” “That obvious?” I ask, wringing my hands. “He’s going to fall in line. Promise. I have my ways,” Hunter says with an I’vegot-this wink. I sure hope he’s right. It’s no secret I’m on Bryce’s shit list. Last season, he denied all interviews with me, even kicked me off Chicago’s sideline after my news report was heard around town. What good is a sports reporter who can’t report sports? My new byline should be “Washed up at Twenty-five.” All the fallout has left me inches away from losing my job. I have to face Bryce, though. My career in Chicago depends on me working with him over the next few months. The question remains: will he agree to work with me? The ice was chipped away when Bryce and I locked gazes a few minutes ago—a silent introduction, but I’ll take it. He’s sitting with his agent Rod Tidwell at a table across the pool from me. Maybe the sun reflecting off the water keeps me from seeing his face properly, but Bryce didn’t appear hell bent on killing me. As a matter of fact, he almost looked curious, like he was checking me out…which is delusional on my part. He’s likely plotting my demise, but he’s known for being an all-around great guy with a mild temperament—me being the only exception.

Bryce and Rod rise to their feet and push their chairs under the table. Bryce shakes his head and looks at me for a split second before turning away. He’s listening to Rod, whose hands are in full motion. They turn two corners around the pool’s edge, heading straight for Hunter and me. This time when I catch Bryce’s gaze, I regret not taking the Xanax Katie, my best friend and roommate, suggested before I left our apartment. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Also stupid is how unbelievably handsome Bryce is as he struts toward me. Stupid cut jawline. Stupid thighs with rippling hard muscles under his shorts. Stupid thick, dark hair that needs my fingers running through it. Most stupid of all are his eyes. I had no idea brown eyes could twinkle. How stupid is that?

FOUR

BRYCE

I FOLLOW Rod around the pool, but not before grabbing another cold beer. I almost put my Ray-Bans back on, then decide Amelia should get a full view of my eyes. There will be no mistaking my true feelings in them. “Hello, Hunter. Following orders,” Rod says as we arrive to stand before two people I’d rather push into the pool. I haven’t looked at Amelia since rounding the pool’s edge. I want my first upclose eye contact to be when we are introduced. Plus, her legs are so damn distracting. I don’t want to water down my incoming death stare. “Thanks, Rod. Hope you’re enjoying yourself, Bryce.” Hunter clamps a hand down on my shoulder and I resist the urge to shrug it off. “Hunter,” I say, tipping my beer and waiting for him to bring up the woman standing next to him. Her perfume wafts through the air, and it’s intoxicating. I’m tempted to look at her, but steel myself against doing it yet. Something feels off. Maybe it’s because I’ve never acted this dismissive with anyone before, but I have good cause to ignore her. “Listen,” Hunter’s voice takes on a serious tone, “I want to formally introduce you to Amelia Adams, reporter for the local NBC affiliate. I believe you’ve heard of her.” Heard of her? I nearly shout back at Hunter, schooling my features and steadying the heat running through my veins. Stay cool. Stay calm, I remind myself, my fingers tensing as the anger lifts. “Amelia,” I greet with the same amount of emotion I use when ordering Chinese food: none. I don’t extend my hand either…even though my fingers now itch to fix a stray piece of hair blowing across her face. It’s beautiful and distracting, like the rest of her. Distracting green eyes.

Distracting boobs that are gloriously real. Dammit. Distracting red, pouty lips. “Mr. Luck, I’m very excited to meet you.” Amelia’s words tumble out and she cracks a smile that lights up her entire face. You’ve got to be kidding me. Does she really have no fucking clue I consider her my enemy? “Well, you shouldn’t be. I know I’m not.” My response flies out of my mouth without a thought and Amelia flinches like I just punched her in the gut. Was that too much? Nope. At least I didn’t tell her to go to hell like I’ve dreamt of doing a thousand times. This version of me seems tame…I think. “Come on, Bryce. Not the exact response I was hoping for.” Hunter tries to play down the tension building between us. Good luck with that. I give Amelia a pointed glare and her brows knit together in confusion…or could it be hurt? Business is business. It’s time I let her in on a secret she’s obviously unaware of. I don’t want her on the sideline, in the locker room, or in my life at all. “Rod told me you’re turning the team into the next reality show.” My statement is aimed at Hunter, who shifts on his feet. Rod mutters, “Careful,” under his breath, but I ignore him and plow ahead. “Thanks for asking me how I feel about it,” I challenge, crossing my arms in front of me, being mindful not to spill my beer. I’m going to need every last drop after this conversation. “Hell, we have camera crews around all the damn time. Believe me, Bryce, you won’t even know Amelia’s there. No offense to you,” Hunter adds as he turns from me to Amelia. “I’m going to grab a cold beer. Rod, why don’t you join me?” Hunter and Rod leave, but neither Amelia nor I turn away from our staring contest. Her eyes are an unearthly green and large. Add the ink black of her lashes, and I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything like them before. I find myself forgetting how much I hate her—until her gaze narrows slightly, then widens as a slow smile slides across her perfect lips. “You’re still pissed about that news report from last year, aren’t you?” “You should try your hand at Jeopardy. You’re brilliant.” I lift my beer to my mouth and down the rest in one long pull. After I finish, I wipe the corners of my mouth. Amelia watches my every move. “Shoulder’s fine, by the way,” I say with a fierce, don’t-even-challenge-me look. “But you’re still sore about it.” “You pretty much labeled me done in the league.” “Well, your first two games back were horrible. Stats don’t lie.” She places her hands on her hips and throws her head back, as if she’s trying to scare me with her defiance. She only comes up to my chest, even in her heeled sandals. I bet she doesn’t weigh over one twenty. Like she could take me on. I try to suppress a smile at her silly display, but one side of my mouth tips up. “It was preseason. I was holding back to make sure I was ready,” I try to explain

the truth she never cleared up after her report. “Sorry. Maybe I should’ve stuck to how good your ass looked in your uniform. That’s more of what you’d expect from a woman, right? I was trying to do my job.” She thinks my ass looks good? This time, I can’t keep a full smile from my lips, dimples and all. “As you said, stats don’t lie. Who ended up having a record breaking season last year?” I shoot the question at her and watch her take a deep breath in defeat. “Okay. Your luck didn’t run out. Satisfied?” She moves closer, giving me a sarcastic smile—the kind that says “fuck you” versus “I’m sorry”. God, she’s standing up to me, like we’re two kids on the playground fighting in the sandbox. I imagine her as a little girl with blond ponytails giving boys shit. But that smirk of hers…it’s disarming. I have a strong desire to kiss it off her red lips, until someone taps me on my shoulder. “Bryce, who’s this woman?” Peering down at my side, I see Vivian glancing between Amelia and me. This should be as much fun as a twisted jock strap.

FIVE

BRYCE

“AMELIA ADAMS, meet Vivian Marks, our head coach’s daughter.” I wonder if Vivian will remember conversations at her father’s home where I’ve openly discussed my extreme dislike of Amelia. If she does, her tongue will be hard to control. “Hi, Vivian. Love your swimsuit,” Amelia says with a bright smile. It appears her claws have been stashed away—for now. “Thanks! There’s something familiar about you. Have we met before?” Vivian asks, scrunching her brows like she’s trying to figure something out. “I’m a TV reporter on channel three. I do sports stories about men who play with balls.” Amelia glances up at me, her green eyes filled with amusement. I eye her and shake my head. What a tease. “I know who you are now.” Vivian bounces on her feet as if she discovered a buy one get one free sale at Victoria’s Secret. “She’s the one you always call a b—” I shoot my elbow out, nudging Vivian just in time, and she stops before the word comes tumbling out. “Viv, would you do me a favor?” I ask, and Vivian nods her head. “Empty.” Holding up my depleted beer bottle, I shake it in the air. “Anything for you, Bryce. Today’s your last hurrah before the season.” Vivian flutters her lashes at me and I sigh. “Thanks, kiddo,” I say, bringing up the buzz kill word so she doesn’t get any ideas. “Ugh,” Vivian says, stomping a foot, “nineteen, remember?” “Practically a grown up,” I joke. Vivian turns away in a huff, and I shrug. There’s a fifty-fifty chance she’ll bring me a beer. I might’ve crossed the too-insulting line, but I accept hurting her feelings if she takes the hint. I can feel Amelia glaring daggers at me, so I delay looking up at her and watch Vivian sashay toward the bar. Looks like I’m forgiven, and unless someone stops to talk to Vivian, I have about three minutes to get rid of Amelia. “So,” Amelia starts with a long pause. I finally meet her intense green eyes.

Damn she’s pretty. “What was Crush saying before you cut her off? Starts with a B? Hmmm, wonder what it could be?” Amelia looks up in the air, tapping her chin. “Any ideas, Bryce? Because I sure have a few.” “Crush?” I ask, trying to divert her attention away from the “B” word question. Her pointed stare makes me doubt it worked. “I give people I meet nicknames, and Vivian seems to head the Bryce Luck fan club. She has it hard. Poor girl.” “So, what’s my nickname?” I ask, continuing the effort to move the conversation away from the uncomfortable. When a mischievous grin crosses Amelia’s face, I begin to regret the question. “Hmmm…can’t say,” she whistles, and I narrow my eyes at her. “Or won’t?” “Both really. It’s a four-letter word.” “That bad, huh?” “Well, I don’t cuss out loud.” Her tongue licks her upper lip in a distracting way, and I shake my head to refocus. “Are you religious or something?” “Not really,” she adds with a shrug. “But don’t tell my mother that. Raised in the Bible belt and all.” “Lips sealed.” Though I’d like to taste hers. “Not even an occasional hell or damn?” She shakes her head. “You’re an anomaly.” I don’t know anyone my age who doesn’t say the occasional four-letter word. “I think those words, a lot, but I never say them out loud. If I get used to speaking naughty words off camera, they could slip through when I’m on the air. Everything I say is like practice. You’d be surprised how many careers were submarined by the f-bomb on live TV.” Amelia gives me a wink, trying to disarm me…and maybe it’s working, because I just returned her smile. Dammit. “Makes sense,” I say, though I’m betting I could get a bad word out of her. Push the right button, or maybe trick her into telling me the nickname she gave me. “Back to my nickname.” “Nope. Back to what Crush was saying. B what, Bryce? Come on, cough it up.” She puts her hands on her hips, which makes her chest stick out, and I try not to gaze too long, but it’s no use. Her cleavage is a work of art. “Up here, Bryce,” Amelia snaps, doing that V, I-see-you thing with her fingers. I return my gaze to her face and give her an I’ve-been-caught shrug. She has to be used to guys being assholes with a rack like that though. “That’s better. Now, answer the question.” She’s really rather bossy. “Beautiful?” I say, sweat forming on my forehead. Damn, the sun’s hot today— or is it the fire in Amelia’s eyes? “Right? And I’m Erin Andrews,” she huffs, shaking her head. “You wish,” I scoff, moving closer to her. “Erin would never make my mother cry.”

“What are you talking about? I’ve never met your mother, and would never intentionally make anyone cry.” “Does this ring a bell? ‘His stats over the last two games mean one thing: Luck’s luck has run out. Good thing Chicago has Smith as their back-up quarterback.’ My mother cried thinking my career was over. Took me fifteen minutes to calm her down.” By telling her you’re a liar. “Okay, I remember saying that, and I’m sorry your mother cried, but—” Amelia slams her lips together and looks down at our feet. When she glances back up at me, her eyes tell me one thing: I’m not getting an apology any time soon. “At the time, it was true.” “You really infuriate me,” I sneer, stepping into her personal space. She backs up, pulling away from me, but I just move closer again. “Why can’t you just say you’re sorry? How hard can three little words be? I. Am. Sorry.” “I was doing my job, okay?” “No, it’s not okay. I heard your ‘luck has run out’ over and over in my head the entire season. It pushed me to prove you wrong.” Again, I take a step forward, and she takes one back. “Maybe you should thank me then.” “Thank you? Why the hell would I do that?” “I was your motivation, and it worked. You rocked it last year.” I tighten my hands into fists at my side. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I kind of yell at this exasperating woman. I inch closer and she inches away. “I think I’ve had enough of this conversation.” She spins on her heels and tilts toward the pool, her arms making circles at her sides. Reaching out, I try to grab her, but it’s no use. She splashes into the blue water, and disappears under it before I can get to her. “Fuck,” I curse, bending down to help her out of the water. How the hell did we move so close to the edge? Her mass of blond hair swirls around her as her head pops to the surface. Amelia pushes wet strands of her hair from her face. The daggers in her eyes pointed at me almost makes me retreat. She shakes her head, her mouth open in disbelief. Holy shit, this woman is pissed…at me.

SIX

AMELIA

BY THE TIME I float to the top of the water, my emotions are spinning in a rage. What the fucking hell? Bryce backed me into the water—and I worked on my hair and makeup for over an hour. Now it’s ruined. Asshole. He is so going down. Okay, he didn’t push me into the pool, but he used his body —his stupid fine body—as he encroached on me step by every motherfucking step until I fell flailing with a big splash. I won’t let this slide. I curl my lip, thinking of ways to have him join me in the pool. Let’s see who can outsmart who. Pushing the dripping hair out of my eyes, I see Bryce crouched at the pool’s edge on bended knee, his hand held out to me. I huff, droplets of water flying from my lips. As if I trust him to help me get out. Fool me once and all. Nope, I have a plan and it’s not getting out, but getting him in. I mask my intentions with a grateful smile. His eyes search mine, and I can see the worried hesitation in his. He better be scared. “Amelia, here,” Bryce says as I take his hand. Instead of letting him pull me close to the edge, I brace my feet against the tiled wall and yank with everything I have. Next thing I see is Bryce wide-eyed, his mouth open as he shouts, “No!” His descent toward me feels like slow motion, giving me time to enjoy getting him back. Revenge is sweet, and I savor the taste of it as Bryce falls in beside me, yelling loud enough to rattle the windows of the mansion. I fist pump the air in victory. “Take that, Jaws,” I scream Bryce’s nickname as he surfaces. Score one for Amelia. “Jaws? That’s your nickname for me?” he asks through gritted teeth, his eyes piercing me with a menacing glare. I give him a single nod in answer. “You know, sharks are dangerous.” I should be scared, terrified even by his look and warning. Instead, it gives me a warm, tingly feeling, leading my thoughts to a surprising place: a bedroom. I

conjure up images of Bryce stalking toward me with one thing on his mind: fucking me...hard. I must be nuts or likely stupid. Yep, I’m full blown crazy, but I can’t erase the fantasy…or wondering if he likes to do it up against the wall. That’s a favorite of mine. “I’m going to get you,” he spits out, his eyes hooded in anger…I think. It can’t be the other reason. “You don’t scare me,” I say in a firm tone. And it’s true. This wild-eyed version of Bryce does nothing but turn me the hell on. “You should be,” he says in a voice so low, I can barely hear it. Now, I imagine him whispering into my ear—which doesn’t help at all. He starts to move toward me in the water, his nostrils flaring as he sucks in hard breaths. And even though he’s been nothing but a raving jerk since we formally met, I can’t stop the desire flowing through my body. He stands in front of me, toe-to-toe, his height forcing me to look up at him. My sight lands on his jawline, and I can’t move my eyes from it. It’s the reason I gave him the nickname. The chiseled perfection was the first thing I noticed today as he walked toward me with his agent. Now, I’m biting my lip to keep from licking the water cascading down his cheeks, past his hidden dimples, to the scruff-covered edge of my delight. I sound like a bodice-ripping novel, but he’s near divine in this area. I bet all his areas are rocking. “I think I sacked you, Mr. Luck,” I singsong back at him. After all, he weighs twice what I do. Bryce reaches out for me with both hands and I quickly move backwards, but he’s faster. His hands cover my shoulders and the next thing I know, I’m going under the water again. My hands smack at his arms in an attempt to get him to let me go, and he finally pulls me up. “You asshole,” I shout, gasping for air. “Were you trying to drown me because of a stupid news report?” He gazes down at me, still holding me in his grasp, and a smile spreads across his face. Dimples in their full glory. “I got you to cuss. Out loud,” laughs Mr. Know It All. Shit, though, he’s right. I constantly cuss in my head, but this is the first time in years I’ve let a bad word slip past my lips. “I’m allowed, since I almost drowned,” I sneer, but he keeps his smile shining at a blinding megawatt. He should become a spokesman for one of those teeth whitening companies. He could sell the shit out of it. “Let’s try it again,” he says in a sexy tone. Squatting, his hands move to my waist, and my pulse races as I wait for his next move. I look up into his gleaming brown eyes, and in the next moment, I’m underwater. What a jackass. How dare he dunk me again? He must’ve been raised in a barn with animals. I’m beyond pissed, so I do what every not stupid girl does, I’ll grab where it counts the

most: his cock. Considering the weight and height advantage Bryce has over me, this fight isn’t fair, so I won’t be fair either. Desperate to get some air or kill Bryce, I start reaching out in front of me hoping to find his joystick. When my fingers touch Bryce’s shorts, I open my hand and grab ahold of something large, wide…and hard. Well, Bryce Luck’s as big as his ego, and drowning women turns him on. How sick. I tighten my hold on him and twist my wrist with all my might. Take that you stupid, hot, big beast of a man. Stilling, Bryce removes his hands from me in an instant. Since he let go of me, I let go of him. I do have some manners, unlike him. “Looks like I really won, or at least you felt like I did,” I tease before swimming around him. I want to get out of this damn pool before anything worse happens. Though I have no idea what that might be. Maybe a quick skinny dip? I halt for a second before powering forward. That might’ve been fun. “I can’t believe you grabbed me there,” Bryce shouts as I push through the water, trying to escape him and all the eyes I feel on the two of us. “Self-defense,” I say, turning toward him. “I learned it in college, and it worked like a charm.” I flip my hair over my shoulders and Bryce zones in on my chest. I follow his gaze and my cheeks immediately heat. Dammit. My light cotton sundress is plastered to me and my nipples are standing at attention. Traitor nipples. “Where did she grab you, Bryce?” Rich yells from the deck. “His you-know-what,” I deadpan, and everyone starts to clap and cheer. I raise my hands and bob them in victory. “You think you won this round,” Bryce hisses as he catches up with me. “I discovered your Achilles heel actually resides in your shorts.” I laugh while walking up the pool steps behind Bryce. “You two were hilarious,” Hunter says. He hands us each a clean towel and I wrap it around my chest, closing the curtain on Bryce’s peep show. “Hilarious?” Bryce flares, and I swear there’s steam coming out of his ears, or maybe it’s just the humidity in the air. “Yes! You two have great chemistry. Off the charts,” Hunter declares in excitement. “I have a brilliant idea. You two get cleaned up.” “I have a dress she can wear.” Vivian appears at my side, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Perfect,” Hunter replies. “And, Bryce, I’ll get Meredith to find you some spare clothes. Meredith?” A middle-aged woman rushes toward Hunter’s side. “Yes, sir?” “Meredith, help Bryce find something dry to wear.” Meredith nods a few times before walking away. Bryce hesitates, looking from me to Hunter, likely waiting for something, though I have no clue what. “Wait,” Hunter says, “when you two are cleaned up, meet me in my office. Your little fight inspired a new setup for the reality show. It’s going to be brilliant.”

Shaking his head, Bryce turns and walks away with Meredith, who has to be Hunter’s assistant or some kind of staff. Bryce’s shoulders have fallen a little lower than the usual broad and tall version and I can’t help but wonder what’s going on in his head. If I had to guess, it’s this reality show idea Hunter conjured up. I’m pretty sure Bryce hates the thought of it as much as he hates me.

SEVEN

AMELIA

“I CAN’T BELIEVE you fell into the pool and still look so pretty,” Vivian compliments as we stand in front of a mirror inside the luxurious pool house. It’s bigger than my condo. Vivian sets her bag on the counter and starts digging through it. She’s being kind. I truly resemble a drowned rat as I try to comb my finger through my tangled hair. Her flattery throws me off too. I was expecting a more mean girl approach from her. At least something more territorial, like “Bryce is mine, don’t even think about it.” But she’s kind and sweet, if a bit ditzy. Now who’s the mean girl, Amelia, I think, scolding myself. “Thanks, but my makeup and hair are shot.” I grab a tissue off the counter and wipe the black mascara from under my eyes. Vivian stops her rummaging long enough to look up, a genuine smile lifting her lips. I find myself returning it with ease. “I wish I could pull off beautiful without trying like you,” Vivian sighs while literally pulling everything out of her bag onto the counter. “Sorry, I’m not very organized.” “I’m not very organized either,” I say, trying to encourage her. She has cut herself down twice since we walked in here. “And by the way, you’re gorgeous. I bet you were a cheerleader.” “How’d you guess?” she asks, a big grin wiping away the previous self-doubt. “You have pep and the look. Plus, a body made for handsprings.” We share a laugh as she flexes her arm muscles. “If this bathroom weren’t so small, I’d show you my back tuck.” Vivian returns her attention to her belongings and pulls a white eyelet sundress out of the pile. It looks like something I’d have worn to a sorority rush party. “Here you go.” “Thanks.” I take the dress from her and scoot into a draped off dressing area. But I don’t want to finish our conversation yet. There are still few questions I would love to have answered—mainly details about Bryce.

“So, how long have you known Bryce?” I ask from the stall. I slip off my wet clothes and squeeze into Vivian’s sorority attire. The top part of the dress is too tight, but I stuff my breasts into it, determined to make it work, no doubt turning a sweet and innocent garment indecent. Add the fact that I don’t have any underwear on beneath it, and I feel scandalous as the fabric hugs my bare hips. “I met Bryce when Chicago drafted him. I was twelve. And what I wouldn’t give to go out with him now. I mean, what girl wouldn’t?” Vivian sighs from a few feet away. The poor thing is in love with the guy. “But he won’t get serious with anyone until after he retires. I’m willing to wait, though.” “What’s so magical about being retired? Lots of guys are married with kids in the league.” I exit the dressing area while continuing to pull down the dress. Nothing seems to help, though. If I bend over in it, I’ll give someone an eyeful. “You don’t know, do you?” Vivian looks at me with sad eyes, and slowly shakes her head. “It’s a horrible story. You better sit down.” Vivian scoots up onto the counter and I sit on the plush bench across from her. Her smile has disappeared, along with her bubbly disposition, but I have to know Bryce’s story. “My mother is the one who told me…” Vivian twists her fingers in her lap, and I hold my breath in anticipation. “It happened Bryce’s sophomore year in college.” “While he was at Notre Dame,” I add. “Yes. It was Valentine’s Day. He’d been dating a girl since early his freshman year. I don’t know much about her other than she was blond and quite beautiful. He planned a special night for her, considering it was Valentine’s and all, and took her to a bridge that crossed a small river. I guess the college kids liked to go there. Now, here’s the hard part.” Vivian takes a deep breath, and I’m literally on the edge of the bench, awaiting her next word. “So, they were on the bridge at night?” “I’m pretty sure.” Vivian shrugs while tilting her head. “Anyway, it started to snow and his girlfriend spun. They were caught up in the moment and a car barreled toward the bridge, striking her.” “Oh my God,” I gasp. “Tell me she didn’t die?” Vivian nods once, and tears form in my eyes. The thought of his girlfriend being killed is too much for me. “Like I said, it’s a horrible story,” Vivian sighs, reaching for a tissue on the counter and handing it to me. “Bryce is the one who found her in the moonlight on the river’s bank after she was hit. He almost had to drop out of school.” “I can’t imagine what he went through.” “He doesn’t want to get close to a woman again until he retires. My mother says he’s put a wall around his heart.” “It’s a shame,” I respond with a shake of my head, “and so sad. He could be missing out on the love of his life.” “That’s what I think too.” Vivian jumps down off the counter. “It was ten years ago this coming February. My dad says he’s never seen Bryce with a woman, but he

has to have someone around for certain things…if you know what I mean.” Vivian waggles her brows at me, breaking the dark mood hovering over us, and I laugh. “Totally,” I say as I rise to stand next to her. Bryce is very discreet, but there has to be someone in his life from time to time. “Maybe one day Bryce will see me as a woman, not the coach’s daughter. I’ve been little sister zoned,” Vivian complains as she hands me a comb for my tangled hair. It must look worse than I think. I glance into the mirror. The perfect blow out I walked in with is now a knotted mess of strands. I comb through it a few times and give up, deciding to let it air dry. “Well, I’ve been hate zoned, so it could be worse,” I say in an attempt to cheer Vivian up and help her look beyond Bryce. “You should try dating guys at school. Who knows, maybe the love of your life is sitting next to you in class.” “I really like you, Amelia,” Vivian says with a laugh. “So, why does Bryce hate you so much?” “You mean why does he call me a bitch?” I wink at her. “That too,” Vivian chuckles. “I went on TV a year ago and said something about his shoulder. At the time, it seemed right, but he proved me wrong. He’ll get over it.” I hope. “Once he finds out how cool you are, he’ll forget all about it.” Vivian gives me a contagious smile and I grin back at her, praying she’s right. My career will be over if she’s wrong.

EIGHT

BRYCE

MEREDITH FOUND a dry pair of Hunter’s shorts and a T-shirt for me. The guy isn’t over six foot and likely weighs one seventy-five tops, so I wonder if I’ll end up looking like the Incredible Hulk with ripped and tattered clothing. Once dressed, Meredith leads me to Hunter’s office. I would rather be getting tackled on the fifty-yard line, than sitting in this meeting. It will likely be a battle of contracts, and I’ve been around this league long enough to know contracts are synonymous with selling your soul. “Come in, Bryce,” Hunter calls out to me, and Meredith motions for me to enter the open office. “Meredith, please close the door and bring Amelia in when she’s done changing.” “Yes, sir,” Meredith replies before leaving us. Hunter sits at his desk in the middle of the room. Taking a step inside, I walk toward him, but he seems distracted by something on the computer screen in front of him. “This is fucking priceless,” he says through a laugh. “Seriously amazing.” I’m hardly through the door, and he’s already talking crazy. I shift on my feet after taking a couple steps inside the room. “Bryce, have a seat.” Hunter finally looks up from his computer long enough to make actual eye contact with me. I do as he asks and sit in the chair opposite him across the desk. The chair is small and low to the ground. I feel like a kid back in grade school sitting in front of the principal as he rules from his throne. Douchebag. “We have a problem,” Hunter proclaims, moving his computer to the side, the smile he had seconds ago disappearing. His piercing gaze looks as serious as hell, which is where I feel like I reside at the moment. “We?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at him in question. “Yes, we,” he answers with a nod of his head. “The team is in trouble

financially. We’ve lost over twenty percent of our season ticket holders, our gross sales are down, and even our apparel lines are off. The only jersey selling is yours.” “But you’ve got more money than God—or Jerry Jones, for that matter.” I lift my hands in the air and scan the office. It’s decorated like something out of one those architectural magazines. No expense was spared, except when it came to his visitor’s chairs. “I can’t pour my own money into the team. The league has rules,” he says on a sigh. “I need to get revenues up, and I’m convinced I’ve found the way to get it done. Your jerseys and memorabilia sell more than all the other players combined. You’re our star, Bryce, and I need you to shine like one.” “You mean bring in the dollars,” I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest. I try leaning back in the chair, but it makes a creaking sound under me. Fucking kindergarten furniture. “Hey, we’ve always worked together, right?” “Rod was the one who told me you already worked out this reality show idea. I don’t remember you coming to the team or me for our thoughts.” “True,” Hunter says in agreement, and my eyebrows shoot to my hairline in surprise. “So, you’re going to turn us into The Real Players of Chicago or a gridiron version of the Kardashians?” Tipping my head, I give him a pointed stare. There’s no hiding my distaste for what Hunter wants to do here. “Well, it was more along the lines of the Players of Chicago thing, but after watching you and Amelia together, I had a brilliant idea. I need your cooperation, though.” “What will it cost me if I don’t agree?” I ask, knowing there will be a price. “You’ll be a free agent next year.” Hunter starts down a line that leads to one place: letting me go to another team. “I can’t afford you unless things drastically change. If you want to stay in your hometown, you’ll work with Amelia over the next few months.” “Define what you mean by working,” I say, my tone skeptical. I’ve always been the team player, the quarterback who tries to lead by example, but this time, something’s different. I keep thinking, what about me. What about what I want? “I’ll show you what I have in mind when Amelia joins us.” Hunter smiles like the Cheshire cat, and I eye him skeptically knowing he wants something from me. A few silent minutes later, there’s a knock on the door. “Come in,” Hunter says from his desk. He’s clicking away at his computer while I’ve been eyeing his rare coin collection on a nearby shelf. I turn toward the door as it opens. When Amelia walks into the office, all the air leaves the room—or maybe I just quit breathing. Either way, she looks glowing in a white dress Vivian must’ve given her. Her blond hair flows long and wild. When she moves farther into the room, I get a closer look at her boobs. They’re spilling over the edge of her dress, and I can’t help but wonder if they’re as soft as they look. Licking my lips at the thought, I move my gaze up to her face.

After staring too long, I’m met with a caught-you-looking headshake. My only defense is a slight smirk and shrug. “Looks like we both have clothes a little too small,” I tease, rising up from the chair to show how horribly mine fit. Amelia nods and pulls on the bottom of her dress, which makes her boobs jiggle. Well, shit. No matter how hot Amelia is, I need to remember she’s nuclear. The perfect rack belongs to a witch—even if she looks like a good one. “Join us, Amelia.” Hunter smiles wide at her before turning to me with a look of warning. I roll my eyes. I can be professional. When Amelia makes her way to the other chair in front of Hunter’s desk, I don’t look at her legs...for too long. “Originally, I agreed to have Amelia capture the team at work. From my desk to the locker room, but…” Hunter pauses, “I’ve had a change of plans. Our team photographer caught the interaction between you two in the pool. He switched his camera to video and recorded it all. It’s priceless. I hope it will be, at least.” “What do you mean?” I ask, running my fingers through my hair. I don’t have a good feeling about his change of plans. “He emailed the clip to me. Let me show you,” Hunter chuckles, spinning his laptop toward Amelia and I. He clicks on the play icon and the scene from twenty minutes ago replays before us. It begins with the photographer catching Amelia as she fell into the pool, her eyes wide with a touch of fear in them. I glance over at Amelia, and she side-eyes me. I throw up my hands, knowing I might’ve had a part in her fall—unintentionally, of course. If anything, she was egging me on with her attitude and the inability to admit she was wrong about my arm. Next up is Amelia pulling me in. I still can’t believe a petite woman got the best of me in front of my entire team. “Now, watch this part,” Hunter interjects as the clip shows me coming up for air. “The look in your eyes, Bryce. Killer. Literally.” Water dripped down from my hair, but the camera focused in on my eyes. They’re squinted and set straight on Amelia. Replaying our interaction brings back the anger I felt, and a little embarrassment too, knowing the guys were going to rib me later. But, surprisingly, Amelia didn’t seem concerned as I put my hands on her—even when I told her she was going down. I have to hand it to her, she’s got more balls than some guys I know. Since I pushed her under the water once, and she still wasn’t fazed, I had to do it again for good measure, I guess. Actually, I have no idea what I was thinking. It felt like I was back in middle school at the neighborhood pool. We used to play games like this with the girls we liked. Not that I like Amelia…it’s just the last time I remember dunking a girl. “I love it,” Hunter shouts, slamming his hand down on the desk. “The

chemistry between you two is off the charts!” I rub the back of my neck. “Okay, Hunter, I’ve seen enough. You’ve proven your point.” What was his point? Hunter clicks his laptop mouse and the video stops. Thank fuck. A guy can only take so much. “Amelia, let’s use this clip for the promo lead on the show you and Bryce are going to do.” I start to protest, but Hunter holds up his hand, stopping me. “Called Beauty and the Baller. Perfect, right?” “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I exclaim to the ceiling. I need some help from above, or even below, before I lose my shit. But for me, I’ve already lost more shit in five minutes than the rest of my life combined. How’s that for chemistry? “Listen, Bryce,” Hunter says in a stern tone, “this is what it’ll take to fill up the seats. Mark my word, your jerseys will be flying off the shelves. We won’t be able to keep up with the demand.” “You’re crazy. Certifiable, even.” I move forward in my chair, splaying my hands wide on Hunter’s desk. There’s no way he can miss the fire coming from my eyes. “Relax,” he says in a long breath, but my jaw clenches tighter. “How’s this? Once a week, you’ll do a segment with Amelia. The first one could be at next Sunday’s away game. Then you could take her to the hospital no one knows you visit every Wednesday.” This time, I interrupt without stopping. “I don’t want anyone filming my personal life,” I declare, standing from my chair. I glance at a suspiciously quiet Amelia. She hasn’t said a thing since…well, since she walked into the room. Now she stares up at me with a very loud smirk on her face. It’s almost deafening. “What do you have to say about this?” I snap, moving closer to her chair. Grabbing the arms, I bend over, borrowing some of her personal space. Amelia looks up at me, amusement in her eyes, and holds her lips tight together, like she’s trying not to laugh—at me, I’d bet. How did my life get so fucked up? “Do you want the truth, Bryce?” Amelia asks with a broad smile. This woman is so damn distracting. “Nothing but.” For the millionth time since I heard Amelia’s name today, I run my fingers through my hair in exasperation. “For me, I think it’s eighteen-carat gold,” she says, and her eyes mirror the excitement in her voice. There’s no denying she wants the challenge. It’s two against one. And I’m on the losing team.

NINE

AMELIA

HUNTER JUST OFFERED up the chance of a lifetime. At the news station, I’m a secondstring reporter at best. Over the last year, I’ve warmed the bench waiting for my pink slip. But working up-close and in person with Bryce should wipe away any doubt my boss has in my ability. That’s my hope, anyway. As I look up into Bryce’s stormy brown eyes, worry hits me. He holds this sweetheart of a deal in his hands. I don’t think Hunter can force him to cooperate, fully anyway—partially, maybe. But the show will be a success if Bryce buys in all the way. So I better tone down my glee-filled smile and try to butter him up. A place I’d like to butter on him pops into my mind and I shake my head. There’s no time for those thoughts right now. Later would be just fine, though. “Okay,” I take a deep breath, “it’s true there’s no love lost between us.” “You could say that again,” Bryce quips as he stands back up, and I exhale. He was hovering over me so close, I was afraid to breathe. “Nah, once is enough,” the comeback flies out before I have time to think. So much for trying to win him over. “Nice one,” Hunter says with a laugh. “See, Bryce? You two are gold, like Amelia said.” “It’s all been at my expense.” Bryce narrows his eyes as he looks between Hunter and me. And so far, it really has been. I can’t deny it. “You’re right,” I confess, glancing up at Bryce. “We may not be able to bury the hatchet, but maybe we can cover it with a little dirt. At least give it a try,” I say, making one more attempt to soften him up. For some reason, I don’t like the thought of a softer Bryce. I do prefer him with all his hard edges. I shove my hands under my legs with two fingers crossed on each hand. Covering sports has made me superstitious. “Maybe I should leave the room and let you two duke it out.” Hunter leans back

in his chair and steeples his hands under his chin. “Okay, I’ll give it a chance.” Bryce throws up his hands. “If it fucks with my game, though, the show’s over.” “I agree,” Hunter responds with a nod. “You have my word. Who knows, you may end up enjoying it.” “I highly doubt that,” Bryce huffs. “I’m going back to the party. You two hash out the details.” “Good luck with the game tomorrow,” I say, and boy am I relieved he didn’t say no. Maybe I should keep my fingers crossed, just in case he changes his mind. After Bryce leaves, we discuss the away game next weekend in Indianapolis. Hunter wants me to fly out with the team. He believes Bryce will feel more comfortable with me if he gets to know me better, and I hope he’s correct. “I have a ton of work to do, so I better get on it. Thanks for inviting me here today,” I say, standing up. I’ve had enough of the pool party for the day, not to mention the lack of panties. “Of course. I have a good feeling about you and Bryce.” Hunter smiles, his eyes filled with amusement. I furrow my brows, wondering what he might be implying, before smoothing my features and following him out of his office. Hunter shows me to the front door, which is a good idea since this place is huge. We say good-bye with plans to talk on Monday. He’s more focused on the game tomorrow against Houston. I start down the long driveway leading to the entrance, pull out my phone, and open the Uber app since I don’t own a car. I added up the cost of parking in our apartment building, insurance, and gas, and found the total was way more expensive than just taking a car service. Plus, my car was eight years old with near bald tires and a strange rattle in the engine. The app scans for a car in the area and there’s one five minutes away. Not too bad considering I’m in the stuffy suburbs. I glance over my emails while I wait. “Leaving too?” I turn to see Bryce standing a couple feet from me, his hands in his pockets, tittering on his heels. “Yeah,” I say, surprised he started a conversation with me. He didn’t seem like my biggest fan when he left Hunter’s office. “Thanks for giving the show a chance. And me.” I inch closer to him, since he’s opened up to me in a small way. “The reason is simple,” he says on a sigh. “I want to stay in Chicago, so I am following orders.” “Well, it means a lot to me.” I try to sound grateful. This show could take my career to a level I never dreamed. “And I get the following orders thing. I do the same thing with my producer. The story I did about your shoulder was his idea. He spoke the words into my earpiece. I had to say them.” “No kidding?” Bryce’s eyes widen in surprise. “So, you didn’t want to say the words?” “I won’t go that far,” I confess. He did throw horribly that day, but I knew there were other factors. My producer wanted drama, so did my boss. Like now, with this

reality show concept. “Maybe we’re more alike than I thought,” Bryce scoffs with a single nod. “My offensive coordinator calls the plays. I perform them. Can this be off the record?” he asks, his eyes searching my face. “Sure. You have my word.” Bryce glances from side to side before speaking. “Players are a commodity. We are scuffled around from team to team, replaced if we have a bad game or injury. The people who stay are the coaches. They’re the real team.” “I’ve never thought about it like that, but I see your point.” “My offensive coordinator calls in the plays. If they replace me, he’ll still be calling the plays. Don’t get me wrong, I love the sport, just not the business end so much. It’s a profession now, and before, I played the game for the passion of it.” I stare in awe over Bryce sharing such feelings and thoughts with me. People have always told me their life stories, strangers even. At times, it feels like I’m a priest instead of a reporter. But conversations like this one are meant to be private, not shared with the world. Even if what he’s telling me would make a hell of a story. My phone buzzes and I see a text from the Uber driver saying he’s arrived. “My ride’s here,” I say while showing him the Uber app on the screen. “And don’t worry, my lips are sealed.” “I trust you,” he replies. “You do?” I ask, unable to hide the shock from my voice. I can’t believe my ears. “Unless you’re bugged or something.” He smiles in a slow, sexy way that lights up his velvety brown eyes. “Though, I don’t think you’re hiding anything under that dress.” His eyes land on my boobs and hips, where the dress fits me like a second skin. He’s also flirting, so why not dish it back? “Wouldn’t you like to know?” I tease with a playful grin, and he laughs at me. “Better run. My car’s waiting.” “You’re something else.” He shakes his head, and I walk out the gate to the street before my driver thinks I’m a no-show. I glance over my shoulder before Bryce is out of view. A big smile beams on his face, his eyes focused only on me—or my backside. Truthfully, it doesn’t matter. As long as I’m moving out of the hate zone, I don’t care what he stares at. Climbing in the car, I smile like a lunatic the entire ride home.

TEN

AMELIA

AFTER MY MEETING with Hunter and Bryce, the only word that could describe my week is bipolar. One minute, I’m bouncing around the newsroom, excited about the show and its possibilities. Then, an hour later, disaster scenarios are running through my mind. Like, what if I fail? What if Bryce can’t get over his hate for me? What if I can’t control the lust-filled thoughts of Bryce that keep popping up in my head? Even doing a simple task like peeling a banana tainted my lunch on Wednesday. I found myself comparing the fruit’s length and girth to what I felt when I grabbed Bryce’s erection in the pool. To make my daydreaming worse, he won the contest… by a lot. Our station’s creative team produced a catchy promo clip for the show. The voiceover called it a pool party in Bryce’s shorts. Bryce’s PA, Janice, texted me saying he wasn’t a fan of that title when he saw it aired. I promised to talk to my boss, but when I did, he just laughed it away, saying Bryce needed to toughen up. I never replied to his PA about this issue, and thankfully other topics came up, like me signing a NDA. The team worried I might overhear their secrets and leak them to their opponents. Not happening—ever. I’d be fired on the spot. Try getting a job after putting that on your résumé. The best part of the week was posting the promo clip on all my reporter-linked social media sites. The Facebook post alone has over twenty thousand shares, and the retweets are insane. People seem hungry to watch this show and cheered on my dick grab, though it wasn’t the finest moment for me on camera. All the attention created a viral buzz for Beauty and the Baller without spending a dollar on ads. Maybe I was right. This show will make bank for the station—and me. Tomorrow, we’re filming the first episode of Beauty and the Baller at Chicago’s away game in Indianapolis. The team flies out today and Janice arranged for me to join them on the flight. I’ve been running around my room, trying to decide what to bring. Clothes

crisscross my bed while my suitcase sits on the floor, open and empty. I’ve laid out three dresses, two skirts with matching jackets, and my favorite skinny jeans. Walking back to my closet, I grab a silk blouse to pair with the jeans. Or maybe I should wear the new green halter top my mother bought me for my birthday. Decisions. Decisions. I never know what to wear in the morning, let alone the next day. Since a car is scheduled to pick me up in under an hour, I decide to just bring everything on the bed. Problem solved. If I get complaints about how much luggage I have, I’ll claim some of the contents are for the show. In a way, it’s true. I do have to wear clothes, after all. Though, I would be okay with Bryce filming in the buff. And once again, my mind goes to the gutter. Damn hot guys with hot everything. My phone starts to ring on the dresser, and I run to answer it. It’s my boss. “Hello,” I say, while catching my breath, more out of excitement than being taxed. “You ready?” Ed’s very familiar with my organizational issues—or lack of them. If I say yes, he’ll know I’m lying. “Almost, Ed,” I reply. Once I throw all my clothes and toiletries into the suitcase, I’ll be ready to walk out the door. “Good,” he says in a stern, boss voice. “I want you to check in with me tomorrow morning. Let’s say around nine, since kickoff’s at noon.” “Works for me,” I say, walking to my bathroom and throwing my makeup and hair essentials into a small tote. “What’s that racket in the background? Are you at the airport already?” “Last second packing?” Caught in the act, my voice trails off. “I hope I’ve made the right decision to put you on this show.” His worried words are painful to hear. They hit me straight in the heart…and ego. I take a deep breath before answering. “I’ve got this, Ed. Promise. I’ve worked all week and you okayed my script for tomorrow.” “Well, I’m counting on you. This type of show could get picked up by the network brass in New York,” he says, hope in his voice. “It could mean an entirely different future for both of us.” After ending the call, I sit on the edge of my bed, feeling weighed down with the pressure to succeed. A part of me feels like this project is way over my head, and no matter how high I jump, it might be out of my reach. Ed has a dream of working in the Big Apple, but I’m not so sure I’d fit in there. I grew up in a small Wisconsin town, the kind with only one stoplight and a Dairy Queen, so New York freaks me the fuck out. Plus, the rent is so high there, I’d be back to my college days of existing on ramen noodles and peanut butter. My fingernails just recovered from those four years of bad nutrition. All the beer didn’t help either. Now, all my friends and I have moved up to Cosmos and red wine, and so far, my nails have fared fine. Besides, Chicago’s perfect for me. I can have an urban lifestyle with a touch of

Midwestern hospitality and still have money left over for my true obsession: shoes. Oh my God, shoes! I hadn’t even given them a thought. What should I bring? Heels for sure, but how high? I start tossing the clothes on my bed into my suitcase and decide to bring as many pairs as I can fit. “Kate?” I call out to my roommate, Katie. She can make snap decisions, which makes her my complete opposite. “I need your help if you have a couple seconds.” “Coming,” she says from somewhere in our small apartment. She’s likely studying at the desk in her room. She’s in her second year of law school. She and I grew up together and have been friends since we shared our lunch in first grade. “I thought you had to leave soon?” she asks, her gaze moving over the pile of clothes sitting in my suitcase as she scrunches her face in confusion. “I only have a few minutes left before they pick me up. What shoes should I bring? Is it boot season yet?” Katie shakes her head, and I smile at her with a tilt of my head, shamelessly begging for her help. “Gawd,” she laughs at me, and walks to my closet. I do a mental fist pump and follow behind her. “Maybe if the game’s in Buffalo. Boots are okay if the high temp is in the sixties.” “True,” I agree. Katie rustles through the items I’ve haphazardly packed so far. “The black stilettos with the jeans. The nude Jimmy Choos for the brown suit—which I love on you, by the way. And maybe pair the strappy heels with the dress.” I grab the shoes she mentions and throw them into the suitcase. Adding the tote with all my toiletries, I zip it shut. “Done,” I say, pulling the big black monstrosity to its feet. “What a hot mess,” Katie says with a shake of her head. “You really should be an attorney for those under arrest by the fashion police,” I joke, but she does have an eye for style, which is something one is either born with or not. I fall into the not category. “Maybe I could do a reality show. I’d be the judge as people wearing fashion faux pas stand before the court.” “Right? You don’t even let me take selfies with you.” “Maybe it’s because I’m a vampire,” she says, bearing her teeth and bringing up her hands like she’s on the attack. We giggle at her crazy antics. “I really needed that laugh,” I say before giving her a hug. “Thanks.” “I can tell you’re worried, but you shouldn’t be. You were born to be a reporter. I bet your first baby rattle was a microphone.” “You’re the bestest best friend.” She gives me a half smile. “I mean it.” “I feel the same about you. It’s why Bryce better watch out if he’s a jerk.” Katie worries her lip, and I just plain worry. “Me too. But he did send me a text yesterday.” “Really? What did he say?” she asks, and I glance away from her. Wishing she hadn’t asked. “‘Got it,’” I whisper, grabbing my phone.

“Got what?” “My text. We were just confirming phone numbers.” “Well, it’s a start,” she says with a laugh, and I shrug. “I have a feeling he was just busy this week, especially after their loss to Houston last Sunday. That was brutal.” “Very. I’ll text you later, unless you’re going out?” I know the answer before she replies. Even on Saturday nights, her nose is in a book. “Studying.” I’ve tried to get her on a dating app, but she doesn’t even have time to update her Facebook profile. My phone buzzes in my hand with an incoming text. When I look at it, my mouth drops open. “What happened?” Katie moves closer to me, her brows knitted. “It’s from Bryce.” I stare at the screen, stunned. “It says Jaws on your phone.” Katie looks at me confused. “You’ve seen his jawline, right?” Katie nods and smiles. “Great nickname, but what did he say?” She looks over my shoulder. “The car is downstairs? How would he know this? Unless…” I turn to Katie and mouth, “Oh my God,” which makes her laugh. “There’s only one way to find out.” She takes my suitcase and starts toward the door. “Do you want to come downstairs with me?” I ask, or more like plead. “Are you kidding? Look at me.” She looks at me with a pointed stare. She’s wearing her glasses—which I love—and the hair piled on top of her head is secured in place by a pencil. “I don’t even look good enough to take the trash down to the chute.” “Worried you’ll run into Jasper?” I kid, and she blushes. Jasper’s the new hot as hell neighbor Katie has been crushing on. “He is dreamy.” “Maybe he can help you study tonight. In your bed,” I tease. “Get out of here,” Katie says as her mouth curves into a smile. She opens the apartment door, but doesn’t step into the hallway. “Love you.” I give her one last hug before heading down to meet the car, and possibly Bryce. My heart flutters like it does right before a date arrives to pick me up, and that is stupidly unprofessional. “Break a leg, but not Bryce’s, okay? Chicago needs him to win this week.” Katie gives me a wink before closing the door, and I pull my suitcase toward the elevator. The only thing I want to break this weekend is a smile across Bryce’s face—one directed straight at me. I smile at a neighbor while hitting the button to the lobby. We chat during the ride down as he asks where I’m going and gives me the safe travels blessing. I bet this type of exchange doesn’t happen in New York City. The second I exit my apartment building, a breeze hits me, along with a pictureperfect view of Bryce. He’s dressed in a tailored black suit with a Chicago red tie to

top off his look. The best part of all is how he’s leaning against a black sedan staring straight at me. I stop just outside the doorway and blink a couple times, not quite sure this is really happening. When he begins to move toward me, I know it’s not a dream, but a wonderful surprise. Add the tiny smirk on his face, and I hear the bricks falling from the wall he put up between us. I’ve seen a million guys in their uniforms for games, but there’s something about a man in a tailored suit. It’s like male lingerie. I swallow hard as he comes to stand before me. “Hi,” I stutter for the first time in my life, because I always have something to say. “I’ve surprised you,” Bryce replies, and his smirk grows larger. I grip my suitcase handle as my knees wobble. Apparently, I can’t take his gorgeousness. “I was expecting a car, not you,” I say, finally finding my voice. Under the circumstances, it’s a miracle. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said before leaving the party.” His eyes search my face, and it feels good, like he’s trying to say something more to me with them. “I remember saying a lot of things,” I edge, not giving him any help, but I do add a smile—a big one that he returns. “You’re a tough woman.” “Wow. I’ve been waiting to hear that all my life,” I say with a heap of sarcasm, and follow it with a light punch on his bicep. Just as I thought, his guns are made of steel. Well it is his throwing arm. “I’m honored to be the first to tell you,” Bryce says as his eyes dance with amusement. I swear he’s flirting with me. “You stood up for yourself. I admire that.” “You did the same when you challenged me at the party,” I say, and Bryce shrugs, not disagreeing with me. “Can I ask you for a favor?” I ask and Bryce nods, and I smile at how easily he agrees. In this moment, it feels like we have an unspoken truce. Maybe we can pull this show off after all. Still standing in front of my building, a gust hits us and my hair flies over my face. He brushes a few strands from my cheek with his long fingers, and I gasp, shocked by his gentle touch—or any touch by him, really. We’ve moved from hate, to smiles, and now touching. And for once, I’m thankful for all the wind in the Windy City. “Sure, unless the favor requires me getting in a pool with you. Too soon,” he says, teasing me. The side of his mouth curves into a devilish smile and out pops his dimples. I’m fascinated by them. “Could you please tell your mother my side of the story?” I bat my lashes at him for effect, and he nods. “Done,” he announces, and my chin almost hits the sidewalk. I didn’t need to

even ask. Wow. “What? You’ve already told her?” “You came up during the week, several times.” He rolls his eyes. “She watches local sports with Brady and me playing here, so the promo for the show came up, and she called me to find out what was up.” “Did you tell her I’m not as bad as she thinks?” “Maybe,” he says with a sly smirk. Bending closer, Bryce grabs the handle of my suitcase as a soft breeze engulfs me with his scent. He smells like a forest sprinkled in cinnamon. I’ve always been a fan of the spice and plant a baby tree every Arbor Day. We’d be a perfect match, if we weren’t working together. I sigh wondering if it even matters, since I’m not sure if he even likes me…yet.

ELEVEN

BRYCE

AS SOON AS Amelia walks out of her building, I know my decision to pick her up instead of having a driver handle it alone is the right one. I’ve had time this week to think about how much I’ve hated her since the dreaded news report—despised her even—but her explanation at Hunter’s house before she left makes sense to me. She was doing her job, just like I do when I follow orders from the sideline. I open the back door and I help her into the car, enjoying the nice curve of her ass when she bends forward. “You loaded up for the trip. Planning on staying in Indy for a few weeks?” I ask as the driver drags her international size suitcase to the trunk. “I couldn’t decide on what to wear and wardrobe decisions are hard enough to make each morning, let alone twenty-four hours in advance.” She wipes her brow as if her thoughts are exhausting. “I mean, one day I’m in love with pink, then the next it makes my skin look sallow. If I change color decisions, it has a ripple effect. I’ll need all new shoes and accessories.” She blows out a breath and I try to keep my smile at bay. To her, it’s serious. To me, it borders on insanity while being fucking cute. The driver winds through the streets of Wrigleyville, where she lives, and I can’t keep my damn eyes to myself. Amelia’s wearing a red dress that matches my tie. It hugs her curves and shows the perfect amount of her legs. Enough to make me want to see more, and still look professional. She eyes me checking her out. Better own up to being caught. “Great color,” I compliment, and our eyes meet across the small space between us. “Same with your tie.” Her gaze wanders over me, drifting away from my tie. When she meets my eyes again, she bites her lower lip and smiles at me in approval. The mischievous look in her eyes suggests her thoughts centered on what was under my clothes.

“So, you’re probably wondering why I’m here.” I pull the cuffs of my sleeves while gazing at her out of the corner of my eye. Amelia’s eyes never leave me, her gaze boring in on my every move. “Considering your only direct communication with me this week consisted of two words—make that six letters—yes, I am.” She crosses her arms over her chest. I like this feisty side of her, a lot. The women I meet usually giggle and agree with everything I say, which, quite frankly, bores the fuck out of me. “About that text. If it helps, I had a crazy week after Houston crushed us.” She brings her arms back down to her sides and turns toward me, her jade eyes full of concern. “Also, I needed to process what you told me after leaving Hunter’s last Saturday.” “And?” The word hangs in the air for a few moments as I prepare to confess something I thought would never happen. I’m over despising her, but will keep her on a secret probationary period, just in case. “I want to bury the hatchet,” I announce, and her shoulders fall, as if a huge weight has been lifted with just those six words. “Can we wipe the hate slate clean then?” She searches my face, her eyes urging me to say yes. I remain silent, staring at her impassively, while she bites her lip in worry. “Bryce Luck,” I say, reaching my hand out to hers. She glances down at it and exhales. “Amelia Adams,” she says in relief, taking my hand. “You had me worried for a second.” Her hand is small in mine, and soft. It’s the first prolonged touch between us. How long can I hold her hand without it being considered too long and creepy? A formal handshake is two seconds, tops. A casual and friendly touch might stretch on for four seconds, maybe. Anything over five means I want in her panties. I better start counting. Things were easier when I hated her. “Friends.” I wink at her, sadly releasing her hand. Dammit, it felt right in mine, but we were edging close to five seconds. I don’t want her to get the wrong impression, even if it would be the right one. “I like the sound of that,” she says. And I like the sound of her voice. “What do you say we play twenty questions on the way to the airport? Get to know each other.” Her face turns up and she nods. “I’m a trained journalist. Questions are my jam, so get ready.” She rubs her hands in glee. “True, but you have another advantage over me.” She tilts her head and scrunches her brow. “I bet you know way more about me than I do you, so I get two questions to your one.” “I research you for work, of course. But it’s all public stuff. I want to know the real Bryce Luck,” she adds. “Of course you do.” I give her a knowing smile. “I’ll start.” Rubbing my chin, I glance over her from head to toe. Her bare legs and locked-

on-me green eyes make it hard for me to concentrate. The scent of her perfume makes me want to take a deep breath, close my eyes, and savor the smell. I wonder what she wears. It really works for her…and me. “How old are you, and where were you raised?” I ask. My questions are basic information, but they help set a good foundation about her. “Twenty-four. Janesville, Wisconsin. Bet you’ve never heard of it,” she contends, lifting her brow in challenge. “I’ve passed through on my way to Madison. I take it that’s why you went to Mad City for college.” “Wait, how did you know that?” She gives me a pointed stare, then shakes her head. “It’s on the station’s bio of me. You looked me up online, didn’t you?” I Googled her last night, but all I discovered were professional links, and I want to know personal things too. I’ll refrain from asking her bra size. That’s more my brother Brady’s style than mine, but I can make an educated guess. I examine her more-than-a-handful rack, and decide she has to be a D-cup, which stands for damn delicious in my eyes. I lick my lips at the thought of tasting her. I wonder what color her nipples are. I bet they’re a light rose to match her pale skin and blond hair. I exhale a breath to keep from panting. “Earth to Bryce,” she says, waving a hand in front of her boobs. I glance up at her and she rolls her eyes. “You didn’t answer my question.” “Oh yeah, maybe I looked you up,” I mutter, forcing my eyes not to glance down at her distracting boobs. “Okay, it’s your turn.” “Nice change of subject,” she quips. “What did your mother say about me this week?” “Wow, you go right for the heavy hit. I was expecting ‘what’s your favorite movie or color.’” “You were warned. This is the arena I play in,” she scolds, raising an eyebrow as she waits for my answer. “At first, she got on my case, even before I told her the truth about the news report and all.” “I’m confused. Why would you be in trouble when my name came up?” “She said I crossed the line dunking you in the pool, and that I owe you an apology.” My mother asked me if Amelia was getting under my skin in a good way. She reminded me about the thin line between love and hate. I scoffed and told her to get her eyes checked. She also called Amelia a strong woman for standing up to me and wants me to keep an eye out for her. Mother said to make sure Rich stays away from Amelia—she’s seen him in action at my pool parties. “I like your mother,” she chuckles. “You deserved what I gave you, and she’s right about the apology.” Amelia waits for a reply, a smug look on her face. “Hey, you pulled me in when I was trying to help you out, but I’m sorry. What about you?” “Sorry for what? Grabbing you?” she asks, like it was no big deal to put my cock

in a strangle hold. “Yes.” I nod, narrowing my eyes. “A jury of my peers would acquit me on self-defense. Promise.” She emphasizes the last word and holds up a hand. “Almost all the comments on Facebook cheered me on, just like your teammates did.” “Wait a second. We’re fighting again.” “Is that what you call this?” She laughs, pointing a finger back and forth between us. “You should see the news room. Believe me, this is tame. Back to our questions.” “My turn now,” I say ready to fire away. “Wait. I didn’t agree to the two for you and one for me rule.” She rubs her chin, her green eyes dancing. Amelia’s so beautiful, sexy, and smart—the total package I’ll be looking for when I retire. I need to watch myself with her. She could be trouble if I get too close, or she could be amazing. It’s likely the combination of the two: amazing trouble. Something I haven’t let myself experience in ten years.

TWELVE

AMELIA

LUCKILY FOR ME, Chicago’s football team travels in style. I’ve never flown on a private charter, or first class, and right now, I’m doing both. Bryce insisted I take the seat next to him, and I don’t want to read too much into it—we do have business to discuss, after all—but a girl can pretend. When we were asking each other questions on the ride to the airport, he seemed to open up to me. But after awhile, I could see a distance in his eyes like he was floating away. After that, the wall between the public and private Bryce went back up. The flight to Indy will be short, but I plan on enjoying every moment. And with Bryce sitting next to me wearing that dangerous red tie, it won’t be hard. I’ve been imagining him untying it, pulling it through his collar, then twisting it around his hands as he stalks toward me, like he did in the pool. I let out a long breath at the thought, and Bryce gives me a quick glance with his brows knitted. Did I just moan out loud? I hope not. “Excuse me, miss. Your Bloody Mary.” A flight attendant hands me the drink I ordered and walks away without asking for any kind of payment. I kick back in my seat. I could so get used to this lifestyle. Free drinks and a hot guy sitting so close I can smell his cinnamon-wood goodness, what’s not to love? “Cheers,” I say, trying to get Bryce’s attention. He lays his device down and lifts his drink to mine, a smile in his beautiful eyes, even if his face remains impassive. “Cheers,” I say, and we tap real glassware—not the plastic, disposable ones I normally have on flights. “You’re popping my first-class cherry.” Bryce coughs on his drink, and I smirk knowing I cracked through his controlled veneer. I give him a couple pats on the back. It’s more an excuse to feel his suit under my fingers than rescue him, and the smooth texture of the material tells me he didn’t buy this at TJ Maxx.

“I’m doing what?” He wipes his mouth and grins wide, revealing those two glorious dimples. “It’s my first time sitting in the one-percent’s cabin.” “One percent? Are we speaking the same language?” He chuckles and turns toward me, his iPad long forgotten. “You know, the wealthy one percent.” Throwing his head back, he laughs, giving me an unhindered view of delicious jaw porn. His Adam’s apple is perfect. Not too big, but definitely masculine. “It’s hard keeping up with you,” he says after finally catching his breath. “That’s what my last boyfriend said.” “He’s an idiot.” Bryce stares into my eyes, and I feel a shift in the mood as his eyes darken, becoming serious…about me. “For letting you go.” I can’t hide the shock in my eyes. I wasn’t expecting that, since he’s hated me for over a year. But the compliment makes me feel good, so I’ll take it. Plus, Joe was a complete asshole. Since I’m a sports reporter, he thought we could stay home and watch ESPN all night instead of going out—he even planned sex around halftime. “He was a total idiot.” I shrug my shoulders because the jerk means nothing to me now. “Or is, since he’s still alive.” Bryce spits out his drink again. “Maybe I should speak after you swallow,” I say in a matter of fact way. He sputters more as he laughs. He starts to sputter-cough again and I realize I better be careful with my words. I can’t have him choking to death. Chicago fans would kill me. I tap between his shoulders…or more like give him a gentle rub in slow circles. I wonder if he would notice if I ran my fingers through his hair. Probably better not. “Just give me a warning when you have something funny to say,” Bryce rasps. Choking on orange juice can cause that, I suppose. “Now you understand why my producer tells me what to say. I can go off on tangents. Like this. Do you have free Wi-Fi on the plane?” I open my laptop sitting on the tray in front of me. “The password is touchdown.” “Shocking,” I tease while typing it in and connecting to the internet. “You’ve seen the plans for tomorrow outside the locker room, right?” I glance at him. “Janice emailed them to me.” Bryce tightens his jaw. Not a good sign. If I had to guess, he isn’t comfortable about the setup. He has a roving fan club called the Bryce Babes. They congregate outside Chicago’s locker room at home and away games. The Babes wait for him to leave, then Bryce signs footballs or programs. He even takes a few selfies with them. I’ve stalked the club’s Facebook page, and these women are obsessed. Some of the things they say about him sexually would make Madonna blush. To make it better, the woman who heads the fan club is about his mother’s age. Talk about awkward. “I’m going to interview the Babes before you come out to greet them.” I can’t wait to chat with these women. I’ve heard a few guys are in the Babes’ ranks too.

Boy, it would be great to get a man’s take on Bryce. I giggle at the thought. “What’s so funny?” he asks, squinting his brown eyes at me. “Nothing,” I singsong, avoiding his question. “Seriously, what’s up?” he pushes, and I give in…somewhat. I mean, can’t let all the eggs out of the basket and all that. “When you come out of the locker room, we’ll film you. You’ll need to wear a mic.” Bending over, I dig in my bag. “Just place it in your pocket and clip the small piece to your collar. Oh, and don’t forget to turn it on.” I show him the button to switch. “I can’t believe I agreed to this,” he mutters under his breath. Taking the mic from my hand, he stashes it inside his dress shirt pocket, and I bite my lip as he loosens his red tie. He’s so sexy when he’s frustrated with me. “It’ll be painless.” “More like a pain in my ass,” he mumbles. “Are we fighting again?” I peer over at him, and he shrugs his shoulders. “It seems like it’s what we do best.” He leans closer to me, and I hold my breath. “Wonder what we should do about it.” His brown eyes search mine, and I freeze under his gaze. I’ve heard people talk about angry sex, how hot and awesome it is, but I’ve never experienced it. Looking into Bryce’s eyes, I think I get it now. It’s like a build up of lust as we argue—an intense verbal foreplay based on emotions. I wonder if he’s a dirty talker. And just like that, my panties are wet. “I think I need another drink.” Bryce glances down at my empty glass before waving the flight attendant over. “Yes, sir,” the flight attendant says. “Another for the lady in red, please,” he instructs. “Thanks.” I smile, and he returns it. “A beautiful woman like you should never order a drink for yourself. Well, unless you’re alone.” “I can’t remember the last time a guy did this for me. Obviously, I have been dating boys.” “Obviously,” he says, a glint in his rich brown eyes. “In the car, you said people are going crazy over your posts on Facebook. Can you show me?” “It’s amazing. The promo piece for Beauty and the Baller went viral.” I click on Facebook and my reporter page for the station pops up. I scroll down to the post and bring up the comments for Bryce to see. “This one’s my favorite.” I point the cursor on a woman’s comment. “‘Can’t wait to see who wins. My money’s on Amelia. After all, she knows Bryce’s weak spot.’” “Funny,” Bryce scoffs. “Then there’s this one.” Moving down a few inches, I find a raunchy comment. The women on the post are so forward. “‘How big is it, Amelia? I bet he’s packing.’”

“Did you reply?” he asks, concern in his voice. I think he’s serious, until I peek up at him and see the smirk on his face. “I don’t grab and tell,” I contend, pretending to turn a key at my lips. “Good,” Bryce says, glancing back at my screen. “You have over three hundred messages. Those all since this went live?” “My inbox has blown up.” I click open the red number showing how many unread messages I have. “But I have to warn you, most of them are dick pics.” “What?” Bryce chokes out. Poor guy is having a hard time sitting next to me. Wait until he gets a good look at a few photos. “Guys must think women find them attractive, but you want to know the truth?” “I have a feeling you’ll tell me either way. But yes, I’m interested in hearing what women think of…well, male genitalia.” Bryce’s eyes do that twinkling thing again, making my answer easy. “You sound like we’re in health class,” I say on a laugh, tilting my head to examine how gorgeous he is. “Take you, for instance. You have the most beautiful eyes. I’d rather have a close-up of them. Well, if I had the choice. Though I’m sure you’re the exception, and yours are beautiful. I think I better shut up now,” I rush out, clamping a hand over my mouth as my face heats. Bryce chuckles, and I want to crawl in a hole and die. I can’t remember the last time a man made me blush. My job around all the jocks and their jockstraps has toughened me up, but this conversation is more personal, and about a dick I wouldn’t mind getting a pic of, though I’ll keep that fact to myself. “Thanks for the clarification,” he says, a mischievous smirk appearing, along with those damn dimples. I divert my attention back to the computer, needing not to look at him while trying to regain my composure. “Let’s open the first message with an attachment.” I let the cursor hover and take a deep breath. “Wait, are you sure this isn’t like offensive to you? I don’t want you to feel, like, uncomfortable or anything.” “I’ve been attached to one all my life,” Bryce says, shooting me a you’ve-gotto-be-kidding stare. “What about you? Feel awkward having a guy looking at dicks with you?” “Nah. Seen one, seen them all.” I might sound confident, but I have no clue what kind of crazy will pop up. Clicking on the first message, a fully erect penis fills my screen—or, at least, the best it can. Looks like I was right…and he’s a little on the small side, the poor guy. I wonder if he has no clue either. I’d never send this pic without some major photoshopping. “Jesus!” Bryce exclaims, and I right click to save it before exiting. “What are you doing? Keeping them?” Bryce’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. “I have a special place for all my boys.” I pull up a folder marked “Stroke Me.” “Stroke me?” Bryce asks, his brows knitted together.

“Isn’t that what they want from me?” His eyes light up with understanding and he nods as a grin spreads over his face. “But my sub-folders are even better.” “Now I have that “Stroke Me” song playing in my head,” Bryce laughs. “What did you name them?” “I have five. Leans Left, Runs Right, Grower, Shower, and King-Kong. I bet you can guess what the last one means.” I waggle my brows, and he can’t stop laughing. Seriously, he had tears forming in his eyes. “Compared to other pics, this guy seems a bit below average in size.” I move the pic to the sub-folder labeled “Grower”. “I’ve never heard of anything so crazy!” Bryce exclaims, glancing away from my computer screen toward the aisle. His face grows serious, so I swing my head around to see what the hell made him stop laughing on a dime. A man is turned to us on his knees aiming a video recorder at Bryce and me. “Are you filming us?” I ask. “I was,” the man says, twisting the recorder in his hands and flipping a switch. “Luke Hansen, team photographer. Amelia Adams, right?” I nod. “We’ve emailed, but it’s nice to finally meet you in person.” “Luke, is this for the show?” Bryce asks, pressing his lips into a fine line…well, as fine as his kissable full lips can get. “You two are wonderful together.” A wide grin crosses his face as his eyes gleam. “And neither of you noticed me filming—just like the other day. It’s like you’re in your own world.” Bryce grips his armrest, and I hold my breath, waiting for his response. “At least someone else’s dick is the center of attention this time.” Tilting his head back against his seat, he closes his eyes. After a few seconds, he leans over and looks into my eyes. I feel his breath on my cheeks, we’re that close. “You’re enjoying all of this, aren’t you?” Bryce asks, and I feel like he already knows my answer, so I just smile and shrug. But he does make a good point. Why do I enjoy making Bryce feel uncomfortable? Maybe I want to shake him up and chip away at the wall he’s built around himself—make him take a chance on being with someone. If we weren’t doing a show together, maybe that someone could even be me. I gaze out the window, thinking of possibilities, like those full lips on mine that will likely never happen.

THIRTEEN

BRYCE

AFTER LANDING IN INDY, the team took a bus straight to the hotel for all-day meetings. It’s typical practice for away games. The coach says it helps us bond, but my money’s on it keeping the barflies in check—especially Rich. Not that anyone can control him. Everything is seamless when we walk through the doors of the hotel. A hotel manager hands each of us an envelope with a key inside, along with a number in case we need anything. I stay in a suite per my contract with Chicago. Rod worked out that detail for me. It never would’ve crossed my mind otherwise. A bellhop carts all my gear upstairs and I move toward the conference room. I’ll head to my room after the meetings. I dread sitting for hours in a stuffy room with a bunch guys like we’re caged animals. I’d rather be back on the plane next to Amelia. She amuses me with her wild dick pic folders and unexpected comments that nearly choked me to death, but Coach has the team’s schedule planned down to the second. I probably won’t see Amelia until tomorrow after the game, which seems like a long time. The last time I saw her, she flashed me a blinding smile in the lobby when we parted. If I close my eyes, I can still see her standing there, blond hair falling over her shoulders, sinful curves, vibrant green eyes…there’s something about her eyes. They’re pure energy and full of life. I’ve never described a woman like this before, not even beautiful Celia. I blink as I look around. All the players are hunched down listening to Coach review tomorrow’s strategy…everyone but me. My mind’s been elsewhere. Shaking my head, I sit up straight in my chair and attempt to wipe away my daydreams of Amelia, pulling my focus back to what’s being said while hoping I can fill in the blanks of what I didn’t hear. “Since Indianapolis has been kicking ass with their pass coverage, we’re switching to the short pass. Justin, you ready?” Coach asks, leaning over the table,

giving our best tight end, Justin Walker, a pointed stare. “Born ready,” Justin confirms with confidence, and I have no reason to doubt him. He helped me put up some amazing passing stats last year. Justin glances my way, giving me the thumbs up. “Good. We’re counting on you and Bryce to erase that awful loss from last week.” Justin and I nod like dutiful soldiers. Coach hates Houston with a passion. He and their head coach started their careers working as assistants for Pittsburg. Rumor has it Coach lost his fiancée to the asshole in Houston. I know for a fact losing someone you love isn’t easily forgotten—or, in this case, forgiven. That’s why the loss last week hurts more than others. It was personal. “Okay, buttercups.” Laughter breaks out at Coach’s nickname for us. “I’ll see your asses in here for breakfast at eight sharp.” Coach piles his notes in a large folder, then stuffs it under his arm. “Curfew is ten p.m. If I so much as see your big toe in the hallway at ten-oh-one, you’re fined.” “Meeting’s over. Thank fuck.” Rich walks beside me as we leave the room. “Dude, have you seen what they pay us?” I laugh. “We have it easy.” “Suppose so.” “Know so.” We are nearing the lobby when my eyes land on Amelia. Her blond hair flows behind her as she walks toward the hotel’s restaurant, but she’s not alone. She’s walking arm in arm with a man, and I growl under my breath at the sight. He’s tall, though not quite my height, and has on a white shirt with rolled up sleeves. Tattoos cover his forearms. He has that bad boy look chicks dig. Fuck. “Hey!” Rich exclaims, elbowing me in the side, and I brace for what I already know is about to come out of his mouth. “It’s that hot reporter you want to fuck.” “What?” I stop and turn toward Rich. “Oh come on, St. Bryce. You can’t deny it. You’re all tense around her, like you’re holding yourself in check or you’ll go rogue. Might do you good if you did,” Rich chuckles. “But you’re SOL. She’s married. Maybe that’s her husband. She seems pretty cozy with him.” “Married?” One simple word punches me in the gut. “You should see your face.” Rich bends over, laughing. Fucker. This question needs an answer, not hysterics. “You didn’t know, did you?” “She left that part out,” I snap and press my lips together. She mentioned her idiot boyfriend, surely she would’ve told me she was married. And I checked her finger for a ring—normal procedure when I meet a hot girl. “Well, she told me at the pool party.” Hmmm…well, there’s only one way to find out. “Talk to you later, Rich.” I pat his back and walk away without waiting for a reply. Hot on Amelia’s trail, I pass through the busy lobby and enter the restaurant she walked into on the arm of another man. Shit. I can’t believe it might be her husband. She flirted with me on the plane today, more times than I can count. I swear she leaned over her armrest and inhaled, sniffing me, which is not normal

behavior for someone who’s married. “Excuse me, sir.” The hostess stops me as I try to fly by her stand. “I’m looking for a friend.” Glancing around the restaurant, I spot Amelia sitting with the tattooed guy. They look all cozy in a booth, laughing like old friends or spouses. “Found them, thanks.” I pass by tables filled with diners as I make my way to Amelia. A few onlookers stop their conversations and glance up at me, then turn to their tablemates with wide eyes. At my height and size, it’s hard to go unnoticed. Plus, it’s not a secret we’re staying at the hotel. I must have a look of determination on my face, because no one stops to ask me for an autograph or selfie. I stop at Amelia’s booth and her eyes travel from Tattoo Guy up to me. They’re round with surprise, and so damn beautiful as they flash like emeralds. “Bryce?” Amelia asks in disbelief as a smile crosses her face, but I can’t return it —not until I address the issue of her marriage. The thought of her being married to this guy, or any man for that matter, unsettles me. Knowing he’s touching her in ways I fantasized about not more than fifteen minutes ago during the meeting makes me want to deck him, and I’ve never hit another man in my life outside of football. My mother threatened to never make fried chicken for me again if I did. Rumor has it Colonel Sanders stole her recipe, so her warning worked. “Amelia.” I peer down at her, my jaw clenched as I wait for her response. Her smile disappears and a crease forms between her eyes as she assesses the tension rolling off me in waves. “I thought you guys had meetings all night then curfew,” she asks, and hesitates. “All done,” I say with little inflection before turning to Tattoo Guy and giving him a once over. My fists clench and unclench, and force my fingers through my hair so they have something to do aside from grabbing him by the collar. “Howard Kern.” The guy reaches out his hand to me and I reluctantly shake it. “Sorry. Howard, this is Bryce. But you already know that,” Amelia says in a rush. Her eyes never move from mine, even though she’s addressing Howard. “I was caught off guard. Howard is the cameraman for the station. He drove to Indy with all his equipment. He’s also my cousin.” “Your cousin?” I ask. “I thought he was your husband.” “My husband?” Amelia starts to giggle, and Howard chuckles while shaking his head. “Who said I was married?” Fucking Sanders, that’s who.

FOURTEEN

AMELIA

“RICH,” Bryce says through clenched teeth as he hovers over us, his dimples hidden by a scowl. He looks pissed, but hopefully not at me. “Oh no.” I clasp a hand over my parted mouth, remembering what I told Rich. “He was coming onto me at the pool party, so I shut him down with the married thing.” “Jesus,” Bryce exclaims, a slight grin on his face. “Rich is such a fucker, literally, and you’re smart, Ms. Adams. It’s probably the only way he would have left you alone.” I love the formal, bossy sound of him calling me Ms. Adams. “Have a seat and join us.” I move over in the booth, making room for Bryce to sit next to me. “Unless you want to go to bed.” Nice, Amelia. Nice. “I mean, curfew and all.” My cheeks flush for the second time today. What is it about this man that makes me feel like an untouched virgin? I sound like a silly Madonna song, but there’s a mix of excitement and unease whenever I’m around him. “I have some time.” Bryce’s eyes flash with amusement. “Unless I’m interrupting,” he adds, glancing between Howard and me. “Not at all.” I pat the empty spot next to me, a clear invitation that I want him to stay. “We were just discussing Howard’s two-year-old son. The little guy ruins ten outfits a day.” Taking the bait, Bryce settles in so close to me, our knees touch. He doesn’t pull away, and neither do I. It’s an awkward position for acquaintances, even friends, but doesn’t seem to bother us. Hmmm… “It’s crazy how a small human can make such big messes,” Howard muses, shaking his head. “Here’s a photo of Tommy. Don’t let that smile fool you either. Right after this was taken, he tried to give the cat a bath in the toilet. Said it was dirty.” Howard chuckles while handing his phone to Bryce. “Damn cute kid,” Bryce says as he peers down at the phone’s screen. “He has

green eyes like Amelia’s. They even have the same touch of mischief.” “You know my cousin better than I thought,” Howard says with a shake of his head. “She’s quite the handful.” “That she is,” Bryce agrees, but it’s the way he says it, like he’s focusing on the handful part, that awakens every cell in my body. I can’t deny the natural attraction between us. Actually, it’s more like an unbidden reaction to just being around him. Bryce gives the phone to Howard and his eyes land on mine. They’re richer; a deeper shade of brown than normal. We gaze at each other for a few seconds, something unspoken hanging in the air. I want to grab it and hold on tight, but it seizes me instead. I’ve never felt this unseen connection to another man before. “Amelia?” Howard asks, and I blink a couple times, hoping to escape the spell Bryce has me under. “Yes?” I turn toward my cousin, knowing I have a dazed look on my face—the kind I’ve always accused stupid girls of wearing. “Listen,” he starts, glancing between Bryce and I with a knowing smile on his face, “three’s a crowd, so I’m going to leave you two. I need to tell Tommy good night anyway.” “Okay. I’ll meet you outside the locker room tomorrow,” I say, not even faking an attempt to encourage him to stay. No matter how rude it is, I’d rather have time alone with Bryce. When Howard stands up, Bryce joins him, and panic rushes through me. Oh shit, is Bryce leaving me too? “It was nice to meet you,” Bryce says as he takes the seat Howard vacated. I exhale, relieved he’s staying. Now I can stare at him without twisted neck pain. “Until tomorrow, you two,” Howard says with a wave as he walks toward the restaurant’s entrance. I take a deep breath before facing Bryce, hoping the butterflies in my stomach settle. They’re whipped up in a whirlwind. “Let’s keep the truth from Rich. I’d love to see his face when he finds out you’re not married,” Bryce laughs, his eyes dancing. I can’t pull my gaze away from his face. The lines of his jaw show pure male strength and dominance, but his dimples show a sweet, softer side. He’s such a delicious concoction. “You seemed upset when you came in,” I say, wondering why the thought of me being married bothered him so much. His reaction seemed over the top. We’ve only known each other a short time in person, and before that he hated me for a year. “I was very upset,” he confesses, giving me a pointed stare. “Angry even.” Bryce sits back in the booth, his arms lying on the tabletop. He’s ditched his red tie and jacket, and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, exposing the defined muscles in his forearms. His hands reveal long fingers, perfect for gripping a football. I stare at his forefinger while it taps the wooden table in an even rhythm, imagining it touching me in the same way. Closing my eyes for a brief moment, I shake my head, trying to sober up. Bryce

should come with the warning: he’ll make you lose your mind or your panties. But as Vivian said, he’s not looking for anything permanent until after he retires. And I need to play it smart since we’re working together. I can’t risk fucking up my already tenuous career. If my boss finds out there’s something between Bryce and I, he might can me. Then what? Back to Wisconsin to work at my parent’s hardware store? The thought makes me sick. When I told my journalism adviser I took a position as a sports reporter, she gave me a word of advice about covering male athletes—especially the young, attractive ones. “Report how the jocks play, just don’t play with them off the field.” That was great advice at the time, but now, as I sit across from Bryce, I’m not so sure I can follow it. He’s made no moves other than a casual flirt here and there, but if he did, would I say no? I doubt it. Stupid brown eyes and chiseled jawline. Really, it’s idiotic how hot he looks. But why was steam practically coming out of his ears when he thought I was married? I want to know. “So, me being married made you angry? Jealous, perhaps?” I ask, finally gaining control of my bearings. “Hmmm,” Bryce hums, rubbing a hand over his stubble-covered chin. I bite back a hum of my own while watching him. I haven’t had sex since I broke up with Joe like six months ago. Shit, no wonder I’m about ready to crawl over the damn table into his lap. I’m weak…so damn weak. “Is that a yes or no?” I give Bryce a coy smile, teasing him in hopes he’ll tell me. “I’m thinking about how I’d feel if you were married to Howard.” “You know that’s creepy, right? Since he’s family,” I say on a laugh. “Do you want to know or not?” I shrug my shoulders. “Fine.” “You’re a handful—” Bryce is interrupted as a server comes to the table. The server looks about my age and his eyes dart back and forth between Bryce and me. “Um. Um,” the server keeps saying. Poor guy, he must recognize Bryce. He’s acting totally star struck. “Good evening,” the server finally says in a rush. “I’m Todd, and a big fan, Mr. Luck. Just don’t tell my boss. He’s Indy all the way.” “My lips are sealed.” Bryce reaches out and shakes Todd’s hand. “I need all the fans I can get this weekend, so thanks. Could the beautiful lady and I order something to drink and some food?” “Of course. I got overexcited to be the one waiting on you. Sorry.” Todd’s reaction has super fan written all over it, but I love watching Bryce interact with him. He’s genuinely grateful and kind, which makes Todd feel more at ease. “What can I get you all?” “How about your best bottle of red. Surprise me. Then some apps. Like nachos and potatoes skins. Cheese and carbs. Sound okay, Amelia?” I nod yes, and gaze at

him with dreamy eyes. He is a dreamboat. It’s kind of nice to have a man taking care of me. He’s commanding, yet respectful. I wonder what he would do if I took off a shoe and put my foot up under his pant leg. I imagine the feeling of his hard calf against my toes, before mentally slapping myself. It’s definitely a stupid girl idea, but I’ve never had a guy be this attentive on a date, and Bryce and I aren’t even on one. “I’ll get right on it,” Todd replies before scooting off to put in our order. “Hope you didn’t mind me speaking for you.” “It’s all good. I liked it.” I pause. “But I must warn you, red wine makes me slutty.” “Are you serious?” Bryce raises his brow and smirks. “Well, only if I have a whole bottle,” I answer with a smirk of my own and a lip bite for full effect. “Damn, I should’ve ordered one for each of us.” “Maybe,” I tease. While we finish drinking our wine and eating the appetizers, we discuss the show. I keep telling him taping Beauty and the Baller isn’t the same as the standard interview he’s used to doing on regular sports shows, where reporters stick a mic in his face. Our program will be more the conversation before the formal questions, where you just chat off the record, even though it’s on the record, sort of. By the way his brows draw together, I can tell he’s not completely buying into this scheme. The burden lands on me to not fuck it up and help him be at ease. It’s what I do best—helping people forget a camera is rolling. My boss says I was born to be a reporter, and I hope he’s right, especially now. This assignment goes beyond an interview or recap of an event. It’s real life. His and mine. “So, what reality TV have you watched?” I ask before taking a sip of wine. It’s important to know what I’m working with here. I’ve watched almost every Housewife show, but I have to be wasted to sit through an episode of the Kardashians. It’s too painful otherwise. “My favorite is Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders: Making the Team.” He grins, like he’s proud of himself. I turned that show on for five minutes and Katie came out of her studying cave to make me switch the channel. She didn’t even do that when I had the Dashs on for hours. It was that bad. “Could you be more predictable?” I roll my eyes so hard, it kind of hurts. “You probably watch with the sound off, and a bottle of lube and happy tissues sitting on the coffee table.” “How’d you know?” he asks, and I don’t think he’s kidding either. Something about his mischievous smile says I guessed right. Men are such animals. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those guys who thinks women on the sideline should have pompoms and ponytails, not mics and balls,” I jeer. Heat flushes over my body, but it’s not because he’s hot. It’s because he’s being a jerk. “Wait, you took that the wrong way.” Bryce’s eyes are wide, but I want to make him sweat and glare back at him.

“No, you wait.” I raise my hand as I interrupt him. “Who drove you to all your football practices? Stood outside in the cold weather and cheered you on? Cleaned the mud out of your uniform so you’d dazzle the crowd on game day?” “My mother,” he draws out, likely wondering whether he should answer at all. “That’s right,” I huff, crossing my arms over my chest. “You owe your success to a woman.” “You’re wrong.” He splays his hands out on the table as his upper body moves closer to me. Well, I’m mad as hell too, but I wish he wasn’t so sexy when he’s angry. I want to sucker punch his jaw and suck on it at the same time. I must be sick. “I can’t take anymore of this conversation.” I realize I’ve leaned over the table, making our angry faces only inches apart. He glances to my lips, then back up at my eyes. The tension in his jaw makes me wonder if he’s fighting the same internal battle. I need to sort out all these confusing feelings I have about Bryce, but doing it while he’s radiating pheromones is impossible. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Grabbing my purse, I get up from the booth and spin to leave. A couple at a nearby table stares at me, their eyes bugging out of their heads, and I huff at the extra attention. “You’re leaving?” His voice sounds almost desperate. Good. “If I stay, I’ll say something I’ll regret.” Like go fuck yourself, or please fuck me. And I’m leaning more toward the latter. “Come on, I’ll admit I have issues about women on the field,” he confesses, and I can’t hide my smug smile as I cross my hands over my chest—the same chest his eyes are focused on, proving my point. “But it’s more because it’s a distraction. And I hate distractions, even sexy ones, like…you.” “Nice try,” I sneer, hiding my racing heart and weak knees. He is attracted to me. The possibilities race through my mind, and it takes all my strength not to pull him by the collar up to my room. “Are you sure red wine doesn’t turn you into a witch?” he asks with an arrogant smile. “That’s it,” I turn and walk—no, I storm away from him because I need distance and a chance to process all these confusing feelings. I have no idea whether I want to slap or climb him like a tree, and either one would be totally inappropriate in public. Is it wrong to hope Bryce is following me? Probably. I glance back at Bryce, and see him throwing a few bills on the table, likely all hundreds. Stupid, hot, rich players. Then he starts heading toward me. I have mixed feelings. I thought he might be different, since he’s not a manwhore like Rich Sanders, but I guess he fooled me. At the same time, my anger shut down any explanation he wanted to give me. It’s almost like I want to fight with him and stir up shit. Ironically, just like a witch does in her cauldron. “Amelia,” Bryce calls out as my feet hit the open lobby. Instead of stopping, I make a beeline for the elevator. I don’t want to make a scene in public—and being

somewhere in private with him is a bad idea too. Space, that’s what we need. I make it to the bank of elevators, thinking I’m free when one opens for me to enter. Then I pick up the scent of cinnamon and fresh cut trees, likely the killer of good choices. Shit, he’s right behind me.

FIFTEEN

BRYCE

RUNNING my hands through my hair in frustration, I come to one conclusion: Amelia is driving me mad. When she’s around, I can’t stop saying things that make me sound like a jackass, and the frustrating part is she’s always one step ahead of me, making me play catch up. But right now, I’ve caught up with her—at least physically. “Ditching someone is rude,” I whisper into her ear as I stand behind her. The smell of her perfume fills my lungs, and it’s intoxicating, just like the rest of her. The elevator door begins to close, but she thrusts a hand forward, stopping it. “Being sexist is too,” she says over her shoulder, entering the elevator. I follow her on. As the door shuts, I push the button marked twenty for the floor of my suite. “What floor?” I ask, my hand hovering over the panel as I wait for her reply. I glance up to find her pressed against the back wall like a cornered animal, but her eyes are hooded, showing more desire than fear. She focuses on the lit up number and whispers. “Same.” When our eyes meet, the corner of her lips curl up. She’s fighting a smile, but I give into mine. The irony kills me. The hotel has over thirty floors, but we end up on the same one. I wonder if fate’s conspiring for or against me. “What are the odds?” I ask as we rise to our floor. She smiles at me and shakes her head. “Listen, I was an ass—or am one. It’s not that I have anything against women. The problem is just the opposite. I’m totally for them. If I see a beautiful woman on the sideline…well, it’s lethal to my concentration.” “Are you that weak?” “Yes, I think I might be when it comes to you.” I move toward her and place my hands on the wall over her head. Leaning in closer, I stare down, watching her skin flush and lips part in a silent reply. “If you were standing on the field, I’d be more worried about you getting tackled

than concentrating on who’s about to tackle me. Not to mention the sea of testosterone you’d be swimming in from the players around you.” She continues to search my face as she lets my words sink in, and I continue, taking advantage of her rare silence. “Can’t you feel the energy between us?” She nods her head because there’s no denying it. “I feel it too,” she says in a soft voice, “but I promised myself I’d be smart.” Before I can respond, the elevator comes to a stop and the door opens to our floor. Amelia wiggles out from under my outstretched arms and practically runs into the hallway. This conversation isn’t over by a long shot, so I follow behind her. Soft waves of blond hair bounce as she walks, and the sexy sway of her hips makes my hands itch to touch and hold her. She’s strong, stubborn to the point of being defiant, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s a spitfire in the sack too. A part of me, mainly my dick, wants to find out, but warning bells go off in my head about letting this woman too close. The last time I did that, my life fell apart. Even thinking about it now causes my chest to ache. But can I fight the pull I have toward Amelia knowing I’ve never felt this way before, not even with Celia? Amelia drives me crazy in the best and worst ways, making interacting with her a sweet torture. “Are you trying to run away from me again?” I ask, a laugh in my voice. I take one long step to her two until I’m at her side. “You know I’m the fastest QB in the league.” “I can’t think with you smelling like a spicy walk in the woods and hovering over me. Plus, your jaw porn makes my mind mush.” “Spicy walk in the woods,” I repeat, having no idea what the hell she’s talking about. “Should I be offended?” “Only if you don’t want to smell like a chick magnet.” She stops outside room 2014 and digs her hotel key card from her bag. Instead of using the key to open her door, she turns around to face me, her eyes bright with anticipation. “Where’s your room?” she asks, and I move in closer, but leave my hands at my sides. “Good question,” I say, reaching into my back pocket and pulling out the envelope the hotel gave me. Opening it up, I see the number and smile before showing her. It looks as if fate is at it again. “Twenty-fifteen. Right next to yours.” A smile dances on her lips as she flips her hair over her shoulder. “At least they didn’t put us in the same room.” “Well, in a way they did. You’re staying in the lockout room to my suite. “The what?” she gasps, her brows knitting in confusion. “Standard executive suite stuff. There’s another room attached to the larger room. Gives the executive guest more options.”

“Like an adjoining room? So I don’t have to leave my room to get to yours?” “Exactly. There’s a door inside your room that opens to mine. I’m sure it’s locked and secured, so you have nothing to worry about.” I give her a flirty wink, and she bites down on her lip. “But if you want me to check for boogeymen under your bed, just knock. I’m at your service.” “Are you kidding me? I’m not some damsel in distress.” “Fine, but if you need me, I’ll be in bed thinking about your…” I deliberately pause, and glance from her lips to her eyes, “safety.” And fucking your brains out. My dick gets hard at the thought. Taking the hotel key card from her hand, I insert it into the lock and push the door open, but stay firmly planted in the hallway. Leaning forward, I give her a soft kiss on the forehead. “Good night, Ms. Adams.” Gazing up at me with a dazed expression, she walks backward into her room. “Good night,” she mumbles as I close the door. Amelia had the look of a woman waiting for a kiss, anticipating my next move, but I’m leaving the ball in her court for now. As I enter my room and head for the shower, questions swirl in my mind. Will she knock on the interior door? Better yet, do I want her to?

SIXTEEN

BRYCE

HOT WATER CASCADES over my body, washing away the stress of the day, but not the memory of the woman causing it. I take a deep breath and place a hand against the tiled wall. Closing my eyes, a vision of Amelia wearing only a black bra and panties fills my head. Her breasts spill over the edge of the cups, soft and sensuous. What I wouldn’t do to touch them for real and suck on her nipples. The lace of her panties is so sheer, I can see she’s bare beneath. Crooking a finger, Amelia motions for me to join her, a come hither look in her eyes. I walk forward in my day dream, desires I haven’t experienced in years fueling me. Grabbing my rock hard dick, I pump it a few times. I usually jerk off to nameless women on porn sites, but this is different. My feelings for Amelia are way too deep. The more I think about her, the more I feel something wanting to break inside me. I’m not ready to face whatever it is, so I stop my hand and pound my fist against the wall. I’m so close to giving in to her. Switching off the shower, I step out onto the tile floor, grab one of the towels stacked perfectly on a glass shelf, and wrap it around my waist. I jump when I hear an unusual tapping sound coming from my suite. Wondering what’s going on, I exit the bathroom to check it out. It’s Amelia knocking on the adjoining door to our rooms. Well, that didn’t take her long. I walk to the door in my towel, my hair dripping water over my shoulders, and take a deep breath—more to clear my mind than settle myself. With a twist and pull of the doorknob, Amelia stands before me. Her hair is more tousled than I remember from a few minutes ago and she’s added some hot red lipstick, but my eyes land on her rack. I think she’s pulled the dress down or something. I would’ve remembered her cleavage exposed like it is now. “Find a boogeyman?” I tease, and she sticks out her tongue at me. “Nice. Are we

back in first grade?” I quip, but a smile tugs at my lips. This woman has a way of getting the best of me—every damn time. “I wanted to ask you something about tomorrow.” “So this is all business?” I gesture for her to enter the room. When she passes by me, I swear there’s more sway in her hips. I grin at her display, hoping it’s aimed at me. “I want to remind you to have the mic ready when you leave the locker room. Also, never look directly into the camera.” “Got it, and that could’ve been handled with a text.” She looks over her shoulder and shrugs. We move farther into my hotel room. Her excuse for knocking on the door doesn’t hold up. I believe we are crossing into unchartered territory. “As you can see, I was just getting out of the shower.” Amelia’s gaze trails over my bare abs, then down to the towel wrapped around my hips. “I’m going to get dressed. Better turn around, unless you want an eyeful.” To my surprise, she moves closer. “Seen one. Seen ’em all,” she singsongs, looking at me with a gleam in her eyes. “Right,” I scoff, knowing she’ll be changing her mind about that soon. “Okay, you’ve been warned.” I drop the towel, letting it fall to the floor. When she gasps, I smile and shake my head. Just like I thought. “Wow. You’re...” Amelia exclaims while staring at my dick with wide eyes. “Like a horse.” I leave out the word “hung” as drool forms at the corner of her open mouth. “I’ve seen bigger.” She narrows her gaze, but her eyes travel downward, landing on my semi-hard salute. She licks her lips, then bites down on the plump lower one. “I bet parts of me are more than you can handle,” I tease, pointing toward the goods. “Don’t be silly, Bryce. I’m an overachiever.” Her chin tilts up in defiance, but it sounds like she wants to prove me wrong. After all, being an overachiever requires taking on a big task and completing it. I watch the rapid rise and fall of her chest. Add her darkened green eyes and it sums up to one thing: she wants me too, but will she admit it? God knows I can’t fight what I feel for her anymore, especially with her standing before me in a tight black dress, her hair spreading over a killer rack. Yeah, the game’s over for me—and she won. I don’t just want her. I crave her. “Tell me why you’re really here, Amelia?” I ask. I won’t make a move until I know for sure she wants me. “I’m here for you, Bryce. Even if I’m being a stupid girl.” She moves closer to me and my fully inflated dick almost touches her. “Stupid? You’re anything but.” Looking down at her beautiful face, I brush a hair from her cheeks and allow my fingers to linger down her neck to her shoulders. Her

breath hitches as I make a slow trail down her bare arm. “You make me forget my priorities,” she says, closing her eyes as I take her hand in mine. Bringing it to my lips, I kiss the tips of her fingers one at a time. “You’re helping me forget my past.” Her eyes shoot open and her lips part like a plea to be kissed. I move forward, bringing my lips closer to hers. Looking into her eyes, I see surrender, but I want to hear her say it before I make her mine. “What do you want?” I thread my fingers through her hair. It feels like pure silk, even softer than I imagined. Taking my hand, she backs up to the door she came through. “Wall sex, please,” she whispers, and I feel a slight tremble in her hand. “With pleasures.” I use the plural as a pledge. “But I have to warn you.” “Yes?” she asks. “I don’t mess around much. But when I do, I don’t mess around.” My words bring a sweet smile to her lips. “Now, take off your dress.” She lets go of my hand and reaches around to grasp the zipper at her back. “Spin around, and let me help,” I instruct, and she does as I ask. In one motion, the zipper is freed and the back of her dress opens for me. I glide her straps from each shoulder, my fingertips brushing along her soft skin, and watch the dress land at her feet. My gaze moves over her beautiful body, and I’ll be damned if she isn’t wearing a black bra and panties just like my fantasy earlier. I chuckle to myself, and she turns on her heels to face me. “Are you laughing at me?” she asks, her hands on her hips, ready to fight. “Nope.” I move closer, backing her up against the door. Leaning forward, I whisper into her ear, “You just made my fantasy come true, literally. I pictured you just like this in the shower.” “Then what?” she rasps, her voice full of need. I press my erection into her so she can feel my desire. “I wondered if your breasts were as soft as they look.” Reaching around, I unsnap her bra with a flick of my wrist, and she looks up at me, amazed. “Skilled fingers,” I say with a prideful smirk. I work the bra from her shoulders and trail it down her arms until it falls to the floor like her dress. I gaze at her breasts. They’re more perfect than I imagined. Round and full, set high with dusty rose nipples my fingers itch to touch. “Oh my God. Don’t just look at me,” she begs, leaning her head back against the door. “I had no idea how bad I wanted you.” “Oh, baby, we’re just getting started.” My fingers glide across her breasts. I avoid her nipples, which takes all my control since I long to own them. But I want to drive her crazy with need, and make her desperate for my touch. “So soft,” I murmur, cupping each of them in my hands. My thumbs flick over her nipples in a quick pass, and she cries out.

“Please,” she implores. “So demanding.” Bending, I take a nipple into my mouth, close my eyes briefly, and relish my first taste of her, wanting more. I twist her other nipple between my fingers, adding a pinch that makes her whimper. “You taste so damn sweet,” I say, trailing my fingers down her taut stomach. Lowering to my knees, I grasp the top of her panties and pull them down her legs. She steps out of them, and just like my dream, she’s bare. “Sweet Jesus,” I whistle under my breath. “You’re so fucking perfect.” I run my hands up her sides to her breasts, seizing and playing with her nipples between my fingers. My lips blaze a path down her stomach. Licking, kissing, and sucking skin, I approach where she wants me most. Her fingers run through my hair with a push and pull that drives me wild. “I want to savor and devour you at the same time.” “Please,” she breathes, and I chuckle. Bringing a hand to her pussy, I part her with two fingers, finding her clit hard and swollen, just waiting for my touch. I take a deep breath and close my eyes as a rush of desire hits me. “You smell so sweet.” “I can’t take it. Please,” she begs. “Hold on, or you’ll be begging me to stop.” Grabbing ahold of my hair, she wraps a leg around my shoulder. “Never,” she utters. My tongue swirls around her. My lips suck her. I repeat my motions over and over again until she starts to quiver underneath me. Knowing she’s close, I take her higher by inserting one finger, then two, my fingers gliding through her wetness. I continue my rhythm until she moans, telling me I’ve found her special spot. “Fuck,” she calls out while tapping her head against the door. I pull her other leg over my shoulder to where all her weight rests on me and consume her until she flies over the edge. The feeling of her coming on my tongue is a high I can’t describe—a sweet satisfaction. I slow my pace in time with her descent. “Holy shit, Bryce,” she moans, then giggles. “That was out-of-my-mind, the best ever.” “Oh, baby, we’re not done,” I say, looking up to see Amelia’s glossed-over eyes combined with a look of sweet satisfaction on her face. “I was just getting you ready for my cock. Are you?” “Shut up and put that beast in me,” she demands, smirking. “So bossy,” I joke with a laugh. I rise from my knees to stand. Still holding her legs in my hands, I wrap them around my hips and press my cock against her core. So warm and wet for me. I feel the intense need to thrust forward and claim her, until I realize I’ve missed something very important.

“How have I not kissed your lips?” I ask, and she exhales in a deep sigh, bringing her arms around my neck, completely surrendering to me. “You’re not truly mine until I do.” I take her lips and begin to consume them with mine. Sucking, licking, until our tongues meet. Desire builds between us. I moan as she wraps her arms and legs around me tighter. When she circles her hips against my dick, I’m done for. “I need to be inside you, but we should use a condom.” I have one stashed away in my bag somewhere. Fuck if I know how long it’s been there waiting for this moment. “I’m clean and on the pill. I haven’t had sex since the idiot boyfriend.” She seems embarrassed, but it’s good to know she’s not one to sleep around. I had a feeling she wasn’t. “I just had a physical for the season and I haven’t slept with anyone since.” I don’t want to tell her how long it’s been for me. Even Brady thinks I play the field more than I do. Her eyes soften while she runs a hand through my hair. “You’re a sweet man, Bryce Luck, with an evil tongue, but I can live with that.” She giggles and gives me a chaste kiss on my lips. “We have the clean settled, so make me dirty.” “Hold on tight,” I announce, and she takes my lips in a passionate kiss. I position myself at her entrance and push inside, slow and steady, stretching her. My dick is huge, and I’m not bragging. It’s a family trait or something with the men on my father’s side. Maybe it’s why our surname is Luck. “Please,” she urges, “I love getting fucked against the wall. Just do it.” “Such a dirty girl,” I whisper in her ear as I withdraw and slam back into her, moaning at the feel of her tight, wet pussy gripping me. “Harder,” she calls out through panted breaths. I find a rough rhythm and hold her tightly as I push and pull. “Oh fuck,” she curses. I smile against the soft skin behind her ear and kiss down her neck. I love tasting her skin. “So much for not cursing out loud?” “Shut up,” she declares, “and keep fucking my brains out.” “Like this,” I say, plunging even deeper and harder. “Oh my G—” She tosses her head from side to side, while mumbling. “Coming,” she cries out. I thrust harder, making sure she gets everything she can out of her climax. As she relaxes in my arms, she looks me in the eye. “Use me.” Her lips find my neck. When she captures the skin between her teeth, I feel mad with desire. “I don’t care if I can’t walk tomorrow.” “Shit, woman,” I mutter. She’s driving me crazy. In and out, I pummel her while she encourages me by repeating “yes” and “more,” A coil tightens in my balls, the build up like nothing I’ve felt before. “Fuck, Amelia,” I say through thrusts as I release inside her. The pleasure courses through me until nothing is left. Spent and breathless, I lean my forehead

against hers. “Bryce,” she whispers, “and to think, I thought you hated me.” “Yeah, but I’m in love with your boobs,” I tease while kissing behind her ear, “and your lips. I’m also fond of your pussy and want to do this again.” “What about the game tomorrow?” she asks. “I’ll be playing with the biggest fucking smile on my face.” I walk over to the bed with her legs still wrapped around me and lay her down. She stretches her arms and legs out, giving me a satisfied smile. “You’re so damn beautiful.” They’re words of worship as I stare down at her. Blond hair spreads over a dark bedspread. Her breasts are soft, full, and real. Her waist curves gently to round hips. Climbing onto the bed, I hover over her, needing to take her again. “We can’t let anyone know about this.” She looks up at me and worries her lip, swollen from my kisses. “I’m okay with secretly fucking like rabbits.” Her knitted brow relaxes and a smile crosses her beautiful face. “It’s one way to prove my shoulder’s fine. Now you know for sure.” “Mmmm,” she hums. “Yes, I do. You were able to hold me up and fuck me just fine.” “What a mouth you have.” “You have no idea.” She scoots down on the bed until her lips find my dick. A low growl escapes my lips as she takes me into her hot, wet mouth. She’s right. I had no clue.

SEVENTEEN

AMELIA

I PASS by the mirror hanging on a wall by the elevators on my way to meet Howard in the hotel lobby before the game and glance at my reflection. Shit. My boobs are close to causing a wardrobe malfunction. I chose to wear the sexy version of Bryce’s jersey. It’s called the “girlfriend” or something silly like that, and the neckline dips into a dangerous plunge. I bet a horny twenty-something guy designed this shirt. I scan away from my mega cleavage and cringe when I see my face. I hardly recognize myself. My eyes are too bright, and my smile is too big. Only a sack over my head would hide the high I feel from last night. Hell, if it weren’t game day, I would’ve begged Bryce to stay in bed all day. I can’t imagine a more attentive lover, though my list of partners isn’t long. One thing’s for sure, I’ve never been with a guy this great at oral sex—or so enthusiastic about it. Bryce woke me up with his face between my legs, and I haven’t even had my normal three cups of coffee. Who needs it after that wakeup call? First, it was mind-blowing wall sex, then some crazy sixty-nine in the bed. With Bryce, my normal inhibitions and insecurities, especially for the first time together, simply didn’t surface. I must’ve left them in my room when I debated knocking on the adjoining door. After he dropped his towel, I became insatiable. As much as I loved the sex last night, this morning was different, more intimate and unhurried. The finish line wasn’t the focus, it was more the pleasure on the route to getting there. He hovered over me, staring into my eyes as he moved inside me. The connection between us still gives me chills—the good kind. The kind no man has ever given me before. I debate stopping at the ladies’ room and splashing some cold water on my face before Howard sees me, but I doubt it will help. When I see Bryce later and our eyes meet, I don’t think I’ll be able to hide the intense attraction I feel for him. I’ll

probably look like one of those cartoon characters with hearts in their eyes. Today’s going to be a true test of whether I can fake it in front of the camera or not. “Amelia,” Howard calls from a few feet away. As he walks closer, his brows furrow in concern. My Bryce sex-face must be worse than I thought. “Hi, Howard.” I lower my face and let my hair cover it, curtain-style. “Are you okay?” “Sure, why?” “Look at me,” he demands, but his voice is more worried than upset. I meet his eyes and his widen. “What happened to you? Are you high?” I move my eyes from side to side, wondering how I answer his questions. Maybe I’ll just say I’m high on Bryce, or what he did to me last night and again this morning. Better not. “You know I’ve never done drugs, not even weed. I’m just excited about filming the show,” I say with a bright smile, hoping he buys my lies. He raises a brow, eyeing me. Or maybe not. “I left you with Bryce last night.” My eyes light up at the mention of Bryce’s name. No matter how hard I try to control my response, it’s a hopeless cause. He taps a finger to his chin as he continues assessing me. “Does this have anything to do with him?” “Well…” I say, breaking eye contact. There’s no use trying to hide it. Howard knows me too well. “Listen, you don’t have to tell me what’s up. You’re both consenting adults. Unlike his brother, he isn’t a player with a reputation for using women. I just don’t want to see your heart get broken.” “Me either,” I confess. “But I’m more worried about my boss finding out.” “Come on,” he says, putting an arm around my shoulders and leading us out of the hotel. “I thought you watched reality shows. The more drama, the better the ratings will be. Can you imagine those Real Housewives living in harmony? Who would watch that? Ed is a ratings whore, so relax.” “I hope you’re right, because I don’t think I can hide my feelings.” We walk through the crowded parking lot and stop at his van. “So, how does he feel about you?” he asks while loading his gear into the back of this vehicle. “I think he likes me too,” I mutter, staring off into space, remembering how his eyes peered into mine this morning. “Jeez, Amelia,” he whistles. “You’re lovesick.” “No, I’m not,” I say in protest. It can’t be love, but I have definitely overdosed on whatever it is. “Okay, let’s call it lustsick then,” he says. “I can live with that.” Like every night.

EIGHTEEN

AMELIA

HOWARD and I make our way to our seats at Lucas Field. Hunter used his status as team owner and secured us fifty-yard line seats right behind Chicago’s bench. I will have a perfect view of Bryce’s perfect backside. This, however, will not help my lustsick condition, since football pants are superbly tight with well-proportioned padding—and my intimate knowledge of the perfect tight ass beneath them. I have to bite back a moan. Stupid buns of steel. We plan on watching the game until the end of the third quarter, then we’ll head to an area not far from Chicago’s locker room to meet the Bryce Babes. Ten of them will be there with banners, balls, and a collection of Sharpies. Their obsession with Bryce borders on crazy, but after last night, I more than understand their attraction. He’s hot as hell, rather scandal free, and…well, single. The single part makes me think of one thing: where do Bryce and I stand after this is all over? Is there even an us? I mentally kick myself. Stupid girls ask these questions, and I will not be stupid. Or more stupider—which isn’t even a word, but it best describes me concerning him at the moment. Chicago’s players run out onto the field with little fanfare since they’re the opposing team. Howard and I stand to our feet and cheer. I clap harder when I spot Bryce in his number seven jersey. He’s carrying his helmet as he runs across the field to the sideline. His hair does this sexy, floppy thing, much like when he fucks me. I get dizzy at the memory and have to sit back down. The fans settle into their seats for the kick off. Indy has the ball first, so I can relax since Bryce isn’t playing yet. After an unsuccessful drive, Chicago takes possession of the ball. Bryce’s coach instructs him before he runs on the field, securing his helmet as he joins the offensive line in a huddle. My heart races and I twist my hands in my lap. I’ve had two boyfriends who played football. One in high school and the other

was in college, but I never worried about their every move like I find myself doing with Bryce. Every snap has me holding my breath. When an opposing player comes charging toward Bryce, my heart races and my hands sweat. “Howard, did you see that hit!” I scream, jumping out of my seat when Bryce gets sacked in the third quarter. The jerk pummeled him into the ground. “That had to sting,” Howard agrees, cringing a little. I don’t know how these guys get up after taking hits like that. I’d lay on the ground until they carried me off on a cart. “The referee should’ve call roughing the passer. Motherfucker.” The fans around me stare at my outburst. “Well, he has to actually be passing to get that call,” Howard says, and I know he’s right, but still, the hit was unnecessarily brutal. Bryce gets up slowly and grabs his shoulder—the one he injured two seasons ago. “Do you think he’s okay?” I feel all the color draining from my face. What if he hurt it? “He’ll brush it off. One thing’s for sure, he’ll be on ice after the game.” “I hope you’re right.” “I haven’t heard you curse since we were in college, what gives with the ‘motherfucker’ comment?” he asks, a corner of his mouth turning up. “You think that was bad, you should’ve heard me last night,” I retort, then clap a hand over my mouth, remembering who I’m talking to. “Wait, forget I said that,” I rush out, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. “I think I will. As family, I can only take so much TMI,” he chuckles. “But it’s about time you loosened up, and it looks like you really did.” He winks at me. Howard hears my stomach rumble over the crowd, which is embarrassing, and orders a hotdog for me. I try to eat it, but my stomach is tied in knots with Chicago losing to Indy. I know how much Bryce wants to win this game. When the third quarter ends, we pack up our gear and head to meet the Babes, even though I want nothing more than to stay planted in my seat until the game is over. Howard scoots past me, but I hesitate, trying to find a reason to stay. Chicago is losing and Bryce hasn’t played since he was tackled. He’s still on the sideline doing stretches with a trainer. A deep sigh leaves my lips before I realize how torn I really am, but duty calls. With more reluctance than should be warranted, I follow Howard up the stadium steps toward the exit. Before I head into the tunnel, I glance down at Bryce again, and see him rushing onto the field. Worry rolls off me, but because he’s back in the game, he must be okay. I exhale a deep breath and run to catch up with Howard.

THE

OUTSIDE DOOR

of Chicago’s locker room is protected by security. It’s standard

procedure to give the players a safety zone, but there’s a roped off area close by, like a holding tank for the media. It gives reporters a chance to try to grab an interview when the players leave the stadium. Howard and I have press passes that allow us access, but not the Babes. So, Hunter came through once again by securing passes for them. It’s where we’ll meet the Babes in about five seconds…or less, if the woman in the distance waving at me is any indication. “Amelia.” The flailing middle-aged woman smiles wide as I approach the roped off area. “I recognize you from TV.” Her brown hair is teased about three inches above her head, she’s wearing a baggy version of Bryce’s jersey, and has what I hope are temporary tattoos of his number on her cheeks. “Hi, you must be Martha.” I stretch my hand out to her, but she pulls me into a big bear hug instead, crushing me against her chest. “Girls, we have our honorary Bryce Babe here,” she says, letting me go. I take a deep breath to recover. Howard moves around us, filming the scene. Luckily, no one really seems to give him a second thought. “Hi,” says a stunning redhead, tall with long legs. She looks ready for the Victoria Secret runway. “I’m Roxy.” I want to tell her that’s a great stripper name, but I bite back the words. Who knew one night with Bryce would make me such a jealous bitch? Roxy and I are wearing the same barely-there Bryce jersey, but hers is more filled out them mine…or is that spilled out? I hope Bryce doesn’t have a thing for gingers. The others come up to me and introduce themselves. Martha hands me a banner that says, “LUCKy Lady.” I thank her for it and giggle to myself. I truly was last night…and this morning. “Did you all drive in from Chicago?” I ask. “We carpooled here early this morning,” says a woman named Nancy, who’s closer to Martha’s age. “We try to make all the away games within a reasonable driving distance. We need to cheer on our man,” she says, giggling like a fifteenyear-old girl. “We are Bryce shippers,” another woman pipes up. “My friends think I’m crazy, until I show them a photo of Bryce—especially the ones where he’s wearing his black suit. Have you ever seen a man so damn hot?” She fans herself with the game’s program, and I chuckle, even though I can’t disagree. Bryce in a tailored suit like the one he wore yesterday makes my panties wet. “He’s the sexiest man alive,” Roxy purrs in a sex kitten voice. “We would make such beautiful babies,” she sighs, her gaze moving away from us and this moment. I resist rolling my eyes even though I want to throw up. They probably would, and the thought has my insides curling in on themselves. “Hands off, Roxy,” says another woman. “He’s mine.” I hope they’re kidding, but I’m not so sure. I think they really believe it’s

possible, especially when I get a glimpse of Roxy’s sign saying, “Marry me.” She’s the one I need to watch around Bryce. I move to stand by her, hoping to engage her in conversation or get her thrown out by security. “Tell us how well you know Bryce,” Roxy says, turning to me with a frosty look. She likes me as much as I like her. Zero. “Our Facebook group talked about that clip of you in the pool with him. Did you really grab his dick?” I want to tell her I’ve done way more than grab it, but I remain cognizant of Howard filming somewhere in the background. I don’t want mothers covering their children’s ears, or my mother hearing me talk about deep throating his beast. “What do you think?” I toss the question back to Roxy, crossing my arms over my chest. “She totally grabbed him,” Martha chimes in. “I replayed it over and over. Bryce even said so.” “I bet he’s huge,” Roxy breathes, staring off again like she’s imagining his dick in her mouth. I want to yank on her long red hair. I’ve never had a thought like that before— not even when Mary Davis kissed my eighth-grade boyfriend in front of me. Instead of going all Fight Club on Roxy, I try to shock her with my words. “Like a horse,” I say, giving Roxy a smug smile as I repeat the true-as-fuck words Bryce said last night. I scan the faces of the women around me. They’re all wide-eyed, their mouths sagging open. “I knew it,” Martha exclaims, drawing closer to me. “Rumors say his brother is scary big.” Martha bites her lip and waggles her brows. “Ask Roxy.” “Those aren’t rumors,” Roxy states, her eyes boring into mine as she straightens her shoulders. The knowing gleam in her eyes tells me everything. She’s slept with Brady, and now wants to fuck Bryce. It’s like she’s the pro sports version of Fatal Attraction. “We can discuss Bryce’s cock in the Facebook group next week,” Martha says, matter-of-fact, like bringing up someone’s cock isn’t a big deal. “You should join our group, Amelia. If you think this is wild, you should see what some of us say in there.” “Thanks for the invitation, but I have so much going on right now…” I trail off, leaving the denial open. Plus, you all scare the shit out of me, I mentally add. Over the years, I’ve had crushes on a few celebrities, even a few athletes, but I never reached this level of obsessed crazy. Well…there was that one time in college when I flashed Adam Levine at a Maroon 5 concert. I had front row seats and I swear he kept looking at me and smiling. I gave him something to really smile about, even if I still had my bra on. He didn’t seem to mind. I blame that whole incident on tequila shots—all six of them. “Hey, Amelia,” Howard whispers from behind me. I glance over my shoulder, seeing the camera down at his side. “Did you get all of that?” I ask, turning around to face him. He breaks out into a

laugh while shaking his head. “Every. Insane. Bit,” he enunciates. “I even sent it to Ed to get production on it right away. You have all their signatures on the consent forms, right?” “I do, or Ed does. His assistant took care of it this week. We have free license to use everything. I wonder if they know how over the top they sound,” I murmur, voicing my thoughts out loud. “Fangirling is nothing new. Remember our grandmother talking about being so excited at a Beatles concert, she fainted?” “But this is different. Grandma never talked about wanting to play with Ringo’s drumstick.” Howard chuckles. “This is true.” The Babes huddle around Martha’s iPad to watch the game. Howard discusses how he plans to film the excitement of the Babes when they first see Bryce, and when I tell him to get ready for screaming, he holds up a pair of earplugs. My cousin is a smart guy. I pull out my phone and watch the game’s broadcast feed. There’s a few second delay even though it’s live. When I hear the crowd scream, I wait to see what happened. Fuckity, fuck, fuck. Indy intercepted. The camera zooms in on Bryce as he takes off his helmet and walks to the sideline. He tosses it on the ground as he sits on the bench, then buries his head in his hands. It takes everything I have not to run and make my way to him, even though it would be impossible to get on the field—press pass or not. The camera is still focused on Bryce, and a trainer comes up to him. They speak for a few seconds, then the trainer starts to massage Bryce’s shoulder. He grimaces, and my heart sinks. He’s in pain. “He’s having a shit day,” Howard says, looking over my shoulder. “Majorly,” I concur, moving my phone so Howard can see better and not be such a creeper. “I still think something happened to his shoulder when he was sacked earlier.” “They kept him in the game, so it’s likely just bruised or tender.” “I hope you’re right,” I murmur, worrying he’s reinjured his rotator cuff… bringing it back to why he hated me before. Bryce comes back into the game during the last quarter. He throws a couple short passes, but mostly hands the ball off to Rich, his running back. They gain some ground, even score a three-point field goal, but in the end, it’s not enough. I text Bryce to let him know how sorry I am for the loss, then wait, and wait, for him to reply, only to get nothing. I worry my lip wondering if he’s avoiding me or just busy inside the locker room with his team. I rejoin the Babes, who are just as deflated by the loss. “Ladies, we are Bryce fans no matter what the final score. Let’s cheer up our man when he comes out,” Martha sounds a rally cry and the other ladies all agree. My phone chimes with an incoming text, and I exhale in relief when I see it’s

Bryce.

“THANKS. Played and feel like shit.” “Is your shoulder hurting you?” “Yeah. Have a surprise.” “I like surprises.” I type out, “And you,” and my finger hovers over the screen, but I cave and push send. I’ve become a female sportscaster cliché—the one who falls for the star athlete. I hit my forehead with my palm, hoping to knock out the stupid in me. Instead, I just stare at my phone, sweating until Bryce responds. “I like you.” Shocked, I blink my eyes a few times. I want to jump up and down, further confirming the cliché, but he likes me. Me. The woman he hated for over a year. Having sex with me is one thing, liking me is like hurdling the Grand Canyon. After all, he tried to dunk drown me in the pool last weekend. I still when another text comes in a minute later. “A lot.” Fuck the cliché. This is everything. Maybe he was just like me, debating whether to send it. It doesn’t matter. This text leaves me smiling so hard, it hurts.

“WHAT’S UP, smiley?” Howard sidles up to me and looks over my shoulder again, which I find unnerving. I stick my phone in my back pocket, hiding it from his view. This conversation isn’t for his eyes. “Touching base with Bryce,” I say in a nonchalant way, but he squints an eye at me. He’s so judgey at times. “You’ve got it bad,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re back to Ms. Lustsick.” “Whatever,” I quip, rolling my eyes. But I know he’s right. I feel shaky with anticipation while waiting to see Bryce. My phone sounds again and I pull it out of my pocket. It’s another short text from Bryce. I read it over and turn to Howard. “He’s coming out in two minutes,” I say in a rushed voice. I try to hide my silly lopsided grin, but it’s no use. What I feel for Bryce can’t be contained. “Better get the crazies in place,” Howard instructs, nodding in the Babes direction. He flips on his camera and adjusts the view. I walk-run over to the Babes to let them know Bryce is on his way. “It’s show time,” I announce. “Soon, the man of the hour will be walking out those doors.” I point in the direction of the locker room. Roxy applies another coat of lipstick and adjusts her cleavage to where she almost has a full-blown nip-slip. Martha orders everyone to hold up their signs and pointedly looks at me since mine hangs by my side. I comply, and up goes the LUCKy Lady sign. The door of the locker parts and Bryce appears in all his gorgeous glory. He’s showered and wearing the tailored black suit and red tie from yesterday. He’s too

far away to see me standing there waiting for him—especially since all the women are pushing me out of the way. It’s like a feeding frenzy and Bryce is the fresh meat. High-pitched squeals ricochet through the air like a school of dolphins. I should’ve asked Howard if he had a spare pair of earplugs. Martha fans herself with one hand and flails with the other. Nancy begins to shed big tears, like her dog died kind of crying. I wonder if we should call a medic. Having enough of getting elbowed and stepped on, I squeeze my way back to the front of the rope line. I see Bryce at the beginning of the line signing what looks like a glossy photo of himself. Crossing into crazy fangirl territory, I call out Bryce’s name to get his attention. Roxy turns to me with a death stare that causes a chill to run down my spine. The woman is a nutjob. “He’s mine,” she hisses, then pushes me with her elbow and bony ass hip. I fall, sprawling on the ground, my LUCKy Lady sign lying next to me, bent in half. Roxy glowers at me with her hand on her hip. Her curled up lip almost makes a hissing sound and she looks as evil as a snake. She brushes her hands together and spins around, thinking she’s through with me. As if. Fuck this shit and her. Roxy, the redhead stripper, is going down.

NINETEEN

BRYCE

AFTER SHOWERING and changing back into my black suit, I text Amelia, giving her a two-minute heads up that I’ll be leaving the locker room, and lay my phone down. I adjust my red tie, though I bet a few of the guys would like to adjust it for me, or hang me with it. Bottom line, my throws missed the mark all day and I let my team down. The guys in the locker room are quiet, their heads down, eyes toward the floor. Coach didn’t even talk to us like he usually does—win or lose—before we hit the showers. We should’ve won this game, and we all know it. I toss my dirty uniform into a bin, and flinch as my shoulder screams in pain from the quick move. The team’s trainer thinks it’s only a sprain, and I hope he’s right. He wants me to ice it on the plane ride back to Chicago, but I have another idea in mind. I walk over to Coach’s office and knock on the frosted glass window. “Come in,” he says from behind the door. I take a deep breath and turn the knob. “Bryce,” he states as I enter. He’s sitting behind a desk, his cell phone to his ear. “Take a seat.” I sit down in a soft leather chair. Indy does give the away team a pretty stellar space. Can’t fault them there at all. “Bryce just walked in,” Coach says to the person on the other end of his phone call. “I’ll meet you in the front office tomorrow at eight a.m. sharp.” Coach places his phone on the desk and takes his time looking up at me. He doesn’t have to say a word to tell me how disappointed he is in today’s loss. His eyes speak for him. “Well, Bryce,” he starts, and I tighten my grip on the chair’s armrests, preparing for what’s coming. “We are oh and two for the year. We didn’t even win our preseason games. I’m not going to lay the blame on your performance, but it is

a big factor. Especially today.” “I agree,” I acknowledge, guilt for underperforming racking me. “Mills was off too,” Coach adds, but it’s not my wide receivers fault that my throws were out of his reach. “It would’ve taken a miracle for him to catch my passes today,” I say, pleading guilty for Mills’ lack of performance. “You’re the most focused player I’ve ever coached. Hell, you don’t even get distracted off the field by women, which I can’t say about any other single guy on this team.” He shakes his head, and I don’t correct him, because he’s right. Up until I met Amelia, I hadn’t had feelings for another woman since Celia died. I’ve had casual relationships where no promises were ever made and the women agreed to never press the point for more. But something’s happened since I’ve met Amelia. I don’t just want her to scratch some sexual itch, though she did in the most fucking awesome way. I need her from a place so deep down, I don’t recognize myself. Hell, I can’t wait to be with her again and witness her lighting up when our eyes meet—crazy fucked up things I haven’t felt in years and swore I would keep at bay until I retired. But how do I put these feelings away when I don’t know where they came from? I run my fingers through my hair in frustration. “I’ll get my shit together. Promise.” “Get PT on your shoulder every day this week. I want you to come in tomorrow around one. No practice until Tuesday, though. Rest up. Bruno will step in and throw tomorrow.” “Thanks,” I say, relieved he didn’t give me hell. He could’ve, and likely should’ve, reamed my ass. After all, I get paid millions of dollars to throw catchable passes, not the over or under shots like today. “I am going to charter a private back to Chicago. Ice my shoulder lying flat,” I state, matter of fact. Coach looks up at me with his head cocked to the side, his eyes narrowing in confusion. “Well, the option is in your contract, but you haven’t flown back without your team before. What’s changed?” he asks. I can’t tell him that I want to be alone with Amelia. Hell, he’s probably under the impression that I still hate her, so I decide a half-truth is best. “Quiet time,” I say in a convincing tone. “Okay, one tomorrow.” I nod and leave the office, stopping by my designated locker to pick up my overthe-shoulder bag. I clip on the mic like Amelia instructed before heading out to face the Bryce Babes. I run my fingers through my hair, wishing I’d told Hunter to shove this reality show idea up his ass. If Amelia weren’t waiting outside, I’d find the back exit—fast. Before I head out, I shoot one more text to Janice, my PA, wanting to ensure everything is set in place before I tell Amelia about my plans.

PLEASE CONFIRM the charter plane will be ready within the hour. Along with a private driver waiting for me by the team bus. All done. Driver ready. Emailing the flight information. Safe travels. Thanks.

I STASH my phone and make my way to the outside exit. The second I leave the locker room and hit fresh air, screaming in the distance pierces the space around me. I heave in a breath and nod to the bodyguard next to me. “Good luck, buddy,” he says, shaking his head with a troubled look in his eyes. He tilts his head to the side and I follow his motion to a group of shrieking women. The women are in a roped-off area waving banners over their heads, all of them wearing Chicago red and black. The only way out of the stadium is in their direction, so I begin to walk toward them. Their eyes light up and the shouting increases as I get closer. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to identify this mob. And holy shit. I’ve met enthusiastic fans during training camp, but these women take the cake. “Bryce, Bryce. Over here,” they yell, waving at me as if I could miss them. They’re like a glowing neon sign with the word CRAZIES flashing at me. Hunter is going to get an earful about this shit show. I pretty much lost the game for the team, and now have to plaster on a smile to say hello to these women. I guess I should find it flattering on some level, but they look older than my mother, and that fucks with my mind. I approach the group, broadcasting a fake grin. Scanning the crowd, I try to find Amelia. I know she’s in this hormonal mosh pit, but the ladies are a moving sea of arms and signs. I stop in front of the woman closest to me. “Hi,” I say, looking down at her, hoping she’s sane. Her eyes go wide as she gasps, then reaches out for my arm—the same one attached to the sore shoulder—and damn if it doesn’t hurt like hell. “Ohmygod,” she says in a rush. Her breathing is labored, and she waves her hands in the air aimlessly. Something’s really off with this woman. “I’m Martha, leader of the Babes.” “Nice to meet you, Martha,” I say, digging deep for the manners my mother instilled in me. But she also warned me not to talk to strangers, and this woman’s excited eyes are unnatural to the point of frightening. Not to mention, she still has my arm in a death grip. “Can we get a selfie?” she asks, pulling me closer before I can even answer. Obviously my opinion is not important. Martha positions her phone for a snapshot and starts clicking away at different angles. I try to smile for them, but grit my teeth at the shoulder pain. “I can’t wait to post this in the Facebook group. The other girls are going to be so jealous.”

There’s more of them? Jesus Christ. Where the hell is Amelia? I see some blond hair peeking out next to a tall redhead. That has to be her, but the redhead is blocking my view. I move down the line and take a few more selfies with the women. One is using a cane to help her stand up. Forget about being as old as my mother, she has to be my grandmother’s age. “Son, would you please sign my cane?” she asks while holding out a Sharpie to me, giving me a sweet grannie smile—the one worn when asking if you want more homemade cookies. “Sure. I’d be happy to,” I say, taking the Sharpie from her shaky outstretched hand. I force my face to remain upbeat, even though I’d rather be on the bottom of a five-guy tackle right now. I bend down to a crouching position and notice her cane is decorated with Chicago team stickers. It’s endearing in a strange way. I find a bright red sticker and sign the top of it. She pats me on the head like a dog before I get up, which isn’t awkward at all. Jesus. “Thank you, son,” she says, and blows me a kiss. “You’re hotter in person than on TV. Way hotter.” She winks twice at me, or maybe it’s more a muscle twitch thing. Either way, I move on, trying to blot out the dirty grandma in any way I can, but some things just can’t be erased. The next woman has streams of tears running down her cheeks. She moves her mouth like she’s trying to say something, but no words come out. I shift on my feet, looking around for something, like an escape route. “Ma’am, are you okay?” I ask. Everything about her is unsettling to me. I don’t get it. Maybe she’s crying because we lost the game? Surely her tears aren’t due to seeing me in person. If they are, how do I handle that? Like, do I say, sorry I’ve made you cry, or I’m not worth the tears? It’s so fucked up. Before the woman can attempt to answer me, commotion close by draws my attention. When I turn my head, I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Amelia hangs on the back of the redhead with her legs wrapped around the woman’s waist. Her blond hair flies around her face, blocking her eyes from my view. “You so pushed me to the ground,” Amelia shouts as she holds on to the woman’s shoulders. I stare wide-eyed in disbelief at the scene in front of me. “Get off of me, bitch,” the redhead yells while pulling at Amelia’s legs in a vain attempt to free herself, but Amelia’s stronger and holds on tight. I rush a few feet over to the strawberry blond catfight, in case Amelia needs my help. I can’t imagine Amelia doing something like this without a good cause. Not to mention, her cousin is filming this entire episode, though I have no idea where he is. I haven’t noticed him since I exited the locker room. “Amelia!” I shout, hoping they can hear me over their own screaming. Both women freeze and turn toward me.

Amelia looks at me with shock in her eyes and her mouth drops open. After a couple seconds, reality sets in. She winces like she’s been caught in the act, and she truly has been. “What the hell’s going on here?”

TWENTY

AMELIA

BRYCE SEARCHES MY FACE, a million questions in his eyes, but what can I say to him that will make sense? After all, I’m hanging onto Roxy’s back like a spider monkey. It’s now official, I’ve lost my mind over this guy, and there’s no excuse for my actions. I had an urge to flatten Roxy and succumbed, acting like a jealous girlfriend, or ho. I’m worse than the table-flipping New Jersey Housewives—and that’s saying a lot. Oh shit! “Did Howard film any of this?” I mumble to myself, praying he missed it. Physically attacking people on camera was frowned upon in journalism school, and a definite firing offense at the TV station. “She pushed me to the ground,” I say in defense, a blush creeping up my neck when I realize I sound like a kid tattle-telling on the playground. I untangle my legs from around the evil ginger’s waist and walk to where Bryce stands, glancing down between Roxy and me. “I did no such thing,” Roxy says in a huff, and literally bats her eyelashes at Bryce while sticking out her chest. I feel my face turning red as anger boils up inside me again. What a skank. I turn angry eyes to Roxy, and her disgustingly gorgeous face. Nose to nose, I notice a long, wiry black hair on her chin, and it makes me feel better than throat punching her like I really want to do. “The fuck you did.” Well, shit, there goes the no cursing rule, and that one will get bleeped too. Well done, Amelia. “I was standing here calling out to Bryce when you shoved me so hard, I ended up ass down on the concrete.” “Roxy totally pushed her,” says a woman standing near me holding my partially destroyed LUCKy sign. “I caught it on video. Already uploaded it to your TV’s Facebook page.” “You did what?” I say in a panic, glancing to Bryce, who has an amused smile on

his face. How dare he? This isn’t funny. Okay, I’ll probably laugh about it in say, fifteen years, but right now, the idea of being jobless overrides any humor. “It’s already up to ten thousand views.” The woman puffs her chest out. “You’re kidding me,” I say as my stomach rolls. This will likely go viral. “You should see the comments already.” The woman gives me a proud smile like her clip will end up on TV, and it likely will, ending my life as a professional reporter. As if I wasn’t already in enough hot water, a uniformed security guard moves to stand next Bryce. His eyes are trained on Roxy and me. He stands almost as tall as Bryce with one hand on his walkie-talkie. I hope he doesn’t plan on calling for backup or the police. “What’s going on here?” asks the guard as he looks down his nose at us. “I wanted Bryce to sign these.” Roxy points down to her boobs, then smiles up at Bryce with a fuck-me look in her hooded eyes. She bites her lip to compound her evil effect. “Your brother did,” she says to Bryce while shimmying her shoulders, but her boobs don’t move, even with her upper body action. Fakes. This fact makes me way too happy since Bryce told me how much he loved my real boobs. He couldn’t keep his hands and mouth off them. The memory makes my panties wet. “I’m afraid I only have eyes for one set of boobs…I mean…well—” he stumbles over his words in the most adorable way. A sexy smirk crosses his face as our eyes connect, and those damn sexy dimples greet me too. This man is too hot for my own good. “We could’ve been so good together,” Roxy breathes, reaching out to rub his arm. How dare that evil bitch touch him? I want to slap her hand, or give her a swift kick—either would do. But Bryce flicks her hand away like it is an annoying bug, and turns to me with a wink in his dancing brown eyes, assuring me he’s taking care of Roxy the insect. My smug smile nearly breaks my face. Bending toward me, Bryce lays a hand on my shoulder and draws me closer. He places his mouth next to my ear, and I close my eyes to savor his scent, allowing it to sink in. It’s only been a few hours, but I missed it…and him. “I’ve chartered a plane,” he whispers into my ear so only I can hear. “You, me, and a bed. Sound good?” “Are you serious?” I ask, looking up at him with hope in my eyes. After this brouhaha, I would love nothing more than to be alone with him. “I want your taste to wash this day away. Make me forget. But mostly, I just want you in my arms.” He ends his seduction with a small bite on my earlobe—one I feel everywhere. “Ladies, thanks for coming today,” Bryce stands up and addresses the women crowding around the two of us, “but I have a plane to catch, and I’m taking this hot Bryce Babe with me.” Placing his hands around my waist, Bryce lifts me over the rope barricade like I weigh nothing. When he sets me down, he winces, and I worry about his shoulder. “Did you see that?” Martha exclaims, tilting her head. All the other Babes, with

the exception of Roxy, respond with ohs and ahs. When Bryce wraps me in his arms, I melt into his side as we walk away from the Babes. I imagine Roxy crying next to the sobbing lady, and it warms my heart a little. Take that, Fake Boobs and Chin Hair. Bryce leads me out of the stadium to where a black car waits by the curb. An older man in a navy suit and tie stands by the back passenger door. He smiles at us and takes a couple steps forward as we approach. “Mr. Luck,” the man says to Bryce, “Gerald Parker, it’s a pleasure to be your driver today.” Bryce releases me from his hold to shake the driver’s hand. “Good afternoon,” he says. “This is my—my friend, Amelia Adams.” “Hello, Ms. Adams. I just watched the tangle with you and that redhead.” He shakes his head and laughs. “Were you over there?” I ask, raising my brows in question. “It’s trending on Facebook.” The driver holds up his phone to show me where he saw the offending video. “That woman deserved what she had coming.” “Great, it has gone viral.” I throw my hands up in the air and begin pacing by the car. “I can kiss my career good-bye. After today, I’ll be lucky if they let me report on the world’s largest pumpkin in Peoria.” Bryce paces alongside me, his one step to my two. I peer up at him and see him smiling down at me. What the fuck? I glare at him, throwing my hands up in the air. My life is over and he’s laughing at my demise. “Can you please wipe that stupid grin off your face? I’m in big trouble here.” He grabs my hand, stopping me in my tracks. When he pulls me to him, I’m forced to look at him and that distracting jawline. The impact of his handsome face almost makes me forget I’m upset at him. Almost. “It’s going to be okay,” Bryce says, gazing down at me with his warm brown eyes, and I feel myself caving into his words. Who wouldn’t? He’s just that damn beautiful. He brushes a flyaway hair from my face, and his touch dazzles me, making me forget about my likely former job, my soon to be ex-boss, and the never-gettingpaid-off student loans. “Stop with all your handsome sorcery.” I put my hand up between us, though a desperate part of me wants to grab him by the tie and pull him into a kiss. But I need space to think, so I take a step back toward the car. He takes one forward. I take another backward step. This little dance continues until my backside hits the vehicle and he’s hovering over me. “Get in the car, Amelia. We have a plane waiting for us,” he bends down, lips close to my ear, “and a bed to mess up.” “Orgasms won’t help me right now,” I huff, wishing he could prove me wrong. His tongue has this way… My phone goes off, startling me out of my Bryce haze. The ringtone for “Damn,

It’s Good to be a Gangsta” blares, announcing it’s my boss, Ed. I fiddle with the phone trying to silence the sound, but it doesn’t matter in the end. Ed will just keep calling until I do, or texting me, or emailing, or tweeting me. There’s no escaping him. “Nice ringtone,” Bryce says, his panty-combusting smirky smile taking up residence on his face. “Boss-man calling. Guess it’s time to face the music,” I say, pulling my phone from my bag. I glance up at Bryce before accepting the call. “Will you still like me if I’m unemployed?” “Hmmm,” he hums, and before I can react, he takes the phone from my hand and holds it high above my head. “Give that back to me,” I yell, jumping up to try to grab it from him, but it’s no use. Liking hot, giant-sized quarterbacks is a problem at times. I sigh and drop my shoulders in defeat. “Hello,” Bryce says with a wink as he answers the call. I see my professional life in a quick replay flash before my eyes. Then there’s the newscast with my image and the words “former Channel 3 reporter” in a bold graphic. Tears begin to well in my eyes and I look down at the pavement, not wanting Bryce to see me so weak. I made my bed by jumping on Roxy, but still want to end up in his. “This is Bryce Luck,” he says, likely answering a screaming Ed. Bryce places a finger under my chin and lifts it up. I meet his eyes. How can I refuse? His face falls when he sees my sadness. I give him a half smile, but he bends and kisses my forehead, drawing me to him. I swear, I die inside, or maybe he kills my raging fear, washing it away. I could so get used to this guy in a forever type of way. I lean into him, inhaling his scent deep into my lungs. The smell of something cinnamon baking in the woods is such a calming force. Who knew? “I understand,” Bryce continues the one-sided conversation, patting my back in a soothing way. I look up at him and he smiles down at me with a spark in his brown eyes, like he’s saying, it’s going to be okay and I want to fuck you. Both work wonderfully for me. “Yes, she’s with me. I’ll pass on the information.” He pauses, and I reach under his suit coat, wrapping my hands around him. He flinches when I touch near his ribs. It was a tough game. Bryce hands me my phone back and I eye him, wondering what transpired. “So,” I say, in hopes he fills me in, but he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry. Can’t he see I’m frantic here? After all, it’s hard to miss a person bouncing from side to side right in front of you. He better not be enjoying my freak out. “Get in the car and I’ll fill you in on the ride to the airport,” he says, bribing me into what he wanted when this whole conversation started. “I don’t have a choice, do I?” I ask, though I don’t protest too much when he shakes his head. Truth is, I love him like this: sweet, but controlling when he needs

to be. There’s a protective and hot as hell side to it. The driver opens the back door and Bryce motions for me to enter first, letting me slide in before he follows behind me. The second he is fully in the car, he lays his head back on the cushioned seat area and closes his eyes. I want to ask about the conversation, but hesitate. He has exhaustion written all over his face. “I feel you staring at me,” Bryce says, smiling with his eyes still closed. I smile too, knowing he feels me gazing at his beautiful face. His jaw at this angle makes me squirm in my seat. I simply have no control. At all. “Well, you do have information I want,” I tease, hoping he takes the bait that will switch this into something revolving around me getting to kiss his full lips or neck. That’s probably all I can get away with in an open car with the driver. I glance up at the rearview mirror and see the driver with a closed-mouth grin on his face. When our eyes meet, I wink at him. His eyes go wide, then he laughs before returning his focus back to the road. Bryce cocks one eye open at me. “What’s going on?” he asks, likely hearing the one-sided laugh from the driver. Sitting up in his seat, he glances between the driver and me. “Nothing to see here, Jaws,” I singsong, using his nickname since it’s the source of my urges at the moment. “Okay, don’t use that word again and I’ll tell you.” “Deal. Only one Jaws usage per day, promise.” I cross my heart and hold two fingers behind my back. “Honestly, it was a weird conversation. Your boss sounded drunk. He said something about swimming in Dom Pérignon.” Bryce looks at me, his brows knitted together. “I think he was celebrating.” “Wow, he wanted to fire me that bad?” I say, sinking into the seat. I guess I misjudged him. I always felt like he wanted me on his crazy team. “Fire you?” Bryce laughs, and it pisses me off. Nothing about this is funny. “How dare you laugh? You’ve got millions in the bank and I’m going to be moving back to my old bedroom in Janesville.” “Jesus, a good reporter lets her subjects finish answering the questions.” “Sorry, please continue,” I say, rolling my eyes at him. “The station heads freaked out when they saw the ‘incident,’ until Ed told them about the major buzz building for the show. When they heard Ed could triple the cost of ads during Beauty and the Baller, it shut them up fast. Money talks, baby.” He leans over and kisses me, but not on the forehead this time. It’s a mindblowing, take-no-prisoners, lip blast shooting me into the atmosphere. Basically, I’m a goner. After a few minutes, he pulls away from the kiss, but pulls me closer to him. “I’ve been wanting to do that since I saw you fighting with the redheaded chick. It really turned me the fuck on. I’ll show you how much once we get on the plane,” he says, whispering that last part into my ear. Shivers of anticipation run down my

spine.

TWENTY-ONE

AMELIA

“CLOSE the door and lock it,” Bryce commands as he walks to the center of the airplane’s master suite. The room is bigger than mine back at my Wrigleyville apartment. I twist the lock and hear a clicking sound, securing it. A locked door gives me hope the stewardess who eyed Bryce during takeoff doesn’t try to barge in on us. Her seductive attempts didn’t fool me. I noticed one less button done when she delivered Bryce’s orange juice. But he is Bryce, one of those rare guys with the “it” thing. It’s a lady killer genetic disorder or something. I turn around just in time for the Bryce Luck suit tease. First he removes his arms from his suit coat and tosses onto a nearby chair. The muscles in his shoulders press against the shirt. He loosens his tie, and his long fingers grasp on and pull it from the collar. He throws the tie to join the jacket, but I grab it before it lands. After all, a girl can only take so much when it comes to bondage fantasies, especially with a man whose tongue is both dirty and skilled. “You like the tie?” he asks, glancing from my eyes to my hand. His eyes are hooded, likely matching mine, because I want to sink my teeth into him, everywhere. “You have no idea.” Or maybe he does, because he stalks toward me and takes the tie from my hands. “But if you’re too tired, I understand.” “Let’s see.” He scratches his chin, but the look in his eyes burns me. “Take off everything.” I’ve never had a guy ask me to strip off my clothes while he watches me, but his blazing eyes make me brave. I grasp the hem of my jersey, and pull it over my head. I shake my hair out and look at Bryce. His eyes are honed in on my red bra. He seems to approve as I watch him lick his lips. “Keep going,” he instructs, moving closer to me, reaching out a finger and toying with my bra strap. “Jeans next.”

No man has ever dominated me like this with only his words. I’m ruined forever now, because I know what I’ve been missing—or maybe Bryce will keep me forever? Still, a small voice tells me it’s way too soon to think such crazy thoughts. I try shimmying out of my skinny jeans, but they’re hard to remove in a sexy way. The makers should sell them with a warning label: when in the throes of passion, remove in the dark. When I end up hopping on one foot in an attempt to loosen a pant leg, Bryce roars with laughter. “Quit that,” I protest, but end up joining him in a fit of giggles. I give up and sit down to remove the offending pants. “Now the rest.” He moves to the queen sized bed and sits on the edge, wrapping the red tie around his hand. My eyes remain glued to it, wondering what’s going to happen next. The anticipation is killing me. I stand and strip off my underwear, teasing Bryce with each bra strap removed and lowered inch of my panties. Now bare before him, he scans me from head to toe. His gaze caresses my skin, making my nipples hard. Desire runs wild through my veins. He hasn’t even touched me, yet I’m wet like I’ve never been before. “Come here,” he says, pointing to the space in front of him. Bryce parts his legs and I move to stand before him, every inch of my skin on fire and desperate for his touch. “Spin around with your hands behind your back.” His raspy voice sounds drunk with desire. I turn as he bids, high on his every word, and not just because we’re at thirty thousand feet. Grasping my wrists, he wraps the tie around them and secures them with a knot. “Now, you’re completely mine to do as I please, which will be pleasing you.” “Oh God,” I moan, my head moving from side to side, burning with need. Bryce circles around me, removing his shirt one button at a time. My heart flutters as he builds the anticipation within me. I might combust with need if he continues at this pace. His shirt is first, then his pants. I lick my lips, seeing him in only his black boxers. Thighs so perfect and abs so hard, I can’t believe this man is here with me. I’d pinch myself if my hands were free. Breathless, I wait for him to remove his last piece of clothing. I want his beast freed—for me. He pushes them down his narrow hips, revealing his bold V and ready-for-me cock. My eyes meet his and a corner of his mouth turns up. It’s mischievous, and just for me—even the lone ranger dimple showing. How could a man be any more hot? He stalks toward me, but instead of touching me, he circles me and lies on the bed—or more like owns it with his enormous height and size. Lying flat, his cock points to the ceiling and the slight turbulence of the plane moves it, like it’s waving at me. I try to hold back the laugh trying to escape, but I can’t and bust out a giggle. “Are you laughing at my dick?” he asks with narrowed eyes, but I see the tease in them too.

“It’s bouncing with the plane’s movement like it’s saying hello.” I can’t control my laughter and struggle with my tied hands, wanting to bury my face in them. I glance around the room but there’s nowhere to hide my embarrassment. “Well, come ride my wave,” he says, and I laugh harder. “Please stop.” “On the bed, laughing beauty. Now,” he says as he beckons me with a sly grin. “Yes, sir,” I say in a seductive tone as I lick my lips. The charge in the air shifts to one made for fucking as I move onto the bed and try to straddle him. Not an easy feat with my hands tied behind my back, but Bryce reaches for my hips to steady me. I settle on his thighs, my hands hidden, and pussy spread out before him. The position, along with my hands tied, makes me so vulnerable, but giving him all the control turns me on. Gazing down, I watch him pump his beast a few times. I stare in amazement; mesmerized to see how much rougher he handles himself than I would. When he bites his lips after a couple hard jerks, I can’t stand it anymore. “I need you,” I say in a weak voice I hardly recognize. “Please.” “Rise up on your knees.” I do as he asks, and he fingers my pussy, entering me in one swift move. “Fuck, Amelia. You’re so wet,” he murmurs. “So ready.” “Past ready,” I scoot up and he takes the head of his cock and twirls it at my entrance. “Please don’t tease.” “You want it? Then take it.” He stills his movements, positioned perfectly at my entrance. I lower myself inch by inch, savoring all of him. His eyes are fixed on mine as I slowly make us one. Overwhelmed by the connection and emotion in this moment, I close my eyes and just feel him, and us, together. “You fill me so completely,” I breathe, and he does. “Now, move,” he commands. I can sense the pent up need in him. It’s like a tightened coil ready to spring loose. I rise and fall on his erection, and he places open palms on my hips to center me. The position also allows his thumbs to do dirty things to my clit. I fling my head back, absorbing the pleasure of him inside and touching me. Not being able to move my hands gives it the forbidden feeling I’ve desired. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” Bryce says on a sigh. “Look out the window, Amelia. We are fucking in the clouds.” I turn to the window by my head. The sky is a bright clear blue with puffy white billows scattered randomly. I’ve never had sex on a plane, or imagined I would, and it’s perfect because of him. “It’s surreal,” I breathe, gazing down at him, hardly believing this moment is real. I feel an intensity building inside of me, ready to burst. “Let go, baby.” Bryce rises up to where we are touching chest to chest. Bending,

he takes a nipple into his mouth and sucks the hell out of it. When he lightly bites down, I fall over the edge, only secured by his arms holding me. It’s an abandon beyond words. I close my eyes, boneless, as he maneuvers my body for his pleasure. He comes soon after me and we collapse onto the bed. “Shit,” Bryce whistles as he lets out a harsh breath. He scoots me into the crook of his arms and I lay my head on his chest, thankful it’s the good shoulder. “Bryce, I worry if that was too much with the game and all. You okay?” I ask, remembering how he winced when I touched his ribs. “This body has had worse, but nothing as good as you. Ever,” he says as he rubs my arm in light, careless touches. His words break through the wall I’ve built around my heart. In full surrender, I let him in, releasing all my fears of being hurt or used. He may not realize it, but I’ve just given my heart to him. Wanting my wrists freed, I sit up on the bed and move to where my back is to him. “Release me.” “I’ll release the tie, but I don’t know if I can let you go.” I close my eyes, praying he feels the same way about me. Once freed from the material, he rubs my wrists and helps the circulation return. “We only have a few minutes before we need to return for landing. It’s a quick flight to Indy.” “Well, that was not a quickie,” I say, lying down in his arms—a place of peace and security for me. “I want to tell you a story,” he says, and I feel his body tense under my cheek. “I’ve only talked to my mother about it.” “What is it?” I lift my head and peer into his eyes, finding pain in them, maybe even sorrow. I swallow, already knowing the story he wants to share, but right or wrong, I will not let him know Vivian told me. It was his story—not hers. “In college, I met a girl in my Spanish class. It wasn’t my best subject and she tutored me for the semester. After a few weeks, I asked her out. I worried she thought I was a dumb athlete.” “You’re anything but that,” I add, caressing his chest. “One night, I took her to a bridge where everyone hung out. It started to snow and we were looking up at the sky. I should’ve seen the car coming, but I was watching her instead. She was hit and killed right in front of me.” “Oh God, Bryce. That’s like a horrible nightmare. I can’t imagine what you went through,” I say, kissing his chest as he draws me closer to him. “I’m so sorry.” “It was declared an accident. But even ten years later, I can’t forgive myself.” “Was this girl in love with you?” I ask, knowing she was likely mad for him. It would take nothing for me to feel the same. “We were very much in love,” he says in a forced whisper. The pain of his loss and guilt is so raw, tears form in my eyes. “Then she would want you to forgive yourself,” I say against his chest, hoping

my words make their way to his heart. “I hope you’re right, Amelia. God, I hope you’re right.”

TWENTY-TWO

AMELIA

“TELL me again why you aren’t watching the first Beauty and the Baller with Bryce?” Katie asks, placing the freshly delivered pizza box on the coffee table. “You two are the stars of the show, after all.” “Since the station is airing the show right before the Thursday night game, I’m screwed. The team always watches the game together. Bro bonding or something.” I sigh in disappointment. I’ve been asking myself this question all day. I thought about bringing a couple cases of cold beer to the clubhouse in Lake Forest. Surely, they would have let me in, but in the end, I respected the teams wishes of no chicks, just dicks. Could they sound any more like frat boys? This week, Bryce has called me at least once a day, but I haven’t seen him in person since he dropped me off at my apartment after our flight from Indy. Katie was upstairs studying for a major exam the next morning, so we said good-bye in the lobby. I hated to disturb her. She works too hard to be bothered by sex fiends. Bryce got so carried away in his good-bye kiss, his hands over and under my clothes, I feared someone would walk into the empty lobby and call the cops for indecent behavior. He ended up dragging me into the mailroom off the lobby. Since it had a door, he felt it was a safer place, and of course, I couldn’t argue with him. It’s impossible to say no to a man with full lips, hooded brown eyes, sexed-up hair, and a chiseled jawline, who smells like heaven in the woods. He pinned me in the corner, wrapped my legs around his waist, and dry humped me to orgasm heaven. That’s the thing about skinny jeans, they have this wicked seam that hits a clit just right, and with the right amount of pressure, it gets the job done. “Earth to Amelia,” Katie says, and I turn to her with a dazed smile. “Here, eat something.” Katie offers me a plate with a slice of pepperoni pizza on it. “Thanks. I’ll try to take a few bites,” I say, grateful she cares. Seriously, I couldn’t have a better friend.

I take the proffered plate, but my stomach is as wound up as my crazed brain. It’s running on high speed through landmines of worry about letting Bryce have too much of my heart too soon, or getting fired if the show flops. The mental workout I’ve been through this week has left me exhausted. When Bryce shared his pain and guilt about his first love, it felt like we crossed over into something deep and real—especially since he’s only told his mother. Then, as each day passed this week, doubt started to build. Running questions and scenarios through my mind is the curse of being a journalist—always looking for the angle or story behind the story. Did he regret telling me about her? Is he having second thoughts about me? Hearing his voice isn’t enough in this new relationship. I need to see his eyes. Bryce hides nothing behind them. “You’re not going to eat?” Katie eyes me from the other side of the couch, pursing her lips. “I can’t, especially with the show minutes away from airing,” I confess, praying I don’t throw up. “Quit worrying about the worst. From everything you’ve told me, Bryce is totally into you. He did text you each night before he went to sleep saying he wished you were with him.” “Yeah, but that has unfilled booty call written all over it,” I scoff, but we both end up laughing. We both know I’d gladly fulfill his wish and take care of his late night problems. “The show’s on after this commercial,” Katie announces, bouncing on the couch cushion. “I can’t believe they wouldn’t let you see it before it aired.” “Well, after I attacked that redheaded witch,” I refuse to say her name out loud, “they decided to keep me away from the creative parts. I didn’t even get to see the videos Howard took. I’m as clueless as you.” My hands start to sweat and I wipe them over my yoga pants. As the commercial selling Axe cologne ends, I pick up my phone. Bryce and I agreed to text during the show. I hope the guys don’t give him too much shit, but I know the odds of that aren’t high. Bryce has never shown the public his private life, and it’s about to get blown wide open. My stomach twists at the thought. Good thing I didn’t eat the pizza.

YOU WATCHING? It’s a stupid question, but it breaks the ice. Yep. Next to Rich! Oh shit. The team’s official narcissist isn’t good viewing company. Right?

THE SONG “STROKE ME” starts playing behind the opening of the show, and I hang my head, knowing why the producers chose this song. It was my dick pic folders.

NICE MUSIC. Dying.

“WHAT’S WITH THAT SONG?” Katie looks at me, her face scrunched in confusion. “You remember my dick pic folder,” I mutter, bringing my knees to my chest. It’s like I’m trying to protect myself from what’s about to show up on the screen. “Oh no,” Katie gasps, covering her mouth with her hand. She helped me divide my dick category system over a bottle of wine. “Oh yes,” I retort, shaking my head. “Stay tuned.” I cringe, knowing my parents are watching back in Janesville. I might need to make alternate plans for the holidays this year. I don’t know if I can look my father in the eye now. “It’s actually hilarious,” Katie says, getting over her initial shock. “Did Bryce send you one of his?” Katie waggles her brows. “It would need it’s own folder if he did. He’s that special,” I say, waggling my brows right back. “What would you name the folder?” The corners of her mouth turn up. “Hmmm…” I squint an eye and bite my lip. It needs to be special. “Well, I think ‘The Beast’ would fit it best. If you know what I mean.” “So, how’s your jaw?” she asks as she opens and closes her mouth like a fish. “Stop it,” I yell, though the sentiment is half-hearted, and toss a throw pillow at her.

IF YOU SEND me dick pics, I have a name for your folder. Dare I ask? The Beast! He needs his Beauty. I sigh, smiling like a smitten schoolgirl crushing on the hot quarterback.

THE BEGINNING of the show starts with the camera focused on Bryce and I arguing by the pool. He’s backing me up to the edge, but the only sound is the hum of voices and background music. That is, until I fall backwards into the water with a big splash.

SEE! Told you so! Just wait. Yours was on purpose.

THEN IT SHOWS me pulling Bryce into the water as he tries to help me. I love the smile of pure evil on my lips. My eyes even have a wicked gleam.

YOUR FACE! Revenge is sweet. I giggle after sending this one. It felt good to bring a six-footfour man down. No lying there.

THE SHOW CONTINUES at Hunter’s pool… “I can’t believe you grabbed me. There.” Bryce is so hot when he says this. I double check to make sure I have the record button on, and it is, thankfully. His eyes are so ruthless and dark. I squirm in my chair and Katie throws the pillow back at me. “Self-defense.” I love my comeback. “Where did she grab you, Bryce?” Rich knew where. Now everyone does. “His you-know-what.” I love how the team and guests all cheer. I raise my hands and wave them in victory.

MY FIRST ENCOUNTER with the beast. My tongue wants to know what you’re doing later? ;) Sleeping. I have work at 8 a.m. Unless this show flops, I think to myself.

THE POOL SCENE ENDS, but Katie is still laughing. She said the editing was perfect and could totally understand my willingness to have all of Bryce’s babies—slang for I’ll be his nympho. And since that ship has already sailed in glorious fashion, I nod in agreement. The next scene shows me standing at the end of Hunter’s driveway while I waited for my Uber driver. Bryce walks down the driveway toward me. He hesitates before stepping closer to me, and it almost looks like he might turn around and head back to the house, but he ends up coming to a stop beside me. We chat for a few seconds, and he moves closer, until we are side by side. I turn to him and give him the explanation about why I said what I did on the newscast. When my car arrives and I head toward it, Bryce runs his hands through his hair. The camera shows him at a side angle and he’s actually grinning. That smile was the turning point for us.

SMILING? I thought you hated me? Your ass made me do it. I did add a little more shake as I walked away, but it shows the attraction was already there between us. Are the guys giving you shit? Just about your ass. I think they know…

“NEXT UP, dick pics, the Bryce Babes, and Beauty’s cat fight,” says the voiceover as the show breaks for a commercial. It’s only thirty seconds long and then the shows starts back up again. I cover my ears during the dick pic part. In my defense, I had no idea we were being filmed. If I had, I might’ve tampered down the language I used, or not mentioned it at all. Katie pokes me on the arm, and I turn to her. She removes my hands from my ears. “You’re so going to be hit with dick pics now,” she shakes her head and gives me a you’re-in-for-it grin. “You should block people from messaging you. Unless you like getting them.” She raises a brow, egging me on to answer. “You know how I feel about penises. They look better attached to an entire man versus close-up.” Katie nods her head in agreement.

THE GUYS WANT your email address. There’s only one dick on the team I’m interested in. I’ll give you my boss’s. Is he gay? For the right dick, maybe. I can’t contain my laughter. It would give Ed a taste of what it’s like to be in my shoes, fending off all pervs. I bet he’d kill me.

AFTER ANOTHER SHORT BREAK, the scene in Indy begins with Bryce and I alone at the hotel restaurant. Howard must’ve filmed us after he supposedly left. He’s so not getting a Christmas card this year. Seriously. All these sneaky cameos of us from a distance make me wonder what else the producers might sneak in. Like our exchange at the car before we flew back to Chicago… As Bryce and I sit at the table, heads close together, our eyes locked on each other, we look like a couple on a date. A very interested in each other couple, which was true since he fucked my brains out an hour later. Not to mention the next morning. God, I miss him and the beast, but mostly him. “You guys are so into each other,” Katie says in a dreamy sigh sort of way. I sigh right along with her.

“You have no idea. At least on my end.” I try to squash stupid insecure thoughts about Bryce not liking me in the same way I’ve fallen for him. I pick up my phone, needing him to wipe away my fears.

I REALLY LIKE YOU, Jaws. This text has stupid girl written all over it, but I send it anyway. Jaws feels the same. xo No guy has ever xo’d me. My smile goes up to my forehead as a warm rush fills me. One more text like this, and I’ll tip over into crazy, stupid love territory. I know it.

“WHAT THE HELL are you doing? Sexting?” Katie asks, feigning disgust, though her eyes are teasing. “Xo’ing.” I grin back and she knits her brow, shaking her head. “He xo’d after his text. That’s a first for me.” “Kind of girly,” Katie kids. “Shut up! Don’t kill my xo high.” I hear my voice in the background and the sound of crazy women. The show has shifted to the Bryce Babes and a big part of me wants to go lock myself in the bathroom or change my name. Maybe Alaska needs sportscasters to cover dog sled competitions. But everyone wears real animal fur there, so that’s off the list too. My options are dwindling, just like my hope.

TWENTY-THREE

BRYCE

“MAN, I want to motorboat that,” Rich drawls as Amelia’s rack comes into view while she stands around all the Bryce Babes. She’s wearing a sexy, low cut version of my jersey, and she looks so fucking fuckable. I turn to Rich and glare at him. Why the hell did he have to sit next to me? I want to crown him the King of all Assholes with a swift hit to his head. I swear he likes torturing me. “Shut the fuck up,” I spew the words between clenched teeth. “Don’t you ever talk about Amelia like that again.” I lean closer, glaring daggers at him. “As a matter of fact, don’t ever speak of her again.” Rich leans away from me, a big ass smile on his face, suiting the big asshole. His laughing eyes change as he begins to access my red face and tense jaw, which is about ready to snap. I realize too late I’ve shown him my cards. He knows I have it bad for Amelia—real bad. “Well, the mighty Bryce Luck has fallen,” he says in a voice quieter than his normal boisterous tone. He moves closer to me and I squint my eyes, wondering what’s up. “Hey, man, I’m happy for you. Truly.” Rich gives me the bro palm shake where the thumbs end up in the air and ends it with a fist bump. It’s like a modern day blood oath. “Who are you?” I ask, my voice teasing, but I do like this version of Rich a hell of lot better than the bragging womanizer. “I know, Bryce.” His voice becomes low with a touch of sadness. “In college. I know what happened.” How did he find out about Celia? Wheels turn in my mind. I know I’ve never mentioned it to him or anyone on the team. Hell, I’ve only shared my feelings about it with my mother and Amelia. After Celia was killed, Mom came to Notre Dame and brought me back home to Chicago for a few weeks. I couldn’t eat or sleep. I was a total fucked up mess.

Telling Amelia wasn’t something I planned on doing, but this strange need to share it with her burst out of me. And once the words came bubbling out, I felt a relief, especially when she told me to forgive myself. It’s so much easier said than done, but I want to—and like she said, Celia would want me to. “Remember Travis Johnson?” Rich asks. I nod as a light bulb goes off in my head. Travis played at Notre Dame with me. He was a senior and a stand up guy, especially when I returned to school after trying to get over Celia’s death. Travis told me he was there if I ever needed to talk about it. “You played with him when you were with the Cowboys,” I say, connecting the dots. “Yeah, he told me about it after I was traded to Chicago. Asked me to watch out for you—in a good way, of course.” “Thanks for keeping it on the down low.” The fact that Rich didn’t spread the story around the team makes me wonder if this guy is less of a showboat than I thought. “Maybe you have a heart after all.” “Does she have any hot friends?” he asks with a raised brow, revealing the Rich I’ve grown to know. “I’ll never tell.” I hold my hand up to him, shutting him down. Amelia voice rings out from the TV and I face back to watch the show. She’s mingling with the Babes. That group still freaks me out. I don’t get it—especially the older ladies. I could actually be their son. The redhead and Amelia fight finally comes up. I stare at the TV and shake my head, not believing what my ears just heard. The psycho wants to have my babies? They cut to the clip of the redhead pushing Amelia to the ground. I grip the armrests tight, but smile knowing my girl didn’t let it slide. Nope. My teammates cheer on Amelia as she mounts the bitch, and I nod my head, proud that she’s mine. At least, I want her to be, and the thought of her not wanting the same makes my chest ache. I get a few, “way to go, Bryce,” shouts when I take her away from the mayhem and walk her to my car. But the camera is still on us, and our mics are running too. Howard must be a chameleon. I don’t remember seeing him filming us at this point —and I looked. When Amelia says the word “orgasm,” the guys shout out their usual catcalls. I glance around the room and notice everyone but Coach seems to be entertained. He’s sitting with his hands across his chest staring at me and shaking his head. He looks downright pissed—at me. I remember the conversation Coach and I had Sunday before I left to fly home, and one word stands out in my mind: distraction. Before I look away from Coach’s disappointed stare, he motions me over. I get up from my chair and shuffle my feet across the room. “Sit down, Bryce,” he orders in a voice I’ve seldom heard directed at me. Doing as he asks, I wait for his rebuke with sweaty palms. “That plane ride wasn’t really for your shoulder, was it?” he asks, but the look in

his eyes tells me he knows the answer. “Not really, Coach,” I admit. I turn my eyes away, wanting to avoid seeing more disappointment in his. “I want you, Hunter, and the TV people, including Amelia, here tomorrow morning at nine. Sharp.” Coach gets up from his chair and glances down at me. “And I think it’s best you head home.” I watch Coach walk away toward his office, his shoulders drooping with each step. I fell short and disappointed a good man, but I only have myself to blame. I made the choice, and it was a damn shitty one. I let a woman in my life and became distracted—the one thing I swore would never happen. But I’m not going to be a coward and run away. Instead, I’m going to run toward it.

OUT IN THE clubhouse parking lot, I sit in my car, staring at my phone. Amelia has left several texts and they’ve all gone unanswered by me. Her messages get a little more probing with each one. It’s like she knows something’s up. It’s her reporter sixth sense kicking into gear. I don’t want to hurt her—hell, I want to have her next to me, touching me, reassuring me what I feel for her is real. Deep down, I don’t think I’d be struggling with this if my feelings weren’t genuine. Pulling up her number, I hit send and wait for her to answer. “Hey,” she says, her voice tentative, likely worried about my silence. “I need you tonight,” I say, letting the words carry more weight with a whisper. “I need you too,” she says with a giggle, thinking I’m just calling to flirt. “This isn’t a booty call. I left the practice facility. Coach asked me to go home.” She gasps over the line. “Yeah, he wants to meet with us tomorrow morning. Hunter and Ed, too.” “What about? The show?” she asks in a rush of worry as the impact of my call hits her. “All the distraction.” I leave out the plane part; it’s not her fault I lied to him. I’ll take the rap for that one. “Oh no,” she says, her voice laced with disappointment. “What can I do?” “Stay the night with me?” I ask…or more like plead. “I’ll drive you to the meeting in the morning.” “They’ll know I’m sleeping with you if we get out of the same car. Who knows what my boss will think,” she says in a shaky voice. “We’ll figure that out in the morning. I’ll pick you up in twenty. Be ready.” Because I can’t wait to have you in my arms…

TWENTY-FOUR

AMELIA

A BLACK SEDAN pulls up to the coffee shop near Chicago’s clubhouse. Bryce secured a ride for me so we wouldn’t arrive at the meeting together. I want to walk into the meeting as Amelia Adams, sports reporter for Channel 3—not the woman Bryce is sleeping with, even if it’s the truth. I don’t want to push our relationship until I know how Ed will react. He frowns on inner-office romances, and this might be the same in his eyes. I cross my fingers, hoping he’s cool with it. If he’s not, I’m screwed. “The car’s here,” I say to Bryce, who’s holding my hand. He hasn’t stopped touching me since he picked me up last night. It was like all this passion built up in him over the week, just waiting to explode, which he did— several times. I am falling in love with being around him. Who knows, maybe I’m falling in love with him too. It’s scary, but exciting at the same time. “I’m there for you, no matter what happens,” he says, kissing my fingertips, which makes me want to stay in this damn car. “Thanks, Bryce.” I reach over the center console and kiss him on the lips. It’s chaste, but his soft lips brush against mine, making a static electric spark. We look into each other’s eyes and smile, a silent conversation passing between us. I climb out of his car and run toward the sedan, turning to wave good-bye to Bryce as I open the door. As I slide into the car, I confirm the driver is indeed for me. We leave the parking lot and I turn around to see Bryce following me in the rearview window. At least we planned for me to go inside the building first. I sit back in the soft leather seats and collect my thoughts. Hunter, the team owner, my boss, Ed, and Coach Marks will be there. I sigh. Ed’s been emailing me all morning with updates on Beauty and the Baller. The station can’t keep up with the response. Emails, Facebook posts, tweets—even the stuffy newspapers joined in with praises for the show. I think the peek into Bryce’s controlled life was the highlight for most. He’s

never been seen with a woman, and rumors about them didn’t exist either. It makes me wonder how many others have been in his life since Celia died. He’s been a lonely, self-loathing man under the surface of his smiling, dimpled face. I want to give him back those lost years of happiness. The car pulls up to Halas Hall, Chicago’s state of the art practice facility. Bryce prepaid for the driver when he arranged it, so I exit with a thank you, adjust my bag’s shoulder strap, and make my way to the entrance. Once inside, the woman at the reception desk gives me a wide smile. “Amelia,” she says in excitement, waving me over. I raise a brow at the way she’s acting like we’re friends even though I’ve never met this woman before. I walk closer and she keeps moving her hand like I’m not getting there fast enough. “Hi…um—” I scan the desk for a nameplate, or anything with her name on it. I should know hers, since she personally greeted me. “It’s Sandy,” she says while rolling her eyes and waving her hand, acknowledging that I don’t know her. A smile tips my lips in relief. “The show last night. Everyone around here is talking about it. And your dick pic folders…I can’t stop laughing. Do you know when the next show will be?” “The station should be announcing it soon,” I try to answer her question as best as I can, but this meeting may be the end of Beauty and the Baller. “I swear, the way Bryce kissed you on the forehead…” she says with a sigh, placing a hand over her heart. She gets closer to me and looks from side to side. “To be honest, some of us wondered if he was playing for the other side, if you know what I mean.” “Well, he put that to rest.” And me to bed. “Totally,” she says, nodding. “Oh, look at me,” she laughs, “I’ve gotten so excited, I forgot I’m supposed to show you to the meeting room. Follow me.” As we walk down several hallways, Sandy talks incessantly about Bryce and me. She sounds just like the online fans, which makes me realize what a hit we may have on our hands. I take a deep breath and exhale a prayer that all’s not lost at this meeting. “Here you go, Amelia,” she opens the door. “Good luck, hun.” She winks before ushering me in and closing the door. “Come in, Amelia,” Hunter calls out from where he’s sitting at the head of the table. Hunter points to a chair beside Ed, who’s looking up at me and actually smiling. The million-pound weight on my shoulders dissolves in an instant. Then I glance across the table to Coach Marks. His grim face startles me, and I sink into my chair, that weight starting to settle in again. Totally confused by how this meeting is going to go, I plaster on a smile and say hello to everyone. While we wait for Bryce to appear, Hunter takes a call and Coach Marks shuffles papers in front of him. Ed shows me the Nielsen’s rating for the audience share we had during Beauty and the Baller while explaining the local newscast doesn’t

receive a fourth of the viewership. We hit a ratings homerun. Plus, the network heads in New York City emailed him this morning. My mind spins at the possibility of us blipping on their radar. The door opens and Bryce walks into the room. When our eyes meet, I smile at him and he returns it, but it’s muted. I understand the need to be careful, but it stings. “Over here, Bryce,” Coach Marks calls, pulling out the chair next to him. I can’t overlook the meeting’s set up—TV people on one side of the table, Team Chicago on the other, and the owner ruling at the top. Bryce sits down and eyes me across the table. He gives me a little wink and lick of his lips. I smile to myself and look down at my folded hands in my lap. It’s going to be okay, I can feel it. “Well, let’s get started,” Hunter begins, laying his phone on the desk. “Coach Marks called the meeting. He discussed his concerns with me, and they’re valid. But I also know the front office received over a thousand calls for season tickets this morning, and we’ve only been open an hour. Whatever happened with that show has translated into a boom for our franchise.” “But it’s at a price,” Coach says, looking down at his paper, then back up to Ed and I. “My job is training players to win games. Lead a team of winners. This show has the potential to distract Bryce, and he’s the center of the team. So I worked out a compromise with Hunter.” “First, Amelia will have to follow the rules of the other wives and girlfriends,” Hunter states. My hands sweat at his words, and Ed shifts in his chair. His eyes scan my face as he shakes his head. “Amelia,” he says, drawing out my name with a mix of shock and concern. His troubled eyes worry me. “Bryce,” Ed says as he looks across the table, “are you two sleeping together?” “Yes,” I say at the same time Bryce says, “No.” Bryce and I exchange a look of confusion, then I say, “No” and he says, “Yes.” Everyone begins to laugh, even Coach. Bryce and I shrug our shoulders and join in. “I guessed as much,” Hunter boasts, eyeing the two of us. “I hoped as much,” Coach adds with a smile, his first one since I walked into the room. He wanted this for Bryce and I. This fact is major, like someone removed a big hurdle from the track we’re running on. “Well, this does put a spin on things,” Ed says, rubbing his chin. “I thought you hated each other—or at least Bryce despised you.” “Not after I realized you’re the one who wanted her to say my shoulder was shot.” Bryce crosses his arms over his chest, regarding Ed with his brows knitted. “Yeah, about that,” Ed starts, trying to back himself out of a corner. “Okay, everyone. Back to the topic at hand,” Coach says. “I don’t want to squash the show entirely. Maybe an episode outside the football arena, like Bryce’s visits to the Children’s Hospital if Bryce is okay with that.”

“Sure, but I don’t want to look like a hero showing up there. Those kids battling cancer are the true heroes,” Bryce says with a sternness in his voice. And everything clicks into place. I get why he doesn’t want his visit out in the public. It’s about the kids—not him. I just don’t know how Bryce could be more perfect. One thing’s for sure, he’ll be a great dad. My ovaries explode at the thought of brown-eyed mini-Bryce’s in the world. “I will concede one game. I’m thinking the Jets in New York. They’re our weakest team left to play. Everything after that will have to be during off-season.” “Ed, are you okay with this?” Hunter asks, and we all turn to Ed, who takes a deep breath. Disappointment lines his face, but not defeat. “If that’s the best we can do, I’ll make it work,” Ed states on a sigh. “We can plan more episodes once the season’s over. This fall version can be more of a teaser with more to follow.” “Bryce and Amelia? What about you two? Are you willing to let them inside your life as a couple?” Hunter glances back and forth between Bryce and me. Is he? Am I? Are we a ‘couple’? I wring my hands in my lap and stare at Bryce across the table. He gazes back at me, but I can’t read his face—not a yes, no, or maybe shows. His feelings are hidden, and I feel sick. Why did Hunter have to pin us down like this? The word couple binds us together like love glue. It requires commitment and toothbrushes at each other’s places. I don’t even know if he prefers Pepsi or Coke. Awkwardness hangs in the air—at least for me. Bryce pushes his chair back from the table and stands. He looks so commanding from where I sit at this angle. Tall, broad shoulders, and of course that drop dead gorgeous jawline, which is set tight at the moment, making it more chiseled than humanly possible. “Nope, we won’t be okay with the couple thing.” He smiles at me, adding a wink that makes me feel better than his tongue, which is saying a lot. But what does he mean, “the couple thing”? “Every couple, in those stupid reality shows, breaks up. Jessica Simpson and Nick Lachey. They didn’t survive the Chicken of the Sea comment. Then there’s the Kardashians. They get holiday cards from ten divorce attorneys. I don’t want that to happen to Amelia and me.” Wait, he doesn’t want to do it because he’s afraid we’ll break up? So he thinks we ARE a couple? After I ask myself all the probing reporter questions, I realize he does mean there’s an “us.” Getting up from my seat, I walk-run around the table, and look up into those warm brown eyes that make me melt. “The couple thing, huh?” I ask with a tease in my voice. “Yeah, I was betting you felt the same as me, and I don’t want to gamble what we might have.” “Me either,” I say, shaking my head. Bryce wraps an arm around my shoulder

and pulls me into his side. It’s like a warm wall of comfort. “Are you sure about this?” Ed directs his question to me. His long face looks like he lost his golden ticket, which was how he viewed Beauty and the Baller. I glance up at Bryce before I respond, and he bends down to kiss me on my forehead. “If I say yes, do I lose my job?” I ask. Ed responds by burying his head in his hands. Yeah, I better get my résumé in order—pronto. Ed lets his hands fall to the table as his forlorn eyes gaze at me. “Of course not, Amelia,” he replies. “I just needed a second to process this. You can head to the office. Lots to do in response to last night.” “Thanks,” I say, letting out a deep breath in relief. I understand Ed’s frustration. His dream of the Big Apple was within reach, and we just snatched it away. But I was hired to report sports, not be the story. There’s a big difference, and in the end, my professional career could’ve suffered when the show took a turn to our lives as a couple, which is my new favorite word. Besides, my role model in female sports casting, Erin Andrews, sure as hell didn’t earn her stripes doing hot quarterbacks for the world to see. Though, who knows what goes on behind the scenes. Resisting hot quarterbacks is impossible, especially dirty talking ones with broken hearts and beastly parts.

THE MEETING ADJOURNED RIGHT after the decision to film two more short Beauty and the Baller segments. We agreed to keep the show’s theme more about what Bryce and I do in our lives, not what are lives are like together. Bryce offered to drive me downtown to the station, since the team practice doesn’t start for a few hours. I try to find a comfortable position in the leather seats of his Porsche Cayenne SUV, but can’t seem to stop shifting around. It’s not the car, it’s me. My body reflects my mind, which has worried thoughts bouncing around in it—mostly about work. I keep wondering if my job is really secure. Ed said things are okay, but his boss, and then his boss’s boss, might feel different. Bryce pulls his SUV into an empty parking lot after only being on the road for a minute. Two, tops. “Amelia, what’s the matter?” He places the car in park and turns toward me. “I don’t know,” I lie, biting my lip and avoiding his eyes. “Look at me,” he says in an authoritative voice that makes me wet. How can he be so sweet and dirty at the same time? I pivot on the leather, his gaze on me like swallowing a truth serum. His second career should be with the CIA. “Okay, I’m freaking out about my job. It was shaky before, and I’m not convinced Ed’s right.” Bryce brings his fingers to my chin and holds it with the lightest touch, keeping me focused on him. “I know exactly what you need.” His eyes darken as his lids

become heavy. “What’s that?” I ask in an innocent way, though he knows I’m far from it. We’re in broad daylight, so he can’t mean sex in the car. The SUV’s windows are tinted, but still. The last thing we need is our mug shots taken after our arrest for public indecency. There’s no coming back from that one. Literally. “Hike up your dress for me,” he says in a stern voice, removing his fingers from my chin. I scan the empty parking lot before following his orders—hell, my panties were wet at “look at me.” “Higher,” he says, lifting his head to show me what he wants. My panties are completely exposed, along with a touch of my abdomen. His eyes remain fixed between my legs. “Now, remove them.” Anyone could come lean against the window and see me, so I wait to follow his orders. The thrill of the forbidden is hard to resist. Yet, I don’t have the sense of total abandon needed to fulfill his request. “Bryce, what if we get caught?” I ask in a whisper. “I won’t let anyone see what’s mine. Please trust me.” Bryce motions for me to take off my panties. Deciding to believe his promise, I take them off. He holds out an upright palm, his meaning clear, and I hand my piece of lace to him. Bringing them to his nose, he closes his eyes, and I turn a million shades of red at watching the erotic display. “So sweet,” he murmurs. “I wish it was your taste on my tongue.” My first thought is, holy shit, that’s hot as hell. The second one is, I hope he has water protection on this leather seat. I’m that turned on. “Lay the seat back as far as it will go.” I reach for the adjustment switch and push on it until I am lying flat. “Spread your legs and let me see all of you.” I do as he asks, and his eyes flash from mine to my pussy. He’s only touched my chin, but the buildup of need is like nothing I’ve felt before. “Please,” I beg in a weak voice, dying to have his hands on me. “Close your eyes,” he commands, and I shutter them. “I’ll make sure no one is approaching. Do what you do best, baby, get lost in the pleasure.” My muscles go slack as I surrender to the darkness and his words. His fingers caress and open me up to him. I spread my legs wider, giving him better access to me. How I wish it were the beast instead of his fingers. “So fucking wet,” he hums. He continues to work my body into a heated frenzy. I bring my hands to my breasts and toy with my nipples through my clothes. I want his lips on me, sucking and teasing, but this will have to do. “So beautiful, Amelia,” he says through heavy breathing. He’s turned on too. “More, please,” I rasp. “Your clit is so hard and swollen, baby.”

I ignite under the touch of his skilled fingers and succumb to a blinding, wanton release. Slumping in the seat, I crash back to reality. Bryce lowers my dress, covering me, as I open my eyes to look at him. Dazed and still catching my breath, I watch him lick his fingers like he’s savoring the taste— of me. No lover has ever made me feel so wild with passion. “Relaxed?” he asks with a knowing smirk, fully aware he made me come undone. “Present state,” I mumble, “semi-conscious.” He puts the SUV in gear and heads out of the parking lot. Minutes later, we arrive at the station’s building and I slide out of the car like a flimsy noodle. “I’ll pick you up at five,” he says, and I nod before closing the door. But he doesn’t pull away from the curb. Instead, he lowers the window and looks at me. “And, Amelia, I more than like you.” He rolls up the window and drives away, leaving me standing there speechless with a grin the size of Texas on my face. I spin on my heels, feeling light and free, like I could walk on air. As I approach my building, its mirrored windows reveal the near-stoned expression from my Bryce high. Once inside, I make sure to avoid Jane in human resources. One look at me and she’ll give me a random drug test.

TWENTY-FIVE

AMELIA

STANDING in front of Bryce’s bathroom sink, I apply a line of Luster White 7 toothpaste onto my toothbrush. It’s my favorite, and keeps my teeth TV ready, but not as bright as Bryce’s. His drawer is next to mine, so of course I had to peek in it. He uses some no-frills kind, so his gleaming whites are natural. Figures he’d be stupidly, naturally perfect. After placing the tube back in my own special drawer, I turn on the water, run the bristles under the stream, and try to scrub away any remnants of last night’s garlic chicken. That was a bad idea. I broke the “only eat bland spice” rule while trying to bag a boy. I glance at the mirror’s reflection of Bryce in his glass shower. His hands are raised over his head as he washes his hair. The shower’s steamy air can’t hide his beauty. He’s all sculpted abs, ripped thighs, and of course, the beast. Something drops on my bare chest above where the towel is wrapped around my boobs. Looking down, there’s a sudsy line of toothpaste. The man makes me drool. Bryce and I have to be at the hospital this morning for the second taping of Beauty and the Baller, so we didn’t take a shower together. When we do, we don’t just wash up and towel dry. Bryce likes to soap down my body, and rinse it off. Then he ends up on his knees, me plastered against the tiled wall with a leg over his shoulder, finishing off my start to the day with the best kind of wall sex. The secret is the wet tile. It holds no friction as my body slides up and down under his control. I hate single shower mornings, but we’re on a schedule. Finished polishing my almost pearly whites, I remove the towel covering my head and run my go-to anti-frizz product through my wet hair. I have all my favorites at Bryce’s house. He had me write out a list of my preferred shampoos, soaps, toothpaste, coffee, and foods I ate for breakfast. He even asked whether I preferred my pillows fluffy or flat—fluffier ones leave fewer lines on my face in the morning. A day after I compiled the list, all my favorites appeared at the apartment

like magic via his well-paid assistant, Janice. Over the last three weeks, I’ve spent almost every night at Bryce’s place. Katie keeps texting me to see if she should rent out my room, saying law school isn’t cheap and all, and I do feel bad for deserting her—especially since she gets holed up in that apartment studying for hours at a time. She did mention seeing our hunky neighbor in the hallway, though. She was on her phone reading an email and ran into him—literally—on the way to the elevator. Of course, her purse fell off her shoulder and spilled onto the ground. He helped her pick everything up on the floor, even her pack of birth control pills. “What’s spinning in that head of yours?” Startled, I jump as Bryce walks up behind me. A towel hangs deliciously low around his hips, the beast outlined in all its glory. Water drips from his hair, trailing down his chest, and I follow the streams over his cut ridges, licking my lips. “We don’t have time for what I’m thinking about,” I say as our eyes connect in the mirror. “What if I told you we do have time?” He presses his body against my back and grasps the edge of my towel. With a quick pull, he releases it from my body. Bending down, Bryce kisses my shoulder. “So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs against my skin, his hand caressing a path down my spine. I close my eyes as my nipples harden and ache for his touch. “But we don’t,” I protest, even as his lips meet the curve of my back. “I still have to blow-dry my hair, fix my face, and decide on an outfit.” This decision on what to wear could take a half an hour or more in itself since I’m meeting his mother for the first time today. I have no clue what the preapproved, meeting-a-parent outfits are like. Conservative is the safe choice, but we are filming the show and I’ve been encouraged by the producers to wear something sexy, which means show leg and cleavage. Would a daring, unbuttoned cardigan work? I’d look like a slutty schoolteacher, but it might be the best I have, considering. “Give me five, baby,” he says, standing up behind me. His eyes plead with me as he pushes my hair away from my neck. “You won’t regret it,” he whispers in my ear. I sigh. He’s both right and wrong. I won’t regret the feel of him inside me, or the orgasm he’ll pull from my body, but I’ll regret being rushed and likely making poor clothing choices. “Is that a yes?” he asks as his fingers touch my pussy, finding me wet. My body answers for me, but I still breathe out, “Yes.” Bryce places the beast at my entrance and swirls the tip around my clit. He leans over me, forcing me to lie flatter on the counter. I wait for his next move in needy anticipation. “I’m going to fuck you fast and furious,” he says, grasping my hips before burying himself inside me. “Hold on tight, baby.” His hooded eyes warn me to

follow his orders. I brace myself by grabbing onto the edge of the counter as Bryce’s forceful thrusts pound into me. Softly moaning, I close my eyes and surrender to his onslaught. His relentless push and pull brings me close to release. Raising my head, I see him in the mirror behind me and stare in awe at this beautiful man. His eyes are closed tight, and his head is thrown back, giving me a perfect view of his dominant jaw. The near painful appearance of passion on his face is my undoing. The orgasm builds with lightning speed and I come in a crashing wave. “Harder,” I moan, wanton and greedy, desiring more of him. When he opens his eyes and lowers them to meet mine, a slow smile spreads across his lips. He begins to pump into me faster, prolonging my pleasure, reaching for his own. “You are mine,” he growls through gritted teeth, our eyes staying locked. When his grip tightens on my hips and the muscles on his neck strain, his demanding rhythm becomes erratic. After a couple more thrusts, he releases inside me. “Holy fuck,” he mutters, collapsing against my back and wrapping his arms around me. “Holy something,” I whisper. When he catches his breath, he pulls us up into a standing position and turns me to face him. I gaze up at his dark brown eyes, searching them, hoping to see the same feelings I have for him reflected back at me. “I’ve been numb for years,” he says, pushing damp hair from my face. I hold my breath, hoping he continues. “…but you’ve made me feel again.” Tears form at the tenderness in his eyes directed straight at me. He’s releasing the pain of his past and letting me into his heart.

BRYCE and I walk hand in hand down the corridor of the children’s hospital. When we pass by two women, their eyes grow wide and their jaws drop to the floor. I understand their reaction—Bryce has the same effect on me. Nonetheless, I hold his hand a little tighter. Howard follows behind us, recording all the interactions. “Did you catch those fawning women?” I ask over my shoulder. “I zoomed in on them,” Howard says with a laugh. “What are you talking about?” Bryce asks and I look up at him in disbelief. He really has no idea what his hotness does to chicks. “Don’t play dumb,” I say, jabbing him in the side with my elbow. “Those women’s panties hit the floor when you walked by.” “What? It’s just the opposite,” Bryce says back to me. “You should hear what the guys on the team have said about you. They stopped when I threatened to chop off their balls. However, Rich is banned from speaking to you again.”

“That’s fine by me,” I laugh. Rich is the worst kind of player. No matter how many times he’s shot down by a woman, he still thinks he has a chance. He’s delusional—or maybe persistent? Definitely delusional. Bryce slows his pace as we walk toward the nurses’ station. A woman dressed in navy blue sits in a nearby waiting room, a newspaper in her hand, sipping on her coffee as she reads the front page. “Mother,” Bryce says, and the woman turns to face us. A broad smile spreads across her face as she looks between Bryce and I. She has kind eyes the same rich brown color as Bryce’s. Her blond hair frames her face and touches her shoulders. She looks way too young to be Bryce’s mother. “Son,” she says, putting the newspaper aside and rising from the chair. “This must be your Amelia.” Your Amelia. I love the sound of that. “Yes. Amelia, this is my mother, Millie.” I reach out my hand to greet her, but Millie pulls me into a tight hug. She smells like roses and linen, and an immediate feeling of comfort washes over me. “You’re more beautiful in person.” She pulls away from me, but still holds onto my forearms, not ready to let me go. “Thanks. The same to you,” I say, returning her warm smile. “I’m so excited to finally meet you.” She looks down at my chest without judgment, but it makes me want to adjust the too low cardigan. My producers suck. “Same here.” She locks an arm with mine and begins to walk with me next to her. I glance back at Bryce, and he shrugs his shoulders, following behind us. “Bryce and I come here every week to visit the children.” “I think it’s amazing,” I say, and I do—especially since Bryce keeps the news of his visits quiet. He’s a humble giant of a man. “Today we are visiting a ten-year-old boy, Troy Allman. He was in a car accident and suffered broken bones all over his body. He also lost his parents in the accident.” Millie’s eyes cloud over, her hold on me tightening. “Bryce has seen him here the last two weeks. Did he mention Troy to you?” Shaking my head, I glimpse at my strong, scarred man, who’s just out of earshot. A thought pops into my head and I can’t help but wonder if he kept these details to himself because they’re similar to Celia’s death. “Well, Troy has been through more pain, both physical and emotional, than a child should ever have to endure, but Bryce understands one of them.” She has to be referring to his depression after Celia died. Millie squeezes my hand before unhooking her arm around mine. Our quick walk leads us to a closed door I assume to be Troy’s. A nurse dressed in Sponge Bob scrubs and bright white Crocs shuffles toward us. “Bryce and Millie,” she says, a big smile on her face, then turns toward me. “And Amelia. I recognize you from TV. Troy’s aunt has okayed me telling you how things are with him too. HIPAA laws and all.”

“Thanks, and nice to meet you…” I pause, scanning over her badge for a name, “Kim.” “Good news. Troy’s being released from the hospital tomorrow. The doctors and psychiatrist believe he will do better at home with his aunt and uncle. But I have to tell you, Bryce, your visits have been the only time I’ve seen the sweet little thing smile.” Kim’s voice fades on a sigh and she tilts her head. “He’s a great kid. I’d like to come visit him after he goes home,” Bryce says, not taking the credit for the smiles—further confirmation he’s not here for himself. “Do you think his aunt would let me?” “Are you kidding?” Kim says with a lopsided grin, like it’s the silliest question. “Troy constantly asks how many days until your next visit. It gives him something to look forward to.” Kim grabs the door handle, but hesitates before opening the door. “Oh, I need to let you know the bandage around Troy’s head has been removed, so you’ll see all the scars from the glass cuts. His hair will grow back and cover them eventually, but it’s traumatic when you see it for the first time.” “Here we go,” Kim announces as she pulls open the door. Bryce leads the way into the room and we follow behind him. “Troy,” Bryce calls out to the little boy sitting up on the bed. I watch in awe as Troy’s face transforms from a blank stare to a shining smile. I don’t notice his scars at first—his turned up face and bright eyes are everything. When I do see them, my heart hurts for him. He’s suffered through more pain than I likely have in a lifetime. But Bryce is the perfect man for this little boy. Both of their hearts understand. I stand by the window with Millie and nurse Kim, all three of us watching Bryce interact with Troy. Bryce shoves his large frame onto a corner of the bed as they discuss Chicago’s win over Tampa Bay. Howard tapes the interaction between the two, and I can’t wait for the world to see this sweet, big-hearted side of Bryce. He may not want to be called a hero, but he wears the title today like a glove. “You know, Amelia,” nurse Kim whispers, leaning closer to me, “it would take nothing to fall in love with a man like Bryce.” I nod, because she’s right. I’m madly in love with him, and there’s nothing I want more than for him to feel the same about me.

TWENTY-SIX

BRYCE

“PLEASE PROMISE me you’ll stay clear of the sideline,” I say to Amelia as we stand by Chicago’s bench in MetLife Stadium. Amelia squints at me, a laugh in her eyes, and I want to spank her Katie-white ass—and not in a hot fucking way. “Dammit, I’m serious.” “I know you are, sweet man.” Reaching up, she caresses my jaw, and like a smitten sap, I lean into her touch. Put a fork in me, I’m done for anyone else. “One hard hit and you could end up with a concussion. It’s happened to refs and coaches. And believe me, you don’t have a lot of padding.” I scan her slender frame, already knowing each inch of her soft skin. It’s the soft parts that concern me, along with her stubborn head. “Luck,” Coach yells, “get your fucking ass over here.” I cringe and glance up at Amelia. Shit, he never curses at me. “I’m watching you,” I say with a wink before running over to Coach—and I mean it, too. This is why I don’t want her on the field with me. Distractions. Amelia plans to interview former Chicago players on the field, far from the sideline. She’s giving the fans a chance to catch up with their favorite players. Since many of them now live in the New York City area, it worked out great. “Luck, I don’t want to repeat myself, eyes on the game.” Coach eyes me with his clipboard tucked under his arm. “We should beat the Jets. Hell, it’s their worst season in years. Prove me wrong that having Amelia here wasn’t a mistake.” “Totally focused, Coach,” I say, but my tone lacks the enthusiasm. Shaking his head, Coach looks down and mutters something under his breath that sounds like “knuckleheads in love.” I’m definitely not a knucklehead, so he guessed right on one of the two. My brother is a different story. A woman sings a beautiful rendition of the National Anthem and the game officially gets underway. As the minutes on the scoreboard tick by, I try not to

glance around for Amelia, but I do it a few times anyway. No one catches me—or at least the coaches think my head’s in the game enough to let it slide. At the end of the second quarter, we’re winning by two touchdowns. Right before I run to the locker room for halftime, I spot Amelia with Jon Scrumper, the fucking CEO of ESPN. I have a side angle view of them together. He’s talking to her while she looks up at him, her mouth open like she’s surprised. When he stops speaking, her face brightens like the sun. She starts nodding and shakes his hand. He says a few more things to her, then walks away. When our eyes meet, she is literally bouncing up and down. Her face falls as I stare at her, wondering what just transpired between them. When she diverts her gaze away from me, I feel like something big happened. I just don’t know what. We run back onto the field for the second half, and I look around for Amelia, but don’t see her on the sideline. I take in a deep breath to clear my mind, holding onto the hope that they finished filming and she’s up in the wives and girlfriend’s club suite where she’s safe from three hundred pound linebackers. The two-minute warning sounds and the Jets have the ball on their own twentyyard line. Even if they score, we’ll be ahead by two touchdowns. I take off my helmet and listen to the defensive coordinator give his guys a pep talk to keep the Jets out of the end zone. Back on the field, the Jets quarterback throws a solid pass to a wide receiver close to our sideline. When one of our guys pushes the receiver to stop him from scoring, I watch him sail into a pack of players watching at the ten-yard mark. A microphone soars into the air, and I see a glimpse of Amelia’s blond hair through the crowd of bodies. Holy fuck. She’s been hit. Tossing my helmet to the ground, I run in the direction of the flying mic. “Move,” I shout, pushing guys out of the way and hurdling some equipment. When I get to the spot, I glance down on the ground, expecting the worst. I find Amelia laughing as she sits on a pile of spare jerseys and towels. Her dress has moved up her thighs, close to exposing my promised land. “Baby,” I say, concern in my voice. Squatting down next to Amelia, I push away the towels around her so I can get closer. “Are you okay?” “Yes, that was kind of fun. I was completely airborne. Okay, it was freaky at first, but I landed on this soft pile.” “You’re lucky.” I offer my hand and help her to stand. “This day has been wild. I have so much to tell you later.” Her eyes are wide with excitement, but I don’t think it’s the thrill in the air making her face glow. “What did Jon say?” I ask, my eyes pinned on hers. Her gaze darts to the side before returning to mine. She’s nervous. “He offered me a job. Here in New York City. He’s giving me a day to think about it.” “Are you going to take it?” An emotion I can’t explain twists my stomach. She’ll

be here and I’ll be in Chicago. Hell, I don’t like being away from her for a single day. This type of separation sounds like hell. “I don’t know. Depends.” She glances down, avoiding me. “On what?” I ask. “You. You live in Chicago,” she whispers. I brush a hair behind her ear and stare into her eyes. I know what I have to do to make this right—for both of us. It’s time I used my communications degree for something. “We have reservations tonight at The Plaza. Meet me in the lobby dressed for dinner in four hours.” She scrunches her eyebrows together and starts to speak, but I place a finger over her lips. “And don’t let that mind of yours run scenarios. It’s going to be okay, because I love you.” Tears fill her eyes, and I want to pull her into my arms, but Coach would have my ass and likely fine me. Fuck if I didn’t pick a hell of a time to finally confess my feelings to her. Kissing her forehead, I leave her standing there and run back to the game. Contentment, warm and fuzzy, fills my chest. I’ll make sure everything’s more than fine. She’s worth the world to me, and I will not lose her.

TWENTY-SEVEN

AMELIA

“HE’S a free agent at the end of the season, but there’s no way he’ll leave Chicago. His family lives there,” I say to Katie, my voice laced with worry. I’ve called my long-suffering bestie five times in the last three hours. I’m walking in circles around the hotel room, feeling like I need to throw up. I have ten minutes before I need to meet Bryce in the hotel lobby. A mixture of fear and hope sloshes around in my stomach, which I had no idea was even possible. “Quit what you’re doing,” Katie says in a firm tone. It seems she’s had enough of my worry talk. “How did you know I’m pacing the floor?” I sit down in the plush, overstuffed chair. The room is lovely, but I can’t enjoy it until I know what Bryce is going to say. “I was referring to the scenarios you keep bringing up and rehashing a million times. Stop it. You’re torturing yourself.” I answer her with a laugh. That’s exactly what Bryce said to me on the sidelines—no scenarios. “I know. I know.” I lean back in the chair and take a deep breath, trying to find my Zen, which always seems to elude me. “Now, put on your big girl panties and go meet your man. He’s crazy about you, and a sweet guy.” She’s right about that. I can’t imagine him doing anything on purpose to hurt me. It’s just not how he’s made. “Please text me a thumbs up, so I can hit the books in peace.” “Thanks for being there to see me through my psychotic break,” I say with a chuckle. “Men do make us crazy,” she says before we hang up. I have to agree. I’m insanely in love with Bryce, and he finally confessed he loved me too. Everything is going to work out. It has to. I need to start chanting this to myself. I check my lipstick, hair, and dress in the mirror. I chose a sexy black number Bryce has never seen before. The black part is for New York City. I swear, people

here are color adverse. The sexy, low cut neckline and tight in the ass fit are all for Bryce. I grab my wool coat and gloves. It’s early November, but chilly outside, and since I don’t know what Bryce has planned, I want to be prepared. I make my way downstairs and scan the marble-covered lobby for Bryce, but I don’t see him anywhere. He’s not one to be late, so the you’re-a-stupid-girl thoughts spin in my head. I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around to see the bellhop standing behind me. “Sorry to startle you, Ms. Adams, but Bryce Luck is waiting for you outside,” he says in a formal, Plaza Hotel way. “Please, follow me.” The bellhop and I exit through the front doors and walk down the iconic red carpeted steps. As my feet hit the sidewalk, I see Bryce standing by a horse drawn carriage. He’s smiling at me in a way that wipes away all my doubts. Running toward him, I fall into his arms and he pulls me close. His calming wood scent washes over me and I sigh. “Hello, beautiful,” he murmurs into my ear. “Your carriage awaits.” As if on cue, the carriage driver opens the half door and I climb in with Bryce following behind me. A wool blanket and a drink tray with insulated coffee cups sit on the collapsed carriage roof. Whatever he has up his sleeve has been planned. “Have a seat,” he says, pointing to a front facing one in the back. After I’m situated, he wraps a blanket around me and hands me one of the coffee cups. “Hot chocolate,” he says, kissing my forehead—his signature way to connect with me. “Thank you,” I say before taking a sip. It’s rich and warm—perfect for this chilly night. Bryce sits down next to me and pulls one end of the wool blanket around himself. “I’ve been planning this night for some time.” Since his team is on a bye week, Bryce and I planned on staying three nights in New York City after the Jets game. The only time I’ve been here was in high school. We came for a choir trip, and it was planned down to the last detail, even the potty breaks. He promised to give me the grand, more adult, tour of the city. So far, I like his plans. “I can see that,” I say, holding up my cup and waving it in the air to showcase the romantic carriage. “And I approve.” “I’m glad. I have to admit, some of my plans have changed,” he says, and I frown, wondering what he means. It’s likely my job offer at ESPN sitting like a white elephant in the carriage with us. “But I am happy they did, and I hope you will be too.” “Really?” I ask, confused and curious. “After the game, I made a call to my agent, Rod. I’ve had offers to work at sports networks after I retire. ESPN is one of them.” He reaches for my hand under the blanket and holds it. “Really?” My journalism advisor would be so proud of my vocabulary tonight, but he’s the one with the story, and I’m dying to know more.

“Really,” he says with a mocking laugh, and I squeeze his fingers. “Sorry, but you’re not one for a loss of words.” “Get on with what Rod said or I’ll do worse,” I say, feigning anger. “Okay, Miss Bossy,” he says, and I attempt to elbow him, but he’s too quick and stops me. “You need to simmer down. I think you’ll like my news.” “Simmered,” I clip, needing to hear more. “Good.” He places an arm around my shoulders, drawing me closer to him. “Because I need all your attention. What would you say if ESPN took Beauty and the Baller to a national scale?” “What do you mean?” I look at him, my brows knitted. “After the game, Rod told Jon I was interested in working at ESPN. So, Jon personally called me and told me how he wants you to interview players in different sports and get a look inside their personal lives.” I can’t believe the words coming out of Bryce’s mouth. I had no idea he would even consider working at ESPN. “Then he asked me to join you on the show. We would work together. I suggested we call the program Beauty and the Baller. After all, our reality show’s success landed you the job offer in the first place.” “You’re kidding me, right? What about football? And your mother is in Chicago,” I rush out in one long sentence without a breath. “I’m going to announce my retirement tomorrow. Rod is contacting Hunter tonight to give him the heads up. It’s a done deal.” “And your mother? She’s going to hate me for taking you away from Chicago.” “Mom was my first call, before Rod even. And guess what?” Bryce shakes his head and laughs. “She told me it was about time a man followed his woman, instead of it being the other way around. Basically, she gave me her blessing.” “Wow, I feel like I’m in a dream. I worried all afternoon,” I confess, filled with relief, and his eyes admonish me. “I can’t imagine anything more perfect. Thank you for sacrificing everything for me.” I lean over and kiss his lips. “Being with you isn’t a sacrifice. It’s a privilege.” I turn toward this beautiful man with a beautiful soul and ravish him with kisses. If the carriage top wasn’t down, I’d be fucking his brains out right now. Minutes pass by until our lips break apart and we catch our breaths. “Wow, that kiss,” he says, licking his lips. “I didn’t plan the retirement part, but honestly, I’m relieved and ready to move on from football. I’ve been playing since I was five.” “So, what was the planned part?” I ask, my reporter skills kicking back in. “You’ll see soon.” He pulls me closer, and I lay my head on his shoulder. “The driver’s taking us to the real event of the evening, so relax and enjoy the ride.” The rise and fall of his chest comforts me, the smell of his cologne grounds me, and the feel of his arms around me reassures me he’s mine. I can’t believe we are going to have a show together on ESPN. Chances like this don’t happen to girls from Janesville, Wisconsin—or, at least, they didn’t use to. With its glowing lights and tall buildings reaching to the sky, I survey the city

peeking through the trees and shake my head in disbelief. This place is going to be my—wait, our new home. The carriage leaves the busy streets and enters Central Park on a paved pedestrian path. We’ve left the loud city noise behind and replaced it with a muted hum and the steady clops of the horse’s steps. I snuggle closer to Bryce, and he kisses the top of my head. He hasn’t tried to touch me under the blanket, nor has he whispered anything dirty in my ear. Both are odd for him, and make me super curious as to why he’s acting so chaste. The carriage comes to a halt as we cross over a bridge. We are on the edge of the park with the city shining in the background. There’s just enough light to shimmer and bounce off the water below. “This is our stop,” Bryce says as he takes the coffee cup from my hand and unwraps the blanket around me. The driver opens the door for us. Bryce steps out of the carriage first, and places his hands around my waist, helping me to the ground. “It feels like we’re not even in the city. It’s so still here,” I say. “We should live close to the park so we can experience it.” “We?” I ask in a teasing voice. He doesn’t answer me back. Instead, he takes my hand and walks me over to the middle of the stone bridge. I have no clue what’s up, but he seems way too nervous for my liking. Maybe it’s his previous experience with bridges, but why would he bring me here then? “I want us to live close to the park together, with you as my wife.” “What?” I bring my hands to my face in shock as he falls to a knee before me. Oh my God, I think he’s proposing to me. Waves of emotions sweep over me and tears begin to fall over my cheeks before he says a word. “Baby, don’t cry. I want to make you the happiest woman alive. Will you marry me?” Bryce reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring—and not just any engagement ring. The diamond’s so big, it needs its own zip code. It’s more than I deserve, but I’ll take it. “Of course, I’ll marry you,” I answer through tears of joy. “I love you with all my heart, Bryce.” As Bryce rises from the ground, the sky joins in our celebration as tiny snowflakes begin to fall. We both look up into the sky and back down at each other with knowing smiles on our faces. “I brought you to this bridge because you freed me from my past—something I could’ve never done on my own. Now, let’s build a future together.” He picks me up and spins me around in the falling snow. This time, there are no tragedies, only two hearts beating as one.

TWENTY-EIGHT

EPILOGUE

A YEAR later

AMELIA

“DON’T TOUCH MY HAIR,” I scold Bryce as he tries to run his fingers through my strands. “Cherish will kill me if she has to redo it.” “I’ll just play with your clit instead.” Smirking, he shifts his hands lower, and I nod in approval. Bryce sits on the dressing room couch as I ride the beast. We shouldn’t be screwing each other’s brains out since the show starts in a few minutes, but one thing—mainly his erection—led to another, and here we are. “Come on, baby,” he murmurs, “grip me with that tight pussy.” “You’re so dirty,” I moan as my release starts to build. “I’m so close.” A loud series of knocks sounds on the door and I freeze. “Mr. and Mrs. Football, you’re up in five.” It’s the stage assistant giving us a final warning. “Shit,” Bryce says, gripping on to my hips. “Get ready for some fast fucking.” I nod, my eyes wide, and hold on to the top of the couch for dear life. Bryce begins to lift me up and push me back down on his cock. I may not be able to walk for a day or two without a limp, but I fucking love it. “Oh my God,” I scream a little too loud as the pleasure of him so deep inside me becomes overwhelming. “Everything okay in there?” the assistant asks behind the privacy of the door. I look at Bryce and his mouth curves into a naughty smile. When we don’t answer her, the door handle jiggles.

“We’re more than fine,” Bryce replies, but his voice sounds strained because he’s making me bounce on his cock, and I love every second of it. “Okay, two minutes.” “Look at me, Amelia,” Bryce commands. I stare into his hooded brown eyes, and it’s my undoing. As I fall over the edge, he comes with me. Since there isn’t time for an afterglow session of kisses and reassuring hugs, we jump off the couch, only having seconds to clean up and get our shit together so we don’t look like hell. I put my panties back on as Bryce tucks away the beast and zips up his slacks. I give him a wink and admire his still perfect tie. I did a pretty good job not messing him up. I pull down my dress and slip into my black Prada pumps. I love these damn shoes. We walk to the door and glance at each other before opening it. “Look okay?” I ask as he scans over my body. “Good enough to fucking eat later.” How can he turn me on when I haven’t even recovered from the last tryst? At least our sex drives are both stuck on insatiable. Bryce opens the door, and across the hall, Cherish stands leaning against the wall. She’s shaking her head at us with a disapproving look in her eye. “I swear, you two are like teenagers in heat.” She motions for me to come closer and I do as she asks. A good rule in showbiz: never piss off your stylist. She takes a teasing comb to my hair and fluffs the sides. “Perfect.” “Thanks, Cherish,” I say, walking toward the studio. “What’s the matter with your legs?” she asks. I glance over my shoulder, and Cherish gives me a pointed look. “Too much of a good thing,” I reply. She laughs at me and throws up her hands. Bryce laces our fingers together as we walk toward the studio. He brings my hand to his lips and kisses the fingertips. He truly is a good thing, and I’ll never get enough of him. Never.

EPILOGUE EXTRA

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DEAR READER

Back in 1969, a young woman stood on a bridge in my hometown with her date and two other friends; one of them was my uncle. A car swerved into her and killed her instantly. My uncle was devastated and didn’t leave his room for days. I was a small child at the time, and this true story has haunted me for years. I have no idea what happened with her boyfriend and how he recovered, but I imagined him as a young man in love with a broken heart. I guess writing Bryce’s story was my way of somehow hoping his heart was healed. xo, Liv

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Books by Liv Morris Hard Luck Tough Luck Marry Screw Kill Touch of Tantra Adam’s Apple Adam’s Fall

-Thanks to Monica Black, my patient and talented editor. You helped my words look pretty. Bless you. -To all the awesome ladies in LIVing It UP, you’re the sauce to my spaghetti, the cheese to my pizza, and the butter to my bread. I can’t imagine this wild author gig without all of you! -Rebecca Friedman, I love you! Nuff said. xo -Big thanks to Jenn at Social Butterfly PR for all your awesome support in helping me spread the word about Best of Luck. You’re amazing person and friend. Love ya lady! -To my FTN’ers… You all are my oasis. I am blessed to be a part of the group and the circle of trust, and the crazy, and the laughter. You all always brighten my day, even if it’s in the most f*ckingly awkward way. -Donna S, thanks for shaking your pompoms again for another one of my boys. You’re always there for me, and I love you to the moon and back. -Marla, thanks for all the proofing you did at the last minute which seems to be my disease. xo. Big hugs. -Karen L… Thanks for all your support! I love ya! -To Jen M.! You’ve been such a joy to work with, and thanks for all you do to keep me organized, or less unorganized. You’re the best! -Finally, to a God I’ve never seen, but know is real. I thank you for every breath I breathe.

A SNEAK PEEK

Enjoy the first two chapters of MARRY SCREW KILL, an KIINDLE Bestseller!

INTRODUCTION

"HE FOUND ME IN MY DARKEST HOUR. I WAS DROWNING AND GRABBED THE FIRST LIFELINE THROWN without regard to who held the rope. Harlow Masters is alone in the world after a tragic event in her life. She finds comfort and safety in the arms of James Elliott, an older and prestigious doctor. But his love for her turns into a wicked obsession. When the doctor's nephew, Sinclair, visits town, he opens Harlow's eyes to the gilded cage trapping her. A forbidden attraction builds between them, until decisions have to be made. Does she stay with the older man and marry him? Or does his nephew help her flee?

ONE

THICK CLOUDS FROM EARLIER IN THE DAY AND BROKEN STREET LAMPS FROM YEARS OF NEGLECT LEAVE MY apartment complex pitch black. My headlights shine against the familiar brick building as I ease into my parking spot. I turn off the engine and my phone vibrates from its resting place in the cup holder. The lit screen cuts through the eerie darkness as I reach over to answer it. Expecting to see my mother’s number, since she always calls when I’m late getting home, I smile when the caller ID displays Emma BFF. I haven’t spoken to her all week, and I miss my crazy friend. “Hey, Emma.” I grab my purse and open the car door. After a quick glance around the parking lot, I walk toward the building. “Hi, Spook. Didn’t you see my texts?” Emma’s impatient as usual. I’m surprised she greeted me at all before getting straight to the point. “I rushed out of work and headed home. You know I’d never purposely ignore you.” I skip over familiar cracks on the crumbling sidewalk. My mother and I have lived here for years and the place has gone to rot. “It’s after midnight. You know what that means,” Emma says in a teasing, singsong voice. “I have no clue,” I say, too tired to play guessing games. “I’m calling to wish you a happy birthday, Harlow.” “My birthday ...” Is it? I freeze before walking up the outside stairs. My mother always asks me, days before my birthday, what I want for a gift. This year she’s hasn’t mentioned a thing. “I forgot. It’s been a busy week.” But when aren’t they? “I didn’t, silly!” Emma proceeds to sing the entire “Happy Birthday” song and I feel her love with every off-key note. “Thanks.” I smile from ear to ear for the first time in what feels like forever as I climb the stairs to my apartment. I needed cheering up after working a twelve-hour day. “Thanks, weirdo. You’re the best, even if you can’t sing.” “Hey, I want to take you out tomorrow night. I mean tonight, since it’s already tomorrow. Whatever,” she giggles. “It’s Friday, so we can start with happy hour. Tell me you’re not working at the restaurant.” “I can’t take off on a weekend night. My tips are triple what I make during the

week. I’m close to paying off my car so I can finally move out.” I would love to go out and celebrate with Emma, but I’m determined to escape the apartment I share with my mother and her creepy boyfriend, Tony. He’s lived with us for six months and has never looked above my shoulders. He probably doesn’t even know my eye color—or if I have eyes. Pervert. “Then I’ll bring the party to you.” Imagining her showing up with a crew of her crazy friends at work makes me cringe. They don’t believe in inside voices. “Please don’t. I can’t afford to upset my manager. You know his idea of fun is arranging place settings. I’ll try to get off after the dinner rush.” “Okay, but I’m really bummed you’re working. By the way, Jonathan has been asking about you. Again.” Emma snickers into the phone. Crap. Jonathan has tried to get in my pants since eighth grade and I’ve run out of kind ways to tell him no. “I’ll text you around nine, if you promise he’s not going to be around. Maybe just the two of us?” “Promise,” Emma says, resolve clear in her tone. “Your twenty-first was a dud. I won’t let that happen again. If I don’t hear anything by nine, I’m kidnapping you.” “You can be quite bossy at times.” Emma giving me orders isn’t new. She’s owned being the in-charge friend since we met in kindergarten. “You’d never get out and have fun if I weren’t,” she laughs, and she’s right. I prefer a good book to the bars in town any night. “I’m at my door and need to go. It’s been a long day.” I place my keys in the old lock, fiddling with them until I hear the click of the deadbolt releasing. “Get some sleep. We’ll be out late tomorrow.” “Night.” I pocket my phone and push the metal door open. Before I step into the entryway, I hear my mother and Tony. Not again. They’ve argued every night this week, but I’m too wiped to deal with their fighting. I wonder how fast I can dash to my room. The lights are low, but I don’t think I can pass by them undetected. I inch forward and see Tony swaying over my cowering mother in the dining room. A half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels sits nearby on the kitchen table along with a stack of textbooks. “Marie, who paid for your classes and these books? Was it one of those bluebloods at the country club?” My mother wraps her arms tighter around herself while Tony staggers even closer to her, bumping the kitchen table. A glint of silver catches my eye; Tony has something in his hand. A gun. What the hell have I walked into? My breathing stops, and possibly my heart, as I watch him wave the small pistol in the air like it’s a toy. Oh my god. I blink in disbelief at the hell in front me, willing it to be a dream. But the horror remains in living color. Tony has a gun and my mother’s life is in danger.

“Mom?” I ask in a whisper. Tony and my mother whip their heads in my direction. Tony’s face is bloated with anger, but mom is frozen in terror. “Well, hello, Harlow,” Tony greets with a devilish smile, his black as coal eyes bugged-out and crazed. All the blood leaves my face. He has gone insane. “Your mother’s sleeping around on me with some man who wants her to better herself.” “Tony, that’s not true. He’s just helping me pay for nursing school. Please leave Harlow out of this.” Behind Tony, my mother jerks her head, signaling for me to get out of here. But there’s no way in hell I’m leaving her alone with this drunk lunatic. “I’ve got a right to know who you’re fucking, Marie.” Tony points the gun at my mother’s head. Holy shit. “Please, Tony. Put the gun down,” I plead in a forced whisper, raising my hands as I inch closer. When he turns my way, his steely black eyes hit me with a force that makes me flinch. He’s resolved, and I need help. “I’m going to call the police.” “It’s too late.” His words are final. He’s past the point of reason. I launch forward and grab Tony’s arm. As I make contact with him, an earpiercing explosion echoes painfully throughout the room. The sound. Oh my God, my mom. My mother’s eyes widen as a shocked grimace flashes over her face. In that instant, I know she’s been hit. My desperate attempt to stop Tony failed to save her. She sways and collapses to the ground. I push past Tony, gather her up in my arms, and cradle her on the floor. “Mom, I’m so sorry.” Tears stream down my face. I watch in horror as the light in her eyes begins to fade. “Harlow,” she says in a raspy whisper. Her lids flutter as she struggles to stay conscious. “No!” I shout. My mother’s eyes close and remain still, her once rosy cheeks transforming to pale white. “Don’t leave me.” I gently shake her and glance down to where our bodies touch. My crisp white blouse is stained crimson, heavy with her blood. “Fuck! What did I do?” Tony cries out beside me. He paces back and forth, pushing his hand through his greasy hair, repeating the question over and over. I continue to rock my mother, begging God to bring her back to me. Please, God. Please. A rapid clicking of metal against metal precedes another ear-splitting sound. I draw my mother closer as the wall next to me turns a splattered red and a heavy thud hits the floor behind me. Tony’s lifeless body lays slumped on the brown carpet. A scream tries to force itself from my lungs, but the world around me spins from ruby red to black instead.

A STEADY TICKING beat of a machine rouses me from my sleep. I’m lying flat on something soft, cocooned in warmth. An unknown brightness tries to squeeze through my closed eyes. I focus hard to open them, but they won’t fully cooperate. They feel like they weigh a thousand pounds. “Doctor, the sedative is wearing off. Her eyelids are moving,” a woman announces in a rush. She seems near enough to touch, if I could only move my arms. Where am I? I tighten my face into a scowl and summon my eyes to open. Still no luck. The tapping of shoes on a tile floor moves closer toward me. “Good. Let me talk to her,” a man says in a soothing voice, then someone wraps their hand around mine. It’s large, warm, and strong—a man’s hand. “Harlow,” a man utters my name in a gentle melody. He sounds so close. He has to be the person holding my hand. Somehow, he knows my name. Concentrating all my strength, I finally pry my eyes open and see a handsome man dressed in a white coat standing over me. His eyes are a bright blue, kind, and he smiles down at me like everything in the world is fine. I scan my surroundings as he continues to hold my hand. I’m lying in a hospital bed, with tubes running and wires connected to me. What the hell is going on? How did I get here? The dreamy haze lifts and the memories are there, right in front of me, like a movie playing in my mind. My mother. The gun. I look at my shirt to see if it’s still red, but I’m wearing a clean, blue hospital gown. “My mom,” I yell, trying to sit up. My heart races as panic sets in. “Where’s my mother?” The man squeezes my hand tighter, his brows creasing. He glances at the nurse and nods. “I want my mother,” I demand as he appraises me with sad eyes that hold the truth—a truth I don’t want to hear. “I’m here to help you, Harlow. My name is Dr. James Elliott. You can call me James.” The nurse hurries over and injects something into my IV. A warm tingle trails up my arm as a weird calm and numbness overtakes me. Did she die? Or was it all a bad dream? “I promise everything will be okay. I don’t want you to worry about a thing right now. Know that you’re safe with me.” His voice tunnels through my brain as I lie back on the bed. The desire to fight and flee leaves me, but not the crushing pain in my chest. “Is she alive?” He glances away for a split second, and I know the answer is my biggest nightmare. She’s gone.

“Do you have anyone I can call, Harlow? Someone in your family maybe?” I gaze into the caring blue eyes of a man I’ve never met before and realize the horrifying truth. I have no other family. I am alone.

TWO

“WHEN rope.”

DROWNING, ONE GRABS THE FIRST LIFELINE THROWN WITHOUT REGARD TO WHO HOLDS THE

FOUR MONTHS LATER…

JAMES SILENCES his blaring alarm clock in the early morning darkness of our bedroom. He falls back on the bed with a sigh as I face the wall, feigning sleep. Not moving a muscle, I wait for what comes next. He’ll either get out of bed or climb on top of me. When I sense a slight movement from his side of the bed, I hold my breath. “Come here, Harlow.” His hand curls around my waist and he rolls my body over to face him. Morning sex it is. He pushes away the tangled bed hair covering my eyes as I blink the sleep from them. “There’s my beautiful girl.” He kisses my forehead with a soft brush of his lips. “Morning,” I reply in a sleepy, hoarse voice. He pulls down the twisted covers and exposes our naked bodies. His gaze travels over me, lingering on his favorite spots—ones he knows very well. “What a sight to wake up to.” He hovers above my body and looks down at me with hooded eyes. “My day is always better when I start it inside you. Now, spread those long legs so I can fuck you.” I part my legs and my day begins…

ON THE MORNINGS James craves sex, he also craves a home-cooked breakfast. The exertion ravishes him, or so he says. I slip on the silk robe he bought from a Paris designer and head down to the kitchen, aiming straight for the coffee pot. A fitful sleep last night makes me feel more worn out than awake. I set the pot to brew and turn on the television to break the stillness while I get the eggs out of the fridge.

Fifteen minutes later, James walks into the kitchen, a transformed man after a shower and shave. Dressed to perfection in a suit and tie, he fits the stereotypical definition of tall, dark, and handsome. He’s definitely the hottest forty-one-yearold man alive—doesn’t look a day over thirty-five. “Something smells good.” A teasing grin crosses his lips as he sidles up behind me. He slides his hands up my bare legs under my robe; his sexual desires are relentless at times. I spin out of his grasp. “How about some coffee?” I open the cabinet to retrieve a cup in an attempt to divert his attention from my rebuff. When I turn around, he narrows his eyes into a scowl. I’m busted. “When my hands are on you, don’t you ever move away from me.” He smiles calmly, though his words are threatening, and takes a step toward me. I scoot back against the counter to gain space between us. One more step, and the space disappears. “Understand?” “Yes.” I nod, and he brings his face closer to mine. “Let’s get one thing straight.” Staring at me with a look crossing between anger and passion, he parts my silk robe. It falls from my shoulders, exposing my breasts. Not satisfied, he pulls the sash at my waist and the rest puddles onto the floor. I stand before him bare while his eyes burn my flesh. He touches my hands as they hang at my side and trails his fingers up my arms. Goose bumps run across my skin before he reaches my elbows. “Mmm,” he hums, the sound of his desire vibrating between us. “These lips are mine.” James brings his thumbs up to my mouth and traces over my lips, easing them apart. He inserts a thumb and I suck on it until my cheeks are hollow, watching his eyes grow darker. “You’re a naughty tease, Harlow. The innocence of an angel’s face, but the body and mouth of a vixen.” James traces his thumbs down my neck and over my collarbone, stopping at my breasts. “Mine.” His fingers twist and pull at my nipples, and my eyes shutter. “Look at me, Harlow.” I raise my lids at his command. “I can’t get enough of you. Do you feel the passion between us?” I briefly close my eyes, steeling myself for my second acting performance of the day. The feelings will follow, I tell myself, I just need more time. Naturally, my body reacts to his physical touch, but my passion is frozen away deep inside me. Until the feelings surface, I’ve decided the truth would hurt him more than the lies, so I stuff away the guilt and hope he believes my words are true. “Yes,” I breathe. “I feel it.” When I speak this lie, a fissure cracks open in my heart, pulling us further and further apart. I want to unravel under his touch, get lost in his love, but those feelings won’t surface no matter how hard I try. The want and yearning isn’t enough. Bending slightly, he places his large hands around my waist and lifts me onto the counter as if I weigh nothing more than a feather. He tugs me forward to the edge and widens my legs, exposing me to him.

“Your breakfast,” I tilt my head toward the stove where his eggs sit in the pan, “is getting cold.” “Before I eat the delicious breakfast you made me, I’m going to eat you.” Holy shit. James genuflects like an act of worship before me and pulls my hips to him. He consumes me without hesitation, leaving me no time to think. I place my hands flat behind me for balance and drop my head back. Closing my eyes tight, I surrender. He takes command of my body while my mind centers on where he touches me. My surroundings fade away and the harder I focus, the more pleasure I eventually feel. His touch will bring me to release, but if I have to work this hard, something’s missing. I wonder if he knows how I struggle, or if I’ve hidden it from him. If he does, he hides it from me, too. Frustrated, I concentrate harder, hoping a spark of deep desire ignites. Slightly breathless, and guilty my orgasm took an eternity to materialize, I slip on my robe and return to my normal breakfast routine. James brings his laptop to the kitchen table and opens it to catch up on work before he leaves for the hospital. No one would guess he’d had his head between my thighs a minute ago. Everything is back to normal as usual—James, the handsome doctor, planning his day, and me, the dutiful fiancée, tending to her man. I pour him a cup of coffee, plate the now cold scrambled eggs I’d cooked to perfection, and place them down in front of him. Taking a quick glance at what James is working on, I see an open email on his laptop screen. I sit down at the table as he takes a bite. “Fuck.” He drops his fork onto the plate and I raise my hand to my throat. “What is it, James?” “It’s Sinclair.” He pounds away on his keyboard and curses again before shutting his laptop in a huff. He looks up at me with anger in his eyes. “He’s not coming tomorrow.” “I thought his clerkship at The Clinic started on Monday.” “He’s coming tonight and I’m needed at the hospital until later in the evening. Dammit, you’ll have to meet him at the airport.” He pushes his plate away, stands up, and peers down at me, his jaw stretched tight. “Sure. It’s not a problem.” I stand up next to him and rub his arm soothingly, although I don’t understand why this would upset him so much. “What do you want me to do? Just tell me.” “I haven’t seen him in years, so I don’t want you alone with him.” His possessive side shocks me. He usually saves this display for his friends at the country club when they become too flirty with me. I’m surprised he feels this way with his own nephew. “Sinclair took a year between high school and college, a gap year. He lived up to his nickname, Sin, during that time. I don’t trust his womanizing ass for one second.” “James, really, I’m sure it was just a phase. Look, he’s going to med school now.” He runs his fingers through his hair and gathers up his laptop. “Where

should we go then?” “God, I don’t even know.” He stuffs his laptop into his case, throws the strap over his shoulder, and pushes the chair back under the table, anger rolling off him with every movement. He turns around toward me, his fists balled at his side. I understand him not trusting the forward, sometimes handsy men at his club, but the same reaction to his own nephew seems over the top and unwarranted. “Don’t bring him back here for fuck’s sake. I need to get a read on him first.” “Okay.” I nod and wonder what will happen if he doesn’t trust Sinclair. I thought James would let Sinclair stay with us during his time here, but now I’m not so sure. There are several hotels downtown, or maybe James’ apartment, but I was excited about having a guest here with us. It gets so lonely in this ten-thousand square-foot house by myself. James glances down at his watch and looks at me. Stress shows in his stormy blue eyes. “Hell, I’ve got to run or I’ll be late for my first rounds.” “What about your breakfast? And Sinclair?” “I don’t have time to eat anything else.” I blush, knowing he means our diversion on the counter. “I’ll have my assistant pick up something from the cafeteria.” “I’m sorry.” I run my fingers under the lapel of his suit coat. The hard muscles of his chest defy his true age with their strength. “You can be so distracting, Harlow.” He shakes his head and glides a finger across my cheek. “Pick Sinclair up at seven. He’s flying American and connecting in Chicago. Take him to that new place downtown called Rogue. It’s two minutes from the hospital. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.” “Sounds like a plan.” I suppress a smile and the desire to jump in excitement like a child. I’ve been dying to go to Rogue—or any place that isn’t the stuffy country club. James’ idea of a night out consists of dinner and drinks at the country club with his friends. I hate going there with him. The women whisper behind my back, calling me a gold digger. The men leer at my body and make sexually charged comments when James isn’t paying attention. I end up drinking too much to drown them all out, which makes James livid. He says I seductively smile at the men when I’m tipsy. I tell him nothing could be further from the truth. I leave out that the men make me sick because I’m afraid of James’ reaction, but they do. “One request.” His so-called requests are well-mannered demands. “Wear your red Jimmy Choo heels and the new white dress I bought you from Dior.” The smile on his face spells trouble. “That seems a little flashy for Rogue.” James places a finger under my chin and tilts my face up. His eyes scold and unnerve me. He doesn’t like me contradicting him, but I was only sharing my thoughts. “What did I do?” “You, my darling, didn’t do a thing. God created you as every man’s temptation.

I want to see how Sinclair reacts to you. And it better be as his future aunt, no matter how close you are in age.” “But I am not a carrot you can dangle.” He pulls me into a forceful kiss before I can protest further. The thought seems twisted and doesn’t make sense if he’s worried about me being alone with Sinclair in the first place. “Get the house ready.” James releases me from his arms. “And keep me posted on your day.” He walks toward the side door to the garage, but stops before he is fully out of my sight. “Harlow,” his eyes blaze fire, “I love you.” A quick moment passes while I try to find my voice. “I feel the same.” Three words. Three confusing, life-altering words. Every time he utters them to me, I feel compelled to repeat them back, but I end up replying in a roundabout way. One simple phrase could wash away any doubts he has of my affection, but the words stick in my throat—like they do every other time he has proclaimed his love for me. We are getting married in four weeks, so I better sort these feelings out and answer the question that troubles me: if I love him, why can’t I say it out loud?

AFTER JAMES LEAVES, I rinse away the morning’s sex in the shower, get dressed, and run out to my favorite grocery store to stock up. I have no clue what Sinclair likes to eat, so I empty the shelves into my cart. Healthy to junk food, it doesn’t matter. It’s novel, being able to pick and choose what I want without a care for the cost. My mother and I lived the exact opposite life. We turned shopping into a sport. It felt like we’d won the Super Bowl when we saved a few dollars. I don’t miss the scrounging for pennies, but my life will never be the same without her. What I wouldn’t give to have her back, even if just for a day. To hear her laugh at her own silly jokes, blame the burnt toast on a hateful ghost, or cry as she watched The Notebook. We only had each other, but she made my life full with her love. She’d make me laugh so hard my sides felt like they would split. We didn’t have money to live like I am now, but we had laughter and joy. I miss her so much. If only she’d never met Tony. A familiar feeling washes over me and I brush tears from my eye. Time to pay and leave before I break down in aisle five. By some miracle, I keep myself together until I’m sitting behind the wheel of my BMW. The darkened windows hide me from an outside view. I lean into the steering wheel and bow my head, the ache in my heart beginning to subside with each falling tear. Continue the story here: Marry Screw Kill

I appreciate you reading my books! xo, Liv