by Jamie Knight
Super Big Game
An Enemies to Lovers Sports Romance
A Standalone Book in the Connected Super in Love Series
Book 4
Copyright © 2019; All rights reserved.
Jamie Knight –
Your Dirty Little Secret Romance Author
Here are the books in the Super in Love series,
featuring cocky, hot football players on the Leviathan team,
and their curvy, feisty love interests,
which can be read and understood alone but are best enjoyed all together!
1): Super Over You
2): Super Not Into You: An Enemies to Lovers Fake Fiancé Romance
3): I Super Don’t: An Enemies to Lovers Fake Fiancé Romance
4): Super Big Game: An Enemies to Lovers Sports Romance
Click here to see all the book in the Super in Love series!
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for Super Big Game to continues Elias’s and Stacy’s story.
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Stacy
Chapter 2
Stacy
Chapter 3
Elias
Chapter 4
Elias
Chapter 5
Elias
Chapter 6
Elias
Chapter 7
Stacy
Chapter 8
Stacy
Chapter 9
Stacy
Chapter 10
Elias
Chapter 11
Stacy
Chapter 12
Elias
Chapter 13
Stacy
Chapter 14
Elias
Chapter 15
Stacy
Chapter 16
Elias
Chapter 17
Stacy
Chapter 18
Elias
Chapter 19
Elias
Chapter 20
Elias
Free Steamy Follow Up Story and Free Book!
Steamy Excerpt from Super Over You
Chapter 1
Stacy
“Excuse me, Mr. Carson, can I please ask you some questions?”
The running back ducks his head as he comes out of the locker room, his head turned away from me, as if he didn’t even hear me, but there’s a look on his face that lets me know that he has. It’s a look of pity. It’s almost the same look you give after someone asks you for change on your way into a gas station, but you don’t have any, so you pretend you didn’t hear them or don’t speak their language.
But instead of spare change, I’m asking for hand-outs of a different form. I need one of these football players to give me a statement about the upcoming Superbowl. Their team, the Leviathans, just won the play-offs and are headed there in two weeks.
As a rookie reporter trying to work the beat and make my way up on the sports reporting circuit, I have to take a lot of rejections like this until I get someone nice enough to bite and to throw me a little bit of a scoop. It’s rough out here, with players not liking to talk because they don’t want to spill the beans on what their predications are for the big game. Plus, this particular team’s coach, Coach Kramer, is known for being tight-lipped.
He probably told his players not to talk to me, or anyone, today, so as not to jinx their chances at the Superbowl or say something stupid that will make them look bad in the press, which is always his number one concern. I’m sure that’s why they all look particularly stand-offish as they rush out of here – even more so than normal.
I’ve been standing outside the locker room – because I hadn’t been invited in – all evening, and there are only a few stragglers left to come out. A couple hurry by me but one is going slow. I hate to bother him, but I also hate to come up dry on my assignments, and my current one is to get some sort of statement or story.
My boss, Monica, will have my head if I don’t.
She is a very insistent boss.
“Mr. Mason. Lucky number 14. How’s your injury healing up?” I ask the next player who walks out of the locker room in a fake friendly voice, trying not to sound too desperate.
He just shrugs and walks by me with a slight limp. I suppose that that fact, combined with the one where he was the last one out of the locker room, could be a juicy tidbit – maybe a story in and of itself.
I take out the small notebook and pen I keep in my pocket and scribble down a note to myself for later.
Mason still injured and slow. Won’t be playing in two weeks? Speculation. But probably accurate. Based on eyewitness testimony of this reporter.
I put my notebook back in my pocket, wondering if it’ll be enough to satisfy my boss. Probably not, I decide, but beggars can’t be choosers.
“You know, you really should get a dictation machine,” someone says, and I spin around to see a player I don’t recognize, leaning against the entryway to the locker room.
He had come out of nowhere and I have no idea who he is.
Had the Leviathans traded a player so late in the season and gotten this guy instead?
Who would they have even given up, though?
That scenario didn’t seem likely, but then again, Coach Kramer is a very unorthodox coach known for doing things that leave even the most seasoned sports commentators scratching their heads and guessing as to the purpose or strategy behind his actions. It’s as if he takes special pleasure in keeping the press and everyone else in the dark.
He also has a bad temper and could replace one player at the drop of a hat, due to any crazy whim that crosses his mind. It could be as simple as the fact that they got a new tattoo he didn’t approve of. He’s known to go on power trips over dumb things, so who knows what this could be about.
It could definitely make for a good story, though, I think.
Could it really be that my persistence in hanging around the locker room to try to talk to players long after it was obvious that no one wanted to, or at least, was allowed to, has paid off? Any other reporters had given up and gone home half an hour ago or more.
“Or at least get a dictation app for your phone.”
The stranger is continuing to dole out his unsolicited advice. He’s rather rude, but he’s the best I’ve got, so I’m determined to try to work with him and get a story.
“They make those these days, you know? High tech fancy schmancy devices, that help reporters keep track of their thoughts in a new-fangled way.”
Yeah, but then you would have heard me, you asshole, I think, but I don’t say anything out loud.
My best friend Clarice is always asking me why I don’t do voice dictation, too. I just tell her the truth: I like to keep my cards close to my vest.
No one can read what I scribble down. But for voice recording, you never know who might be listening and stealing your ideas or anticipating what you’re going to ask them in advance.
Case in point: this rude stranger here, whoever he is.
I think about asking him if he’s a Leviathan, but then I think better of it. Of course he is – he just came out of their locker room while I had been trying to follow Mason for a story. There must have been some last-minute change in the roster that I’m not aware of, and I don’t want to look like an idiot for being caught off guard.
I like to act prepared, even when I’m not. It’
s something my strict parents taught me. They also taught me a lot of old-fashioned things – not just to always carry a notebook and a pencil in case I had any good ideas and wanted to write them down.
Things like, to never trust anyone, especially men, because they often have bad intentions.
To never watch Rated R movies or listen to rock music, because these things are of the devil.
And to never to have sex until marriage, which is why I’m still a virgin, even though I don’t really want to be.
My V-card has long passed its expiration date, but I haven’t found the right person to give it to. Still, I feel weird, walking around still having it.
This might sound strange, but I swear it makes me feel less confident, which in turn makes it harder to do my job, in which I have to act as tough as a tiger.
Like now, for instance.
I’m not going to show any signs of anxiety over not knowing who this new player is, even though that’s all I feel on the inside.
Fake it ‘till you make it, right?
“You’re a straggler,” I tell him. “You stay behind for extra practice?”
He laughs at me but nods his head as if he appreciates my sense of humor.
I was hoping my rather generic question would get him to open up and say something like, “Yes, as a matter of fact, since I’m brand new to the team and we happen to be playing a very important game in two weeks, I stayed longer to put in some extra time on the field.”
Of course, that isn’t what happens.
It was naïve of me to think it could be.
Instead, he says, “Can’t a man shower in peace? That’s all I was doing in there.”
He nods his head towards the locker room, and I do see that he’s already in his plain clothes, with no football uniform or gear on, so I guess it’s true that he’s just a slow shower-er.
“Fair enough,” I tell him, rather disappointed that he’s clearly not going to give up any juicy information.
“In fact, I have to get my stuff ready so I can leave,” he says. “I was just helping Mason out, due to his limp, but now I have to go back in and deal with my own equipment. Care to come with?”
I look at him in what I hope is the most neutral expression possible, trying not to let my jaw hang open onto the floor. I was dying to get invited into the locker room, but no other player let me in.
This new one must not yet be acquainted with Coach Kramer’s rules: the locker room is for players only; not for members of the press. For a moment, a shiver runs down my spine when I think about what Coach K would do if he found out his rule had been broken. I’m not the one who is on the team and who has to follow the coach’s rules, though, so I breeze right past him, acting as if it’s a normal thing for me to come right on into the locker room.
“Sure, I’ll come in with you,” I say, as he holds the door open for me, as if I’m used to doing this. As if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and not the very first time I’ve gotten to do it. “But only if you’re going to give me a good scoop.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he says, and I almost can’t believe it.
I want to pinch myself.
But I don’t want to be a fool.
My mom’s voice echoes in my head, reminding me not to be so trusting.
This feels too easy and too good to be true, and I can’t help wondering what the catch is.
Chapter 2
Stacy
As we head over to the lockers, I wonder how to ask this athlete his name without sounding like a dummy, in the event that there was some big news that broke and that I should have seen. I’m wondering how that could have happened, though. I always stay on top of my game by keeping up with all possible breaking sports news.
Maybe Coach Kramer is trying to keep this new guy under wraps. He might have even told him to stay in the locker room until after all of us reporters had left. And he either hadn’t known I was still out there, or he was a hothead who didn’t like having to follow rules – if so, he certainly wouldn’t be the first Leviathan like that.
I’m secretly hoping he’s such a rebel that he’ll spill a ton of the team’s secrets to me. But so far, he’s only slowly and nonchalantly opening a locker and rifling through whatever’s inside it.
“So, I’m sure you’re excited for the big game coming up,” I mention.
This question is definitely not one of my finest. I won’t be winning any journalism awards for it, that’s for sure.
But it’s hard to think fast about what kind of questions I can ask him that don’t reveal how very little I know about him. It’s more like I know nothing about him at all, and I don’t want that fact to be glaringly obvious.
“Sure,” he says, shrugging. “Aren’t we all?”
This guy’s a tough nut to crack.
What’s his deal, anyway? I start to wonder.
He just likes inviting reporters into the locker room and not talking to them about anything of import?
“I know you’re not a Leviathan.”
I finally decide to just cut to the chase and get to the point. I don’t want to be standing here all night if it’s not going to lead to a good story or at least a quote from whoever this player is.
He stands up straighter when I say that, as if I’m accusing him of something.
“I mean, I know that you weren’t,” I quickly correct myself.
Shit. I’m off on the wrong food already.
“You’re a new player,” I continue. “But what’s the deal? Why are they bringing you into the game so late in the season? Is someone big out with an injury?”
I’ve been racking my brain trying to think of who might have needed replaced, but I can’t think of anyone. Perhaps because Coach Kramer is trying to keep it a secret.
“Maybe,” he says, smirking.
“So, what’s your name, anyway?” I ask him.
“Come here and I’ll tell you.”
Suddenly, I’m not feeling so safe. I tell myself there’s no way he could be up to no good, not here, in his own team’s locker room.
But what if this isn’t his own team’s locker room? I wonder.
Is he common riff raff who snuck in here while everyone else had left?
My stomach drops.
No.
That can’t be right.
He had a key to get into the locker room.
And another key to that locker.
I let out a tense sigh, telling myself it’s fine. He probably just wants to flirt with me. It’s not a tactic I’m beneath engaging in, to get a good story. Obviously, I don’t want to do anything with him, but if I flatter his ego a bit, he might give me something I can work with.
“Not until you tell me something about yourself,” I tell him, trying to prod for the information I need. “Like your name, maybe?”
“It’s Bob,” he says, grinning. “You gonna write that down in your little notebook? B-o-b. Make sure to spell it right.”
Damn, what an absolute ass this guy is.
Almost all athletes I’ve met in this job have had some degree of cockiness, but this one really takes the cake. Plus, it’s not even cockiness, but downright rudeness that he’s exuding.
Just who does he think he is?
If I wasn’t chasing a story – and being the one to break the name of the new player on the Leviathans who showed up just before the Superbowl would be quite the story – I wouldn’t even bother talking to him.
And it’s obvious to me now that he’s not going to give me anything of substance.
Three letters, one first name, Bob, is all he’s giving up.
Hrmph.
Is his name even Bob?
There’s no way to be sure and he clearly had no desire to follow it up with a last name.
“Well, ‘B-o-b, Bob,’ thanks for letting me know that much,” I tell him. “Pretty sure I can remember it. I’ll just be on my way now, since you don’t seem to want to talk to me after all. I’ll be sure to pu
t out the story that the Leviathans have a new player named Bob, roaming free around their locker room.”
I don’t know why I said it this way.
As if I’m onto him, when I don’t even know what I’m onto.
I’m mostly convinced he belongs here, for whatever crazy reason, and that he’s just an asshole, not that that he’s dangerous. But throwing out a veiled threat seems to do the trick. He leans back against the locker and glares at me.
“Look, there’s no need to get all bitchy,” he says. “I was only asking you to come over here so I could show you my jersey. Then you’ll know the things that really matter: my name and jersey number. You’ll be the first to get the scoop.”
It’s so tempting. I almost fall for it. In fact, I take a few steps towards him and he smiles at me. His mean stare is gone, and it’s replaced by something that looks like delight.
Delight that I’m falling for his trick?
I hear my parents’ harsh warnings in my head.
Don’t trust any man.
They’re not good.
They all have bad intentions.
I’m almost at his locker when I decide it’s not worth it. Maybe it’s a bad idea to listen to my parents’ voice in my head – hell, they’re the reason I’m an awkward virgin at age twenty-one – but I guess I’d rather be safe than sorry.
I start heading towards the door, telling him, “That’s okay, I think I’ll let someone else have the honor of breaking that scoop,” when he grabs my hand and pulls me closer to him, so that I can’t get away.
“What’s the matter?” he asks. “You don’t trust me?”
I try to wiggle out of his grasp but his grip on my hand only tightens more.
He’s spun me into him and with his other hand he grabs my arm.
What the hell? I wonder. Someone with access to not only the Leviathans’ locker room but also to a specific locker is trying to… what?
What is he trying to do?
I can’t even begin to think of the possibilities, because now pure fear takes over.
I scream, loudly, and do my best to run away from him, although it’s pointless.