by Max Monroe
“Hell of a throw, QB!” I exclaimed, and he laughed, lifting his arm in the air for a fiver. We slapped palms loudly, and Coach Bennett blew the whistle again to get our attention.
“Hell of a catch,” Quinn congratulated back, making sure to give me glory where glory was due.
“Razzle Dazzle, motherfuckers,” I agreed with a laugh.
Quinn grinned, and we headed for the sidelines.
As we jogged across the field to grab some water and regroup, I caught sight of the pint-sized, sexy as fuck woman standing beside one of her camera guys.
Her gaze was focused directly on me, and a secondary wave of satisfaction rushed through my body. She made a big show of acting like I was the last thing on her mind, but that didn’t change the facts now. She was watching closely, and she was aiming at me.
It’s only a matter of time, I mused. Only a matter of time before sexy Six Malone is mine to devour.
“All right, boys,” Coach announced inside the huddle of our entire team. “Since I’m happy with what we’ve accomplished today, and you’ve been playing your asses off, I’m giving you the rest of the night off, and I’m even letting you sleep in. Be back here tomorrow at noon.”
The cheers that accompanied his words were damn near deafening.
“But…” He held up both hands. “If you guys come back tomorrow and look like dog shit warmed over, you can guaran-fucking-tee this will never happen again.”
“That means no drinking,” QB chimed in, and his eyes met everyone’s before he looked back to Coach.
Always the mother hen of our team, Quinn was a leader through and through. And it was a known fact you couldn’t get shit past him.
“What about eating?” Martinez asked on a shout, and Coach just grinned.
“Of course, you’re concerned about food.”
“You gotta eat big to be this strong and powerful, Coach B,” Teeny retorted. “If anything, you should be thanking me.”
“Yeah,” Coach responded through a chuckle. “The only thing I’m thankful for is that I don’t have to foot the bill to feed you.”
Martinez was a beast. There was no denying that.
But it wasn’t fat. It was one-hundred percent muscle. His power, his strength, was what kept our star quarterback protected inside the pocket.
In my opinion, Teeny could eat as much as he fucking wanted as long as he kept playing the way he did.
“All right,” Coach said with a grin. “Go home, take a load off. Someone make sure Teeny gets his tenth meal of the day, and I’ll see you back here tomorrow.”
As the team parted ways, I stayed back to chat with Bailey and Mitchell while I guzzled a bottle of water.
It didn’t take long for Martinez to make his way over to us, a big old grin on his face. “Which of you ladies is taking me to dinner tonight?” he asked, and I chuckled.
“I’ll be your date, Teeny, but only if we hit up that little Mexican restaurant across from the stadium.”
“Cancun’s?” he asked, and if it was possible, his grin got wider.
“Yep.”
“Oh, hell yeah!” he cheered. “Count me in. I haven’t had their chicken enchiladas in a long-ass time.”
I looked at Quinn and Mitchell. “You guys wanna go?”
Quinn shrugged. “Cat’s out of town on a work trip, so, yeah, sure. Count me in.”
“You’re so whipped it’s not even funny,” I teased, but he just grinned. He apparently liked the sting of leather.
“Thank you.”
“Nice practice, boys.” An all-too-familiar voice filled my ears, and I turned to find Six, without her camera guy, walking toward us.
“Thanks, little lady,” Teeny accepted the compliment with literal open arms and a smile. And before she could stop him, he picked her straight up off the ground and tossed her over his shoulder.
My stomach tensed at the sight. And I wasn’t sure if it was out of fear he’d drop her or the fact that she was in his arms and not mine.
“Oh, dear God!” she squealed. “Put me down, you big sweaty man!”
He just laughed and turned around so Six’s face was looking toward us.
“Having fun?” Quinn asked, and she rolled her eyes.
“A little help would be nice, you know.”
“I’ll help,” I chimed in. “But only if you agree to come eat dinner with us tonight.”
“What are you guys eating?”
I waggled my eyebrows. “Only the best fucking tacos and enchiladas you’ll ever taste in your life.”
“Meh,” she said with a shrug of her little shoulders. “I think I’ll pass.”
“Oh, come on!” Teeny bellowed and, eventually, put her on her feet. “I won’t take no for an answer, little sister.”
She smiled up at the big brute of a man. “Well…okay…maybe… But only if you ask nicely.”
Teeny got down on one knee and took her left hand into his. “Please, pretty little Six Malone, come eat dinner with me and these other bastards who don’t really matter.”
Her smile grew. “All right, count me in.”
Wait a minute…she said no to me, but yes to Teeny?
What the fuck?
As everyone filed off the field in the direction of showers, I watched on from behind as fucking Martinez finalized our dinner plans with Six.
Quinn wrapped an arm around my shoulder, and I looked over to find him smirking like the devil. “I think he stole your girl,” he whispered, and I shrugged him off with a laugh.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I bet it stings a little being the third wheel and all,” he feigned sympathy and patted my shoulder. “It’ll be okay, buddy. Promise.”
“Just for that, you’re buying my dinner,” I retorted. Quinn just shrugged.
“Hey, anything to make you feel better.” He winked and walked through the locker room doors first, but not before he tossed over his shoulder, “I got your back, boo.”
Fucking Bailey, the shit stirrer.
Tacos and enchiladas at Cancun’s had turned into watching Game of Thrones and eating takeout from Styrofoam containers at Martinez’s house.
All occurring on Quinn’s suggestion and insistence.
When it came to the famous quarterback of the Mavericks, he stayed true to his leadership role, on and off the field. Even if that meant keeping his boys out of a Mexican restaurant where pitchers of margaritas and tequila shots might have been too damn tempting to avoid.
At first, I’d been disappointed by the turn of events. The idea of watching Sean surreptitiously seemed easier in a public place than during a quiet night at one of the players’ houses. There were distractions, both alcoholic and otherwise, at a restaurant, and if I got really creepy, I could blame it on bad beef and make a getaway through the bathroom.
As it was, I figured people would notice if I jettisoned in a hurry.
But it’d been better than expected, and I had a feeling it was all of the laid-back, sexy-times vibes in the air.
Those vibes were probably more related to me—more like, my obsession with Jason Momoa—than the guys, but I sure as fuck didn’t care.
I was late to the Game of Thrones’ party, but holy moly, after watching Khal Drogo and Khaleesi together for one episode, I’d officially added a new series to my must binge-watch list. It was hot. It was tender. I was willing to let Jason Momoa defile me in all fifty states and the District of Columbia.
Hopped up on what I would forever refer to as Momoa-itis, I pulled out my phone to send a quick text message to my long-distance besties, Sam and Everly.
Normally, I would’ve logged in to my private YouCam account and sent them a long diatribe revolving around the one million reasons why they needed to watch Game of Thrones. But considering I was currently sitting inside a house full of football players, one of whom’s penis I feared I might talk about specifically, I figured it’d be safest to keep my conversation to text.
O
ur group chat was only three spots down, just below my mom and dad.
With one tap of my index finger, I was in like Flynn.
Me: Why haven’t one of you fuckers told me about Game of Thrones? Are we not really friends? Is our friendship an elaborate hallucination on my part?
About a minute later, my phone vibrated in my hands with a response. I smiled.
Everly: At least one thousand people have told me I need to watch it, but I haven’t. I’m just as in the dark as you are. Or were. And no, getting drunk in Cancun and almost getting thrown in Mexican jail WAS NOT an illusion. I can only assume that means our friendship is real.
Me: Oh. My. God. How many times have I told you NOT to bring up Mexico? He seemed like he was propositioning me, okay? I didn’t know he was a cop and all he wanted was for me to calm down.
I shuddered at the memory and typed out another message.
Me: Anyway, we’re done talking about that. Right now, we’re talking about Game of Thrones and how much YOU NEED TO WATCH IT. Do it. Do it now.
Everly: Geez. Bossy, much? Some of us can’t just drop everything and watch Game of Thrones.
Me: Shut up and listen. You will fall madly in love with Khal Drogo. Who, by the way, is played by Jason Momoa.
Everly: Jason Momoa? Fuck, Six. How many times do I have to tell you to lead off with the important information? What channel is that shit on?
Me: I’m rolling my eyes at you for asking about a “channel.” That’s so two years ago. You can STREAM it on HBO Now. Ask your hot brother for help.
Everly: STOP CALLING MY BROTHER HOT.
A hearty, raspy, sexy laugh sounded across the room and pulled my attention from the text message screaming match with Everly.
Standing by a high-top table next to the pool table, Sean was laughing and backslapping with a couple of guys I recognized from the practice squad.
More and more guys had been arriving with each minute that passed, a turn of events Mother Hen Quinn had no control over, and the lower level of Martinez’s house was filling up fast. I wiggled into the white leather of Martinez’s basement sectional and tried to blend into the material.
Sudden and powerful, Sean’s gaze found mine and held it.
Fuck, I don’t think the blending is working.
Instinctually, I wanted to avert my eyes, but it was too late to save face. I’d already been caught in the act, gawking at him like a fool.
He smirked and then winked, and I rolled my eyes in response.
The fucker. I kind of hated how fucking attractive he was. How well he carried the weight of his big-ass ego and how I couldn’t stop looking at him.
My phone could apparently sense my distress. With a wiggle and a vibration, it danced in my hands and called my attention back.
Sammy: My ears are ringing from all the yelling the two of you have been doing about hot brother and Mexico.
Me: Don’t bring up Mexico!
Everly: My brother is NOT hot.
Sammy: You’re both in denial. Maybe that’s why I didn’t tell you about Game of Thrones. As punishment.
Quickly, my mind refocused on my new Game of Thrones fandom, and I typed out a message.
Me: You’ve been watching this shit and never told me?! I don’t know if we can be friends anymore.
Sammy was shameless.
Sammy: Yep. I’ve seen all seven seasons, and I’m desperately waiting for the eighth. It’s so freaking good!
Me: I no longer love you, Sammy. I’m transferring everything I once felt for you to Jason Momoa. He’s much more deserving. Khal Drogo and his beautiful Khalessi. Sigh. They make my little heart pitter-patter with all the fucking feels.
Sammy: HAHA. Too bad you don’t love me anymore. If you did, I might be willing to save you from heartbreak.
Me: What? What are you saying, Sammy?
Sammy: How many episodes have you seen?
Me: Like, two and half. Why????
Sammy: No reason. Just wondering.
Everly: Isn’t Game of Thrones known for killing off like every-fucking-one?
My eyes popped wide of their own accord.
Hold the fucking phone…
Me: Oh. My. God. Sammy… Does Drogo die?!?!?
Sammy: …
I jumped from the couch violently and screamed. All eyes came to me.
“Oh. Whoops. No worries, guys.”
Everyone but Sean laughed it off and turned back to their regularly scheduled programming. I could feel the weight of his eyes on me, though, long after I sat back down on the couch and moved my focus back to my phone.
Me: Thanks a lot, hooker. Now the Mavericks think I’m a psychopath.
Everly: They don’t already think that?
Sammy: It was only a matter of time.
Me: You’re both assholes.
Sammy: I’m sorry, but are you seriously texting us about Game of Thrones right now? While you’re hanging out with the Mavericks?!
I furrowed my brow and tapped my fingers across the keypad.
Me: Is that a bad thing?
Everly: Consider this text conversation over. It is now time for Six to be a normal human being and go mingle with the sexy AF football gods.
Sammy: Yep. Agreed. We will resume our GoT conversation another time.
Six: GUYS! Don’t be dicks. I need to know more details! I mean, does Drogo die? Tell me he doesn’t die, Sammy! I don’t know what I’ll do if he dies!
But my desperation didn’t matter. My friends gave zero fucks.
Everly: Let us live vicariously through you. Go have some goddamn fun with the freaking Mavericks!
Me: Live vicariously through me? What exactly does that entail?
Everly: I think you should experience at least one of the penises you managed to see several weeks ago. And, personally, if I were you, I’d be calling dibs on Sean Phillips.
Of course, she just had to mention him.
I mean, there were only approximately one million players on the team, and still, Everly mentioned the one man I was bound and determined to stay the fuck away from.
Me: He’s a total manwhore.
Everly: Which means he’d be absolutely perfect for a no-strings-attached hookup. You talk like you’re Mother Teresa.
Sammy: Plus, you’ve already seen his penis. You’ll know how many jaw exercises to do prior to your rendezvous.
She had a point. But I refused to let it become anything of substance inside my stubborn brain.
Me: Gah. All this penis pressure. You guys are the worst best friends ever.
Sammy: Love you! Bye, Six!
Everly: Stop thinking about Game of freaking Thrones and go enjoy yourself! Anyway, we all know it’s been a while… Your vagina needs a cleanout.
Six: My vagina isn’t fucking old and crusty.
I waited for their rebuttal, but it never came.
After a good minute of staring at the screen had gone by, I gave in and sent them a text message.
Six: GUYS. Come back. Please?
Six: EVERLY…SAMMY…COME BACK!
Six: Hello?
Six: God, you’re such bitches.
I knew from experience, when they ended a group chat for the night, they meant business. No doubt, they wouldn’t respond until tomorrow.
And that would most likely be to ask me if I’d managed to get down and dirty with a Maverick.
My old, cobweb-filled vagina tingled at the thought.
Goddammit.
With a heavy sigh, I finally threw in the towel and shoved my phone back into my side pocket, dug my body out of the butter of the couch, and occupied my time by watching as Quinn and Cam played a game of pool. All the while, my mind couldn’t stop thinking about what my stupid best friends had ridiculously suggested.
Hooking up with Sean Phillips?
What a terrible fucking idea…right?
“Uh oh, Mitchell,” Quinn teased after he missed his first shot of five. With only one solid and the eight-ball left, the odds of a w
in were looking pretty damn good from where he stood. “Looks like you better shit or get off the pot.”
Cam chuckled, then flashed a quick glare. “Slow your roll, QB Pie. I’m only a few shots behind you.”
I giggled at the nickname. “QB Pie?” Cam smiled triumphantly.
“Georgia Brooks gave him that one. Personally, I think we should use it more often.”
“Pretty sure she calls you Hammy Cammy,” Quinn chimed in, and I giggled some more.
“And what does she call Sean?” I found myself asking. It didn’t matter what lies I told myself on the regular—my interest in the cocky son of a bitch was potent.
“The man. The king. The dual threat.” A deep, raspy, sexy as fuck voice whispered into my ear.
I turned my head, tucking my chin into the hollow of my shoulder to look back at him.
“Are you sure those aren’t just your nicknames for yourself?”
“She calls him Sealami Roll-ups,” Cam kindly added before leaning down into the table and lining up his next shot.
Sealami Roll-ups as in Salami Roll-ups?
His Georgia-given nickname literally revolved around meat.
Which, recalling the size of his…yeah…that…it was quite ironic.
I bit my lip to fight my perverted giggles, but I couldn’t swipe the grin from my face.