Blitz: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Series (Books 1-5)

by S. J. Bishop

  "Of course you do. You don't just help them, Caden. These are at-risk youths that were going down one road in their life, and because of you, they chose a different road."

  Caden kissed my hand... my elbow... my mouth.

  "You think we could have another one?" Caden asked.

  "Another baby?" He nodded. "Tell you what, let's make it through the terrible twos first, and then we'll talk."

  We laughed together as we watched our friends and family enjoy themselves. It was a fabulous night, and it was only the beginning of fabulous times ahead.

  Kick Off

  BAD BALLERS - BOOK 1

  PREVIEW

  1

  Sarah

  “Grande soy latte, one pump sugar-free vanilla, brewed extra hot? For Yvette?” The Barista standing behind the enormous espresso machine eyed the crowd in front of him, looking to see who had ordered the obnoxious drink.

  “Here!” I called, politely pushing past the 10 a.m. crush of college students and freelancers. When polite didn’t work, I started to use my elbows.

  “Thanks,” I said, reaching for the coffee. The Barista handed it to me, giving me a small, judging smile. It’s not for me! I wanted to say, but why bother. To be honest, I was slightly affronted. I definitely don’t look like someone named Yvette.

  Pushing back through the crowd, I burst on to Boylston Street with my phone out, fingers working quickly to order an Uber. Boston isn’t like New York – it’s actually incredibly walkable, and I could have hoofed it if I’d had the time. But when you’re the assistant of a tireless, jet-setting, workaholic Supermodel, time isn’t something you have much of.

  When a black Honda Accord pulled up in front of me, I hopped in. “Where to?” asked the driver, a dark-skinned young man with an interesting accent.

  “The South End,” I said and sat back, slightly breathless. My boss had her offices and apartment in the swanky SOWA district. Yvette is one of the rare models who manages herself and isn’t beholden to the schedules of an agent. She’s got a great social media presence, a brilliant mind for marketing, and is in enough demand that most designers will travel from New York to visit her. She has an apartment in New York, and she’s sometimes there – but mostly she stays in Boston. “C’est plus European,” she tells everyone. It’s more European.

  Yvette and I had both been up before 6 a.m. this morning because she’d had a meeting with Fianacci, a high-end designer who worked out of his flagship store on Newbury Street. After about twenty minutes, it was clear she didn’t need me, so she’d sent me to run a few errands. I’d picked up her juices for the week, made phone calls to schedule an interview and a few more meetings, as well as visited the bank to deposit a few of her checks. Yvette’s schedule had her back at her apartment for a 10:30 meeting – right around the time she’d be looking for her second coffee.

  Yes. I fetch coffee, and while I’m not the biggest fan of being someone’s bitch, I’m very good at it, and Yvette pays very well. When I had started working for her, just under three years ago, the goal had been to make enough money to pay for law school. I’d waited tables all the way through undergrad, and when a friend – who’d known I spoke French – had hooked me up with Yvette, she had just moved to Boston and her career had just been starting to take off.

  The Uber pulled up in front of Yvette’s apartment building, and I got out, juggling the Whole Foods bags and the coffee. “Thanks!” I called to the driver, shutting the door.

  The building Yvette lived in was a relatively new construction. Like much of the new construction in the South End, they’d taken an old warehouse and re-purposed it. Architects had kept the building’s old brick façade and had bolstered it with concrete and steel beams – it looked industrial-chic.

  I didn’t have to fumble opening the door. Yvette has a doorman who recognizes me, and he rushed up to let me in.

  “Ms. Forte,” he said, politely.

  “Salut Phillipe,” I said. This was the concierge that Yvette liked. He was middle aged, Haitian, and could understand most of her Parisian French.

  “Ms. Delacroix has a visitor,” said Phillipe, walking with me toward the elevators. “You’d mentioned someone visiting. I have a note in our guest log, but neither of you were here, and so he’s waiting in the upstairs lobby.”

  “You mean Yvette isn’t back yet?” It wasn’t like Yvette to be late to meetings. It was part of what enabled her to be successful without an agency. She took her work very seriously.

  “No,” said Phillipe “Not yet.”

  “Okay. No problem.” I tried to remember with whom Yvette was meeting. The details were on my phone, but my phone was in my back pocket, and my hands were full.

  The elevator dinged, and Phillipe entered it with me, hitting the eighth floor button, then stepping out. “Have a good one, Sarah,” he said.

  No way was I having a good one today. I had a sneaking suspicion that the day was about to be shot. Yvette was only ever late if something personal came up. It wouldn’t be her family. Her father was the CEO of Axique, and her mother was a famous fashion model in her own right. They were incredibly busy and rarely dropped in to see their daughter unannounced. That meant that something had come up with Luis. Luis was Yvette’s on-again-off-again boyfriend and a superstar striker for Real Madrid. They’d been blissfully off for the last two months, but my experience with Yvette told me that missed meetings signaled trouble, and trouble meant Luis.

  As the elevators opened, I stepped off and looked around the spotless chrome-and-red-velvet foyer. The eighth floor belonged entirely to Yvette. The two apartments on the top were separated by a small foyer with two red velvet chairs and a low, red-velvet couch.

  I stifled a gasp.

  Seated on the red-velvet couch, taking up most of it with his incredible bulk, was Burke Tyler. Burke. Freaking. Tyler. I knew for a fact that I hadn’t written Burke Tyler’s name anywhere in Yvette’s schedule. I’d have remembered. Burke Tyler was the franchise tight end for the New England Patriots, and as a life-long Pats fan, I knew exactly who he was.

  My mind raced back to the schedule. What had I written down? Wait, no. I hadn’t written down anything. Yvette had put this event into the schedule. Meeting with Becca’s friend.

  If Becca’s friend was Burke Tyler, then Becca must be Becca Barnes – the Victoria Secret model who was married to Dash Barnes, the Patriots’ quarterback. Holy crap. Yvette was supposed to have a meeting with Burke Tyler. And she hadn’t shown.

  I realized that I was staring at Burke and that he was staring at me, confused. “Hi,” I said quickly. I went right into assistant mode. “I’m Sarah, Yvette’s assistant. She’s running a little late from her last meeting but will be here shortly, I’m sure! Why don’t you come in, and I can get you something to drink while you wait?”

  Burke rose from the couch. My God, he was big and mouthwateringly gorgeous – if you’re into six-foot-seven, heavily muscled Vikings. And who wasn’t? It was difficult not to stare. Burke wore a pair of expensive-looking jeans and a black t-shirt that hugged ever single muscle in his torso. Because the sleeves were short, a good deal of his tattoo was showing. I’d seen the ESPN body issue – they’d given their readers an up-close and personal look at Burke Tyler. The tattoo was a huge tree that took up most of his bicep and shoulder. Ravens flew up his forearm and were clearly visible now.

  “Can I hold something for you?” he asked, looking amused as I struggled to fish the keys from out of my pocket. I blinked at him. Amused? That didn’t quite fit with the persona I was familiar with. Burke Tyler was a dumb-as-a-rock party boy, known for his unique look (his hair was shaved at the sides and braided into a fishtailed Mohawk), fearless playing, and hysterically stupid off-field interviews.

  “Oh, no,” I said. That wasn’t his job. “I’ve got it…” but I nearly upended the coffee. Suddenly, Burke was right before me, taking the paper grocery bags out of my hand. God, he was huge. He was at least a full foot taller than I was. An
d while he looked entirely approachable on TV – in person, there was something even larger and slightly more forbidding about him. He looked immaculate. Not a hair was out of place, his jaw was clean shaven, and he had a cleft in his chin. Striking, ice-blue eyes penetrated mine.

  “Thanks,” I finished weakly, managing to extricate the keys from my pocket and open the door. He followed me into the office.

  Yvette was a minimalist, so her office had the same industrial chic design as the building. Her tables and chairs were all metal tones, and anything upholstered was luxurious, velvet, and dark red. “Have a seat!” I said to Burke, thinking that he was probably a bit too big for the small chairs in front of my desk. There was a chaise lounge in the corner, the wine-dark velvet offset by ivory pillows.

  Burke Tyler sat gingerly on the end of the chaise, looking entirely out of place.

  I decided to try to act normal (instead of star struck) and went about my usual routine, putting Yvette’s juices in the fridge, checking the messages, and answering emails. I stared at her coffee, wondering if it would still be hot by the time she got here.

  “Yvette is rarely late,” I said, thinking out loud. “I’ll call her and see if she’s on her way.”

  “Thank you,” said Burke. His voice was deep and rumbling from his chest. I watched him out of the corner of my eye while he observed her apartment. His gaze was keen and interested, landing on the art and sweeping around the desk as if trying to figure out the room’s secrets. Wow. This was definitely not the Burke Tyler one usually saw on TV. TV Burke was just as handsome and just as impressive, but he was a bit wilder. In fact, it was a part of his brand, and he did a damn good job branding himself. Everyone in Boston knew who he was, and he was a national figure as well. He was the spokesman for Dudley’s Coffee, Puma, and a whole host of local businesses. He was constantly in the society pages: behind a DJ booth at a local club or hosting a party at a hotel with a hot blond on each arm. He came across on TV as a bit of a meathead. But now, in person, he seemed intense and impatient, his presence taking up the entire room.

  “Do you and Yvette know each other?” I asked, trying to make small talk as I dialed her cell. It rang and rang. Yvette didn’t pick up.

  “No. We’ve never met before,” he said.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Wow, was I nervous or what?

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Silence. Well, this was going to be awkward.

  “Are you here on behalf of a designer?” I asked. Oh, good one, Sarah; pretend you don’t know who he is. I’m such an idiot sometimes. But Yvette hated it when people recognize her and talk to her as if they “know” her. Maybe Burke was the same way.

  Burke blinked at me, and then his shoulders relaxed. Ah, so I was right. “No. I’m here socially. She’s friends with Becca Barnes. I tried to get Becca to give me Yvette’s number, but Becca said Yvette didn’t give out her number. So she called in a favor and scheduled me a meeting.”

  “Oh,” I said. Wow. Burke Tyler wanted to meet Yvette. For what? “A date at 10:30 in the morning?” Oh shit! I hadn’t meant to say that last part out loud.

  Burke looked uncomfortable. “Apparently, this was the only spot in her schedule she could meet.”

  “She’s pretty busy,” I allowed. “We just got back from New York, and there’s a lot to catch up on.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  I got up and went over to make a coffee (even though the last thing I needed was more caffeine). But staying busy is an old bartender’s trick – looking like you’re doing something puts the customer at ease. I don’t know why I thought that I needed to put Burke at ease, but he looked anxious. Yvette kept an espresso machine in the corner, and I set it up to make a cappuccino.

  “I’m having a coffee,” I said. “Are you sure I can’t get you something?”

  “Actually, that looks good,” said Burke, eyeing my cappuccino.

  I tried to hand it to him, but he waved me off. “You have that one. I’ll get the next one.”

  I started making his coffee. “So, what do you do?” I asked. In for a penny, in for a pound. Apparently, I was going to continue pretending I had no idea who he was. “Are you a model also?”

  “Me?” he blinked. “No. I play professional sports.”

  “Oh. Cool,” I said. “I played sports in college.”

  “What’d you play?”

  “Lacrosse.”

  “Rough game.”

  “What do you play?”

  “Football.”

  “Well, that’s even rougher, isn’t it?” I asked.

  Burke smiled at me, and it was so startlingly sexy that I nearly dropped the cappuccino in his lap. “So,” he said, sipping the coffee. “You do know football.”

  Busted. I did the only thing I could think of to do: I smiled and winked. “Yah, I know who you are.” Oh God, I’m flirting!

  That startled a loud laugh from him. “But you were going to pretend you didn’t?”

  I shrugged. “You seemed tense.”

  “Good call,” he said. “I was tense. I am tense. I’m into your boss. She’s drop dead gorgeous. Been looking forward to meeting her for a while.”

  He was incredibly candid, and damn if I didn’t feel just a bit disappointed. Well, come on, Sarah, Jeez. Like Burke Tyler was here to see you?

  “Do you usually date models?” I asked. In fact, Burke Tyler’s dating history wasn’t all that well known. He’d been photographed all over the place with attractive-looking women, but he never seemed to be dating any of them.

  “Usually?” He looked at me as if I were growing another head. I realized that I was prying and being rude. “Do you?” he shot back.

  “Er. No.” I felt effectively put in my place and blew on my coffee for lack of anything better to do. “But then again, I’m not a football star…”

  “But you hang around a lot of models, right?”

  “Not when I can help it.”

  He grinned at me. “What’s wrong with models?”

  I sighed inwardly. Maybe he was as stupid as he appeared in his press conferences.

  “Nothing. They’re just like any other normal person.” Heavy sarcasm. There was nothing all that wrong with models. Some were smart and interesting; some were absolutely useless. But in my time shadowing Yvette, I’d also come to understand that it took a very particular type of person to become a model. Models walked a fine line between self confidence and self-esteem problems. Most models I knew needed constant validation.

  “Ahh,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee. The small cup looked ridiculous in his huge hands. “So, what is it that you do then, Sarah, when you’re not assisting famous supermodels?”

  “There’s no such thing as having a life when you’re assisting famous supermodels,” I assured him. “But, eventually, law school.”

  “Sounds boring,” he said. “After flying from New York, to Paris, to Milan, to Boston, you’re going to become a lawyer?”

  “How would you like being an assistant for the rest of your life?”

  Burke shrugged. “Fair enough. Although tell me, I’m curious…” He was curious about me? I found myself leaning forward. “Is the lawyer goal yours? Or your family’s?”

  I blinked. Well, we were getting pretty personal, weren’t we?

  “Mine,” I said, lying. It was my mother’s. She was a law professor at Rutgers University and had always pushed me toward the practice. “And what about you? Are your parents proud you’re playing football?”

  His smile widened, as if he appreciated my challenge, but as he opened his mouth to reply, the door to the office burst open and slammed against the wall.

  “Shit. What a shitty, terrible, shitty morning!” bellowed Yvette, in French, as she flew into the office, flinging her Birkin bag at me in an uncharacteristic show of frustration. Yvette had a very useful saying: don’t get frustrated. She was obviously off her game.

  I put my coffee down just in time to catch her purse
and just in time to see her catch sight of Burke sitting on the couch.

  Burke stared at her, startled, and then his gaze turned appreciative. I got it. I did. Yvette was gorgeous. She was five-foot-eleven and beautifully formed: naturally lean and toned. Her face was Botticelli perfect with large, wide, blue eyes; thick, dark lashes; thick, dark brows; and a perfect cupid’s bow mouth. Her hair was a remarkable shade of deep chocolate brown (her mother was Italian), and her skin was creamy white and flawless.

  “Sarah,” she said, “Qui est le bete?” Who is the beast?

  Beast? She couldn’t have been speaking about Burke.

  “Your 10:30,” I told her in French. “He’s in your calendar as Becca Barnes’ friend.”

  I cast a smile at Burke, silently apologizing for the language change. He was staring intently at Yvette.

  “Quelle sauvage,” she murmured to me, but she sounded intrigued.

  “En fait,” said Burke, startling us both when he spoke up in perfect French. “Je suis tres sympa, quand tu me connais.” I’m really nice when you get to know me.

  Yvette pursed her lips at him, smiling to herself, clearly surprised. I was, too. So, Burke Tyler, NFL’s happy idiot, spoke French? I was starting to suspect that I’d been correct in my first estimation: Burke wasn’t as dumb as he played on TV. In fact, he might not be dumb at all.

  “Too bad,” said Yvette to Burke in French. “I don’t like nice guys.”

  Burke smiled that same way he’d smiled when I’d challenged him. It looked intent and cocky. “Don’t worry, beautiful,” he said, in English this time. “I know how to be a real jerk, too.” The tension in the room was thick and sizzling. I was beginning to think that I needed to take my leave.

  But Yvette laughed, delighted, and clapped her hands together, “All right, Savage. I don’t have time for you today. I’m sorry. What is it you wanted?”

  Burke thought about it a minute, clearly enjoying that he was taking up her time. “A date,” he said. “Friday night.”