Pick Six

by Max Monroe

  “So, what do you say, Mr. Manwhore?” I pushed, taking it to another level by questioning his manhood. “You man enough to play with us?”

  He laughed at that. “Honey, I’m always man enough. Count me in.”

  Always man enough? I wavered for a second, but his penis was the prover. I’d have to agree.

  “I’ll go first,” I announced, more than willing to be the belle of the ball. I wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol telling my brain that they were entertained by me or if it was real-life, but that was the thing about alcohol—it ensured that you gave zero fucks. “Who would be most likely to be called Mr. Manwhore?” I questioned with a grin the size of Texas. “Okay…one…two…three…go!”

  Even Sean pointed to himself, a sexy smirk engaging the almost dimple in his plush cheek. High and cut but still filled with flesh, his cheeks were something to be envied by fashion models around the world.

  “Looks like someone gets to take four drinks!” I cheered, and Sean chuckled.

  “You play dirty, sweetheart.”

  I shrugged. “You mess with the bull, and you get the horns, buddy.”

  “Did you just quote The Breakfast Club?” Quinn asked with a raise of his brow, and I nodded—several times, in fact.

  Wow. My brain feels a little swimmy.

  I fought the nausea and won. “You bet your QB ass, I did. It’s only one of the best movies ever made.” I clapped my hands together. “All right! Who’s going next?”

  “I call dibs.” Martinez lifted his beer and took a quick drink. “Who is most likely to have a crazy fucking sister named Cassie Phillips?”

  I giggled. Sean sighed. Both Quinn and Cat burst into laughter. And then, on the count of three, we all pointed toward Sean again.

  By the fifth round of Most Likely, Sean had been the punch line to nearly every teasing question, and I loved every single minute of it.

  I loved his sighs. And the number of drinks he had to consume. And the way his mouth would crest into the sexiest little smirk just before he lifted the beer to his perfect, full lips…

  Wait…what?

  Fuck, what time is it? And how many beers have I had?

  I glanced at the clock above the bar and noted that it was nearly half past midnight. Oh my God! My carriage is a pumpkin!

  I laughed aloud as I realized that was Cinderella.

  A quick count of the beers on the table took me to a number I could no longer comprehend, and the answer, no matter my foggy mind, became clear.

  It was time to make my grand departure and head back up to my room and get some sleep. If I stayed down here, trying to drink with men three times my size, it was highly likely I’d end up sloppy and slurring—more so than I already was.

  “All right,” I announced and proceeded to stand up on the booth, grabbing the attention of the other ten or so Mavericks players still left at the bar. “Before I call it a night, I’d like to propose a toast!”

  Martinez cheered me on from our booth while a few of the Mavericks sitting at the bar turned on their barstools and gave me their undivided and amused attention.

  “This is a toast to winners. My favorite winners. The men who have started this season off with a bang, the motherfucking New York Mavericks!”

  I received several hoots and hollers in response, and it only fueled my tipsy fire.

  And just before I dove headfirst into the meat and potatoes of my toast, I glanced down at Sean Phillips, who was now sitting right beside my feet, and I smirked.

  Yeah. Now is the most perfect time to use some of his “inspirational” words.

  “Any team you guys face will be in trouble. They’ll be yours without a fight, that’s for sure. Because when you really turn it on, no one can resist or deny the fact that you are fucking champions! Cheers to the Mavericks! The best goddamn football team in the world!”

  Mind running on overdrive, I listened to the ending words of Six’s tipsy congratulations speech with my hand frozen around my beer and a hard jaw. Most of the words she’d used had been ones I’d heard before—specifically, when they’d been coming out of my own mouth—and the amount of time it took me to realize was embarrassingly short.

  They were instantly recognizable.

  The truth was I’d used them more than once, more than about Six, and the taste of their tone felt horrendously rotten when they were coming out of someone else’s mouth.

  Shit.

  She raised her glass, hard, challenging eyes on me, but I stared up at her, refusing to wilt. The thing about being a member of the Phillips family was that you sometimes put your foot in your mouth. You said things that felt good in the moment, and you owned them completely. You said what you said, no matter the shittiness, and you couldn’t take them back.

  That didn’t mean I couldn’t attempt to make up for them.

  Knowing I’d committed a wrong against a person who didn’t deserve it, I tried to meld my face into something of an apology, but her acceptance wasn’t there.

  She knocked back the last of her drink and set it gently on our table before climbing out of the booth. She waved her goodbyes, a small smile curving one corner of her mouth with false sincerity, and moved toward the front entrance of the bar.

  The rest of the guys were completely over her departure, Quinn especially, as he was enamored with the line of Cat’s neck.

  A twinge of unknowns rippled through me, but I pushed it aside. I knew the feeling of being skin-on-skin with a woman of Six’s physical caliber, but I’d never even attempted something with a woman of her worth.

  Not that those women hadn’t tried.

  I just didn’t want it. I was young and successful, and a career in football wouldn’t last for forever. I didn’t need a family making me homesick and pulling my focus. I didn’t need sick kids to worry about while I was away or recitals to miss.

  I needed to focus on myself, and I needed to fuck. The two of those together were like a secret recipe for success on the field. The more I philandered in my extracurricular, ahem, activities, the more big plays I made in games.

  It wasn’t a life plan likely to win me any humanitarian awards, but it sure as hell was fun.

  I shoved out of the booth and pushed past my lingering teammates as I navigated a course to follow Six and headed for the front entrance. It was crowded with fans and players alike, but I smiled politely and kept moving. Anytime anyone looked particularly eager, I told them I’d be right back, hoping to soften the disappointment of my disappearance.

  When I’d first joined the Mavericks, I hadn’t cared all that much about fan outreach. The game was about more to me than fame. It always had been.

  Something about having injured my ACL in a way that called my future in football into question had changed my respect for the opportunity to play and forced me to dive into it headfirst.

  I wanted to make big plays and enjoy myself in every game. I wanted to know how lucky I was but stay focused enough to remember it was a job. I wanted to have absolutely no regrets if an injury took me out of this life I was living tomorrow.

  But Quinn’s attention to fans had rubbed off on me. Apparently, I’d spent enough time with the bastard that it was unavoidable.

  By the time I made it out to the lobby, Six’s location was notably less obvious. I felt desperate as I searched the vast space, knowing she could be nearly anywhere by now. My eyes bounced from person to person, searching for her wild curls and tiny little body, and finally landed on her as she stood waiting at the bank of elevators just past the main lobby.

  “Six!” I yelled, calling the attention of more than just her, but achieving my objective all the same.

  She followed my voice until her eyes locked with mine, and I moved toward her quickly. My legs churned through a jog, and I made quick work of the distance, stopping mere inches from where she stood.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said and nodded, but then thought better of it and shook my head slightly. �
��Well, no… I just wanted to…”

  “You wanted to?”

  “Apologize.”

  Her perfectly shaped eyebrows rose high on her forehead. “For what, exactly?”

  “You know what,” I responded. “I know you overhead me talking to the guys that first day at the stadium.”

  She shrugged and stepped forward to press the call button for the elevators. “It’s fine.”

  “No.” I shook my head again. “It’s not fine. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “I shouldn’t have eavesdropped.”

  I smiled knowingly. “Pretty sure you were eavesdropping for a good reason, though.”

  She grinned in response. “Well, I have to admit, it was kind of hard not to when I heard my name leave your lips.”

  “I’m really sorry about that.”

  “Sorry you said those things?” she questioned and then put a defiant hand on her little hip. “Or just sorry that I heard you saying those things?”

  She didn’t back down, and she didn’t mince words. The honest challenge was so refreshing.

  “Both.”

  The elevator dinged its arrival, and my lips turned down at the corners before I could stop them. I wasn’t sure what I was disappointed about, but the emotion was strong and swirling about in my stomach.

  I stared at her pouty, pink lips for a moment too long, but I couldn’t help it.

  I wondered if they felt as soft and perfect as they looked.

  “Consider your apology accepted,” she said and took one step into the elevator. “Anyway,” she said with a shrug and dropped her voice to a sexy, silky rasp that seemed to have a dedicated path straight to my cock. “You need to understand one thing.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “You couldn’t handle me,” she whispered, and my back snapped straight.

  I couldn’t handle her?

  Fuck, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to get on my knees and worship at her feet or hop into the elevator, carry her to my room, and spend the next eight hours proving her wrong.

  She took two steps into the elevator cart, and I heard her finger tap the button for her floor.

  All the while her mesmerizing gaze stayed locked with mine.

  Just as the doors started to close, she smiled, winked, and said, “Goodnight, Sean.”

  The big metallic doors closed with a thud, and without hesitation, I fell to my knees and brought my clasped hands to my chest.

  Sure, it was over the top, but I gave zero fucks.

  I’d never in my life had a woman challenge me like Six Malone just had.

  “Dear Lord in Heaven,” I prayed. “Tell her to get ready.”

  She was going to need God on her side from here on out. A gauntlet had been thrown, and there was no turning back now.

  Get ready, Six. You’ll be mine.

  “How was Miami?” Joe asked, and I looked up from my laptop to meet his eyes. “Not gonna lie, I was a bit jealous I didn’t get to watch the Mavericks bring home another win from the sidelines.”

  I pushed out my lips into a faux pout. “Aw, does it hurt your little football-loving heart when I get to do all the fun stuff and you get stuck in the office working on video edits?”

  While I’d been in Miami last weekend, getting drunk and rowdy and telling professional football gods that they couldn’t handle me in bed—cue the red-cheeked embarrassment—Joe had been back in San Diego, working on piecing some of our early footage together. I’d invited him along, but Lisa had kept him in town to cut up her meat or something.

  We weren’t planning to post the first episode for another couple of weeks—essentially a month after filming—but a lot more editing and tweaking went into these kinds of videos than most people realized, so his having a demanding shrew for a girlfriend was actually helpful in this instance. He stayed behind and worked, and I didn’t have to be the bad guy.

  Joe was a master at altering lighting and sound and overlaying some of the coolest effects you’d ever seen. I liked to think they helped the Pick Six YouCam videos stand out in an overwhelming sea of up-and-coming stars videoing audition reels in their basement.

  “You better watch yourself,” he teased. “I hold all the power when it comes to the finalized Mavericks’ episodes. I’m sure there’s a way to Photoshop a giant wart onto your nose or alter your voice to be more screech and annoying than anything else.”

  A soft laugh left my lips, and I raised the white flag by holding my hands in the air. “Okay. Okay. No need to get vengeful.”

  I could understand his frustration, though. I mean, last weekend, I hadn’t had to sit at home with a mountain’s worth of video edits to scour through while he hung out on the sidelines and then went drinking with my football heroes.

  Though, he didn’t actually know about the drinking yet, and it was probably a good idea to keep it that way. No need to rub salt into the already open wound.

  Joe’s grin was bigger than the stadium we were currently sitting inside—good old Mavericks headquarters. We were back in the meadowlands of New Jersey, only thirty or so minutes from the Big Apple and a bit of a confusing twist on where you would think a New York team would be located, and we were prepping for another episode. They’d played another home game yesterday—and won, Go Mavericks!—but thanks to an unfortunate scheduling conflict with another segment I’d promised the San Diego Cupcakery, I hadn’t been able to be here.

  “Phillips played one hell of a game last week. Fuck, yesterday wasn’t bad either.”

  I couldn’t deny that. Hell, I didn’t even want to. The cocky fucker was single-handedly carrying my favorite fucking team toward a league championship. “If he keeps up this pace, he could very well break league records for rushing yards and touchdowns.”

  “Was that fifty-yarder he caught in the third quarter as fucking amazing from the sidelines as it was on TV?” the excited puppy formerly known as my friend asked.

  “Better,” I said with a knowing smirk, and Joe groaned.

  “Remind me again why this Pick Six partnership is beneficial for me?” he questioned, seven shades of amusement highlighting his voice. “I’m having a hard time wrapping my mind around it right now.”

  “Because it makes you a lot of money.” I fluttered my eyelashes at him. “And you have the time of your life. And there’s no one you’d rather spend all of your time staring at.” I leaned forward dramatically. “Me, by the way. I’m talking about me.”

  “Time of my life? At home? While you’re on the fucking sidelines watching my favorite team in the league?”

  “Yep.” I nodded. “Plus, I should remind you that you were invited to make the trip to Miami, but you declined.”

  “That’s because I’m currently suffering through engagement party hell,” he muttered and moved to the opposite end of the room to set up lighting. “How many parties do two people need to attend to announce their plans for marriage?”

  “As many as the lovely Lisa wants you to attend.”

  He just chuckled and shook his head. “I guess it’s a good thing I’d walk through fire for that woman.”

  My tongue rolled with the urge to point out that being with Lisa was more like being in a fire, but I stopped myself. Men didn’t make statements like that about women who didn’t give world-class head. The deep-throat had sealed her deal just as sure as she’d sealed her lips around the top of his balls.

  Before I could picture Joe’s penis—a serious casualty of my encounter with the locker room—Barry walked into the room, holding a tripod and an additional camera. Small ones, tall ones, black ones, brown ones, dicks were the only thing I seemed to be able to picture anymore.

  “Where do you want this?” he—Barry, not a penis—asked, eyes directed at Joe.

  “Let’s utilize that corner so we can have footage of both Six and the guys.”

  I nodded actively, trying to pretend I had any say in the matter. “Good plan, guys.”

  Neither of them even bothered to look
up at me.

  Fuckers.

  While they busied themselves with preparing the room, I moved my focus back to my laptop and proceeded to do a final run-through of the PowerPoint presentation I’d created for the segment we’d be filming for the series today.

  Honestly, I’d never had more fun creating a PowerPoint presentation in my life. The photos were a gold mine all their own, and the jokes I’d thought up weren’t bad either.

  The hell of learning how to create those little fuckers in college hadn’t felt so horrible once I was actually able to put those skills to use for what I had in store for four of the Mavericks’ star players.

  Lunch and Learn with the Mavs.

  Not half as serious as it sounded—fuck, not even a quarter—this short segment in our eight-episode series was sure to be filled with nothing but laughs.

  We’d found the perfect location inside one of the stadium conference rooms, and in another ten minutes or so, we’d be all ready to go.

  With both cameras set up and Joe and Barry ready to catch all of the soon-to-be footage on digital cards, I was more than ready to get this show on the road.

  As if on cue, Quinn, Sean, Cam, and Martinez strode through the doors of the room.

  “Little Six!” Martinez bellowed in amusement once his eyes met mine.

  Quinn offered a soft, amused smile. Cam nodded his arrival.

  Sean’s hazel green eyes looked at me a little too closely. His smile was too handsome. His body was too defined. His presence too damn captivating. It should’ve been illegal to look that good after a workout.

  I was lucky if I looked like a cute drowning mouse after I’d put in an hour of cardio at the gym.

  “Come on in, boys,” I greeted and pointed toward the empty seats across from me.

  “Uh oh…” Martinez nodded toward the cheeky grin on my face. “That smile looks ominous, Sixy. Should I be scared?”

  “Of course not.” Well, at least, not you, I silently added. But Sean Phillips? Yeah, he should probably be a little scared.

  Having just completed a two-hour session in the weight room, they were dressed in workout gear—sweats, T-shirts, gym shoes and had just the right amount of glistening sweat to appeal to the female contingent of my fan base.