by Warren, Rie
“Prepare to get burned, y’all.” I hefted the football, taking it in one grip.
No countdown. No chants. Just me and the moment. That heady rush when the ball left my hand.
The way it always happened.
Like my entire soul went into each pass.
Lightning fast. Past the forty, the thirty, the twenty.
A rocketing blur.
Peyton pushed up on her tiptoes.
All the guys leaned forward.
The only sound was Ahhhh! Then whoosh!
That’s right. The end zone. Straight into the black bucket with no swish whatso-fucking-ever.
Not even a rim job as the football sank into the rubber depths.
“Mac Daddy wins the shootout!” Marquis slammed his chest against mine three times with an uh uh uh at each thump.
Then Brooks met me for a fist bump I wasn’t ready for, and immediate searing pain shot through my hand.
“Holy Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!” I cradled my right hand, my throwing hand, Brooks looking on, horrified.
Peyton rushed to me. “What is it?”
“Sprain. Maybe dislocated.” I gritted my teeth, pretending it wasn’t so bad.
I’d lived through dislocated shoulders to play the next game. No way was I about to look like a pussy about a hurt finger in front of Peyton.
“Ice pack!” she yelled, holding my hand.
The pain in my arm was replaced by some serious tingling where she touched me.
“I hope that was worth it.” She scathed.
“Definitely.”
“Your ego’s gonna get you in trouble one day.”
“Don’t care. As long as you’re with me.” One of the medics slapped an icepack on my isolated hand.
I tried not to flinch.
Peyton watched, one part concerned, the other part probably pissed off, as I was escorted to the rehab center.
Halfway to the facility, I shrugged off the medics.
It was only a frigging finger. Sure. On my throwing hand. But definitely worth it to see Buck eat shit. Totally smoked him. And his punishment AKA humiliation when the season started would be epic.
Plus, Peyton liked me.
Always had.
Just needed to remind her of that.
Angela, one of the physios, hustled me onto an exam table. “What’d you do now?”
“Hey, I won the competition.”
“So, showing off again? Why?”
“For a good reason.”
“Who is it this time?” She lifted off the ice pack.
“Man, you’re a hardass, you know that? Almost as bad as Peyton,” I grumbled as she not-so-gently examined my hurtin’ finger.
“Peyton, huh?”
“Rafe!” Kelley-Anne the cheerleader bounced into the clinic.
Oh Jesus. Kill me now.
I’d talked to the woman exactly once. Maybe twice. Somehow she’d gotten my phone number and started texting me. I was all delete, delete, delete, but she was persistent. And an unnecessary complication I didn’t need.
“Mmm hmm,” Angela mumbled.
“Oh my God, Rafe.” Stopping beside me, Kelley-Anne brushed her hand over my shoulder. “What happened?”
I looked up at Angela with pleading eyes, hoping she’d help me end this torture.
“Rafey here got a booboo.” So not helping, Angela. Thanks. Not.
“I could kiss it better.” Kelley-Anne leaned over me, affording a birds’ eye view of her boobs.
“Usually I prefer proper medical treatment.” Angela rolled her eyes, fitting a finger splint with a little more force than necessary.
Yet another set of footsteps sounded in the clinic, and I turned my head to see Peyton approaching.
Whoops.
She did not look happy.
Wasn’t sure if it was because of my injured finger or the fact Kelley-Anne was trying to comfort me by smothering my head in her cleavage.
Now, Peyton? She could kiss it allll better anytime she wanted to. No complaints from me.
Except it didn’t look like she wanted.
Angela smirked beside me, mumbling, “Mmm hmm,” again.
That was it. I was never signing another football for her friends and/or family again.
“Ladies,” Peyton said in all her haughty, sexy, superior glory.
And she pulled that shit off without even breaking a sweat while wearing . . . sweats.
A shiver shot down my spine.
“I believe your coach is looking for you, Kelley.”
“It’s actually Kelley-Anne.” She flipped her blonde hair over her shoulder.
Peyton merely arched her delicate eyebrows, clearly dismissing Kelley-Anne without saying another word.
Hot.
“I’ll go get a fresh icepack.” Angela pulled off her sterile gloves. “I just wanted to see the showdown first,” she whispered to me.
As soon as the door shut behind the pair, Peyton swiveled toward me.
“You came.” I grinned.
“You’ll live.” She scowled.
“Isn’t this classified as fraternization?” I asked in a mock whisper, trying to tease a smile from her.
“More like concern.” She huffed. “But what was all that?” Cool, calm, so-sure Peyton stood beside me, fidgeting with her fingers. “You know what? Forget I asked. I’m just here to check on my most expensive investment.”
She spun quickly to leave, but I reached out to grab her wrist.
“All that?” Drawing Peyton back to me, I peered into her chestnut brown eyes. “Well, first of all, Angela lives to see me in pain. And she’s married so—”
“That’s not what I—”
I silenced her with a fingertip against her pretty lips. “And Kelley-Anne is sweet and all that, but there’s nothing going on between us, and I’m not interested in her. Told you so before.”
Rubbing a slow circle around Peyton’s lips, I felt her quick intake of breath.
Mesmerizing.
“Who are you interested in?”
“I think you know the answer to that.” My heart thumped in my chest, and my body was suddenly on edge.
“You shaved again.” Her tone softening, she ducked her head.
“Didn’t think you noticed.” I withdrew my hand to my jaw, the new stubble just beginning to peek through. “Itches like fuck in the summer. Usually only grow a beard during the winter.”
“When I don’t see you.”
“Do you want to see me?”
Peyton drew in another sharp breath, and my heart started knocking even faster. She glanced up, finally, and our eyes caught.
Hook . . . line . . .
I pulled her closer, and our hands touched. I couldn’t look away from her. Didn’t want to. Our fingers twined together, and my groin immediately tightened.
Chemistry? Hell yeah, we had that in spades. Biology and Physiology, the whole nine yards. Enough feels to spread chills across my skin and all we were doing was barely holding hands, hardly touching at all.
I leaned closer, capturing her scent. My eyes drifted to her moistened mouth, and I reached to skim my fingers along the soft skin of her face then into her loosened hair.
“Cinnamon,” I said.
“What?” she whispered breathily, inching closer.
“Your hair.” Our lips almost touched.
At the bang of the door, Angela entered the cavernous space, and Peyton’s fingers slipped from mine.
“So”—she cleared her throat—“I’ll leave you in Angela’s capable hands.”
We both pretended nothing had happened, but it had. That door, shut so long ago, opened. The desire undiminished.
While Peyton exchanged a few words with Angela—probably regarding how much more pain she could put me in—I discreetly grabbed Peyton’s playbook she’d left lying on the table.
With a quick scribble, I wrote: Let me take you to dinner tonight.
Peyton turned back to me, and I handed her the book, pag
e open.
A smile tilted her lips when she saw the message.
Fucking score!
She made a note then flipped the book toward me:
No chance.
Burned.
But she’d added a winky emoji.
Or maybe that was the fuck off one.
She flicked the playbook closed, tucked it under her arm, and started walking away without a backward glance. But, there was an extra swing to her hips.
“Behave yourself, Rafe,” she called back just before hitting the door.
What? How the hell did she know my eyes were glued to her ass?
Angela burst into laughter beside me.
Evil.
Twelve
Fam Day
Peyton
I AVOIDED RAFE AS much as possible after that one magnetic moment in the PT facility. The man was entirely too dangerous for my own good. And he already had everyone else wrapped around his finger—the one he’d messed up. But not me. No way.
Not even one little bit.
Six weeks until the opening game, with his finger fully mended, he’d stepped up to the plate as Carolina Crush’s mean and hungry—not too mention hunky—quarterback. He’d also stepped up his game with me.
I kept pretending he had no game with me.
Every damn day the insufferable stud found little ways to make it clear his interest in me was one hundred percent genuine. An expensive bar of Swiss dark chocolate sitting on my desk in the middle of a long afternoon of nonstop meetings. A mysterious delivery of new Under Armor workout gear in Carolina Crush colors, each item in my exact size. A #32 Rafe Macintyre Funko Doll—the same bigheaded quarterback figure sold in Toys R Us nationwide.
Okay, that last gift made me laugh so hard I doubled over, clutching my stomach.
Nothing sexy. Nothing overt. Every gift was perfectly chosen for me with a card always signed simply with an R.
Danger.
I totally wasn’t buying into it.
Not even a little bit.
Still, those very personal touches made it very difficult to regard him with the same strict professionalism I treated all the other teammates with. Okay. Professionalism with a side of pull-your-heads-outta-your-asses attitude.
I had plenty of that on hand to go around.
Meanwhile, Phil tried to strong-arm me into signing up on some freaking hook-up app called Zoosk. It was so wrong how she continually pimped me out.
I walked onto the training field, taking in the scene. Family Sunday meant the arena was overrun with kids of all ages, wives, partners . . . the whole nine yards.
The players got to strut their stuff. The kids got to meet some of their biggest heroes. And there’d be plenty of gossip to go around.
Callum itched to come with, but complications . . . complications everywhere.
Akoni stood beside his wife, chuckling from deep in his belly as I navigated through the tangle of their brood. Two boys, two girls . . . and one on the way for the tiebreaker. At least that had been AK’s decree when he’d announced the fifth pregnancy to the team.
Patting heads, towing two kids off one another, greeting the wives, I was suddenly pulled into a long hug.
“Peyton! As I live and breathe.” Charmaine—Marquis’s wife, his business manager, and baby momma of two—almost choked me to death before releasing me. “Been too long.”
“I’m sure Marquis has filled you in on how I’ve—”
“Been throwin’ it down like you have a cock in your pants?” She leaned away, eyebrow raised, snaking her head back and forth. “Respect, lady.”
“Well”—I put my hands on my hips—“someone needed to tear it up.”
“Girl, you know it. I done told Marquis every time they lose next season his ass is sleepin’ in the guest room.”
“You didn’t.” I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Damn right I did.” Charmaine struck out one hip. “Straight up made sure he knew I’d tie his dick in a cherry-knot if he didn’t bring it every game.”
“I like your style.”
“You’ll like this even better.” Letting out a shrill whistle, Charmaine glanced at me. “Rafe! Hey, boy. Bring Chanel on over here. Peyton hasn’t had a chance to cuddle on her yet.”
Rafe strolled over, the tiny baby girl nestled in his big arms. He nuzzled his nose to her forehead for one last hit of that all-addictive baby scent.
Ovaries would probably explode all over the world if this photo op of Rafe made it into the mags. KABOOM.
Not mine.
Not even a tiny bit.
“Here you go, Pey.” His voice dropped, dripping in that luscious husky tone, he passed Chanel to me. “Precious, ain’t she?”
Accepting the little bundle from his arms, I could just imagine how he would’ve been. If . . .
I hid the sudden tears in my eyes by burrowing my face against Chanel’s downy soft neck. I eased the sudden knot in my throat by swallowing.
“Did ya know Rafe here’s the baby whisperer?” Charmaine beamed at the man.
“I’m not surprised,” I grumbled. “Perfect at everything it appears.”
“What was that?” A loose grin chased Rafe’s lips, changing him from simply handsome to utterly mouthwatering.
“Too bad this honky punk ain’t the football whisperer.” Marquis ran an arm around Charmaine’s shoulders, hefting their son Mason on his other arm.
“Who you callin’ honky?” Rafe’s hand snagged forward, and he honked Marquis’s nose.
Mason chuckled. Charmaine threw her head back with a laugh. I shook my head, smiling as Marquis darted off to race Rafe across the field.
Over the next two hours the men horsed around and roughhoused in the bright July sunshine. I didn’t even care they were screwing around. It was Sunday after all. Should’ve been their day off, but there were no days off in this game. They put up with long hours, grueling workouts, and time away from families 24-7.
Meanwhile I passed out popsicles and juice pouches, ref’d a scrimmage between the kids, and wondered what my life could’ve been like when I watched Charmaine rush up to Marquis for a very public display of affection that made all the other guys on the team whistle like construction workers.
Apparently parenthood hadn’t dampened Marquis’s and Charmaine’s mojo one single bit.
At that point Coach D blew the final whistle, giving up on getting anyone’s head in the game. Pretty much nobody cared. Not even me. Family was more important than football—at least one day a week.
Against my better judgment—because I had very few scruples left where Rafe was concerned—I ambled up to the man as he mopped sweat from his face while downing an entire bottle of water in a single go.
“So, which one is yours?” I jokingly asked.
“Well . . .” He peered toward the group of kids, rubbing a finger over his bottom lip.
My heart sank so fast I felt faint. Never in my wildest dreams had I thought he’d had a child with some other woman.
With a loud holler, he beckoned a girl over. And I should’ve known, of course I should’ve. With her black hair in a braid and green eyes positively alight with excitement, she was unmistakably from Rafe’s more than generous gene pool.
“And who's this?” Unwanted pain nearly stole my voice as I plastered a smile on my face.
“Peyton meet Liv. Liv this is Peyton. My big boss,” he stage-whispered. “Liv is my kid sister.”
Relief sweeping through me, I almost sank to my knees. “Your sister?”
“One and only.” He looked so proud, deep dimples struck into his cheeks.
Liv vigorously pumped my extended hand. “If I can’t play for the NFL when I grow up, I wanna own a team just like you, Miss Peyton.”
With that she scurried away, leaving me to stare up at Rafe. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and sweat made his thick hair slightly more wavy than usual. He smelled of heat and all things manly.
I snagged my eyes from his. “And
she has perfect manners too?”
He shook his head in an aw shucks gesture. “Well, I try to train her, but not sure she got those from me.”
“She’s very pretty.”
“And precocious.”
“That might be a family trait.”
“Ya think?” He winked.
“Seems you’re the only one who got landed with the arrogance though.”
“Aw, c’mon.” He bumped his shoulder against mine, too charming for his own good.
I turned back to the tot-sized action on the field. “And you take care of her?”
“Yeah. I get her for a couple months in the summer and whenever there’s a school break that fits my schedule. Kind of a big brother/father figure thing to help my mom out, you know?”
“What about your dad?”
“He died in a car accident not long after Liv was born.” He shot me a sad smile, one that didn’t crest his forest green eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Rafe.” I touched his arm, and that gentle caress zinged right through me.
“Yeah. Me too. But I definitely grew up. A man is supposed to take care of his family, you know?”
My throat clogged with sudden tears. Yes, he is.
“She’s a great kid anyway. Probably because she hasn’t quite hit puberty yet.” He chuckled in the same deep tone that always made my stomach clench.
“Well, I’m impressed.” Very impressed and inexplicably drawn to him even more.
How was it he’d just become even more desirable?
“I’m not what you thought I was, huh?”
“Not entirely. Sorry. I guess that’s one of the hazards of being a woman surrounded by athletes and sports spin-doctors all the time.”
We stood side-by-side, bound together by a silence filled with mutual respect and that ever-growing, never-ending attraction.
Rafe finally glanced at me, and his voice deepened. “What about you though? How are you holding up?”
“Me?”
“Yeah. I mean, after your dad passed away. I should’ve stopped by.” He shrugged. “Made sure you were okay.”
His sincerity prompted another batch of unbidden tears to my eyes. I discreetly wiped at them, and Rafe placed himself between me and the team to shield me for privacy.