The Play Maker (The Sideline Series Book 1)

by L. M. Carr

  His lean, yet hard body landed on top of me with a light thud, and I laughed at the face staring down at me.

  “And where do you think you’re going?” a deep, raspy voice cooed into my ear, while his long fingers slid through the messy bun atop my head. “I’ve got you and am not letting go.”

  “Julian!” I huffed playfully, struggling against his hold. “You didn’t even give me a chance!”

  “A chance to get away? Never!” he retorted with a quick kiss to my lips.

  “No! A chance to prove I know how to play the game.”

  “You could get hurt out here,” he quipped with a devious smile. “You weigh next to nothing.”

  My cheeks flushed as I remembered how he’d said the same words last night when I straddled him as he lay in my bed, naked.

  “Dude! What the hell? We’re playing football, not house. Get the fuck off my sister!”

  Rence reached down and extended his hand, practically dragging me away from his best friend.

  “Gotta go!” I wiggled out of Julian’s hold, offered a quick kiss to his cheek and stood, wiping the dirt off my jeans. I glanced back, smiled and winked as I push the sleeves up on my sweatshirt.

  Huddled amongst the other boys, my brother tossed his arm around my shoulders and lowered his voice, providing details of what the next play would be.

  I agreed with a serious nod, then placed my hand on the top of the mound of collected hands in the middle of our circle. “Okay. I’ve got it this time.”

  “One, two, three. Red!” Quincy yelled as our hands flew into the air.

  “I already know what you’re going to do, Rence! That’s my play!” Julian teased, bending over in position on defense. “They don’t call me the ‘Play Maker’ for nothing, dude!”

  When we got into our positions and the call was made, I ran the route my brother suggested, dodging and evading the other players. Feeling victorious that I might actually pull this off, I smiled and extended my arms when I saw the ball within my reach…only to have another pair of hands intercept the ball right in front of my face. A howl of laughter seeped into my ears.

  “I told you!” His laughter trailed behind his tall body as he took off in the opposite direction.

  “Julian MacIntyre!” I yelled as my legs raced to match his quick steps.

  Despite my team’s best efforts, he crossed into the end zone. After spiking the ball and raising his hands as he swung his hips, Julian put on a show for the spectators—my parents and his mother, as well as some of our extended family members who had gathered to celebrate an early Thanksgiving.

  Jumping onto his back, I wrapped my legs around his waist and tugged at his neck. “Why couldn’t you let me get that? It was right in front of me!”

  Turning his face to look at me, Julian grinned. “Sorry, babe. I can’t just let you win. You don’t really want me to do that anyway.”

  “But I’m your girlfriend.”

  “And?” He chuckled. “You want me to let you cheat? That’s not the Hamilton way.” He recites my father’s words. “You still have to play fair.”

  “You know… Sometimes you suck!” I hissed.

  “Actually, you do…” He lowered his voice to a sexy whisper, “and you do it so well.”

  The heat from my face stretched to the tips of my ears. “I can’t believe you just said that. You’d better hope my dad doesn’t hear you.”

  Julian laughed. “He’d be proud. He always says when you do something, do it to the best of your ability. And let me tell you, it’s the best I’ve ever had.”

  “I’m the only one you’ve ever had!” My fingers yanked at the strands of light brown hair falling over his forehead.

  I slid down Julian’s back and slipped my hand into his, clasping our fingers together as we meandered over to the small group of spectators rising to their feet. Butterflies swirled around my belly when Julian’s thumb grazed my skin.

  “And you’re the only one I’ll ever want.” He gently kissed my cheek.

  “Good game, honey,” a weak, distorted voice congratulated him.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  I looked down at Mrs. MacIntyre, bundled up in layers of winter apparel, and smiled. Raising my hands, I communicated with her.

  Your son drives me crazy, but I love him.

  Weakly, she smiled and replied silently.

  He loves you, too. She looked at Julian and continued. Be good to her.

  Julian nodded, then leaned down to place a kiss on her forehead.

  My mom gave me an odd look, not knowing what we were saying. “There’s a chill in the air today. We’re going inside,” she explained as she turned Mrs. MacIntyre’s wheelchair around. Part of me wanted to help, but my mother had become quite proficient at maneuvering the wheelchair up the ramp my father had built. We were all surprised when he suggested it, but when my father pointed out how much time Julian and his mother spent at our home, we all agreed it was a great idea.

  Several well-built boys offered high fives and conciliatory smiles when Julian and I joined them. Although I only have one brother, these guys—Quincy, Thaddeus, Rich and Melvin—have been part of my life since I could remember, often treating me as their little sister. From Pop Warner, the football league for kids, all the way through high school, these friends, both on and off the football field, laughed at my attempt to hang and play ball with the “big boys”.

  Thaddeus moved to my side. “You did good, AJ!” He couldn’t contain the humor in his voice. “You’ll get that touchdown sooner or later.”

  I twisted my lips in a sneer, then raised my eyebrows. “And you’d better pick up your speed if you think you’re playing ball in college,” I replied as I raised my middle finger and ran it along my eyebrow, grinning.

  I jabbed my index finger into Quincy’s chest. “And you were supposed to block him.” I tipped my head to Julian, then smirked at Quincy. “How do you think you’re going to make it to the pros if you can’t block?”

  Quincy threw his hands up into the air. “You wanted me to take down the star QB? No way. I’m not touching that pretty face until after Thursday’s game. Needless to say, Coach is gonna be fired up after the way Rich went after him.”

  “Whatever.”

  I walked away from the small group and helped my dad close the remaining camp chairs, while others shared the task of folding the oversized quilts.

  “You took your eyes off the ball.”

  My father’s words stung, but I shrugged it off. I was used to his disappointment. “I know,” I huffed. “And it was right in front of me.” I raised my hands and curled my fingers, as if grasping for something.

  “What have I always told you? If you look away for even a second, what you thought you had…” He snapped his fingers, “is gone.”

  With a quick glance over my shoulder, I noticed Rich and Julian standing toe-to-toe…and they weren’t smiling. I flashed a look to my father, noticing his tightened lips and terse expression.

  “I’m going to find out what’s going on.”

  Sighing deeply, my father shook his head and began to walk toward them. “Go inside. I’ll take care of it. I always do.”

  Chapter Three

  Rolling my carry-on behind me, I glance at the nameless faces awaiting somebody’s arrival. Rence is nowhere to be seen. At nearly six-foot-six and two hundred sixty-nine pounds of solid muscle, you can’t really miss him. Regardless of my constant insistence that I can walk to the passenger pickup area out front, my older sibling always prefers to meet me inside. To say that my brother is an attention whore would be a huge understatement.

  Commotion near the sliding glass door confirms that the hometown hero has arrived…with his entourage in tow. He really is a people person, despite his tough demeanor on the field. Little boys who wish to be like him beg for his autograph, which he happily gives, women who want to sleep with him ogle and take selfies, while men of all ages hide their envy. They congratulate him on his selection to the Pro
Bowl, regardless of his team’s horrific loss in the playoffs last week. I know my brother. Despite the poker face and the casual shrug of his shoulders whenever people in the industry comment about him being off his game, I know their words hurt. The only thing bigger than Rence’s stature is his pride.

  Mindlessly, I scroll through my Instagram and wait for my brother, who is still chatting with his fans. My phone buzzes with an alert about the possibility of a severe thunderstorm rolling through Houston within the next fifteen minutes. I immediately send a text to check on Naomi. No one would ever suspect the hard-nosed attorney has major trepidation about Mother Nature’s fury from her days as a girl in the Midwest.

  My attention returns to the beast of a figure dressed in gray track pants, a white Padres t-shirt stretched tightly across his chest. Walking over, I glance at the taut material around his biceps and chuckle darkly, remembering our father’s reaction when Rence walked into the house at the end of junior year, the bold ink etched down his arm. It was nearly World War III. Anger seeped from every pore of our father’s trembling body, spittle spraying as he yelled. Livid was putting it mildly. In the Hamilton house, appearances mattered. The patriarch of our family despised what my brother had done because he felt it was a direct representation of himself.

  “Jesus Christ, Dad. Calm down!” I yelled, trying my best to deescalate the situation. It seemed as though I played referee between the two more often than not because I hated to see them fight.

  “You…” He turned narrowed, green eyes to me. “Did I ask you to speak? When are you going to learn your place in this family?”

  “My place in the family?” I shot back with a snarl.

  “You ungrateful degenerates. I don’t know why I bother with either of you.”

  A gasp escaped as my eyes flashed to my brother’s. I could see his animosity directed at our father.

  But Lawrence Hamilton, Sr., wasn’t finished. Standing there, tears threatening to fall, I listened to my father berate and belittle his children. My stomach roiled at the vile and unforgivable words spewing from his pursed lips. Once uttered, no amount of apology could take them back.

  The next afternoon, my brother strolled into the house flaunting his “defiant behavior”, a diamond stud in both ears and another tattoo on the opposing bicep. From that day on, I learned to steer clear of their hostile, volatile relationship. Over the years, more often than not, it became physical. Even the doctors at the emergency room questioned one of Rence’s concussions. Of course, my father shrugged it off as a football injury.

  This was their relationship until the day the son of a bitch died of a massive heart attack. While it was unexpected, it wasn’t. The man had a temper that could have put the devil to shame.

  I link arms with my older brother and look at the crowd that had formed. “Sorry, folks! I have to steal the birthday boy away,” I apologize sweetly and lead him from the small crowd. “You’re late.”

  “Actually,” Rence says with a patronizing tone, “I was here early, but I got to talking to some friends.”

  I roll my eyes and smirk. “Of course you did. You do realize these people aren’t your friends, don’t you? They’re fans. Once the new play maker shows up, they’ll drop you like a hot potato.”

  “Play maker, huh?” Rence’s eyes dart to mine, understanding the meaning behind my words.

  Once outside, my brother thanks the uniformed officer standing beside the shiny gray pickup, clasps hands and leans in for a shoulder bump. “Thanks again. Todd. I’ll see you Sunday at four,” Rence calls as he places my bags into the back of the extended cab. I settle into the passenger’s seat and breathe a sigh of relief when Naomi’s text assures me that she’s fine because the storm stayed south.

  I look up and chuckle at my brother’s outstretched neck as he waits for our usual sibling greeting. I kiss his cheek, then scrunch my face when the coarse hair scratches my nose.

  “Dude, you need to shave.” I tug on the long strands of hair around his face. “And a haircut.”

  With a hard shake of his head, Rence retorts, “Not until after the Pro Bowl.”

  I roll my eyes at the superstition. “The beard and long hair aren’t going to make you play any better.”

  He winks. “You never know.”

  “How can you even see through all that?”

  “My eyes work just fine. I see everything.”

  My eyes flash to his and he grins, pulling out of the parking lot and into the hustle and bustle of Southern California traffic on a Friday afternoon.

  My chest rises and falls with a deep sigh. “News travels fast.”

  “Are you going to do the interview?” he asks cautiously, fully aware of my tumultuous history with the former quarterback.

  “I don’t exactly have a choice.”

  An awkward silence resonates between us before my brother speaks.

  “I think he’s still here. Want me to kick his ass for you?”

  I laugh humorlessly. “I think you’ve done enough.” He nods as we exchange a knowing glance.

  “I hate that motherfucker,” Rence hisses.

  “Really?” Sarcasm drips from my lips as an unexpected wave of annoyance washes over me. “I had no idea.”

  “I hate what he did—”

  I raise a hand. “Stop, Rence. That was a lifetime ago.”

  “Still… He was like my brother. We were family.” He clenches his jaw and shakes his head, murmuring, “Fucking asshole.”

  “Yeah, well, some would argue a brother wouldn’t have done what you did, either,” I chastise, then instantly regret it when I feel the tension radiate from his body and he grips the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white.

  “Damn, girl. Fifteen-yard penalty for that one.”

  I hang my head in shame. “You’re right. I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

  Feeling the need to change the subject, I clear my throat. “Speaking of family... Have you talked to Mom?”

  “Nope,” he replies with a hard pop of his lips. “Last time I spoke to her, she went off on me about something that happened years ago. An hour later, she called me back and acted as if nothing happened, telling me how proud she was of me.”

  Staring out the tinted window of my brother’s truck, I contemplate his response. I can’t quite determine if the anger is because of his former best friend or the woman who birthed us.

  “What would you do if you were me?” I ask as Rence signals into the left lane and flies past a slower vehicle.

  “I guess that depends on your goal.”

  “My goal?”

  My hand flies to the dashboard and my foot presses an invisible brake when my brother again switches lanes and passes a truck on the right.

  “Could you slow down a little? I really don’t want to die today!”

  Rence chuckles. “I won’t let you die today. You’ve got to interview that douchebag and get some answers. Isn’t that the real reason you’re doing it?”

  “I... It’s…,” I stammer before pressing my lips shut.

  Rence glances over at me, genuine concern in his eyes.

  I sigh and smile reassuringly. “Listen, it’s my job to interview people. I ask questions and get answers. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  “I’m sure the segment will be fine, but how will you be?”

  That’s a great question.

  I drop my jaw, feigning insult. “Excuse me, Lawrence Francis Hamilton. Let’s not forget you’re not the only professional in this family!”

  “Ruh roh!” He lowers his voice playfully. “Middle name.”

  I grin as his laughter fills the vehicle, and just like that, we resume an air of ease.

  The monitor on the dashboard alerts of an incoming call from my brother’s agent. Shea Warner is one of my favorite people in the industry. He is the real deal and has been a great friend to my brother. I tap the screen to answer.

  “Hey, Shea! How’s it going?”

  “What? Who is that? I
s that AJ?” he stammers.

  I smile at his cheery voice. “Sure is!”

  “Hey, gorgeous! I didn’t know you were coming in this weekend. What’s the occasion?”

  My eyebrows furrow. “Seriously? It’s only your favorite client’s birthday. Didn’t you get my text?”

  He hesitates. “I’ve been kind of busy planning a wedding.”

  My eyes widen. “You’re getting married? Holy shit! When did that happen?”

  “A few months ago.”

  Rence interjects, breaking up the friendly reunion, “So, what’s up? I don’t think you called to chat with my sister about your wedding.”

  “Actually, it’s about my bachelor party. I’m thinking Vegas…”

  I shake my head and slap my palm against my forehead, images rising of that trip. Let’s just say Jim Beam and Rence aren’t friends anymore. Then again, neither are Jack Daniels or Jose Cuervo.

  I roll my eyes and reach for my earbuds, plug them into my phone and drown out the conversation about ridiculous amounts of alcohol, possible hall passes and dirty strippers.

  My thoughts drift to the interview. Closing my eyes as Cassadee Pope sings about wishing that her heart had a heart, I envision myself sitting mere feet away from Julian, wondering how I’ll refrain from reaching out to make contact.

  §

  “How do you not get lost around here?” I ask, sauntering into the expansive kitchen with a massive island that seats eight. My fingertips glide along the polished granite. “Do you really need all this space? I mean, it’s not like you have a family or anything.”

  “Not yet,” Rence retorts with a smile as he caps the blender and turns it on. With disgust, I eye the ingredients used to make a seaweed and banana smoothie. It amazes me that he’s able to maintain his physique with the extremely healthy diet he consumes.

  Then his words register and surprise spreads across my face. “You’re dating someone?” I wrack my brain, mentally scrutinizing the list of beautiful women who have been attached to him over the years. One face appears, spiking my anger. “Oh god! Please tell me you’re not back with Chelsea.”