by RC Boldt
Oh my God! My body goes rigid in alarm at the dawning realization I’m lying on top of a guy.
A split second later, I deflate, recalling Dax came over last night to help me out. Somehow, we must’ve fallen asleep and migrated to him on his back with me lying on top of him. God, he smells good.
He shifts slightly, and that obscenely hard object presses against me uncomfortably. Jesus. What the hell is…
Oh no. Oh no, no, nooooo!
Abruptly, I press my palms against the hard wall of his chest, frantic to shove off him and get away from this… thing.
In my haste, I lose my balance and begin toppling over as the corner of the coffee table veers dangerously close to my skull. I windmill, and just as I brace myself for a painful impact, strong hands grasp my upper arms and right me.
Except I’m directly back on top of him. Again.
“Dax!”
“What?” His voice is gravelly, golden eyes half-lidded. “I just saved you from slamming your head into the corner of the table.” His eyes drift closed again.
“Your…” I falter, sputtering. “I was trying to get away from that—that…”
He squints one eye open. “That…?” he prompts sleepily.
I narrow my eyes and point an index finger to indicate the area where our lower bodies meet. “This thing that’s probably going to bruise me. You need to control it.”
He laughs. That’s right. He freaking laughs at me. “Darce, it’s morning. I don’t have any control over it.”
“It’s not funny! It’s going to leave a mark, I swear!” This just makes him laugh harder.
I’m more careful in my second attempt to scramble off him. He lets out a groan, and I cringe as I disentangle myself. “Ugh. You need a freaking license for that thing.”
“Would you stop referring to it as a thing?”
I can’t bear to look at him. The laughter in his voice is too much for me to deal with at this point.
“It’s a penis, Darcy. Men have them. And in the morning, it’s natural for them to have what’s referred to as morning—”
I hold up my hand and start for the kitchen. “Don’t say it!” I don’t want to talk about his penis. It’s inappropriate since I’m responsible for matching him with Mrs. Right. “Don’t. Sa—”
“Wood. Or a morning erection.”
“Gah!” I tug open the refrigerator and stop short and rear back. “What is this?”
“Are we still talking about erections or…?”
I roll my eyes without turning around. “I’m talking about this container with what looks like muffins inside.” I lift said container from the fridge and turn around, stunned. “When did you make me muffins?”
He swings his legs off the couch and stands, tugging his shirt from where it’s tucked in his athletic shorts to hang over his waistband. I get that he’s trying to mask things, but that just draws my eyes to it. Because I know it’s there. It rubbed against me.
“Just so you know,” I start with a stern expression. “Friends don’t rub erections on one another.”
He throws his head back on another laugh, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Noted.” He enters the kitchen and taps a finger on top of the container in my hands. “These are turmeric muffins. I made them after you fell asleep. They’re gluten and dairy free. Recommended during menstrual cycles.”
He grasps the handle for the freezer and pulls it open to point at another container with a sticky note stuck to the top. “I placed the others in here with a date. They go bad after three months.” With an easy push, he closes the door to the freezer and addresses me. “I left the recipe in case you want to make them again. I tried to put away the ingredients where they belong, but I apologize if I misplaced anything.”
Before I can manage a response, he glances at the time. “I have a team meeting, so I’ve got to head home and get cleaned up.” Dazed, I watch as he presses a quick kiss to my forehead. “Call me if you need anything.”
Dax turns and heads to the couch to fold my blankets and drape them neatly over the back of the couch before heading to the door. I follow him, watching as he slips on his shoes and palms his keys and phone. With that sweet smile of his, he says goodbye and pulls the door closed behind him.
I’m left staring at the door, and wondering how the hell I’ll find a woman who’s good enough for the man who’s fast becoming a dear friend. Not to mention, I wonder how to suppress that twisting sensation in the pit of my stomach at the prospect.
Guess it’s a good thing I never back down from a challenge.
13
Dax
“Hey.”
I snap my head around at Watson’s low murmur. His tense expression makes me uneasy. He tips his head to the side, indicating he wants to tell me something off to the side and not be overheard.
We step away from our teammates, who are mingling before we’re due to take a seat for the meeting.
“What’s up?”
“Word is Coach is announcing the new GM.”
I nod. I’d heard as much. Our GM—general manager—Rick Mularkey, had been on a leave of absence after his wife, Kara, received both a breast and ovarian cancer diagnosis. Unfortunately, she lost her battle, and Rick had been granted a contract termination at his request. We’ll all miss him like hell, but I can’t imagine his attention or passion are with this team while he’s reeling from his loss.
“Well…” Watson’s eyes flit around before he continues. “I’ve heard a few things about this new guy. Off the cuff.” He frowns. “And it’s not good.”
I narrow my eyes in a sharp look. “I don’t get involved in gossip, man. You know that.”
He grimaces. “I know, D. But I’m telling you this… I ran into the guy earlier this morning, and I get the feeling these rumors might hold some truth.”
“What kind of ru—”
“Gentlemen! Let’s get the ball rolling, shall we?” Coach Hartson hollers, getting everyone’s attention.
We quickly take our seats as Coach prepares himself at the podium in front, and my teammates settle down. He goes through his usual no-nonsense let’s get down to business routine of reiterating the importance of not disclosing anything regarding who’s on the disabled list or facing a suspension.
Since day one with Coach, he’s instilled in us how he expects us to be a close-knit family. No one should be privy to the ins and outs of what goes on behind the scenes. It’s not for public consumption since the media can take anything and misconstrue it to make us look bad.
Of course, he addresses the fucking rookie, Dixon, who got busted with a DUI this past weekend. Shithead’s got a hell of a leg on him and could probably give our kicker, Myers, a run for his money if he had a lick of sense. He needs his ass handed to him, and by the expression on Dixon’s face, Coach has already ripped him a new one. The man doesn’t mess around and has high expectations for us as a team—on and off the field.
“I don’t give a damn what you do behind closed doors at home—as long as it isn’t illegal and doesn’t spill over into this job—but you damn well better not go out in public and make an ass out of yourself!” Coach pounds his fist on the podium, the banging sound against the wood further emphasizing his words. “Make me proud by taking pride in yourselves, gentlemen!”
A few of my teammates shoot dirty looks at Dixon, and I get it. They’re pissed. When you fuck up, you not only make the team look bad, but you also disappoint the hell out of Coach. And that man is one of a kind. He’s like a second father to me and many of the other guys. You just don’t fuck with him.
Finally, he segues to the news about Mrs. Mularkey’s death and Rick’s subsequent release from his duties as GM.
“I’d like to introduce you to our new general manager, Chad Garner.” A man seated in the front row rises and smooths down his expensive-looking, well-tailored, button-down shirt. He shakes Coach’s hand and steps behind the podium to address us.
“It’s great to be here. I was i
n Detroit before this, so I can’t lie, I’m looking forward to not having to endure winters like that anymore.” He offers a small laugh, but something about it doesn’t sit right with me. Dammit, I hate that Watson’s planted a seed, but right now, I’m getting a weird vibe from our new GM. Nothing I can pinpoint exactly, but something’s just… off.
Garner goes on for a few minutes, giving us the rundown regarding his experience; a high school football star quarterback who went on to play for the University of Tennessee and then signed with the Atlanta Falcons before a knee injury cut his career short. He then worked his way up the ranks of the Detroit Lions before receiving the offer here in Jacksonville.
He explains how he expects to have “a better handle on things,” be more hands-on, and be an advocate for us and the team as a whole. I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be a dig at Rick for having to bail due to his wife’s failing health, but I sense a few of the other guys bristling at the possible insinuation.
The meeting wraps up once Coach goes over a few last-minute details, and we’re dismissed. Watson and I exchange a look, and I know we’ll be discussing this interesting meeting later. We rise and edge toward the aisle leading to the exit when I hear my name called.
“Kendrick!”
I jerk around to find our new GM’s attention on me.
“Sir?” I step aside to allow my teammates to pass me and wait for a break in the crowd to head toward him. Once I draw to a stop a few feet away from him, I get an up-close look at the man.
He’s a few inches shorter than me, and I can spot a tiny patch of thinning blond hair on his crown. Though still in decent physical shape, for a guy who’s in his late twenties, he hasn’t aged well. He honestly looks to be closer to early to mid-thirties. He carries himself like an authority figure, but that smile of his reminds me of a smarmy used car salesman.
“Dax Kendrick.” He holds out a hand, and I shake it briefly. “Heard so much about you.”
“Hopefully good things.”
His undeniably fake laugh gives me the sensation of ants crawling along my skin. “Of course!” He leans in and slaps me playfully on the shoulder. “Word is, you have quite a crew of admirers among the ladies.”
Even though unease radiates through my body, and my muscles stiffen, I try to shrug off his words. “I wouldn’t really know. Just trying to play ball.”
He lets out a booming laugh as if I’ve said something hilarious. “Don’t be so modest. We’re only young once, right?”
I force a polite smile. This conversation is downright uncomfortable.
“I wanted to go over some things with you. We’ll need to iron out your contract and discuss some of your endorsement opportunities to make sure they’re aligned with the team and our image.”
Something about his tone has me bristling. If this guy did his homework and asked around about the players on this team, he’d realize I’m not the one he needs to be concerned with when it comes to risking the team’s reputation. It’s not simply because my parents instilled good values in me growing up, but because I like to think I have integrity. Sure, I’ve done some stupid shit from time to time, but overall, it was the typical having too much to drink after we’d won a bowl game during my college days.
“I’ll have Jackie contact you. She’s been helping me get acclimated during the transition. I figure I need to give her something to do rather than sit around looking pretty all day and distracting everyone.” He winks like there’s some sort of inside joke there, and it sends a surge of unease traveling down my spine.
Jackie’s an executive assistant and a ballbuster of a woman—and I mean that in the best way possible. She’s a badass at what she does and has a head on her shoulders like no other.
She also happens to be an attractive woman and could never be classified as a floozy.
“I’ll expect a call from Jackie to set something up. Thank you, sir.” I nod, forcing another polite smile.
He looks like he wants to say more, but we’re interrupted when Coach steps up to Garner, drawing his attention from me. I take the opportunity to slip away and stride to the exit.
Over the entire day, I can’t seem to shake that odd exchange from my mind.
I spent my day meal prepping since training camp starts next week. It helps me feel more organized and saves a ton of time in the process. Plus, the weather sucks ass today. Outside, the rain has been battering the windows and carrying on since midmorning.
Now, I’m relaxing after reading the latest issue of Sports Illustrated in—wait for it—the sex chair. Hell if Mom wasn’t right on the money when she said it looked like a comfortable reading chair.
I close my eyes, listening to the rain pelt against the house. Life’s about to get crazy soon with training camp, preseason, and then the start of the season. As exhausting and insane as it’ll be, I look forward to it. Even though this is probably my final year playing pro ball.
Shit, just thinking that makes my damn heart hurt a little. This team is my other family, but I sure as hell want to go out like Becket did—on my own terms and not from a career-ending injury. I also want a job that doesn’t require dodging massive linemen or taking hits that seem to rattle every bone in my body.
Secretly, though, I’d hoped to retire and use the whole “I can’t wait to spend more time with my wife and kids” phrase when it came to addressing the team and press. Sappy as shit, but it’s the truth.
My phone buzzes, alerting me to an incoming email from [email protected].
Mr. Kendrick,
I’ve compiled some possible dates (see below) for the mixer I’d like to schedule. If you can please choose one, I will organize everything accordingly.
Thank you,
Darcy
My lips quirk at how professional she sounds, and I type a response.
Darcy,
Hope you’re feeling better than you were last night. Please let me know if you need anything. I’m planning to head up to Yulee to see my family for a bit, so I’ll be driving past your place.
I’ve marked the dates and listed my first and second choices in case something happens and there’s a conflict with the other ladies’ schedules.
Dax (Mr. Kendrick is my father)
P.S. Did you try one of the muffins?
I really hope she liked them. I tried one, and it was tasty. Then again, I live off protein shakes and more calories a day than the average person to maintain my weight and muscle mass.
It’s not long before another email hits my inbox, and I smile at her use of my first name this time.
Dax,
I’m feeling much better, thank you. I don’t need anything, but I’ve managed to catch up on work (finally), so I think I might head home early for once since it’s a crummy day with all this rain. Plus, the office is dead without Ivy around, and I’ve already used my quota of visits to see the baby this week.
Thank you for marking those dates for me. I’ll be in touch if we need to use your second choice.
Darcy
P.S. Yes, I did, and they were surprisingly good. Please don’t tell me you mixed some kale in them. Otherwise, there’s a good chance I’ll be violently ill.
My laughter bursts free at her words. I can practically hear her saying that and making a face about the kale.
My thumb hovers over the keys before I finally just decide to cut to the chase and call her office. She picks up after one ring.
“Well, hello, Mr. Kendrick.” Her voice sounds husky and subdued, and I swear I can detect the hint of a smile in her words.
“Damn caller ID takes all the fun out of surprises these days,” I complain good-naturedly.
“That it does. What are you up to today? Saving any other women from their menstrual cycles?” she teases.
I laugh. “Today’s my day off.”
“Good to know.”
An idea hits me, and before I can second-guess myself, I blurt it out. “Hey, since you’re leaving work early, want to go for a rid
e with me?”
“Um…” She falters. “Didn’t you say you were going to see your family today?” There’s something odd in her tone.
“Yes, but they’re a good bunch. God knows my mother would love to have someone else to complain to about me and my single status. And they’d make you feel more normal than usual”—I break off with a laugh—“especially if you consider my own mom bought me a sex chair.”
“I don’t know…”
“All I need to hear is, ‘Yes, Dax. I’ll be ready for you to pick me up in an hour.’”
She laughs, and this time it’s freer. “Okay. I’ll be ready in an hour.”
“See you then.”
“Bye.”
14
Darcy
Hitched® Tip #4:
Chemistry is important, but don’t mistake vapid lust for the real deal.
♥
Why did I agree to this? Panic surges through me, and I stare at the assorted clothing scattered on my bed.
I’ve tried on so many outfits, and nothing looks right. I mean, it’s not like I’m meeting Dax’s family as his girlfriend, but they’re special to him, and I need to look my absolute best. First impressions are vital.
What exactly does one wear to meet the family of a famous NFL wide receiver?
Not a pantsuit. Not a pencil skirt. Every dress I own screams boardroom-ready because, well, that’s the image I try to portray at work. A consummate professional.
Moreover, what in the hell will his family think of him bringing his matchmaker to meet them? Shit, shit, shit. I can’t do this. I need to tell him I have to cancel. It’s not like he doesn’t already know I’m in the throes of my menstrual cycle. Let me check the time and see if I can still catch him before he—
The sound of my impending doom—two swift knocks on the door—alerts me to the fact that I’m screwed. But maybe I can answer and beg off and blame it on my damn uterus sloughing itself to death.
