Bad Boys Teaser: A Sizzling Bad Boys Anthology

by Warren, Rie

  Finally closing the talking heads down, I hit my office, kicked off my stilettoes, and reached behind to unclasp my bra.

  Blessed relief.

  In the adjoining bathroom, I stripped down, changing from biz-woman-wear into workout gear. Sneakers, yes. Hair in a ponytail. Red and white team colors all the way.

  Before the players arrived, I ran laps around the training ground, working it all out. The sudden, unplanned move from Nashville. Uprooting Cal and enrolling him in a new preschool. Putting the team back together piece by player piece.

  My frustrations.

  My sexual frustration?

  Damn Phil and the way she’d gotten inside my head about not having a man to share my bed. Dr. Phil. Pffft.

  My feet hit the track as I ran, my head down, steam rising in the rapidly warming air.

  Coach D sat on a bench, tipping his water bottle at me every time I passed him until he stood and blew his whistle. Seemed our guys had finally arrived.

  Sweat clung to my temples and chest, and I mopped myself up with the towel D tossed at me. Frank, Sam, and Mark joined us as I chugged water, and the team—newly replenished—streamed onto their home practice field.

  Familiar with these stomping grounds since I hadn’t gone with the usual total training camp immersion at an away facility because I couldn’t leave Callum, the men joked, rapped, and danced, strutting around like they didn’t have a single care in the world.

  They weren’t just athletes. They were showmen. And they’d definitely shown their asses last season, not in a good way.

  As everyone gathered at the facilities in Charleston, South Carolina, I scanned their faces. Crooked noses. Scars from hits taken. Uncountable injuries unseen but healed up. All in all, a handsome, rugged bunch I needed to give me more. More heart. More juice. More complete plays.

  Brooklyn, the tight end with all the tats and the huge beard; Marquis, the wide receiver boasting a head full of dread locks; Paul Biggs, otherwise known as Paul Bunyan; and Akoni, with the long Polynesian hair—the latter were my two best players on defense.

  I wanted the men mean. Needed them to be hungry.

  The first, second, and third strings all present—fifty teammates—everyone except the star QB. I was secretly relieved Rafe was late. His tardiness gave me more time to prepare for seeing him again.

  The last time we’d met up had been in the locker room, and his ripped body—big, chiseled, and naked—was stamped indelibly on my brain. I couldn’t forget him no matter how hard I tried, but I wasn’t about to start training season by being soft on him. No way. I’d save my kickass speech until he showed up.

  Frank, Sam, Mark, and D started running drills while I watched from the sidelines. Music blared over the speakers to rev the guys up, and giant coolers of iced-down drinks started melting under the June midday heat.

  The coaches gave their own brand of buck-up-or-fuck-off pep talks, f-bombs littered heavily between every other word.

  My team popped down for push-ups, jumped up for laps around the field, practiced tackles and passes, leaking sweat the entire time.

  I approved.

  One hour later Rafe arrived.

  Ugh.

  The atmosphere went ballistic as he jogged onto the field, but I wasn’t impressed.

  I wasn’t even interested in his unbelievable hotness.

  “Mac Daddy made it!” Marquis did a goddamn backflip and landed in Rafe’s arms.

  Idiots.

  Brooks broke up the bromance, butting his forehead against Rafe’s.

  “You tryin’ to steal my image as the mountain man or what?” The tight end tugged on Rafe’s beard until he winced.

  I tried to suppress a grin at their antics, maintaining my mean face, the one I used whenever Callum got on my last nerve playing with my iPhone.

  “Fuck off, princess.” Rafe flicked the middle finger to Marquis then turned the second bird on Brooks. “And I ain’t your beardo.”

  Grrr. I hated the gorgeous bastard. And his forest green eyes. And his sexy black hair, shaggier than ever. And the beard thing he had going on, totally not my style. But I’d probably develop a new fetish about facial hair just because of him.

  I hopped onto one of the sideline benches, waiting for the coaches to shepherd the scattered players toward me.

  “Listen up! Miss Fox wants a word!” Coach D shouted for attention.

  Damn right I did.

  “I brought you all in early for one reason and one reason only.” Without the aid of a megaphone, I still sounded loud and clear. “You give me another season like 2015, and you won’t have a team to come back to, capiche?”

  Akoni muttered something under his breath.

  “Got something you wanna share with the class, AK?” I stared the big man down.

  He mumbled something else, sweating hard.

  “What does your name stand for again?” I asked.

  The other guys starting chuckling at the huge Hawaiian dude’s discomfort.

  “Worthy of honor,” he grumbled.

  “You think you’re worthy of honor right now?” With my hands propped on my hips, I arched one eyebrow high.

  “Hey, no offense, Miss F. But the way you’re getting so hardcore up in our faces is kinda making me break out in hives.” His deep voice cracking, he pulled at the neck of his jersey.

  He might be breaking out in a rash, but the other dudes were breaking out in booming laughs.

  And again I had to quash a smile.

  “What? You know I’m a gentle giant, you fuckturds.” AK jammed his elbow into Paul’s ribs.

  “I’m the gentle giant. You’re a goddamn pussycat.” Paul shoved the man back.

  “Can I finish my pep talk now?” I glanced around at the crowd of men. “Is that okay with you, Akoni?”

  The big dude nodded while a heated blush darkened his already bronze skin.

  “I’ll cut to the motherfucking chase since clearly all of you suffer from ADHD. I don’t want excuses. I sure as hell won’t put up with a string of defeats. I want results!”

  Suddenly the guys stood up taller.

  “I’ll promise you one thing: I’ll give you my all if you give me total dedication in return.” Bending forward, I brought my sharp gaze to their eye level. “I’m gonna be more hands-on than any other owner in NFL history. I’m owning your shit every single day of this training camp. And if you’re lucky enough you might even end up on the starting line-up!”

  My glance slid to Rafe, who watched me with his cocky smirk.

  Oh yeah, the tasty bastard liked the idea of me getting hands-on with him. Well, he wouldn’t be leering at me in a few minutes . . . Guaran-damn-teed.

  “So we brought in some fresh meat to motivate your asses!” The new recruits stepped forward. “Meet the rogue blood. Calder Malone—center lineman.”

  Muscled and rangy, Calder raised his fist to the air, giving no credence to the drug-using rumors still running the NFL circuit.

  “You all know Deacon Cross, too.” I intro’d the older player I’d hardly needed to bribe to get out of early retirement. “He’s stepping in to train up for defensive tackle.”

  “Happy to be part of a team again.” Joining us straight from his forever home in the back of beyond ’Bama, Deacon rumbled out a greeting to all.

  “And, of course, Luke Buckley.” I introduced the rookie I hoped would light a fire under Rafe’s ass.

  The coaches responded with loud claps, but the reaction from my team was definitely mixed, ranging from hard glares to scowls to a few barks of disbelief.

  “Get used to ’em. You’re one team now. CAROLINA CRUSH!”

  The Crush vets rallied to return my cheer in their deep booming voices, joined by the three newbies.

  “Now get to work. I’m sick of looking at your faces.” I hopped down from the bench, rolling my eyes when I heard Brooklyn mumbling to Rafe:

  “What the fuck’s this? We gotta call her Coach P now?”

  I clear
ed my throat behind him. “You can call me Mizz Fox.”

  “That won’t be a problem.” Rafe’s hooded eyes slid to me over his shoulder, his tone sizzlingly sexual.

  Then he showed me his bitable backside as he started to walk away, heading toward the quarterback coach.

  “Rafe,” I called out. “You’re training with the defense today, not Mark.”

  He turned so slowly his feet could’ve been trapped in pluff mud.

  A look of excuuuuse me crossed his sexy face as he rubbed a hand across the dark beard covering his sharp jaw. “What?”

  “You like to manage your own defense sometimes, right? Part of the reason you’re such a successful ball-slinger, last season notwithstanding?”

  “No offense, Miss Fox, but—”

  “Our man Rafe belongs on the offensive side.” Brooklyn stood beside his brother-in-arms.

  “I’ll be the judge of that.” I maintained my indifferent expression.

  “Dude.” Brooks thrust out his fist for a knuckle bump, which Rafe returned halfheartedly. “Your funeral.”

  A look of so-fucked filtered over Rafe’s face, exactly how I wanted to see him, probably in a completely different context.

  “Buck’s gonna get some one-on-one time with Coach Mark.” A somewhat sinister smile slid across my lips as I turned the screw just that little . . . bit . . . tighter.

  “Buck?” Rafe spat out the name like he’d gotten a mouthful of something seriously rank. “That Cornhusker?”

  “That’s right. Luke Buckley.” I smirked. “We’re gonna nurture him. You’re not the only one with long-range aim, you know?”

  And that was the first time I’d ever seen such a thunderous expression on Rafe’s face.

  Yup. Great motivation, I was right.

  Eight

  Nurture . . . Bullshit

  Rafe

  FUCKING BUCKLEY. THE OTHER two newbs I had no probs with. Total respect. Malone and Cross had proved themselves on the NFL fields. Yeah, sure, one had been kicked off the Reno Ravens for doping and the other had been sidelined as too old at the ripe age of forty-two, but everyone had issues. That didn’t make them down ’n’ outs but potentially revitalized blood.

  Now Buckley?

  The just-out-of-diapers rookie with the All-American blond thing going on grinned at me from several steps away. “What can I say? The Buck stops here.”

  Yuck yuck.

  And what the actual fuck? Peyton was sidelining me? Nurture bullshit. If she was looking to rattle my cage she’d just succeeded, two times over my usual limit.

  Meanwhile, the woman stood in front of me, hip cocked, arms crossed. A smile on her plump lips. “You got a problem, Rafe?”

  I swallowed all the tension building inside me, stretching my patience to the limits. “No, ma’am.”

  “This is about the team. I’m just makin’ sure we have a deep enough roster to cover injured players.”

  “I don’t plan on gettin’ injured.” Fucking hated the way her soft southern drawl crawled inside my mind, into my dreams.

  Couldn’t look away from the way the hot sunshine made her hair shimmer like deep copper.

  This woman was deadly.

  “Well, just to make sure, I’ll be keeping my eye on you today.” She knocked me on the shoulder, barely making an impact, and led me to the goddamn trenches where two-to-three-hundred-pound men made of pure muscle and might gritted their teeth and tackled one another like fucking bulldozers gone rogue.

  At a mere two hundred and ten pounds, I pretty much predicted she wanted to see me get goddamn steamrolled into the fresh turf.

  What happened was, Peyton made me run hell-bent-for-leather between the obstacle course of Easter Island-sized tacklers until I made touchdown after touchdown.

  She had only one rule regarding me: scrimmaging was to be touch only.

  Awww, I was touched. She really did care after all . . . about protecting my arm at least.

  Sweat dripped off my face.

  The sun fucking blinded me.

  I guzzled electrolytes every chance I got.

  Peyton watched with undiminished glee.

  So I was the bait.

  Wanted to be her bait.

  Get her hook, line, and on my cock.

  Not even Akoni could tackle me, and when Pey ripped into him again, he almost burst into tears.

  Lou looked like he wanted to shoot the woman between the eyes. I kinda just wanted to dive between her thighs.

  Had never seen the babe in workout gear before, and that shit was hot. Hotter than the sun that beat down on my back every damn time I swerved left, right, down the centerline, counting off the yardage in my head.

  Was still pissed off at her, though.

  And all that anger turned into unrelieved never–extinguished thunderbolts of wanna-fuck when she hopped onto the front of one of the Crush-emblazoned training sleds.

  “Get your ass over here, Mac,” she ordered.

  Mac. I liked it when she called me Rafe more. But I complied, rolling my shoulders against the padding, ready to take her for the ride of her life since the other kind was apparently off the table.

  The huge red sled—with her negligible weight tacked on—started sliding across the field, my body anchored tight against the equipment.

  “You call this hard work?” She railed at me.

  I grunted, digging in deep.

  “You need to be about more than your arm. I want you all in!”

  Putting my calves, thighs, and shoulders into it, I doubled my pace, sweating like a fucking workhorse.

  Jesus. I’d so be her stud if she just asked me.

  She was seriously getting on my case and in my face, and I must’ve been seriously masochistic because that just made her hotter to me. With the sled punched against my shoulders and her standing in front of me in gym shorts and crosstrainers, her ponytail swinging . . . I’d never seen a better look on a woman.

  Except when she let loose with a laugh, her toffee-brown eyes shining.

  I sailed across the finish line, and she caught me watching her, capturing the moment. Nothing distracted me from her, not even my burning muscles.

  “Unless you do that again, Rafe, you’re gonna eat dirt.” She slung her last insult, but I didn’t give one single fuck.

  The sled rolled to a halt as soon as I stopped treading turf.

  So maybe Buck got one-on-one time with Coach Mark, who resembled a walrus on ’roids, but I got some serious face-to-face—strike that—face-to-tit time with Peyton. The woman I hadn’t stopped thinking about since the day she’d walked into the locker room.

  “I’d rather eat something else if you wanna know the truth, Pey.” I stepped around the training sled, intent on her and her only.

  Her eyes flicked wide then strived low. Super low. Crotch of my shorts low. Too bad for her I was wearing a jockstrap—my cock harnessed. Otherwise she’d see the reaction she caused. Big and hard and hers for the taking.

  Lifting up my arms, I hoisted her down. The squeezing hug was just an excuse for full body contact until her feet hit the turf.

  “Are you flirting with me, Rafe?”

  “Wouldn’t even dare.” My fingers lingered near the loosened hair beside her cheeks. “You’re the boss after all.”

  “And, Buckley or not, I still need you to be the star of this team.”

  Putting that on my to-do list I don’t have.

  She peered up at me with those glorious eyes and that suckable mouth tilting at the corners.

  “Break it up over there! S’already hot enough on the field,” Marquis shouted, interrupting the thing that wasn’t a thing between Peyton and me.

  Not a thing at all.

  Apparently the whole damn team plus all the coaches had gotten an eyeful of All That.

  Releasing the lady, I backed away. Gripping the bottom of my damp T, I tugged it up and off.

  Peyton’s turn to stutter and stumble a bit.

  That was what choppin
g wood and working out all winter long and spring did. Bigger than ever, I bunched the shirt in my fist, my forearms flexed, my biceps bulging, and I jogged across the field.

  Pey’s voice shook behind me, not as strong as before. “Time for a cool down!”

  No doubt about that.

  * * *

  “Get your hairy ass outta my face.” I whipped my damp towel at Brooklyn, who bent over in front of his locker a couple hours later.

  “Dude, this ass is baby smooth.” He squatted, bare-ass-naked, right in my line of vision as I sat on a bench.

  “Unlike your face.” Planting my foot against his backside, I gave a hard shove.

  Falling forward, Brooks started laughing. “Knew you were jealous of my beard.”

  “Get bent, asswipe.”

  “Can’t get enough of my ass, either, huh?”

  Other dudes laughed, listening to our good-natured jabs. Then Akoni started up from down the line, singing some unintelligible fancy pants opera. The three-hundred-pound giant was a one-man show in and of himself.

  The rousing round of applause, whistles, and general fuckery following AK’s shower-stall performance came to a quick end with a commotion on the other side of the locker room.

  “Don’t be throwin’ shade about my man Rafe.” Marquis’s voice rose just before a huge crash reverberated through the huge room as bodies hit lockers.

  “What the fuck?” I bolted to my feet.

  Careening around the corner, I saw Marquis slam Buckley into the locker again.

  “Get the fuck off me.” Buck fought back, his fist primed to hammer Marquis in the face.

  Calder and Deacon rushed forward while Brooks and I grabbed Marquis by the shoulders.

  He struggled like a wild animal as the other two hauled Buckley a few feet away.

  “Calm the fuck down.” I jerked harder on Marquis.

  “You don’t get it. That asshole said his kid sister has a better arm than you.”

  I glanced at Brooks. He slanted his eyes back at me. Then we both started cracking up. I laughed so hard I had to release Marquis and when I looked up, his lips started twitching.