Savage: A Pro Football Romance

by Michaela Scott

  “I ditched him,” I whisper, “Moose Lodge emailed me, and they want me to fill out an application by tomorrow morning. I have to go.”

  Kendall’s jaw drops. “You mean you actually—”

  “Yeah, but I’m going to go. You can stay if you want to keep—”

  “Hell no!” She says, throwing a couple dollars on the bar and gathering her things, “We need to talk about this now.”

  Pulling a black marker out of her purse, she sloppily writes her number on the bearded guy’s forearm. “Alright, we’ll pick this up later, but I have to go!”

  And just like that, we’re out on the street, heading towards the banana-colored cab idling on the curb. The line to get in stretches all the way down the block, and as we walk, two guys wearing Brady Mack jerseys cheer when they see me.

  “This girl knows what’s up!” One of them says, going up for a high five. I high five him, and he breaks into a wide grin. “Brady Mack is a fucking savage!”

  I let out a little laugh, then look back over my shoulder at the second floor of the club.

  Oh, he’s a savage, alright. And you two don’t know the half of it.

  Chapter 3: Brady

  Every single fiber of my body is screaming at me right now.

  I’m not supposed to be here. Not on a Monday, so early in the morning that the fucking sun isn’t even above the horizon yet. I’m supposed to be in bed, sleeping off yesterday’s game, and then, once I’m nice and well-rested, I’m supposed to stop by the film room to start learning next week’s game plan.

  But fuck that.

  I don’t take days off. So even though I’ve still got alcohol in my blood from last night’s victory party, I’m out here first thing in the morning, doing every fucking drill I can think of as the rising sun slowly lights up the thousands of empty seats above me.

  Besides, I couldn’t sleep last night. And shit, I’m no stranger to sleepless nights, but usually after we win a game, I can pass out as soon as I hit the mattress. Not last night, though. And I think I know why, too.

  It was that little fangirl from the VIP lounge.

  Fuck, she was sexy. I see her in my mind’s eye as I jog back down to the 50-yard line and get ready to run another route. Long brown hair spilling over her insanely tight jersey, my number stretched to the fucking breaking point across the most perfect tits I’ve ever seen in my fucking life. The adorable look on her face when she realized that I was going to fulfill her little fangirl fantasies and claim her with the body that she’s been dreaming about ever since she saw her first Kings game. It was the most insanely sexy shit imaginable…until she got up and walked away for no fucking reason.

  Shit, I’ve got to stop thinking about this, or I’m not going to get anything done out here. She said she was catching a flight to Alaska, so she’s probably up there right now, riding a fucking grizzly bear to work. So why can’t I stop thinking about the little moans she made as I kissed her?

  Okay, seriously, Brady, forget about that shit and focus. I’m on the 50-yard line, and I’ve got a route to run.

  Counting down from three, I launch myself from my starting position, letting the poor guy covering me think he’s got me contained. Then, stopping on a dime, I make a sharp turn towards center field, sprinting towards the opposite sideline as fast as I fucking can. My cover guy? I probably just lost him, but he’s not going to mind that much. After all, if I’m running this way, I’m someone else’s problem, not his, and I’m only going to get the team a couple yards down the field by catching the ball from here.

  But that’s where he’s wrong.

  I visualize the quarterback throwing the ball. And let’s say he accidentally throws it really fucking high. Leaping off the ground, I reach up high enough to catch pretty much anything thrown in my direction, hit the ground…and then, immediately spin into a sprint down the field. I haven’t pulled this shit out in a live game, but I guarantee when I do, the guy who thinks he’s about to tackle me is going to find himself on the ground watching me run right past him, and from there, it’s just a matter of blazing past the other defenders.

  Which I’m pretty fucking good at. Holding the invisible ball up against my bicep, I hit my second wind, catapulting myself down the field in five quick seconds and leaping up to smack the yellow bar of the uprights in the back of the end zone.

  Then, over by the tunnel that leads into the locker room, I hear a slow, sarcastic clap.

  “Nice one. All those invisible guys out there on the field never stood a chance. Remind me, who are you playing next week?”

  Sighing through my teeth, I don’t even bother turning to look at the blonde girl in the thick-rimmed black glasses leaning up against the padded back wall of the stadium. “Milwaukee. And hey, if you want to go tell them I’m going to do that to them, be my guest. You should probably leave now, though.”

  She lets out a bitter laugh and holds up her phone. “Nice try, but since I filmed it, I can stay right here and send them a video.”

  I just laugh and shake my head as she hits send. Fucking Alyssa. I thought I was done with her when they kicked her off the cheerleading team for doing this exact same shit after I wouldn’t be her date to some random wedding halfway across the country. Apparently, she was obsessively chasing after guys on the team before I showed up, but when I got here, she completely flipped out.

  Then, when the team finally fired her, she got a job at a sports tabloid literally two hours later. And honestly, it’s a match made in fucking heaven. She’s probably the only person crazy enough to get up this early on the off chance that I might be here practicing.

  “Didn’t I get a restraining order out on you?” I asked, walking back towards the 50-yard line to run another route. Unfortunately, Alyssa starts walking with me.

  “I’m sure you probably tried, but I’m a legitimate journalist now. For every story I put out on you, I put out three stories about other players! I think that’s pretty fair, especially considering you ruined my cheerleading career.”

  I shake my head. “You ruined that shit yourself, and I dare you to find anyone who disagrees.”

  Alyssa flashes her blinding white teeth, glaring at me from behind her glasses. “Speaking of ruining your career, how was Club Royale last night? I’m banned from there, but I heard you got blackout drunk and guaranteed a Super Bowl victory in front of hundreds of people.”

  “I wasn’t blackout drunk,” I say in a bored voice, “But the rest of that shit is completely true. And I’ll guarantee it again right now.”

  I turn to face Alyssa, who’s filming me on her phone. “We’re going to win the Super Bowl, and it’s not going to be close.”

  “That’s cool,” She says, shoving her phone in my face, “But what do you think about the new commissioner’s comments that you’re a bad influence on the league and that you’re one scandal away from a season-long suspension. Do you think the Kings are going to win the Super Bowl without you?”

  “No comment,” I say, getting in position to run another route.

  “Okay,” she says, “But don’t you think showing up at a club blackout drunk just hours after those comments are made means that you’re pretty much asking for a suspension?”

  Saying nothing, I look into the lens of Alyssa’s phone camera, smirk, and take off, running a simple route fifty yards down the field. And by the time I’m in the end zone, I see a couple other players walking out from the locker room tunnel, jerseys on, including the backup quarterback.

  “Fuck yeah,” he says when he sees me, “Want to catch some passes?”

  I grin. “You know it.”

  He grabs a football from behind the bench as I run back toward the 50-yard line, where Alyssa is looking down at her phone and frowning.

  “Crap, they actually do want me to go to Milwaukee today,” she says, snapping one more picture of me before she turns and walks up the sidelines, “But I’ll be back!”

  Meanwhile, the backup quarterback jogs up to me, pas
sing her with a confused look on his face and a football in his hand. “Wait, didn’t she get kicked off the squad?

  I get down into position and shake my head. “She’s a reporter now.”

  “Oh,” he says, watching her leave. Then, when she’s far enough away, he leans in close to me and lowers his voice. “So what happened with you and that brunette girl last night at Royale? The one who was wearing your jersey. Did you go home with her?”

  Fuck, just when I was starting to get it off my mind. I grit my teeth and turn my head towards the end zone. “Nope,” I say, “She had to leave early.”

  “That sucks,” he says, following my gaze towards the back of the stadium, “So I’m guessing you want to go deep, then, huh?”

  “Sure,” I shrug, “Let’s go fucking deep.”

  The quarterback counts backwards from three, and I sprint down the field. And then, halfway through my route, I see her in my mind’s eye, with that adorable fucking look of surprise on her face. The image stays with me for about fifteen yards, slowing me down, until I shake it off, sprint into the end zone, and catch the ball against my shoulder without even thinking.

  I turn around and face the quarterback, squinting as the morning sun blazes above the edge of the stadium. Then, I run back and get ready to run another route, trying not to think about that sexy fucking brunette and the way her body felt grinding up against mine.

  But so far, it’s not fucking working.

  Chapter 4: Cassie

  Please rank the housing options you qualify for in order of preference:

  Moose Landing

  Moose Village

  Regal Igloo Suites

  Struggling to keep my eyes open, I realize that I’ve been staring at the question for the past ten minutes. Uh…maybe the igloo suites? This early in the morning, with last night’s pounding bass still quietly thumping in my head, it’s hard to care. All that matters is that I submit this application by 9.

  I look over at the clock on the wall of the private library study room I arrived at the crack of dawn to reserve. 8:35.

  So that means I have twenty-five minutes to finish this application unless I want to be living in a snow bank when I get up there. I crack my neck, then my knuckles, and take a deep breath. Regal Igloo Suites it is, I guess, but which do I put second, Moose Landing or Moose Village? I don’t think I really have time to do research, but maybe a quick search wouldn’t hurt.

  I open up a web browser, and before I can type in the names of the apartment complex, I notice the score to last night’s Kings game in a little box underneath the search bar.

  Underneath the score, there’s a headline:

  Brady Mack shreds the record book in dominant win over the Wolves

  Oh. Apparently, Brady set some kind of record at the game. Maybe that’s why his ego was the size of two whales taped together last night? Maybe he’s normally a totally humble, down-to-earth guy, and the only time he gets like that is right after he shreds the record book in a dominant win over the Wolves. I laugh, and then shudder as my body remembers all the things he managed to do to it last night without either of us even taking our clothes off.

  Next thing I know, I’m watching highlights of the game, which somehow leads into watching some of Brady’s older highlights, most of which consist of Brady sprinting down the field, snatching the ball out of the air, and bulldozing his way over anyone who tries to tackle him, intercut with shots of him doing a backflip into the end zone, winking at the camera, and climbing up the stadium walls to toss a football all the way out to the back of the stadium. Well, forget the post-game ego trip theory. He’s actually like this 24/7.

  At the end of one of the highlight reels, the video cuts to cell phone footage of Brady standing on the bar last night, promising that the Kings are going to win the Super Bowl by 30 points as the crowd goes crazy around him. I bite my lip, half expecting the video to cut to more cell phone footage of us shamelessly making out in the VIP lounge. The video cuts to black, but I can see the image in my mind’s eye anyway, my smaller body smothered by his massive one as he claims my mouth with his.

  Suddenly, my phone beeps with an email notification, and realize I’ve been spending the last…I look over at the clock again…eleven minutes watching videos of Brady instead of working on my application!? Indignantly, I pull the application back up and start speeding through the questions. I hope Moose Landing is nice, because it’s officially my second choice.

  My fingers fly across the keys as I give the Moose Lodge housing department all the boring financial aid information they could ever want at lightning speed, determined not to let some arrogant, spiky-haired football playing douche mess up my internship. Meanwhile, out of the corner of my eye, a light is blinking on my phone, and a little envelope is sitting in the corner of the screen. I know, I know, I have an email, but I also only have fifteen minutes to finish this application!

  Twenty filled-in blanks later, and it’s looking like I’m at the end of the application with time to spare. I breathe a huge sigh of relief, and lean back in my broken-in library chair. Things were a little crazy for a second there, but it looks like the Responsible Cassie Express is officially back on track.

  But before I hit send, I pull out my phone and check the email I got, just to make sure it’s not from Moose Lodge.

  Nope. Not them. The subject is “Unique Internship Opportunity,” and the sender’s name is Wayne Bradley. Why does that name sound familiar? Furrowing my brow, I click through and start reading the email.

  Cassie,

  This is Wayne Bradley, coach of the San Diego Kings. I’m writing to let you know that an extremely unusual opportunity for residency has opened up on our medical staff, and after a brief candidate search, I’ve identified you as a prime candidate for the job. Your med school advisors told me you’ve already accepted an internship at a different hospital, but I urge you to come out to King Stadium at 2:30PM today for a personal interview with me. I can guarantee you my offer beats your current residency many, many times over.

  Yours in football,

  Wayne

  With my phone in my lap, I read the email a second time. Then a third. Did he send this to the right Cassie? Realizing that it’s almost nine, I hit submit on my application, then go right back to reading the email again.

  So, let me get this straight. The coach of the San Diego Kings wants me to be a resident doctor on his medical staff so badly that he personally emailed me? Something super weird is going on here…and I’m pretty sure it has something to do with Brady.

  Still, hypothetically, if I could somehow work for the Kings…I wouldn’t have to move to Alaska. I could network right here in southern California. I wouldn’t have to leave my friends.

  It all sounds so ridiculously too good to be true that at first, I refuse to even consider the possibility. But when I look up Coach Bradley’s email address and it matches the one in my inbox, I do know one thing.

  I have to go out there and talk to him. Even if it means running into Brady again.

  So I guess I’d better start brushing up on my football.

  Chapter 5: Cassie

  Okay, Cassie, deep breath. Closing my eyes, I fill my lungs with sweaty, football stadium hallway air and slowly let it out. Then, I open my eyes and walk down the hall until I’m eye to eye with the copper nameplate on Coach Bradley’s door. Here goes nothing, right?

  Alright, maybe one more deep breath wouldn’t hurt. Let it in…breathe it out. I put my hand on the handle, but I can’t bring myself to turn it. Am I sure I’m as prepared for whatever the hell this is as I can possibly be? Should I look at the football flashcards I made back at the library one more time?

  Suddenly, I almost jump out of my skin as a giant shape comes jogging around the corner, closing the distance to the door in about two and a half steps and throwing it open. I step back as all the blood in my body rushes to my face as I brace myself to come face to face with him again, but as soon as I get a better look at
the football player who just opened the door, I realize that it isn’t Brady, it’s a stockier guy with long black hair running down his shoulder pads. He sticks his head through Coach Bradley’s door. “Hey Coach, can I set up the dummy at the 50 yard line and do some tackle drills?”

  Over the player’s shoulder, I see Coach Bradley look up from his playbook. He thinks for a second. “Yeah, I think you probably have time for that. I have to interview Cassie over there,” he points at me, and the football player and I share an equally confused look, “So I might be a little late to practice.”

  The football player nods. “Uh…alright, thanks Coach.” Then, he jogs back around the corner as quickly as he came, leaving me alone with Coach Bradley.

  “Cassie! So glad you could make it! Come on in! And, um, close the door behind you, if you would.”

  My heart still racing from that surprise football player, I step into Coach Bradley’s office on shaky legs and pull the door shut behind me. He motions towards the big wooden chair on the other side of his desk, and I take a seat, unsure of how to break the ice. “Um…so…I got your email.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Right! And I’m very glad you showed up. Like I said in the email, we have a very unusual residency opportunity opening up on our medical staff…one that could potentially be very beneficial for both you and the San Diego Kings.”

  Coach Bradley looks over at the door, then back at me. “I suppose I should give you some context. Are you a fan of our team?”

  For a second, I think about telling him all about how much I love the Kings, but considering my only real interaction with them was last night when one of them tried to make me his on a VIP lounge couch…I should probably plead ignorance.