Hooked

by A. M. Hargrove

  “You sustained a very severe shoulder separation that will require surgery, along with an ACL tear that we’ll have to repair. We need to wait for the swelling to subside before we do anything, though. We can do that here, or you can elect to have it done by a surgeon of your choice. But I wouldn’t suggest waiting. It can be done here in a week or so. We’ll send you home tomorrow, and you can come back for the other procedure. It’ll be outpatient. And because I know who you are… I’m afraid it’s probable that you will be out for most, if not all, of the coming season.”

  Fuck me. Football is my life, my reason for being. I can’t imagine sitting on the sidelines just as my career is really taking off. And what the hell am I going to tell my agent, coach, manager, the president, and owner of my team? Hey, guess what? Your QB got hit by a car while buying dog food. Then I start laughing. Of all the things in my contract that I can’t do, such as snow skiing, riding a scooter, a dirt bike, or mountain biking, one of the things they forgot to add was crossing the street to buy fucking dog food.

  “Fletcher, are you okay?”

  I want to say what in the fucking hell do you think? Instead, I shake my head and say, “I’ll survive.”

  Aunt Shelly pats my good arm and says, “Don’t worry, kiddo. It’s only one season, and you’ll be back better than ever.”

  “Yeah,” I say, swallowing my bitterness. What they don’t know is this is my contract year. If I sit out, I’ll get royally screwed right up the ol’ ass. And all because of a bag of fucking dog food.

  “Mr. Wilde, now that you’re awake, the police are here to ask you a few questions. They’ve been waiting.”

  “Police?”

  “Yes,” the doctor answers. “Since you were hit by a car, and the driver left the scene, it’s considered a felony.”

  “I see.”

  The doctor stands there and stares. Then it registers that he’s waiting for me to give my permission. “Yeah, fine. They can come in.”

  He opens the door, and a couple of guys in uniform shuffle in. They tell me how sorry they are about the accident and then ask me what I remember. Closing my eyes, I give them my twenty-five second replay of the ugly scene. All of the important facts, such as the make of the car, the color, and the license plate number are nonexistent in my mind. Basically, I’m no help whatsoever. After shaking my left hand, they leave.

  As time passes, it doesn’t take long for everyone to see that I’m a dick—a fucking assface and a terrible overall patient. After Aunt Shelly gets me back home, it only takes a day for her not to want to put up with my sorry ass anymore and ends up firing herself as my nurse. She hightails it back to Raleigh and her family once she hires someone to take over for her.

  Now I have Rita, a tiny woman who could fit inside a shoebox, taking care of me. And I’m six and a half feet tall. Not to mention that woman is a saint. I don’t know how she puts up with my jackhole moods, but she does. I’m cranky and foul-tempered as I struggle with needing someone else’s help.

  “No, Mr. Fletcher, you mustn’t—” she wags a finger at me when I try to get out of bed the day after my surgery.

  She must be deaf, because she never flinches when my foul mouth runs off as I get back in bed hating life. I think it’s the dogs she stays for. She probably feels sorry for Boomer and Brady. And weeks later, during my recovery, it’s easy to see the bond the three have formed. Won’t they be sad tomorrow when she’s gone? It’s her last day since I’ll be cleared to drive. After my ACL repair and recovery, I’m finally ready to begin physical therapy.

  Rita scares me. One afternoon she threatened if I threw any more plates on the floor she would beat me with the broom she was holding. That shut me up real fast. Now she’s driving me to my PT session, and that frightens me even more. Her speedy turns that feel like we are tipping on two-wheels have me pressing my imaginary brake, wondering if we’ll make it there alive.

  “Where’d you learn to drive again?” I ask for the millionth time.

  “Why?” She looks innocent.

  “You’re scary. You’d make a fighter pilot sweat bullets.”

  “Good. I hope you sweat a lot.”

  That was the extent of our conversation. I’m sure she’s had more than her fill of me already, too.

  Now I just keep my mouth shut and eyes closed, praying we’ll make it to my destination in one piece.

  Sitting in the waiting room, I’ve finally finished filling out all the crazy paperwork for my appointment when a voice with a familiar ring to it calls my name.

  “Mr. Wilde.”

  Struggling to stand, I hobble toward the back, taking great care on my newly repaired ACL, ready to be put through the ringer. No one has to tell me how grueling this is going to be. My focus is on my feet, so I don’t pay much attention to the blonde-haired therapist until she stops and spins around.

  “Hello, Fletcher.”

  What the fuck! My head snaps up in disbelief. Almond-shaped hazel eyes, the very same ones I used to get lost in for hours at a time, peer at me beneath a feathering of thick lashes. Her gaze takes a lazy trip up and down the length of me, scrutinizing me as though I were an insect, or some other undesirable life form. I get the distinct feeling if she were taller than her five foot seven inches, she would be staring down her cute little nose at me in a haughty manner. Even still, she is every bit as gorgeous as she was the first day I saw her in high school. Scratch that. She’s better—more mature in a refined way. But as usual, it’s her pouty-lipped mouth that holds my attention the longest. Images of what that mouth can do—wait! What the hell am I thinking? “No. This isn’t going to work.”

  A smirk appears on that gorgeous face of hers. The one I used to be so in love with. The one I thought I was going to spend the rest of my life with.

  “Fine. Feel free to see someone else. Let me warn you, though. We only have one other therapist in this office, and he only works half-days every other Thursday. So good luck with that. Unless you want to drive all the way to and from Asheville every day.”

  Then she has the nerve to wink at me. And all I can think about is her dumping me. Bitch.

  CASSIDY

  He did not just call me a bitch. I stomp into the private office we use for consultations, only Jenny is there with her lunch.

  “Tell me that’s not Fletcher Wilde.”

  “It is.” Though I’m not sure how the word escaped my mouth, considering I was grinding my teeth.

  “Oh my God, oh my God. I have to meet him,” she says while waving her hands wildly in the air.

  “Yeah, you should run along. He’s probably at the front waiting to reschedule his appointment with Cory.” She stares at me, waiting for me to say more. I throw a thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the door. “Hurry or he’ll just leave.”

  She runs from the room with a confused but wide smile on her face. I sit in the chair to catch my breath. When I saw the name on the schedule, I’d assumed it was his father who needed help. I had no idea he’d come back to town.

  Why now after all this time? He made his choice when he left, and I’d made mine. We’d tried the long distance thing, and it failed epically.

  “Cass.” I glance up to see Jenny in the doorway. “He hasn’t left. He’s still waiting for you in room two.”

  Her eyes don’t meet mine, and I know she’s got a crush. Who wouldn’t? He’s fucking beautiful, but a total fucking asswipe. I don’t have time to kill her hero worship for him. Maybe he’s into eighteen-year-old girls these days.

  Sneak Peek from Fastball: A Wilde Players Dirty Romance

  Gina

  Air clings to my lungs like sludge, and the need to get out of here if I want to breathe becomes urgent. Without thinking, I make my way to the elevator in the skybox and am grateful when the doors whoosh open immediately after I press the button. I step inside, face forward, and press a lower floor button at random. That is when my eyes connect with his just as the doors silently shut between us. Exhaling a long breath
, I’m grateful for the solitude. There is no reason on earth I should want the man. He’s dangerous to my free-spirited lifestyle. Not to mention, he’s too vanilla for my liking.

  After the doors reopen, I don’t recognize my location. When they start to shut, I leap out into the wide corridor, which is big enough for large vehicles to maneuver through. An underground tunnel of drab gray greets me. As I begin to walk, I realize I’m probably in a restricted area of the football stadium.

  Fletcher Wilde, the star quarterback of the Oklahoma Rockets and my best friend, Cassidy’s husband, is going to murder me if I get caught and they learn I’m a guest of his in the owner’s box.

  Feeling mischievous, my hesitant steps turn confident, figuring my bestie will talk her man off a rampage if he gets in trouble because of me. I pass several people but hold my head high and steady, acting as though I belong, and the people pass without a second glance. I cover my belly as if my stomach hurts, hiding the area where a badge might hang, which I suspect I need in order to be here.

  The roar of the crowd funnels through a wide opening in the tunnel, and I can see the green of the field. I quickly dart past and stand near an open door. Just as I’m about to continue my exploration, a giant of a man steps in my path. He wears a sports coat that looks like the size of a tablecloth. But it’s a walkie-talkie clipped to his shoulder with an attached coiled wire leading to his ear that explains his profession.

  “Miss, do you have an ID?”

  Busted. Fletcher’s so going to kill me.

  “Um—”

  “There you are.” I turn to see Ryder striding in my direction.

  “Hey, my cousin—”

  “I know you,” the guard says, with his index finger raised and pointing. His eyes are large. “You’re Ryder Wilde. You play for the Charlotte Cougars. I watched you the other night. That triple saved the fucking game.”

  The security guy sees NFL players all the time, and yet he seems genuinely excited to meet Ryder. Just goes to show me what a big deal he is. Still, I’m surprised the guard is talking about Ryder’s hitting skills, when normally it’s all about his pitching capabilities.

  Ryder grins, and they trade a secret male handshake all men seemed to know.

  “Do you mind if I show her my cousin’s locker?”

  Ryder’s and Fletcher’s dads are brothers.

  A wink and a nod, not to mention a trade of greenbacks, and the guard lets us by.

  “We don’t normally allow people into the locker room, especially during games. But for you, I’ll give you ten minutes. Any more and someone is sure to come around and catch you,” he calls over his shoulder.

  “Thanks,” Ryder says.

  Then he’s half-dragging me into what appears to be a fancy locker room. Two foot wide open lockers line the walls with benches in front of them. A wide-open space is in the middle, and several TVs grace the walls. The game is on in stereo. Two large empty dumpsters are nearby. I can only imagine them filled with sweaty uniforms to be laundered by unfortunate employees of their laundry service.

  “So, are you going to tell me why I had to chase you?” Ryder begins.

  The puff of air I release isn’t filled with the heat of the dragon I’d felt minutes before. The man is too beautiful to be angry at. Damn Wilde men.

  “I didn’t ask you to follow,” I say.

  “No, but your jealousy is obvious.”

  I roll my eyes in self-defense of his smirk. “Jealousy requires that I care and I don’t.” Which is such a lie. I’m surprised my nose doesn’t grow two inches.

  “Of course, you don’t. I’ve called you for the past two months and nothing. I see you and you do everything possible to avoid me.”

  Wrapping an armor of nonchalance around me, I try to sound convincing when I speak again. “We had sex. It was good. I’m not interested in more. Isn’t that a guy’s wet dream to fuck and not worry about commitment?”

  “I’m not most guys,” he snaps, sounding offended I’ve lumped him in a category of cavemen. And maybe I have, because that I can handle.

  “No, you are a guy on a date. One who should be upstairs with her and not with me.”

  He licks lips made for kissing as I watch him… them. Damn me.

  “You know what I think?”

  “Not really,” I say, feigning boredom. “But you’re going to tell me, right?”

  “I think you want me to fuck you again because you can’t get enough. I think you’re afraid you might get addicted to my dick.”

  “A-DICK-ted… I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe you already are.” His smug laugh is sexy as hell. Double damn.

  “Try me. Fuck me right now and see if you can get me off and have me begging for more.”

  Challenge issued. Will he take me up on it? Truth be told, the idea of fucking right out here in the open and potentially getting caught already has me wet.

  “But what if we—” He glances around as if he hopes someone will appear.

  “What are you, twelve and afraid we’ll get caught by Mommy and Daddy?”

  His head whips back in my direction, and his eyes grow stormy. Hot damn, he looks like a predator about to eat his prey, and I want him to do just that.

  “Take your fucking jeans off, Gina,” he commands.

  The bass in his voice vibrates from his chest, sending shivers through me. I so want him that bad I easily comply. Although the denim peels off, they hook at my ankles, and I manage to only kick one leg off. He doesn’t wait. I’m instantly lifted and set on the edge of the counter that’s the perfect height for me to wrap my legs around him. He doesn’t bother with my thong.

  A dip of his hand into his front pocket, and he pulls out a condom.

  “Expecting to get laid,” I chide.

  “Knowing,” he says. Confidence exudes from him like cologne. “I put it in there on the ride down.”

  Fucking cocky bastard.

  I watch as he sheathes the thick length of himself in the rubber wrapper. He’s rough when he pokes a finger through my slit to test my readiness.

  “What happened to Mr. Nice Guy?” I egg him on, liking him crossing over to the dark side.

  “You don’t want nice. You want hard, fast, and meaningless. And I’m going to give it to you.”

  There’s no time to gasp. He quickly removes his finger, shoves my thong to the side, and positions his tip at my entrance. He’s inside me before I can blink. Damn, if I don’t remember every inch of him. No man has fit me like a glove the way he does and ain’t that a bitch. I’ve been waiting for him to strike out, and he’s hit a goddamn home run.

  “Fuck,” I cry out, not caring about the security guy at the door.

  In fact, the idea that he may come in and watch has me tipping toward an edge sooner than I thought possible.

  Ryder is relentless. He rides me so hard the back of my legs sting from the impact against the sharp edge they hang over. My eyes remain open and focused between us. I watch his cock slide in and out of me as the evidence of my pleasure coats each of his strokes. It’s another shove closer to the cliff I desperately want to tumble over.

  “I want you to swallow my dick and let my cum mark your throat.”

  Damn, if I don’t scream from the impact of his hips as his rolls them so his dick hits that secret spot. Somehow knowing what I’m about to do, Ryder is there covering my mouth with his as he shoves his tongue to stop my sharp cries. Damn, if the fucker doesn’t have to even touch my clit to set me off like a rocket launcher. I’m so confused as to how he managed it. Then again, I’m lost to the feeling of ecstasy as he grunts. His thrusts becoming bruising as he follows me into oblivion.

  “So much for me deep-throating you,” I tease once I’m able to catch my breath.

  “There’ll be a next time.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  “Hey, you?” another voice declares.

  I look over Ryder’s shoulder and see a different guy, one not wearing a sports
coat. So not security, but he’s got on a polo shirt with Fletcher’s team logo emblazoned on the breast pocket.

  “Oh, are we in the wrong place?” Ryder says assuredly, not looking back.

  He probably doesn’t want the guy to recognize him.

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Give me a minute for my girl to get decent.”

  Hearing him label me as his sends a thrill I don’t want to run through me. I push down the feeling, knowing disappointment when he moves on will only leave me lonely. And everyone leaves me, even Cassidy. She’s Fletcher’s now, and I have no one left.

  The man turns, giving us his back. “You have twenty seconds.”

  The threat is clear, and Ryder doesn’t waste time. He helps me down, and he pulls up his jeans as I race to get mine on. And then we are running. We leave out a door closer to us and furthest from the guy who caught us. Ryder reaches into his pocket and hands the security guy out front more money.

  “Thanks,” Ryder says. “Can you buy us some more time?”

  He’s got a fucking innocent face that makes everyone a believer. Then he adds a wink. Security guy smiles and nods, and then we are running.

  Breathless from laughing so hard, we are in the elevator headed back up to the owner’s box. When our laughter dies, Ryder crowds me in a corner. I don’t fight when he kisses me. In fact, I rake my nails through his hair trying to pull him closer.

  The elevator dings to signal we’ve made it to our floor. We break apart before the doors totally open, and a blond—not just anyone—is standing there looking at us.

  “I was just looking for you,” she says. And her saccharin sweet voice grates on my nerves. “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend.” Her pout belongs on the face of a five-year-old not a woman.

  “Lynsey,” he begins.

  Meeting her eyes, I say, “Don’t worry, honey. We aren’t anything. In fact, he’s all yours.”