by Hamel, B. B.
Player Baby Daddy
B. B. Hamel
Contents
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1. River
2. Nicole
3. River
4. Nicole
5. River
6. Nicole
7. River
8. Nicole
9. River
10. Nicole
11. River
12. Nicole
13. Nicole
14. River
15. Nicole
16. River
17. Nicole
18. River
19. Nicole
20. River
21. Nicole
Also by B. B. Hamel
Copyright © 2019 by B. B. Hamel
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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1
River
Another year, another team.
Seems like no matter what I do, I always find myself in a new uniform meeting new faces. They’re always the same everywhere I go: coaches grin and shake your hand and talk about getting you involved, about letting you do your thing, all that crap. The other players, meanwhile, act like they’re happy you’re on the team when really they’re pissed you’re going to take their time away or media attention away or salary cap space away.
It’s always the same. New city, same old shit.
“Glad you’re here, son,” a big, burly guy wearing a baseball hat and a huge sweatshirt says as he grabs my hand. I think he’s the linebacker coach. “You’re gonna really be an asset here. We can’t wait to let you do what you do best.”
“Sure,” I grunt at him and move on. Another coach, another platitude.
First days always suck.
I’ve been in the NFL now for nearly ten seasons. I have two Super Bowl rings with two different teams and I’ve played quarterback for three others. That’s a total of five, if you’re counting, and this new venture makes it six.
Wichita, Kansas. Can you fucking believe it?
The Wichita Thunder, they’re calling this brand-new franchise. If you asked me, I would’ve called it something badass.
Like the Wichita Killers. Or whatever.
But fine, Thunder, good enough. I can wear the stupid jersey and throw the damn ball and they can pay me millions. Not like I’ll last long here. I never fucking last long anywhere.
And I’m tired. I gotta admit, I’m tired.
“So what’d it take to get you here?” this skinny guy in an oversized helmet asks me.
“Money,” I grunt at him.
He laughs and takes the helmet off. He’s got dirty blond hair, bright blue eyes, and an easy grin. “The name’s Chet,” he says. “Kicker.”
“I figured,” I say, grinning back despite myself. “You’re too skinny to be anything else.”
“Hey, good point, but I had the most tackles of any kicker last season,” he shoots back.
“How many? Two?”
“Three,” he says proudly.
I laugh despite myself. I gotta admit, I like Chet already.
“What about you?” I ask him. “Wichita isn’t exactly prime real estate, you know.”
“True enough,” he says, spitting on the ground. “New franchise’s first year means we’re just a bunch of misfits. I get released from the Chargers last season and now…” He shrugs.
“Oh, shit,” I say. “I remember you.”
He laughs and shrugs. “I’m notorious. Almost as bad as you.”
I laugh and shrug a little. He’s not kidding. I heard stories about this guy, about how hard he partied when he wasn’t playing, but he’s a damn good kicker.
Still, he’s right. This team is a bunch of freaks and castoffs, the guys that couldn’t hack it with other teams.
That includes me, of course. Can’t pretend otherwise.
See, thing is, I put my body on the line every season, risk brain injury, risk worse. Every guy out here does. We get paid really good, but still, we risk our lives. So I want to blow off some steam on my free time, I feel like it’s my right.
Maybe I go too far. There was one incident a couple seasons back with a public pool and three cases of champagne. Not my finest moment, but a really funny story at least.
“Hey,” Chet says, nodding across the field. “There he is.”
I follow his gaze and spot the man that’s bringing this all together. His name’s Nixon Davis, some hotshot former college coach that took a backwater team and made it into a dynasty. Now he’s got the reins of this pro team and everyone thinks he can do the same for us.
We’ll see. I’m not optimistic. Davis is a tall man, not as tall as me, but still. He’s broad and he has that former-player look about him, like he used to be solid but now he’s going a little soft. But his eyes are sharp and he wears a ball cap pulled down low over his eyes, so low I gotta wonder how he can even see.
But he’s not what really draws my attention.
Standing next to him is this girl.
Woman, I guess. I don’t know. She can’t be any older than twenty-two at most. Right out of college, I’d bet my pension on it.
She’s fucking beautiful.
I think every man on the field’s staring at her. Long blonde hair, thick as anything, cascades down her shoulders. She’s wearing a team polo and basic slacks, about the least flattering outfit imaginable, but I can still see her curves and soft spots, her beautiful body hiding under those rags.
Her face is pretty with thick lips and a short nose. And her eyes are green, sparkling green, practically flashing across the field at me.
“Who the hell is that?” I whisper to Chet.
“You mean Coach?” He laughs. “You can’t be serious?”
I shoot him a look. “No, asshole. I mean the girl.”
“Ah.” He gives me a sly grin. “You don’t know?”
But he doesn’t have time to explain. The coach blows his whistle and that’s the universal signal for hurry your ass up.
The whole team jogs over and surrounds him. Coach stands in the middle of the giant huddle with his pretty assistant. He eyes his players with a distasteful frown on his face.
I know what happens next. I’ve been in this huddle before.
He says something like, this here team can be good, really good, if we just come together and play as a unit.
He says something like, listen to my program, do what I tell you to do, we can make this work, we can be winners, we can go all the way.
Everyone cheers. Nobody cares.
He opens his mouth to talk and I’m almost bored already.
“This is the sorriest fucking group of players I’ve ever seen in my life,” he says loudly. “And I coached a college team that took walk-ons.”
There’s a grumbling around the group but I’m suddenly interested again. Never heard a coach start out like this. I glance at the girl next to him, but she’s not showing anything.
“I’m supposed to pretend like I give a shit about any of you,” he says loudly, “but here’s the truth. I really, really don’t. You show up and you do what I say and you try hard, I’ll keep you around. You fuck off and act like an asshole, I’ll cut you. I don’t care how good you are, I don’t care if we’re lacking depth at your position.”
More grumbles. I’m grinning. I like him.
&n
bsp; “I’ve got one rule and one rule only. You obey me. Understood?”
The team gives him a half-hearted Yes, sir.
I can’t tear my eyes off the girl next to him. I keep wondering if she likes to obey, too.
Shit, I really need to get it together.
Here’s the thing. It’s not good to be a quarterback that drifts from team to team. It’s not good for your future and it’s not good for your present. Nobody remembers the guy that couldn’t keep a job despite winning the damn Super Bowl… twice.
I’m tired of being known for all the wrong things. I’m tired of people talking about my shit off the field and forgetting about what I can do on it.
I’m tired of fucking up.
I had other offers. Other teams were willing to meet my salary minimum and give me the starting job. Hell, I had three other offers, better offers than what I got from this team.
But I came here for a reason, despite my agent telling me how fucking stupid I am.
I came here to start over.
Yeah, sure, it’s Kansas. It’s the damn prairie. There’s nothing out here, but I think that’s what I like about it.
Can’t get in trouble out here.
And I’m tired of trouble. I’m tired of everything.
I just want to get on the field and play ball and let that do all the talking for me.
“Break up into positions and go through drills. Dismissed.”
The other coaches start barking orders. I grin at Chet before he’s herded away with the kickers.
“Not a man of many words,” I say.
“I like him,” Chet answers.
“Good luck.”
He grins and nods at me. I head over to the QB group and start running through drills.
But I can’t stop watching that girl.
Maybe I was born to be like this. Maybe I can’t help but be a fuck-up.
It’s my first day on a new team, on a team that I actually want to care about. I want to be this team’s first franchise QB, at least until I’m finally too old to keep playing. Which is hopefully another ten years away.
But instead, I keep watching that girl.
She follows the coach around, not saying much. I think she mostly speaks to him and he seems to listen. I can’t tell what her role is or why she’s even here. Maybe she’s his assistant… but she’s talking too much to be his assistant. Maybe she’s another position coach, but I can’t tell what, if any.
And she’s way too fucking gorgeous to be out on a football field.
“Scrimmage!” Coach barks after a morning of drills. We break up into offense versus defense and I line up behind the ball.
First few plays go fine. I’m still finding my rhythm, getting used to my team. I miss a pass, hit a few more, overall not too shabby.
Then the coach calls a deep ball play and I catch the eye of the girl at his side. She raises her eyebrow, like, think you can do it? And I swear to god my cock gets rock hard.
I think it’s the hottest look I’ve ever gotten in my life.
I line up behind center, take the snap. I drop back but the defense is being aggressive. They’re coming hard, the pocket is collapsing.
I glance to the sideline. Normally, I throw it away.
Instead, I hang in there. I step up, make the pass…
And suddenly I’m being hit by a tractor-trailer.
I don’t think people understand how bad it hurts to get tackled by one of these huge men. Defensive linemen are built to bring the pain, that’s all they want to do, even against their own teammates. They just can’t help it. You can’t blame them for it, really.
I blink up at the sky for a second, a little rattled. If this were a game, I’d pop back up.
It’s not a game though.
“Should’ve thrown it away!” Coach barks. “Next time, throw it away!”
Slowly I get to my feet. I look over to the sidelines and the girl’s smiling at me, her eyebrow still raised. I grin back, a little sheepishly.
The rest of practice goes fine. He calls it early and we break into the locker room. But I can’t get that look out of my head.
“Saw that hit,” Chet says to me, grinning that easy grin.
“I felt it,” I say back.
“You were trying to impress her, weren’t you?”
I frown at him. “Who?” I ask innocently.
“Don’t give me that shit. You asked about her at the beginning of practice.”
“Thought you forgot about that.”
He laughs. “Still wanna know who she is?”
I hesitate a second. Play it cool, River.
“Yeah, who the fuck is she?”
Not cool, man.
“That’s the coach’s daughter.” Chet’s grin spreads like wildfire. “You dumbass.”
Oh, shit.
The coach’s daughter.
Chet walks away laughing and I turn back to my locker. For a second, I think I should just forget all about her.
If I were smart, that’s what I’d do. I’m starting over, I don’t need this trouble. And the coach’s gorgeous daughter is exactly that.
But I remember that look she gave me when I got to my feet. And I can’t help myself.
I’m half hard remembering her and I know I’m going to make an awful mistake. The coach’s daughter is way, way off limits.
That’s never really stopped me before.
2
Nicole
I’ve been around football my whole life.
When I was a little girl, my dad was a high school coach. Then he got an offer at a small state school near us…
And, well, the rest is history. He went on to turn that school into a powerhouse.
I was always there by his side. He didn’t think that just because I’m a girl I shouldn’t know how to game worked. I never played, but he taught me coaching strategy. He taught me the game.
But there was always one rule. He taught me that when I was really young.
“Sweetie, no matter what, stay away from the boys,” he’d say to me. “Trust me, no good can come of it. They’re your players, not your friends.”
It was hard, but the rule stuck.
I never dated a football player. Even when they hit on me, I never gave in. Even when I wanted to, it was never badly enough to disappoint my father or to make things messy.
I grew up in football and I never once made a stupid mistake.
Now we’re in the big show, and he’s bringing me along. I’m technically his assistant, but he treats me like another coach. I know the rule is more important now than ever.
There’s only one problem.
“What do you think of River?”
I blink rapidly and look across the office at my father. He’s sitting behind his desk looking at some papers and not even glancing up at me.
Can he read my mind?
“Sorry?” I ask.
“River,” he grunts and gives me a glare. “What do you think of him?”
“Good arm,” I say automatically. “Fast on his feet. Makes good decisions.” I shrug a little bit. “Won two Super Bowls.”
“Acts like an ass,” Dad grumbles.
“But on the field, he’s the best of the best.”
“True,” he says. “But we’re trying to make a real thing here. I need him to be as good off the field as he is on it.”
I shake my head with a sad smile. “I don’t know about that, Dad. River King isn’t exactly known for being good.”
He grumbles something and looks back down at his pages.
I stare at my hands for a second, letting River’s face run through my mind.
I know about River King, of course. Everyone does. He’s one of the most notorious players in the NFL.
He bounces from team to team because invariably he gets into trouble. It’s never anything bad, really. He’s not beating up a girlfriend or drunk driving.
No, it’s more like he buys an entire strip club and it accidentally burns
down. Nobody gets hurt, of course, but there are rumors about some illegal pyrotechnics.
Or maybe he’s caught in bed with another man’s wife. And then goes on to date that man’s college-aged daughter. And posts about it on social media.
Or maybe he pranks one of the coaches by letting a llama loose in his office, only the llama decides to tear the place apart then escape onto the freeway. Again, nobody hurt, but that poor llama.
I hear the llama is living on a farm somewhere up north, happy as a clam.
That’s the sort of stuff River King is known for. Antics, insanity, stupidity. He’s not the kind of man to be calm and act like the face of an organization.
And that’s a problem. The current day NFL is as much a media performance as it is a sport. You have to be camera savvy and always smiling, especially if you’re the good-looking franchise quarterback.
River sure is good-looking. I mean, he’s gorgeous, to be honest. He makes every other quarterback look like a total goober. The man has the body of a Greek God and the face of a model. It’s actually a little unfair that he can be so handsome and so talented.
But he’s wild and reckless. So this is his sixth team in ten years, and I suspect this might be his last if he doesn’t shape up.
“You think we should keep him?” Dad asks me.
I wince a little. “Of course,” I say quickly, not sure if I’m saying that because River is good or because I think he’s handsome.
“Yeah, you’re right. Best we can do right now.” Dad goes back to reading.
I sigh and get up. “I’m going for a walk.”
Dad raises an eyebrow. “It’s late.”
“I know. I’ve gotta get used to the facilities.”
He grins. “Always working, huh?”