by Sosie Frost
Cole’s voice was a heavy scrape of gravel and irritation. “I was in my weight room. In the basement. Working. Didn’t hear any knocking until…”
He stepped on the doorbell, pulverizing the plastic under his heel.
Point taken.
I raised my chin and faked some confidence. Usually I could get tough enough to dissuade my toddler from licking electrical outlets, but I hoped I could pull off authority against an egotistical, alpha-male, bastard jock.
“I’m sorry about the interruption. I’m with Sports One, your agency—”
Cole didn’t care. “You’re not Maddy.”
“Paul Madison, Maddy, is my father. I’m Piper Madison.”
I smiled. Cole didn’t. So much for the professional tone. Since when were football players harder than masters’ theses?
“My father asked me to meet with you regarding your contract—”
“Not interested.”
“Oh, but—”
The behemoth returned to his house. I leapt away as the door slammed in my face.
What. The. Hell.
No greetings. No introductions. No pleasantries.
Did I knock on his door and fall back in time to some crazy feudal era?
Cole had glanced me over—one stare that was as invasive as copping a feel—and then bashed the door so hard his whole mansion grumbled.
What sort of pompous, ill-mannered, egomaniac was this man?
No wonder Dad sent me. As if fetching his coffee and cleaning his office wasn’t demoralizing enough, he set me up to fail! He knew Cole would act like this.
I was not letting defensive diva Cole Hawthorne get his way, not when I came to help his career.
I balled my fist and pounded the wood. The windows rattled, but I didn’t stop until the glass nearly crashed into his foyer.
The door opened. If possible, Cole was even less welcoming this time.
“Get off of my property.”
Not until I got what I came here for. “My father sent me with the paperwork for your contract. When you signed with the Atwood Monarchs, you and the team agreed on a consensual trade clause. You couldn’t be traded unless you consented to the transfer.” I held up the folder. “I have the waiver here. Sign this, and the Monarchs will begin the process for the trade.”
“I told you once…” He spoke slowly, not to intimidate me, but as if each word sharpened his teeth. “I’m not interested.”
A crazy desperation seized me. Sixteen months of interrupted sleep had culminated this morning when I poured two tablespoons of salt into my coffee. My descent into sleep-deprived madness continued as I waged career—and personal—suicide.
I stepped into the door and blocked it from closing.
Cole didn’t move. His sneer darkened into a threat.
I didn’t know much about football, but I’d learned one very valuable lesson working in the industry.
Some players were fun. Others flirty. Most were gentlemen.
Cole Hawthorne was none of those things.
Monsters existed in the world. If we were lucky? They’d stay bound between the hash marks. If we weren’t? If he went wild? No little yellow flag would be enough to stop a beast like him.
Cole smiled now, just to bare his teeth. “You’re making some bad decisions, little girl.”
I hadn’t been a little girl for a while, not since I took the pregnancy test in the cramped library bathroom between college classes.
“You need to sign this waiver, Mr. Hawthorne,” I said. “The trade would benefit your career. The Monarchs are done protecting you from the league. This trade will let you sign with a team who is willing to take the chance on you. Given the right contract, we might be able to get you more money and a bit of wiggle room.”
“Wiggle room?” Cole stood absolutely still, baiting me. “Do I look like a man who wiggles?”
Was I supposed to answer that? “…No?”
“But you look like a woman who wouldn’t mind squirming.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re an agent, aren’t you? You’d wiggle like a worm in the mud for an extra tenth of a percent.”
I wasn’t a real agent—more like a glorified office gopher. But even if I had sold my soul to the devil and lured in my own clients, I wouldn’t have squirmed or shimmied in the slightest for a bastard like him.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I said.
“Don’t care either.”
His lingering gaze said otherwise. I crossed my arms a little tighter. “I’m trying to help you.”
“I’ve never asked anyone for help. Never needed it.”
I could believe that. “Sign the waiver so you can be traded before the season starts. You’ll be glad you did it now instead of later.”
“Sorry, princess. You’re wasting this rescue. My career isn’t in any danger.”
“But—”
“Look, let me make this perfectly clear, beautiful—”
“—Miss Madison, thank you very much.”
Cole narrowed his eyes. “Has no one ever called you beautiful before?”
“No!” I shook my head. “I mean…yes, but…that’s not—”
“It’s a shame you had to hear it from me first, Miss Madison.” Cole didn’t let me speak. His voice lowered to a shadowed growl. “My gate closes at six-thirty every night, and it won’t open again until morning.”
“I—”
“Ask yourself, beautiful. Which side of the gate do you want to be on when it locks?”
He wouldn’t dare.
No man was that animalistic. That much of a bastard.
But Cole didn’t flinch. Didn’t avert his gaze. Didn’t smile.
He didn’t back down from my challenge.
And one moment of weakness crept within my thoughts. One moment where I heard the clanging lock of a wrought-iron gate as the darkness thickened around us.
One moment where I stared at his muscles, his arms, the curl of his lip twisting into that sinister smirk.
It was a good moment. A soul-quaking moment. A warming, pulsing moment.
But I had my fill of weak moments. The last time I indulged in that particular fantasy, I had to drop out of grad school and exchange my books and degrees for a precious baby girl.
I pushed the folder of paperwork at Cole’s chest. He was solid muscle. Trouble. Danger.
“This isn’t over,” I said as he flipped through the folder. “Take the trade. I’ll return to collect the waiver with your signature.”
“Let me save you the trouble.”
Finally. I got through to him. I pulled a pen from my purse and clicked the top.
“I just need a signature, and I’ll come back later with the hard copies for your files—”
Cole ripped the folder in two. He dropped the pieces onto the porch for the wind and rain to destroy.
His voice deepened, a virile, hungry sound. “Come back later if you want, beautiful, but we won’t be doing anything…professional.”
Absolutely not. I resisted the urge to slap him—I didn’t think I could reach his face.
“I hope you realize that you’re missing an opportunity to change your life, Mr. Hawthorne,” I said.
“You’re missing an equally large opportunity, Miss Madison.”
I ignored him. “What happens when the Monarchs finally refuse to defend The Beast to the league?”
“I’m tougher than I look.”
“Sometimes we all need a little help. A little compassion.”
“And you think a trade to another team will protect me?”
“No, Mr. Hawthorne. I think trading you to another team will protect the rest of the league.”
Cole clenched his jaw. “Better hurry, beautiful. Night’s falling. My gate will be closing soon.”
“Believe me, I have no intention of staying here.”
“We’ll see.”
Arrogant.
Despicable.
Stubborn.
/> I cursed him six ways from Sunday, and I still didn’t have enough words to silently spit at that bastard. I stormed to my car, not caring that the rain soaked my clothes and displayed my curves. Cole slammed his door without watching me go.
And I should have been relieved. I should have turned the key in my ignition and sped from his damn mansion-castle.
Except that one moment of weakness under his gaze had extended into a few too many heartbeats.
I drove away, but I hated that I glanced in the rear-view mirror as I left, hoping to see him one more time.
Dangerous, dangerous. I wasn’t about to let temptation cast that spell over me. I had a job to do, a daughter to care for, and a life to get on track. I wouldn’t waste another second thinking about the bastard, Cole Hawthorne.
No wonder he lived alone.
Who could ever love a beast like him?
2
Cole
Some men prayed when they began their morning. Most read the paper and ate breakfast. The lucky few spent time with their families.
My day didn’t begin until my fist curled around grass, my cleats dug into dirt, and a ball snapped.
My signal to work.
The whistle’s metallic trill echoed over the field, and a surge of adrenaline and testosterone consumed me. Even during practice, I charged at my teammates with a break-neck burst of speed. We collided—grunting, sweating, churning. That frantic bash of bone and body was the reason I was alive.
Linemen feared me.
Running backs avoided me.
Receivers hated me.
And quarterbacks? I scattered those pretty boys over the goddamned field. I was stronger than them. Faster than them. I knew the plays they’d call, and I loved when they pissed their pants as they read my blitz.
After that ball snapped, I was no longer a man. I became an animal.
The drill was supposed to end if I broke through the line, but I couldn’t stop in time. Our quarterback smacked the ground ribs first.
Tim Morgan, king of the pussies in more ways than one, landed with a whined squeal. Nothing his oxy addiction couldn’t manage, but it didn’t bode well when he rolled onto his back and stayed there, grabbing at side.
The whistles blew, and the media on the sidelines snapped entirely too many pictures. The trainers and coaching staff rushed to the field.
And I was horse-collared backward by Coach Scott as the O-Line helped Tim to his feet.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing, Hawthorne?”
Coach Scott wasn’t a polite or subtle man. Time hadn’t been kind to the former defensive end. He kept the weight from when he played, but he no longer had the strength to push me to the ground. He swore instead.
“It’s a goddamned practice.” He jerked my collar. “That’s our own guy you’re hitting!”
And I’d tried to pull back before I wasted him. If I were the head coach, I’d have commended me on a job well-done and bitched at our tight-end. Tory was half a step slower than usual, probably because he spent the night banging whatever scraped across the parking lot after practice. It was his fault I made it through the line.
The adrenaline practically slurred my words. “Couldn’t pull back.”
Not what he wanted to hear. Coach Scott pushed me off the field. The other linebackers cleared out, isolating me on the sidelines. Right where the media had a clear view. The line of reporters probably already tweeted the incident…just like the hundred fans pressed tight against the fence, watching the practice from the training facility’s stands.
Coach Scott yanked my shoulder pads, trying to hurt me. He was lucky my temper didn’t snap, or his neck would have been next. He pitched his headset to the ground.
This wasn’t gonna end nice.
“You better get your fucking head in this game, Hawthorne. You see him?”
Coach Scott pointed at Tim. Our fearless leader massaged his ribs and eyed the women cooing from the fence. He’d probably have his pick of them tonight before heading home to his pregnant wife and kid, family man that he was.
“See how he’s wearing our colors?” Coach Scott grunted. “See him? Over there in the blue?”
I didn’t answer. He slapped my head, but his ring tangled in my hair. He ripped his hand away and tore out a hunk of hair from my pony tail.
Scalping me wouldn’t make this any easier.
He smacked me again. It was the last time I let that happen.
“I asked you a question, Hawthorne! Do you see that motherfucker standing over there?”
I gritted my teeth. “Yes, Coach.”
“You don’t touch him during practice. You don’t look at him. You don’t talk to him. If you want to crack some quarterback’s skull, you damn well better aim for Jack Carson’s head, you hear me?”
“Yeah, Coach.”
His voice lowered, a threat that’d scare the stink off a dog but wouldn’t intimidate me. “You got one last chance at this game. One. Fuck up again, and the league president will make an example out of a dirty player like you.” He snickered. “And you won’t go down a martyr, Hawthorne. Your ass will get kicked to the curb like the goddamned animal you are. Understand?”
“Yeah.”
“What’d you say?”
I saw red. “Yes, Coach!”
“Get off my fucking field.”
Coach Scott pushed me away. I didn’t fight. Didn’t look at him.
Kicked off the damn field on the last day of training camp. That wouldn’t help my reputation. But how the fuck was a man supposed to play a physical, dominating game and not rip his humanity to shreds?
There was no holding back. Strength. Power. Speed. It was all or nothing. And the league knew it. After one hundred thousand dollars in fines last year, I got their message loud and clear. They hailed me as the best linebacker in the game, and then they punished me for becoming The Beast—the all-pro defensive MVP for my three seasons in the league.
I couldn’t switch in and out of that mindset. The Beast was me, something impossible to control on the field.
And lately…just as hard to tame outside the game.
I hurled a water bottle against a wall as I headed into the practice facility. The plastic rattled off the tunnel and echoed against the damp concrete. It only pissed me off more. No fucking anger management technique was gonna work for this. Counting my heartbeats just reminded me how little time we had left before the season began.
Twelve days until the season opener. Two days until the last preseason game. Instead of working with the defense on the last problem areas of our nickel package, I got banished.
It was bullshit.
It was punishment.
…But it wasn’t all bad.
I didn’t make it to the locker room. I slammed my helmet down. The crash startled the petite trespasser who happened to wander through the wrong hall.
What was she doing here?
Piper Madison was a beautiful little troublemaker who probably broke more hearts than doorbells. She made a better impression when she wasn’t intruding on my house, shivering and soaking wet on my porch.
I couldn’t forget her dark, pouty lips. Those curves. The wild curls of her hair.
She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Lovely. Graceful. The rain hadn’t even bothered me—every man liked his woman wet.
No woman had ever dared to face me as she had. No man either. I didn’t know anyone who was dumb enough to loiter on my front step and expect to be treated with gentlemanly courtesy.
But she was different. Lithe and petite. Natural and dark. Her skin had glistened in the rain, every inch of her a toasted hazelnut. Even now, her dress shrouded her in a perfect femininity, a softness that begged for a touch, a taste.
A bite.
I ignored that particular fantasy. No matter how much protection my cup offered, I doubted it’d protect my boys if I pissed off a woman like Piper Madison.
“Are you lost, beautiful?”
Caught her. Piper flinched, spinning to face me. My voice still edged with that shadow of rage. She noticed, but she was too brave to let it scare her.
“Little far from home, aren’t you?” I asked.
She pretended like I didn’t intimidated her. “For your information, I’m here for a meeting.”
Sure, she was. I searched the hall. Not a soul to be found except the one woman clutching her visitor’s pass, searching for offices that were nowhere near the locker rooms.
I stepped closer. “This your first time in the practice facility?”
“If you must know—yes, it is. Why?”
I nodded toward the locker room. “Agents aren’t negotiating much in the showers…though I’d love to have you over the bargaining table.”
“I’m not interested in your low-ball offer, Mr. Hawthorne.”
“Not even if we go tit-for-tat?” I edged closer. “I’m sure my agent knows how to sweeten the deal.”
“You’ll have to ask him. My father represents you. I’m only here for a meeting.” Her expression cracked. A curl loosened from her ponytail. She smoothed it behind her ear with a delicate finger. “If I knew where the meeting was.”
“So you are all alone?”
She wasn’t willing to give me the satisfaction of being right. “You seem to be alone too, Mr. Hawthorne. Where’s your team? Last I checked there were another fifty…”
Her brow furrowed. Christ. She didn’t even know how many players were on the squad.
“Fifty-three,” I said.
“Fifty-three of you on the Monarchs.” She licked her bottom lip. Was she baiting me? “Where’s the rest of the team?”
It wasn’t smart to taunt me. My pads weighed more than her, my arms were thicker than her waist, and a single growl should have sent her running.
But she didn’t flinch. Maybe she didn’t understand who she was fucking with.
It was time for her to learn.
“I got kicked out of practice.”
Her beautiful, almond eyes widened. I edged closer. A dance, but Piper didn’t realize I was leading. She retreated, her back striking the wall.
“What did you do?” she asked.
“Got a little too aggressive.”
