Player: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

by Aubrey Irons

  Whatever.

  “Ok, we need to collect ourselves,” She glances at my bare torso and back at her own bikini-clad chest and blushes as her arms tighten across her body; “We need clothes.”

  I snort; “What, tired of the beach look already?” I arch my brow, trying not to focus on the fact that her crossed arms have her tits pushed up against her bikini top, giving me a great fucking view of her cleavage. I'm seriously going to miss this view even if we do need to be normal people and get clothes.

  Of course, she's right. We do need to stop looking like beach bums and probably even change our appearances if we're going to avoid getting shot on sight by a bunch of trigger-happy Blackriver assholes.

  “Alright,” I finally say; “We should go get cleaned up.”

  Chelsea makes a face; “We?” She shakes her head; “I don't think so. You're staying here.”

  I smirk; “You're the one they're after, princess.”

  “You're the prisoner.”

  I narrow my eyes at her, feeling my temper flare more than I thought it would at her words.

  “You know what I mean,” She looks around the balcony everywhere but at me and shifts her weight uncomfortably.

  “So what, you're going to head into town and leave me here like a fucking puppy or something?” I get to my feet, glaring at her; “You gonna lock the door and crack a window? Leave me with some water and a treat?” She starts to open her mouth but I shake my head; “If I was going to leave, you think a fucking motel door would stop me? Sorry, spy-girl; I’m coming with you.”

  “OK, so we meet back here in an hour?” She's wearing these giant, tortoiseshell grandmother sunglasses that we picked up at a gift shop as we walked into town. I can't help but grin at the way she's trying to sound authoritative and in charge while looking like she’s about to go play a round of bingo with my abuela.

  “All by myself? Unsupervised?” I shrug dramatically; “I don't know, princess; you sure you don't want me coming along with you?”

  “I have to buy clothes.” She frowns.

  “What, don’t want me helping you pick out some new panties?”

  She blushes, predictably; “I think I'll be just fine without your help, thank you.”

  I grin wickedly and lean in closer; “I’m a great second opinion for that sort of thing, you know.”

  Her face grows even redder, if that was even possible, before she shakes her head; “Try not to get lost, Javier.” She walks away, leaving me grinning at my own jokes, but still feeling like they're empty.

  Considering that I'm the only Spanish guy in town, with no shirt on and a chest and arms full of fairly identifiable Día de Muertos sugar-skull tattoos, I buy a new t-shirt first. After that, I'm looking at hats before I decide I don't want to look like a total dipshit and find myself ambling around the market instead. Fantastic. I've got fifty full minutes to kill before I'm supposed to meet Chelsea; now what do I do?

  Oh hey, look; a bar.

  Perfect. Killing time and a way to get my mind off Chelsea Archer? Sign me the fuck up.

  I straighten my new shirt as I walk up to the place. I swing the heavy wooden door open and blink at the utter darkness of the interior as my eyes try and adjust from the outside; “Hey, let me get a tequi-”

  I stop talking as soon as I feel the cold metal of a gun barrel press against the side of my head.

  “Que paso, Toro.”

  Ah, fuck.

  I frown as my eyes begin to adjust to the dark bar and realize that the place is entirely empty but for the five guys in black t-shirts and tactical vests with the “BR” Blackriver insignia on the chest.

  Well, walked right into that one. Literally.

  “Figured a place like this was a good spot to bump into a little cockroach like you, Toro.”

  The man standing in front of me with the mustache and the leering grin on his face is Benson, and I know him from way back even if he is one of those people you’d love to never see again. Mercenary outfits like Blackriver attract all sorts of types. You get ex-soldiers looking for the thrill of a gun or just the regular paycheck from something they already know how to do. You get the wayward lost souls like me who're just looking for something to escape with, and then you also get the utter psychopaths.

  Benson falls into this last category. These guys are the guys that you'd lock up in a normal society; the guys the Marines say no to, because at heart, they're just murderous, trigger-happy lunatics who want a license to kill.

  I really don’t miss any of those groups after leaving that life, but it’s the Benson type that I hate the most.

  “Have a seat, amigo.” His accent is thickly American and southern, amplified even more by the ridiculously out-of-place cowboy hat he's wearing; as if anyone has any doubts that the man with the trucker mustache, the stars and stripes tattoo on his arm, and the Oakley sunglasses can possibly be anything else but American.

  I glare at him, hating the idea of doing what he tells me to do, but tightening my fists at the fact that defying him is probably a bad idea when I'm surrounded by five psychopaths with guns. I like stacked odds, but I'm not stupid.

  I sit.

  “Good boy.”

  Keep it up, fuckhead.

  “So, having fun? Enjoying being a man free of El Muerto?”

  Benson gives me a cold look, but I just lean back and shrug as I grin at him; “Figured I needed a vacation.”

  His lips curl into a chilling smile; the kind I used to use all the time when I was trying to intimidate people. Actually, there's a strong chance I lifted that look from him back in my Blackriver days.

  “You got yourself a pretty little travel partner.” His look says everything his mouth isn't, and that look says that he doesn't actually give two shits about me; he's here for Chelsea.

  “Her?” I shrug again.

  Casual, keep casual.

  “Nah, I ditched that chick. She got boring.”

  Benson smirks at me; yeah, he bought that like pigs fly.

  “Oh, I'm sure you did.” He sighs heavily; “Tell me, Toro, what is it with ex-employees of mine fucking William Archer's daughters, hmm?”

  I can't do a thing to stop the flash of pure anger that roars inside of me, and before I know it I'm lurching across the table and knocking my chair back.

  But Benson just laughs as guns train on me and hands drag me back into my seat.

  “Sit your ass down, Toro. I didn't mean to offend you about your little girlfriend.”

  “I'm not fucking her.”

  “And I don’t honestly give a shit if you are,” Benson says, his eyes narrowing at me; “You know, you and I still have a contract.”

  That I do have to laugh at; “The fuck we do.”

  “Desertion doesn't negate that, Toro.”

  “What about kicking me out?” My departure from Blackriver wasn't exactly my finest moment, and not one that I like to reminisce on. Let's just say there wasn't exactly a cake and a gold watch on my last day.

  Benson smiles; “Nope. I considered that a time out more than firing you.”

  This is getting stupid, and my patience is rapidly fraying away; “What the fuck do you want, Benson?”

  “Now, that's not hard is it? Normal conversation? You haven’t been in prison that long.” Benson chuckles as he takes his cowboy hat off to run a hand through his thinning hair; “I want your help, Toro. I want you to do what you do best.”

  “Yeah? And what might that be?”

  Benson shrugs; “Lie, cheat, steal, act like the general low-life piece of shit we both know you are.”

  I snarl at him but his look hardens as he leans across the table right into me; “I want you to get me Chelsea Archer.”

  I can feel my pulse jump, ice slipping through my veins; “What do you want with her.”

  “That’s my business.” Benson leans back, slipping the hat back onto his head; “But, do you want out of your contract? Because if you don’t that’s fine, but while I still own you,
I’ll hunt your ass like a fucking animal to the end of the Earth.” He levels his eyes at me; “Get me Chelsea, and you're done.”

  I say nothing, and the room is pin-drop silent for a moment. Benson nods at one of his guys behind me, and suddenly I hear the hiss of a bottle of beer being opened before it's slid unceremoniously in front of me.

  “Have a drink on me, Toro. Think about the offer, and try not be an idiot here.” Benson stands, and winks at me; “We'll be in touch.”

  The bell on the front door jingles as they exit, daylight momentarily illuminating the inside of the bar before the door slams shut behind them, shutting me into this tomb as I stare at the beer in front of me and let Benson's words sink in.

  Fuck.

  14

  After thirty hours in a bikini, slipping on some cut-off shorts and a tank top - not to mention underwear - feels amazing.

  I twirl once more in front of the changing room's trifold mirror and try and bite back my grin. I've never been a “clothes” type of girl. I’m not the type that worries too much about which brand of jeans I'm wearing or if the shirt I'm wearing matches, well, anything else I'm wearing. Clothes are clothes; no big deal. Except today, there's a reason I'm trying to make sure I look OK, and it’s not even a reason I'm altogether comfortable thinking even to myself. It's a tainted reason; a criminal reason that’s wrong in all the worst ways.

  I’m not happy about having to use the wad of what I’m sure is stolen cash Javier’s been carrying around in his pocket. But, desperate times and all that, and I busy myself with paying for the clothes with the money before I head back out to the market square.

  I'm half expecting him to have left, if truth be told. I feel guilty for thinking it, but part of me almost wonders if he'll be there when I look for him. But then my eyes land on him, wearing a new shirt, new shorts, and a dark scowl on his face.

  “Hey there, stranger,” I say, trying to keep my thoughts from the dressing room safely tucked away in the back of my mind. Javier looks up at me, and I frown as I see how pale and strained the look on his face is as he looks into my eyes.

  “You OK?”

  “I'm fine.” He snaps, standing quickly and darting his eyes around the market square.

  Why yes, these are new clothes; thanks so much for noticing.

  But the thought is so alien and so bizarre to me, not to mention ridiculous that I shake my head and look away as I shove it back. What am I, some sort of crush-struck high-school girl?

  I look up, trying to will the heat away from my face, only to find him staring at me. His look is softer than it just was a moment ago; “Sorry.”

  I shrug like it’s nothing; like I haven't just been totally analyzing it in my head like a psycho; “No problem. Let's go.”

  “Hang on,” He grabs my arm, and I turn to look at him. His eyes dart around again; “We need to change our look.”

  I frown; “Right, hence the new clothes.”

  “No I mean more than new clothes.”

  He looks away, his whole body weirdly on alert as his eyes dart around the market. I’m about to open my mouth when he turns back and that grin of his finally makes an appearance; “So how attached are you to blonde?”

  I wrinkle my nose at the box in Javier's hands; “Chestnut?”

  The answer to his last question was “very”; I love my blonde hair. It’s always set me apart from my redheaded sisters, and while I do love my mother’s color on them, I like being the unique one. The idea of changing that in for something like brown is just depressing.

  Javier rolls his eyes and bats his hand in this flamboyantly mimed way; “Oh, Chestnut is so in right now, honey”

  I can feel myself grin in spite of myself.

  “Feels good, doesn't it.”

  I arch a brow at him in the bathroom mirror as he starts to squeeze the goop from the dye kit into my poor hair; “What does?”

  “Smiling; not being so uptight all the time.”

  My fist tightens around the towel clutched around my neck; “I am not uptight.”

  “You should smile more often, princess.” He grins at me as he starts to work the dye into my hair, streaking it through my locks as he piles my hair up on top of my head. He works in silence, concentrating and actually doing a pretty good job of making sure he's getting my hair and not my forehead or ears. I'm quiet as his fingers slide through my hair, making sure he gets every inch of it before he finally stands back and nods towards the shower stall; “Alright, hop in.”

  I stare at him through the mirror, waiting.

  “What?” He frowns.

  “Um, can you leave so I can take that shower?”

  “Do I have to?”

  He’s smirking, and I know he’s just trying to push my buttons, but I also know that it’s working.

  …It’s working in ways it really shouldn’t be.

  He winks at me once more before he steps out the door, closing it behind him.

  I shower quickly, washing the dye goop out of my hair and trying not to think too hard about the fact that I’m this naked and exposed with a man like Javier standing right outside the door. I bite my lip as the hot water cascades over my skin, suddenly wondering why I didn’t lock the bathroom door before I stepped in here.

  What if he comes in?

  What if I WANT him to come in?

  I shake the thought from my head as I shut the water off. Lordy, get a grip on yourself, girl.

  I slip my panties on and wrap myself in a towel as streaks of dye along with my shameful, inappropriate thoughts of the tattooed criminal not four feet away in the other room swirl down the drain.

  “I think I may have a new profession.” Javier grins at me from the bed when I open the bathroom door, nodding slowly as his eyes slide up and down my towel-clad body. I snort a laugh and turn to look at the new, dark-haired version of me in the bathroom mirror; it's honestly not terrible.

  “Ok, your turn.” I say with a grin, curling my finger at Javier and and patting the chair we've dragged into the bathroom.

  Javier frowns; “I don’t think chestnut’s my color.”

  I smile slowly at him before I pick up a pair of scissors and nod at his long hair, pulled back; “Get in the chair, Javier.”

  He glares at me, not moving

  “Oh, attached to the ponytail are we? What are you, a samurai?”

  He makes a face; “I like my hair long.”

  “So do the guys looking for us; come here.”

  “I’ll wear a hat.”

  I start to grin, realizing how hilariously vain this is sounding coming from the bad-boy hard-body criminal; “Are you Steven Seagal?”

  He grumbles something in Spanish and tightens his jaw, but he shuffles into the bathroom anyways and peels his t-shirt off as he plops into the chair. The fact that he really is apparently so attached to the look makes me laugh as I move behind him and start to pull the band out of his dark brown hair.

  “Look, relax. I've got two sisters; I've done this before, ok?”

  “What, cut ponytails?”

  “You have no idea.”

  His thin mouth curls into a grin; “Fine.”

  I'm as gentle as I can be, my fingers sliding through his hair and feeling for length before I take the scissors to it. I laugh as big tough bad-boy Javier flinches with the first snip, but after that, I'm too concentrated on making sure I'm even to pay attention to his little fit about getting his haircut.

  Lock after lock tumbles off his bare shoulders to the floor and slowly, the man with the wild look and the long hair transforms into someone, well, normal looking.

  And somehow someone even more attractive, actually.

  When I'm done, I slowly place the scissors onto the counter and stand back to admire my work; “Well? Not bad, right?”

  He swears and I roll my eyes; “Oh, come on, it's not-”

  “No, I like it.”

  I grin at him, pleased with myself; “Really?”

  “It's not bad.” />
  I shrug; “You look less-”

  “Samurai-ish?”

  I laugh; “I was going to say like less of a villain.”

  Javier grins at me in the mirror; “I like being a villain.”

  “Well, now you look like a nice guy.”

  “How nice.”

  I can feel the flush coming into my cheeks as he looks into my eyes through the mirror in front of us, and I hastily look away, as if suddenly interested in cleaning up the mess from our makeovers.

  “I'd prefer to be bad, you know.”

  I whirl back to find him standing, his eyes narrowed as he stares at me.

  Hungrily.

  My breath catches in my throat, suddenly aware of the tension rapidly coming to a boil in the small confines of the motel bathroom.

  Please don’t come closer, I think to myself.

  Because as much as I want to deny it; I like him bad, too.

  And however forbidden the thought is, however wrong it is to even think to myself, I want him to be bad with me.

  He's moving closer, and I find myself gasping as I step back into the wall behind me. He takes another step towards me, his eyes blazing as he looks at me like a wolf sizing up his prey. He licks his perfect lips, and I bite my own. I'm a torn mess inside; willing this to happen with everything I am and at the same time praying to God that he walks away.

  Because I'm fairly sure that right now, I can’t.

  He steps even closer, and I can feel my blood pumping like hot metal through my veins. The masculine scent of him and the heat from his look invades the space around me, and a deliciously forbidden and taboo heat aches between my thighs. I can feel my breath coming ragged, my pulse racing as he steps closer still.

  “Don't let the hair fool you, princess,” he growls, and moves closer still, so close that we're practically touching; “I'm still a villain.”

  He closes the distance between us with a ferocity that has me moaning into his kiss as he mashes his lips against mine. It’s hungry and raw, full of pure need and desire, and I gasp into his mouth as I feel him press against my body.