Personal Foul (Moving the Chains Book 6)

by Kata Čuić

  Contents

  1. New Rules

  2. Up In The Air

  3. Sit Still, Look Pretty

  4. I Warned Myself

  5. Castle

  6. Civil War

  7. Beautiful Tango

  8. The Man

  9. Stressed Out

  10. Champion

  11. In My Blood

  12. Tell Her You Love Her

  13. Stronger

  14. Everything Has Changed

  15. Jealous

  16. Basket Case

  17. Body Party

  18. Controlla

  19. Me & U

  20. PillowTalk

  21. You Don’t Own Me

  22. All Over You

  23. Breathin

  24. When A Man Loves A Woman

  25. Just A Kiss

  26. Death of a Bachelor

  27. Lovely

  28. Make You Feel My Love

  29. Young Blood

  30. Sorry

  31. Conversations in the Dark

  32. I Would Do Anything For You

  33. Unconditionally

  34. Not a Bad Thing

  35. All We Know

  36. I Fall Apart

  37. White Horse

  38. Close

  39. Layla

  40. If It Feels Good (Then It Must Be)

  41. All I Know So Far

  42. Lay Me Down

  43. I Choose You

  Epilogue. End of an Era

  Titles by Kata

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Personal Foul Playlist

  Personal Foul

  Moving the Chains, Book 6

  Copyright ©2021 by Kata Čuić

  All Rights Reserved.

  This novel may not be reproduced in whole or in part without express written permission by the author. This includes, but is not limited to, the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. And yes, that includes the internet and social media. Especially those. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Art in any form is created from the blood, sweat, and tears of the artist. In this case, the writer. Please do not engage in piracy or plagiarism. Purchase from valid vendors. Create your own art!

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and goings on are the product of the author’s ridiculous imagination and/or life experiences and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead or otherwise, is coincidental. Kind of. Mostly.

  Editing by Lisa Salvucci

  Editing and Proofreading by Alison Evans-Maxwell at Red Leaf Proofing

  Cover Design by Sarah Kil at Sarah Kil Creative Studio

  His gaze lingers on my cleavage so long that I’m seriously considering breast removal surgery. I feel it should be elective whether I want to keep the assets I’ve been endowed with, regardless of medical necessity.

  I hold my breath. Not only to prevent my breasts from moving beneath his heavy gaze but also because he’s been silent so long. I can’t stop my heart from pounding in my chest. Perhaps my honesty was not the best policy. If I had only kept silent about my concerns, there would be no need to weigh whether I am qualified for this position.

  “Welcome to the Orlando Sharks.” Mr. Brooks finally extends his hand across the large mahogany desk. His sparse combover glistens with sweat though it is chilly in his office. He grips my fingers in a way that suggests he will never care about my personal boundaries. Every interview with him has been a combination of fending off sleazy advances while trying not to offend him so much that I would kill my chances of landing this job.

  “I am hired?” Mentally, I kick myself, but outwardly I do not so much as wince in spite of the discomfort rolling through me.

  I am a twenty-seven-year-old woman with a PsyD in clinical psychology. Not only have I learned how to keep a neutral expression during emotionally charged times, but I’ve also worked damn hard to deserve this position. I can’t allow a sleaze with a beer paunch covered up by an expensive suit to scare me away. Especially not when I didn’t let a very particular man prevent me from applying for this job in the first place.

  Mr. Brooks smiles warmly, not seeming to mind my momentary lapse of professionalism or confidence. “Yes, Dr. Deep. You’re hired.”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.” I politely extricate my hand from his grasp. Already, my mind runs with various to-do lists, not the least of which is trying not to be overwhelmed by another cross-country move. At least I’m not moving back to Ohio, where my parents are still ready and waiting to take over my life. They’ve given me an ultimatum—settle down and find my own life partner within the year or be saddled with the arranged marriage they’ve had waiting in the wings for me since I was a child.

  The phone call I must make to a certain friend goes directly to the bottom of my list. Perhaps I can get away with a courtesy text. He’s going to be so angry. Accepting this position will surely be perceived as a blatant rule violation, even though I’ve been completely transparent about our relationship throughout the interview process.

  Mr. Brooks slides a manila envelope across the desk toward me. “We’d like you to start as soon as possible. I understand that means relocating from Cali, but I promise you’ll enjoy the Florida weather just as much if not more.” He winks. “Our beaches are better.”

  From my understanding, the beaches are at least a two-hour drive either West or East from Orlando, but I bite my tongue and smile instead. “Which beach do you recommend?”

  “If you like surfing, you can’t beat Cocoa, but if you want the calmer waters of the gulf, then Clearwater is your best bet. We’ve only got a week until training camp though, so you don’t have much time for sightseeing. Best save that until you’re settled in.”

  I struggle to keep my expression neutral yet again. “You…would like me to start in a week?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He nods, as excited as I am panicked. “The relocation company info is in the packet, and we’ll cover your airfare for one more round trip.” He leans forward in his seat and whispers while obviously staring at my breasts, “Between you and me, I’d never be able to keep my wife from staying behind to oversee the movers. Good thing you’re a young, single woman, who probably doesn’t have much to pack up!”

  My cat very much disagrees. As does my shoe collection that’s become a tangible homage to my quest for personal freedom. There’s something inherently powerful about a pair of Louboutins. I believe it is the red sole. Perhaps it is how much I have to scrimp, save, and give up in order to afford them. Working hard makes the reward that much sweeter. “Of course. Yes. I will be available for training camp in a week. Is there also contact information for a real estate agent in the packet, or should I ask for that in HR while filling out my paperwork?”

  Not that I have any hope of purchasing a home in a week’s time, much less finding a decent rental. Still. This is my first real job, and I want the starter home that goes along with this new phase of my life. I am so close to having it all. I could weep for joy that this pipe dream is becoming a reality.

  Mr. Brooks slides open a desk drawer then rifles inside until he procures a business card, which he hands to me with a smile and another gross wink. “Make sure to tell her I sent ya. Rosie will take good care of you.”

  “Thank you.” We shake again—for longer than is professional or necessary—then I’m off to HR.

  The Sharks athletic complex is a labyrinth of hallways, offices, and conference rooms. Even during the off-season, the front office staff bustles around, too busy making a professional
football team operate smoothly to offer a smile to the newest rookie.

  Their frigidness toward me gets to the point that I run my tongue over my teeth, checking for food. They can’t possibly be judging my lucky nude Louboutins, the black pencil skirt, and cream silk blouse that I splurged on for this occasion. With my glasses on and my hair in a classic chignon, I look the epitome of a professional woman.

  I suppose I should be grateful they’re not leering at me like Mr. Brooks. There’s no way to hide my hourglass figure or my sizeable breasts. I’ve learned how to make my assets work for me when the occasion calls for it. I can go from geek chic to sex kitten in under an hour. I cannot magically transform myself into a man to fit into the male-dominated world of professional sports. Unless I splurge for the breast removal. I don’t have time to recover from surgery though.

  “Amira? I’m Janice. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” The first friendly face I’ve seen in hours offers her hand as she exits from her office. “I am so very sorry to keep you waiting, but legal had to draw up some extra papers.”

  My mind jumps to the worst-case scenario. “Is it going to be a problem? Mr. Brooks assured me I have the job.”

  “You have the job.” She gestures for me to take another seat in front of yet another desk. “We’ll just need a few more signatures than normal. Our players keep the legal team busy, so I’m actually pleasantly surprised that they got these over to me today instead of making us wait a week.”

  I swallow down my heart in my throat. I won’t be working much with HR, but I’m desperate to make a good impression with someone other than the GM who hired me. “Mr. Brooks actually wants me to be ready for training camp next week, so I have to fly back to California to pack up my entire life. It would have been difficult to arrange another trip. Thank you for your understanding and your diligence in making this happen today. I’m ready to sign whatever you have for me.”

  She pops her eyebrows and mutters, “I hope you don’t eat those words.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The smile she plasters on her face is so obviously fake. She glances toward the closed door as if she expects someone to burst through it. “Maybe you should read these carefully before signing.”

  “All right.” I have every intention of thoroughly perusing my hiring package, but her emphasis makes me wary.

  The numbers aren’t nearly what the player contracts look like, but that’s to be expected. Not every player on the roster makes millions. There’s no signing bonus for staff either. At least the team is covering my relocation and travel. I can’t find anything to complain about. Mostly, because I’m so grateful for this opportunity. Every team in the NFL now has an on-staff psychologist, but that’s only thirty-two options. I’m lucky this position opened up when it did.

  A clock ticks on the wall as I fill out form after form and sign my name in all the appropriate places. I glance up at Janice, who’s staring at me. “I don’t have a bank yet in Florida. May I give you this information after I’ve set up new accounts?”

  “Of course.” She purses her lips. “Those aren’t the documents you need to be careful with.”

  I am beginning to grow an aversion to the word careful.

  When I flip to the next page, her behavior becomes a little clearer. “These are indemnification notices and liability waivers.”

  “That is correct. Read those very, very carefully.”

  I expect to be bombarded with legalese that advises me I cannot hold the team responsible should I suffer an injury due to an errant football being thrown at me. It would not be outside the realm of possibility to discover there is a single player on the roster that I am prohibited from counseling. That is not what I’m reading.

  “Emotional distress?”

  Janice nods then leans forward and whispers, “I could lose my job for this, but…stay away from the quarterback.”

  The quarterback? If she had told me to stay away from Mr. Brooks, I wouldn’t be surprised. I also lean forward in a show of mutual posturing, which is a beneficial tool for building rapport. “I am the new team psychologist. I can’t stay away from the quarterback if he requests my services. Do I not need to sign disclosures about my relationship with another player on the team?”

  She blinks at me. “You have a relationship with another player on the team?”

  “I do. I was very up-front with Mr. Brooks about this. We have been friends since college, and it goes against my licensure to treat someone I have a personal relationship with. I would be unable to maintain the necessary neutrality in a patient/doctor setting.”

  Janice furrows her brow. “Who is it?”

  “Alex Fossoway.”

  “Oh.” She smiles brightly and waves off my concern. “You’ll be fine. He’s such a sweetheart. Truly one of the nicest, most down-to-earth pro players I’ve ever had the privilege of meeting.”

  I gape at her. Openly. I have not seen Alex in the flesh in years. When we last shared the same geography, sweet and down-to-earth were not descriptors most people—including me, until I learned better—would use for him.

  Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

  Fuck. I’m thinking about it. I know exactly where that bottle is in my duffel bag. I know how much this simple training session wouldn’t hurt if I had two or three of those magical little pills in my system. I know exactly how many of them are left in the bottle, and how long I’ll need to ration them until I can get a refill.

  “Did you hear the idiots in the front office hired another woman?”

  I glance at my teammate, Gorge Betts, who’s on the treadmill beside me. Yeah, his name is Gorge. Like a canyon. Makes sense, too. His arms are bigger than my thighs. He’s like the Grand Canyon—wide, deep, and dangerous.

  We only have two days left until training camp starts, and we’re the desperate assholes putting in extra hours at the Sharks complex because we’re terrified our starting positions will be usurped by rookies who are stronger, better, faster.

  Him—because he’s a running back who’s nearing retirement, and his beat-up body is close to giving out. Me? Because I have a stupid fucking injury that didn’t happen on the field even though I’m the leading wide receiver in yardage and scoring for the team. I’m only twenty-five to his thirty-two, but chipped bones in a guy’s knee don’t give a shit about age.

  “Are you kidding me?” I groan. Partly from pain, partly because that means my upcoming season just got a whole lot more complicated. “Didn’t they learn their lesson the last time?”

  “Apparently not,” Gorge pants. “We already have to babysit him when we go anywhere. Why are they setting us up for a PR nightmare by hiring more female staff?”

  “That’s what you’re worried about?” I grumble, even though I’m not surprised. Not really. I’ve seen some shit in my days of playing football, and most of it I learned the hard way before I ever made it to the pros. “You’re not more concerned he’s gonna actually rape someone this time instead of just the blurrier sexual harassment he should have been charged with last season?”

  That’s another shitty thing I’ve learned. Rape doesn’t mean penetration. Physical scars aren’t necessarily worse than mental ones. Sexual harassment and sexual assault are just terms used in the courts that hardly ever give guys like our quarterback their due justice. If they even make it to court.

  Maybe I’ll have a future after football as a vigilante who goes around castrating guys who never learn any lessons.

  I snort to myself. Quite a few women in my past would probably love the opportunity to cut my balls off.

  “What’s so funny?” Gorge asks.

  “You ever have an idea that’s just so fucking ludicrous, you can’t believe you even thought it to yourself?”

  “Every time I say yes to hanging out with you,” he mutters.

  I laugh because I get it. If someone had told me on draft day that my closest friend on my new team would be a guy who prefers g
ame nights with his wife and kids over going to strip clubs in our free time, I’d have called them a liar.

  “Come on. Have I ever led you astray?”

  Gorge raises his eyebrows. “Does Daytona ring any bells?”

  I wince. “You can’t hold that against me forever. That was not my fault.”

  “My wife almost left me when she saw those pics on the internet, man!”

  Yeah, and it took a lot of groveling on both our parts for her to see reason. We did not ask to be mobbed by a group of thirsty women, but we’re never in a position to say no to fans either. If a woman wants her naked breasts signed, then we’ve gotta take one for the team sometimes.

  “I can’t help it if I have one of the most recognizable faces in the league, and that women want my autograph and to take selfies with me.” Selfies that they rush to post to their social media that get shared and shared and shared and shared…

  “It wasn’t your face they recognized.” Gorge glares.

  No, it’s all the billboards, bus ads, and commercials they’re familiar with. What can I say? My abs are a hot item, and my agent knows how to market my eight-pack like a pro. The endorsement deals he lands me are going to give me a little breathing room if my contract with the team doesn’t hold out for the next two years.

  I’m not sure my knee will make it through the season as it is.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t my favorite dynamic duo.”

  I grit my teeth at the overly loud voice.