by Leslie North
"How early do you want that clearance?" Roberts responded.
"Tomorrow’s game," Charlie replied. "You got it?"
"Got it. Consider it done."
Charlie hung up the call, ignoring the anxiety rising within him. It was normal; he always got nervous before a big game.
It was nothing he couldn't handle.
"No comment," Charlie addressed the mic shoved into his face for the millionth time. He had never been one to refrain from expressing his opinion to the press, but these sideline reporters were starting to get abrasive, even by his standards.
The Teamsters were already deep into their first quarter against the Arrows. Every time their offense came off the field, another intrepid reporter, eager for a soundbite concerning the photos of Charlie and Dylan together, intercepted him. This particular specimen, Patricia, was one he had dealt with plenty of times in his career; she blinked in surprise at his refusal to answer, and Charlie almost took pity on her.
Almost.
"Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a game to win," came his follow-up. He crowned himself with his helmet, vanishing behind the facemask as he hustled back out to the field.
No matter how much he tried, he could not stop thinking about Dylan. Where she was, how she was doing…if she would ever want to see him again after all of this blew over. Charlie knew he had fucked up big time, and his regret only grew as the minutes flew by in the first quarter.
He needed to get his head on straight. Hadn't he gone against Dylan's orders so he could recommit himself to his career and take his mind off things? Football was the only aspect of his life that had ever made any sense. He was born for it, bred for it, and hell—he was ready to die for it.
Or so he had always told himself. The Teamsters were currently ahead fourteen to zero. The crowd was rowdy but supportive. He should have been in his own personal heaven, except his bad knee currently felt like it was swimming around in its socket, despite the stretching and sports tape he had inflicted on it before the game.
In the aftermath of their next play, the opposing team called a timeout, and Charlie dropped forward to brace himself on his knees. He tried his best to appear as if he was out of breath, when the reality was it felt like someone was twisting a hot knife into his knee.
Just hold out until half time, he coached himself. You can take it up with Roberts then. You're Charlie Wild. Everything only seems like it's spinning out of your control, but that's just the way you like it. When have other peoples' rules and limitations ever fucking applied to you?
He watched a familiar pair of cleats saunter into his line of sight. It was Bolton, his wide receiver.
"You hit that?" Bolton asked him with a clap to his back.
"Hit what?" For a moment, Charlie mistakenly thought Bolton was referring to something or someone physically on the field. His head was finally in the game—exactly where he wanted it to be.
But when Bolton pointed, Charlie had a sinking feeling before he had even fully straightened to look.
Up on the stadium's screen, broadcast larger than life for all the world to see, was the unmistakably miserable face of Dylan Rose.
11
Dylan
Dylan shrank back into her seat. The stadium's Jumbotron had just located her for a third time, and even the shadows beneath her hat couldn't hide her identity from the eagle-eyed camera operator. The stadium around her jeered and roared; even the super-fans immediately sandwiching her in the second row took their eyes off the field to crane close and get a better look at her every time the camera panned her way.
Dylan believed in a benevolent God. That being said, she couldn't remember the last time she had taken time out of her busy schedule to pray. She did so now, over a now-empty popcorn bucket she had mistakenly thought would assist her disguise.
Dear God, please let Charlie get through this game. I'll work out the rest of the season somehow, just…let there be the possibility of a season. Amen.
She couldn't care less about her personal reputation today and vowed to worry more on that front later. Obviously the entire world thought she had given Charlie the all-clear to play—in exchange for sex, probably. But she hadn’t, and wouldn’t, for sex or any other reason, if he wasn’t ready. Did he really think he was the first celebrity footballer to try and go behind her back to get a second—or third or fourth—opinion that matched his desire to play?
Only problem was, Charlie had actually succeeded in his attempt to get back out on the field. The camera zoomed in on him now, giving Dylan a larger-than-life, high resolution glimpse of his Adonis-like face. He had his helmet off and tucked beneath one burly arm; his blond hair was in disarray, and he was gazing up into the stands with a distracted look as one of his teammates shouted something to him. Dylan scanned his handsome, flushed countenance, looking for any line out of place or clenched muscle that would betray he was in pain. She had managed to secure this seat by playing to her newfound celebrity at the box office and was ready to leap up at any moment and storm the field should Charlie so much as wobble.
But it was her heart that wobbled first when she realized the face on the Jumbotron was trained toward her, in real life. She met his eyes, but she didn't wave. She didn't know what to do. She was trapped and helpless, pinned by innumerable pairs of waiting eyes, but his was the only pair that truly mattered.
How many people were watching at home? How long had the game been stalled while everyone waited for Charlie to put his helmet back on and resume play?
Then Charlie did the unthinkable: he walked off the playing field. A ripple murmured through the stadium. One of the Teamsters' coaches made to move after him, but Charlie put up a big hand, and the man backed off, perplexed.
He was leaving the field, jumping for the railing and pulling himself up the wall between the field and the stands. More than that, he was coming toward her. Dylan rose to meet him, heart pounding in her chest. She watched him climb the stairs, her gaze switching rapidly back and forth between his face and the knee he appeared to be favoring. He was hurting, but before her doctor's instincts could kick in fully and override her fraught personal feelings, Charlie arrived at the step beside her seat. Dylan gazed up the length of his grass-stained jersey, taking in the bright eyes and remorseful frown he had trained on her. In that moment, Charlie didn't appear to remember there was anyone else in the world but her.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
She shifted and tucked a stray piece of hair behind one ear. It was hopeless trying to make herself look presentable now, when she had deliberately dressed herself to blend in. Fat lot of good that did me. It occurred to her that maybe, just maybe, identifying herself to the ticket agent in the box office had been the downfall of her disguise.
"You came to watch the game." Charlie said.
Dylan nodded. "I was…"
"Worried?"
She nodded again.
"You should be pissed at me," he offered. "I went behind your back and got the team doctor to clear me. My knee hurts like a bitch."
"I know you did, and I know it does." Dylan half-smiled, half-grimaced. "Not exactly an original move, Wild. Although credit where credit's due, you managed to pull it off."
"You shouldn't have come out," he murmured. Somehow, his words didn't register as a real rebuff. He almost sounded in awe of the fact that she stood before him. "Even if you were worried about me. You don't want this kind of publicity."
"No. But I want you," Dylan blurted. "I mean…I want…your knee…"
"Uh-huh."
His smile stretched the length of a playing field then, but before she could fully comprehend his reaction, Charlie reached up and knocked her cap off. Dylan let out a gasp of surprise the moment before he swooped in, cupping the back of her head and crushing his lips against her own.
The stadium erupted. The roar of approval from the crowd was deafening, like a summer thunderstorm and an earthquake all rolled into one as Dylan reached up and latched
onto Charlie's neck. He dipped her back, and strobing lights went off all around them as ecstatic stadium-goers snapped photos with their phones. Dylan was grinning from ear-to-ear by the time Charlie let up on the dramatics and righted her. Her face felt hot as a sunburn, but the sensation that accompanied it was indescribable happiness. Her lips tingled with the memory of his kiss—a memory that she would be able to relive over and over again, since it had been captured in high definition for all the world to see.
"C'mon." Charlie wrapped a burly arm around her shoulders, finally submitting himself to an outside offer of additional stability as they tripped down the steps to the nearest exit together. "The press is going to have a field day with this one. They're going to want a statement. Now you get to tell everyone I broke the rules and you were right all along."
"Can't think of a better way to spend a football Sunday," Dylan admitted.
"Oh, I don't know about that." Charlie's hand slipped from her shoulders to grip the curve of her waist, his fingers brushing her just above the indecency line. "I can think of a few ways to top it off."
"Top being the key word in that sentence, I hope," Dylan craned herself up to whisper. "As your doctor, I don't want to see you putting any additional strain on your injury this week. Any recreation you plan on getting up to is going to have to involve you lying on your back."
The echo of Charlie's booming laugh followed them all the way out to the awaiting press pool.
Epilogue
CHARLIE
"Still going viral, Smitty?"
"Still going viral, Charlie."
Charlie shifted his cell to the other shoulder as he drove. "Remind me again. Is this normal—for scandalous photos to still be going viral a year later?"
He was having a bit of fun at his PR guy's expense. Not that Smitty had anything to complain about. Charlie imagined this was the secret dream of every public relations agent: to represent a client who generated and survived a media storm of this magnitude. A year later, and the Internet and talk shows were still buzzing about the photos of Dylan and himself together. Just this past month, the photos had seen a new surge in interest, as young couples the nation over took to their high school fifty-yard lines to humorously replicate Charlie and Dylan's famous moment—always with their clothes on and some clever twist, thankfully putting the punchline ahead of any actual scandal.
"You almost to the meet and greet? Your teammates are already here," Smitty complained.
"Yeah?" Charlie grinned as he pulled through Lockhart Bend's so-called downtown. "I'm a minute away. Who all made it out today?"
"On second thought…I'll see you soon."
The line went unexpectedly dead. Charlie would have held the phone away from his face in a perplexed state if he wasn't too busy concentrating on driving. Did Smitty really just hang up on him? Purposefully? Normally he couldn't get the guy to shut up fast enough.
"Huh. Must be busy," Charlie muttered under his breath. He turned into the hospital parking lot and saw that Smitty hadn’t been exaggerating—every spot was full, and there were more local children and their parents shuttling in from the nearby elementary school. He decided to park by the Teamster bus. He flipped a wave to the bus driver, who looked disgruntled but unsurprised to see that it was Charlie Wild breaking the rules. He entered the hospital's noisy gymnasium from the back.
"Now this is my kind of meet-and-greet," Charlie said as he surveyed the laughter and chaos. The children from Lockhart General's Critical Care ward deserved to indulge in a little bedlam. A cluster of kids who saw him roll up, led by Nicholas, rushed over for hugs and overhead lifts.
Across the gymnasium, Teamster cheerleaders dressed casually in their day clothes led children through basic exercises and routines. Five of Charlie's teammates had also made the trip down from Austin to volunteer their time; they lounged behind a long table, autographing free swag and taking photos with the kids and their parents—even a few nurses, Charlie noted. He couldn't remember the last time he saw most of his offensive line grinning and laughing together over something that wasn't a successful play or a post-game line of shots.
And there was Dylan by the end of the table, conversing animatedly with Smitty. Her blue-black hair tumbled in gorgeous, free-flowing waves past her shoulders; the sleeves of her flannel shirt were rolled up, revealing her tanned, toned arms. She was such a sensual vision of a woman that even a casual show of skin seen at a distance drove him crazy. Her dark denim jeans looked painted onto her shapely legs and tight backside. Even Smitty had retired his omnipresent shades to his retreating hairline; his arms were crossed to emphasize his biceps, a posture Charlie wouldn't have believed he was capable of if he wasn't seeing it play out now for himself. Smitty's expression as Dylan spoke to him was a little too attentive for Charlie's liking. He was wading through a sea of kids and making his way across the room before logic could catch up with a sudden surge of jealousy.
"Is this who you hung up on your favorite client for?" Charlie enjoyed the way his question boomed above their exchange; he enjoyed it even more when Smitty nearly leapt out of his hand-tooled leather boots. "Can't say I blame you," Charlie admitted as he draped an arm across Dylan's shoulders.
Dylan rolled her eyes. "You're late."
"Fashionably?" Charlie suggested.
"Trust me—none of these kids or their caretakers care about your so-called fashion. Speaking of which, is that really a pink digital camo bowtie I'm looking at? Which kitschy ESPN anchor dressed you for this low-key meet and greet?"
"I'm staying out of this one." Smitty—the man who had bought him the bowtie—flipped his shades down and was soon assimilated by a nearby group of cheerleaders. Traitor, Charlie thought, even as he pulled Dylan in close. Oh, well. At least now he had his foxy girlfriend all to himself.
"Easy, tiger," Dylan warned, half-heartedly fending him off as his lips pressed a kiss to her temple. "Let's save it for after the meet-and-greet, shall we?" Her lush mouth, so tantalizingly within reach of his own, quirked in barely suppressed amusement. There were still days she struggled with her accidental fame, he knew, but she was adapting to it better than Charlie had ever expected she would. Despite attending the occasional out-of-town fundraiser on his arm, she had somehow managed to keep her life in Lockhart Bend under the radar—and help keep him out of trouble as a result.
"What were you and Smitty talking about?" he asked casually as Dylan, still hooked beneath his arm, directed him over to his signing station.
"The future. Your future," she corrected. "Grab a seat, champ. Don't think I didn't see you deadlifting kids."
"You told me yourself I'm in better shape now than I've ever been." He would love to continue to argue the point, but Charlie let himself be seated all the same. Now that they were officially together, Dylan's fretting felt more like kingly treatment. He still found himself second-guessing whether or not he deserved it. He caught her arm to prevent her from moving off down the table. It was all he could do to resist pulling her into his lap. He knew how well she fit against him now, and it seemed unfair his complementary piece should exist apart from him. But he knew Dylan had her work cut out for her today. Besides, he was working on his impulse control. Doctor's orders.
"Any thoughts on our future?" Charlie smoothed his thumb along the pulse point of her inner wrist. He loved the way it still raced, even a year later, at his faintest touch. He had other ways of making her blood pump, and they both knew it, but understated physicality, as opposed to his usual displays of brute strength, was proving another fun challenge.
An effective challenge. Dylan's cheeks, naked of toner or blush, colored naturally. "Why don't you come over tonight and we can discuss it?"
"Love to." Charlie let her slip away, prepared to claim her invitation as his only victory, when Dylan surprised him by swooping back in for a heady kiss. It was deep, meaningful, and over too soon. Charlie groaned when she pulled away.
"Work before play," she reminded him as she retreated.
Why can't it be both? Charlie thought as he surveyed the eager faces crowding in around him to fill the void Dylan had strategically left.
He was in love with Dylan Rose, and he was in love with life, but a packed stadium could never compare to the love he had found in Lockhart Bend.
"Touchdown," he told the kids. They threw their arms up exactly as he'd taught them. Long after he retired, he knew—long after the roars of the NFL crowd had faded from his memory—he would remember the laughter that surrounded him now.
"Touchdown!" the kids cheered.
End of Healing The Quarterback
Wildhorse Ranch Brothers Book Two
PLUS: Do you love hot sports stars, smart women and steamy scenes? Keep reading for an exclusive excerpt from Leslie North’s bestselling novel, Wired, Book One of The Solomon Brothers Series.
Thank You!
Thank you so much for purchasing and reading my book. It’s hard for me to put into words how much I appreciate my readers. If you enjoyed this book, please remember to leave a review. I want to keep you guys happy! I love hearing from you!
For all books by Leslie North visit her Website and follow her on Facebook for exclusive offers, updates and more!
Get SIX full-length, highly-rated Leslie North Novellas FREE! Over 548 pages of best-selling romance with a combined 634 FIVE STAR REVIEWS!
Sign-up to her mailing list and get your FREE books HERE!
BLURB
Star quarterback Marcus Kingston lives and breathes football. He’s trusted his abilities and instincts to get him this far, but an injury last season nearly ended his career. When his coaches want him to wear biofeedback technology to analyze his game, Marcus thinks the idea is ridiculous. Plus, the mousy scientist behind the project knows nothing about sports, and she quickly gets under his skin. But with another QB waiting on the sidelines, Marcus can either agree to participate, or be benched—permanently.