The End Zone: SPORTS ROMANCE (Contemporary Sport Bad Boy Alpha Male American Football Romance) (New Adult Second Chance Women’s Fiction Romance Short Stories)

by Jenna Payne

  He didn’t have to make his decision. From behind him, he heard a crossbow let fly, and a stake pierced Owen’s heart from behind. He looked down at the point protruding from his chest, his face registering shock a moment before he dissolved in mid-air. His life as a vampire was over almost before it got started, and Conrad doubted that anyone would mourn his loss.

  Distracted for a brief second, Dallin took the opportunity to shove Conrad off him again, standing in the same motion and moving towards him.

  As Conrad fell, Dallin’s eyes landed on the stunning redhead several yards behind him. She stood barefoot in the grass, her wild hair radiating around her face, dark-green dress highlighting her beautiful eyes.

  Dallin hesitated, staring into what to him was the face of his lost love after almost 200 years.

  “Esther?”

  The crossbow came up, and Dallin didn’t have a chance to react. The stake shot at him, piercing his heart as he held her gaze. He kept his eyes locked on her beautiful face as his body turned to ashes around the stake, radiating out from the point of impact.

  He held a hand towards her an instant before his body fell apart, ashes scattering in the wind.

  Lizette smiled at Conrad and he nodded. She turned her attention to another vampire and reloaded, just as one came out of nowhere and tackled her to the ground.

  Conrad roared in anger, closing the distance between them in a few leaps and ripping the vampire’s head clean off in one swipe of his massive paw.

  Lizette lay on the ground, head beside a sharp rock, blood oozing from the wound and soaking into the sand beneath her.

  ***

  Sterling and Conrad paced outside the room while the village doctor worked on Lizette. The rock had sliced a nasty gash in her head, and she’d lost a lot of blood.

  A few vampires had escaped, but they counted over eighty killed. The Vampire King was dead and his army decimated. With the sunrise had come the dawning of a new day, and the promise of a life of freedom for the villagers.

  Already, a band of Lycan and human warriors were headed towards the vampire lair, bent on destroying the remainder of them while they slept. They were completely vulnerable then, unable to anticipate the attack until it was too late. They estimated that there were at least twenty left, so the Lycan sentries had rounded up twice as many men and sentries to descend on the lair and take out the rest of the vampires once and for all.

  It appeared that Dallin had spent the last fifty years slowly rebuilding his army in violation of the treaty. Conrad didn’t expect the next king to follow the treaty any better than the Dallin, so he would be exterminated in his sleep before he had a chance to do anything.

  The door to the room opened and the doctor stepped out, wiping his bloody hands on his apron and walking towards Sterling and Conrad.

  “It looks like Lizette’s going to make it, but it will be hard to tell for a few more hours. She’s a tough one, fighting me even though she’s unconscious. You’ll need to keep the wound clean and she’ll need to rest.”

  “Did she get bit?”

  “Grazed. It shouldn’t be anything to worry about. The wound has almost healed and there’s no sign of infection. We’ve had people survive a vampire attack before. As long as she didn’t ingest his blood there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “No. I saw the entire thing. There was no time for that. I was on him and killed him immediately.”

  “Good enough. Call me if you need me, but she’s awake and ready for visitors. Don’t let her sit up or talk to long.”

  The doctor saw himself out, chuckling at the men as they both descended upon her room.

  Lizette smiled weakly from the bed. She tried to sit up, but they both stopped her.

  “You have to rest. I was so worried that you wouldn’t be—” Sterling’s voice caught, and Conrad looked at him, surprised by his outpouring of emotion.

  “The doctor said you have to rest, but you’ll be fine as long as you don’t push yourself too hard.”

  Lizette nodded softly, drifting off to sleep before she could say anything more.

  *

  Five weeks later, Lizette sat in the sunlight in the grass in front of the cabin watching Sterling chop the last of the firewood while Conrad worked on getting the tiny cabin ready for winter. The first snow would be coming any day.

  The group sent to the vampire lair had been successful, killing every vampire hidden within the castle walls. The final count had been twenty-two. The villagers had rejoiced, finally able to live without fear from vampire attack.

  Lizette had also found her place here. For the first time in her eighteen years, she finally felt as if she belonged. The fact that she happened to belong to two men, werewolves at that, wasn’t lost on her. The last month and a half of her life had been the happiest, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Conrad climbed down the tree beside the cabin, pulling the remaining roofing material down with him as he went. He’d patched up every hole he could find, doubling up where the roof looked weak. He also extended the roof to cover the additional outer wall that he and Sterling had built, packing the space between the new wall and the existing wall with straw and mud to help hold the heat in. In the past, the two had relied on their thick coats to get them through the worst of the winter, shifting to wolves when the weather was the harshest. With Lizette to care for, they no longer had that luxury.

  Sterling stacked the last of the split wood and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  Lizette watched them both, heat stirring inside her as she took in the sight of them. Both men worked shirtless, despite the chill in the air. They were taking advantage of what promised to be the hottest day before the snow came. And they were driving Lizette mad with need.

  Sterling caught her looking at them, raising a questioning eyebrow at her. Conrad looked at his friend, following his gaze. He was surprised to see Lizette, cheeks flushed with arousal, standing and beckoning to them with her index finger before walking into the house.

  Sterling and Conrad looked at each other, and Conrad shrugged.

  “If the lady wants.”

  They joined her in the bedroom, both nearly naked by the time they got halfway down the hall. They discarded clothes as they went.

  Lizette was ready for them when they entered, dress pooled on the floor beside the bed.

  Sterling looked at the faint scar on the side of her head, which was nearly healed.

  “Are you sure about this? The doctor said to take it easy.”

  “I’ve been taking it easy for five weeks. I can’t wait any longer. Either join me, or I’ll work it out myself.”

  Conrad through back his head and laughed. He looked at Sterling and smiled.

  “You heard the woman.”

  With that, they slipped into bed with their woman, rocking her world and claiming her heart.

  THE END

  Bonus Story 3 of 20

  Secret Heat

  They had acquired their target, and it was him. Passenger Robert Whitman had thought the Cypriots might put eyes on him after he cleared customs, but they were on him the second he got off the plane at Larnaca Airport. A baggage handler on the jetway followed him up to the non-EU line, where a uniformed agent milled about aimlessly, but always in his vicinity. The agent at the counter scanned and stamped his passport with a gulp and pushed the document back through the gap in the Plexiglas booth with trembling fingers. At the baggage claim, Whitman’s luggage appeared on the conveyor only after every other bag had been snatched by its owner, or made several laps around the baggage area. They’d taken a good look inside the suitcase, no doubt, but there was nothing to see.

  No one tailed him from baggage claim, but he picked up on a couple of possibles as he made his way to the car rental desk. He wasn’t actively seeking them, but he’d developed some pretty good intuition over the years. He reminded himself that he wasn’t even supposed to look for surveillance on this operation. Well-trained habits die hard, though
.

  He saw them as he left the parking garage. There were at least three vehicles following him as he headed north and west along Larnaca Bay on the B3. They were matching his speed and attempting to keep an incidental vehicle or two between them and his rearview mirror. The result was a sort of vehicular body language that gave them away to the trained eye. When he made his turn into the parking lot of the Misty Beach Hotel, one of the suspect vehicles continued past him and the other two turned off into parking lots on either side of the road.

  It really was a game this time – a rigged game, and he was on the inside – but the Intelligence Division of the Cyprus Police didn’t know that. They also didn’t know that Robert Whitman wasn’t his real name, or that he didn’t really work for the State Department, or that their surveillance team was itself under surveillance. All they knew was that the CIA wanted them to keep an eye on him, if they could handle it, and to report on anything he did while on the island. They were not supposed to apprehend or engage, just observe and report. That made Whitman’s job easy; he was just a rabbit leading the dogs around the track.

  ***

  The inland side of the Misty Beach Hotel could have been mistaken for a municipal administration building but for the hotel logo painted onto the clean white cinderblock and the green awning that covered the last few feet of walkway before the entrance. Not quite like the brochure, Whitman thought. The tinted glass doors slid open to admit him onto a marble floor that reflected light streaming in from the bay side of the lobby through three story glass walls framed in antique bronze. Beyond the glass, a swimming pool meandered toward the bay, and beyond that, a beach dotted with umbrellas and sunbathers.

  Whitman walked to where the lobby began stepping down to pool level, then turned back toward the plain little reception desk, and the plain blonde woman behind it.

  “Hello. Welcome. Checking in?” The blonde’s accent was part British, part Scandinavian. It was interesting, and she was suddenly not so plain. Kind of cute, actually; he put her in her mid-twenties, so probably about 15 years younger than him.

  “Are you sure you’re not a tourist pretending to work here?” He handed her his passport. “You don’t look or sound too Mediterranean to me.”

  “Well, you sound very American to me, Mr. Whitman.” She smiled and handed back the passport. “But that’s a good thing.”

  “Really? I thought everyone just groaned and slapped their heads when we came around. But back to my original question: Are you sure you’re not some lost Norwegian tourist? ” He gestured toward her lapel. “You don’t even have a name tag.”

  Robert Whitman was supposed to be quite the womanizer, and the man playing him was beginning to enjoy the flirtation. It had been a while, and the blonde’s smile and the tilt of her head gave him a feeling he couldn’t quite identify.

  “Swedish, not Norwegian,” she said, “and my name is Pia. I came here as a tourist a few years ago, and I loved it so much that I decided to make it permanent.”

  “Fell in love with the sun and the sand?”

  “And with a man.” Now she was practically glowing. How had he ever thought of her as plain?

  “I take it he hasn’t broken your heart yet.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he ever will.” The best part of her smile was in her blue eyes.

  “How about you, Mr. Whitman? How many hearts have you broken?”

  “Me? I don’t break hearts. I take broken-hearted women home and hand them a glass of wine and rub their feet.” And then I go on missions, and can’t call or email, and they’re gone when I get home.

  “If you just walk around and say that in your sexy American accent, I think you’ll find plenty of feet to rub.”

  “Sexy American accent? Is that really a thing…? I might have to move here, too.”

  She slipped two key cards into an envelope marked “319” and handed it to him. “You should probably move into your room first, Mr. Whitman.”

  “Please call me ‘Robert,’ Pia; and I have one more question: Where can I get a cheap meal and a beer around here?”

  “You might try pub across the street. The fish and chips are excellent, and there will be lots of drunken British girls in uncomfortable shoes.”

  Beautiful and funny. “Why, thank you. That sounds like a fine evening out for a gentleman.”

  He turned toward the elevator and his peripheral vision caught movement in the same direction from the lower lobby. He had to hand it to the Cyprus PD, they were taking their job seriously.

  His new shadow arrived at the elevator door in a whiff of coconut sunscreen and an emerald green bikini, the top of which should have been handed down to her little sister long ago, with a sheer white wrap tied around her waist. She seemed a bit young too be working for the local service; at least twenty. Probably older though; he tended to underestimate. Whatever her age, she was clearly there to appeal to the womanizing American who was getting so much attention from the intelligence division.

  No surprise that she didn’t need to press the button for another floor.

  When the elevator doors opened, he ushered the girl out first and followed as she turned in the direction of his room. As she walked, the hallway lights cast little reflective bands that slid down her black hair as it swayed over her olive skin. She stopped at 317, adjacent to his room and between his room and the exit. As he pulled out his key card, he heard her say, “Looks like we’re neighbors.”

  He looked toward her and smiled. “Well, I’ll try to be a good neighbor. Do you like the hotel?”

  “Yes, I’ve stayed here a few times. It’s really lovely.” There was no Scandinavian flavoring in her British accent, but her bikini top was interesting in an engineering-the-impossible kind of way. She walked toward him and extended her hand. “I’m Helen.”

  “Of course you are.” He took her hand and held it for a moment while he looked in her eyes. “I hope Paris isn’t too noisy when he comes to steal you away.”

  “Does every American read Homer before their Cyprus holiday?”

  “Just the smart ones…I’m Robert, by the way.”

  “Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Robert.” She turned back toward her room and looked over her shoulder. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  “Thank you.” The wisp of a wrap around her waist did little to hide the triangle of green fabric below the small of her back which directed his eyes further downward. He wondered how close she was supposed to get to him.

  *****

  Helen, it turned out, was only responsible for him in the hotel. She kept showing up like a schoolgirl with a secret crush—at the breakfast bar, in the hotel gym, around the pool, and heading back to the room. Robert got the feeling that she might be writing, “Mrs. Robert Whitman” over and over in her notebooks. Joke was on her though, because “Robert Whitman” was just a mash-up of Robert Frost and Walt Whitman that had been approved as an alias for a man whose real passport said he was Kirk Blackwell, and whose military ID said that he was a commander in the United States Navy, and whose dress uniform was pinned with the gold Trident of a Navy SEAL.

  The first full day of Kirk’s mission was limited to enjoying the hotel, interacting with as many people as possible, and taking a little walk around Larnaca Harbor. Of course, it was all planned down to the minute, and everything was being recorded by the CIA contractors on his team using cameras hidden in beach bags, purses, and backpacks. Kirk wouldn’t even have noticed them if he hadn’t known exactly where they’d be and when. The Cyprus PD hadn’t been as discreet, but trailing surveillance was a lot tougher than static counter-surveillance. They had definitely grilled the clerk at the cell phone kiosk and now had all of the information to track the phone, but that was part of the plan as well.

  The next day was longer, but pleasant. Kirk couldn’t complain about being paid to tour Cyprus, buy souvenirs, and engage as many people as possible in conversation. He did his best to ignore surveillance, but saw and felt it each step of t
he way. They were in his rearview mirror up to Nicosia, and with him through the pedestrian area and down past the U.S. and Russian Embassies. As he drove out of town and headed toward Limassol, they were in his mirror again, though much farther back—likely because he was also being watched from the air.

  Limassol would be the last little test for the Intelligence Division of the Cyprus Police, but it hinged on Kirk being able to bump into an unwitting American tourist staying at the Mediterranean Plaza Hotel. The CIA Chief of Mission at the U.S. Embassy had told the police that they could talk to anyone they saw their target contact. If that included any suspicious contacts with other Americans, then those persons could be brought to the Embassy for questioning. There was no wrong answer other than failing to report the contact at all, and all indications were that the Cyrus PD would at least talk to anyone Kirk bumped into.

  He parked his rental car at a supermarket a block from the hotel and went in for a bottle of water. One of his teammates was shopping the produce aisle, a signal that the team was ready to steer him to the bump; so he checked out with the water and set off on foot for the hotel. He walked east on the inland side of the B1, trying to ignore the cameras he knew were looking toward him from bags at a bus stop, a diner, and a sidewalk café. When he finally crossed toward the hotel, his peripheral vision picked up at least three shadows at various distances. One passed behind him, one paralleled his crossing one block back, and one sat down in an apartment stairwell to make a phone call.

  The Plaza had plush landscaping around its semicircular driveway and a more modern edifice than the Misty Beach, but the interior layout was almost exactly the same, though on a slightly larger scale. A tourist at the concierge desk scratched his head, elbow pointing toward the pool/beach exit, so Kirk continued that direction, winding his way around the hourglass pool and toward the beach as he looked for the next signal.

  As he passed the through the gateway of palm and hibiscus that separated the pool area and the beach, he spotted a familiar figure fifty meters down the beach. She was walking toward him but paused by an empty beach chair, hand on hip, and then turned toward the water. It was Nikki. Her skimpy two-piece was going to be a topic of conversation around the table back at the safe house. Kirk imagined that she was working hard to keep from breaking into a gigantic grin. The slim Dominican had an easy smile and an even easier manner. She was everyone’s first choice as a travel companion, but the team’s deputy commander pretty much monopolized her. The running joke in the house was that Kirk was madly in lust with her.