by Warren, Rie
I’d run first downs. Shotgunned my arm off. Made more plays than any other NFL QB, but still got fucked up the ass-chute.
Whatever.
This was still my team.
And we were in it together. Until the end. Which might potentially happen tonight.
“Hey, Rafe!” Brooklyn yelled as I stepped into the shower cubicle where hot water rained all over. “Catch this!”
I nabbed the slippery soapy bar he lobbed at me in one hand.
Velcro.
“Heads up, Marquis,” I shouted, slinging the foamy soap toward the man with the sick dreads glistening under the steaming, streaming water.
Irish Spring slipped right through his fingers.
First string wide receiver?
“Butter fingers, fucker.” I doused my hair under the shower.
“Fuck you, Macintyre.” Running his hand down to his groin, Marquis spread his huge thighs. “And you can suck my big fat hose while you at it.”
“At least you got a good grip on your baby maker.”
Hoots and hollers ranged around the crowded shower block while Marquis did the Big Dick Dance.
“I’m tellin’ Mrs. M. you be disrespectin’ the black beauty.”
“Dude. If that’s the Black Beauty, Disney needs to start rolling out deep-dicking porn.” I laughed, grabbing a bottle of Gatorade from the shelf beside me.
“Tha’s right. Don’t be messin’ with the Black Beast.” Marquis slapped his hands against his chest, squinting as water ran into his eyes.
The whole team let the final defeat slide off our shoulders as we stood under the hot, drenching spray. Screw the Super Bowl. Who the fuck cared anyway? Getting a glorified Jostens high school ring . . .
BFD, right? Besides, I already had one from 2012. Hell, I could sell that shit on eBay if I ever got too hard up for cash. You know, if I got canned tonight.
And right about then Head Coach D busted into the room—bald turtlehead and all. We’d dubbed him Donatello from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and by the sound of his steps stomping across the floor, it appeared our locker room ass-kicking was about to commence.
“Look lively, assholes!”
There was the hoarse-voiced shout, as expected.
We popped out of the showers, and numbnuts Brooklyn stole my towel so I had to walk across the tiled block naked, my dick swinging in the air. With my head down, I rounded the corner only to stop short when I encountered a pair of slim feet in sharp-heeled shoes.
Slowly raising my eyes, I came face-to-face with a gorgeous woman whose ferocious scowl only slipped when her big brown eyes skipped down my dripping wet torso to my cock.
Marquis wasn’t the only one with a big dick.
I cleared my throat, swaggered to my locker, draped a towel over my hips.
The rest of the dudes filed in while the chick’s face flushed, and her soft brown gaze flinted into hard black.
She crossed her arms over the silky black blouse barely containing two handfuls of tit. As my gaze roamed lower I liked what I saw even more. Tight red skirt, a black belt cinched at her hourglass waist, and the tall heels.
Coughing into my hand to hide a sudden throat-deep groan, I hoped my towel covered the growing cock-tent about to take over the terrycloth knotted low at my waist.
Miss Thang’s high heels clacked on the floor until she stood beside Coach D—and they both looked most unhappy.
Marquis scrubbed a hand down his dreads. “Aw, Coach D! Why you always let reporters in here when we’re naked. My lady don’t like it. We’re not strippers, yo.”
“Then put some gaddam clothes on already.”
“Hey, I don’t mind the attention.” My towel slipped lower.
The woman’s eyes followed the motion.
And the dudes stripped down to get dressed, swinging cocks all over the place.
Hard flesh, bruised muscles, and even bigger bruised egos . . .
“Knock off the jock talk, you fucks.” Coach D slammed a fist against the nearest locker. “The lady has somethin’ to say.”
The lady snicked closer on her stilettos. And her pluscious lips pouted just before she let loose.
“You call that a game?” She shook her head. Kicked a helmet. Got really close to my face before she drew back. “My dad is rolling over in his goddamn grave after that piece of shit you have the tiny balls to call a performance in our stadium out there!”
“She’s not a reporter, dude. She’s the new owner.” Brooklyn attempted a stage whisper, stroking his fingers through his beard. “Peyton Fox.”
Peyton. Fucking. Beautiful. Fox.
Talk about a shock to the system. I nearly fell over at her dainty little feet. Looking again, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t recognized her in the first place. I didn’t know what the bigger surprise was—her here, or her taking over ownership of our team after her father’s death.
Five years.
No calls.
I was so screwed.
The woman barely glanced at me again. Once the shock of recognition wore off, I took my time taking inventory. She was even more stunning now, at twenty-six.
Sparkling brown eyes. Deep red, wavy hair flowing down her back. Sassy mouth.
Business savvy.
An absolutely winning combo.
God, but I loved a ballsy woman.
Peyton didn’t disappoint.
One finger raised, her eyes lasering every man on the team, she snarled. “I took a master class in sports management from my dad starting from the time I turned five, and I’ve got the mouth and moves to back this shit up.” Peyton showed her balls, and they were made of nothing but sheer brass. “The question is: do you?
“Because I can play it classy, or I can trash this team with one dial of the phone right now, bitches, and sell off this franchise.”
While she reamed us out, I drifted away. Damn, the legs on her. Not to mention that rack. And the set of lungs . . .
She snapped her fingers right under my nose. “Sell Carolina Crush off just like you sold out of this season.” Her head snaking back, she arched an eyebrow. “I need an answer, playas.”
“We’re all in, Baby Fox,” Akoni, the huge Hawaiian middle linebacker gruffly said.
She glared. “If you ever call me that again I’ll wipe the floor with your jockstrap, your cock chafing inside.”
“Holy Goddamn.” Akoni winced, cupping his nutsack.
Even Coach D looked uncomfortable, and I bet Carolina Crush’s GM, Lou, was in his office bricking it, too. There was so much turnover in the NFL no one was safe, not after the shit-tastic season we’d had.
“Miss Fox is taking over ownership.” Coach D swiped a hand over his bald head—shinier than ever. “The official announcement will be tomorrow at the press conference.”
“If I decide to keep the team, that is.” Peyton’s eyes gleamed, the deep brown almost onyx. “Rafe, as the quarterback five years running, I’m looking to you to step up and lead like a captain.”
I held out my hand to the feisty woman, and she clasped my much larger palm. “You got it, Peyton.”
Before releasing her grip, I lifted her hand to my mouth, gave her a slow wink, and kissed the soft heart of her palm with a light brush of my lips.
Her breath hissing in, she jerked her hand back as if singed.
The dudes amped up the trash talk while Marquis hit a rap star gettin’ some pose with his finger pointed at me. “Crank it up, Mac Daddy!”
“Goin’ after the boss lady already?”
“Thought there was a no fraternization thing?”
Peyton’s withering glare silenced all.
She was in the big leagues now, and she already looked exactly like she owned it.
Which she did.
Jesus.
Double middle fingers aimed at the dudes did the talking for me, not that I had to open my damn mouth because Peyton was wielding another ass-whupping via her viperish tongue.
“There will be a big
shakeup in both offensive and defensive line-ups, men.” Sauntering from the locker room, she glanced back just once, her eyes finding and fastening on me. “If you can even call yourselves men after that C-Grade performance.”
I watched her ass sway all the way out . . . sort of dazed.
“Did she just call us pussies?”
“Baby Fox means biz.”
Baby Fox . . . if only they knew.
“Yo, fuck that!” Marquis slammed his duffel onto a bench. “Already kowtow to the missus at home, now I gotta bow down to a woman at work too?”
“Reel it in, dickholes.” I sat down to rake through the clothes in my locker, digging out my boots first. “Assuming y’all want a paycheck next year, Miss Fox holds the keys to the team so we probably better get used to following orders. ’Sides, she’s not wrong. We fucked our games.” I pulled on a shirt after tugging it from the dry-cleaning bag. “Time to man up.”
Tossing on my leather jacket, I hefted my bags.
The Carolina Crush locker room was a warzone littered with damp towels, tossed helmets, gear, guards, cleats.
And lost dreams.
Brooklyn grabbed his duffel and matched my stride, the other dudes falling in. “Off-season first though, right, Rafe?”
“You know it.” I slanted a grin at him, gave Coach D a bear hug that lifted him off his feet, and kissed Angela—the lead physio—on the cheek. “Party time.”
The posse didn’t know party time meant months alone in my solitary cabin in the hills of North Carolina. Fly fishing, hiking, working out, and a plus-one they’d never suspect.
Brooklyn—recently divorced at the ripe old age of twenty-eight—invariably spent his time off catching waves and chasing tail in Australia while his ex-wifey moved on to the next cash cow. Marquis played baby daddy to his baby momma and their one-year-old son. He was headed on a freakin’ Disney Cruise. He’d complain about it, while sending us all his Instagram fam shots. The dude couldn’t get enough of his woman, his kid, or their expected latest edition due to be born late spring. A girl.
Akoni was ready to jet back to Hawaii with his woman and their big brood.
And as I dropped my bags into the back of my International Harvester Scout, I couldn’t get Peyton out of my head.
Peeling out of the parking lot amid flashy sports cars, jacked-up trucks, and thundering motorcycles, I put the Scout into gear. Fuck the flashy and shiny, I didn’t need that showy shit. Fuck fame, too. Although the steady mega money was a bonus.
I rolled down my window, sticking my head outside. “Suck my—”
“Hose!” Marquis in his slick Ferrari gunned past me.
Two
Already Played
Peyton
SLAMMING THE DOOR BEHIND ME, I stood in the corridor of Carolina Crush central, my knees weak, my legs wobbly.
Fox wasn’t the only name I had to live up to. Crush was my father’s brand and my birthright . . . the team my legacy.
My hand rose to my breast where my heartbeat fluttered. I’d just put it all out there in the locker room, taking no shits from anyone and giving no fucks at all. There was a first time for everyone, and I’d just gone to the trenches with my team.
Too bad we’d suffered the biggest loss ever. No playoffs. No chance at a ring. No glory at all.
I was not brought up to come in second place. But last? Last was not an option. My legs might be shaking, but so was my head. Tonight had been a straight-up disgrace, and I hadn’t been joking about my dad turning over in his too-recent grave.
But it wasn’t just the balls-out bitch-’tude I’d firmly shoved down those guys’ throats that left me so unsettled.
Guh-gulp-no.
All those big naked sweaty bodies jostling together.
One in particular.
Philomena was right.
I needed to get laid on the Q.T. ASAP.
When the door thrust open after me, I stood up straight, perfect posture, not even rocking in my high heels.
Coach D slid out, his hands folded behind his back. “Y’okay, Pey?”
“Perfect, David.”
“You went a little GI Jane in there.”
“I didn’t have much choice.”
“Fox left you high and dry, sweetheart.” His hard face melted a little, the frown relaxing. “And with a losing team to boot.”
I stowed the sniffles away. “It’s not like he planned on kicking it early, is it?”
David reached for me, and I slipped into his arms.
“He believed in you, kid.”
“Do you?” I dried the tears I refused to let fall with a hand pressed to my face.
“Yeah. The team will too.” He chucked me under the chin. “Not like you gave them any choice.”
“They get paid enough to do any-damn-thing I want.” Drawing back, I grinned. “What about making them moonlight as strippers?”
“You want Bunyan and Akoni rolling out naked on a stage for everyone to see?” He laughed from his belly as he mentioned our two biggest linebackers.
“Not a moneymaker then?” I pouted.
“The money you don’t need to worry about. The spirit to win, you do.” Coach D shook his head. “Big shoes you’re filling, but you give them heart, and we can be a Super Bowl team again.
“They lost their fire, Peyton. Lost their way. Got too soft.” Turning back to the locker room, he added, “If you can motivate those men you got a chance.”
“Isn’t that your job?” I called out.
“Balls of steel, my girl, you got ’em. The men are already shittin’ themselves.” Chuckling, he disappeared back into the realm of testosterone-fueled infamy.
“I can just bench Macintyre, you know!”
“Rafe’s your winning arm.” David propped open the door to shove his head outside again. “He’s always been a game-changer.”
Tell me about it.
“Could just be the Crush’s saving grace.” He disappeared into the locker room with a last wink.
Saving grace.
We’d see about that.
I walked through the compound, stopped for a final network TV soundbite. I tried to recoup our loss with a heartfelt mention of my father’s death. I shook hands wherever I went, laying it on with a smile I never felt.
Finally reaching my office, I shut myself inside, tried to pull myself together.
My office.
Two weeks ago I’d been living in Nashville, working for the Tennessee Titans team as head of public relations. Relocating had meant mourning my dad, taking care of his estate, and cruising to the helm of Carolina Crush. My life had changed in a matter of minutes with barely a moment to breathe in between all the mayhem leading to tonight’s massive loss.
I took a second to catch my breath now, pushing my fingers through my hair.
The room with the oxblood leather chesterfield and the heavy decanters on the bar had been my dad’s, of course. The office still smelled like him—equal parts his cologne and ghosts of faded cigar smoke.
I’d redecorate, eventually, when I could stomach the fact I’d never see him again, never listen to his laugh, never know his particular brand of gruff fatherly comfort again.
I wouldn’t replace his memorabilia, though. The signed footballs, the Super Bowl rings, the framed photos of boss wins with my dad on the field getting doused from Gatorade coolers or sprayed all over from bottles of champagne.
Family portraits.
One in particular . . .
The heart attack had hit him so quickly, so devastatingly, he was gone before my redeye flight touched down in Charleston, South Carolina. At the hospital where he was pronounced dead, they let me sit with him. Hold his hand. Too shocked to cry and too alone to call anyone for help. The larger-than-life man taken from me and his team far too early.
Coach D had been a godsend. Two days later, he’d stood next to me, graveside. The funeral was a quiet affair, private, although an enormous outpouring of condolences came from every corner
of the athletic community from owners to coaches to players across the NFL to the NCAA. Sportscasters, celebs, and folks who’d known my father as not only a kickass icon in the world of professional sports, but also as a dedicated father, expressed grief in his death while celebrating his life.
We buried him under Carolina Crush red and white colors.
My mom had walked out when I was twelve. Billy Fox had little left to give a wife after the game. Strange that he’d been such an awesome dad, my role model and my protector.
I’d stayed with him.
And now I was here, dabbing at my damp cheeks, in the office that had been my preschool and, many years later, my intro to the business of the NFL.
Rattling the bottom left drawer of the desk—the one that stuck unless you tilted it just right—I retrieved Dad’s bottle of top-shelf bourbon hidden inside.
I blew into a glass, dropped in two ice cubes, and poured a healthy dose.
The first sip relaxed my shoulders. The second saw me toeing off my hellish high heels.
By the fourth large swallow, I unclasped my bra, pulling it from beneath the blouse and down my arms—no mean feat. Just ask any woman.
Sinking into the deep leather chair, I rolled the drink between my fingers.
I’d be personally involved with the team just like my dad. Football was a family biz, and now I owned it.
And that meant I was fully invested in kicking this crew back into shape if I had to drag them through each practice with my foot planted on their perfect athletic asses.
I’d just poured a second drink, capping the bottle, when my phone rang.
“Phil,” I answered, the ice in my glass clinking together.
“Drinking on the job again?”
“You saw the game, didn’t you?”
“The game was the bomb. And not in a good way, my sistah.”
I rolled my eyes at Phil’s throaty laugh. “Hence the drinks.”
Phil—Philomena—my best friend gurgled another laugh like the fucked-up fate of Carolina Crush was her own private joke. If her name was unusual, so was everything else about the woman. She was stunning. Grace Jones-gorgeous. A fast-tracked teen fashion model who’d hung up the expensive haute couture to hit medical school. Brains, beauty, and balls. She had the trifecta. And one of the perks of moving back to the Charleston area was having her in my life again.