Bad Ballers: A Contemporary Sports Romance Box Set

by Bishop, S. J.

  “I get it, I get it, you worship at the Delacroix shrine,” Roz grumbled and then smiled when she found what she was looking for: a silver cuff bracelet. “Calm down. Seriously, Sarah, you’re pretty, you’re smart, you’re creative, you’re kind…”

  “Roz, stop, I don’t need a pep talk.”

  “Well, not anymore,” said Roz. “It’s too late now…”

  My phone buzzed, and I stared at it, cursing. “It’s Yvette,” I said. “She just got a call from the Chanel people. I’ve got to go send some emails. Have fun tonight!”

  Roz frowned at me. “Don’t work too hard, babe.”

  The next day, Yvette breezed into the office at 9:30. It was late for her (she usually arrived closer to 8:00), which meant she’d been out late the night before. But she was wearing a change of clothes, so she hadn’t slept at Burke’s place. In fact, she looked casually gorgeous. She wore a pair of designer jeans and a black top with a fuchsia jacket that offset the dark richness of her hair.

  “How’d the date go?” I asked. I would have asked her anyway, even if it hadn’t been with Burke.

  “The Sauvage?” she said. “I like him.” She smiled at me. “I wasn’t so sure the first time. He seemed a bit… I don’t know. Dull. But we talked about art and about culture. He’s funny. Quick and dry. Very French humor,” she smiled. “I let some of the paparazzi take our picture when we left.”

  “Really?” That wasn’t normal. Yvette usually tried to avoid paparazzi. She liked to control her own image.

  “I want that loathsome Luis to see it. I want him seething with jealousy.”

  Oh God! Had she gone on the date with Burke just to make Luis jealous? That would have been a totally Yvette move. She wasn’t a bitch – but she’d grown up wealthy, and she wasn’t the most empathetic person alive. Some people called her rude; I just thought of her as matter of fact.

  “But you like him?”

  “I do, yes. He’s handsome in a rough kind of way. I’m going to convince him to grow a beard,” she smiled. “He’s invited me to the ring ceremony.”

  “The ring ceremony?”

  “Yes. They win some plate thing – bowl thing? – and they get rings. Sounds ridiculous, but he said that Paul Chapin is catering the event – which means the food will be good. And there’s the press. Becca Barnes is going, too – so I said I’d go.”

  The Super Bowl ring ceremony. Melancholy rose up suddenly. If I hadn’t pushed Yvette at him the other night, would Burke have invited me to the ring ceremony? Probably not. Men like Burke Tyler – wealthy, handsome football players – viewed women like me as expendable. I’d made that mistake before with some of Yvette’s famous friends. A famous photographer had flirted with me at one of her events, taken me out to dinner, and then back to his place. We’d had fun, but that had been all he was interested in. I’m not even a D-lister. I’m an assistant. One of Yvette’s friends had once described me as popcorn – delicious but forgettable. While Yvette had come casually to my defense, the comment had hurt, and it had stuck.

  “When is the ring ceremony?” I asked brightly, pushing down feelings of intense regret.

  “Two weeks,” said Yvette, disappearing into her office. “Just two days after we get back from Italy.”

  Italy. I’d forgotten about Italy. How could I have forgotten about Italy? You’ve been distracted.

  “Am I packed?” Yvette called from her office.

  “Yes!” I lied, and got up to find our suitcases.

  8

  Burke

  two weeks later

  “Are you both coming out afterward?” A small hand gripped my arm, and I stared down into the earnest, questioning gaze of Jamie Anderson, Caz Woods’ fiancé.

  “Coming out where?” I was having trouble focusing on Jamie. I was on cloud nine and quite a few drinks in. This was my third super bowl ring, but the experience didn’t get any less intense. The Taj ballroom was full to bursting with enormous men in expensive suits, glittering, gorgeous women, and fantastic bourbon: I’d definitely had a few to get me through the droning speeches. The franchise players had been seated up toward the front, and I hadn’t needed to worry about boring Yvette – she’d spent most of the evening chatting animatedly with Becca Barnes.

  Every so often, she’d reach over and touch my arm, brush her thigh against mine, or give me a long, considering look. But for the most part, she’d spoken to Becca and done her best to ignore Vic’s girlfriend, Karissa, who’d kept wandering over and trying to engage Becca in Spanish.

  When they’d brought out the rings, the whole place had nearly come down around our heads, we were all cheering so loud. I must have taken three hundred pictures since then, so when Jamie had touched me and asked me a question, I barely registered her words.

  “We’re going to the Sky Bar. Dash has rented up the upper floor. Are you coming?”

  “Sauvage, who is this?” Yvette’s breath was warm against my ear. She must have come up behind me when I wasn’t paying attention. Her breasts brushed against my arm. Fuck. Fuck, she was hot.

  “Yvette Delacroix, may I present Jamie Anderson? This is Caz’s fiancé. She’s a professional soccer player.”

  “Oh, wow,” said Jamie, recognizing Yvette. “You used to date Luis Abasolo.”

  I felt Yvette stiffen next to me and tilt her head at Jamie frostily. Fuck. Better get Jamie out of this one. “We might stop by for a while,” I said. “Are you leaving before the dancing?”

  “Caz hates dancing. So does Dash, apparently. So, yah.”

  “Let’s go,” said Yvette in my ear. “If Dash is hosting, then Becca is going, and she was telling me a story I want to hear the end of. Oh, hang on!” Yvette turned as someone called her name. And I was left alone with Jamie.

  “She’s stunning,” said Jamie. “Did Becca set you both up?”

  I smirked at her. “You don’t think I can get a girl like that myself?”

  Jamie pursed her lips. “You want me to answer that?”

  “No.”

  Caz came up behind Jamie and reached down, snagging her hand. “Shall we?” he asked. I looked around for Yvette and saw her heading in my direction from across the room. As she passed, men turned to watch her walk, like the ballroom was her catwalk. Damn.

  “I’ll be right behind you,” I said.

  The Sky Bar might be my favorite club in Boston. It’s on the top of the Eliot tower, almost as high as my apartment, and has a killer view of the city. That night, it was full to the bursting with Patriots players pounding back thousands of dollars’ worth of booze. I think I might have been responsible for a good half of it.

  It had taken me twenty minutes of coaxing, but I finally got Yvette out onto the dance floor.

  “You’re laughing!” she declared angrily.

  “No, I’m not!” I said, but I absolutely was. She was good at a lot of things, but the girl had no rhythm. I ended up pulling her close and guiding her with my hips, and she soon fell in with me, her arms snaking around my neck and her eyes finding mine and sizzling. “You’re drunk,” she said, but she sounded intoxicated herself.

  “Not very.” Okay, that was a bit of a lie.

  “I need another drink,” said Yvette, removing her arms.

  “Baby,” I groaned. “Don’t let go.”

  “Come on,” she said, taking my hand and tugging me toward the bar. “You’re buying me another drink.”

  “Bartender!” I bellowed. There were three who were working, and one of them looked up, signaling he’d be over in a minute.

  “Brute,” murmured Yvette, but she looked enthralled, and I smiled down at her, thinking about those long, lean legs wrapped around my waist.

  Something caught Yvette’s attention, and she moved past me. I turned, not wanting to lose my spot at the bar, eyes my tracking her toward the staircase, where she approached another young woman.

  This woman was shorter, her hair less of a dark brown and more of a honey brown; it hung about her shoulders i
n snaky waves. Her dress was turquoise and skin tight, revealing a figure almost as lithe as Yvette’s, but slightly more muscled. I realized I was checking out Yvette’s friend and tried to stop, but when Yvette turned, I caught a glimpse of the girl’s face. Sarah.

  I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get a little hard. That dress, though. Fuck.

  “I’ve got to take a phone call,” Yvette said. “Buy Sarah a drink!” And with that, she disappeared.

  Oh. I was going to buy Sarah a drink so hard…

  “Let me guess,” I said when Sarah approached. “You’re a vodka girl?”

  Sarah smiled up at me, tossing her hair over her shoulder. She was wearing something shimmering on her cheeks, for they caught the light and looked almost angelic. She had the smallest of dimples in her right cheek.

  “I hate Vodka,” she said. “If I’m getting a mixed drink, I go for whisky sours.”

  “What are you? Fifty?” I asked.

  “Are you going to order me a drink, or do I need to get it myself?” Sarah stepped past me and climbed up on the rail at the base of the bar. She was wearing lacy black heels that gave her a good four inches of extra height. Leaning over the bar, her cleavage on full display, she signaled a bartender.

  “Cool it,” I said, reaching out and fitting my hands about her waist, then lifting her from the bar and setting her down. “I’m taking care of this.”

  Sarah rolled her eyes but turned her back to the bar and leaned against it.

  “So?” she asked.

  “So what?” But before she could answer, the bartender came over and took our orders.

  “So, let me see the ring.”

  I stuck out my fist. I’d worn all three rings that evening, and they made my hand incredible heavy. They were each diamond-encrusted and platinum, with a different design boasting the year and the score.

  Sarah sucked in a breath and ogled over each ring. The bartender came back with the drinks, and Sarah drank hers through a straw in all of thirty seconds.

  “Slow down,” I told her. “The night is young.”

  “Well,” she said. “I got here late, so I have a lot of catching up to do.”

  “How’d you get in anyway?” I asked.

  “I was out at Whisky Priest, not far away,” she said. “I got a call for Yvette. It was a personal one that I thought she might want to take care of.”

  “So, you’re on all hours of the day?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “What else can I get you to drink? You do shots?”

  “Sure.”

  “Bartender!” I bellowed again. I indicated the group around me “Get me a round!”

  The shots came, and we all did them, just in time for Yvette to come back. She gave the phone to Sarah, and before I could object, Sarah disappeared into the crowd.

  “Is that mine?” asked Yvette, and I handed her the martini. She downed it in one impressive gulp, reached up, and gave me a small kiss on the cheekbone. “Lovely evening, Sauvage. I have to cut it short. My mother is in New York, and I’m leaving now.”

  “Not now…”

  “I’ve got a limo coming to take me to the airport. I’m leaving now. I’ll call you later.”

  “Let me see you out…”

  “No, no,” said Yvette, placing her hands on my chest. “You stay and enjoy everyone! I’m fine. I’ll be back in a few days.” And she hurried off.

  I was still staring stupidly after her when a heavy hand clapped onto my shoulder. “So, how’s it going with the model, Bro?”

  I turned and glared at Caz.

  “Whoa, man! Whooaa. It can’t be that bad. She came here with you, didn’t she?”

  I shrugged, irrationally irritated with how quickly she’d left. She’d been teasing me all evening, pressing close and then darting away. All night, I’d been imagining all the different ways we’d fuck. That she’d left had really messed with my equilibrium. I ran a hand over my face. “I just can’t get a read,” I said.

  “You look keyed up, dude.” Caz was swaying slightly, and his dark brown hair had flopped forward into his eyes. “Do you know what helps? Scotch.” He waved at one of the bartenders. “Give us a bottle of Johnny Blue!” he bellowed.

  “No, no,” I objected. “Your lady will kill you if you get that shit-faced.”

  “Nah. She went home. She’s got practice tomorrow. Me? I’mma get housed. You joining?”

  I thought about it for all of two seconds. Why not? “In.”

  I can’t remember how far into the bottle we got. “I’m telling you,” I said, hanging on Caz’s shoulder. “I’m telling you. Sarah is so fucking gorgeous.”

  “Who’s Sarah?” asked Caz, blinking at me heavily.

  “What do you mean, ‘Who’s Sarah?’”

  “You said, ‘Sarah is so fucking gorgeous.’ Who’s Sarah?”

  I blinked. Shit. “Did I say Sarah?”

  “Yah. You did.”

  Fuck. Well, Sarah was fucking gorgeous. And really damn hot in that teal dress. “Dude,” I said. “She’s Yvette’s assistant…”

  “The girl with the ass, the one who came into the restaurant?”

  “That one…” I closed my eyes, recalling how passionately she’d kissed, recalling how her hips had ground into mine. Damn. There’d been no teasing with Sarah - no coyness whatsoever. Now that was sexy. I’d been out with Yvette three times now, and she hadn’t so much as kissed me. “Sarah’s here somewhere,” I murmured.

  “Yah, I saw her,” said Caz, pointing a finger down the length of the bar to where I could see a flash of teal. “She’s talking to Mac.”

  “Fucking Mcloughlin?” I said, straightening and grabbing the Johnny Blue bottle from Caz’s hands. “No fucking way. That guy’s a dick.”

  “He’s not that bad…”

  “He’s a fucking dick. I’mma go do something about it.” I said, and I stormed over to have a little chat with Ryan Dickhead Mcloughlin.

  9

  Sarah

  I’m usually good at knowing when I’ve had enough but, to be honest, this was the first time I’d gotten to see Yvette and Burke together up close, and it had really thrown me. They looked so damn good together. She was tall, dark, and slender. He was huge, blond, and heavily muscled. And he looked so damn delicious in his suit.

  When Ryan Mcloughlin had introduced himself and offered to buy me some drinks, I’d agreed. Don’t worry; I’m not a moron. I know who he is. He’s the team’s veteran fullback, a few years older than Burke, and he’s known more for his off-field antics than for his on-field antics. For instance, he’d dated a twenty-one year old reporter and gotten her fired, he’d publically fraternized with the captain of the cheerleading squad (and gotten her fired), and had caused a full-on strike when he’d moved on to date her best friend. So yes, I knew all that, but at that moment, I just needed to feel pretty, and Ryan was looking at me like I was good enough to eat. Though I was still pining for Burke, Ryan Mcloughlin was undeniably gorgeous. And the more drinks I had, the more I thought I might be willing to give Ryan a go.

  “Times up.”

  A pair of hot hands came down and encircled my waist, drawing me back against a massive chest. While I couldn’t see who was behind me, based on how annoyed Ryan looked and how hard the thighs pressed into mine were, I could guess. It was Burke. And I was drunk enough to lean back against him. His shirt was cool and silky on my hot cheek.

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Ryan asked.

  Burke ignored him and leaned down, his breath warm on my cheek. “Come on, baby. They’re playing our song.”

  We had a song? To be honest, I had no idea what was playing. It sounded rhythmic and thumpy, but no way was I going to object when Burke Tyler spun me around and danced me onto the dance floor.

  His hips kept time perfectly, and I reached around, my hands on his low back, just grazing the high, muscled ridge of his ass. He sucked in a breath and looked down at me. “Living on the edge there, baby?”


  “I’m not afraid of you,” I said to him. I reached out and plucked the bottle of Johnny Walker Blue Label tucked under his arm. I took a swig, and it burned in a fiery trail down into my stomach. Burke was a phenomenal dancer, and he smelled so incredible. I pressed my face into his shirt and inhaled. He was wearing some sort of cologne with notes of… oh, who gave a shit. I reached up and pulled his head down, and his lips met mine in a searing kiss that went on, and on, and on.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Burke murmured into my mouth when we both broke away for air. “Let’s go back to my place. It’s not far.”

  “What are we going to do at your place?” I asked. My head was swimming, and all of the reasons I might have thought of to not go were gone, replaced with a hundred and one reasons why going home with Burke Tyler was the best fucking idea I’d ever had in my entire life.

  In response to that inane question, Burke reached down, his hand splaying over my ass cheeks, and pressed the considerable and very hard length of him against my hip. Oh fuck. I wanted that. Badly. I must have whimpered, for Burke smiled against my mouth. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, and before I knew it, I was being led out of the bar.

  I don’t know when Burke had managed to call a limo, but there was one waiting for us, and after Burke gave the driver his address, he closed the tinted screen and was all over me again. He hauled me into his lap so that I was facing him, my dress riding up my thighs and my knees digging into the leather seats. Burke’s hand twisted in my hair, his mouth devoured mine, and his hands wrapped around, pressing me close.

  My head reeled; the whole backseat seemed to spin, so I held onto Burke like a lifeline and kissed him until I was burning alive from within.

  The car stopped so abruptly that I gasped and toppled off of Burke and into the door. We’d arrived at his apartment. I had to adjust my dress and take Burke’s hand as he guided me out of the car and into the building. I knew my lipstick was smudged and that my hair looked wild, but I didn’t care. I could barely see where we were going, and I leaned on Burke for support. Inside the elevator, he lifted me into his arms, pressed me against the wall, and wrapped my legs around his hips. I rode him, and he ground into me, his belt buckle creating delicious friction.