PLAYERS: The Complete Series (Springville Rockets (Sports Romance Books 1-3)

by Daphne Loveling

  Mason’s looking at me and nodding slightly, that sexy smirk on his face growing just a touch wider. I realize that the last words I said to him were pretty face and nice ass. He seems to be taking a moment to appreciate the full effect of my assets. I blush and look down at my vodka sour. My head feels a little light — not totally because of the alcohol.

  “You’re definitely more than a pretty face and a hot ass,” he tells me.

  “Ha! What do you know about it?” I challenge him. “You don’t even know me.”

  “Well, there are your tits,” he drawls, letting his eyes slide down to take them in. “And even though I can’t see them right now, your legs were on full display earlier when you were pounding the shit out of your car. So, I’d add them to the list.”

  Jesus Christ. And here I was thinking for a second that he was less of a pig than I imagined. I open my mouth to protest, but Mason’s eyes are burning a path across my skin, and somehow the blatant look of lust on his face kills all the words in my throat.

  I try to toss out a smart-ass comeback, but all that comes out is: “Stop that.”

  “Stop what?” he asks, looking amused. His eyes slide back up to mine. One brow arches in a clear challenge.

  “That,” I croak out. “Looking at me like that.”

  The smirk turns into a full-on grin, revealing even, white teeth. “Come on, doll. There’s nothing wrong with appreciating a nice body,” he teases in a low voice. “Hell, you’re one to talk. I’ve seen you checking me out.”

  My face goes from pink to crimson. Because I have been checking him out. But I thought I was being more subtle than that.

  Mason leans forward. “Exactly,” he murmurs triumphantly. “So why should I be the only one enjoying the show?”

  There’s a whole table separating us, but he’s so large that he’s closed most of the distance between us. Suddenly the table feels like no protection at all. It feels like he’s right there next to me. Like he could pull me to him in a heartbeat. For a second I’m half-hoping and half-afraid that he will. I’m not a one night stand kind of gal, but good God, he’s making me reevaluate my position on that.

  My skin starts to practically crackle with anticipation, like it’s waiting for him to touch me again. Between my legs, a low ache begins. I shift uncomfortably in my chair, fighting to keep my face from revealing how turned on I am.

  “Fine. So we’ve both been enjoying the show.” There’s no denying it, so I might as well admit it. “That means nothing. Good looking people are a dime a dozen. It’s just a genetic lottery.”

  “Maybe,” he concedes, leaning even closer. His voice goes deeper, more intimate, until it feels like it’s almost vibrating through me. “But like you said, you’re more than just your looks.” His eyes lock on mine. “You’re sassy. I like that.”

  I purse my lips, then pick up my drink and take a healthy gulp, draining it.

  “One drink,” I croak out, holding up my glass. “I said one. I’m done.”

  He leans back and laughs, a low, sexy rumble that almost makes me shiver. “That’s what you said, all right. Okay, Ms. Wilder. I’m a man of my word.” He pushes aside his Coke and stands up. “You’ve fulfilled your end of the bargain. Let’s get you back to your car.”

  Mason doesn’t say a word as he waits for me to stand and grab my bag from the chair next to me. He lets me go first, following me to the front of the bar. He takes a step in front of me and pushes open the front door so that I can go through first. I try not to be impressed at his small act of chivalry as I hold my head high and cross the dark parking lot to my car. When I get to it, I hit the unlock button on my key fob and toss my bag onto the driver’s side seat — being careful this time to keep a firm hold on my keys.

  “Well,” I murmur, turning to him. “Thank you again for helping me get my car open.”

  “Thank you for the drink,” he says solemnly, though his eyes are twinkling. “And for not using the story,” he reminds me.

  “Maybe someday you’ll have a lead on a good sports story you can feed me,” I suggest. “Once you’re all signed on as a Rocket.” I don’t think he’ll take me up on it, but you never know.

  “Maybe I will, doll.” He takes a step closer, until he’s less than a foot away from me. I can feel the heat radiating from him. My traitorous body is practically screaming at him to touch me.

  “Well, um…” I begin, but before I can say more he’s pressed me back against the car. His hand goes to the back of my head, fisting in my hair. Then his lips are on mine, hungry and insistent. His mouth forces mine open, his tongue finding mine. It happens so quickly I can’t stop the moan that escapes me, or my body from pressing against his as he pulls me to him. The hard shaft of his erection teases me deliciously as the ache between my legs turns to a throb.

  Holy hell. Whatever this is going to turn into, I want it, I realize dizzily. I am totally, one-hundred percent on board for…

  Then, just as quickly as it started, it’s over. Mason pulls away from me, breathing heavily. I just barely manage to swallow a loud whimper of protest.

  “Bye, Anna,” he rasps. “You’re a fucking knockout, you know that?”

  Then he’s striding away from me. I watch as he crosses back toward his car. The shadows envelop his large, muscled body, until I can’t see him anymore.

  In a daze, I slide into the driver’s seat and pull the car door shut. I sit, staring out the window at nothing, and wait for my heart to stop racing. In the distance, I hear the sound of an engine starting. A moment later, a large SUV pulls out of the parking lot next door and drives off.

  5

  Mason

  I’ve done a lot of fucking hard things in my life. I’ve played football in hundred-degree heat with full padding. I’ve dislocated my shoulder and had to have it pushed back in by the docs on the field, then returned to the game. I’ve even broken two of my ribs clean in half and not missed a single practice or game because of it.

  But the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life is walk away from Anna Wilder’s hot, willing body.

  I’ve fucked plenty of women over the years. So far, I’ve managed to avoid sticking my dick in crazy and ending up the subject of some tabloid piece revealing what I’m like in the bedroom. Anna promised me she wouldn’t break the story about me trying to get signed back on to the Rockets. But even so, I’m not gonna push my luck by screwing a reporter who already told me she’s hungry to get ahead. She’s already got too much on me as it is. If I get her in bed and she decides she could sell the story to some sleazy talk show in exchange for some sort of some bimbo talking head position, I’m fucked.

  Not that I think she’d actually do that. There’s something about Anna’s dark brown eyes when she looks at me. They feel sincere. She seems honest. Real. Way more so than most of the chicks I encounter in my line of work.

  Still. I’m not gonna take any chances. At least not until I have a signed contract and a chance to prove myself to the team.

  When I get back to my place, I head straight for the bedroom and peel off my clothes. Anna’s tight little body has been right in front of me in my mind ever since I left her at her car. Jesus. I shouldn’t have kissed her. I couldn’t fucking help it, but it was still a dumb-ass move. It would be a hell of a lot easier to forget her right now if I hadn’t felt her full, round tits brushing up against my chest. Even now, my hands remember the outline of her ass as I cupped it and drew her to me, pressing her against my hard-on. Jesus fuck, that felt good. My cock is hard as iron right now, just thinking about it. The way Anna kind of moaned and pressed up against me when she felt how hard I was for her… Shit, she was ready. I know she wanted it just as bad as I did. All I would have had to do was take her by the hand and lead her over to my SUV, and I could have been inside her in the back seat in a hot minute.

  God damn, my balls ache.

  I slide my jeans off, kicking them to the floor, and ease back onto the bed. Before my head hits the mattress, my coc
k’s in my hand and I’m stroking it as slowly as I can stand it. I can’t decide what fantasy to choose: Anna’s mouth wrapped around my dick? Anna prone on the bed with me sinking myself deep inside her? Anna on her hands and knees, looking back at me with a coy come-hither stare as I slam into her from behind? Finally, I decide on her mouth, and imagine those cherry-red lips wrapping around my cock head, sliding down my shaft as she takes me as deep as she can. I let out a loud groan and suppress a shudder as I stroke from base to tip, raising my hips up to meet her wet, willing mouth. “Fuck,” I hiss, and start stroking faster, my jaw tense with the effort of trying to hold myself back. It doesn’t take long until I can’t take it anymore and I unleash, coming with a deep, explosive shudder that makes me see stars.

  As sleep starts to overtake me, I tell myself that maybe once I’m signed and shit has calmed down a little, I can call Anna up and ask her out. Start from scratch, with neither of us owing the other anything.

  Maybe.

  The next morning in the light of day, I start to worry Anna will go back on her word. Over breakfast, I grab my tablet and look her up online to see which TV station she works for. I type in “Anna Wilder Springville,” and the first hit that comes up is WSPR TV. I scroll through the “News Team,” and find her picture way down at the bottom of the list of reporters. I click on the head shot, and her bio comes up. I learn that she grew up in Nebraska, and went to college here, at Springville State, where she got a double major in journalism and communications.

  Apparently, she loves cross-country skiing and international travel. In her spare time she likes to bake and read.

  I wait for a couple of days, tense and on edge, but no story breaks about me in the news. Eventually I start to relax that Anna hasn’t screwed me — just about the time I start getting really nervous that my agent hasn’t called me yet with an offer from the Rockets.

  It’s tough being patient when I have basically nothing to do but wait. And shit, waiting is all I’ve been doing for the past year. I can’t even afford to go out and let off some steam, since I need to be on my best behavior whenever I’m in the public eye. So, I hang around my house, watching Sports Center and lifting weights in my home gym, and try not to jump out of my damn skin. I go out to the marina and do some work on the sailboat I keep out there. Finally, three days after the night I met Anna, I get a call from my agent, Tom Price.

  “Hey, Tom,” I say, affecting a casual tone. “What’s up?”

  I'm sitting too stiffly, muscles all tense as I perch on the edge of the couch. I'm hoping for good news, while trying not to get my hopes up. It’s a fucked up balance.

  “Mason!” Tom replies. He sounds in a good mood, and that makes me relax just a bit. “I couldn’t wait to get back to you with this. I hope you’re not busy?”

  “Not at the moment, no,” I answer quickly, grabbing the remote to turn off the TV.

  “I gotta say, kid. I wasn’t sure we could pull this off, but damn. I’ve got some great news!”

  Immediately, my heart is beating fast. Finally.

  I wait for him to continue, but Tom has stopped talking. “Well?” I growl, impatient. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

  “Let’s uh…” he trails off. “You know, let’s meet for lunch and talk the deal over.” His voice has gone serious. “There’s actually quite a bit that I need to tell you. It is good news, but I have to say it’s...complicated.”

  My guard immediately goes back up. I fucking hate complicated shit. My stomach drops to the floor. This was too good to be true, I think, but stop myself.

  Pull your shit together, Robichaud. Hear what the man has to say.

  “Look,” I say into the phone. “You have to tell me, is there anything that could get in the middle of me getting picked up? If nothing else, at least tell me that much.”

  “Not necessarily,” he says slowly, which is not reassuring at all. “You’ll have to make the decision for yourself once you hear it. I got you the best deal I could, just so you know.”

  I sigh and lean back into the couch, pushing my hair back off my forehead. “So, lunch,” I sigh. “Where and when?”

  “How about one o’clock? I’ll text you the place and directions.”

  Tom and I say our goodbyes, then he hangs up. I look at my phone. I’ve got two hours to kill until I have to meet him. Two hours of wondering what the fuck is going on.

  And whether I’m going to be a Rocket, or whether my football career just flew out the goddamn window.

  6

  Anna

  The night I meet Mason Robichaud, I get home from the Happiness Bar at around ten-thirty. My body is still thrumming with frustrated desire as I climb the stairs and dig out my keys to open the front door.

  Harriet and I live on the second floor of a converted Victorian house, on the edge of a rowdy university neighborhood. The two of us moved here after we graduated from Springville State, combining our resources on this apartment to save money because we both had dreams of striking it big.

  Harriet’s an aspiring musician in a couple of local rock bands. She’s a bassist and backing vocalist for The Tupperware Party, and is also part of a folk-punk duo called The Toads. I met her my sophomore year, when we got thrown together as roommates because neither of us had anyone else. Looking at the two of us, you’d think there weren’t two more unlikely roommates in all of Springville. Whereas I’m tall, brunette, and more of a jeans and cami type when I’m not having to dress up for work, Harriet’s short and petite, with a heart-shaped face, large, dark eyes, and a shock of spiky, electric blue hair. Her clothing tastes run toward ripped fishnets, combat boots, and shapeless men’s T-shirts so large she wears them in place of dresses. She’s the kind of girl that old ladies click their tongues at and say, “If only she’d make an effort, she’d be so pretty.” But Harriet doesn’t give a fuck, because this is the way she wants to look. And besides, she’s freaking gorgeous just like this — even if grandmas on the street take a few steps back when she passes. What can I say? The look works for her.

  Harriet’s not home when I get back. She’s probably still out at her gig. After my strange encounter with Mason Robichaud, I’m too keyed up to go to bed. Instead, I stay up for a while and binge watch some episodes of Parks and Recreation as I wait to get tired enough to go to sleep. But even though it’s one of my favorite shows, it’s not enough to keep my mind from buzzing with thoughts of Mason. I keep picturing the infuriating way he cocked his head to look at me, the corner of his mouth going up in a lazy, sexy smirk.

  The look he gave me at my car, right before he kissed me…

  How soft yet demanding his lips were…

  My heart starts pounding at the memory. The kiss Mason gave me was more intense than any I’ve ever had in my life. Hell, those few seconds backed up against his car were more hot and arousing than any encounter I can ever remember with a member of the opposite sex. He set all my nerve endings abuzz, sending an electric current between the two of us that even now, my skin can still remember. The second he touched me, I would have done practically anything to have more of him.

  Including stuff I would probably have regretted afterwards.

  Good thing he stopped, Anna. Right? Right?!

  I should be grateful he had more will-power than I did. But the fact is, I’m not. Mostly, I’m just frustrated, and kind of embarrassed. Because I was not about to push him away. And I think he knew it.

  I’m not the kind of girl who just… has sex with some total stranger in a parking lot.

  But God, with him it would have felt so good…

  My skin is hot and tingly, like it’s ready for him, even though he’s not even here. I shift uncomfortably on the couch, very aware of my lady parts, which are still waiting in vain for Mason’s touch. Shit. I need to do something to get my mind off him.

  Or something to get your body… off…

  Inadvertently I glance toward my bedroom, where my trusty vibrator is hidden away in a bottom drawer
of my dresser. I haven’t used it in a while, but right now it might be the only thing that gets Mason out of my mind for good.

  I start to stand up from the couch, reaching for the remote to turn off the TV, when the front door opens. Hurriedly, I sit back down and pretend to be absorbed in the show as Harriet walks in carrying her bass guitar case.

  “Hey,” she nods, kicking the door shut with a booted foot.

  “Hey,” I say back. “How was the show?”

  Harriet sets the case down in the entryway and makes a rude sound with her lips. “I’ve gotta find another band,” she complains. “Brody is more interested in prancing around the stage and getting laid by groupies than he is in actually playing the music. I’m sick of covering up for his mistakes because he can’t be bothered to learn the fucking songs.”

  Brody is the front man and lead vocalist for The Tupperware Party. It’s true, I definitely get the vibe he’s more interested in being A Rock Star than he is in being a musician. He’s got the looks for it, and the voice, but he’s not much of a guitarist. Unfortunately for Harriet, he’s the one who started the band. She’s been complaining about him almost from the get-go, but she has yet to finally take the plunge and leave. Probably because The Tupperware Party is one of the best-known indie bands in Springville. And also because she has a crush on the band’s drummer Grant, though she won’t admit it.

  Harriet goes to the kitchen and grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge. “How was your night?” she asks, plopping down beside me.

  I shrug. “Uneventful,” I lie. “Though I did manage to lock my keys in my car.”

  She snorts and takes a drink. “How did that happen?”

  “Long story.” I press mute on the TV. “And I broke my phone.”