Parker (Face-Off Series Book 1)

by Jillian Quinn

  To Jamie, I’m Charlie, the girl who helped him through the roughest years of his life, and he was and still is my rock. I’m different things to different people, and he often has trouble separating them. Many of my clients have hit on me over the years, some have been more handsy than others, and I’ve dealt with them all just fine on my own. But I do appreciate his concern.

  Jamie drops his hand to his side and shakes his head. “Just be careful around him. I saw the way he looked at you after the game. And don’t even try to lie and tell me you weren’t flirting with him. It’s not something you ever do, so don’t think I missed the way you were acting around him. Around Kane, you act like Coach, the kick-ass sports agent, and with Alex, you’re…” He bites down on his bottom lip, mulling over his next words. “You’re just not that kind of girl, is all.”

  Last night, I had Alex telling me I was different, and now, my best friend is doing the same. Jamie hasn’t judged me once since we met, and now, I’m apparently turning into that girl after one conversation he witnessed between Alex and me that lasted all of five minutes.

  “Hold that thought,” I say. I raise the whistle on the chain around my neck to my lips, blowing on it to get my team’s attention.

  The boys come to a halt. Some move faster than others as they take their positions and huddle around Jamie and me. They’re breathing heavily after the high-intensity drills, and now, I’m about to end our practice with the hardest of them all. Judging by their faces, they already know what’s coming next.

  “All right, boys. Good work out there.”

  “Tommy, you’re looking good on D. Do you have a better understanding of how man-on-man differs from zone defense now?”

  Tommy nods. “Yeah, Coach. I think so. This time, I had to guard Colin, and the last time, my spot was under the basket.”

  I pat him on the shoulder and smile. “Good. You’re doing great. All you have to remember is, protect the paint when you’re playing zone defense and guard your man when it’s one-on-one. You keep those two things in mind, and you’ll never forget when I switch it up.”

  Tommy smacks his lips together, a goofy grin on his cherub-like face. Sometimes, these kids are too adorable for words. It almost makes me regret not having enough time for a personal life because I wouldn’t mind having my own sports team one day.

  The type of drill I used today is so important to building a strong defense because there’s always a penalty involved. If the offense scores or the defense commits a foul, they have to leave the court and allow another three-man team to take their place. I also like this exercise because it teaches the boys that there is a cost for failure.

  I learned these lessons early on in my short-lived career. If you don’t face the risk of losing something, even if it’s only your place on the court, then you’ll never respect the hard work and dedication it takes to earn something, whether it’s your first dollar or your first championship. I’m not just teaching my players basketball. I like to think that I’m also teaching them life skills.

  “Since you guys did so well today, I’m going to let you choose our final drill. Would you rather do suicides”—they grunt—“or do you want to learn how to set a proper screen?”

  Rico pushes a strand of dark hair from his tan skin, the sweat matting it to his head with little spikes sticking up in different directions. “They’re both hard, Coach. C’mon, can’t we do something easy like layups?”

  “If all I ever taught you was the easy way out, then you’d never win a game.”

  Coaching kids is much more relaxing than working with professional athletes. Because, with children, their talent isn’t fully developed, they’re better listeners and take instructions well, and there are no egos and salaries involved. These kids make me remember the reason I love the game so much. When I’m on a basketball court, my entire body feels like it’s on fire from the rush of adrenaline.

  My childhood was full of nothing but bad memories, but the thought of holding a ball in my hands for the first time still brings a smile to my face. I see those same looks on these boys’ faces while they’re playing.

  I take a basketball from the rack next to me and start walking toward the basket. “I’ll tell you what, Rico. If you can take this ball from me, we can do nothing but layups for the next week.”

  “No way!” Sam, our starting point guard, says to Rico. “Coach will smoke you.”

  “I’ve got five on Rico,” Jamie chimes in with a smirk on his face, the dimple in his right cheek creasing his skin.

  He pulls a five-dollar bill from the pocket of his mesh shorts and holds it in the air. The kids try to jump for it, which makes Jamie and me glance at each other, amused, and we both laugh.

  On our way home, I stop at the supermarket with Jamie and Rico. We pick up chocolate and vanilla ice cream along with all the toppings. Rosario called me this afternoon to ask if I could watch Rico for an extra hour after practice, and since Jamie parked in the garage at my building and rode to practice with me, it only seemed fitting that we all hang out until Rosario stops by to pick up Rico after she’s done work.

  We ride the elevator to the twenty-fifth floor, and when the doors creak open, Rico runs out, same as usual, and bounces the basketball on the tiled floor.

  Jamie clutches the paper grocery bag against his chest and slides the strap of his small duffel over his shoulder. “No running!” he yells as Rico crosses the ball back and forth in front of him on his way to my apartment.

  He’s so fast, he’s already down the hall and standing at my door by the time he turns around to acknowledge Jamie’s comment.

  I slip the key ring from my pocket and insert the correct key into my front door, my stomach knotting at the thought of what I might find on the other side, before I push it open. To my surprise, I find Alex in the kitchen, and he’s…cooking. This is not what I was expecting.

  “Oh, good, you’re home,” he says, focusing on whatever he’s making in one of the pots on the stove.

  The scent of herbs and spices assaults my senses the closer I move toward the bar at the center of the kitchen.

  “I’m making spaghetti and hot sausage. I figured you must like Italian food since we had lasagna the other day. I wasn’t sure if you had any allergies, and I don’t know how to do more than boil water and heat up sauce.”

  I’m smiling so wide that my cheeks hurt. Alex made me dinner. I’ve never had a man make a meal for me—not unless I count Jamie, but he’s like my brother.

  Before I can interrupt Alex to tell him we’re not alone, Rico drops the ball on the floor, and Alex peeks over his shoulder at me. Confusion registers first on his gorgeous face before shifting to what appears to be annoyance when he glances in Jamie’s direction.

  “Hey, kiddo,” he says to Rico, which makes Rico glow with delight.

  I couldn’t even imagine meeting a pro athlete at his age.

  “Hey, Alex.” Rico hops up onto one of the benches in front of the island. “Guess what happened tonight?”

  Alex places his hands flat on the marble top and says, “What was that?”

  Rico sits up straight and says with pride, “I beat Coach at practice and won five dollars and layup drills for the rest of the week for the team.”

  The money is already in his hand by the time Alex turns, his laughter aimed at me. “Are you getting a little rusty now that you’re in retirement, Coach? Do we have to break out your walker?”

  I move closer and slap him on his bicep, which does nothing because his arms are like steel. It actually hurts me more than him. “Ha! Keep it up, Parker, and I’ll make you run the suicides my team got out of doing this week.”

  Alex bends down and whispers into my ear, his breath making my skin tingle and my body tense up, “I’d like to see you try, sweetheart.”

  We engage in a staring contest, my hormones going apeshit as he brushes my arms with his fingers, before Jamie clears his throat in the most obnoxious manner possible.

  “You
r sauce is burning,” Jamie says, pointing at the saucepan that’s bubbling over.

  Alex takes a wooden spoon from the counter, lifts the rattling lid, the sauce making popping sounds, and he stirs it until it simmers down. “I didn’t know you were having company. I was hungry and thought maybe you’d want to have dinner with me.”

  I can tell he’s disappointed that he has to share me with Jamie. He wouldn’t be the first client to think that we’re dating. Most of the time, I let them believe that’s the truth, which is why Jamie usually pretends like he’s my boyfriend, acting more affectionate toward me when we’re in public, like how he did after Alex’s first home game. Now, Jamie has his chest pressed against my back, and his palm is cupping my shoulder. This is normal for us, all of it part of the facade.

  Alex acknowledges Jamie’s gesture, and I feel like I’m a T-bone steak trapped between two pit bulls who are ready to rip each other’s throats out. Based on the evil eye Alex gives Jamie, I can only assume Jamie is throwing warning daggers with his eyes.

  After an awkward pause, Rico breaks the silence. “Can I get my sundae already? I want vanilla with chocolate syrup and sprinkles.”

  Jamie sets the sack down and lifts the tubs out of the bag. I take that as my cue to grab four bowls from the cabinet next to Alex and spoons from the drawer below it.

  Before I spin around to help with making sundaes, I say to Alex, “I’ll have dinner with you, but I think I’ll have my dessert first, if that’s all right.” My tone is playful, suggestive even, and now, I see what Jamie was talking about earlier. I am flirting with Alex.

  He smiles, but it’s forced, and it doesn’t reach his eyes.

  Clearly, he’s upset because Jamie is here. Weird.

  “Yeah, no worries. Whatever you want, Coach.”

  In the past, I’d never felt uncomfortable when Jamie marked his territory over me. Being in the same room with Alex and Jamie, the room feels too small, despite the vaulted ceilings and spacious, modern layout. Even though I shouldn’t like Alex, I do. Last night, I shared a part of myself with him that I keep hidden from the world. It was the first time I wanted to talk to someone other than Jamie about my past.

  By the time Jamie scoops ice cream into the bowls, Rico has already flipped the top on the sprinkles, spilling some of the rainbow colors onto the table. A minute later, Rico has a field day with the chocolate syrup and manages to get it all over his jersey and down his forearm.

  I wet a dishtowel and clean his arm. “Take your jersey off, so I can get the stain out. Your mother is going to have a fit if you come home like this.”

  Rico pulls it over his head, leaving on the white tee underneath, and hands it to me. When I dab at the stain, the chocolate spreads from the black mesh to the gold material of his number.

  Frustrated, I let out a groan. “I’ll be right back.”

  Jamie nods and continues to chew his food while Rico smiles between bites, flashing a set of syrup-smeared teeth. Alex is busy mixing sauce into his pasta. With all the tension in the room, I’m happy I have an excuse to leave, and I set off toward the laundry room down the hall from my bedroom.

  Laying the jersey down on the washing machine, I lean over and grab a half-full bottle of detergent from the shelf above the dryer. I’ve ruined my fair share of uniforms over the years. Most of them, I received from donations made by parents whose children attended my school. It’s not like any of my foster parents would’ve spent a cent of the board payment they collected each month to buy me anything other than the macaroni and cheese or spaghetti we ate almost every night.

  I wore clothes until they were so tight, I couldn’t move or breathe in them and shoes that had holes so wide, you could fit your hand inside, the soles practically falling off. The moment I was old enough to get working papers, I got a job at the McDonald’s near my house for some pocket change and basketball sneakers. I couldn’t play if my kicks were busted, and with how fast I’d grown and in such a short period of time, I had to wear some of Jamie’s clothes in between paychecks.

  After I flip the jersey inside out and rub the detergent into the stain, it starts to fade, but I need to hit it with water. I turn around to leave, so I can wet it under the bathroom sink, shocked to find Alex leaning against the doorframe, looking as though he’s holding up the wall with his strong arms that are chiseled to perfection.

  My mind goes blank when I take in the sight of him. Of all the gorgeous athletes I’ve worked with over the years, I’ve never felt as oddly connected to any of them as I do with Alex. He doesn’t speak right away, just watches me for a few seconds, a huge grin on his ridiculously handsome face.

  “Is everything okay?” I wonder but end up saying aloud.

  “I came to see if you needed some help. I’ve had to scrub blood from my jerseys more times than I can count.” He steps into the room, sucking up all the air as he moves forward. The close proximity and the fact that I have nowhere to move in such a cramped space makes me feel slightly claustrophobic.

  “Um…” I’m not sure how to respond because he keeps inching further into the room until my back is pinned against the washer. This man does not seem to understand personal space.

  “During the last game of the finals, I was so pissed that we were down in the series by two. I was angry, sad, and all sorts of fucked up over my father’s death, pretty much hating everything at that moment. Long story short, I head-butted a player on the other team. I knew I’d get ejected for it, but I didn’t really give a shit, and when I got back to the locker room, I had his blood all over me. So, if you need help with this,” he says, taking the jersey from my hand, “I’m kind of an expert.”

  I doubt he realizes the player he head-butted is one of my clients. But I don’t want to ruin the moment.

  Alex presses his hip into mine, causing my heart to speed up, as he reaches around me for the detergent. My breath hitches when he doesn’t pull away from me, his mouth only a few inches from mine, our eyes locked, as we’re completely aware of the sexual tension between us. I start to panic internally, unsure of how to handle this situation.

  I’m Coach, deal closer and miracle worker to the athletically gifted, yet when Alex’s bicep brushes up against my skin, the heat spreads from my cheeks to my chest, his touch making my toes curl, and my entire body tenses up in nervous anticipation.

  I think he wants to kiss me. The crazy thing is, I would kiss him back, and if that were to happen, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself. But I have rules.

  Rules are also meant to be broken, an evil voice in my head screams.

  I want to break them so bad right now.

  Alex unscrews the top from the bottle of Tide and pours the liquid into the cap, and now, both of his hands are around me as he’s doing this. My ovaries are ready to explode along with my heart and my chest because I can feel him growing hard against my thigh.

  It’s so fucking hot, a soft moan escapes my lips. I refuse to make eye contact, not when I already know he’s smirking, clearly pleased with himself for what he’s done to me. The last time I had sex was eighteen months ago, and it’s not because I don’t want it, but because I don’t have time for sex. Most days, I forget to eat lunch or dinner, too engrossed in whatever contract I’m negotiating or new client I’m trying to sign to have room for sex, which also means finding a man who’s not a client. Anymore, that almost seems impossible, considering the rate we’re signing new clients at DMG.

  Alex finishes whatever magic he has been working behind my back and then steps backward so that we’re far enough apart for him to extend the jersey to me. The spot is almost gone, needing nothing more than a quick soak.

  A cocky smirk tugs at his mouth, and I can’t stop thinking about his lips and how I’d like them to explore my body along with his tongue. It’s been far too long since I’ve had sex, and now, I feel trapped in a tiny room with a very large man who is doing things to me that do not make sense because he’s barely even touched me.

  “You s
hould probably go change your panties before your boyfriend finds out how wet I’ve made you.”

  Embarrassed, I slap my hand over my mouth, forgetting I have Rico’s jersey in my hand. I can taste the laundry detergent, which makes this moment a lot more humiliating than it needs to be.

  I want to shout that Jamie isn’t my boyfriend or say something that would prove otherwise, but I’m a coward and too used to using Jamie as my crutch. While Alex is not my direct client, he’s still a client of DMG, and that alone is a good reason why I need to forget this ever happened and act normal.

  So, I do what feels right and walk out of the room without another word.

  Alex

  For the third night in a row, Charlotte has nightmares so terrifying that her screams pull me from my bedroom and into hers. The shrill sound of her voice and the way she calls for her father are so painful to hear, as if someone is murdering her in her sleep, that I crawl into her bed and pull her into my arms, cradling her like a baby.

  As she sobs, I lean back against the headboard and tell Charlotte it will be all right, running my hands down her arms to soothe her. I’ve had nothing more than what most would consider long naps since I moved into the spare bedroom across the hall. Between getting up at the asscrack of dawn to drive over to New Jersey for practice and sitting with Charlotte until early morning, I barely shut my eyes before the alarm goes off. Now, I’m still up from the day before from a migraine that’s been rattling my skull, refusing to go away. I’ve had it since I woke up in Charlotte’s apartment and made the deal to stay with her for one week.

  It’s worked out well that we have a string of home games this week. That won’t last long because, on Monday, we’re leaving for Los Angeles, playing along the West Coast until we make our way back to Philly. Away games are the hardest with moving between the bus and different hotels, the constant shuffling to various cities and living out of a duffel bag. In all my years in the league, I never really settled into a home. I never found the point in buying a house, only to pack up and go six months out of the year. But it feels nice to be in bed with a woman who makes me want to stay in one place for more than a few days.