Pass Interference (Connecticut Kings Book 6)

by Christina C Jones

  When she finally dropped his ass though… I felt like it was my time.

  I wasn’t nervous at all – I was confident, determined. Wanting a woman and not getting her was a foreign concept to me, so when I approached her in Vegas, at an off-season party hosted by the team, it never occurred to me that she wouldn’t use the key I’d given her to my room there at the hotel.

  But… she didn’t.

  In fact, with Sloane, it was the third time that ended up being the charm, at a BSU alumni event. She’d made me chase her – made me work for it. And that little detail made having her so much sweeter.

  But you don’t really have her, do you?

  There was the other thing I hadn’t really expected – to be the one left wanting more. Sloane was… phenomenal. In conversation, in bed, on the field, wherever. She had an energy about her that made you sit up and pay attention, an energy that was… addictive.

  And she knew it.

  It was probably why she kept me at arm’s length, constantly making sure I understood that sex was all we would ever have. I told myself that was fine, because I had zero intention of anything beyond that either.

  That was a lie though.

  It hadn’t been at first, but it became that eventually, as fulfilling a childhood crush morphed into feeling like I never had enough of her. I wanted what she wasn’t willing to give, and with a woman like Sloane… there was no budging.

  I was a boy toy, to her.

  Which should’ve been enough to make me focus my energy elsewhere, on the women – closer to my age – who were vying for my attention. But it wasn’t the same, somehow. They never had the same confidence, the same potency, the same … anything.

  They weren’t the woman I wanted.

  But the woman I wanted… didn’t want me.

  Three.

  It couldn’t have been more perfect.

  Beautiful weather, a football in my hands, freshly manicured turf staining my fresh white sneakers green. Of course, I’d been on a practice field before – been on this practice field before, back when Garrett rocked the royal blue and gold for himself, and I was loyal wifey, ready to cheer him on through anything.

  But this was new.

  This was… official.

  This was me, my job, to get things in order for these rookies.

  Coach Sloane Brooks, reporting for duty.

  Damn that sounds good.

  Of the oversized roster we’d be starting training camp with, eight of those guys were rookies. One of them, Rutledge Amare, had a huge amount of potential coming out the gate – I thought he was a good choice myself, even though there were rumors of attitude.

  But, that label got thrown around easily in the football community, especially about Black players. All you had to do was not allow yourself to be treated sub-human, and the Good Ol’ Boy’s club was ready to bring out the pitchforks, branding you “stubborn”, or any number of other negative adjectives.

  I didn’t care about any of that.

  I considered every single player a blank slate – I didn’t give a damn about your reputation, show me who you are and what you can do now. I demanded two things – respect, and excellence. As long as I saw those, we’d get along just fine.

  From my position beside Coach Underwood, I frowned as I watched Amare and another player, a defensive back named Stroy, run a play. They’d already done it twice, and it was clear from where I stood – a latecomer, who was supposed to be moving into her tiny office, but couldn’t keep herself off the field – what the problem was.

  Amare – our newest wide receiver - wasn’t putting enough power into it.

  “Again!” Coach Underwood shouted, nodding to acknowledge my presence from there. I watched, internally cringing as again, Amare phoned it in, not moving fast enough to avoid Stroy – a mistake that in a game, could result in a costly interception.

  “You’re not exploding off the line!” I called out, tucking the ball in my hands against my hip as I moved up a little.

  Amare turned, eyeing me with something that was way too close to a sneer for me to let it ride.

  I pushed my oversized sunglasses – not the Gucci ones – up onto my head, giving him back the same glare he was giving me. “Is there a problem?”

  His eyes narrowed as he gave me another once-over after he’d glanced back, noticing the stares and snickers of the other men on the field.

  I knew right then, there was, indeed, a problem.

  He grinned at me – way too slick – and said, “Yeah. My dick feeling kinda dry. I ‘on see nobody else out here who could help. Unless you ready to drop down on ya knees to handle that, you can get the fuck off the field and let me do what I’m getting paid to do.”

  Oh.

  Ohhhhh.

  That’s what we’re doing today, huh?

  I returned his grin with one of my own amid the reactions from the others on the field – Coach Underwood included. But I’d already made myself crystal clear to my peers – barring someone getting physical with me, I never wanted them to intervene between me and a player.

  I was glad to see that request was being respected – Underwood shifted to cross his arms, obviously pissed, but saying nothing as I stepped forward, closer to Amare.

  “Considering that sucker ass contract you signed, I doubt your dick is much for me to work with, rookie. Besides… your young, dumb ass probably just learned how to hold it to even pee.” I stepped even closer as his jaw tightened, but his glare didn’t waiver. “Instead of talking about the needs of your undersized dick, how about you master this play, and while you’re at it – learn my name.”

  He scoffed. “Ya’ name?”

  “Yeah. And especially my damn title.”

  “Which is?”

  “Coach. Sloane Brooks. As in, Coach Brooks.” I smirked as his head immediately swiveled to look past me, to Coach Underwood, for confirmation. I couldn’t see the exchange, but could imagine Underwood nodding, prompting Amare’s rolled eyes as he brought his gaze back to me. “Mmmhmmm,” I purred. “Now… You ready to get this knowledge, or would you rather start with the twenty laps your misogyny just earned you?”

  He didn’t say anything at first, just stared me down and I stared right back at his ass. It wasn’t even that I needed him to back down – I needed him to cut the silly shit and get to work.

  There was an Amare on every incoming squad I coached, without fail – at least this one was a little older than the hormonal college kids I’d gotten accustomed to at BSU. Somehow, it didn’t change much though – even once I’d gotten my peers used to what to expect from me, there was always some little sexist bastard who thought they’d be the one to put me in my proper place – the kitchen or the bedroom.

  It never took very long for them to understand that I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

  After a tense moment, he took a step back, yielding the floor – the field – to me, so I could do my job.

  I nodded.

  “You need to explode,” I explained, as if our previous exchange had never happened, and no beats had been skipped. He was practicing a Quick Out – which was a risky play that could have a big pay off if executed well. If executed badly… well… he’d already seen the results of that. “Make the DB think you’re running a Go Route. What you’re doing instead is picking up gradual speed at the line.”

  “Yeah, easy for a fanatic to say, but players need to practice to get it,” he said – making excuses, as far as I was concerned. “That’s what we’re doing here. Practicing.”

  “Some need practice, and some just have it.” I looked around, craning my neck to support my next point. “And where the hell do you see a fanatic out here?”

  “Oh, my bad,” he said, in a dry tone. “Let me keep it politically correct – someone who’s “passionate” about the game.”

  I chuckled, then backed away from him, tossing the ball in my hands to one of the coaching assistants. “I’ll do you one better.”

 
; I ignored his offensive demeanor as I got in position at the line, exchanging a look with Coach Underwood to make it clear what I expected to happen. He gave me a nod, and I turned, ready. As soon as the whistle blew, I did what I expected my wide receiver to do.

  I exploded off the goddamn line.

  Easily, I outmaneuvered Stroy, partially because I was moving fast enough to blow past him, dodging his attempt to bump me before I broke right, catching the pass from the QB stand-in we were using for this mini-camp.

  Somehow, I staved off the urge to run in for a touchdown.

  Jogging back to where Amare stood, I started speaking before I even made it all the way there. “If you don’t explode off the line and you’re slow, the DB is going to move slow too. That gives him time to think about your play. And if he’s fast…faster than you…” I shrugged, letting him fill in the rest as he stared at me like one of us was crazy.

  It damn sure wasn’t me.

  “You gonna try it again, or start your laps?” I asked, completely unfazed by his stare-down.

  I found the restraint in me, somewhere, to not laugh as he spit at the grass… and then jogged off to start his laps.

  I wasn’t naïve enough to think things would be peachy between us going forward, and honestly… I didn’t care.

  Respect.

  Excellence.

  That was all I wanted from Amare and my other wide receivers. I didn’t care if he hated my guts. I didn’t care if he used anonymous social media to troll me on the internet. I didn’t care if he plastered my swimsuit pictures up and down the locker room.

  I’d endured worse, from players with less at stake than these men, who had to fall in line or risk getting cut during training camp, and losing their million-dollar deals.

  They couldn’t surprise me, and they couldn’t scare me.

  I was that bitch everywhere else – the field would not be an exception.

  Underwood shook his head at me as I approached him, barely hiding a smirk.

  “Did you really have to do him like that?” he asked under his breath, as the others moved on to running a different play.

  I shrugged. “He was practically begging to be an example, so I made him one. Now that that’s over with, we can play some football.”

  He tugged down the brim of his Kings hat, still trying not to laugh. “You go too hard on a young man like that, you’ll lose him. Never get his head back.”

  “Then he can stay lost – somewhere other than this team.”

  “Damn, Brooks. You’re cold-blooded when it comes to this stuff huh?”

  “You already knew that,” I grinned, patting his arm. “And by the time this camp is over… my rookie will too.”

  “And then, do you know that little asshole had the nerve to call me a fanatic?” I took a sip of my wine, then held up a finger. “No wait – he corrected himself. Someone who’s passionate about the game. Like, get the fuck outta here,” I fussed, giving the retelling of my first day with the Kings way more energy than it deserved.

  From the grill, Garrett laughed, tipping back his beer to drain the last few swallows with one hand, and flipping the steaks with the other. “You want me to go up and there and talk to ‘em for you?”

  I gave him the ugliest side-eye I could dredge up, which spurred raucous laughter from my guests – Miles and Joan. Miles was a former King, like Garrett, and the two had left the field behind the same year to start their sports management firm. He and Joan had gotten married two months after Garrett and I had, and were still happily wed.

  I considered it pure luck that I’d been able to quite easily make good friends with my husband’s bestie’s wife. The fact that we’d remained friends after the divorce?

  A blessing.

  “Garrett is out here trying to get his wig split I see,” Miles laughed, wrapping his arm around Joan from his reclined position on the outdoor chaise. She didn’t say anything, just took a pointed sip from her glass as she met my gaze, because she already knew.

  I didn’t need Garrett doing a damn thing for me.

  “He’s working hard at it, huh?” I teased. “He’s already on his second strike for today.”

  “Wait a minute, what was strike one?!”

  My face wrinkled. “Negro, you showed up at my door unannounced, with guests, talking about you were cooking a celebration dinner for me. That is strike one.”

  “It wasn’t unannounced, it was… a surprise.”

  “Same difference.”

  He sucked his teeth. “So you’re telling me you don’t want this premium tomahawk from your favorite little bougie grocery store?”

  I sat up a little straighter. “You ordered those steaks from Eat Clean?”

  “And the vegetable skewers, and the wine.”

  This is a good bottle of wine…

  “I guess I’ll accept it as a surprise. But it’s still a strike.”

  “You’re so damn mean,” he accused, as I pulled myself up to peek at the grill.

  “Yeah. That tends to happen when a woman has to divorce you for being a raging whore.”

  “Damn,” Miles chuckled. “Raging?”

  “I said what I said,” I answered, and before Miles could offer a rebuttal, Joan spoke up.

  “Uh-uh,” she told him, with a disapproving glare. “You were covering for his hoeing, you don’t get to ask questions.”

  “He never covered for me!”

  “I never covered for him!”

  Miles and Garrett declared at the same time, both giving off the impression that their denials mattered.

  They didn’t.

  “You didn’t tell him to stop though, so…” Joan said, playfully pushing her husband in the chest.

  “Will you tell these women how I tried to minister to you?” Miles turned to Garrett, seeking help.

  “Yeah, he definitely warned me you were gonna leave,” Garrett agreed.

  Miles gave a triumphant nod. “And?”

  Garrett’s little grin dropped. “And you warned me she was going to kick my ass.”

  “Not just your ass, but…”

  “Really nigga?” he asked, looking stressed.

  “Your ass and,” Miles just repeated, insistent on getting an answer.

  Garrett blew out a sigh. “My ass and the groupies I “rode in on”.” He raised his spatula, waving it in our direction. “But I want it to be on the record that I did not get my ass kicked. Maybe a light tapping.”

  I snorted.

  The groupies in question hadn’t been so lucky.

  Garrett had been smart enough to lock himself in the bathroom after the first few licks, preventing me from properly going upside his head when I called myself “surprising” him, only to find him having quite the good time out of town with not one, not two, but three women, none of whom were… me. Those broads called themselves jumping on me – a really, bad idea, considering that I was still playing in a community football league at the time.

  The whole thing ended with me in handcuffs, mostly unscathed, and them – Garrett included – nursing two concussions, a broken nose, a broken wrist, and myriad bruises between them. No charges ended up being pressed, but their monetary settlements got rolled into my divorce judgment, so basically Garrett paid for it.

  Not my proudest mome—wait, no, that’s a lie.

  I wasn’t ashamed, at all.

  Everybody in that hotel room knew who Garrett Brooks was married to, so as far as I was concerned, they’d earned that ass whooping.

  My only regret was having to explain daddy’s black eye to Madison, when we sat down to tell her that we were breaking up… even though she told me later that she would’ve punched him too, even though we’d given her the vaguest possible details.

  She adored Garrett though, so… it worked out.

  As if I’d thought her up, Madison came breezing through the patio doors, fresh from a date with her little boyfriend.

  Boy. Friend.

  Not boyfriend, since her father wasn�
��t into the idea, but somehow didn’t understand that calling it one thing didn’t mean it wasn’t another.

  Neither of us cared to argue with him.

  “Look at you,” Joan gushed. “You look so cute and summery. Did you have a good time with the senior?” she teased, making Madison grin.

  Baby girl had been over the moon with excitement when she came to me, asking if Langston could take her to the movies. After the usual research into Langston and his people, her father and I had agreed, and they’d been friends for almost five months now, which was a long time for high school. Mads had been a little down because he was getting ready to graduate, but today she was all smiles.

  “What’s going on?” I prodded. “Something happen?”

  “He picked a school,” she told us, practically bouncing on her heels. “He’s going to stay local for two years, and then go to BSU. He’s only staying because his Dad is sick, and he doesn’t want to leave his mom alone, but… still!”

  I returned her smile, knowing that the chances of their little puppy love lasting were drastically improved by him going to school here in Connecticut. Of course I hadn’t shared any of my pessimism with her – she’d experience her first heartbreak whenever it happened, I had no desire to rush it along.

  “Well, I’m happy you’ll have more than just the summer with him sweetheart, but I hope his dad starts feeling better sooner than later. Is he having a hard time with the chemo?”

  Madison nodded, her expression growing strained. “That’s why we cut tonight short, so he can sit with him while his mom gets some sleep.”

  “Early?” Garrett bellowed, stopping the work of taking the steaks off the grill. “It’s after nine o’clock!”

  Immediately, Madison’s eyes shifted to me, like I had anything to do with her crazy ass daddy’s idea of an appropriate curfew.

  “I… my curfew is eleven on weekends…” she stammered, confused. “Right?”

  “You’re sixteen – ain’t nothing but trouble out there after eight o’clock at night!”