Roughing the Player (Chicago Outlaws Book 2)

by Magda Alexander

We ride up to the lobby level where we switch elevators. When we get to my room, there’s not only a bottle of champagne, but a plate of chocolate strawberries.

  “They thought of everything, didn’t they?” Her face lights up with a smile.

  Clearly, she trusts me. She shouldn’t. I’ve been hard since I first saw her tonight. Given the slightest bit of encouragement, I’d gladly strip her of that little black dress and lick my way up to that sweet spot between her legs. But I can’t do that. I’d vowed to behave. Desperately needing a diversion, I uncork the champagne and fill our flutes. I wait until she’s had a sip before wordlessly offering her the plate of strawberries. And then I suffer the hell of the damned when her lips form a perfect “O” and bite down on the fucking fruit.

  From the time she was a teenager, she’s always had this effect on me. She didn’t know it then, just like she doesn’t know it now. Ellie was different from the other girls I knew. They just wanted to screw the star of the football team. She was sweet and gentle and kind, something I hadn’t experienced much. The afternoon I found out she’d left town was the worst day of my life. It got worse when nobody knew where she’d gone.

  But I can’t go down memory lane. Not when it’s bound to bring me pain. So I better talk about something, anything that has nothing to do with our past. “So, you have a kid?”

  Her shoulders grow rigid. “Yes.”

  That’s the third time she’s tensed up when I mention her daughter. She wants to keep her personal life private. Problem is I want to know more about Ellie, more about her child. Maybe when I do, she’ll let me in. “What’s her name?”

  She drops her glass on the table with a thud. “Can we not talk about my daughter?” There’s a haunted look in her eyes. Strange.

  “I’m just trying to reconnect, Ellie.”

  “We don’t need to reconnect, Brock. Not on a personal level anyway.”

  I get it. She doesn’t trust me. Not with my rep. I need to explain things in a way she won’t become suspicious of my motives. “You’re the only person I know in this whole damn town. And my only true friend is in a dog kennel.”

  Her gaze softens. “You’ll see him soon, Brock. Surely you can make friends with some of the players. Trevor seems nice.”

  Trevor is nice, but once bitten, twice shy. “That would not be a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Sometimes friendships cause you to make bad decisions.”

  She brushes a soft hand across my arm, something she’d done in the past when I’d been frustrated or upset. “Is that what happened with Bernie Waters?”

  The lineman I invited to that ill-fated party in Florida. “Yeah. I trusted him even though all the red flags were there. He drank too much. He partied too hard. And then he betrayed my trust by bringing drugs into my house.” I slam back what’s left of my champagne and pour some more.

  “The cops knew you didn’t provide the cocaine. If they thought you had, they would have charged you with a crime.”

  “But social media believed it. So did my team. Hell, some of the players blamed me for his death.”

  “I’m so sorry, Brock.” Her touch strums through me, making me feel things I haven’t felt for a long time.

  “Me too.”

  “Not every player’s like Bernie.”

  “Yeah, but with pre-season starting in three weeks, I don’t have time to get to know them. Plus, I can’t allow friendships to affect my performance on or off the field. So I’ll just have to go it alone.”

  “You didn’t make friends with any football players in San Diego?”

  “No. I had too much to lose.” I stare into my glass. “Chicago’s no different. Especially, since I’m only here for a year. Next season, Ty will get his job back, and I’ll move on to another team.” I gulp back my drink and pour another. “No sense in getting to know the Outlaws’ players.” Knowing means friendship and friendship means pain. I’m better off keeping to myself.

  She sips her champagne while studying me. “I shouldn’t tell you this. Don’t want to get your hopes up. But there are rumblings.”

  I gaze down at her beautiful face. “Yeah? Of what?”

  “Teams that may want you to start for them next year. Of course, it will depend on your performance this season.”

  Glad for the change of subject, I laugh. “No pressure there.”

  She grins. “No. None at all.”

  I want to kiss that smile right on the corner, share that joy with her. Be happy this damn once.

  “Oliver Lyons seems to like you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Aha.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, for starters, he gave you a brand new SUV with all the bells and whistles.”

  “How do you know it’s loaded.”

  “Because that’s what he gave the team a year ago.”

  I grin, as I brush a curl off her face. “And here I thought I was special.”

  Her breath hitches. “You are. Special, I mean.”

  “How special?”

  “Very special.” Breaking contact, she walks away. Clearly, she’s uncomfortable with my touch.

  “The Chicago Outlaws is a very special team as well,” she says, turning back around.

  “Yes, it is.” Where is she headed with this?

  “They try hard to ensure players don’t get into trouble, like driving under the influence. That’s the main reason they make hotel rooms available for the players after an Outlaws team event.”

  I bark out a laugh. “A player can get into plenty of trouble in a hotel.” I should know. I’ve fucked more women in my hotel room than I care to remember.

  “But at least they won’t drive drunk.” She trails her hand across the sofa’s back cushion.

  I want to do the same. To her. Feel the softness of her velvety skin, taste her, breathe her in. She wants to keep her distance, but I’m like a moth to her flame. Slowly, I stroll toward her. I don’t want to spook her, after all.

  “Have you gotten the morality lecture in training camp?” she asks, quite unaware of what I’m aching to do to her.

  I laugh, mainly to keep from following through. “Yep. In spades. They brought in a lifestyle coach. No drugs, no wild parties, no sex with underage girls, and whatever you do, use condoms.” Fuck. Didn’t mean to mention that. “The lecture went on and on for over three hours.”

  “They’re protecting themselves if something happens.”

  “Well, they have nothing to worry about as far as I’m concerned. I intend to keep my nose clean.”

  “Really?” She stops stroking the seat cushion, and her head comes up.

  “Really.”

  “What brought on this change of heart? The lecture?”

  “No.”

  “Then what?”

  “If you must know, you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. When we talked on Thursday, and I heard your kid’s voice.” I tangle a hand through my hair. “Damn it, Ellie. She could have been mine. I was so young and stupid and horny that day. I should have stopped. I should have never let it get to the point it did.” My gaze, hot and needy, finds her across the room. “I just wanted you so much.”

  “You wanted me?” she asks in a breathless voice.

  “Yeah. You drove me crazy, you know.” I let out an embarrassed laugh, without taking my gaze from her. “With your glasses and your hair tied back in a ponytail. Nothing I wanted more than to loosen the knot, toss away your glasses. Kiss you. I used to fantasize about you at night.” The hell with taking it slow. I step forward until I’m standing right in front of her, breathing in her scent.

  She doesn’t move, or push away, but remains where she is. “You’re kidding.”

  Unable to help myself, I stroke her silky skin, right above the wild throbbing in her throat. “Swear to God.”

  Her eyes are two luminous pools of brown. “But you could have had any girl on the cheerleading team.”

  I g
rin. “I did have every girl on the cheerleading team.”

  She steps back, her mouth scrunching in disapproval. “Figures.”

  Damn it. When am I going to learn? Ellie doesn’t want to hear about my sexual conquests, even if they’re in the past. Right here, right now, she’s the only one who matters. Once again, I stride toward her. To my surprise, she doesn’t skitter away. Encouraged, I gently wrap my hand around her upper arm, loosely enough she can break contact if she wants. “You were the only one who meant anything to me.”

  “Yeah, right,” she scoffs. But her gaze projects something else—hope, excitement. Hunger. Ellie Adams wants me.

  All I have to do is not screw up. I brush my thumb across her velvety skin. “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “For being such an idiot.”

  She fights to hold back a smile, but the grin wins out. “Honesty at last.”

  I’m on a roll, so I decide to push my luck. “And I’m sorry I didn’t use a condom that night.” The one true regret I have when it comes to her. “But at least, I didn’t knock you up. Can you imagine what a disaster that would have been?”

  Her gaze turns hard and angry. She wrenches away from me and slams the champagne flute on the nearest table. “I have to go.”

  A second ago, she was ready to fall into my arms. What the hell went wrong? “Do you have to?”

  “I don’t like to be on the road after midnight. It’s almost that time now.” She clamps her arms around her middle, as if she’s trying to hold in some pain.

  Whatever it is, I caused it. “Ellie, I’m sorry if I—”

  “Stop apologizing!” Her eyes flash with anger.

  “Okay.” Clearly, she doesn’t want to hear any regrets from me. And apparently, the last thing she wants is one more second in my company. But I can’t let her walk out the door by herself. “Let me escort you to your car.”

  “No!” She screams. “Sorry. I prefer you don’t.”

  Is she crying? Yep, she’s crying. “You’re upset.”

  “It’s been a long day, Brock. Thanks for inviting me to the banquet.” She grabs her purse and wrap and, before I know it, she’s gone.

  I hurt her. A lot. What did I say that was so wrong?

  Chapter 6

  Eleanor

  PLEASE GOD, DON’T LET ME RUN INTO ANYBODY I KNOW. The chances might be slim to none, but life has a funny way of screwing with you. After reaching a nearly empty lobby, I rush toward the elevator that leads to the parking lot. I don’t feel safe until I get into my car. Only then do I break down and cry.

  So my pregnancy would have been a disaster? Of course, he’d think so. After all, he was headed for football glory at Clemson. Becoming a father at such a young age would have derailed his career. Like it almost did mine. If it hadn’t been for Mama and Steve who supported me through my pregnancy and Kaylee’s birth, I would have been one more pregnant teen statistic. Chances are I wouldn’t have graduated from high school, much less attended college. But I did have them. And that made all the difference.

  I’ve asked myself a million times whether I’d made the right decision by not telling him. What would have happened if I had? Would he have supported me? Or would he have refused to acknowledge the baby as his? Well, today I have my answer. He would’ve considered it a disaster. At the very least, he’d have resented my pregnancy. I would’ve surely crimped his style as busy as he was screwing his way through the cheerleading team. He might have even demanded I get an abortion, after offering to pay for it as well. After all, his family was filthy rich. Not that I would have done it. Nothing in the world could have prevailed on me to get rid of my baby.

  Granted those first few years were rough. Leaving Kaylee with Mama and Steve so I could attend college was unbelievably painful. Once she came to live with me, money was tight. There were nights when all we had to eat were noodles and peanut butter for dinner. I’d felt like a total failure. But somehow we made it through. I graduated from college and law school. I have a career and a great paying job. And more important than anything else, Kaylee is beautiful, smart, and the biggest blessing in my life.

  So if he thinks she would have been a disaster, well—that’s his loss.

  Feeling only slightly better, I put the car in drive and head home. The house is dark except for the porch light which I always leave on. After hanging my coat in the foyer closet, I walk into Kaylee’s room and breathe in her pre-teen essence. I fall asleep clutching her pillow.

  By the time Monday rolls around, I’ve regained my even footing. I refuse to let Brock’s words haunt me. They belong in a past we once shared. Not the present, and most certainly, not the future. He’s nothing but a client. All I need do is keep things professional. And that I can do.

  Today’s duties include overseeing Brock’s furniture move-in. Rather than stop at the office, I drive directly to his condo since the movers are scheduled to get there by ten after they drop off some things in storage.

  Unfortunately, they arrive an hour late. Having skipped breakfast, I’m starving, but hey, that’s on me. With any luck, they should be done in an hour, and then I’ll have time to eat. As it turns out, luck’s not with me. Not by a long shot.

  I’d asked my assistant to handle things in the condo, while I supervise the unloading from the lobby. At first, things proceed smoothly.

  But then disaster strikes.

  Massive bedposts come off the van with some medieval-looking things attached to them. As they get closer, I realize what they are. Metal chains with manacles and cuffs.

  I gulp. Hard. “Oh, dear God.” Why didn’t they remove them?

  A little, old lady and her companion stand by the front doors waiting for the movers to pass so they can exit the building. As they shuffle past the woman, her eyes grow wide. “Walter, what are those things?”

  Her companion, a wizened octogenarian, covers her eyes. “Bertha, don’t look.”

  “Walter, stop that. I can’t see.”

  But Walter doesn’t pay any attention to her. His focus is all on me. As he pushes Bertha out the door, he fairly vibrates with outrage as he stabs his walking cane at me. “Hussy. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Branded with a scarlet letter. God. This is all I need. I don’t know who. I don’t know how. But somebody is going to pay.

  As if I haven’t suffered enough humiliation, an older man is busy snapping pictures in between smirking and winking at me.

  Not to be outdone, a young woman with multi-colored hair snickers as the movers stroll the manacled bedposts through the lobby.

  I run toward the movers before they disappear into the elevator to see if there’s something I can do to hurry them along. But then I hear a crash behind me. Fearing the worst, I turn. The contents of one box are spread helter-skelter all over the front entrance—whips, chains, dildos, vibrators, those rabbity things.

  “Nice,” the rainbow-colored hair woman says. Before walking out the door, she hands me a card. “Call me if you want to play.”

  Shoot me now. With steam practically coming out of my ears, I yell to the movers. “Pick that up!”

  “Nuh-uh. Not touching that, lady,” one of them says. “Not without some rubber gloves. Got any?”

  While they tape the box back together, I hunt around my purse for tissues. I gingerly pick up each and every item and throw it into the box, not caring if it breaks, not caring about anything other than to get the box and me away from the gathering crowd, some of whom are pointing their cells at the scene probably videoing the whole scene. Thankfully, that’s one of the last boxes, and in fifteen minutes the movers are done.

  With Brock’s things delivered to the apartment, I send my assistant back to work. She has no clue about what happened downstairs. There is no evidence of the lobby disaster. Well, except for all the witnesses and photos they took. Damn it. I need a drink.

  But I can’t indulge. I need to report what happened to Marty.

  As soon as I ar
rive at the office, I dial his number.

  “How did the move go?” he asks.

  “We have a problem.” Even to my own ears, my voice sounds strained. But it can’t be helped. “Can I come to your office to explain?”

  “Can it wait? I have a client coming in fifteen minutes.” He’s not in a good mood. I can tell.

  “No. Sorry. I’ll make it quick.”

  “Fine.” Going by his snippy tone, he’s not pleased with me. But this is something he has to know. After all, Brock Parker is his client.

  With no time to waste, I mad dash it to his office.

  I barely have time to sit before he’s demanding. “What happened? Did something break or get damaged?” he grunts.

  “No.” At least as far as I know.

  “So what is it?” he barks out.

  “Umm, did you know Brock has a party room?”

  “Like a billiard table and a bar?”

  My face flushes with heat. “Like handcuffs, whips, and chains.”

  He sits up ramrod straight, and his chair bounces behind him. “No. I did not. How do you know this? You weren’t supposed to unpack.”

  “The movers dropped a box containing his, err, toys, and the contents spilled out all over the entrance to the condo building. Not only that, they paraded the bedposts to his orgy bed through the lobby as well.” I pause a moment to let that sink in. “The, err, restraints were still attached to the bed.”

  “Restraints?”

  Oh, God. Do I really need to explain? “Manacles and handcuffs attached to chains.”

  His brow arches. Yeah, he might have been aware of Brock’s lifestyle, but he didn’t know the specifics.

  “Those movers are idiots. What imbecile chose them?”

  “They’re on our agency’s approved movers list. Don’t worry. I’ll have them removed and write a formal complaint, as well.”

  “We should sue them. They’re supposed to be discreet.”

  “I’ll get legal on it.” In my opinion, there’s not much legal can do. The damage is done.

  “Did anybody notice?”

  “Oh, they noticed all right. Some of the condo residents went so far as to snap pictures with their cells. Three guesses how long it will be before they show up on the internet.”