Mister Baller: A Small Town Enemies-to-Lovers Sports Romance (Bad Boys in Love Book 2)

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  Maybe this is why the doctors were so quick to rule me out. Maybe they were right. Maybe I can’t hack it like I used to. At least that's what the therapist thinks. "Man, you're killing yourself for nothing. This is not the kind of injury you're gonna be able to come back from. Not at your age."

  Instead of conceding to the asshole, I level him with a look. "I'm not paying you to tell me I can’t do it. I'm paying you to help me figure out how to fix this thing.” And the money is all coming out of my own pocket.

  Because my coaches think I’m done. Team management is ready to move on without me. My doctors say my career is over.

  But I’m Jude Kingston, pro-football’s biggest player, on and off the field.

  As if I'd let some random, freak injury take me out of the game. I may be on the sidelines at the moment but this is just a temporary setback.

  Of course there's this niggling fear that the medical professionals are right, that I won't be able to pull off this recovery, but I started playing football at the age of four. This is my goddamned dream we're talking about here.

  My knee fucking hurts. My quad and calf are on fire. And my other leg burns from taking the brunt of my weight and overcompensating for my weaknesses. I’m angry, and I’m frustrated with being so fucking angry all the time. This isn’t me. I’m the jokester. The easy going guy.

  This injury has turned my world on its side and morphed me into this bitter, whiny jackass. I hate it.

  I even blew up at Iris this morning for nothing at all. So what if she doesn’t want to tell me her business? Hell, maybe the woman was watching porn on her computer. Who am I to judge? She should be entitled to her privacy.

  Instead, I insulted her and stormed out of the kitchen like a little bitch. As soon as I marched out, I realized I was being ridiculous. That's why I went back in there and tried to behave like a gentleman, the kind of person my mother raised me to be. While I may be a bastard, the least I can do is be more polite because none of this is Iris's fault and despite the way she feels about me, she's been gracious enough to provide me with a roof. And her stale-ass cereal.

  Point is, I need to stop being an assclown to her.

  What I can’t figure out is why I caught Iris staring at me today. More than once. What the hell was that about? I may not know much about her, but I know women, and that woman was checking me out. Hard.

  I shouldn’t even think twice about it. Females gawk at me all the time, just because of my profession. It doesn’t mean they like me. It’s just a physical reaction to a well-built man.

  And even if she is interested, that doesn't matter. The woman is my best friend's ex-wife. She's so off-limits she's virtually radioactive. No way am I touching her. Hot as she is.

  Still, whatever happened with her and Kirk? I'm curious. The question keeps bouncing around in my skull, and I don’t like where my mind is going. But I’m not getting involved. I learned my lesson the first time I stuck my nose into their relationship all those years ago.

  My session draws to an end and the therapist gives me a skeptical look as he wraps up the elastic bands and starts putting the equipment away. "Look, I know you want to get back in the game. I know it might be hard for a guy like you to accept, but I've been in this field for a long time, and I really don't see you making a comeback."

  I literally bare my teeth at him. "Well, maybe you haven't earned your reputation. Maybe you're not all that great at your job." I slam a balled up jump rope into the centre of his chest as I stagger by him. “And you obviously don’t know me.”

  I’m a Kingston. ‘Mediocre’ is not in my DNA. Our dad took over our maternal grandfather’s failing real estate portfolio and transformed it into a multi-million dollar empire. Cannon built a tech dynasty right out of his college dorm room. Walker may be low profile but he runs the largest sustainable farm in Crescent Harbor. Hell, Eli took the Kingston ambition so far that he crossed over to the dark side and racked up a hefty nest egg before the chain of events that landed him in jail. The Kingston men are not average.

  We hustle. We fight. We win.

  So, go ahead, life. Knock me down. I will claw my way out of any hole you push me into.

  “I’ve been living this game—breathing it—my entire life. So all you people who think I’m about to give up on my dreams? You’re wrong. I'm a scrappy motherfucker. I'm a fighter. I may have made a name for myself in the league as a party boy but I'm no stranger to working hard for what I want. And I want this recovery. More than anything.” I limp toward the door. I throw a glance back at the man’s stunned face. “Oh, and, you’re fired, by the way.”

  After leaving the sports clinic, I drive across town to the grocery store, yelling at the idiot radio commentators all the way. I was tempted to skip the food shopping and wait until I’ve iced my knee, but I know if I do that, my leg will be so stiff that I won’t want to move later.

  As I'm shuffling through the automatic doors, I dial my agent and bring my cellphone to my ear. He'll be able to find me another physiotherapist, one who’ll actually believe in me instead of listing out all the reasons he can't do his damn job.

  After a few rings, my agent's voice bleeds across the line. "Oh, good. Kingston. I was going to call you today. What's up man? How are you holding up?"

  Paul Price is a fast-talking Bostonian who represents the most high-profile footballers in the league. The man doesn't waste time with greetings and other pleasantries. So, if he's taking the time to ask "how I'm holding up?", his outlook on this situation must be pretty bleak.

  Shit.

  I don't waste time with the pleasantries either. "Paul—What aren't you telling me?"

  He breathes out a rough sigh. “We need to talk about what's next for you, Jude. What do you want to do with your life now."

  "Getting back in the game is what's next for me," I retort stubbornly as I drop my weight against a shopping cart and hobble right past the vegetable section. Vegetables. Eww.

  Paul's voice takes on a tone I've never heard before. Pity. And that's when I know for sure, I'm in trouble. "Come on, man. Be realistic; no one plays football forever."

  "I know that." Eventually, I'll need a new career. But not for a long, long time. "I've got at least another eight years in me. Maybe even ten."

  "Your injured knee says otherwise," my agent huffs.

  His tone is growing impatient. I know it won't be long until he's out of compassion for me and he's ready to move on to football's next bright and shiny rising star.

  I lean my weight on the basket and close my eyes in frustration. I’m tired of being in a constant state of pain. I just want to feel normal again, whatever that new normal might entail. "This shit is not fair..."

  I'm nearly 30 but I have a few things going for me. I'm in the best shape of my life. I may not be a fan of the veggies but I take care of my body. I put in my hours in the gym, I guzzle electrolytes, I get my eight hours of sleep, and I’ve even avoided alcohol these past couple years. I was on a Christmas-gifts-for-your-grandkids basis with my massage practitioner, my chiro, and my stretch therapist.

  This shouldn't be happening to me...

  "Look—I know it's not fair. You had a promising career ahead of you but knee injuries don’t fucking discriminate. The sooner you accept that, the sooner you can jump on any of the opportunities on the table for you right now."

  “What opportunities?”

  "I can get you working on the HR department of any of the teams in the league. Easy."

  "HR? As in human resources? Do I look like a fucking human resources paper-pusher to you?"

  "I can try to get you a few endorsement deals. I've got insurance companies up the wazoo who'd hire you as their spokesperson. Movie cameos. Do you even know how much Mike Tyson got for The Hangover? And there's always high school football coaching opportunities if you're looking for something low profile."

  "Insurance commercials? High school football coaching? This is a fucking joke." I huff. "Paul, I am a two-time ESPY
award nominee. I am a motherfucking star! I want to play ball."

  He cuts me off mercilessly. "You were, Jude. You were. And the sooner you get your head out your ass, the sooner we can start grabbing all the opportunities floating around while you're on your way down, before your star crashes and burns completely."

  “Y’know what? I’m getting off the phone. ‘Cause I don’t wanna have to fire you today, too.” On that, I end the damn call.

  My blood is boiling. I try to push the conversation out of my brain as I move around the grocery store. I don't need all that naysaying fucking with my focus.

  Using the shopping cart as a crutch, I find myself mindlessly stocking up on everything. Before long, I'm piling meat, cheeses, pasta and snacks on the conveyor belt.

  Iris’s pantry and fridge had nothing but the bare essentials. I was lucky to find what I did this morning.

  It doesn’t make sense to me. Single or not, the woman needs to eat. She doesn't strike me as the kind of person who eats out every day, so if she’s not eating a home, what the hell is she doing?

  Is she broke? Maybe she is. I mean, she's renting out a portion of her home. People don’t do that unless they need the extra income or…they’re lonely.

  I’m not wild about either of those options.

  Dammit, I’m not supposed to care. We’re not friends, and I’d be a fool to think otherwise.

  The cashier gives me a stammering, wide-eyed greeting. "H-hi...Jude Kingston?"

  Get it together, Kingston. Iris Merlini's eating habits? None of my business. Just like the rest of her life.

  I have my own problems to solve.

  Instantly, I snap back into superstar mode. I flash the starstruck woman my money grin as I grab my wallet from my back pocket. "Hey, what's up, gorgeous?”

  Her cheeks glow neon pink at the endearment. The twenty-something redhead’s blush is a jumper cable to my ego. And dammit, after the morning I’ve had, my energy-drained self-image definitely needs the boost.

  7

  Iris

  I’m in the front yard, muddy and sweating, hands covered in dirt. I can feel perspiration trickling down the length of my spine as I yank weeds from the flower beds.

  Foxxy keeps me company, lounging on the wooden bench in the shade of the maple tree. The warm days are getting fewer as fall creeps in, so we might as well take advantage of an extra sunny day like today.

  While I do the mindless work, I’m mulling over some search engine optimization strategies I read about earlier today. Sometimes it’s easier to let the ideas marinate in my brain when my hands are occupied with something else. The information is overwhelming and there are so many moving parts to this online business thing. It gets exhausting trying to figure everything out on my own. I just wish I had a team, a few people to bounce ideas off of and share the workload with.

  I’m so caught in my head that I don’t hear Jude approaching until he’s walking right by me. He has a brown paper bag overflowing with groceries tucked under each arm. When our eyes meet, he gives me a cold greeting. “Hey.” He keeps limping along.

  Self-consciously, I drag my forearm along my sweaty forehead. Now, I wish I’d at least taken the time to brush my hair after my morning run. “Hey.”

  His biceps bulge under the weight of the heavy bags. They’re a golden tan from the sun.

  Without even realizing it, I’ve stopped what I’m doing to gape at his sexy form as he retreats up the flagstone pathway. He climbs the porch and, right as he’s about to step through the front door, he throws a glance over his shoulder in my direction. Of course, I wasn’t prepared for that so—again—he catches me staring.

  Yes—I’m down on my hands and knees, flushed and sweaty, staring at the man’s ass.

  This is the part where I expect him to gloat, to give me a pitying look or throw out a snarky comment that will make me feel three inches tall. But right now, he looks far too distressed and distracted to bask in the attention. Instead, his eyes move over the garden where I’m working. “You gonna need a hand with that?”

  The offer takes me by surprise. I dart my tongue over my bottom lip. “No. I’m good. Thanks.”

  I’ve got the yard work covered and even if I didn’t there’s no way I’d ask a man with a knee injury to involve himself in this. But it was nice of him to offer and it’s hard not to count the moment as a point in his favor. I let myself toy with the idea that maybe the two of us can find a way to coexist here peacefully for a while after all.

  On a slight nod, he resumes his trek into the house and the screen door closes behind him.

  Turning my attention back to the garden, I replay the soft look that lingered on his face, the agitation I saw in his eyes.

  His limp is more pronounced now than it was this morning. I can’t help but wonder if that’s a good sign or not. I wonder how his physiotherapy session went, if it helped or made the situation worse.

  My curiosity runs free as I root around in the garden all afternoon.

  I work until I get a text from Penny.

  Penny: On my way

  Penny: Had some coupons! Picked up groceries

  That last one has me laughing. Don’t let my cousin’s sleek, sexy exterior fool you—the girl is the Coupon Queen. She could serve Thanksgiving dinner to an entire army platoon on 15 dollars.

  I quickly cut a bunch of flowers for the dinner table then go inside for a quick shower. Just around 5:30, her car squeezes into the driveway behind mine. From my bedroom window, I see her in a cute denim sundress, strutting toward the door with an overflowing grocery bag of her own. She lets herself in. Lexi and her sister, Jessa, aren’t far behind in their little crop tops and jeans, with dessert and red wine in hand.

  When I find myself spending far too much time in the mirror fiddling with my top knot and lipgloss, I scold myself internally with a forceful reminder that Jude isn’t looking at me like that. I hurry into a tank top and some yoga pants.

  I meet my girls in the kitchen. But the wine and groceries have been abandoned on the counter while my friends stare out the back window with rapt attention.

  Lexi’s got a hip propped on the window frame of the breakfast nook as she shovels Ben & Jerry’s into her face.

  Jessa is kneeling on the padded bench beside her, face pressed up to the window like a kid at an aquatic park. “Is that an eight-pack?” she breathes.

  Penny pokes her head into the window frame to verify. “…Two, three, four, five. Yep, eight-pack,” she announces.

  I pad across the room to see what all the fuss is about. One look into the backyard and my mouth goes dry. My new roomie is sitting on a bench under the oak tree in all his flushed, sweaty, shirtless glory, doing some kind of leg exercise.

  My brain starts doing that thing again. The thing where Jude’s movements decelerate into slow-mo and smooth 1980s porno music starts playing in the background…

  Jude stands and drops his head back to squirt a neon blue liquid from his water bottle into his mouth. Some of the sports drink sprays onto his neck and chest and glides down over his golden skin. His eyes close as he rakes his long fingers through his hair. And there’s that massive dick print again.

  Penny and Jessa gasp in harmony.

  Penny shoulders Lexi out of the way to get a closer look. My cousin is head-over-heels in love with Walker Kingston. If I had to guess, I’d bet she’s imagining Walker in a similar state of undress as she watches his younger brother. She glances at Lexi hopefully. “Those things are genetic, right?” She motions discreetly at Jude’s junk.

  A mouth-splitting grin comes to Lexi’s face. She drops into a chair and crosses her ankles on top of the kitchen table. “Yup!” she announces smugly as she scrapes the bottom of her ice cream tub and licks the spoon.

  Rolling my eyes, I smack Lexi’s knee. “Get your feet off my table.”

  Lexi's waist is the size of a Sharpie pen. She can eat that tub of ice cream, wash it down with half a bottle of red wine, have three cannolis and a
slice of cheesecake and still walk out of here looking tight and toned in her cute crop top and size two jeans. Meanwhile, I gain a pound each time I make eye contact with a cake.

  I turn to Penny and Jessa. “Don’t we have a meal to prepare?”

  “Give me a second.” Ever the boy-crazed optimist, Jessa excitedly shoos me away. “It’s an eight-pack. I have no clue when I’ll be lucky enough to see another one of those. In real life. I need a minute to absorb all the hotness.” She makes a scooping motion in the air, like she’s sweeping up all the hotness and splashing it into her own face.

  “This is really silly. Grown women going bananas over some muscles.” I glance back at Jude and his eight-pack. “And who needs all those abs anyway?!”

  Jude wipes his forehead with a towel and now, he’s trudging toward the house as he pulls a T-shirt on. My friends scatter.

  Penny and Jessa assume positions in the kitchen, dutifully unpacking grocery bags and pulling cookware from the cabinets. Like they didn’t spend the last ten minutes objectifying and molesting the unsuspecting man with their eyes.

  Jude enters the room and he looks a little taken aback to find four guilty-looking women staring back at him. In an instant, his stage-worthy smile—complete with the damn dimples—pops onto his face. “Hello, ladies.”

  A chorus of breathy ‘hello’s ring out around the room. Penny throws a glance at me, checking for my reaction to see if I’m okay. I give her a subtle nod.

  Lexi introduces Jude to her sister and Jessa’s cheeks are salsa-red the whole time. Jude remembers Penny from back in the day so they take a quick second to catch up with each other as she sets a pot on the stove. Me? I mostly stay silent, blending in with the furniture, the way I tend to do whenever I’m in a crowd. Growing up, I was always the shy one and even as an adult, I still struggle with my introverted tendencies. Probably something to do with being an only child.

  Jude makes small talk with the girls for a while. Despite his jokes and banter, I can see it on his face—he’s in pain. When he just can’t bare it anymore, he grabs some ice cubes from the freezer before excusing himself to go take care of his knee. He forces a normal gait as he goes.