Mister Baller: A Small Town Enemies-to-Lovers Sports Romance (Bad Boys in Love Book 2)

by Cassie-Ann L. Miller

  I glance at my phone on the side table. I need to call Cannon and chew him a new asshole for flinging me to the wolves with Iris. I also need to call my parents and let them know I got to town because Ma’s probably worried about me. Instead, I dial Kirk.

  It’s been a while since he and I linked up so I’m reaching out to go out for drinks now that I'm back in town. This conversation is gonna be awkward as hell since I’ll have to announce to him that I’m shacking up with his ex-wife. But no point in avoiding it. I’d rather just deal with this mess head-on. Especially since it’s only a matter of time until news about my new living arrangements makes it around town. I get my friend’s voicemail and leave him a short and simple message to call me back.

  I force myself off the bed and unzip my duffel. I mindlessly shove my clothes into the empty drawers until I feel something cool and squishy at the bottom of my bag.

  What the fuck?

  I pull out a clear plastic eye mask filled with some sort of pale blue gel. This is most definitely not mine.

  Hesitantly, I reach back into the bag, and find a fruity-smelling ball that leaves a bunch of powdery shit on my fingers. Then there’s a tube labelled ‘exfoliant’, a fancy soap bar, a bottle of nail polish, a loofah and one of those stone things they scrub your heels with at the spa.

  I laugh out loud.

  Those assholes…

  After faking a smile for the past few weeks, the sound of genuine laughter is almost foreign to me.

  My teammates may be a raging herd of buffalo on the field but at their core, they’re a bunch of sentimental softies.

  There’s a glittery pink unicorn greeting card underneath all the spa stuff. I flip it open to find the squiggly handwritten notes of the guys.

  Pamper yourself, Princess. You’ve earned it, is scrawled with Jason Bellino’s signature.

  The game isn’t the same without you, reads the inscription from Knox O’Ryan.

  Get well soon…But not too soon. That message is signed by Tim Fletcher, the team’s backup tight end who’s been getting field time since I’ve been benched.

  I read the notes from the rest of the guys. Finally, I come upon the note from our team captain, Maxwell Masters. You were a unicorn player, Kingston. You leave big shoes to fill.

  I read the team captain’s message again and again.

  You were a unicorn player.

  Were.

  Past tense.

  No future.

  You’re done.

  That’s the message I see lurking between the lines.

  Fuck.

  I scrub a hand down my face and continue digging around. I find the bottom of the bag loaded with snacks the guys must have put there. Then my fingers wrap around a bottle of tequila. The good stuff, too.

  It’s been a while since I got shit-faced, and let me tell you, the urge is strong right about now. But I’m going to prove to everybody who’s given up on me that they’re wrong.

  So, I’ll pass on the tequila. During the season, keeping my body and mind in top shape is my number one priority so in general, I shun the booze. I’d choose a good cup of tea over a shot of tequila any day of the week. And I’d parade my middle fingers to anyone who dares to question my manlihood over it.

  Emotionally worn out, I drop back on the bed and turn on the TV. I flip mindlessly through the channels.

  I stall when I get to the Sports Broadcast Network. Many of my teammates make it a point to avoid sports talk during the season. When those analysts pick you apart, shitting on your hard-earned stats and your best on-field moments, that can easily crush your spirits. But I think I’m sort of addicted to yelling at the screen and telling the announcers what idiots they are.

  Plus, I’m not playing right now and I'm craving contact with the sport so much that I'm more than willing to listen to those so-called ‘sports journalists’ running off at the mouth.

  I happen to tune in right as Steven and Arty are in the middle of a heated argument about yours truly.

  Was Jude Kingston a hall of famer tight end? the caption at the bottom of the screen reads.

  There it goes. The past tense again, talking about me like I’m ancient history.

  But I refuse to think in the past tense. I've got to keep my optimism alive. Because my career isn't over. No matter what the team expects, no matter what the doctors say. There's no fucking way I'm done playing football.

  The talk show hosts bullshit about my stats, and I’m a little honored that Steven is on my side. Arty is a tool, though. As always.

  A cringe slithers through me as they replay the film from my last moment on the field. My right knee twitches in pain just watching it. Shit.

  It was really a freak event. That’s even how my coach described it in the press. It was fourth and one, and we were going for it. I had a short carry, just two yards, but it was enough for a first down. Minnesota’s defense dog piled me, and someone landed on my leg, at just the wrong angle, and the wrong time.

  I still remember the white hot lightning that shot from my knee up my quad. But once I looked down and saw my kneecap twisted out of place, all deformed and grotesque…I think I blacked out for a few.

  The trainer popped my dislocated kneecap back into place right there on the field, before they carted me off. Some dislocation injuries are pretty straightforward. Pop it back in, ice and therapy for a few weeks, and you’re golden.

  But, I wasn't so lucky.

  The dislocation managed to rip my ACL in the process. I had surgery right away, and I just came off crutches before my trip here. A younger guy might still be in the game after this. But once you’ve dislocated your knee, it’s prone to happen again. Between that and my lovely weakened ligaments, my doctors were pretty blunt. You’re lucky to be able to walk. Don’t expect to be back out on that field.

  But fuck the doctors. They don't know my body. And they don't know how much I'm willing to sacrifice to stay in the game. And I will get back in the game. It's not a matter of 'if', but 'when'.

  Until then, listening to Steven and Arty’s propaganda on SBN isn’t a great idea for me. I grab the remote and surf through channels again. I find an old Bourne movie playing and settle in with that until I'm ready to drag myself into the shower.

  A door in the hall slams and I hear light footsteps slapping the floor, reminding me where I am. Don’t get too comfortable, the footsteps seem to whisper.

  I can’t help but wonder what happened with Iris and Kirk’s relationship. The last time I talked to him was almost two years ago. He and Iris had only been married a couple years by then, and Kirk was already complaining. Bitching about freedom and variety. I wonder what it was that finally tore them apart.

  I turn up the television volume to drown out my curious thoughts. She and I aren’t friends, I remind myself.

  But my stilted interaction with her earlier keeps replaying in my head. She looked sad. Broken. Maybe I should go talk to her again, catch up, try to be the sociable guy people expect me to be.

  Nah, Iris doesn't seem interested in my friendship. So, I'll park my ass right here, stay out of her way.

  Bourne is kicking ass in Berlin, and I just want to get lost.

  Iris’s life is none of my business. I have enough of my own shit to deal with. I’m meeting with my new physical therapist in the morning to start the gruelling exercise regime that will set me on the road to recovery.

  Focusing on me—my dreams, my career, my healing—that's the plan.

  5

  Iris

  I jolt awake at the bang. Another loud noise makes me jump. I take several hard blinks to orient myself.

  I’m sitting at my kitchen table, with my laptop in front of me.

  I must have fallen asleep while doing some late-night research for my next online business venture. Again.

  But this morning, I’m not alone.

  There’s a huge male body rummaging around in the cupboards.

  Jude. In low-slung athletic pants and a thin, white
T-shirt. Sifting through every drawer and cabinet in search of I-don’t-know-what. Why are men so flipping loud and awkward in the kitchen?

  The ends of his sandy hair are wet, darker than yesterday. Water drips from his head onto his T-shirt, somehow pronouncing the corded muscles in his strong back. He effortlessly pulls a big bowl from the top shelf and pours himself some cereal. Some of my cereal.

  Good to see he’s making himself at home.

  Straightening in my seat, I try to loosen my stiff neck and back muscles. I rub the sleep out of my eyes. I should be annoyed by the rude awakening but instead, I find myself mesmerized, watching his large, athletic frame shuffling around the room with animalistic grace. There’s so much power in his movements.

  I find the whole thing so intriguing that I completely forget to be irritated with his thieving ass.

  Before I can catch myself, Jude spins around, cereal bowl clutched to his chest.

  I’m busted. He knows I was staring. Crap. Crap. Crap.

  I try to think of something to say, something to cover my ass, but I fumble. I open my mouth, but instead of words, there’s hair in my mouth.

  Dignity once again in peril, I gracelessly spit out my strands and try to smooth down my blonde frizzy mess. In the process, my fingers brush the wet stream trailing down my jawline.

  Oh my lord. Can I catch a break?

  While I hurry to wipe the drool from my face, Jude is openly watching me in amusement. One corner of his mouth swings into that infuriating half-smile of his. This is so embarrassing.

  To hide his smirk, he brings a spoonful of cereal to his mouth. I don’t bother to tell him it’s probably stale. Go on smirking, asshole. He won’t be so smug when he takes his first bite of that cardboard.

  Needing to move his attention from my latest mortification, I turn my focus to the empty mug on the table beside me. “I ran out of coffee. Sorry.”

  I finished off the last serving of caffeine some time around midnight when I was valiantly trying to stay awake through another e-commerce webinar.

  He swallows heavily and grimaces at his bowl. He picks up the cereal box to inspect it. That box had been sitting in the pantry long before Kirk left.

  I snort-laugh at his grossed-out expression and try to camouflage it as a sneeze. He doesn’t seem to notice.

  “No worries. I prefer tea." Distractedly, he jerks his chin at the steaming teacup on the counter beside him. He puts down the box. “Anyway, I’ll swing by the grocery store today to pick up some things. Stealing your cereal was a one-time offense. I promise.” Now his attention is on me. Fully. He offers a smile that’s surprisingly boyish. “Good morning, by the way.” His politeness catches me off guard.

  “Good...morning.” I brush breadcrumbs from my forehead and tuck in my bra strap. I’m pretty sure I’ve got sleep lines all over my face. Self-conscious, I try not to imagine what I must look like to him.

  “I really didn’t mean to wake you. You seemed pretty out of it there. I just needed some calories before heading to my physiotherapy.” He lifts his cereal bowl.

  “Yeah, sure. That’s okay. Yes.”

  We stare silently for a while. Then, he limps closer to the table and takes a seat across from me. I inhale instinctively, packing my lungs with his clean, male scent. I’ve always loved that smell on a man, but Jude is pulling it off better than anyone.

  Now my weak, traitorous mind won’t stop imagining my ex’s best friend in my shower.

  My body tightens, and things get warm on the inside. In my head is a movie of him, soaping up his tight, tanned body, bubbles trailing between his strong fingers as he runs them over his muscled biceps, down his hard chest and his tight abs and lower to his…

  Is that 1980s porno music I hear in the background?

  What?!

  Obviously, someone unplugged my brain from the ‘common sense’ socket while I was asleep.

  I need to snap myself out of this ridiculous and inappropriate fantasy. I hate Jude Kingston, and that’s all there is to it. So what if he’s got the greatest body within hundreds of miles? He’s an asshole.

  Jude takes a seat across from me at the table. The stale cereal is giving his square, chiseled jaw a real workout. He hasn’t commented on it though so I pretend not to notice.

  But he’s too close again and I can't escape the weight of his heavy stare.

  Wanting to look busy, I drop my focus to my phone. I’ve got a bunch of text messages waiting that came in overnight. A few from Lexi apologizing again and promising to let me name her first-born as a thank you for letting Jude stay with me. Smiling at my phone, I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

  The rest of the messages came in from Penny at three in the morning, around the end of her shift at the Frosty Pitcher.

  Penny: You rented your spare room to Jude Kingston?! I know how you feel about him. Are you okay?

  Penny: Got the promotion at work, btw!!!

  Penny: The girls and I are coming over tomorrow to check on you.

  Penny: And to celebrate.

  Penny: And to make Jude Kingston-faced voodoo dolls, if needed.

  Penny: 5:30? Sound good?

  I smile at her concern as I type out a reply, confirming that 5:30 works for me. Penny may be my cousin but we grew up under the same roof and she’s the closest thing I have to a sister. She knows about my history with Jude and she knows that having him here isn’t easy for me.

  Speaking of Jude, he’s practically leaning over the table to get a peek at the papers scattered around my computer. Protectively, I pull my stack of documents closer to me.

  I clear my throat and his dazzling eyes snap up to my face. At least, he has the decency to look a tiny bit embarrassed. Maybe the man has some manners after all.

  He tilts his head toward my laptop between us. “What were you doing on that computer all night anyway?”

  His inquiry catches me off guard and I’m not sure how to answer. I’m not ready to talk about my business plans. I hold my ideas close to the vest. When I talk about them, people have expectations, and when I don’t live up to those, it’s all out there for everyone to witness my failures. I just can’t. Not yet. Not again.

  I respond by protectively clutching my papers to my chest. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? Seems pretty important to me if you slept with your face on the keyboard.” He licks his tongue across his bottom lip, trying—and failing—to hide his I’m-laughing-at-Iris smile.

  Here’s the truth.

  I clicked on one of those YouTube advertisements a few weeks ago. Y'know, the ones with the fast-talking 19-year-old college-dropouts-turned-entrepreneurs promising to reveal the secrets to building a six-figure business from a cabana off the coast of Bali? Yah, one of those.

  Anyway, I whipped out my credit card at the webinar and I bought the training to help me build up an online boutique, selling customized T-shirts with whimsical phrases. It looked promising and seemed pretty straightforward, like something I could easily succeed at. I spent weeks setting up an eye-catching website, selecting a reputable dropshipping company, and launching social media platforms to generate traffic. I maxed out my last credit card to cover my initial expenses.

  So, awesome right?

  Except, it wasn’t. It’s been a month, and I’ve had a whopping 127 website visitors, and two sales. Two.

  Soon, it’ll be me in that cabana in Bali. Y’all better get my margarita ready.

  In any case, right now, I feel dumb. And I know he’ll judge me for falling into an internet marketing scam that could obviously never work out.

  Jude waits—with a cocked eyebrow—for me to spill.

  “I don’t want to be rude, but I’d rather not discuss it.” I don’t really know this man. I could spill my ideas, and then for all I know, he could turn around and steal everything for himself. And there I’d go, another missed opportunity!

  Or, he could laugh. And the embarrassment of parading my failure in front of my college rival would hurt wor
se than the failed business itself.

  Jude blows out a frustrated breath.. “Fine. Don’t talk. Fine by me,” he clips, before shoving another spoonful in his mouth. “And your cereal sucks.” He hops up from the table, dumps his bowl in the sink and storms out of the room.

  My mouth drops open in indignation.

  How dare this man insult me and my cereal? In my own damn house? While I’m offering safe haven to his rude ass?

  I sit there, jaw ticking, muttering profanities under my breath, cursing myself for opening up my home to the guy against my better judgement.

  But he tromps back in a few minutes later. He goes straight to the sink, washes his bowl, and sets it in the dish drainer to dry. Then, he turns for the door again.

  This time, he pauses in the doorway. He hesitates, his eyes meeting mine. I see something like remorse there. “Need anything from the grocery store?” It almost sounds like a peace offering.

  I try to say, no thank you, but nothing comes out. My jaw is too tight to speak as a dozen different reactions battle in my head. So, I settle for a subtle head shake.

  Stiffly, he nods. “Have a good day, Iris.”

  Then, he’s gone again, leaving me to deal with the whiplash.

  6

  Jude

  I grunt, trying to complete my sixth leg curl, laying facedown on the exercise bench. Feels like I’m never going to make it to ten.

  Sweat drips down my temples and my back. I am well-versed in pushing my body to the limit, but my new therapist has far exceeded those bounds today.

  He doesn’t even have me using any weights. Most of his stretches and exercises are resistant band or bodyweight-oriented. When he gives me a disappointed look and tells me that’s enough, I shake my head. “More. Few more. I can do it.”

  This therapy session has been a bitch. If every session is like today, I can see why so many throw in the towel. Why so many re-injure themselves because they can’t finish the grueling program.