by Kata Čuić
He drags a hand through sweat-soaked hair that’s a much lighter shade of brown when it isn’t wet. From what I’ve seen of his team photos, he keeps it neat and doesn’t go overboard with products or style like the kind of guys who probably spend more time on their hair in the morning than I do.
Like Ben does. Or maybe he doesn’t anymore. I wouldn’t know because he made it perfectly clear that we needed a break to find ourselves. Whatever that means.
I snap out of my daze when Mitchell speaks.
“I don’t need it, guys. Really.”
A bark of laughter redirects my attention to the doorway. The same man who tested me stands at the entrance of the room like some sort of guard dog, his arms crossed over his chest. “Oh, we think you do.”
Mike throws his arms in the air, clearly frustrated. “Why? My numbers are solid. I’m pulling my weight—”
A round of boisterous laughter cuts him off. Another player shouts, “Yeah, because this is the weight room!”
He rolls his eyes at that admittedly horrible joke. “Butt out of my personal life, will you?”
“I knew it!” someone else calls. “He’s got butt problems!”
“Oh my God,” Mitchell mutters, rubbing his forehead. Then louder, “I’m not gay! Give it a rest already!”
“If you’re not gay, then explain your lover’s spat with Fossoway last week.”
My ears perk up because that name is precisely why I’m here. I open my mouth, but I don’t get a chance to speak.
“Gay or not, you need to get laid, man!”
“How long’s it been? Years?”
“Are you a Boy Scout?”
“Relax and live a little! You’re in the big leagues now! Enjoy it!”
With each additional piece of life advice, Mike’s face gets redder and redder. I’m not sure whether it’s from anger or embarrassment. Both of which I totally empathize with. He finally explodes, leaping off his bench like his butt might actually have problems. In that it’s on fire. He stands so close to me; I can actually see the split second of hesitation in his eyes.
In the next heartbeat, my theory is proven right. So right.
If only it wasn’t so wrong.
That thought is impossible to maintain when strong, capable hands grip my hips and knead until I’m nearly purring. A decidedly inelegant squeak escapes my throat as I’m hauled against six feet of solid muscle. The instinct to let my hands explore every plane and deep ridge forces me to fist his damp shirt to stave off my baser instincts. Firm lips and a warm, soft tongue obliterate any other attempt at sensibility. If I’ve ever been kissed like this, I don’t remember it. I’m not sure I’ll remember my own name after even one more minute of this exquisite torture.
Thankfully, he pulls away before I can completely lose myself.
All my hopes for salvation go up in flames as his mouth migrates to the sensitive spot just below my ear, his lips tickling my prickly skin as he speaks. “Follow my lead.”
I’m not sure I could walk a straight line right now, much less follow him anywhere.
Seeming to sense my knees are close to buckling, he drags me away as laughter and more comments pelt me from all sides. The cacophony is barely enough to stop my mind from spinning.
“Give it to her good!”
“Don’t come back here until you’re a man again!”
“Can I watch?”
Heck, I want to watch what Mike Mitchell is undoubtedly capable of, and pornography is not something I’ve ever engaged in.
Once we’re safely in the much quieter hallway, he releases me from his surprisingly gentle grip then rounds on me. “I’m sorry, but I’m not interested. I’ll pay for your wasted time though, unless whoever hired you paid up front.”
The conversation and events that went over my head in the weight room catch up to me with his offer. “You think I’m a prostitute?”
He grimaces, avoids eye contact, and stuffs his hands in the pockets of his athletic shorts. The stance enhances every bulging muscle in his arms. “I’m not judging. I don’t know your life story, just like you don’t know mine. But I can vouch from personal experience that sex doesn’t solve everything. If you’re looking for a way out of this life, I’ll do whatever I can to help. I’m sorry for the kiss, I— Well…it was the fastest and safest way to get you out of there.”
I open and close my mouth no less than ten times, but nothing escapes. No words form. Of all the ways I imagined our initial meeting, being mistaken for a sex worker was never a consideration. Neither was experiencing the sort of kiss I’ve only seen in movies. Or hearing the man who gave it to me say he’s sorry for it.
The problem is…he’s not entirely wrong. I am being paid to be at his service. Management didn’t expressly say if he requested sex that I should acquiesce, but they didn’t exactly convince me they wouldn’t be down for that method either.
I might be young, inexperienced, and naïve in this world of professional sports, but I am no one’s call girl.
With that reinforcing thought in place, I take a deep breath to prepare my spiel. “I’m afraid you’ve misunderstood—”
“No. You’ve misunderstood.” His angry gaze snaps up to meet mine directly. “I don’t care what they told you, what they promised you, or who hired you. I don’t care if you’re in this for the money, for fifteen seconds of internet fame, or for the chance to sleep with any professional football player without caring who he is. I don’t need to get laid. I need to do my job. Nowhere in my job description does it say I’m required to fuck a hooker just to get my teammates off my back and prove to the whole world I’m not gay.”
Wow. I thought I had it rough. This went from bad to worst-case scenario in a hurry. If this is what his teammates have been putting him through since he signed on with the Wolves; if this is what he’s used to dealing with as an NFL player; if this is how little he thinks of me from only our first meeting, I’m not sure I can fulfill my role as his assigned babysitter, much less use this opportunity to hone my social media expertise to turn around his career before it tanks completely.
I tilt my head to the side to study him for a moment, carefully thinking about my words before I lose my temper, which is dangerously close to boiling over. “That’s funny because my job description clearly states I’m required to help you even if you don’t want me to.”
He throws his arms up in the air, much in the same way he did in the weight room. “I’m not going to fuck you!”
A moment of clarity calms my frazzled nerves. He doesn’t know. No one has said anything to him yet beyond his teammates teasing him about last week’s post-game gaffe. He has no idea he’s already screwed. In more ways than one.
I’ve never seen a hooker in a business suit before.
In my time during college ball, I thought I’d seen it all. I guess this is the big leagues though, and I’m bound to experience some new things. I’ve gotta give it to Templeman, he isn’t giving up easily. The dumbass probably thinks I’m harboring some secret naughty librarian fantasy, so he prepped her on exactly how to play the part. The skirt and matching jacket this woman’s wearing look about two sizes too small for all the curves they’re hugging in just the right places. If she moves too much, those buttons are bound to pop open. I’m honestly surprised she didn’t go all out with some fake glasses.
Some guys are really into the whole nerdy thing, and the women I’m used to turning away know how to market to their clientele. Too bad she doesn’t know a thing about me. My teammates are just taking stabs in the dark to see what I’ll respond to at this point.
The woman frowns. She must be new at this and doesn’t know how to handle a difficult customer. Then again, most of the jersey chasers I’ve ever met—paid or not—aren’t usually this timid. I’ve definitely never seen any of them blush the way this one does.
And what a blush it is. If I was into casual sex with someone who might have already slept with my entire team, she might be able to persuade m
e. There’s something about her that’s just…light and happy. Peach colored hair, peach colored cheeks—she even smells like peaches—and I can’t help but notice…a great rack. She’s a little on the softer side than most of the jersey chasers and call girls who hang around. A lot less makeup, a little less confidence, and maybe a hint of a temper? I don’t know. It kind of freaks me out that I want to know if that color staining her cheeks is from anger or embarrassment.
There has got to be something wrong with my head. All these pranks are getting to me.
As the minutes tick by in silence while she continues to stare at me, a hint of guilt creeps over my already exhausted muscles. I don’t usually lose my temper like I just did. Staying calm, cool, and level-headed is important, especially in the worst circumstances. Emotions in the heat of the moment usually end in disaster. I guess it doesn’t matter though. Lately, no matter what I do, my life off the field is nothing but chaos.
Chaos breeds tragedy.
Careful, controlled order saves lives. In more ways than one.
Stuffing away all the weird emotions I usually keep locked away, I shake off the missed play and try a different route. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. You’re just trying to do your job, and you don’t deserve—”
“Oh!” she interrupts, a hint of light breaking over her admittedly beautiful face. “That’s okay! I get it. You’re a man of action, not words. I can sympathize with that. Maybe it would be better if I show you…”
She fishes her phone out of her jacket pocket.
I wince, expecting a thousand-dollar bill for less than twenty minutes of her time to be shoved under my nose. These stupid pranks are seriously cutting into my budget for sending money home to my mom to help pay off her four times over refinanced mortgage and for making my sisters’ college tuition payments.
Instead of an invoice with a bright red button I can tap to pay off another debt, a familiar video plays that I’ve rewatched way too many times in the past week. That’s time I could have spent studying videos of the next opponent.
I’ve wanted to strangle Alex Fossoway a million times since I met his cocky ass in sixth grade through our hometown’s rec football league, but these days? I am literally forcing myself to use training as a distraction from flying to Florida to commit homicide.
Been there, done that, don’t need a repeat.
The sight of us arguing on the field after the last game between Albany and Orlando makes me grit my teeth to keep my muscles from trembling with the rage that threatens to escape my mental cage.
It doesn’t matter that most people don’t understand the years of shared history that brought us to the point of me literally dragging him away from the Wolves’ sideline. Hell, even I can’t deny it looks like the kind of argument only people who are intimately acquainted would have.
Alex Fossoway and I are intimately acquainted all right. Blood brothers for all the wrong reasons. And through the one person I wish we didn’t share a very intimate history with.
“So, you see?” the redhead begins again with a gentle tone of voice. “That’s why I’m here.”
My stomach twists in knots, and that old urge to commit physical violence returns with a vengeance. “If you’re looking for a threesome, I hate to break it to you, but he plays for a different team in a different state. We don’t see each other unless it’s for a matchup between our teams.”
Maybe never again off the field.
That thought makes me sadder than it should. What the hell is wrong with me these days?
Fire incinerates her previous calm. “Oh my God! I’m not a prostitute! I’m not angling for a threesome! I’m only here because you completely embarrassed your team in a very public venue, and our bosses think you need some help!”
Help isn’t something I’ve had since around the time I met the guy who apparently started all this. She’s got my attention. I’ll give her that. “Who are you again?”
She crosses her arms over her chest in a way that suggests her breasts are actually off-limits, but she’s ready to get down to business anyway. “My name is Tori Russo. I’m your new PR manager.”
Cancel all the promises I’ve made myself to never commit physical violence again.
I’m going to kill Alex Fossoway.
Maybe twice. Just for fun.
The whispers are too low to make out, but their unmistakable stares raise the hair on the back of my neck. It’s the exact same scene I just barely escaped unscathed, but I’m not sure I’ll be as lucky for round two even though this is a much more familiar environment than the weight room.
Why did I have to lie and tell him I’m his new PR manager? There’s self-preservation and achieving a desired outcome, then there’s being overly ambitious. If any of these actual marketing reps find out what I’ve done, I’m well…done for.
The usual suspects stand around the proverbial water cooler, undoubtedly placing bets on my success…or much more likely failure. It shouldn’t please me as much as it does at the prospect of informing them it was a wash. Actually, I don’t know that for sure. Mitchell never gave any indication he was agreeable to our forced partnership. He simply stormed away without a word when I told him who I was and why I sought him out. It’s not even like my little white lie helped the situation.
“So?” The ringleader, Kaylie, steps away from the pack, her eyes bright and her perfectly painted lips poised in a hopeful smile. “How did it go?”
They’re going to find out anyway. No sense lying about it. “They thought—he thought—I was a prostitute.”
Kaylie cackles. Everyone else has the decency to at least try to hide their smiles behind their coffee mugs. The effect of which is completely spoiled by one person in the group handing a twenty over to Kaylie’s waiting rose-gold, talon-tipped clutches.
The only loser who didn’t bet against me stands in front of me with a frown, studying me from head to toe. “I really thought I chose the perfect outfit to dissuade them from that belief.”
“Wait a minute.” My cheeks heat for the umpteenth time. They may never be cool again as long as I’m stuck in this horrid assignment. “You all knew they would think I was a hired sex worker?”
“Of course. They’ve been pulling that same prank on Mitchell since the game when this all blew up.” Kaylie raises a well-manicured eyebrow in clear challenge. “You didn’t know?”
The entirety of the PR department waits with bated breath for my de facto admission of ignorance. It’s no secret they resent me for being handed this job. Why shouldn’t they? I’m the lowest woman on the totem pole as an intern, and any of them would kill for this opportunity to work one-on-one with an up and coming player on the Wolves’ roster. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been ordered to be a glorified babysitter.
“I didn’t know,” I confess on a whisper.
“It was the shoes.” David, one of my only co-workers who I’m pretty sure isn’t out for my blood, clucks his tongue like a mother hen. “I shouldn’t have put you in stilettos for this initial meeting. Never mind the nude color, they still scream sex on a stick.”
Kaylie laughs. “Nudity and sex are definitely two things they were expecting.”
“I thought the whole reason the team keeps pranking Mitchell is because he never has sex?” another co-worker, Mason, pipes up. “His nickname in the locker room is Monk for a reason.”
His nickname in the locker room is Monk? Really? No wonder he’s so salty.
David turns a severe expression toward the group still huddled around the department Keurig. “You all know his nickname, but you didn’t know for sure whether he’s finally accepted his teammates’ offerings?”
I almost want to laugh at the way they all cower before our department lead. David Helms runs the PR sector of the Albany Wolves with an iron fist because he has the skills to do so. While upper management constantly comes up with new, fresh ideas for how to make the team seem better in the public eye, David is the one who makes the magic happen b
ehind the scenes—whether that’s organizing charity functions that run smoother than a submarine deployment or simply making fans feel appreciated during team events like training camp. He does it all, and he does it better than anyone else ever could. His creativity is only slightly eclipsed by his work ethic, attention to detail, and organizational skills.
I could learn so much from him.
Except how to boss people around. Pretty sure I’m never going to hone that skill set.
Right on cue, he barks out orders. “Kaylie, pull all public footage of Mitchell’s and Fossoway’s interactions. Leave no stone unturned. Go all the way back to when they first played together in their hometown’s recreation league. Mason, you’re on SO duty. Give me all the details you can find about Mitchell’s love life. No, I don’t care how you get that dirt. I want concrete proof there’s no one warming his bed lately. If you can track down his ex and get the real story of why they split, even better. We all know Fossoway’s a player both on and off the field. Caitlin and Zoe, you two are on jersey chaser duty. Find me the most recent women Fossoway has slept with. If Mitchell’s back story provides nothing, then we’ll have Fossoway’s womanizing ways as a back-up plan to defend Mitchell’s reputation.”
They scatter like leaves on the wind, eager to do our collective master’s bidding. Everyone has a lot riding on this assignment being a success after all. Even if they enjoy watching me fumble at it.
David turns back to me and immediately rolls his eyes. “Don’t give me that look.”
I trail after him as he strides quickly to his desk to begin his own research for the day. It’s probably beyond stupid on my part, but this feels wrong. “I know it’s not my place, but…despite their argument last week, Fossoway and Mitchell are friends. They played together in college and in high school! If you go after Alex like this and run him through the mud, that’s not going to make Mike want to play nice with us.”
