Ballbuster (A Playing Dirty Sports Romance Book 1)

by Lane Hart

  “Oh my God! Kohen?” I ask, kneeling down next to him in my jeans, both of my shaking hands covering my mouth as I get a closer look. This cannot be him! Without my permission, my right hand shoots out and sweeps his hair back from his forehead for a better look at his face, making him flinch. “Ah, fuck!” I groan. “You’re Kohen Hendricks!”

  No, no, no! Of all the people in the world, please tell me that I didn’t just run over Kohen fucking Hendricks, the Wildcats’ starting kicker!

  “What the hell? You a crazy stalker or something?” he grits out between groans before he finally pushes himself up into a sitting position. His palms and legs are scraped bloody and heavily dusted in dirt and tiny pieces of gravel.

  Again, I lose control of my motor functions. My fingertips start swiping at the debris embedded in his knees and the thick, powerful thighs revealed just below the hem of his shorts.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he mutters, wrapping his strong hand over the top of mine and yanking it up and away from his thigh to halt my forward progress. At the sudden, harsh contact, a gasp parts my lips, and I nearly choke on the excess oxygen when I glance up, my green eyes meeting his fiery melted chocolate and caramel swirled ones only inches away from mine. “Whoa,” he repeats softer, deeper than the others, and holding a completely different meaning. The first utterings of the word I’m pretty sure he meant for me to stop touching him, but the last one sounded more like…astonishment. “You’re her, the girl from the screen.”

  “I’m so…so sorry,” I stammer, not sure if he hit his head too since he’s talking nonsense. Why, God, did I have to hit him today of all days? I didn’t even step foot into the stadium, and now I probably never will because no one is ever gonna believe this was an accident. Fate is one cruel jackass.

  “You drive like shit,” he says before lowering my hand that’s still in his tight grip back down to his muscular thigh. Of all places in the universe he could’ve put it, why did he choose there? He doesn’t let go. Instead, he squeezes the top of my hand as if for comfort, right before his eyes widen like a light bulb is going off in his head. An instant later he suddenly shoves my hand away like it’s burned him while those narrowed dark eyes thin even more, glaring at me. “You conniving little bitch!”

  My breath catches in my throat at the harsh insult. I’ve been called plenty of horrible things over the years; but for some reason, this man’s words are more brutal than all the rest combined. The burning sensation behind my eyes reminds me that I’ve stupidly let my guard down.

  “It was an accident,” I repeat, although I know it’s useless. He’s already decided that I intentionally ran him over and won’t be convinced otherwise.

  “You said my name! You knew exactly who I was --- your competition!”

  “How stupid would I have to be to run you over on purpose in front of the stadium of all places?” I point out.

  “Yeah, Tonya Harding. You probably should’ve hired someone else to do your fucking dirty work,” he sneers.

  My jaw drops as indignation spreads through me, hardening my skin like armor. “Fuck you. It was an accident. Why did you walk out in front of my car?” I ask indignantly. “You ever heard of looking both ways?”

  “Pedestrians always have the right-of-way!”

  “Bullshit!” I screech while poking him in the center of his chest with my finger. Damn, it’s firmer than a brick wall. “This…this…” Shit, what was I saying? Oh yeah. “This isn’t a crosswalk, mister, so pedestrians have to watch where they’re going!”

  “Get your hands off me, Tonya!” he exclaims, grabbing my wrist. He holds it tightly in his grip and pins it to the pavement on the outside of his thigh, leaving me hovering over top of the asshole, my long, blonde hair falling forward like a curtain around me.

  “Let me go, jackass,” I tell him through clenched teeth while using my left hand to brush my hair back from my face.

  “Why?” he asks, squeezing my wrist tighter. “So you can run before they figure out what you did?”

  “I didn’t do anything!” I shriek.

  “Might want to work on your story,” he leans forward and whispers. “Because it’s not very convincing.”

  “It doesn’t have to be convincing; it’s the truth!”

  “My word against yours. Who do you think they’ll believe, Tonya?” he asks, raising one of his dark eyebrows. And fuck if it isn’t sexy as hell, despite what a jerk he’s being to me.

  “Stop calling me Tonya. My name’s Roxy. And hopefully, they’ll be smart enough to believe the truth.”

  “I bet you’re used to always getting your way, right? Flaunting your tits and ass to make men cater to your every whim,” he says before his dark eyes dip down to the V-neck of my navy blue tee. Thanks to him, the front has fallen open because of the way he’s forced me to lean over him. After taking a good long look, his dark eyes finally meet my gaze again.

  “If a man’s weak enough to succumb to my whims based on nothing but my tits and ass, then he’s an idiot,” I reply, vaguely noticing that his thumb is now stroking along the skin of my wrist. “The owner of your team and coaches aren’t idiots.”

  “I sure hope not,” he says while stealing another glance at my lacy, sky blue bra. When his melted candy bar eyes land on mine again, there’s no longer the hint of pain reflected in them. Instead, they’re full of desire, and I can’t tear my eyes away. It’s like there’s an invisible chain tethering us, holding our gazes hostage. And despite how much I wish I could deny it, and how long I’ve refused to give any man, especially football players, a second thought, there’s no ignoring the honest to God truth.

  I want this infuriating man.

  Chapter Three

  Kohen

  Is there some sort of freaky ass, twisted version of Stockholm syndrome for accident victims that I don’t know about?

  That must be what this is, because deep down I know I should abhor this woman who I’m certain ran over me on purpose. And yet, I still want to strip the jeans and t-shirt off of her and fuck her right here in the middle of the stadium parking lot, even with my knee radiating pain like a son of a bitch. Which only makes me hate her more for causing this insane, instant physical reaction that I’ve never felt for another woman before. I like to fuck just as much as any other twenty-seven-year-old single guy, but she’s making me feel like I’m a desperate horny teenager.

  “Yo, Kohen, you okay?” one of my teammates calls out. I’m not even sure who it is since I can’t seem to look away from the big, bright emerald eyes of the scheming woman in front of me. “Shit! Someone get the trainers,” the same person yells.

  Roxanne was beautiful in the photo Coach showed us. In person, she’s…breathtakingly gorgeous. I’ve seen her type before, though, the stuck-up, high-maintenance diva that will make a man walk barefoot through glass shards scattered on hot coals to touch her, and then in bed turn out to be nothing more than a frigid bitch in a stunning package.

  During my second year, straight out of a stellar rookie season and signing a three-year contract with more zeros than I had ever seen before, I fell into the trap hook, line and sinker for Lola Davis, one of the fresh-faced Lady Cats. That’s every man’s wet dream, right, to be with a professional cheerleader who’s not only incredibly flexible but has the stunning face of a Hollywood movie star? Lola turned out to be one helluva actress before I found out she was only working her way through the Wildcats’ roster to reel in the biggest fish she could find. As the team’s newest kicker, that certainly wasn’t me.

  “Jesus, what happened?” the voice I recognize as Lathan’s asks, and then Roxanne and I are suddenly surrounded by a group of big ass, grumbling men.

  Someone pulls Roxanne to her feet, out of my grasp and away from me. Then, like a school of fish, the entire group of men shifts with her, asking her if she’s hurt, does she need anything, pissing me off even more.

  What the fuck?

  “Is this what it looks like?” Lathan asks quietly, cro
uching down next to me, his gaze roaming from the busted windshield on the SUV to my bloody palms and the gravel still lodged in the skin of my knees and shins.

  “Yeah, Tonya Harding the sequel,” I tell him with a sigh.

  Finding my cell phone face down on the pavement, Lathan picks it up and studies it for a moment before offering it to me with a raised blond eyebrow. Once it’s in my hand, I see the photo of Roxanne on the screen and remember what I was doing when I got hit. Fuck.

  “Are you hurt other than scrapes? Dave’s gone to get the trainer,” he says rather than comment on the phone discovery.

  “Just bumps and bruises except for my left knee that got busted up,” I admit, slipping my phone into my shorts pocket. “I think I felt it pop.”

  “Shit,” he grumbles, well aware that a knee injury could be season ending, if not career ending, depending on how bad it is. And my fucking contract is up at the end of the season. That means that however bad this shit is, I’ve got to get back on the field ASAP, or I’m out of a job, assuming Dane, my backup, can hack it. There’s no way in hell the blonde bombshell, who’s currently being eye-fucked by half the team, will be the starter. Sure, she’s pretty and a great pick to be the team’s feminist movement poster girl, but it takes more than a pretty face to nail a ball through the uprights under pressure.

  “A little physical therapy and I’m sure I’ll be good as new,” I tell Lathan, hoping I’m right.

  “What are they gonna do with her?” he asks, nodding to the new fan club.

  “No clue.”

  “What happened, Kohen?” Jon, one of the trainer’s asks as he kneels down next to me.

  “She fucking hit me,” I tell him. “And something in my left knee snapped.”

  “Goddamn it,” he grumbles as he gently prods my swollen knee with his fingers, making it hurt even worse. “How fucking fast was she going?”

  “I dunno. Fast enough that my feet left the ground,” I answer honestly. It’s nice to have someone indignant on my behalf.

  “Hey, Ben, why don’t you go pull the surveillance footage? I know Coach and Robert are gonna wanna see it,” he says to one of the security guards standing around us who nods and heads back inside. “Can you straighten your leg all the way out?” Jon asks me while untying my left shoe and removing it and my sock.

  “That’s as low as it goes,” I tell him, gesturing to the slight incline.

  “I’m gonna move your foot around, so tell me if this hurts or if it feels numb,” Jon says before pressing my toes back and then shifting them forward.

  “That doesn’t make it worse,” I tell him.

  “Good. We’ll need to get an x-ray to make sure there are no breaks in the bone and probably an ultrasound to check the blood flow and arteries, but the movement of your foot is a positive sign that it may only be a minor dislocation.”

  I nod, biting my tongue to avoid asking him the burning question on my mind, when will I be able to play? Until all the tests are done, I knew he won’t be able to tell me shit.

  Chapter Four

  Roxy

  Great, for the rest of my days on Earth I’ll be forever known as the Tonya Harding of football instead of the first woman of football. Maybe other athletes in the future who harm their own teammates will become Roxanne Bensons. No one under the sun will ever believe this was a complete and total accident.

  “Don’t worry, Roxanne. It was clearly an accident,” Quinton Dunn, the Wildcats’ quarterback, assures me with a squeeze of his huge mitt to my shoulder.

  Wow. Okay, so there’s one person who can see reason, and I’m totally fangirling right now.

  “Of course it was an accident,” another player chimes in, followed by masculine sounds of agreement.

  Maybe Kohen was right, and I’ve managed to use my tits and ass to sway the tide to the truth. At this point, I’ll take whatever I can get.

  “You need to come with me,” one of the security guards says gruffly, jerking me forward by my elbow like I’m under arrest. Oh God, maybe I am! Did Harding do time? Shit, I can’t remember. Not that this is the same situation, but still…

  “Jeez, man. Let up on her,” I hear Quinton mutter behind me as my head hangs and my shoulders slump forward with the weight of guilt for not paying better attention. I was too caught up in the moment, in the excitement that I looked away for one fucking life-altering second!

  “Can I at least get my purse from the car?” I ask the security guard.

  “Make it quick and leave the keys,” he tells me before letting go of my arm so I can go over to the passenger side of the Jeep. Opening the door, I reach in to grab my quilted hipster bag covered in bright flowers and ladybugs. It was supposed to be another good luck charm from my dad. As a former football player and now coach, he’s big on superstitions and charms. He’s been buying me lucky ladybug presents ever since my sixth birthday. Right after my mom left us, he wasn’t sure what to buy a little girl, but he knew I loved ladybugs. I still do, but mostly just because all the gifts from my dad remind me that wherever I am, he’s thinking about me. Slipping the bag over my head, I’m starting to wonder if this latest gift of his may be cursed instead of good luck.

  On the way back to the front of the stadium, I see Kohen still sitting on the ground while an older man carefully exams his leg.

  Biting my bottom lip, I try to keep the tears at bay following the guard inside. That’s Roxy’s Rule Number Two, and I refuse to break it. I promised myself that I would never, under any circumstances, let someone see me cry like a little bitch. I’m a football player, dammit. Or I had been, until a few moments ago when I may have lost everything I’ve ever worked for.

  Once we’re inside the stadium, I’m ushered onto a glass elevator to the upper floors and shown into a nice, plush waiting area with navy blue leather seats where I’m left to await my fate. Thankfully, Winona shows up soon after, the sound of her clicking heels preceding her.

  “Hey, girl. You ready?” my excited manager asks with a smile. Today she’s dressed to the nines in an expensive looking white suit with black trim, her dark hair pulled back elegantly and her black-rimmed glasses looking more like a trendy accessory than a necessity. She looks so happy that I hate to pop her bubble.

  “I fucked up,” I tell her from where I’m slumped in my cushy seat, clutching my purse to my stomach.

  “What do you mean? You haven’t even started practice,” she says, sitting down in the seat next to me.

  “Did you miss the circus going on out front, or have they already cleaned it up?” I ask.

  “Wait,” she says when she grabs my forearm. “That was your Jeep?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Pedestrian?”

  “Yep.”

  “Oh God. Who did you hit?”

  “Kohen Hendricks.”

  “Mother of fuck,” she groans to the ceiling before facing me again, her voice lowering to a whisper even though we’re the only people in sight. “Was it an accident?”

  “Of course it was!” I exclaim. “The worst mistake of my fucking life.”

  “Good. That’s good,” Winona replies, taking a deep breath. “All hope isn’t lost. Yet.”

  “They’re gonna boot me, aren’t they?” I ask, my heart pounding out of control in my chest.

  “I don’t know. How bad is it?”

  “No clue yet. Kohen, of course, thinks I’m an evil, plotting bitch,” I tell her.

  “Well, put yourself in his place. I can’t say I blame him. You were supposed to be his backup.”

  Shit. The way she phrased that in the past tense tells me just how optimistic she is about my chances.

  “Ms. Benson, Ms. Jones, please come on in and have a seat,” Coach Griffin says when he opens the door to the conference room. The one he’s been in with the owner of the team and other coaches and staff coming and going for over two hours, while Winona and I have been left to agonize over my fate. Winona occasionally offered words of encouragement; but by the way s
he’s chewed on her manicured nails, she’s been just as anxious to hear the decision. Apparently, a verdict has finally been reached, so we get to our feet even though my legs feel wobbly, and follow him into the room.

  Inside, there’s a long, rectangular glass table with three other men, all standing in front of their chairs.

  “Roxanne Benson, Winona Jones, I’m Mark Griffin, the team’s head coach. Meet Robert Wright, the Wildcats’ owner, Kyle Bradley, my assistant coach, and Rob Sigmon, our special teams and kickers’ coach. Everyone, this is Ms. Benson and her agent, Ms. Jones.”

  “Nice to finally meet you,” I say first to Mr. Wright, shaking his offered hand before Winona and I go around the room and do the same with coaches Bradley and Sigmon.

  “Roxanne, Winona, please have a seat,” Mr. Wright says, gesturing to the two empty chairs to his right, and everyone follows suit. I sit down, clutching my messenger bag in my lap, feeling like I probably should’ve dressed nicer than jeans for this meeting.

  Picking up a remote control, Mr. Wright points it at a flat screen, and then there’s an eagle eye view of my black Jeep outside the front of the stadium. You can’t see me inside of it from this angle, but you can see Kohen walk out the stadium doors. His head is bent over the phone in his hand, and he doesn’t look up or pause before his feet step off the curb. Two seconds later, based on the time stamp at the bottom of the screen, we collide.