by Rie Warren
I returned to the table . . . and my iPhone bleeped with a voicemail. A voicemail I forgot all about when I saw what Callum had written in thick, drippy maple syrup on my stack of pancakes: Luv u mommy!!!
Grabbing him for a syrupy sweet kiss, I laughed when he followed up with an Eskimo kiss of noses nudging. And my stupid eyes teared up.
He made it all worth it, morning grumpies and all.
Herding him to the car, with his oversized backpack on his tiny shoulders, was a totally different story.
But at least I was schooling him in classic rock as I dialed into 104.5 and Heart’s “Magic Man” started blaring. I ignored the Bluetooth and joined Callum in an epic rock anthem sung at the top of our lungs.
I pulled up to the church-run preschool, corralled him through the door with dozens of other toddler parents, and fielded the usual questions of interest re: was Carolina Crush going to make a comeback?
Despite the saddest performance possibly on record, everybody wanted season tickets.
I was just happy when I remembered to deliver the juice boxes and cupcakes on time for the regularly scheduled preschool parties.
And to have color-coordinated my outfit, tucked in my blouse, and remembered to ditch the Fozzie Bear slippers before heading out of the house.
After greeting Cal’s teachers, I crouched for one last hug, but he blew me off with a fist tap.
Did I say little kid?
I hesitantly bumped that. “Why?”
“Auntie Phil taught me.”
“That woman needs lessons in decorum.” I grabbed him to me while I still could.
My little tagalong was growing up way too fast. Damn, he even had the cleft chin. The two dimples. The lopsided grin that got right to my heart.
“Peyton! Peyton Fox!” One of the robo-blondie moms kind of cat-walked down the multicolored, muraled corridor toward me. “We were wondering if you’d like to be proposed for membership in the Junior League?”
Speaking of decorum gone way too Blonde Ambition . . .
“Is that like the minors or something?” I played dumb.
Blondie tittered. “No.” She grasped my wrist. “It’s the United Daughters of the Confederacy, but we’re politically correct.”
Uhm. No.
On second thought I’d never sic decorum lessons on Phil again.
“Buh-bye, Mommy.” Cal waggled his fingers at me.
“Hey,” I called after him, watching him stow his backpack in his cubby. “Auntie Phil might get to your graduation before me. But I’ll be here.”
“No worries!”
Huh?
Something clawed right into my heart as he was surrounded by his classmates, forgetting all about me.
Jesus. Yep. I did need to get that life Philomena kept preaching about. I was suffering from empty nest syndrome, and Callum was only headed to kindergarten at the end of the summer?
Christ.
Meanwhile, Phil had gone through dozens of chicks since Christmas while I’d had no sex. Not a single masculine kiss. No dates at all because I turned everyone down.
Phil wanted to put me on Tinder. She accused me of being a nun. A born-again virgin.
Re-hymen-ated.
Yeah. She was such a friend like that.
What she didn’t know was I could’ve potentially had that great love. Except for one crazy, sexy, sheet-burning, bed-breaking night . . . and the morning of forgetfulness that had followed.
A night that changed my life in the best and the worst ways.
She claimed I was surrounded by some of the best cock in the US of A, and she wasn’t wrong—cocky bastards that was. But I wasn’t about to jeopardize my fragile hold on hard-won professional respect by getting off with one of my players.
Hell and no.
Not gonna happen.
I wasn’t a prude, but the love-lust thing was waaay down on my list of priorities that included: 1. Callum, 2. The team, 3. I wouldn’t mind being able to pull off the domestic diva thing while I ran my ass ragged to make sure Crush wasn’t the laughingstock of the NFL two seasons in a row.
And, 4. A little romance might be nice, too.
Or at least someone to help me find my car keys as I dug through my depthless purse so I could get to work.
Chapter Seven
Game Face
Peyton
MY TOES ACHED AS I sat through morning meetings at Carolina headquarters. My head ached, too. After two cups of strong java, several rounds with Lou about how to manage the first day of practice after I’d already outlined the schedule and emailed it to the entire coaching staff two weeks in advance, I wanted nothing more than to get on the field.
Finally closing the talking heads down, I hit my office, kicked off my stilettoes, and reached behind to unclasp my bra.
Blessed relief.
In the adjoining bathroom, I stripped down, changing from biz-woman-wear into workout gear. Sneakers, yes. Hair in a ponytail. Red and white team colors all the way.
Before the players arrived, I ran laps around the training ground, working it all out. The sudden, unplanned move from Nashville. Uprooting Cal and enrolling him in a new preschool. Putting the team back together piece by player piece.
My frustrations.
My sexual frustration?
Damn Phil and the way she’d gotten inside my head about not having a man to share my bed. Dr. Phil. Pffft.
My feet hit the track as I ran, my head down, steam rising in the rapidly warming air.
Coach D sat on a bench, tipping his water bottle at me every time I passed him until he stood and blew his whistle. Seemed our guys had finally arrived.
Sweat clung to my temples and chest, and I mopped myself up with the towel D tossed at me. Frank, Sam, and Mark joined us as I chugged water, and the team—newly replenished—streamed onto their home practice field.
Familiar with these stomping grounds since I hadn’t gone with the usual total training camp immersion at an away facility because I couldn’t leave Callum, the men joked, rapped, and danced, strutting around like they didn’t have a single care in the world.
They weren’t just athletes. They were showmen. And they’d definitely shown their asses last season, not in a good way.
As everyone gathered at the facilities in Charleston, South Carolina, I scanned their faces. Crooked noses. Scars from hits taken. Uncountable injuries unseen but healed up. All in all, a handsome, rugged bunch I needed to give me more. More heart. More juice. More complete plays.
Brooklyn, the tight end with all the tats and the huge beard; Marquis, the wide receiver boasting a head full of dread locks; Paul Biggs, otherwise known as Paul Bunyan; and Akoni, with the long Polynesian hair—the latter were my two best players on defense.
I wanted the men mean. Needed them to be hungry.
The first, second, and third strings all present—fifty teammates—everyone except the star QB. I was secretly relieved Rafe was late. His tardiness gave me more time to prepare for seeing him again.
The last time we’d met up had been in the locker room, and his ripped body—big, chiseled, and naked—was stamped indelibly on my brain. I couldn’t forget him no matter how hard I tried, but I wasn’t about to start training season by being soft on him. No way. I’d save my kickass speech until he showed up.
Frank, Sam, Mark, and D started running drills while I watched from the sidelines. Music blared over the speakers to rev the guys up, and giant coolers of iced-down drinks started melting under the June midday heat.
The coaches gave their own brand of buck-up-or-fuck-off pep talks, f-bombs littered heavily between every other word.
My team popped down for push-ups, jumped up for laps around the field, practiced tackles and passes, leaking sweat the entire time.
I approved.
One hour later Rafe arrived.
Ugh.
The atmosphere went ballistic as he jogged onto the field, but I wasn’t impressed.
I wasn’t even interested i
n his unbelievable hotness.
“Mac Daddy made it!” Marquis did a goddamn backflip and landed in Rafe’s arms.
Idiots.
Brooks broke up the bromance, butting his forehead against Rafe’s.
“You tryin’ to steal my image as the mountain man or what?” The tight end tugged on Rafe’s beard until he winced.
I tried to suppress a grin at their antics, maintaining my mean face, the one I used whenever Callum got on my last nerve playing with my iPhone.
“Fuck off, princess.” Rafe flicked the middle finger to Marquis then turned the second bird on Brooks. “And I ain’t your beardo.”
Grrr. I hated the gorgeous bastard. And his forest green eyes. And his sexy black hair, shaggier than ever. And the beard thing he had going on, totally not my style. But I’d probably develop a new fetish about facial hair just because of him.
I hopped onto one of the sideline benches, waiting for the coaches to shepherd the scattered players toward me.
“Listen up! Miss Fox wants a word!” Coach D shouted for attention.
Damn right I did.
“I brought you all in early for one reason and one reason only.” Without the aid of a megaphone, I still sounded loud and clear. “You give me another season like 2015, and you won’t have a team to come back to, capiche?”
Akoni muttered something under his breath.
“Got something you wanna share with the class, AK?” I stared the big man down.
He mumbled something else, sweating hard.
“What does your name stand for again?” I asked.
The other guys starting chuckling at the huge Hawaiian dude’s discomfort.
“Worthy of honor,” he grumbled.
“You think you’re worthy of honor right now?” With my hands propped on my hips, I arched one eyebrow high.
“Hey, no offense, Miss F. But the way you’re getting so hardcore up in our faces is kinda making me break out in hives.” His deep voice cracking, he pulled at the neck of his jersey.
He might be breaking out in a rash, but the other dudes were breaking out in booming laughs.
And again I had to quash a smile.
“What? You know I’m a gentle giant, you fuckturds.” AK jammed his elbow into Paul’s ribs.
“I’m the gentle giant. You’re a goddamn pussycat.” Paul shoved the man back.
“Can I finish my pep talk now?” I glanced around at the crowd of men. “Is that okay with you, Akoni?”
The big dude nodded while a heated blush darkened his already bronze skin.
“I’ll cut to the motherfucking chase since clearly all of you suffer from ADHD. I don’t want excuses. I sure as hell won’t put up with a string of defeats. I want results!”
Suddenly the guys stood up taller.
“I’ll promise you one thing: I’ll give you my all if you give me total dedication in return.” Bending forward, I brought my sharp gaze to their eye level. “I’m gonna be more hands-on than any other owner in NFL history. I’m owning your shit every single day of this training camp. And if you’re lucky enough you might even end up on the starting line-up!”
My glance slid to Rafe, who watched me with his cocky smirk.
Oh yeah, the tasty bastard liked the idea of me getting hands-on with him. Well, he wouldn’t be leering at me in a few minutes . . . Guaran-damn-teed.
“So we brought in some fresh meat to motivate your asses!” The new recruits stepped forward. “Meet the rogue blood. Calder Malone—center lineman.”
Muscled and rangy, Calder raised his fist to the air, giving no credence to the drug-using rumors still running the NFL circuit.
“You all know Deacon Cross, too.” I intro’d the older player I’d hardly needed to bribe to get out of early retirement. “He’s stepping in to train up for defensive tackle.”
“Happy to be part of a team again.” Joining us straight from his forever home in the back of beyond ’Bama, Deacon rumbled out a greeting to all.
“And, of course, Luke Buckley.” I introduced the rookie I hoped would light a fire under Rafe’s ass.
The coaches responded with loud claps, but the reaction from my team was definitely mixed, ranging from hard glares to scowls to a few barks of disbelief.
“Get used to ’em. You’re one team now. CAROLINA CRUSH!”
The Crush vets rallied to return my cheer in their deep booming voices, joined by the three newbies.
“Now get to work. I’m sick of looking at your faces.” I hopped down from the bench, rolling my eyes when I heard Brooklyn mumbling to Rafe:
“What the fuck’s this? We gotta call her Coach P now?”
I cleared my throat behind him. “You can call me Mizz Fox.”
“That won’t be a problem.” Rafe’s hooded eyes slid to me over his shoulder, his tone sizzlingly sexual.
Then he showed me his bitable backside as he started to walk away, heading toward the quarterback coach.
“Rafe,” I called out. “You’re training with the defense today, not Mark.”
He turned so slowly his feet could’ve been trapped in pluff mud.
A look of excuuuuse me crossed his sexy face as he rubbed a hand across the dark beard covering his sharp jaw. “What?”
“You like to manage your own defense sometimes, right? Part of the reason you’re such a successful ball-slinger, last season notwithstanding?”
“No offense, Miss Fox, but—”
“Our man Rafe belongs on the offensive side.” Brooklyn stood beside his brother-in-arms.
“I’ll be the judge of that.” I maintained my indifferent expression.
“Dude.” Brooks thrust out his fist for a knuckle bump, which Rafe returned halfheartedly. “Your funeral.”
A look of so-fucked filtered over Rafe’s face, exactly how I wanted to see him, probably in a completely different context.
“Buck’s gonna get some one-on-one time with Coach Mark.” A somewhat sinister smile slid across my lips as I turned the screw just that little . . . bit . . . tighter.
“Buck?” Rafe spat out the name like he’d gotten a mouthful of something seriously rank. “That Cornhusker?”
“That’s right. Luke Buckley.” I smirked. “We’re gonna nurture him. You’re not the only one with long-range aim, you know?”
And that was the first time I’d ever seen such a thunderous expression on Rafe’s face.
Yup. Great motivation, I was right.
Chapter Eight
Nurture . . . Bullshit
Rafe
FUCKING BUCKLEY. THE OTHER two newbs I had no probs with. Total respect. Malone and Cross had proved themselves on the NFL fields. Yeah, sure, one had been kicked off the Reno Ravens for doping and the other had been sidelined as too old at the ripe age of forty-two, but everyone had issues. That didn’t make them down ’n’ outs but potentially revitalized blood.
Now Buckley?
The just-out-of-diapers rookie with the All-American blond thing going on grinned at me from several steps away. “What can I say? The Buck stops here.”
Yuck yuck.
And what the actual fuck? Peyton was sidelining me? Nurture bullshit. If she was looking to rattle my cage she’d just succeeded, two times over my usual limit.
Meanwhile, the woman stood in front of me, hip cocked, arms crossed. A smile on her plump lips. “You got a problem, Rafe?”
I swallowed all the tension building inside me, stretching my patience to the limits. “No, ma’am.”
“This is about the team. I’m just makin’ sure we have a deep enough roster to cover injured players.”
“I don’t plan on gettin’ injured.” Fucking hated the way her soft southern drawl crawled inside my mind, into my dreams.
Couldn’t look away from the way the hot sunshine made her hair shimmer like deep copper.
This woman was deadly.
“Well, just to make sure, I’ll be keeping my eye on you today.” She knocked me on the shoulder, barely making an impa
ct, and led me to the goddamn trenches where two-to-three-hundred-pound men made of pure muscle and might gritted their teeth and tackled one another like fucking bulldozers gone rogue.
At a mere two hundred and ten pounds, I pretty much predicted she wanted to see me get goddamn steamrolled into the fresh turf.
What happened was, Peyton made me run hell-bent-for-leather between the obstacle course of Easter Island-sized tacklers until I made touchdown after touchdown.
She had only one rule regarding me: scrimmaging was to be touch only.
Awww, I was touched. She really did care after all . . . about protecting my arm at least.
Sweat dripped off my face.
The sun fucking blinded me.
I guzzled electrolytes every chance I got.
Peyton watched with undiminished glee.
So I was the bait.
Wanted to be her bait.
Get her hook, line, and on my cock.
Not even Akoni could tackle me, and when Pey ripped into him again, he almost burst into tears.
Lou looked like he wanted to shoot the woman between the eyes. I kinda just wanted to dive between her thighs.
Had never seen the babe in workout gear before, and that shit was hot. Hotter than the sun that beat down on my back every damn time I swerved left, right, down the centerline, counting off the yardage in my head.
Was still pissed off at her, though.
And all that anger turned into unrelieved never–extinguished thunderbolts of wanna-fuck when she hopped onto the front of one of the Crush-emblazoned training sleds.
“Get your ass over here, Mac,” she ordered.
Mac. I liked it when she called me Rafe more. But I complied, rolling my shoulders against the padding, ready to take her for the ride of her life since the other kind was apparently off the table.
The huge red sled—with her negligible weight tacked on—started sliding across the field, my body anchored tight against the equipment.
“You call this hard work?” She railed at me.
I grunted, digging in deep.
“You need to be about more than your arm. I want you all in!”
Putting my calves, thighs, and shoulders into it, I doubled my pace, sweating like a fucking workhorse.