A minute later, I’m the only one standing and I realize I look like a complete ass, so I take a seat beside Jim. I’m sitting opposite Jordan and her agent. Everyone at the table knew about this and somehow kept it quiet.
I glance at Buck Mitchel. He’s in his mid-sixties with wavy, white hair and a beard that always needs a trim. He’s a decent coach but we have our moments and don’t always see eye to eye. He played professional football thirty years ago. It was in a different era and sometimes he thinks backtracking in coaching philosophy is the way to go. His clenched jaw and hands fisted on the table give away exactly how he sees this mess too. This is his team and it’s apparent he’s no happier than I am about our new player. I can’t even imagine the meetings that went on before today or how they talked him into this ridiculous scenario.
I sit through an hour of bullshit media plans while trying to maintain a small amount of self-control. Hell, if Mitchel, one of the most explosive-tempered coaches in pro football, can handle this, so can I.
“You’ll be in charge of the team dynamic, Aiden. They’ll stay focused if you lead them like a good captain should.”
Jim is speaking to me, and it takes a few seconds to recount what he just said. “I’ll do that,” I finally answer. I glance around the table before meeting Jim’s eyes again. “Have you thought about the psychological aspect of what you’re doing? Maybe you should consider having a psychologist or therapist on hand.”
Jim smiles and his large teeth flash like the weasel he is. “I didn’t think that would be necessary for a group of big, badass football players, but we can address it if you think it’s needed.”
I smile back with my own set of white teeth flashing. “I didn’t mean for the team. I meant for Miss Givens.”
Chapter Three
Jordan
“It could have been worse,” Larry says as we enter the two-bedroom suite that will be ours for the next few days. We were quiet in the car because we didn’t want the driver to overhear us.
“He hates me,” I groan. Larry knows exactly who “he” is.
“He doesn’t hate you. He’s slightly shocked, I’ll admit.”
My laugh isn’t humorous in the least. It’s more like the squeal of a cat who’s been stepped on. “Shocked?” I walk past the main room, toss my backpack on the floor of the first bedroom I come to, and fall back on the bed with my arms spread. “Look, I know what I’m getting myself into,” I say as I look at the ceiling. “This is only the beginning.” I cover my eyes in high dramatic fashion. “There will be denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Just like someone died.” I peek through my fingers. “Add in testosterone-laden Neanderthals, vindictive assholes, and whiny mommy’s boy temper tantrums and you’ll understand what the next few weeks will be like.”
Larry walks to the side of the bed. “Exactly, and your point is?”
I uncover my eyes and roll so I’m facing him. A wide grin splits my face. “I’m going to love it here,” I say with all the determination I feel. Aiden Patrickson is only my first hurdle and he’s a small one. Okay maybe not so small. He’s six inches taller than my own five foot ten height and outweighs me by at least seventy-five pounds. He’s jacked in a lean, mean, quarterback kind of way and gorgeous to boot. I can’t believe I met him and actually shook his hand. His eyes were bottomless pits of dark, steamy promises that I’m sure plenty of women take him up on. It doesn’t help that I’ve crushed on him for years. He played for one of the California state teams in college and I discovered him his senior year before he was drafted for the pros in the first round. In my opinion, he and Killian MacGregor are tied for the two sexiest football players alive. It would actually be easier if Killian’s team hired me. He’s married now and off the market and I’d never even be tempted to touch that. All my big girl fantasies have been wrapped up in Aiden since Killian got gobbled up by a lucky woman.
Larry interrupts my thoughts. “You with me, Jordan?”
I realize I’ve missed whatever he just said. “Sorry, I was thinking about the looks on my teammates’ faces when they meet me for the first time. If Aiden’s expression is any way to judge, I might need a bodyguard.” I laugh when I remember Aiden’s recommendation for a psychologist. To hell with a therapist. My goal is that every man on the team undergoes an extensive course on misogyny. Maybe I can get their mothers and sisters to pitch in with some life lessons.
Larry sits on the side of the bed with a smile and pats my arm. “Any other woman would have me worried. Not you. Do your thing and the players will come around.” He stands up. “I need to unpack and then we’ll go out for a private, celebratory dinner. The one tomorrow night will be a nightmare. When this hits the media, you’ll be as famous as a major Hollywood star.”
I grimace. I’m in no way excited about the hoopla that will continue over the next few weeks. “Maybe I’ll wear lipstick tomorrow. Tonight, with you, it’s just my plain old face, T-shirt, and the faded jeans I’m changing into.”
He stops at the door and turns. “Be yourself, Jordan. If the media or the players don’t like it, tough crap. You’ve earned this.”
I sit up. “I know and I won’t let you down.”
He shakes his head. “Couldn’t happen.”
An hour later, we find a Mexican restaurant within walking distance of the hotel, drink a few margaritas, and overindulge on tacos, rice, and beans.
“Eating with you is always a pleasure,” Larry says after wiping his mouth on a napkin.
“How so?” I ask.
“My daughters eat small salads with no dressing. I feel guilty when I eat with them. You, on the other hand, have a hollow leg.”
I laugh and take my last bite of rice. “It’s my height,” I say after putting my fork down and placing my hand on my full stomach. “It’ll catch up to me some day and when it does, I’ll be forced to eat the proper foods and watch my cholesterol,” I say in a stern voice while giving him “the look.”
Larry shakes his head. “I get the point. I’ll do better tomorrow, mommy.” He raises his glass. “Here’s to Jordan Givens the—” he lowers his voice, “newest player for the New Mexico Pronghorns.”
We clink our glasses and finish our margaritas. The waitress brings the bill and I grab it before Larry can. “Anti-misogyny starts here. And the signing bonus means I owe you dinner.” He gives in gracefully. We walk back to the hotel and enjoy the warm evening. I have always preferred playing football and soccer in warmer weather and I know I’m going to love the heat of the Southwest.
My mind drifts to all the things I need to do. Find a place to live, buy a car, and locate the nearest library. I would add a place to work out to the list but the Pronghorns have a state-of-the-art gym that I’ll be using. No more mediocre community college gym for me. I’m in the big leagues now.
∞∞∞
I barely sleep thanks to all the excitement and a small amount of dread. Larry, on the other hand, appears relaxed and ready to take on the world. We have breakfast in our room with local news on the television in the background. Nothing about me so far.
I shower and then lay across the bed on my back with my head hanging over the side so I can French braid my hair. I tie the end with a short red ribbon. Next, I change into a pair of black dress pants, three inch heels, and a red power blouse that I can button to the top and act demure or unbutton three down and show cleavage. Today, I’m buttoned up. I wear a gold ring on the middle finger of my right hand. It has three small diamonds and belonged to my mother. A simple gold chain accents my throat. And yes, I add deep red lipstick. A girl can never have too many tubes of lipstick.
Larry is in another dark suit, and once more I envy men their clothing regimen. I will be judged on every item covering my body. Men are seldom criticized on their choice of wardrobe. At least I’m as tall or taller than many men especially when I’m in heels. It’s easier to take the male-domination looks when they crane their head back to meet my eyes.
I walk i
nto the room and catch a few words from the television, which Larry is standing next to.
“The newest player for the Pronghorns is causing quite the stir this morning. He’s a she and the team’s owner, Rick Dove, will be holding a press conference in an hour. What say you, Mike?” The reporter looks to the commentator on his left.
“People can argue all they want and hate me for stating fact, but she won’t make it through the first week of practice.”
“And you can eat those words,” I say out loud.
“So you’re saying this is some kind of publicity stunt? We don’t even know her identity yet.”
Mike turns from his co-host and stares straight into the camera. “This is a joke, and if this woman actually shows up on the field, the only person who will laugh is her orthopedic doctor all the way to the bank.”
Larry shuts off the TV and looks at me. “He’s an ass.”
I walk to the table where we ate earlier and grab my California driver’s license and hotel key card. I slide them in my back pocket. I learned playing community college ball that a purse is a hindrance in the football community. I have lipstick in my other back pocket, so I’m good. “It will only get worse,” I tell Larry. “I’m solid and completely ready to get this press conference over with.”
Larry’s face goes hard with determination. He’s good at hiding emotion and just the person you want on your side when things get rough. We take the elevator downstairs and the driver we had the day before is waiting. His expression, which is a little more speculative today, shows he heard the news.
He opens the car door and I slide inside. We’re five minutes from corporate. I examine my unpolished, clipped nails during the ride. I’m still leery of speaking in front of anyone, even if the driver works for the team.
“We’re entering through the side entrance today,” our driver says. “Mr. Dove doesn’t want you trampled by the media quite yet.”
I peer at the rearview mirror and catch the driver’s eye. “I assure you I can handle trampling by a pack of news-hungry reporters even without pads.”
He winks at me. “Just following orders, ma’am.”
For the oddest reason, his wink takes some of the pressure from my shoulders and I inhale with relief. “Call me Jordan.”
“Name’s Dwaine,” he says with a flash of teeth.
Dwaine is in his mid to late twenties with beautiful ebony skin. He’s maybe an inch shorter than me and he’s wearing a black suit that’s not as expensive as Larry’s, but it still looks good on him. His chocolate eyes are inquisitive and he’s more handsome when he smiles. I don’t see a ring on his left ring finger and decide he’d make a good hookup if he didn’t work for the Pronghorns’ organization. What can I say? I’m twenty-one and I’ve been celibate for months.
My best bud, Reg, and I had a “friends with benefits” relationship until he met his fiancée, Laura. It took me and Laura a few months to become friends and now the three of us are tight. I need to find someone like Reg who will keep their mouth shut, screw my brains out, and not expect more than friendship. This will help me keep to my self-imposed rule: No dating football players or anyone associated with the team.
We circle slowly around the stadium and the imposing structure becomes even more so. It’s huge and the weight of actually playing for a professional football team sinks in a little more. Dwaine comes to a stop and types something into his cell phone. A few seconds later, the side door opens and one of the attorneys from yesterday ushers us inside. “They’re waiting in the press room, Miss Givens.”
We follow him down a long corridor. My shoes echo each time the heels come down on the tile. It makes me smile and I pull in another long breath and look over at Larry. He’s still wearing his professional face. I can’t help it and poke him in the side. Just the hint of a grin tips the corners of his mouth and he shakes his head. We keep walking, making turns here and there, and I know I’ll never find my way out without help. Eventually, we stop and the lawyer pushes open a door. There are four steps in front of me and then a stage with a long table. I’ve seen this room on the news. The Pronghorns’ emblem hangs behind the table. Larry surprises me by giving my hand a quick squeeze.
It’s do or die time.
Chapter Four
Aiden
Head Coach Buck Mitchel is speaking and he’s pretending this is just another news conference and Jordan Givens is just another player. He’s giving the opposite impression I got from him yesterday, and he now appears to agree that Jordan should be on the team.
Kiss ass, I say beneath my breath.
I’m in a piss-poor mood after losing valuable sleep the night before. I drank a bucketload of coffee this morning and the dark liquid did nothing to help the throbbing pain in my jaw from clenching my teeth throughout the torturous night.
A few minutes ago, Mitchel informed me I have the pleasure of tagging along with Miss Givens’ entourage after the news conference when she’s officially introduced to the team. I spent the entire night trying to find a way out of what would happen today. I was also under strict orders to keep my mouth shut about our new kicker. The news hit the media less than an hour ago and half the team has texted or tried to call me. My phone is on silent mode because I can’t answer their questions. I hate this. These are my teammates and my position as captain is placing me in a bad spot.
During my sleepless hours, I also did my homework on Jordan Givens. I combed the internet for any story on Little Miss Field Goal. I watched the interview she did for News World when she was playing college ball. My anger stayed until she spoke about her mother. Yes, I have a heart. It was hard not to feel emotion when she teared up. News World also showed highlights of some of her games. I admit she’s a talented kicker. But. There’s a huge difference between community college ball and pro football. I have no idea why anyone would think she could play at our level. In the interview, they spoke to her high school and college coaches along with a few of the players. All appeared to have respect for her. That doesn’t change the fact that no girl will make it in the pros. After one hit, she’ll be carried off the field on a stretcher.
All I need to do is forget how damn sexy she is. She could be a runway model. Hell, she needs to give real consideration to another career. Last night, I replayed one section of video about twelve times because it showed her running off the field after a successful forty-yard field goal, removing her helmet, and smiling for the camera. Her smile got to me. Those damn lips belong in porn films.
“You have anything to add, Aiden?” a reporter asks and I realize I’ve paid little attention to the press conference. It’s been basic small talk while the coaching staff prepares the press for the star of the hour. Hell, the century.
“I believe someone with Miss Givens’ talent deserves a shot,” I say in my best “it’s all about team unity” voice.
“But you don’t believe she’ll make the grade,” he replies with a laugh, putting words in my mouth. Doesn’t matter that it’s exactly how I feel, his tone pisses me off. This is only the beginning. The Pronghorns are a laughingstock as it is. This is icing on a moldy cake—sticky, messy icing made with rotten eggs.
“She’ll either prove herself or she won’t. It’s as easy at that.” I’m such a liar. The woman doesn’t have a shot in hell.
Cameras begin flashing and the entire audience turns to the door where Jordan makes her entrance. She smiles like she just won the Miss USA Pageant and God, she’s wearing dark red lipstick that matches her silky shirt. Pro football players do not, I repeat, do not wear fucking lipstick. My entire body tightens like its preparing for a dive play with one yard needed to win the game. It’s that damn little mouth of hers—pursed to perfection—that makes my dick take notice again. Hell.
Everyone else at the table stands and reluctantly I take my feet, glad that all eyes are on her and no one is looking at my crotch. There is one chair available at the center of the table and it’s directly next to mine. I pull out the chair
and want to punch myself for acting the gentleman for a new fucking player. If she were a he, I’d be laughed out of the room. It’s this kind of shit that proves we don’t need women in football.
Her smile drops for a split second when she looks from my hands holding the chair up to my eyes. “Thank you,” she says in that husky voice that gives my cock another jolt. Her attention turns to the crowd and she doesn’t appear fazed in the least as she takes her seat.
“Miss Givens, Miss Givens.” It’s a massive volley of her name as the press tries to gain her attention and get the first question in.
She starts talking and of course there’s too much noise to hear her. What the hell is she doing? I’m sitting beside her and can’t make out a word she’s saying. She doesn’t stop and slowly the room becomes eerily quiet.
“—answer your questions in an orderly fashion or not at all,” she says in a calm, smoky voice. “I don’t know any of you personally, so I think it best I defer to Coach Mitchel on whose questions I take first.”
I peel my eyes off our new kicker who just quieted a room full of reporters and look at the coach. He gives her a chin nod and calls out Cloe Smythe by name. He’s playing this smart and selects a woman who has inched her way up the sports reporter ladder.
“Miss Givens,” she says.
“Please, call me Jordan.”
“Thank you, Jordan. When did you decide you wanted to play pro football?”
Jordan folds her hands in front of her and interlocks her fingers. For the oddest reason I want to tug on the back of her braid and fluster her. She’s just too damn calm. “I don’t remember a time when I didn’t want to play football. My father will tell you I sat quietly on his knee and watched entire games as a toddler. I was quite rambunctious, so sitting still for any length of time was a gift for my parents.” Everyone laughs and hangs on every word that comes out of her prissy mouth as she continues speaking. “Playing football isn’t a lark for me. I live, eat, and breathe the game. Right now good kickers are in high demand, so I’m getting a shot to play a game I’ve always loved.”
Goal (Completion #6) Page 2
