Jock: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

by Irons, Aubrey

  “I have to because I can’t imagine going another day of my life without you,” he says evenly. “I have to because I’m half of who I am without you.” He holds the box up to me, his eyes never leaving mine. “I have to because I love you, London,” he says softly.

  The surrounding crowd is silent, all leaning in and hanging on the words left unspoken on my lips.

  “Miss?”

  The silence is broken by the sharp voice of the airline attendant behind me.

  I turn.

  "Will you be joining us today?” she says again tersely, arms crossed over her chest.

  I turn back to the man kneeling in front of me.

  Our eyes lock, and I know.

  “No,” I say without turning back to her. “No, I won’t be.”

  The crowd around us starts to erupt into cheers as she sighs loudly, while Holden just beams up at me.

  “And as for you,” I say sharply, raising a brow at him.

  He grins.

  “Yes.”

  I’m still saying it - yelling it - over and over again as he jumps to his feet, scoops me in his arms and starts to twirl me around. The crowd goes crazy around us, cheering, and snapping pictures and videos as I bury myself in his arms.

  And I don’t need any spreadsheets for this, or statistics, or data analyzation.

  Because I’ve got a gut feeling

  And sometimes, that’s really all you need.

  Epilogue

  Holden

  I could say we waited, and took it slow, and planned, and then eventually got married way down the road after the baby was born and when things made more sense.

  But that would be a damn lie.

  After all, planning ahead? Playing it safe? Waiting?

  Yeah, apparently not exactly our style.

  Okay, it wasn’t like we went out and found a church on the way home from the airport that day. But there we were five months later, London looking like a damn goddess with a 2nd trimester bump and a white dress as I somehow managed to convince myself I wasn’t dreaming and said “I do”.

  Now, that wasn’t the simplest five months in the world, I’ll say that. Again, I could make up this big story about everyone immediately loving the idea of our relationship, but again, that would kind of make a damn liar out of me.

  Truth be told, her dad was slightly less than thrilled upon hearing the news.

  Well, actually, “less than thrilled” is the nice version. Archie Jacobs’s actual reaction upon hearing that his darling daughter was planning on marrying a guy like me who’d knocked her up was to jump from his desk, grab the shotgun mounted to the wall of his office, and level it at my fucking chest.

  Jesus, welcome to freaking Texas, huh?

  Thankfully, the woman I love happens to be a hell of a negotiator.

  Like I said, it wasn’t the simplest five months in the world, but I fucking worked for it.

  I quit drinking, for one. Full stop. Sure, a big part of it was to show Archie I was capable of being the kind of guy who deserved London. But waking up in a fucking bathtub with your career and your heart in shreds around you sort of has that kind of effect on you.

  Well, so does one of your best friends dangling you off a tenth story balcony.

  So, I quit. And wouldn’t you know it, my game got a whole lot better. Remember that whole thing about turning this shit team around and taking it to the playoffs?

  Yeah, nailed it.

  The western conference championships were last weekend, and guess who was fucking there?

  First time in seven years, baby.

  Not to mention, we crushed it, and for the first time in two decades, Houston’s going to the super bowl.

  So yeah, after five months of quitting booze, taking his team back into relevancy, and showing him every damn day how committed I was to London, I think I finally won Archie over.

  Hell, the man wept at the wedding.

  Shit, I almost did.

  And it gets better. See, having a winning team – especially after not winning for so long – tends to get people to pay attention. People like the manager for my favorite bearded linebacker, which means next year, Max and his family are coming down here to Texas.

  I can’t fucking wait.

  But all of that is secondary. All of it runs second string to the most important part of all this – the fact that somehow, a professional fuck-up like me somehow managed to marry a girl like London.

  Well, former fuck-up.

  I got lucky, and you better believe I know it. I got a second chance, and I got a new lease on life. I’ve got a new home town I can be a hero for, and a new little life to be a dad for.

  We’re naming him Brandon, by the way.

  I could talk about how me somehow coming out on top of all this, and getting the girl, and getting that happy ending goes against every bit of logic and probability. But life ain’t a bunch of numbers and statistics, and it sure as shit ain’t a spreadsheet. Life’s about following that hunch, and chasing that little feeling.

  Life’s about listening to your heart, and let me tell you, finally shutting up and listening to mine is the best play I ever made.

  The End.

  Author’s Note

  Thank you so much for reading Jock! If you’ve read this far, it means you’ve either finished it or you’re like my weird friend Lena who reads the last page of a book first.

  …I know, it’s disturbing.

  But, in whatever order you chose to read the preceding pages, I do hope you enjoyed the story!

  As a special thank you for picking up this first edition of Jock, I’ve included three previous books of mine right here! Because let’s face it - are you really ever satisfied with just one book about cocky, demanding, criminally attractive quarterbacks and the filthy things they whisper across a page?

  Yeah, right there with you.

  So, why not binge? Just think of this as the Netflix of romance books - well, with less Kevin Spacey and a whole lot more dirty, toe-curling, panting on the floor hotness.

  Read on a few more pages to find full-length versions - including formerly mailing-list-only bonus epilogues - of Score, Player, and Thief. The first two are also sports romances, and Thief is a second chance romance involving characters introduced in Player.

  Again, thank you for reading, for your amazing feedback, and as always, for supporting an indie author.

  -Aubrey Irons.

  Also by Aubrey Irons

  Sports Romance:

  Score: A Stepbrother Sports Romance

  Player: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

  Jock: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

  Shelter Harbor Series:

  Thief

  Sinner (coming soon!)

  Standalone Stepbrother Romance:

  Secret: A Military Stepbrother Romance

  Cockney: A British Stepbrother Romance

  Crude: A Stepbrother Romance

  Soldiers of Fortune Series:

  Heat

  Burn

  Scorch

  Roar

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  Thanks so much for reading, and for supporting an independent author!

  About the Author

  Aubrey Irons enjoys writing about bold, sassy, and intelligent women and the dominant, cocky, and quite typically forbidden alpha males who love and lust for them; gripping stories, happy endings, and enough heat to keep things extra steamy!

  In the real world, Aubrey is kept plenty entertained by her own
tattooed Marine husband, their precocious and adorable three year old, and one very ill-behaved puppy.

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  Click here!

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  Score: A Stepbrother Sports Romance

  Score: A Stepbrother Sports Romance

  There’s a reason they call him “Ten”, and it’s not just the number of his jersey…

  Dalton Cole is a jock.

  A notorious, cocky, foul-mouthed, impossibly arrogant jock.

  The hottest quarterback in college football is nicknamed “Ten” for his middle name “Tennessee,” for his jersey number, and for a certain measurement.

  ...I’m sure that last part is just a rumor.

  Did I mention he’s also an underwear model? He’s slept his way through half the woman in Georgia, and he’s got his pick of any girl on campus.

  Not me.

  I’m the studious one, the one headed to med school - the girl with a plan.

  I am not into football or the neanderthals who play it, and I want nothing to do with that smug, cocky prick with the legendary record - or his infamous "package."

  But it’s not up to me…

  The University just hired my dad as the head football coach, and Dalton’s mother just said yes to marrying him. His star player?

  Dalton.

  College football’s biggest bad boy is looking to score, and I think I’m the goal…

  Copyright © 2016 Aubrey Irons

  Cover & Interior Design: Aubrey Irons

  Cover Photos: VishStudio, Nejron

  Editor: Sennah Tate

  Formatting: Vellum

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademark status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.

  This book is intended for mature, adult audiences only. It contains sexually explicit and graphic scenes and language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please do not continue reading this book of you are under the age of 18 or are offended by content of this nature.

  All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older and are in no way blood relations. All acts of a sexual nature are completely consensual.

  To Jon, Cal, and Lauren, for your crash course in what is far more of a thinking game than I ever imagined.

  To Nate, for your boundless patience.

  To the readers, for your incredible devotion, feedback, and humbling words of encouragement.

  This book is for all the Tami Taylors out there.

  Author’s Note

  I grew up in New England in the 80’s and 90’s, which pretty much mandated that I was a dyed-in-the-wool Red Sox fan. That’s baseball, by the way. And if you’re as sports-illiterate as it am, it’s the one where you hit the ball with the stick and then run in a circle.

  But I have two confessions to make before you move on to this football-themed sports romance set in Georgia.

  One: I don’t know anything about football - or really even baseball to be perfectly honest. Confession number two is that despite my best efforts at perfecting a mint julep and my insistence on watching the Derby every year, I am sadly not actually a Southern girl.

  Luckily, I had three very patient friends to help me with the first. As for the second, well, I write fiction. So, you know, problem solved ;).

  This is all just to say, don’t worry. This might be a “sports” romance, but it was written by someone who has no idea what the difference between a wide receiver and a tight end is, aside from both sounding vaguely sexual.

  But sports-fan or not, every once in a while, we need a little (or a not so little, as is the case of this book) Dalton Cole in our lives.

  Luckily, he’s right here in your hands.

  …every inch of him ;).

  Trigger Warning:

  There is a scene in chapter 20 of this book involving assault which - though very mild in nature - may be triggering to some readers. Please be aware of this.

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  1

  Hailey

  Oh my God, is that his dick?

  He’s knee-deep in the pool, too busy with the two giggling, topless coeds squirming in his arms to notice us as we step out the backdoor of the house. Or to notice the look of shock on stunned faces.

  My eyes go wide, at the nearly naked man with the chiseled muscles and the cavalier half-cocked grin on his face standing there in the shallow end of the pool in just a pair of dripping wet white briefs. I quickly force myself to look away from the very noticeable something, bulging at the front of those jockeys.

  “Dalton!” His mother shouts again, this time snapping his attention to the three of us standing there. The two nearly-naked girls hanging off his muscled biceps suddenly shriek, trying to cover themselves as they duck behind him.

  But Dalton Cole doesn’t bat an eye.

  Dalton Cole doesn’t flinch, or turn red, or even do anything much to cover the fact that he’s all but naked.

  Dalton Cole only shrugs and brings the bottle of tequila in his hand up to his lips to take a swig. His crystal blue eyes sparkle, and that strong, chiseled, cowboy-looking jaw that graces magazine covers, and ESPN headline interviews, and a major underwear ad campaign pulls back in that trademarked cocky grin. His eyes move over his mother, and my dad, until they land on me.

  And he winks.

  I wrinkle my nose.

  The notorious, the infamous, the disgustingly arrogant Dalton “Ten” Cole. “Ten” for “Tennessee”, his middle name, “Ten” for the number he wears on the back of his jersey, and “Ten” for-

  Well, no, that part is I’m sure just a gross tabloid rumor.

  Dalton Cole - the biggest thing to hit the Georgia college football scene since, well, ever. Apparently. Statewide MVP back in high school, media darling, a damn underwear model, and an NFL shoe-in in a few years.

  It’s not like I pay attention to football, at all, even with my dad being the famous high school coach he is. But you’d have to be living under a rock to not know who Dalton Cole is. And living under a rock when it comes to Georgia football is not an easy task when your dad just accepted the head football coach position at the state university.

  I’ve managed to avoid meeting Heather’s headline-making, party-boy of a son so far, even though she and my dad have been together for a little over six months now. That is, until this “important” dinner tonight, two weeks before classes start.

  All good things must come to an end.

  I grimace at the walking frat-boy cliché standing almost naked in front of us - complete with the bottle of booze and the skanky girls.

  “Ladies?” Heather’s voice is sharp as she crosses her arms and glares at the two half-naked college girls somehow trying to hide behind her son.

  “Sorry, Dean Cole!” They’re scampering out of the pool and grabbing towels, and bikini tops, and flip flops before they tear around the side of the large house back towards the driveway.

  Heather narrows her eyes as she turns back to her son. “Dalton Cole you put that bottle down this
instant!” she says, shaking her head.

  That arrogant smirk drops from his lips as he hangs his head and shakes it, the picture of remorse. “I’m sorry, mama,” his voice drawls and drips that southern charm and he looks up and smiles that lopsided, chiseled grin as he steps from the pool.

  Goodness.

  I’ve of course seen him without a shirt on before - I mean half of the country has seen him in just his underwear after that ad campaign. But seeing a glossed magazine ad, or a billboard just isn’t the same thing as watching him pull himself out of the pool here in the flesh.

  The very perfect, very sculpted-from-marble, very muscled flesh.

  I can feel my cheeks burn as I quickly avert my eyes.

  He casually grabs a towel, still in no great hurry to cover up his almost naked form as he pats himself dry.

  “I’m real sorry, Coach,” he says in that Georgia accent. “That was disrespectful of me, sir.” He shakes his head and puts his hand out towards my dad.

  Oh, he’s good.

  My dad just chuckles and shakes his head. “Hey, boys will be boys.” He puts his hand out to shake Dalton’s outstretched hand. “You just bring that energy to the field this season, son.”

  Dalton grins - that shark-like smile that says he’s won over another one. “You bet, Coach.”

  Suddenly, he’s turning to me, those big blue eyes landing right on me.

  And he grins.

  “Hi,” he drawls out, his voice smooth and honeyed.