But there’s a difference between being a cocky football player and being a dickhead. Miranda’s pushing that line, and finally, I reach over, taking the phone from her. “This is Gavin Adams. The room’s clean?”
“Why yes, of course it is, Mr. Adams,” says a snobby voice that grates my teeth. “This is Mr. Vandenburgh. I was just telling Ms. Price that while we have the confectionaries you requested, we were unable to find the specific Toblerone that you—”
“I don’t care about that,” I say, cutting him off. “Just make sure the room’s nice, and we can worry about the rest later. See you soon.”
I hang up the phone and toss it back to Miranda, who’s glaring at me now. “There,” I say. “Problem dealt with.”
Miranda shakes her head as she slips her phone back in her purse. “You know, you’re not letting me do my job, Anaconda,” she says half-jokingly.
“Your job is to make sure I look good in the press, not to bully hotel managers,” I growl. She knows I hate the name Anaconda. Sure, she’s tried to spin it as if it’s a good thing, that I always find a way to ‘snake through the defenses’. But everyone and their fucking grandmother knows why it’s my nickname. It’s been on the internet in 1080p for two years now.
“My job is to make sure you look the part,” Miranda says pointedly. She reaches into her bag, pulling out her iPad and turning it on. “By the way, you made the press again.” She tosses the iPad over into my lap.
I try not to groan as I look at the webpage she’s pulled up, another of those half tabloid, half sports page sites that she likes to track for mentions about me in the offseason.
Anaconda Snakes Another One! the headline blares, showing me walking with a girl. She’s got her knees splayed out and a pained look on her face, the caption reading, Anaconda Adams earns his nickname again with yet another young lady as the star running back and soon-to-be actor leaves a hotel in New York the night after appearing on a radio show.
I read a few more lines and sigh in disgust and turn the tablet off, throwing it back over to Miranda instead of chucking it out the window like I want to. “That site is a fucking disgrace. They’re saying I barebacked her with no lube.”
“You didn’t?” Miranda asks, her smile disappearing when I glare at her. “What, Gavin? You know your reputation says that you’ve got a groupie in all thirty-two cities you’ve played in. And it’s funny. I thought you’d laugh after the rest of the problems you’ve been dealing with.”
“Maybe that had a little truth to it in my rookie year, but that was then,” I grumble, shaking my head. Sure, I went out with the girl, but I didn’t fuck her. I just wasn’t feeling it. I have no fucking clue why she looks in pain in the photo. They probably snapped until they finally got one with a weird-looking expression on her face. Fucking scoundrels is what they are.
“Whatever the case may be, any press is good press,” Miranda says, putting her tablet away. “Just relax.”
“Relax, she says,” I mutter sullenly, watching as the limo hangs a right and a hotel that actually looks like it belongs in a ritzy section of Vegas comes into view down the street. Grand Waterways Hotel. “Relax for what?”
“Because you need to be calm, cool, and collected for your upcoming interviews,” Miranda says as the limo starts to slow down. “You can’t start getting annoyed and chewing out the reporters on camera just because they ask you about your anacon . . . umm, romance life.”
“The hell I can’t,” I growl. “My personal life is no one’s business.”
“These are different times, Gavin,” Miranda says softly. “The days where people only want to hear about your talent are over. They want to hear about what you’re wearing, who you’re dating, who you’re thinking about sleeping with. And considering that there’s a . . .” her words trail off, but I catch her meaning.
The video. It always comes back to that goddamn video.
“It’s bullshit.”
Miranda shrugs. “It’s just what it is.”
I sigh, leaning back and unbuttoning the blazer. “The next time a reporter asks me about my sex life or my dick, I’m walking off. I don’t care if it’s on the red carpet of the fucking Oscars. It’ll be better than giving them another sound bite. At least during football season, they ask about the game first sometimes.”
“You’d better not,” Miranda warns.
I clench my jaw, wanting to reprimand her for scolding me like a child, but I resist the urge.
“Tell me again why they picked this place?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Because it’s a little podunk city,” Miranda says. “Remember, you’re supposed to be this badass who plays around with the main heroine for some of the movie. You two have known each other since you were kids, and they’ve got to get some background scenes.”
“Oh yeah. The big dying scene,” I say with a grunt, remembering the script. At least my character goes out with a bang—literally. A hit squad rattling my car with machinegun fire before they blow it up with a rocket? Guess I’m tough to kill. Too bad I won’t do much for it. It’s all stuntmen. “When are they filming that?”
“Umm, I’m not exactly sure,” Miranda says. “But you’ll have time to practice and get your lines down at least.”
I grunt noncommittally and then ask, “How detailed are these love scenes supposed to be?” I know I’m supposed to have at least one bedroom scene with the leading lady of the movie, Leslie Hart.
“It’ll be shot in darkness with blue light, according to what I saw from the studio,” Miranda says. “Don’t worry, the Anaconda isn’t going to be making his big screen debut. Who knows? They might use body doubles for a lot of it.”
I shake my head in disgust as we come up on the hotel. “Fuck,” I mutter, seeing the paparazzi parked outside, irritation causing me to clench my jaw. “Figures. I can’t go anywhere without these vultures showing up.”
“Pull around the side!” I yell to the limo driver, who’s kept his mouth shut the whole time we’ve been bickering. The guy’s a pro. I’d have jumped out several stop lights ago if I had to sit there and listen to us.
He just nods and waves, pulling around the corner and driving a bit farther before pulling over. I grab a hooded coat, pull it on, and throw the hood over my head. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Miranda,” I tell her, flashing a wink.
I slam the limo door and slap the roof before Miranda can reply, and I walk away, ignoring the people on the sidewalk. I’m through a side entrance within two minutes, easily evading the vultures with cameras waiting at the entrance.
I head up to the front desk, keeping my sunglasses and hat on. Thankfully, the manager’s on duty, and while he trips over his tongue a few times, probably still worried about the chocolates, I slip off to the elevators and up to the top floor. Room 603.
I unlock the door and head inside, yanking my coat off before throwing it at the sofa. I don’t even pause to take in the opulence of the room or the breathtaking view of the skyline through the floor to ceiling windows. It’s nice and all, but I’ve stayed in plenty of five-star penthouse suites and I’m used to luxury.
There are several bags waiting for me on the floor. Miranda must have sent them ahead.
I pick up one of them to see what’s so important inside, and when I do, I see a dress and some stilettos. Someone sent up the wrong bag.
Annoyed, I sling the bag at the table and into one of the chairs, not caring when the chair falls over onto the floor.
I check one of the other bags. This one has my clothes. I set an outfit out on the bed, dark slacks and a white dress shirt. I’m supposed to be having dinner in a few hours with Miranda and a big movie exec to go over a few things before shooting. And I can’t go to the meeting if I smell like cigarettes and musk.
After I’ve made sure I’ve picked my most dapper attire, I walk into the bathroom, slide out of my clothes, and enter the shower stall for a quick rinse. As the cool water hits me, my mind wanders to the possibility of pick
ing up some ass tonight. I could see myself easily picking up some chick from the event I’m heading to. Hell, maybe even someone from the hotel lobby. But once again, I’m unable to get excited at the prospect of sharing my bed.
I shake my head as water runs down my forehead and into my eyes. What the fuck is wrong with me? There was a time where I’d been happy to share my bed with one or even two. But the thought just doesn’t excite me anymore.
I guess I’m getting tired of sex that doesn’t mean a damn thing.
My mood sour, I finish rinsing off and step out of the stall. I’m in the middle of drying off when I realize I left my pants on the bed. I walk into the room while rubbing the towel against my head.
“Anaconda,” I swear I hear a sweet voice say as I’m about to pull the towel from my eyes.
Goddamn, I think, seeing the sight in front of me, then my inner voice groans. Oh, no. Not again.
The towel slips from my fingers as I see a woman dressed in a maid uniform, her eyes as wide as a doe’s as she gazes at me. Fuck. She’s beautiful. Rich brown hair frames big, brown, soulful eyes, a slightly upturned button nose, and ruby pink lips that are soft and plump. The sort of lips that I’d love to have wrapped around my cock.
My dick twitches as I look over the rest of her. Her uniform has a French maid vibe to it, showcasing her figure and legs that stretch on for days.
I’m used to seeing beautiful women, but there’s something about this girl that makes my blood heat in a way it hasn’t in a long time.
“Hi, I’m Gavin,” I say, stepping forward and then stopping. I feel stupid as fuck introducing myself while I’m butt naked. But it can’t be helped. The snake is already out of the bag. There’s no use covering him up now.
The girl doesn’t reply, her eyes as wide as saucers, her legs trembling. Jesus, she looks like she’ll need a respirator, her chest heaving as her eyes flit to my face, back between my legs, and then back to my face again.
Her mouth works for a moment as her eyes play ping pong, and I can’t help but grin at the effect I’m having on her. I don’t know why I’m enjoying this, but I am.
I boldly take a step forward, though I know I shouldn’t. She’s fucking petrified. “You all right?”
Her cheeks burning red, I hear her mumble, “I’m sorry,” before she turns and runs from the room without looking back.
For a moment, I’m tempted to go after her, but I don’t. After all, I am naked, and I don’t know where the fucking bathrobe is. But I’m pissed I didn’t get her name. She was gorgeous. And I could see the way she looked at me. I know that look.
And the image of her looking up at me with those eyes while I push into her body is going to be in my dreams until I make it a reality.
But she ran from me. I clench my jaw as I think about her plump, pouty lips and her wide eyes as she took in my naked body. My cock twitches again as I remember the lust that flashed in her eyes.
I decide right then and there that I’m gonna find her. And when I do, I’ll have those sweet lips wrapped around my cock in no time.
If it’s the last thing I do.
Want to read the rest? Get Anaconda HERE.
Over the Middle
by Lauren Landish
O. M. G.
That’s the only thing on my mind when I’m assigned to help superstar tight end, Duncan Hart, rehab his elbow. With a body that looks like a sculpted masterpiece, his chiseled features melt the hearts of women everywhere, including mine.
There’s just one problem. Duncan’s an a**hole, with an ego the size of our football stadium. He lives for the roar of the crowd. He thrives on it. And he wants to let me experience the Hart Attack — yes, he has a name for it. But that’s not going to happen. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself…
All’s fair in love and war, and I have two choices — take him down, or let him score.
Chapter 1
Duncan
"Have a seat, Duncan," Coach Bainridge says as I come in, my arm still in a sling. I'm feeling pretty good, though, and I’m looking forward to ditching the damn thing as soon as I leave the athletic complex. Three weeks of wearing the damn thing around is grating on my nerves. "How's the arm?"
"The elbow's fine. Only reason I'm wearing the sling is so that the Academic Director doesn't shit himself too early. You know he saw dollar signs evaporating into the air during the Green and White game."
Coach Bainridge winces at the memory, and I'm glad about that. It was his fault that I'd even been out on the field during the meaningless glorified scrimmage that does nothing more than give the boosters a hard-on and a reason to pull out their credit cards. My side, the Green team, made up of offensive upperclassmen and defensive lowerclassmen, was comfortably ahead in the mock fourth quarter when Coach left me in for the second to last series, and I got pinwheeled by some backup junior, named Derek Young, who was trying to make a hit on the biggest star the Western University Bulldogs had. One flip over the jackass's shoulder pads, and I landed on my left elbow, with resulting chips in the elbow that required surgery a week later. It's now four weeks after the game, and I'm ready to get back to work.
"Duncan, you know that the AD cares more about your status as a healthy member of the student body than anything else."
Oh, now that's rich. I know the shit the AD pulls for the glory of Western. “We both know that’s bullshit. I'm an athlete-student, not a student-athlete that the conference likes to promote. The football team brings this university millions of dollars in profit each season. And you know that if your biggest offensive threat goes down for the year, those millions evaporate like piss in the summer sun."
Yeah, I'm arrogant. But it’s deserved. Last year, I led the conference in receptions, yards after catch, and receiving touchdowns. Fuck, I even threw for one during a trick play during our opening game against Navy. I was first-team All-Conference and second-team All-American as a junior, and now, as a senior, I am the best player on a team that has a chance to win the conference championship, if things go right.
And Bainridge knows it. He's been coaching at Western for a decade now, and his contract's up soon. He needs me more than I need him. Still, he tries. "Duncan, watch your language. You may be an important part of this team, but you’re not above the rules."
"Rules?" I ask, leaning back and laughing hard again. "In case you haven't noticed, Coach, me and rules get along about as good as you and your ex-wife. How's that going, by the way?"
Bainridge's glower is funny, but he's wrong about something. I do have rules. In fact, I have four rules for football. I'm not the guy who came up with them, but I've never been someone who thinks I need to be overly worried about borrowing from others. Anyway, my four rules are quite simple.
Hit.
Stick.
Crack heads.
Talk shit.
On the football field, I hit hard. I may be a tight end, but I handle defensive tackles and ends thirty to sixty pounds heavier than my two forty without a problem.
I stick too, whether it's catching anything thrown within my reach or sticking a route. When I was in high school, I played defensive end, and I stuck plenty of helpless idiots there too. Now that I'm in college, I run my routes perfectly, I block my assignments perfectly, and I am perfect.
Crack heads. Yeah, that's right. I'm going to bust your balls, take your heart, and stomp on that motherfucker more than once before the end of the game. If you're on defense, you're my bitch, and I mean prison style too. I'm not going to go easy on you, regardless of whether you're the best in the country or some guy who's fighting for a spot on the team.
And of course, I talk shit. I'm going to tell you how good I am and exactly what I'm going to do to you while I do it. It makes it all the better when I whip your ass, take your heart and your girl, and maybe your sister too, if she's hot enough.
Coach Bainridge doesn't seem to agree with my assessment, however, and his face turns a little pink as he listens to my question. It�
��s a low blow. I mean, it wasn't his fault his ex-wife ran off with a younger guy. "You little shit. You're lucky that you're even still on this team after the stunts you've pulled. I could throw you off the team, you know."
"And if you do, I declare for the supplemental draft that's coming up soon, get selected, and cash in early while you get your contract bought out. I'll be in the pros while you're stuck doing what? Analysis on some second-rate cable network? That's really supposed to scare me?"
Coach smirks, and for the first time in our entire conversation, I'm somewhat disturbed. I'm the one who’s supposed to be in charge of this conversation, not him. Then why does he look like he's under control? "I don't think so, Duncan."
"What's that supposed to mean? In case you don't remember, I'm not one of your scholarship losers. I'm fully paid up. My dad paid all of my way through this school. I can walk, and it doesn't hurt me. You can't hurt me."
Coach leans forward, putting his forearms on the desk, and shakes his head. "Oh, but Duncan, I can. You say you can declare for the supp draft, and that's true. But try getting drafted if it comes out that you're a ball hog and a bad teammate who causes drama for any team that drafts him. The teams can find out about your party habits. The League nearly crucified the last little shit who tried to ride out the gravy train while having your sort of past. What's he doing now? Oh yeah, that's right, drug rehab in an in-treatment facility about an hour south of Santa Barbara with no contract and about ten million dollars’ worth of lawsuits sitting in his lap when he gets out."
Shit. "You can't. I'll sue you for defamation of character."
Coach laughs again, like I've just told the funniest joke in the world. "Sue me? Duncan, first, you'd have to prove that I did actually reveal any information, and there are so many sources out there. The reality is that for three years now, I've been covering for you, not revealing anything about you."
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