On His Turf

by Jennifer Watts

  On His Turf

  Jennifer Watts

  Copyright © 2015 Jennifer Watts

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval systems without prior written permission of the author except where permitted by law.

  Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Dedication

  For the keeper of my heart, Thorsten.

  Chapter 1

  “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” I say while glaring at my colleague out of the corner of my eye.

  “Hmm…let’s see a cloudless blue sky, vibrant green grass and men in shorts without an ounce of fat on their bodies. I know, I’m a terrible person,” Leigh responds flatly but I tune her out as I study the field in front of us. It is a bright and sunny June day at Texas Memorial Stadium which is in stark contrast to my mood that’s growing darker by the minute.

  “My feet are killing me,” I huff, hiking my purse strap up my shoulder. “Why don’t we have chairs?”

  “You’re a reporter; surely you recognize the press area?” she answers sarcastically as she shakes out her dark red curls.

  “No, I’m the lowly ‘Assistant to the Features Editor’. The same lowly Assistant who’s been on her damn feet all day and who could really use a chair right now,” I whine.

  “Tom needs a couple of good shots for the sports page and I have to interview ‘golden boy’ over there after the game so keep your panties on girl.”

  Leigh points to the opposite end of the field where the goalkeeper is squatting with his hands on his hips watching the play. The home team has been killing their opponents so he hasn’t had much to do except stand there and look pretty which he happens to be doing a very good job of. I’ve heard of him before - obviously - every woman in Austin with a pulse has heard of Shane Mitchell. He is the Texas-born and bred hometown boy with a golden touch and the looks to match. I quickly thumb through the program to his player page and scan his stats before my eyes travel back over to him. At six-foot-one and two hundred pounds he seems sturdier than most of the other players on the field with calves so muscular that they look like they could cut through glass.

  As I take in his close-cropped sandy-blond hair that’s spiked up at the front and the strong, set line of his jaw I start to feel a little tingle down low in my belly. Even from this distance I can see what all of the fuss is about. I continue to stare and he glances over at the sideline and catches me watching. His eyes hold mine and the look he gives me is so intense that I can’t help but imagine how those gloved hands would feel running all over my body. I wet my lips and refuse to look away and he winks in response. And just like that I’m reminded why I don’t date athletes - or jerks - or athletes with reputations for being complete jerks.

  Leigh is muttering sentence fragments that I can only assume are about the game into her hand-held recorder while Tom the photographer snaps away. He looks bored out of his mind so I give him a sympathetic smile. Tom is a short little man with thinning hair and a weathered face who has been shooting for the paper for more than twenty years so it’s no surprise that the game isn’t holding his interest. Leigh on the other hand is watching with rapt attention. She’s been on the sports desk for the last seven years while I have been one floor down in the Features Department for the last three trying to work my way up the ranks. My degree in journalism from the University of Texas at Austin didn’t come cheap and at twenty-six years old I definitely thought I would be closer to my goal of being a reporter than I currently am.

  “If I’m going to be forced to watch soccer then I need a drink,” I say matter-of-factly as I reach forward to grab one of the clear plastic cups from the passing vendor’s tray.

  “Hey!” He starts to protest as I lift the beer to my lips but quickly shuts his mouth when I wave a twenty dollar bill in front of his face.

  “Sorry,” I mumble a half-assed apology as I hand over the money.

  “You’re not supposed to be drinking that down here,” Leigh clicks her tongue.

  “Then why is he down here?” I nod to the vendor adding; “besides I’m thirsty.”

  “I don’t know how you can drink that stuff anyway…ugh,” she says, turning up her delicate nose.

  “I love beer,” I sigh. “It’s my ass that wishes I didn’t,” I mutter before taking a huge sip from the cup. The ice cold liquid is the perfect relief from the late afternoon heat and I release a happy sigh.

  “Oh please! You look like that Victoria’s Secret model Adrianna Lima but only with lighter hair, Caramel.” Leigh interrupts my self-effacing thoughts by using the nickname she coined for me. It’s one she blessed me with when I first started at the paper because she said that my hair is almost the exact color of a caramel chew.

  “Not even close but thanks for the ego boost,” I snort.

  “You’re right,” she concedes. “I actually think your cup size is bigger, Caramel,” she teases and her eyes twinkle mischievously. I respond by elbowing her in the ribs but secretly I love the nickname she’s given me since my hair is my favorite feature. It’s long and wavy and somewhere halfway between blond and brown. It can be hard to tame though and it is so thick a blind date once told me it’s the kind of hair a man can ‘really grab a hold of’ - suffice it to say there was no second date. And I’ll take the name Caramel any day over my Christian name Carmelina - the one my father gave me on the day I was born right before he high-tailed it back to Mexico for good. And even thought I have never met him face to face he for some reason sends a birthday card every year filled with pictures of him and his new family.

  I suppose I have him to thank for my permanent tan since my mother is of Scandinavian descent with pale hair and even paler eyes. I am the result of their experiment and despite my olive skin tone my eyes are so light blue that most days they almost appear clear. I have also been blessed or cursed depending on how you look at it with a full chest, round hips and a little more junk in the trunk then I’d like to have while standing at five foot four. But my waist is small and the rest of me stays pretty lean as long as I turn up the treadmill at least twice a week and turn down the beer once in a while. But that can be hard to do when you love the stuff as much as I do. I sigh heavily and take another frothy sip from the plastic cup. The play is still down at the away team’s end and when I look over I see that Shane Mitchell is staring at me again with a cocky smile playing on his lips.

  “Seriously from the way you keep sighing you’d think I was torturing you. Look, I got your out of the office early on a Friday under the guise of y
ou ‘shadowing’ me and now you’re drinking beer and watching hot men run around so just say thank you already. Besides don’t your people love soccer?” Leigh raises an eyebrow at me and I shake my head.

  “If by ‘my people’ you mean poor white trash from East Riverside then no, we don’t love soccer,” I reply snidely.

  “You are anything but trash, girl. Now turn that frown upside down!” She gives an exaggerated cheer and I roll my eyes and turn back to the field just in time to see Shane dive for the ball. He moves so effortlessly with his thick thighs braced and ready. He easily saves the ball and kicks it back up the field to the hooting and hollering of the crowd. The stands look almost full which means there’s close to fifty thousand people here. I even hear a few girls shout ‘I love you’ which causes him to flash a smile so dazzling that Leigh actually swoons beside me. His cocky smile reveals all white teeth set against tanned skin and I snort and shake my head because guys like him know exactly how hot they are and they exploit it every chance they get.

  “Just look at him,” Leigh says dreamily, as if she were a teenage girl and not a thirty-five year old self-professed cougar. I only say that because she’s always on the prowl and she makes no secret that she likes younger men. Leigh is originally from Seattle and she once told me that she hit the ‘mother lode’ in coming to Texas with all the cute accents and tight, young cowboy asses. Despite her barbed tongue I’ve never really found Leigh crude - more like funny and direct - both of which are only enhanced by her tall willowy frame, flawless face and crimson hair.

  “It’s a shame that most of these guys make less than one hundred thousand a year. ‘Golden boy’ over there is a designated player and I think he’s the highest paid on the team but he still only makes like a quarter of a million,” she says critically.

  “That’s a hell of a lot more than I make,” I say, quirking an eyebrow at her.

  “As much as I do love soccer I think I should set my sights on one of the higher yield sports like football or hockey,” she adds thoughtfully.

  “What about golf?” I tease. “Or baseball - that’s where the real money is.”

  “Baseball huh?” she says thoughtfully, completely missing my sarcasm. “Maybe we should take a road trip to Houston.”

  I choose to ignore her last comment and I focus my attention back on the game. Our team has lost possession of the ball and the away team takes a shot on the net. The ball goes high and Shane jumps up to catch it but fumbles and it sails over the top of the net. I don’t know what possesses me but I shout out a loud “boo” from where I’m standing on the sidelines. Shane’s eyes cut to me and his eyes narrow like he can’t actually believe I just did that. I can’t actually believe I did it either but I figure it must be the beer or my aching feet. I watch as he retrieves the ball and prepares to kick it up the field. I giggle, starting to think that this is kind of fun and I’m about to open my mouth to boo again when the ball comes spinning towards me and knocks my half-empty beer all over my white button-down shirt.

  Chapter 2

  I let out a shriek and drop the plastic cup to the ground then look down at my drenched shirt. My white lace bra can clearly be seen beneath my blouse and I have nothing to dry myself off with.

  “Serves you right,” Leigh says on a shrug and I give her a death glare. The handful of others in the press area are laughing including the photographer Tom - traitor. When my eyes cut back to the field I am mortified to see that Shane Mitchell is wearing a smirk of his own. I can’t believe he kicked the ball at me. Asshole.

  “I’m getting out of here,” I say while wringing out the bottom of my shirt.

  “No way, jose.” Leigh grabs my arm to stop my retreat. “You are my ride and I still need to get a few words from golden boy after the game.”

  “But it’s not even half-time yet!” I squeal.

  “You’ll live,” she chuckles.

  I stomp away from her to find myself an empty seat in the stands above so I can at least rest my feet while suffering through another forty-five minutes of this mindless torture with a wet chest. Despite the hot sun the thick cotton material I’m wearing isn’t drying all that quickly so I’m forced to keep my arms wrapped around my body so I don’t flash my seatmates my boobs. Although the guy beside me with a red painted face wearing an Austin United jersey keeps sending me smiles that suggest he probably wouldn’t mind all that much if I did.

  As I settle in to watch the remaining play I realize that I know next to nothing about Major League Soccer other than the fact that I have absolutely no interest in learning about it. The way I see it professional soccer should be left to the professionals in Europe and we Americans can have our touchdowns and tailgate parties. I make it through the rest of the game and when the whistle finally blows I head back down to the press area to find Leigh.

  ***

  I follow Leigh through the busy locker room past a handful of players who are in various stages of undress. Other than one camera crew from the local news station there’s no other reporters in the room and definitely no other women. As we pass by a bank of lockers I recognize the player who scored two goals tonight. He finds my eyes and winks at me as he zips up his jeans and I think that he’s definitely cute with his black faux hawk, green eyes and his lean muscular frame.

  “Is there anything I can help you ladies with?” his smooth voice glides over to us and I shake my head but Leigh answers.

  “There are probably a few different things you can help me with gorgeous, but I’m actually looking for Shane Mitchell,” she purrs.

  He smiles, sticking his thumb over his shoulder toward a closed door behind him. “He’s hiding back there as usual.”

  As I walk to the back I literally have to tug on Leigh’s arm to pull her attention away from the hot guy who’s watching our retreat with interest.

  “That’s the striker, Marco Hurtado. Yum. I should go back and get a statement from him - or a phone number,” she says distractedly while grinning over her shoulder at him.

  “Focus please!” I shout a little too loudly because I’m wet and cold and more than a little irritated. “My shirt is still soaked and I need to go home.”

  I yank on her arm again and she begrudgingly turns around to face me and knocks on the door. There’s no answer so we try one more time before she gives up and tries the handle. The door opens and Leigh walks right through with me following closely behind. As soon as we enter I feel the steam heat from the shower and hear a tap running in the distance.

  “Shit,” I say at the same time Leigh exhales, “yes”.

  “We are so not supposed to be in here,” I whisper fiercely and turn to go. As I whirl around I come face to face with Shane Mitchell himself, who is standing in front of me in all of his naked glory. His body is still damp from the shower and I can’t stop my eyes as they drift over tanned chest and across the hard ridges of his chiseled abdomen. I notice distractedly that he has a large black tattoo on his left pectoral that reaches over his shoulder and stretches part way down his left arm. I also notice that he has some wording scrawled on the inside of his bicep but I can’t quite make it out. Huh. He didn’t strike me as the tattoo type with his boy-next-door looks. My eyes travel down even farther to his waist and beyond and I can’t help the yelp that escapes my lips at seeing his impressive girth. I hear him chuckle and my eyes snap back up to his face.

  “You’re wet,” he says and my face flushes guiltily at the thought of the dampness that’s growing between my legs.

  “W-What?” I stammer.

  “Your shirt is wet,” he says matter-of-factly, his eyes not leaving my face which I know must be beet-red by now.

  “I spilled beer on it.”

  “I saw,” he says, his lips curving up into a smile.

  “Because of you,” I add.

  “Sorry?” he says quirking an eyebrow at me.

  “You should be,” I bite out and he chuckles.

  “Sorry we barged in on you,” Leigh interrup
ts but she doesn’t sound sorry at all. “I’m here for the interview and I only need a few minutes of your time. If you’ll have me that is?” she adds suggestively.

  “I expected that you’d wait outside but now that you are here we may as well go ahead,” he addresses her while not taking his eyes off me. I shift my eyes to the floor, careful this time not to catch a glimpse of his tanned flesh on the way down.

  “I guess I should put on a towel?” he says it like a question and I clear my throat nervously.

  Leigh sighs. “If you must.”

  He walks over to the wall and plucks a fluffy white towel off a peg, then wraps it around his waist. He slings it low on his hips and it looks to be in serious danger of falling off and again I can’t help but stare at the deep V that points a path downward to what lies beneath. I mean, Christ, the guy has an eight-pack. An involuntarily tremor passes through me and I close my eyes while I try to focus my attention on anything else.

  Leigh takes out her handheld recorder and holds it up to his mouth before launching her first question at him. “What can you tell us about today’s shut out?”

  “Just doing my job,” he flashes her one of his trademark grins and I watch as her pupils dilate slightly. His smile reveals a set of perfect teeth and dimples in both of his cheeks - and not the cutesy Mario Lopez kind of dimples but the manly kind that cut right down to his chin. Up close I also notice that he has a faint white scar on his upper lip but somehow it only manages to make him look sexier.

  “You’re like a soccer rock star these days. Does all the attention bother you?” she probes.

  “Not in the least. I’d rather have too much attention than none at all.”

  “Born and raised in Austin you went to Florida State on scholarship then spent seven years with Real Salt Lake before returning to Austin. How does it feel to be playing back at home?

  “I’m a Texas boy at heart and I’m so grateful to be back here with the fans that have supported me and believed in me over the years. Like the saying goes, ‘Never ask a man if he’s from Texas. If he is, he’ll tell you on his own. If he ain’t, no need to embarrass him,’“ he finishes then winks.