Troubled Nate Thomas: Hot Steamy Sport Romance (T.N.T. Series Book 1)

by Timms, Lexy

  She wondered for a moment what it would be like to be a child that size, called into the principal’s office having sit almost under an imposing desk and facing an authority figure who was scowling at you. How kind of Mrs. Klinger to show her exactly how it felt.

  “I see you’ve not yet earned your Master’s,” said Mrs. Klinger with a wet smack of her lips. It was like that old comic that her father used to love, the one that pronounced punctuation. Every time she got to a period, smack.

  “No, ma’am,” Amanda replied, fidgeting with her skirt. “I’m working on it. I plan to finish before the end of the year.”

  Mrs. Klinger nodded and glanced down at the résumé once more. Somehow, Amanda knew that if she’d been holding a blank sheet of paper, she would have paid as much, or in this case, as little attention to what was written there. “Well, Ms. Jones, thank you for your résumé. We’ll be in touch.”

  “Mrs. Klinger,” Amanda said carefully, not ready to leave just yet. Not until she knew precisely what she’d done to merit a don’t-call-us-we’ll-call-you response. “I realize I don’t have my Master’s yet, but I was hoping I could start maybe as an aide, or a temp until I graduate. I’m very close to—”

  “Thank you, Ms. Jones. We’ll be in touch.”

  Amanda stared at her for a moment, too stunned at the woman’s abruptness. She stood slowly, the hawk-faced woman watching her every motion. “Mrs. Klinger, I don’t know what I did to offend you, but whatever it was it was very unintentional.”

  “Ms. Jones.” The woman sniffed. “Parents place the care of their children in our hands. Some of these children have special needs and sometimes are not able to understand the world around them. To be perfectly honest, no one wants to explain to a child why he or she is now in the hands of the ‘Bouncing Broncos Girl’.” SMACK.

  Heat burned instantly on her cheeks. “That… was media-propelled. I had nothing to do with it,” Amanda spat out the words one at a time. “I was trying to get someone’s attention.”

  “And so you did. Thank you for your application, Ms. Jones, but perhaps you need to reconsider your profession. At the very least you need to reconsider your first choice for a venue to work in. Have a good day.”

  With that last smack, she turned to the mountain of papers on her desk. Apparently, Amanda ceased to exist for her.

  She walked out of the office, trying not to look at anyone.

  Outside, a child yelled, “You’re from the paper!” and Amanda pretended to not hear him, scurrying past at a fast walk. Wishing she hadn’t had to park almost two blocks away.

  “No one even READS newspapers anymore!” she screamed at the city and watched a sheath of old papers blow past as she reached her car. One of them, a self-portrait of one of the older students, complete with smiling mother and father and a big X over what was presumably a baby brother, blew under her car, lodging against the tires.

  Amanda watched as it flipped and gyrated in the breeze, but she didn’t reach down to rescue it, just let it stay there, flapping helplessly under her car. After a moment, it was carried away on the wind and headed off to the mountains.

  She unlocked her car and sat heavily. She gazed out the window a long time, staring at nothing in particular. She absently stared at her phone also. There was a hate mail from Jennifer in her inbox, her former roommate, accusing her of poaching the football player from her even after she’d put out. Jennifer also mentioned that she long suspected Amanda’s frigidness of being an act.

  “Frigidity,” Amanda corrected automatically and set her phone down.

  Nothing from Nate.

  Nothing from Coach.

  Nothing.

  She sighed. Everything sucked right now.

  It was a three-hour drive back to Denver, back to the guest house where her empty boxes sat waiting for her to fill. She took a deep breath and put the car into gear. On the trip, she tried to determine which state she wanted to move to. Maybe it was only Colorado that had branded her; maybe somewhere there was a city that needed a qualified teacher and didn’t know that she’d been photographed with her breasts bouncing in the air, hands waving like an idiot.

  Maybe.

  Still no email from Nate.

  Nothing.

  She was alone. Or maybe she’d never felt this alone before.

  She pulled into the driveway as the sun set and the house lights flickered on. Driving past the front door and around to the guesthouse in the back, she decided that Alaska was probably her best bet. No one there would care about The Broncos. No one there would care about Nate Turner.

  Well, except for maybe one. If she moved there, at least someone in the state of Alaska would care about Nate Turner.

  There was a lot of packing to do, mostly books. Her thesis awaited attention; her life, such as it was, had been paused, and she had a great deal to do before it would start again.

  Ben and Jerry had patiently waited for her. DVD player on, and Sam began singing “As Time Goes By.” She finished the ice cream and the movie, and her phone still didn’t ring. Nate didn’t call like the last time Sam sang. She didn’t run to his house and fly into his arms. She didn’t have the greatest sex of her life—again. The greatest night of her life had come and gone. Now forever a memory.

  The credits rolled. The movie ended, and her life impatiently waited for her to do something.

  So, she curled up in a ball on the couch, and eventually fell asleep while crying.

  Chapter 20

  Amanda stood in the middle of the living room, looking around one last time. It was a nice little house, though ‘little’ in this context meant smaller than a mansion. The rental truck was full and ready to go; her father had flown up from The Springs to drive it while she took her car.

  Her father had been equal parts impressed at the mansion, star-struck at the idea that his little girl was working with Nate Turner, and horribly appalled that his daughter was working with Nate Turner and living in his guesthouse.

  He kept his recriminations to himself, thankfully, at least after an initial explosion that emphasized his opinion of Troubled Nate Turner. He hinted strongly that any girl foolish enough to get caught up with someone like that was going to get burned, but after seeing the crestfallen look on his daughter’s face he simply held her to him and said nothing more.

  He was in the truck now, waiting for her so they could drive down together in a caravan of sorts. She made the pretense of checking once more for anything she might have forgotten. She had all the time in the world. They were gone again, the entire team heading for a game in Texas. This time she had begged off with a headache, though in truth there was no one to beg off to. Coach knew she was leaving, Nate couldn’t have cared less, and Billy… Billy would find out on his own and then he’d have to find a ‘Beard’ who could actually play the part.

  And Amanda?

  She reached out to touch the couch, remembering the one just like it in the living room of Nate’s big house. The night when everything seemed to be bright, and there was a future, and it looked like someone had cared for her.

  It was a sharp and painful memory, not because of the way it happened but because of the way it ended, the spectacular explosion where everything shattered so publicly. Ironically, it was the one thing that the papers missed completely.

  “Give me this,” she said to the couch. “I was hired to keep him out of the papers, and I did. Even if I had to put myself there instead.”

  Feeling maybe just a shade less of a failure, she walked into the bedroom, checked under the bed, in the drawers, in the bathroom, all over to be sure that she had left nothing behind. She hadn’t. There was no longer any evidence that Amanda Jones was ever a part of Nate Turner’s life.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and fought the tears that welled back up again. Dammit! Hadn’t she cried enough?

  Deep breath. Fight it. You’re already at the bottom, things can’t get any worse. Deep breath. You can do this. The worst is over. You only ne
ed to pull yourself together. Time to climb up from the bottom.

  Besides, if she was inside much longer her father would come looking for her. The last thing she wanted was to have him find her like this. She forced herself to look at the door, concentrate on the door, the design of the wood, the minutiae. She pretty much had it shut down when the phone rang. She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled it out.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, is this Amanda Jones?” a crisp voice on the other half-asked, half-demanded.

  “Yes?”

  “Ms. Jones, my name is Lawrence Adams. I’m the General Manager of the Denver Broncos. How are you today?”

  She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it. The caller ID said “unknown”, which wasn’t helpful in the least.

  Okay… So, the General Manager of the Denver Broncos wanted to talk to her? “Uh… I’m alright, thank you.” She felt her eyebrows almost touching, and made an effort to relax the tension from her forehead. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was hoping you could come by my office tomorrow. I’d very much like to meet you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Amanda said quietly. “I think you should know that I’m no longer with the team.”

  There was a very long pause. “Ms. Jones, you were never a part of the ‘team’, as you put it. You’ve never been on the Broncos’ payroll and, in point of fact, have never been an employee of the franchise.”

  She blinked several times. “But I was hired to be…”

  “Perhaps we can discuss this tomorrow; would 10:00 work well for you?”

  “Uh… I guess?” She pressed her fingers to her temple, trying to still the throb that was building.

  “Excellent. I’ll expect to see you then.”

  Amanda stood, staring at the ‘call ended’ screen on her phone. Her stomach heaved and for a moment she thought she might lose it entirely.

  She’d thought she’d already hit bottom.

  She’d been wrong.

  She shivered even though it wasn’t cold at all. Suddenly it didn’t matter if her daddy came in and found her crying.

  In fact, it might be kind of nice.

  Chapter 21

  Amanda had thought all the offices of the Broncos were in the gym, kind of something like out of the movie where the smelly locker room had a smelly office where old men sat in sweat pants and baseball caps, chomping on cigars and spitting out names of ancient players like obscure profanity. For Coach, it was kind of true, albeit she’d never seen him smoke a cigar.

  However, this… was unexpected. Except for the team logo on the wall behind the receptionist, it could have been any accountant’s office in Denver with a breathtaking view of the mountains. Amanda cooled her heels in an oversized chair while a woman of indeterminant age, with skin so tight Amanda was momentarily tempted to play a drum solo on her hollow cheek, busily typed away.

  When she first arrived, Amanda explained she had an appointment and gave her name. The woman had raised one eyebrow so high, Amanda was afraid the skin would snap and roll up like an old-fashioned window shade.

  While she waited, paging through glossy magazines filled with forgettable sports trivia, she caught the receptionist stealing glances and creasing her brow as if deep in thought. It probably wasn’t a wise move, not with skin that tight. It set Amanda on edge. She was being examined and judged, and wasn’t coming up smelling so good.

  Something beeped and clicked on the desk. The receptionist pushed a button and spoke into her headset, too low for Amanda to make out the words. The fact that the woman kept staring at her while doing so was more than unnerving. Especially when at the end of that conversation, the receptionist only said, “Ms. Jones, Lawrence Adams will see you now.”

  Amanda knew full well there had been a hell of a lot more conversation regarding her than a simple “Send her in.”

  She checked her watch. 10:25. She’d arrived early. He knew that full well, and was still trying to put her on edge. Or he was pretending to be a doctor and wanted to make her wait because he was busy.

  The tight-skinned receptionist with the perfect business suit led her back past a cube farm to a large set of doors with the words Lawrence Adams stenciled on them. She knocked once and opened the door, her gaze sliding over Amanda one last time like she was looking at a particularly disgusting new species of insect.

  Amanda’s chin shot up. No way in hell was she going to let the skinny bitch get to her.

  She stepped through into the inner sanctum and the door slammed shut behind her, making her jump slightly. Apparently there was no way in hell the receptionist was going to allow the likes of Amanda to show the least bit of confidence.

  Obviously, they were at an impasse.

  The room felt massive. Why did powerful men feel the need to have such massive spaces? It was like approaching the king on his dais. The plush carpet was thick enough to make walking in stilettos a challenge, much like wearing high heels on the beach. An unfortunate analogy that brought to mind her own beach experience, leaving her blushing as she crossed to where two chairs waited opposite the despot of the Denver Broncos.

  “Ah, Ms. Jones,” Lawrence Adams said as he stood up from behind his desk. She noticed he didn’t offer to shake her hand. “Please, have a seat.” He indicated one of two chairs set in front of his large mahogany desk. It put that edifice between them, making this a very official meeting indeed.

  He was surprisingly ordinary in looks. Prematurely bald, with unlined face and tasteful goatee, he could have been any man seated at the bar watching a game. For all she knew, that’s how he spent his Sunday afternoons, masquerading as one of the people. No suit, just an ordinary button-down shirt and dress slacks. She had no doubt that both pieces of clothing probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. They were probably designer. Wouldn’t a man of this nature wear things that were designer? He sat down and smiled at her. It was not a welcoming smile. It was predatory and… she wasn’t sure what was mixed in there… indulgent, perhaps? No, those eyes… it was the eyes that told the story. There was something cold and calculating in those dark eyes, like they saw right through her to her deepest, darkest secrets.

  “Would you care for water, or coffee, perhaps?”

  “Nothing, thank you,” Amanda replied politely. The last thing she wanted was the receptionist from hell to return. Giving her the opportunity to spit into her water bottle was just asking for trouble. Besides, she was already figuring out this game. She’d studied psychology for four years, thank you very much. She was getting the feel for him. Everything here was about power. Control.

  Her jaw tightened. I haven’t done anything wrong.

  He leaned forward in his chair, elbows on the desk, folded. His entire body projected affability. Kindness. Except for those fucking creepy eyes.

  “I won’t keep you long, Ms. Jones. Thank you for taking time out to come and see me. I’ve spoken at length about you to Frank.”

  Frank? She couldn’t think who he meant and suddenly she had a glimmer of hope that maybe this whole meeting was nothing more than a big mistake. She relaxed marginally, going so far as to actually sit in the chair and quit balancing on the edge. “I’m afraid there’s been some kind of mistake. I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “Frank Johnson.” He paused as his eyebrows rose. “Head coach of the Denver Broncos?”

  “Oh! Coach.” Coach Johnson. Amanda smiled, forgetting the gravity of the situation, forgetting even why she was there in the delight of figuring out his name. “I never knew his first name.”

  “No, I don’t suppose there was much of a reason for you to.” Adams gave her a rather condescending grin. A grin that didn’t bode well at all for whatever was coming next. Amanda felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand straight up. In unison. It was an odd sensation. “Let me share some numbers with you.” Mr. Adams drew several papers toward him, though his eyes remained on hers as he spoke. “The Denver Broncos have an ann
ual revenue of about $400 million. We have an operating budget of about $85 million. This is generated through ticket sales, yes, in part, but not a large part. Most of the revenue comes from merchandizing, and the greatest share of that comes from family-friendly sales. Toys, children’s clothing, sports equipment. That sort of thing.” He leaned back and regarded her coolly. “Now, while it’s true there is a certain association with some male demographics that are generally considered… high hormone, we are and we will always be a family-friendly franchise.”

  He waited. Amanda understood she was supposed to say something here, but for the life of her she couldn’t figure out what it might be. “Okay.” She settled on that. For now.

  He reached into a drawer and pulled out a newspaper which he carefully laid out in front of her. “So having a ‘Bouncing Broncos Girl’ doesn’t really fit a family-friendly environment.” He smiled again, but this time there was no pretense of friendliness in it. “I saw that and laughed, assuming it was simply a fan who couldn’t control her own tits. It happens, but then…”

  Amanda’s ears began to burn. Had he seriously just said that?

  “I saw this.” He pulled out the paper with her having dinner with Billy. “And found that you have been dating one of my team.” He pulled out another. “Then I find out you’re dating one of my players while living with another. I own this team. So, what am I to do?” He stared at her a moment. “I confront Frank Johnson and find out you were hired to escort Nate Turner, live in his house, give him the whole girlfriend experience. While it’s not your fault that you stepped out on him to be with another man, I find that simply hard to believe. You simply couldn’t help yourself?”

  He threw the newspaper clippings down on the desk, sending papers flying in all directions. He was nearly yelling now. “I will NOT lose the family-friendly franchise we have carefully built up over the years for a paid escort who cannot keep her panties on!”