by Liz Lincoln
Home Field Advantage is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Loveswept Ebook Original
Copyright © 2019 by Elizabeth Lincoln Steiner
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN 9781984800312
Cover design: Diane Luger
Cover photograph: ArtOfPhotos/Shutterstock
randomhousebooks.com
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
By Liz Lincoln
About the Author
Chapter 1
Even in a locker room full of professional athletes with bodies sculpted to perfection, only one word could accurately describe Quinn Lowry’s shirtless torso: lickable. It didn’t help that only a towel separated him from total nakedness. It also didn’t help that at one point, years ago, Natalie Griffith had spent considerable amounts of time with his body. Totally naked. And her body totally naked.
It really didn’t help that she had two hours to find and write a story different from the one every other reporter would be writing and she couldn’t force her mind past lickable.
One word down, 899 to go.
“I felt really good,” Quinn said in response to a question posed by another reporter. Natalie had been too busy remembering not to drool to catch who asked it. “The other wide receivers and I are really starting to click. Find our places.”
“What about you and Matt Baxter? How are you doing with him?”
“Matt’s great. We’re even roommates for training camp.” He grinned at the reporter who’d asked the question, that heart-stopping, don’t-you-just-want-to-nibble-on-these-lips grin. Or, considering she was the only woman in the group, maybe she was the only one who got that specific message from his grin.
She thought she’d mentally prepared herself to see him. But her reaction to him was clear evidence she was nowhere near as cool with being around him as she’d told herself. And if she let herself examine her reaction to him beyond the purely physical, she’d probably fall apart. Once upon a time, she thought she’d spend her life with Quinn. He was the one who got away, but seeing him now, after so many years, it finally sank in. He was a stranger.
And that hurt.
“He’s the kind of guy it’s hard not to like. And I gotta say, after playing on two teams in this division, I’m pretty glad to have him on my side of the ball for a change. The pressure to keep up with him is intense.”
A brief silence fell over the group, punctuated by the voices in the room, laughter, the hiss of the showers in the next room. Natalie watched her colleagues scribble on notepads or type on phones. She was the only one not recording Quinn’s answers. She didn’t want to write the exact same story as every other news outlet. But what else was there to say? She couldn’t write a nine-hundred-word ode to his smooth, tanned, chiseled physique.
“And what about the off-the-field pressures? What’s your plan for dealing with those?”
Roy Burgess’s question landed with a thud, silence falling over their corner of the locker room. Natalie’s heart skipped a beat as her eyes flew to Quinn’s face. Under the scruff covering his jaw, she saw a tendon jump. That, at least, hadn’t changed in the eight years since she last saw him.
Something flashed in his hazel eyes but was gone as quickly as it appeared. “I’m in a new city, learning a new system, getting to know new teammates. I’ve got a good support system set up. And I’m an old man now. I don’t have the time or energy for anything but football.” He flashed the charming smile that had gotten him into as much trouble as it had gotten him out of. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m starting to offend myself with how much I stink.”
He shouldered his way through the small crowd and sauntered toward the showers. Natalie forced herself not to watch him walk away. His back was inevitably as lickable as the rest of him; it wouldn’t get her any closer to having a clue what to write in her story about the Milwaukee Dragons’ first training camp practice.
Letting instinct guide her, she wandered over to where freshly showered tight end Marcus James was pulling on a T-shirt. “How’s the knee feeling?” she asked. He’d spent the previous season on injured reserve due to a torn ACL.
The attractive black man grinned, his teeth white against his dark skin. “Hey, Natalie. Nice story last week about Bree and Celia’s CTE research. That might get you an award nomination.”
She tilted her head, accepting the compliment the way her boss and mentor had been drilling into her. It was still awkward to accept praise without downplaying her deservedness, but under Ellen’s guidance, she was getting better at it. “Thank you. I could say the same about your play today. You poised for another great season?”
“You better believe it. Can’t wait to get out there and make some magic. I intend to earn more than a nomination for comeback player of the year. I’m winning that award.”
This was it, the angle she would take today. Every other outlet could cover the story about Quinn Lowry’s triumphant return to football; maybe she’d puke up five hundred words about it, just to get her employer, Sports and Leisure News Today, aka SLNT, the coveted clicks. But her main story would be about Marcus James’s own return to the turf. Dragons fans looking for news on Lowry would have a dozen choices of which site to read, but hers would be the only story on James. For fans wanting predictions on the season, and fantasy football devotees plotting their drafts, news on James would be just as interesting.
She chatted with Marcus for another ten minutes, during which not a single other reporter wandered over. They’d either left or were still staked out at Quinn’s locker, waiting for him to return from his shower.
Wet. Naked. And full of all those muscles.
Damn. He’d been in great shape in college, but damn. Now he defined ripped. Cut.
Lickable.
* * *
—
Natalie Griffith was in his locker room. Because Quinn didn’t already feel like he couldn’t breathe under the microscope of scrutiny aimed at him. No. That wasn’t enough. He had to show up and face the woman he’d once loved. The woman who’d broken his heart. The woman who’d done her damnedest to flush his career down the toilet.
Natalie fucking Griffith.
Quinn gritted his way through a handful of the usual questions about how he was adjusting to life back on
the field. He’d been out for two seasons, so it was to be expected.
Then the pinched-faced guy from AllAccessDragons.com threw him the elephant they all knew was in the room with them.
“And what about the off-the-field pressures. What’s your plan for dealing with those?”
Quinn should have been prepared. Hell, when he wasn’t pep-talking himself about seeing Natalie again after eight years, he’d spent two days giving himself pep talks so he’d be ready to handle this exact question. But he still caught it as well as he would have the actual proverbial elephant. What had his manager told him to say?
He could almost hear Pedro’s nasal Chicago-accented voice in his head. Tell them you’re in a new city, learning a new system, getting to know new teammates. You’ve got a good support system set up. And you’re an old man now. You don’t have the time or energy for anything but football.
Quinn opened his mouth and Pedro’s words came out. He almost managed to say it without breaking one of his back teeth from clenching his jaw so hard. He even pulled out the grin he knew was his ticket to getting back in the good graces of the media. He had to force himself not to look at Natalie as he did it. She’d loved his smile. Hell, lots of women loved his smile. He didn’t have an ego about it; plenty of women told him.
Natalie had liked to poke her tongue into his dimple when they had sex.
OK, time to end the Q&A. He’d managed to go eight years barely thinking about her and now—OK, that was a lie. He thought about her all the time. But he’d made it eight years barely thinking about having sex with her, while he spoke to reporters and wore only a towel.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’m starting to offend myself with how much I stink.” He purposely avoided her side of the little crowd around him as he worked his way through and headed for the showers.
Once safely inside the steamy room, he dropped his towel on a bench and headed for the spray. Only then did he truly exhale the breath he’d been partially holding since he’d been asked the first question. He let the water—set a degree below scalding—pound his aching shoulders for a minute before he reached for the body wash dispenser on the wall.
“Looked good out there today,” Matt Baxter said from next to him. “I watched some tape on you when you signed. You don’t look like you’ve got any rust on those hands.”
Quinn couldn’t stop a smile. “Thanks. I feel good. Little weirded out that you were watching film of me, but whatever.” The quarterback was known across the league as one of the most overprepared players. He spent hours of his own time meticulously breaking down opponents’ defenses in a way even the coaches didn’t. Rumor was, he’d been that way since high school.
From Matt’s other side, running back Jaron Edmonds laughed, the hearty sound echoing off the tiles. “Don’t flatter yourself. The kid’s obsessed. I’m surprised he hasn’t signed up for some reality show in the offseason so he has tape to study of his everyday life. Figure out how to better play with his girls.”
“Fuck off,” Matt shot back.
“Whatever, man. You know you would.”
Quinn had to laugh at Matt’s shrug.
“Ava’s crawling now. How the hell do I keep up with that? I mean, Zoe’s mostly stationary, so it’s just Ava. But now that it’s just me when I have them at my place, it’s like she’s the offense. I don’t play defense.” A vein pulsed in the quarterback’s neck and his face got red.
Jaron held up a hand. “Calm the fuck down. She’s a baby, not a linebacker. You can handle it.”
Matt’s shoulders slumped. “I don’t know if I can, that’s the thing. Cee, she’s the one who has her shit together. I’m a mess without her.”
Quinn barely knew his new teammates, but Matt was his roommate in the dorms for training camp. He knew the quarterback had recently split from his wife, and that one of their twin daughters had cerebral palsy. Probably Zoe, if Ava was the one crawling. Quinn also knew Jaron was married, and he thought they had a kid or two.
Wives and babies were so far out of Quinn’s realm, he didn’t have anything useful to add to the conversation. Only his relationship with Natalie had lasted longer than a few months. One sliced-and-diced heart had been enough for him.
Maybe someday he’d try again, after he got back on his feet in football and played out his career until it ended the right way—his body wrecked from playing a year or two past his expiration date. Then maybe he’d have the headspace to really put in the work for a relationship. He’d certainly proven with Natalie that he couldn’t handle both.
For now, short-term affairs suited him just fine. Not that he’d had one since his whole experience with rock bottom, then recovering and clawing his way out of the hole he’d created of his life. He hadn’t needed any distractions while he pounded his abused body back into football shape.
Now he was here. Training camp. Not a guarantee he’d earn a roster spot, but a chance. He was confident enough in his skill and his work ethic that he believed he could get that spot. As long as he stayed focused and clean.
He jerked the handles on the shower to turn off the water, grabbed his discarded towel, and started wiping himself down. He was hungry, he was sore, and he was exhausted. Time to head back to the dorm and get something to eat before curling up in bed with a dozen ice packs and downing as much ibuprofen as his liver could handle.
Two reporters still hung out in front of his locker. Great. The guy from All Access Dragons and a skinny older guy Quinn thought was from ESPN. He tried his damnedest to be nice to the media. They were just doing their jobs, like he was. But he was not in the mood at the moment.
“Look, guys, I know I’m the big story around here, but I’m absolutely beat after my first day of training camp. So I can take another question if you have one, maybe two. But that’s it.”
“How’s it feel seeing Natalie Griffith again?” the younger reporter asked, starting his question before Quinn even finished talking.
Quinn’s fist clenched around his towel but he managed not to otherwise show how hard that question punched him in the gut. At least he didn’t think he did. He forced a bland smile and a shrug. “Didn’t give it much thought. I haven’t talked to her in years.” Only one of those sentences was a lie. “If you’ll—”
“Yes, but she—” the reporter continued until the older guy cut him off with a hand on his arm.
“Come on, Roy. You asked your question. He answered it. Give the guy a break and let him get some dinner. Badger him another day.”
Roy glanced at the other man, then back to Quinn. With an expression that said he wasn’t happy about it, he tapped his phone screen and slid it into his pocket. “See you tomorrow, Clay.” He headed for the door.
Clay gave Quinn an apologetic look and held out his hand. “Clay Horton, ESPN. I covered you back at Northwestern. Looking forward to it again.”
That explained why he looked vaguely familiar. Quinn returned the handshake.
“Roy can be a bit of a pit bull, but he’s a damn good writer.”
Because he was in a less-than-charitable mood, Quinn just nodded. “I’m sure I’ll see you guys around tomorrow.”
Clay nodded as he stepped toward the exit. “I think you got a couple calls while you were in the shower.”
Once the reporter was gone, Quinn grabbed his Bluetooth earpiece and pulled up his voicemail to listen while he got dressed. Besides a message from his therapist, he had a missed call from his agent. Everyone checking up on him after his first practice. Like he was nine years old.
“Hi, Quinn, it’s Dr. Cohen. I know you had your first training camp practice today, and I wanted to check in, see how it went. Please don’t hesitate to call me back if you need anything at all. I know you can’t come in for a session, but if you need to, we can talk over the phone. And remember what we’ve talked about. You are well prepared for this opportuni
ty and in a good position to succeed. You take care, Quinn.”
He put his phone back on the shelf in his locker and dressed quickly. He liked his therapist. He’d been nervous about finding a new one when he moved to Milwaukee two months ago, after his agent somehow convinced the Dragons’ management to take a chance on a recovering addict with two years out of the league. He’d worked with his first therapist back in Boulder for nearly two years; Dr. Ortiz had gotten him dried out and back on his feet. But Meg Cohen was a sports psychologist with a background in treating addiction. So far, she’d been exactly the right mix of compassionate and hard-assed to help Quinn through his latest transition.
But it still rubbed him a little raw to have her check up on him. It reminded him of how his mom came into his room every night to “touch base” during his first month of sixth grade, after they’d moved to Boulder from Portland.
The locker room was nearly empty so he headed out on his own. It was a short walk to the dorm. They had training camp at Carthage, a small college an hour south of Milwaukee, so nothing on campus was more than the equivalent of a few blocks away. He was walking up the stairs to his third-floor room to get rid of his bag before hitting the dining hall, when his phone rang. His display read Dana Otto.
His agent. Another person checking up on him. Only in his rookie season had his previous agent felt a need to check in on the first day of training camp.
“What’s up, Dana?” He unlocked his door and let himself in. Matt was sprawled on his bed, bags of ice on his right biceps and shoulder. Quinn nodded a greeting. Matt grunted in return. Quinn could relate. But if he stopped to ice himself now, he might never get up.
“I just got off the phone with Crosby. Before I get into what he said, I want to hear your take,” Dana said in his ear, referring to the Dragons’ head coach.