Free Baller: An Off-limits, Sports Romance (Bad Boy Ballers Book 2)

by Rie Warren

  In fact, my legs were still shaking, my knees still weak, a few mornings later when he dropped me off at my apartment after hard days of practice and longer nights filled with lovemaking. He rushed around the hood of the truck, a definite strut in his step, a grin on his suckable lips. Opening my door, he planted a smoldering kiss—deep and long—on my mouth. I couldn’t get over how passionate he was, how touchy-feely as he pulled away, taking my hand in his.

  Propelling me from the truck, he kissed the top of my head. “So I’ll see you at the game later, right?”

  “Of course you will. It’s my game too.” I squeezed his hand that totally engulfed mine.

  He walked me up the steps and started backing me against the wall when I spotted a package wedged between the outer and storm doors of my apartment.

  I opened the door, and the padded envelope dropped to the floor. Unexpected package . . . familiar handwriting.

  “Expecting a delivery?” Brooklyn asked when I loosened my grip from his.

  “No.” I swallowed through a dry throat, instant cold terror blooming.

  Quickly retrieving the envelope, I shoved it into my bag.

  “Y’okay?” Brooklyn took my keys and opened the inner door for me. His fingers brushed against my cheek.

  I braved a smile that felt hollow on my lips. “Perfect. So I’ll see you later.”

  Pushing up, I gave him a small kiss then hurried inside. As soon as he stepped off the little porch, I shut the door and hit all the locks.

  Rushing through my one-bedroom place, I quickly checked all the windows and the back door. No signs of forced entry, and all the windows and doors bolted.

  Trembling again, for an entirely different reason, I threw my bag on the sofa, glaring as the envelope tumbled from inside. I waged a silent standoff with the damn thing, pacing back and forth. I refused to let him get to me again.

  Jaw set, I ripped the package open. A prepaid cell phone fell into my hands with a note in Eric’s recognizable scrawl:

  I’ll be in touch.

  With a murderous scream, I smashed the phone beneath my boot, stomping it again and again until the plastic surrounding it crackled then the cell phone turned into nothing more than broken bits and wires.

  I slipped down to the floor, head cradled in my hands. I wouldn’t fall apart. I would not let the damn tears flood my eyes again.

  And I flat out refused to run from the life I’d worked so hard creating.

  No matter how determined I was to stay strong, I spent the rest of the day looking over my shoulder. During the drive to Crush stadium, I checked the rearview mirror constantly. I was extra vigilant, walking from my car into the complex of buildings.

  Suited up and on the sidelines where we’d watch the first half of Carolina Crush vs. New York Dragons before our turn at halftime, the only thing that had taken my mind off the lurking sensation of being watched was Brooklyn. By losing the throwing competition during practice his punishment was the ultimate in humiliation.

  “Oh hell yeah!” Raquel jumped to her feet when Brooks popped his hips to and fro, sashaying into the arena . . . in the middle of the Crush cheerleaders.

  “Let’s just hope his balls don’t fall out of his spangly booty shorts,” Lourdes exclaimed.

  I nearly choked, laughing so hard when he got into position nearly in front of us. They had to have tailored the scanty uniform to fit his huge frame. His cut abs clearly delineated beneath the crop top, his thick muscular thighs bulking from the short shorts, his swelling shoulders and mountainous biceps strained the seams of the top.

  He wore red lipstick, fake eyelashes, and black streaks on his cheeks. So, so wrong. And so, so funny.

  He looked completely out of place, but as “My House” by Flo Rida blasted from the speakers, he’d clearly boned up on the moves.

  He shook his hips in perfect time. Performed high kicks, his arms strung through the other cheerleaders with him in the center of the line. He pumped his booty all the way down to a deep squat when the drumbeat intensified.

  I was impressed, laughing hysterically until my tummy hurt.

  I whistled, winking at him as he got his cheerleader groove on, shaking his pom poms and playing up the crowd. He shimmied, shook, strutted his sexy stuff.

  “Bring it, Brooks!” Sammy hooted.

  Fans stomped to their feet, “Baller! Baller! Baller!”

  “Baller’s damn right.” Raquel leered, her gaze roaming to my man’s groin.

  With a last swivel of his hips, he blew a kiss at me then attempted a split. He was probably incapable of spreading his legs all the way to the ground because of the size of his package. The uniform stretched to the limits, and thank God for his jockstrap, or he’d really be giving everyone the show of the century.

  Swanning off the field, he tossed his head. More peals of laughter exploded from me.

  His teammates—especially Rafe from what I knew about their friendship—were bound to razz him so hard when they caught the replay action of Brooks doing his groove thing with the Crush cheerleaders.

  I didn’t feel so lighthearted after his performance. When the game began, the Dragons winning the coin toss, tension sneaked along my shoulders and settled at the nape of my neck like a hundred needles pricking my skin. So distracted, I spent the first two quarters scanning the thousands of faces. I didn’t even realize Carolina Crush was losing by seven points until the shrill whistle signaled halftime.

  I guzzled water, buckled my helmet, and watched Brooklyn run off field. He shook his head, listening to something Rafe said to him.

  “Something wrong with su novio tonight?” Lourdes queried.

  “Huh? No.” I flexed my fingers, waiting for the refs to give us the go ahead to take the field for our own brand of badass football.

  “Did you even see his plays?” Sammy huddled up next to me.

  “Did I miss something?”

  “Yeah. You missed Brooklyn missing two passes. First time all season.”

  Great. Another thing to worry about.

  After we were announced, we strode onto the turf. Roars shuddered down my spine from our own fans showing up in force for a mere twelve-minute exhibition.

  The thrill shot through my extremities, but the thought lingered—Eric could be in the stands, too.

  I was off the mark from my first shot drilled down the field toward Lourdes. Intercepted by the Nashville Naiads, I cursed at myself. Eric was digging inside my head again already.

  The next minutes passed in a blur. I fucked up throw after throw. Finally rushing yards because I couldn’t trust my hands or my concentration anymore.

  We walked to the sidelines, dejected. We’d scored only one touchdown against Nashville’s three during the fast-action show.

  “Hey.” Raquel shouldered up to me and patted my ass. “It was just a friendly, right?”

  “This time.” I slammed my helmet onto a bench and plunked down.

  Carolina Cougars was on the way to taking the Artemis League Cup, but not if I couldn’t keep my head together. Not if I couldn’t get Eric completely out of my life.

  “Looks like Brooks isn’t the only one off his game tonight.” Sammy frowned.

  “You catch something sleeping with him?” Lourdes asked.

  “And she ain’t talking about an STD.” Sammy sandwiched between Raquel and me.

  “But he’s wrapping it, si? Because you know his reputation.” Lourdes butted in right where she wasn’t welcome.

  “Stop!” I stormed to my feet, my temper frazzled to the last little bit. “You’re the ones who pushed me at Brooklyn in the first place.” All the anger inside seethed to the surface, and I rounded on my girls. “Just . . . shut up!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hunted. Haunted.

  Delaney

  MY FISTS BALLED. MY adrenaline rushed. I scanned the crowd again then looked down at my feet.

  I didn’t want to be this person. The one Eric made me become—scared, lost, and defen
seless . . . paranoid.

  Blowing out a huge breath, I sat back down as Carolina Crush rushed on field. “I’m sorry about that shit performance against the Naiads, but you guys don’t know what you’re talking about. What I’m dealing with.”

  “Hon, what’s wrong?” Sammy slung an arm around my shoulders.

  “We didn’t mean to throw shade at you. You’re a rockstar, Laney.” Slipping her arm around my waist, Raquel leaned in.

  “Laney?” Lourdes crouched in front of me.

  “I can’t talk about it. Just . . . let’s just watch the rest of the game.” I sent a small wave to Brooklyn, hoping he wasn’t beset by the same nerves as me, although he had no reason to suspect Eric was in town.

  Then I saw Rafe with Peyton. Their heads bent together as they studied the playbook then . . . lifting up his helmet and chin guard, he hugged her tight and kissed her smack on the lips. She shoved him away, laughing, before she swatted him on the ass and back into play.

  I wished it could be that simple between Brooklyn and me.

  Fifteen minutes later it wasn’t a game. It was a straight-up slaughter of the sort Carolina Crush had become known for last season. Fail all over the place.

  Bad luck followed me everywhere. Eric infected everything he touched. Maybe it poisoned Brooks, too.

  From down the sideline he shot me smiles I couldn’t return. On the field he began screwing up more.

  During a timeout, Coach D shoved at his chest. “You wanna ride the bench the rest of this season?”

  “No, sir!”

  “Then get back in and complete a play already. This team depends on you as much as Macintyre!”

  Thumping his chest, Brooks raced onto the trodden turf. He completed the next pass—a drill down to the end zone, a catch from over forty yards—for a touchdown, keeping Crush in the seven-point deficit behind the NY Dragons.

  I rushed to my feet, finally paying attention to what mattered. Me. Brooklyn. Our teams. The game. My new life.

  He blew me a kiss as he reached the benches.

  Wisely, Sammy, Raquel, and the others kept their mouths shut although they saw that action for sure.

  Entering the fourth quarter, Crush tied thanks to an incredible score by Calder Malone—the underdog of the NFL world. But they couldn’t hang on, and the Dragons made another mega-play that gave them a seven-point lead.

  The last minutes of Crush against the Dragons unfolded so fast I almost started biting my nails again. I sat forward, hands at my chin, body coiled as the final seconds played out.

  Now it was up to Rafe who rocketed the football from a strong arm straight toward Brooklyn.

  #43, he was open.

  Totally invested in the game, I surged up, shouting his name along with everyone else in the mile-high stands.

  Eric?

  No, I wouldn’t think about him.

  Alive in every fiber of my soul, I tugged Sammy’s hand into mine. The ball spiraled, on course.

  At the last second, one of New York’s giant defensemen plowed into Brooks. Even bowled off his feet, he stretched up, eyes on the ball. It lighted on his fingers as he rolled into the end zone. His shoulders hit ground, and his hands opened.

  The ball knocked free and half a second after the final whistle blew, crazed Dragons fans pounded from their seats.

  The sizzling win by the New York Dragons—the first Carolina Crush defeat of the season—had to weigh heavily on Brooklyn, who went through all the postgame BS as only a truly humble man could.

  He shook hands. Slapped asses. Smiled and gave face time to the sports channels—reporters shoving mics in his face.

  The whole time he sought me out with his gaze pinpointed on me.

  Rushed off the field by our coach, I showered and dressed, dejected. My phone chimed, and Raquel tossed it to me as she toweled her hair.

  “Hot date?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “You want to talk about this trouble?” Fluffing out her tight curls, she peered at me through the mirror.

  “Not tonight, sweetie.” I checked my phone, releasing a slow breath.

  Brooklyn. Thank God.

  Gate 4. Ten minutes?

  Through the dimmed corridors, shadows chased me. I hurried to the destination, hating the frightened feeling that crept up my back.

  I opened the door, and Brooklyn stood there. Tall, strong, sweet as could be and strapping at the same time.

  He took my bag, and I laid my hand against his bearded cheek. “Your first loss of the season.”

  “Not a total loss.” Those full firm lips curved before he bent his head.

  His soft, moist kiss obliterated my worries the second his talented tongue rolled against my mouth.

  “How so?” I drew back, my hands on his chest where his heartbeat pounded.

  “Won you, didn’t I?” He towed me into the darkened parking lot, stopping beside my car. “Maybe we could come back and pick this up tomorrow?” Brooks cupped my ass. “I’d like to drive you home.”

  “Home?”

  “My home.” The corner of his jaw clenched, heat pouring off him.

  I chewed on my lip.

  “What?” He tilted my chin up.

  “Nothing.” But my gaze darted around the parking lot.

  “You’ve been off all day.”

  “So were you.”

  “Worried. I guess.” Pulling a hand from me, he rubbed along his jaw. “Come home with me, Delaney. Please.”

  I nodded, and he handed me up into his Ford. The same truck his grandfather used to drive. I knew—in my gut—Brooks was one of the good ones.

  I needed him tonight. I’d be safe at his house.

  Safe with him.

  As he put the pickup into gear I teased, “What was that about the sex before a game myth again?”

  “Yeah. But I don’t have a game tomorrow, so . . .” His hooded eyes, his predatory smile, the hand he draped onto my thigh with a light squeeze all announced his plans for the night. “Rematch.”

  “Is that your romantic way of telling me you want to take me to bed?”

  “I don’t think we’re gonna make it to the bed.” Hitting the gas pedal, he gunned the engine.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Balls to the Wall

  Brooklyn

  BEST WAY TO GET over a game I’d royally fucked up? Take Delaney home for a night of hot lovin’. She wore a slight frown, though, as I drove through the downtown traffic heading for Mt. Pleasant and beyond.

  “Something wrong? You acted a little strange when you saw that package this morning.”

  “What?” She pulled her gaze to mine. “No. Nothing. Just . . . you know we lost too during halftime.”

  “We can massage each other’s egos then.” I grinned.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s not the only thing you want to massage.”

  Barking out a laugh, I tried not to leer at the woman. She’d showered back in the Cougar’s locker room and her long black hair curled slightly at the ends. I didn’t think she wore perfume, but she had her own scent—something a little bit spicy and warm. And don’t even get me started on Delaney Jones, QB, on the field in her somewhat revealing uniform. I loved watching her in action, muscles straining, flesh glistening with fresh sweat, all steamy and just plain hot.

  I wondered if she’d let me fuck her with the sexy uniform on someday.

  Yup. I was delusional for Delaney.

  By the time we got to my house, I’d teased myself with enough thoughts of everything I wanted to do to her body I knew for sure we weren’t making it to the bedroom. And that time I hoped she wasn’t hungry because the only thing I planned on feeding her was my cock, the raging beast that throbbed at the idea.

  When I opened the door for her, I just stood there, staring.

  “Something wrong?” She swung her legs around, her darkening golden gaze roaming to mine.

  “Let you in on a little secret.” My voice gravelly, I braced my hands against the top of the tru
ck and leaned forward. “My cock’s so stiff I’m having trouble walking, forget about thinking about what I’m supposed to do next besides get you naked and fast.”

  Biting her bottom lip, she dragged a hand up the inside of my thigh. I pushed my hips forward, and she cupped the rigid length forming a long roll inside my pants.

  “Damn.” I grunted, my cock lurching in her hold. “Goddamn. Tryin’ to make me come right here?”

  “Feels like it wouldn’t take much.” Kissing the side of my neck, right below my beard, Delaney skimmed light fingertips over the head of my shaft.

  Warm precome pulsed from my cock.

  Ripping her hand free with a curse, I pulled her out of the truck. She laughed, a brazen smoky sound. Then she squealed when I tossed her up over my shoulder in a fireman hold and booted the truck door shut.

  “Brooks!”

  “What?” I muttered, taking the deep porch steps two at a time.

  “You’re going to drop me!”

  “Not likely.” With one hand, I swatted her ass.

  She squirmed, but I held her securely, quickly unlocking the door.

  Booted that one shut too as soon as we were inside.

  I didn’t stop until we were in the living room where the huge windows opened to the waterfront view. The moon shone, the stars sparkled, the sky was coal black—as black as Delaney’s hair swinging around her shoulders and down her back when I set her on her feet in the middle of the floor.

  Wrapping one hand around the nape of her neck, I lunged down. Her lips parted on a soft gasp, and I thrust my tongue inside. She curled hers around mine, her hands landing on my back, slipping down to my ass.

  Greedy for her, I jerked her against me harder. The wet chase of tongues slinking from her mouth to mine. Keeping her pressed tight to me, I rocked against her, lifting her higher until my cock butted her belly.

  Hungry for her, I pulled back, cursing. Staring at her with starving eyes, I watched her tits strain against the soft fabric of her shirt. The nipples clearly outlined.

  “You ever wear a bra?”

  “Are you complaining?”

  In answer, I raised the hem, revealing her tummy then the undersides of her tits. As soon as the peaks appeared, I latched onto one, caressing the other soft dome in the palm of my hand.