Out of Bounds

by Lauren Blakely

  I get it. I’m not annoyed. This is how pro ball goes. I’m just glad I got traded only thirty miles away. I’d happily pack up for a lot of franchises—hell, for pretty much whoever comes calling with a good offer—but I like Southern California, and I have a boatload of good buddies in this town both from my college days and from the first three years in the pros.

  But there’s an even better reason I’m glad I was sent to Los Angeles. The chance is mine and mine alone to start every game. Los Angeles isn’t trying to groom a new superstar, like my old team was. My new team is simply aiming to keep its head above water, and its nose out of the news. I can absolutely deliver on both counts.

  That will be my goal this season. Leading this team, on and off the field.

  As I head inside the locker room, I remind myself that it’s a damn good thing Dani never called me back after I found a cool way to leave her my number the next day. That phone call I got the night I met her might have prevented me from giving her my full number, but I made sure to get my digits to her the day after. The trouble is I didn’t hear a word. Not a peep. I wanted her to call or text. Hell, did I ever want to see her again. That woman occupied an astonishing portion of my brain that evening a couple weeks ago after I left her porch. And look, even though my agent was calling to give me the big news, I still managed to spend time with her in the shower when I returned home. She looked lovely in my imagination with her hands against the tiled wall, back bowed, ass up, all nice and slick and wet and ready.

  In my solo flight that night, she came as loud and as hard as I did in my fist. I bet she’s an electric one between the sheets, because lord only knows, she felt like fire in my arms.

  And there goes my dick. Imitating a flagpole as I enter a room full of dudes. I’d like to find the off switch to my dirty thoughts. Honestly, I’d like to shut them the fuck down right now, and fortunately, there’s nothing like a roomful of big, hairy men to do that for me.

  Done.

  Since Dani never got back to me, whatever latent lust I feel for her is moot. I tried to track the woman down. I wanted to see her again, and I made a hell of an effort—one I thought was pretty damn sweet. Didn’t faze the woman. Her radio silence was all I needed to know. I’m not the kind of guy to get hung up on a girl, especially not someone I only spent a few hours with anyway.

  A few fantastic hours.

  But that time with her is in the rearview mirror. My job is to yank this team out of the funk it’s been in, and there’s no place for a woman I’ll never see again in that mission. Besides, I’ve witnessed what’s happened to my buddies on and off the field when they got distracted by women. They start losing their focus, dulling their edge, forgetting what matters on the field. Me? I’m not perfect, but I believe firmly in a blinders approach. Stay out of trouble, don’t get distracted, and keep your eye on the motherfucking prize.

  Excellence.

  That’s what matters to me, and now I’ve got a chance with a team to perform.

  After I shower and dress, I find Stuart, the team’s main press guy, waiting for me in the hall.

  “Hey Drew,” he says, parking a hand on my shoulder. He’s shorter, with dark hair peppered with gray. His eyes match—they’re almost silvery.

  “You all set for the fundraiser tonight?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, since he asked me to attend a charity event to benefit inner-city youth in LA. Not only is it a good cause, but our support can help improve the Knights’ tarnished image.

  “Wonderful. Lots of folks from the organization will be there, so I’ll make sure you meet everyone and that they all know our new quarterback,” he says with a wide smile. “And you’ll smile for the cameras. Get some Instagram posts, make a few comments to the sports sites. You know the drill.”

  “Can’t wait,” I say, and I mean it.

  ***

  “Make sure to look pretty tonight,” Jason says, laughing, as I turn at the light, heading to the boutique hotel.

  I speak into the phone, set in the holder on the dashboard of my Tesla. “I look devilishly handsome, but I’m pretty sure tonight’s not the night for picking up chicks. Call me crazy, but I don’t think the team would be too stoked if I went into their charity event chasing tail.”

  “Shame,” my best friend says, his voice smooth and cool. “I’m sitting here at Piccolo’s and the pickings are quite pretty.”

  I can picture him there, enjoying a Scotch and surveying the scene, sitting like a king. It’s his favorite hipster bar, and he regularly cleans up there, along with my other boys.

  “Then you should enjoy them all. Though I doubt you can pull without me,” I say as I near the hotel.

  Jason snorts. “As if.”

  We grew up next door to each other in a crummy neighborhood in San Diego, and played ball together as kids. At high school, he killed it as a running back, but then he switched to track after a few years to take advantage of his speed. He nabbed a scholarship to college, but that’s as far as he went in sports. The guy is amazing with financial management though, and he works his ass off as an advisor to all sorts of clients, myself included. I rarely make decisions without him. He’s become my business manager. He’s rock solid, and one-hundred percent dependable. He was the first one I called after my agent told me I was traded, and he was fired up. Due in no small part to the fact that he lives in Los Angeles. He already helped me find a sweet condo in Santa Monica to rent for the year.

  “Hey,” Jason says, segueing to his business tone. “I got a request for a meeting today from a sports drink company, Qwench. Potential sponsorship. It’s in the exploratory stages, but I’ll do my due diligence, take the meeting, and see if it’s worth pursuing.”

  “Excellent. Can’t wait to hear your thoughts.”

  As I pull up to the valet, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Sharp vest, fine shirt, smooth shave. I look the part of the athlete who cleans up well. Like I motherfucking should. “I need to jam. I’m here now.”

  “Be on your best behavior, Drew,” he says, a teasing tone in his voice.

  “I always am,” I reply, and the fact is, that’s true. Clean-cut is my nickname.

  “And text if you’re done early.”

  “If I’m done early, I’m having a date with my mattress.”

  He groans. “You are the definition of no fun.”

  I grin. “That’s me. That’s why Qwench wants me now. Because I know how to get a good night’s sleep and stay out of the line of fire.”

  When I hang up, I step out of the car, hand the keys to the valet, and thank him. Then I head inside, where Stuart greets me in the room reserved for the event, claps me on the back, and introduces me to several people. A photographer snaps shots the whole time, and I play the role that’s hardly a role—the outgoing, non-trouble-making, peace-loving quarterback who doesn’t throw punches or raise fists, like others before me have.

  Don’t smoke, don’t do drugs, don’t have unprotected sex, and I also don’t speed. Squeaky clean indeed. Not even a traffic ticket on the record, and certainly no knocked-up teenyboppers with mini Drews baking in their bellies.

  Stuart introduces me to the red-haired, freckle-faced guy who heads up this charity. “And this is Drew Erickson. He’s our new starter. We’re thrilled to have him on the team, especially since he’s already active with many wonderful charitable endeavors,” Stuart says to the ginger-haired guy.

  We exchange small talk for a few minutes, then Stuart drops a hand on my shoulder and tells me there’s someone else he wants me to meet. “I’d love to introduce you to a sharp-as-a-tack woman who makes sure I don’t fumble,” he says, then winks in case I didn’t realize he was making a joke.

  I smile to let him know I got it—fumbling humor and all—then my smile turns into a ruler-straight line when I turn on my heels and see my surfer angel.

  Holy shit. She’s hot as sin in a red skirt, white blouse, and black heels. She holds a drink. Her blond hair is twisted on her he
ad. Damn. The smoking-hot look is almost enough to make me forget she blew me off. My dick, the traitorous bastard, has already come down with amnesia. The fucker wants her.

  “This is Dani Paige. She’s an attorney for the team,” he says, and I attempt to school my expression as I come face-to-face with the woman who ditched me.

  And all I want to do is toss her on my shoulder, stalk to the bathroom, slam the door, and ask her why the fuck she didn’t call. Then when she tells me it was because she was too busy getting off to thoughts of me, I’d kiss the hell out of her until she melted in my arms and begged me to take her. I’d happily oblige. Hoist her up, hook her legs around my hips, and fuck her against the wall until she comes harder than she ever has before.

  Instead, I shake her free hand. “Pleasure to meet you.” Then I whisper, just for her. “Jaws.”

  Chapter Five

  Dani

  I knock back my Arnold Palmer in one fast gulp.

  Like it’s going to give me the fuel I need to manage this interaction with Drew.

  I knew it would happen eventually, but I have no clue what to expect now that he’s here in front of me, with Stuart by his side. Talk about awkward.

  The trouble is, I can’t talk about anything because I’ve finished my beverage too fast and it’s gone straight to my head. As in, epic brain freeze. My forehead pulses in a mind-numbing headache. I press my palm against my temple.

  The pain. Oh lord, the ridiculous pain.

  “You okay?”

  I meet Drew’s gaze. “Brain freeze,” I croak out.

  “Press your tongue against the roof of your mouth,” he says, and then he demonstrates. On himself. Opening his mouth, sticking his tongue up, and showing me.

  It’s the strangest moment and one that is rife for innuendo, because . . . his tongue.

  But my head aches like a son of a bitch so I do as he says, pushing the tip of mine against the roof of my mouth. In a few wondrous seconds, the pain in my forehead dissipates.

  A smile tugs at the corners of my lips. “How on earth did you know to do that?”

  He shrugs. “Big fan of Slurpees. Learned it the hard way.”

  Stuart beams, claps his hands, and says, “I can see you two will get along fine. Drew, if you need anything, Dani is the legal liaison to the press department this season. She’s tasked with helping us to make sure we present the best public face, and don’t break any rules. Or laws.” He pauses, then adds, this time with complete seriousness. “Or morals. Especially those.” I nod my understanding and Drew does the same. Then Stuart flashes a huge smile and laughs. “Need to go make the rounds, so I’ll leave you two alone.”

  Stuart walks away, and I stand near the bar with the man who ditched me the other week.

  Be cool. Be calm. Be a pro. Don’t break any rules.

  I part my lips to speak, hunting for words to break the tension that still exists between us. In my best cool-as-a-cucumber tone, I say, “Congratulations on joining the team. Everyone is thrilled to have you.”

  He arches an eyebrow and even that simple gesture is impossibly sexy on him. But then, he has an unfair advantage because he’s decked out in a three-piece suit—tailored pants, a dress shirt, and a vest that fits him like a glove. If he wasn’t already stunning, the damn vest alone would knock him into another stratosphere, because there’s just something so ridiculously hot about a man who can pull off that look. You have to possess a spectacular body to wear that kind of three-piece suit. Drew seems to have stepped off the pages of GQ, tailored to within a millimeter of his fine frame. I’ve seen him in shorts, and I’ve seen him in a suit. The man makes the clothes every time.

  “Everyone is thrilled to have me?” He sweeps his multimillion-dollar arm out wide, his eyes pinned on me. “Because it didn’t seem like everyone was thrilled to have me.”

  My face burns and I don’t know if it’s from embarrassment or desire or a mix. How on earth is he already dropping naughty little hints? Especially after not calling.

  I nod, raising my chin. I don’t know what he’s getting at, but I won’t take the bait. I’m not about to let on that I was so disappointed at the silent treatment that I considered smashing my phone with a hammer as a punishment for it not serving up any texts from him.

  “I assure you, everyone at the organization is delighted that you’re on the team.”

  Ugh. I sound like a mouthpiece.

  He steps closer, leans into me, his mouth now dangerously near to my ear. “Cut the act,” he whispers, his voice low and husky and turning me on even though I wish it wasn’t.

  “What act?” I ask, my voice as wobbly as my knees.

  “You knew I was traded.”

  I wrench back. “What are you talking about?”

  He taps his chest. “And you knew who I was.”

  I scoff. In his face. “I didn’t know you were being traded,” I whisper sharply, not wanting anyone to overhear our conversation. “But obviously I knew who you were. I’m not stupid. If I didn’t recognize you, I shouldn’t have my job.”

  “And yet you said nothing.”

  “And yet you said nothing,” I fire back at him.

  His expression is cold. “The whole time you knew what was going on, though, about me being traded, and you didn’t say anything?”

  I shake my head. I can barely believe this conversation. “I’m not privy to trades before they happen. I’m the attorney, not the general manager. Besides, if I really knew, which I did not, do you think I would have spent the evening with you? I’d have avoided you. I only wanted to help make sure you weren’t hurt.”

  Dragging a hand through his thick brown hair, he shrugs. “Fine.”

  “And you introduced yourself as Andrew. You didn’t even say what you did for a living. I assumed that meant you wanted to be unknown. Don’t give me a hard time for giving you what you wanted that day,” I seethe, and he sighs heavily. But I’m not done. “And why are you on my case when you didn’t even call me?”

  Crap. I want to smack myself. So much for being cool. So much for not letting on. This man rattles me.

  But judging from the flummoxed look on his face, I’ve rattled him too. He stares at me, his brow furrowed. “What are you talking about? I stopped by your house the next day. I tried to text you but I didn’t get the last digit down, so I came by the next day to ask you out. I had no idea you worked for the team.”

  “And I had no idea—” I stop when my brain snags on what he just said. Making a T with my hands, I call a timeout. “Wait. Did you say you stopped by?”

  He nods several times. “When I realized I didn’t have your full number, I wrote a note, and brought it over to your home and left it on your porch. Tucked it right under the plant by your door.”

  Butterflies swoop down out of nowhere, landing in my chest. “You did?” I ask, and I can’t mask the hope in my tone. “What did you say in it?”

  A grin spreads on his face, a sweet and sexy smile. He licks his lips. Speaks softly. “That I had a nice time with you. That I messed up your number. That I wanted to know if you’d have any interest in giving me a surfing lesson.”

  The note must have gotten lost in all the menus and coupons. I bet Mrs. Fitzsimmons picked it up accidentally when she watered the plants. Probably tossed it in the recycling like she does with the flyers.

  In an instant my frustration seeps away. All I want to do is kiss the daylights out of him. But I can’t do that. Instead, I meet his hazel gaze and say, “I would have said yes.” Shivers spread across my skin from my own admission.

  His voice is soft and smoky when he answers. “I like it when you say that word.”

  I say it again, even though it’s far too risky to use with him. But I inch closer and let it fall from my lips in a soft whisper. “Yes.”

  He draws a sharp breath. His eyes darken. “Sounds so fucking good on your lips.”

  Those shivers turn into heat, like a fire has ignited in my chest, and it spreads everywhere. Fi
lling me with lust and desire all from that one word.

  Yes. Yes. Yes.

  How I want us to say yes.

  “You really didn’t get my phone number?”

  He shakes his head. “I really didn’t get your number.” His hazel eyes twinkle. He looks happy, and it’s a look he wears extraordinarily well. I cast my eyes around the room, cataloguing the din of all my colleagues in the front office as well as the guys on the field, chatting, drinking, nibbling on appetizers, posing for photos in front of the banner. I’m glad that the noise and hubbub of the conversations are keeping everyone else busy. “Trust me, Dani. If I had that last digit I would have texted you five minutes after I left, and again that night. And after I got home. And before I fell asleep. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

  His words light me up. My whole body is humming. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you either, and I had a great time talking to you on the beach and at the bar. I could tell you wanted to just be a regular Joe, so I wanted you to be free to do that with me. But I swear I didn’t know you were going to be traded to Los Angeles. I really do think it’s terrific to have you on the team. I know what you did last year. Top-ten quarterback rating in the league, and only one interception. That was impressive,” I say, and he blushes.

  Holy shit. Drew Erickson blushes when I compliment his stats.

  “Who would have thought we’d be playing on the same team? But maybe later, we can pick up where we left off?” he suggests. “Or perhaps we can get a Slurpee and test my brain-freeze cure again. Cold heads seem to be our thing.”

  That’s when the sexy flirty feeling fades away. The bubble bursts. The awareness of what a mistake this would be sinks down on me like an anvil.

  Chuck. Bambi. Sex scandals like they’re a regular daily routine.

  “Shoot,” I say, heavily, like it has twenty syllables.