A huge shadow walks past the open office door and I jump back in my seat, leaving a thick black pen mark on the injury report in front of me. But it’s not him.
I mean, obviously, right? Like he’s going to magically walk through the door just because I’m thinking about him? He probably doesn’t even care anymore now that he scored his touchdown with me. Although, “touchdown” doesn’t really feel like a strong enough word to describe what Brady did to me that night. My body was sore longer than his injured leg was. It felt more like an entire football game, with Brady scoring over, and over, and over…
Okay, this is getting ridiculous. I grab my phone off the desk, hoping that reading whatever normal, non-Brady message somebody just texted me will get me back into productivity mode.
There’s only one problem with that plan, though. It’s actually him. And it’s not a text. It’s a picture.
A picture of a closet full of yoga mats.
The phone buzzes again in my hand, and my teeth come down on my lip as I read Brady’s message.
I was going to take it nice and easy on you tonight, but then I saw these. Turns out, this afterparty has exactly the right equipment for all your favorite intermediate and advanced exercises.
My jaw drops in shock. What does he think he’s doing? What if someone sees this text in his phone? I start furiously tapping out a reply telling him to delete that message immediately when I get another one.
111 Old Pomona Road. See you tonight.
Typical. One little hookup and he thinks he can booty call me every time he sees a yoga mat. He’s lucky the only thing I’m going to do over phone is tell him to delete everything he just sent.
“Oh! There you are!”
Instantly, I drop my phone down on the stack of paper in front of me and look up at Coach Bradley, who’s looking at me with a confused expression on his face. “How are those injury reports coming?”
“They’re…” My eyes dart down to the unfinished injury report with the huge black pen mark on it, “Uh, they’re coming.”
I point to the stack in the corner. “These ones are done. The rest should take about twenty minutes.”
Coach Bradley waves his hand. “Oh, don’t worry about the rest; I’ll get somebody else to do them. Right now I’ve got something more important for you to do.”
Uh oh.
“First of all,” he says, pulling up a chair and putting both stacks of injury reports into a manila folder, “I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for the job you did with Brady’s rehab. That injury can take months to heal, and you had him running around at full speed in two weeks! I don’t know what you two did out there in the desert, but it worked like a charm.”
“Definitely,” I say, trying not to let what we actually did out in the desert show on my face.
“So here’s a little update on my calculations,” Coach Bradley says, slamming a much thicker manila folder onto the desk and pulling out a couple spreadsheets, “After that win, we’re definitely going to make the playoffs, especially now that Brady’s at full health. I also like our odds to win the Super Bowl. But,” He jabs his pen into the air, “The better our odds get, and the later it gets in the season, the more vulnerable our guys are to getting lazy. With as good as we are, it’s probably our biggest weakness as a team. Personality-wise, we’re kind of like a house of cards. And the card that does the most work holding them all up is Brady. My concern is that Brady’s past couple weeks have actually been too good, and that he’s starting to get cocky.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Starting to get cocky?”
Coach Bradley shrugs. “Of course, that doesn’t actually hurt Brady’s performance on the field, pretty much nothing does. But my concern is that if we handle him wrong, it could start a chain reaction, and the house of cards could come tumbling down.”
He looks up from the spreadsheets and into my eyes. “That’s where you come in. You’ve done an amazing job keeping Brady’s more…reckless tendencies under control. But the more he wins, the harder it’s going to be, so I’m going to ask you to get a little bit closer to Brady between now and the Super Bowl.”
Oh. Great. Closer to Brady. Let me guess: to prevent him from pulling any muscles in his sleep, Coach Bradley wants us to share a bed until the Super Bowl. “What do you have in mind?”
“I’m still figuring out all the details. But I’d like to think you’ve gotten some pretty good medical experience here so far, so I hope you don’t mind focusing a little more on the other part of the job going forward. And unfortunately, I’m afraid that starts tonight.”
Coach Bradley nervously shuffles a couple of his spreadsheets together. “It’s come to my attention that one of our richest, most loyal fans decided to host an afterparty at his ranch tonight to celebrate their success. I’m pretty sure this place is off limits to the press, but knowing Brady’s history, this is exactly the type of environment where he could do something completely insane, maybe even injure himself again. And that’s where you come in.”
Well, so much for going to bed at a reasonable hour.
“So far, my theory that pairing Brady with a woman his own age will distract him long enough to stop him from doing anything risky is playing out like I thought it would. So whatever you’re doing? I’d like you to go to that party and keep doing it. Maybe even a little harder. Sound good?”
Not to most of me, it doesn’t. The part of me that I’ve been trying to kick out of my brain for the past couple weeks thinks doing what I did out in the desert, but harder, sounds like a great idea.
“Sounds like a great idea!” I say, flashing a nervous, mostly fake smile.
“Great!” Coach Bradley says, his eyes lighting up with a wide-eyed twinkle, “I’ve got a car out front, ready to take you out to the ranch as soon as we get the address.”
“111 Old Pomona Road,” I say, dejectedly.
Coach Bradley is taken aback. “Oh! Were you invited?”
I shake my head. “I heard a couple players talking about it in the hall.”
“Alright,” he says, nodding resolutely, “Well, just tell that to the driver, find Brady as quickly as you can, and keep him occupied until the party’s over or the sun comes up. I’ll stay behind and fill out the rest of the reports.”
“Sounds good,” I say, flashing one more fake smile before I step out into the empty halls of the Marauders’ stadium, “I’ll be so boring, Brady won’t know what hit him.”
At least, that’s the plan. But after getting those text messages, seeing Brady tonight is the last thing I wanted to do. Especially at a crazy party full of football players.
But the closer I get to the limo waiting for me out in the parking lot, the harder my breathing gets. After all, Coach Bradley did say this was a private party with no press…
Okay, I need to stop talking myself into dangerous territory. When I get up to that ranch, I’m going to get in, find Brady, and be the world’s biggest wet blanket, just like I’m supposed to be.
I tell myself to be boring one more time as I step out into the huge, empty stadium lot and watch a nearby limo open its back doors for me. It’s going to be tough, trying to be boring around somebody who finds me so interesting. But I have to do it; the alternative is too dangerous.
So here goes nothing.
Chapter 15: Cassie
The bouncer grunts as he looks at my team ID card. “This doesn’t look like the others.”
My eyes dart back and forth between him and the insane party raging on the other side of the black metal gate behind him. “Uh…really?”
He shines a flashlight on my ID, and I scan the huge crowd filling the front yard of the massive ranch house for any sign of Brady. I don’t see him, but I do see a bunch of football players standing on the roof, signing footballs and throwing them out into the crowd.
“Alright,” The bouncer says, handing me my ID back, “Enjoy the party.”
Then, he opens up the gate, and I step through into the madn
ess just in time for a signed football to sail right over my head and a crowd of people practically trample me trying to get their hands on it, collapsing into a dogpile behind me.
Who are these people, anyway? I had to show my team ID to two different bouncers before the one at the gate to get in, but somehow there have to be hundreds of people here with red cups in their hands, dancing and making out to the music coming from the huge black speakers on the porch. I’m not sure if that’s going to make it easier or harder to keep a low profile tonight, but I do know one thing: this is exactly the type of environment that brings out Brady’s wild side. And that means I need to find him now.
One of the football players on the roof shouts “We’re in the motherfucking playoffs!” and the crowd roars back, gathering beneath him as he steps up to the very edge of the roof.
Please don’t tell me he’s about to do what I think he’s about to do.
“Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!” The crowd chants, and the massive football player, still wearing his jersey from the game earlier, launches himself off the roof and into the waiting arms of the crowd.
I wince as I watch him, and start pushing my way up to the ranch house, hoping I can find Brady before he does something even crazier than that.
After pushing my way through some seriously crazed football fans, I finally make it to the steps of the front porch, and that’s when I hear it. Coming from the backyard.
“Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!”
It’s the same chant, fainter, but even more intense than the one out in front. And just like that, I step off the porch and back into the crowd, pushing my way around the house as quickly as I can to make sure Brady’s not the one they’re chanting for.
But of course he is. And by the time I round the corner of the house, his feet have already left the edge of the roof.
And instead of a crowd to catch him…there’s a trampoline. I practically have a heart attack as I watch Brady do a complete front flip in midair and come down feet first on the trampoline, launching him halfway up to the roof again and down in front of a crowd of drunken admirers. “I’m back, motherfuckers!”
If I thought the crowd out front was crazy, the people back here are absolutely insane. For a second, it looks like they’re all going to surge forward and surround Brady, but he manages to hold them back by throwing his arms out to his sides and shouting, “That’s what I’m about to do in the motherfucking Super Bowl!”
At least a hundred people lift their cups in the air and start chanting “Backflip! Backflip! Backflip! Backflip!”
Brady looks back over his shoulder and smirks up at the roof. But then, right as he gets ready to turn back towards the crowd and announce that he’s going to do a backflip off the roof, he spots me, and the expression on his face changes.
“Actually,” he says, keeping his eyes on me, “Fuck that. My date’s here. Everyone give it up for Cassie!”
My jaw drops in shock as the crowd turns to look at me, chanting my name. Did Brady seriously just call me his date in front of a crowd of a hundred people? Does he want us to get kicked off the team?
Brady motions for me to come up and join him in front of the crowd. And even though my rational mind is telling me to run the hell away before anyone out in the crowd gets a good look at my face…I start walking forward anyway, until I’m standing next to Brady, right at the edge of the crowd.
I mean, if I just pretend to be his date, maybe I can drag him away from the trampoline without anybody thinking anything weird’s going on. It’s not an ideal plan, but it might be the best one I’ve got.
I give the crowd a quick wave before turning to Brady and whispering, “You. Me. Inside. Now.”
Then, I gasp as Brady’s tree trunk biceps wrap around me, pulling me hard into his body. He’s got that hungry look in his eyes again. “But babe, the crowd wants me to do a backflip. I have to give the people what they want.”
“No backflips tonight. Doctor’s orders.” I bite my lip as I crane my neck up to look at Brady. It’s hard to be forceful with someone who literally overpowers people for a living. Being twice as forceful back is his idea of fun.
And to make things worse, the crowd is still watching us like we’re tonight’s entertainment. And the longer we stand this close, the more intense they get.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” A girl in the very back starts chanting.
Uh oh. I think we stayed in this position a little too long. Brady looks over at the crowd, a grin forming on his face, then looks down at me as everybody joins in.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”
I sigh, rolling my eyes and trying not to think about the way Brady’s perfect body feels up against mine. “How do we break it to them that we’re not going to kiss?”
“We don’t,” Brady growls, as his mouth comes down and claims mine.
Chapter 16: Cassie
Even though my rational mind knows that there’s a cheering crowd of drunk partygoers next to me, the second Brady’s lips touch mine, I can barely hear them. They’re roaring like they’re in the front row of King Stadium, but the sound is distant, almost far away as Brady hungrily grabs the back of my head and pushes me deeper into the kiss.
For about half a second, I bring my hands up to his powerful chest, panicking at the thought of all these people watching me make out with someone I’m really not supposed to be making out with.
But the panic only lasts for half a second. Because as I let Brady’s tongue slip between my teeth and my body press hard up against his, I realize that pulling away at this point would only attract more attention. If I want this party to ignore me, I should act like they expect me to act.
Like Brady’s girlfriend. Like I’m enjoying this.
Like the feeling of Brady’s bulging biceps and forearms locking me in place while his concrete-hard abs press against my breasts is the hottest thing in the universe.
I should act like that. You know, if I want to keep a low profile.
Getting totally lost in the kiss, I lean into Brady as it gets deeper and deeper. Even with my eyes closed, I can sense that the crowd is satisfied, that they’ve started to turn away from us and go back to mingling and dancing with each other…but we’re still kissing.
I mean, I might as well keep up the act, right? Just in case someone’s still watching?
But the longer it goes on, the less I think about the crowd. The warm little feeling between my legs that sparked up when Brady put his arms around me is starting to get hotter and hotter, and it’s starting to occur to me that if I don’t do something soon to break this kiss, I might not be able to stop myself from agreeing to whatever Brady wants to do next.
Using every ounce of restraint and self-control still left in my overheated body, I break off the kiss. “Okay, I think we’ve convinced them that I’m your date. We should probably stop now.”
The hungry look in Brady’s green eyes sends my lower lip running for cover behind my front teeth. “Oh, yeah? So you’re saying that was just an act?”
Biting down on my lip, I nod.
Brady smirks. “So I guess the fact that you’re literally humping your hips up against my thigh like a bunny in fucking heat is an act too, huh?”
With a gasp, I look down at my hips and freeze them in place, my eyes nervously darting back up towards Brady’s. “Yep. Totally an act. Now can we please get away from all these people?”
He grins down at me. “I was thinking the exact same thing. And I think I know just the place.”
Grabbing my hand, Brady pulls his body away from mine and heads around the far side of the massive ranch house. And the good news is, if I can just get him alone for the rest of this party, then he’s not going to get in any trouble.
There’s only one problem, though: even though my brain is trying to get back to responsible co-worker mode…everything below my neck is definitely still in girlfriend mode. My legs are trembling as I follow behind Brady, and there’s a very irresponsible heat betwe
en my legs as we round the corner of the house, coming face to face with a huge set of wooden double doors that look like they lead into some kind of big storage room. Whatever I need to do to cool off, I’d better do it now.
As Brady pulls out a ring of keys and starts to unlock the doors, I shut my eyes and think about every douchey commercial I’ve ever seen Brady in. Brady biting into oversized hamburgers. Brady spraying deodorant on himself on top of a waterfall. Brady in nothing but his underwear, pulling the waistband out towards the camera to reveal the brand name of the boxer briefs he’s wearing.
Okay, you know what? I think this is actually making it worse.
And before I can try anything else, my surprisingly detailed memory of Brady’s underwear commercial is interrupted by the impossibly strong hands of the real Brady Mack clamping down on my waist, pulling me through the double doors up and shutting them behind me as I practically moan in anticipation.
Well, looks like my plan backfired. Because now, I’m all alone with Brady.
Brady’s eyes shine green in the dim lights of the storage room. “Well, well, well. Just when I think Little Miss We-Have-To-Follow-The-Rules is going to keep playing hard to get until the fucking Super Bowl, she finally shows me how she really feels.”
“I wasn’t playing hard to get,” I whisper, “I was playing ‘don’t get us kicked off the team.’ You should try it sometime.” I take a step back, and let out a little yelp as I bump up against the edge of the pool table behind me.
“Oh, I’ve tried it,” Brady growls, walking towards me in a way that makes my thighs squeeze together, “It’s an easy game, but it’s not very fun. I think it needs a couple new rules. And judging by the way you showed up to this party and instantly started making out with me, you feel the exact same way.”
Every nerve in my body screams with need as Brady’s huge wide receiver hands grab under my arms and lift me up off the ground, sitting me back on the fuzzy green surface of the pool table. My jaw drops as I watch my thighs open up on their own to accommodate Brady’s hips between my knees.
Savage: A Pro Football Romance Page 11