by Rie Warren
Passing through the house with the cooler balanced on my shoulder, I made a detour to the kitchen, kissing Charmaine—Marquis’s wife—on the cheek.
“They’re all outside, sugar.” She stirred a bubbling pot of greens on the stove. “Good to have the whole crew back, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. And you’re lookin’ good too, Charm. Keeping Marquis in line?”
“Marquis? Lawdy, I don’t even know where Mason is at the moment.” Smiling, she mentioned her young son. “I heard tell you’re the one keepin’ Marquis outta trouble though. The locker room incident?”
I winked at her before heading to the back patio. “Hey, he’s hard work, you know?”
She laughed with a throaty sound. “Oh, I know. I told him to share his toys and play nice with the new kids.”
Outside, the sun was just as hot as earlier, the air even muggier. The backyard was a large spread with a giant pool, and the landscaped area filtered down to a shallow canal.
Completely unlike my own ramshackle home on the edge of the dunes. Not that there was anything wrong with my house—or Marquis’s—just that I wasn’t into the flash and the cash.
Akoni stood sentinel in front of the ginormous pig roasting over a pit. Exactly where one would expect him to be.
The rest gathered on the lawn as Brooklyn lobbed a football at my sister. “Yo, Liv! Look lively!”
Her long black hair swinging, she leaped up to snatch the flying ball from the air.
“And touchdown!” I boomed out, everyone cheering.
“How long you staying with your loser of a brother?” Paul swaggered up to my sis, offering his fist for a tap.
“When are you trying out for the football team?” Marquis asked her, little man Mason jungle-gyming up his legs and into his arms.
“Sure you don’t wanna be a cheerleader?” Brooks taunted.
“Cheerleader? Gross.” Liv beaned the ball back to the man. “And my bruthah is an NFL prodigy.”
“Damn right I am.” Rushing on Liv, I swung her up in the air before catching her in my arms. “Jesus. You’re getting too big for this.”
She squealed before whispering, “Swear jar.”
“Jesus is a name.”
“You didn’t mean it in the Biblical sense.”
Setting her on her feet, I frowned down at her. “You are too hardcore for your own good.”
Leaving Liv to her game of pass—with NFL head honchos—I handed out beers, even exchanged a few words with the New Crew. Buckley was probably gonna rank numero uno on my shitlist until Peyton or Coach Mark made me the official starter for the season—my fucking team after all—but I could break bread with the dude or whatever.
Better idea than breaking his head, which Marquis had already tried to do.
I cracked open a brew, huddling up beside Akoni at the pit where the meat spit and hissed. “Hangry much?”
“Akoni knows no anger.” He rubbed his belly, watching the sizzling pig. “Just waiting for the pork crackling.”
“Dude. AK. We know you harbor no anger.” Brooks slid up beside us. “You’re the one who bawled like a baby at the Pete’s Dragon premier . . .”
“My woman likes a sensitive man.”
“Who kicks ass all over the field, sack-master,” Brooks added.
I drank from my beer in order not to laugh at the huge Hawaiian with tats all over his body and a stoic expression on his broad face . . . who cried at kid’s movies.
Charmaine rolled up, carrying new baby Chanel in one arm, a huge bowl of collards in the other.
I took the bowl and set it on the table already laden with heaps of potluck chow. “You look like you could use a break.”
“Tellin’ me I’m past it?” Girlfriend wagged a finger in my face.
I snorted, accepting Chanel into my arms. “Hardly.” I winked. “Mommyhood looks good on you. And this one”—bouncing the sweetie up onto my shoulder, I patted her back—“is an angel.”
“Tell me that when she wakes up for her four a.m. feed.” Charmaine watched with a smile. “You’d make damn good dad material, Rafe.”
“Not gonna happen.”
“You say that now. Haven’t seen you with a new woman lately.”
“Mac Daddy is trying to get his cherry back!” Marquis joined us to announce my celibacy.
Not like I used to be a man whore. Much.
“Fuck you.”
Both Charmaine’s and Liv’s hands shot out. “Swear jar.”
“IOU.” I mouthed back before passing sweet-smelling, softly cooing Chanel to Marquis. “Daddy-yo! Hand off.”
A few minutes later Akoni had the pig ready, and Marquis announced, “The bacon buffet has arrived!”
Red sauce. Mustard sauce. Mac ’n’ cheese. The greens and coleslaw. And you needed shoulder pads and a helmet in order to fight your way to the table.
First supper of the preseason.
Before a regular season we weren’t gonna piss down the drain this time.
I hoped.
Despite the earlier shitstorm in the locker room, Buckley, Calder, and Deacon fit in pretty well, no more punches thrown.
Plenty of trash talk, though, but that was a given when we were all together.
“Miss Fox has it in for you, Rafe.” Brooks settled on a lounger next to me, our emptied plates set aside, beers traded for water in advance of our early morning start tomorrow.
Peyton had somethin’ for me, that was for damn sure . . .
“Man, that was whack the way she pulled you off QB training today.” Paul hunkered between us, his knees cracking.
“Shuddup, wannabe.” Passing by, Marquis smacked Bunyan on the back of the head. “Don’t be frontin’ like that, white bread.”
“Marquis . . .” Charmaine interrupted.
“What? I’m playin’ nice.”
“You better keep it that way.”
“Yes and ma’am.”
I wished Brooks had never mentioned Pey. Training for her had been straight-up torture—mind, body, and soul. Body. Most definitely. Her sweetheart ass. The copper hair. The easy smile when you were in her favor and the mean glare from her feisty brown eyes when you weren’t.
Her tits.
Her legs.
Sweaty. Exhilarated. Unbelievably sexy all the damn time.
And suddenly I wasn’t in the fun zone anymore. Every time someone stepped out onto the deck, my head swiveled around, hoping she might make an appearance. I wanted a word with the woman in private. Not in front of all the goons on the field.
Wanted her.
Point blank.
Of course she didn’t show up. She’d drawn a clear line in the sand. Her—the boss—us—her team.
An hour later, Brooks loomed over my seat again. “What’s eating you up, sour puss?”
“Nuthin’, pussy.” I stood up, going for one last beer before I took Liv home.
And at the cooler, who did I meet but Big Mouth Buck?
He clinked a bottle to mine. “So you and Peyton . . . You hitting that?”
I suddenly understood why Marquis had gone beast mode on the dicktool. Buck lit the roaring rage inside me, flaming years of jealousy I’d never tamped down.
Slowly placing my bottle on the table, I snarled, “What did you just say?”
His lips parted in a wide grin. “Peyton. She’s fuckable. Don’t wanna step on your turf though since I’m already taking over your position on the team.”
The second those words left Buckley’s lips, I went at him.
Unleashed, I throttled his throat between my two hands. “No one treats her like an easy fuck. And you?”—I shrugged Brooks off when he tried to haul me away—“you can call her Miss Fox.”
I backed up just far enough to hammer my fist into Buckley’s face with a satisfyingly meaty impact.
Oh look.
Pretty boy Cornhusker bled red just like the rest of us. He stumbled back, shock crossing his features, fingers coming away bloodied from his mouth.
“Fuckhead.” I shook off my bruised knuckles, clenching and releasing them.
Hauling me back from the loudmouth shit while waving the other dudes away, Brooklyn told me to cool my fucking heels, especially in front of Liv.
“I’m okay.” I blew out a huge stream of breath, dropping my hands to my sides.
“You sure? What the hell did he say to you anyway?”
“Nuthin’.” I cooled my anger with a drink of beer. “It was—” The back door swung open again, and a woman stepped outside.
She had russet red hair but, when she turned in my direction, hers wasn’t the sweet face I hoped for. It wasn’t Peyton, and disappointment stung me more than the busted-open knuckles on my fist.
Glancing between me and the woman, Brooks frowned. “Somethin’ I need to know?”
“About me? Nah.” I swiped all emotion from my face then clapped him on the back. “Now you, on the other hand . . . Maybe you wanna try staying out of the tabloids with all your conquests, Girth Brooks.”
“Whatever. You don’t need to worry about me.” He scratched his beard, peering over at the new crew. “Shaping up to be one hell of a season, huh.”
“No shit, right?” I cracked a smile I didn’t feel.
“Probably better stop popping punches so you can save those precious fingers for the football thing though.”
“Roger that.” Locating Liv in the crowd where she sat beside Charmaine, I clenched my fist one last time.
Hoped I’d broken Buck’s face.
“So that never happened.” I motioned toward Buckley, who scowled at me from across the fire pit.
“Always got your back, bro.”
One week later, Peyton—excuuuuse me—Miss Foxy Fox was still riding my ass.
I wanted to be riding her perky ass. But at least she’d put me back in play as lead QB. Fucking right she did.
And she was still the leading lady in all my jacking-off fantasies.
I’d make sure Liv was asleep, lock my door, and grip my cock in a hard hand. Remembering Pey’s sweet scent. Her lush body. The moans etched in my mind.
I needed no lube, so slick with precome already. Every night after hours of being in her presence . . .
My dick jerked in my hand, but I took it slow, exactly the way I wanted to fuck her. The first time at least. Using a teasing grip, a stroke of my fingertips around the engorged head, thrusting in . . . and . . . out between my coupled knuckles.
I wanted to see Pey with my cock in her mouth.
My hands in her hair.
My face between her legs.
My abs clenched, my toes digging into the sheets, I bit off the long hoarse groans when I came. Came hard. My hands, dick, stomach wet with jizz, I thought about pressing her onto her back and fucking into her cunt with my come-coated cock.
Hard.
Fast.
Rough.
Tugging her bright hair. Bringing her mouth to mine. Watching her writhe on my dick, come on my cock, then eat the cream I unloaded all over her body.
I’d checked Peyton’s ring finger. Bare. It was as bare as I wanted her to be with me.
Although the gossip magazines would probably have reported the boss babe of the century getting hitched—not that I read that shit anyway. I was more of a Wall Street Journal kind of guy. Besides, the tabloids couldn’t exactly be counted on as fact sheets. Knew that from firsthand experience myself.
No, she wasn’t married to anything but Carolina Crush, and this time nothing stood in my way of pursuing Peyton Fox.
Much.
Ten
Playa of the Week
Peyton
THIS TIME THERE WAS no way I was going to get involved with Rafe Macintyre.
Ever.
Not even when he flashed his sexy smile at me or grinned with those deep dimples slicing into his sharp cheeks. And those unusual dark green eyes? Forget about it.
We were en route to a major preseason event at Charleston AFB to meet and greet the men and women who served our country. On the Carolina Crush buses, the trip was a short one, but spirits ranged high. A day off, even to press hands and smile for cameras, always ranked.
The team turned up in their Sunday Best—mostly top-notch designer duds—except for Buckley, who winked at me when he strolled past. Clearly I needed to call his agent with a little reminder about the away game suit policy, which included all road trips, flights, and press ops. The kid might also need to receive a heads-up that the owner he worked for—namely me—was strictly off-limits.
That strictly off-limits thing didn’t stop the slight widening of my eyes when Rafe walked toward the first bus. Jesus. He should be illegal. Sweaty and shirtless and on the field, he spelled danger to every single rule I’d ever given myself.
Recently clean-shaven, wearing a sand-colored linen suit that only accentuated his dark hair and deep tan, he was, in one word, drool-worthy.
My breath caught as he approached.
My toes literally curled in my stilettoes, and my pulse sped lightning fast. I licked my lips unconsciously, catching the scent of his cologne as he brushed past me.
“Miss Fox.” Deep chill-inducing voice. Spine-tingling touch on my elbow. The slow nod and slowly growing smile.
It didn’t matter I’d been running his ass ragged on the field. Just one of those panty-dropper smiles and I was goddamn goo.
Raffish indeed.
Criminal.
And I was in danger of melting from his touch on my arm alone.
“Rafe.” I returned his nod, keeping my voice steady instead of bend-me-over breathless.
When he moved by, I cemented myself to the spot.
I would not check out his ass.
Would. Not. Check. Out . . .
I peeked over my shoulder, and his pants pulled tight over that ass. I started fanning myself without even realizing it.
“Y’okay, Coach P?” Akoni in his Big ’n’ Tall suit frowned in front of me.
I cleared my throat. “Just the heat. And you can call me Miss Fox, you know?”
“Not the way you make us bleed during training.”
His big booming laugh rumbled as the rest of the team filed onto the bus, the cheerleaders crowding onto the second one behind us.
I boarded with Coach D bringing up the rear, and we sat at the front as the bus rolled out of the parking lot.
“What’s the deal with Rafe?” I opened two bottles of water and passed one to David.
“Rafe?”
“Uhm. Only our star quarterback.”
D drank a swig then squinted over at me. “You playing cat and mouse with him?”
“Hardly. You know my policy. I’ve never been with a football player.” Much.
“Mmm.”
“What does that mean?” Turning toward him, I slugged him on the shoulder.
“You’ve had a personal interest in him since training started.”
“Not personal. Professional.” I scowled.
“In that case, I don’t keep personal tabs on their lives unless they’re goin’ off the rails. And he’s not. He’s performing at his best.” David grabbed a Sports Illustrated from his backpack. “Maybe you got somethin’ to do with that.”
I slapped the magazine closed. “Is he playa of the week or Player of the Week material?”
“The latter.” A grin cruised over his lips. “You been a little hard on him, though, dontcha think?”
“Hmmph.” I slouched in my seat, crossing my arms over my chest.
Not hard enough if you asked me.
“Got him stuck in your craw, huh?”
“Not likely.” I snorted.
Coach D—a stand-in father figure to me—had watched me grow up. He and his wife, along with Phil, had attended Callum’s preschool graduation, showing their pride in my boy when he received his diploma by whooping it up like he’d just scored a Heisman Tro
phy.
He knew almost everything there was to know about me, just like Phil. Well, not entirely, because my girl was still asking me to join her for a threesome with Rafe as the third. As if I needed more fodder for the imagination when it came to that man.
Two weeks after starting camp early, it was now normal training season. And Coach D was right . . . I was still running Rafe hard.
Why?
Because he was the beating heart of Carolina Crush.
Without him there was no center, no soul, and we’d be crushed forever. The Fox family name and bankrolling could only carry us so far. I needed wins. Big scores.
No second chances.
It didn’t hurt any Rafe was like a bronzed athletic god when he had that ball in his hands. He could throw a pass with the narrowest margins, hit the receiver like the pigskin was magnetized. When his entire body coiled, sweat-slicked and hard-muscled all over, he was a perfectly poised statue in that moment before snap and release.
Absolutely mesmerizing. Completely winning. Utterly Gripping.
A fantasy.
When we arrived at the Air Force base, our red and white colors decorated the parking lot, and our nation’s men and women came out in force with their spouses, their partners, parents, and kids. The crowd was amazing, surging forward to meet the team, the cheerleaders, the coaches who made it all happen.
I watched from afar. No one knew who I was unless they followed the sports news, and I wasn’t the big draw anyway. Rafe was. Time and time again I saw him snatched for a selfie, snagged for an autograph, caught for a few minutes to talk about NFL stats.
Through it all, he wore the same easy smile, shaking hands, giving hugs. He signed everything pushed under his nose like he hadn’t just put in a grueling, ball-busting, man-killing eighty-hour week of taking shit and training hard.
He was—simply put—awesome. Of course. And gorgeous. Obvi. Complete eye candy.
Apparently I wasn’t the only one who thought so.
A woman in dress uniform slipped him a piece of paper he folded in two and shoved into his pocket. He caught me watching, and our eyes locked together. He frowned before glancing at the woman whose number he’d just scored. The frown deepened, and he spun away from me, moving off into the throng.