Play Maker

by KB Winters

  Play Maker

  Bitsberg Knights Duet Book Two

  KB Winters

  Copyright © 2021 by KB Winters and Bookboyfriends Publishing Inc

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  Thank You So Much!

  Also by KB Winters

  About Play Maker

  WSJ and USA Today Bestselling author KB Winters brings you a hot football romance duet about the Bitsberg Knights!

  Shelby

  I’m one envelope away from practicing law.

  And I don’t know a damn thing about football.

  When Ross comes into my aunt’s diner one snowy night, I wonder what I missed out on all those years buried under a pile of textbooks.

  He’s sexy AF, strong, charming and makes me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world.

  And every time I see him, my panties melt.

  I’ve fantasized about men like him.

  But do opposites really attract?

  I don’t have time for his games.

  Football games, I mean.

  He wants to move across the country and my life is here working on a case that could make or break my career.

  There goes my shot at an amazing happily ever after.

  * * *

  Ross

  My professional football career is hanging on by a thread.

  This could be my last season unless I show TF up.

  And by show up, I mean I’ve got to take this team to the Superbowl.

  But when Shelby crosses my path, I lose track of all the x’s and o’s bouncing around my head.

  All I can think about is getting my hands on her sexy curves.

  She’s an angel with a body made for sin.

  I’m a play maker, not a heart-breaker.

  It’s time to make that play,

  And make her mine.

  * * *

  Love long-legged athletes who can drop your panties with a smile? One-click Play Maker today! This Pro Football Romance has no cheating, no cliffhanger and like always, an HEA! And uhm...bring a tall glass of ice water.

  * * *

  ★Previously released as ShowTime. Now with longer, hotter scenes!★

  1

  Ross

  The scene on the field played out like a stop-action shot from a movie. A horror movie. The roar of the crowd silenced as if 80,000 fans all sucked in a collective gasp. Tom Brandon, the star of the Bitsberg Knights, hit the field, crushed under the weight of a three-hundred-plus-pound lineman. There was nothing any of us could do but watch from the sidelines as he went down, and the ball went tumbling right into the hands of the Stormers. Shit Stormers, that is.

  I sent a wide-eyed prayer to the sky that he’d get to his feet, shake it off, and continue to play. That somehow, someway, it wasn’t as bad as it looked—or sounded. I looked for any signs of a penalty flag before turning my attention to the jumbotron to watch the replay in slow motion.

  But the seconds kept ticking, each one rolling slowly over the next. Finally, the refs raced in, separating angry players as they disputed foul play. With the flick of a wrist, our medical staff ran out onto the field.

  My eyes squeezed closed as the team doctor knelt down beside Tom and his face went dark. “Shit.”

  “Yep. we’re fucked.”

  I shot a scowl at Matthew Jenkins, the rookie kicker standing to my left. “Eloquent, Jenkins.”

  He shrugged, his expression unchanged. “Just stating the facts, Leverette. This game’s a wrap without Tom. Fuck man, our season just ended!”

  I dared another glance at the scene unfolding on the twenty-five-yard line. Damn it. Jenkins might be an idiot in most things—but in this case—he was right.

  Coach “Wheels” Wheeler looked a little nervous, waiting for word, as the medical staff scraped Brandon off the turf. He couldn’t walk on his own. That was the final nail in our coffin. Something was fucked up, and it wasn’t going to get fixed with some athletic tape and a shot of painkillers.

  We were done. And it just fluttered away in an icy blast of wind over the field as Brandon, the greatest quarterback that had ever lived, headed to the locker room and the Stormers' offense took the field to try and close out the game.

  Coach clutched his clipboard, scratching his jaw as he looked over the options. Nervous energy rustled through those of us on the sidelines. Coach looked up and glanced at me and then his eyes landed on Wilson Peters. The two remaining options to take Brandon’s spot.

  I was a third-string nobody. Most of the diehard fans would be pressed to even know my name. Let alone my stats. And there wasn’t a chance any of them would remember the killer stats I’d racked up during my four years at Arizona State. No, it was a bad year to be a quarterback. There was an onslaught of talent, and even with my record—I was pushed down the pack and handed a third-string spot, riding the Knights’ sidelines with a clipboard in hand and ball cap on my head. I wasn’t even sure where my helmet was half the time. I was strictly a support role kind of player.

  Coach jerked his chin at Peters, and it was done. I knew it wasn’t going to be me, but it still stung as Peters strapped on his helmet and quickly started to warm up along the sidelines with a coach in each ear.

  I wasn’t sure if I should be pissed off or relieved.

  I didn’t have much time to sort it all out. Instead, we watched in agony as the Stormers slowly moved the ball down the field and chewed up precious seconds on the clock.

  We had a one-point lead, and it was becoming evident that the Stormers were near field goal range and trying to set up a play for a game-winning field goal. My own stomach was churning like I’d just taken a ride on Death Trap, the roller coaster at my favorite amusement park. Beauman picked off a pass across the middle with seconds remaining and scrambled sixty yards for a touchdown as the clock ran out. The noise went from zero to deafening when Beauman crossed into the end zone.

  Holy fucking shit, we were going to the playoffs!

  I couldn’t fucking believe it, even when the scoreboard flipped over to reveal the final score.

  We’d done it! After four long seasons, I finally had a shot at going to the Super Bowl. Hell, even if I never took a snap in the big game, I would die a happy man.

  Streamers and confetti fell down onto the field and we all raced out to dogpile on top of Beauman. He was the rockstar of the night, the monster that stepped up to the plate to save not only the day—but our entire season. We’d won the Division Championship and now, we were all looking at a chance to win big in the playoffs.

  Less than an hour later, we were all back in the locker room, and the noise and buzz came to a sober stop at the news that Tom Brandon had fractured ribs and a nasty sprained ankle. He was out for the rest of the season. Coach spoke to us and then dismissed us to hit the showers and get ready for the post-game rodeo.
>
  I sat on the bench in front of my locker and laced up my boots when Jenkins crashed down beside me, grinning from ear to ear. “Can’t fuckin’ believe it! Damn.”

  Jenkins was a rookie. While I didn’t personally care much for him, he’d decided I was his buddy and ended up at my side more often than not.

  “Not a bad year to get in on the action, huh?” I asked, flipping open the top of my water bottle. I downed half the contents, my throat scratchy from all the celebrating.

  “Nope! Can you imagine if I got a ring my rookie year? Damn!”

  I laughed and finished off the bottle.

  The cold, hard truth was that our chances looked bleak at best. Our starting quarterback went down hard, and the playoffs were no time to bring in a forty-year-old aging veteran. Peters had been in the league for sixteen seasons. He’d played for three other teams before signing with the Knights at the start of this season. Peters had skills and had one trip to the Super Bowl under his belt, even though he got blown out by the Generals five years ago. Since then, he’d strictly been in a backup role and was brought to the Knights just for that purpose.

  A parade of players clustered at the doorway, and Jenkins pushed up to join the team. “You coming, Leverette? Gibson’s buying everyone a round at La Vie.”

  “Nah, man. I’m gonna get some dinner and call it a night.”

  Jenkins rolled his eyes. I guessed he couldn’t understand why someone wouldn’t want to spend hours in the VIP room of the upscale strip club in the heart of Bitsberg. “All right, man. But you need to get your balls back from whatever bitch has ‘em locked up in her purse.”

  A wave of frustration rolled over me, but I managed a tight-lipped smile as he chuckled at his own joke. “See ya, Jenkins.”

  The locker room cleared out, and I sat in silence. After a while, the motion sensor decided no one was left behind and all the lights shut off.

  “Guess that’s my cue to leave,” I muttered to myself.

  I pushed up from the bench, and the lights flickered back to life. I slung my thick coat over my shoulders and grabbed the messenger bag that contained the team’s playbook, my laptop, and the hardcover crime novel I’d been working my way through. The guys ribbed me for constantly having my nose in a book—either fictional or the playbook—but I needed to up my studying even more now that Brandon was out.

  When I arrived for practice at the team facility three days before our first playoff game, I noticed something very strange. There were news vans everywhere.

  I knew it was playoff time, and news vans weren’t anything to worry about. It was the number of media outlets that was weird—something big had to be going down. I hurried across the parking lot to get inside, and when I approached the front door, a group of reporters rushed me and the questions came so fast I couldn’t think straight.

  “Leverette are you ready to take over the offense?” one reporter called out.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  “Peters just blew out his ankle about an hour ago, and you’re listed as the starting quarterback. How do you feel about that?”

  “Can you take this team to the Super Bowl?”

  “Have you ever played in a real game?”

  My head spun at all the questions flying at me. I stood frozen for a second, took a deep breath and looked straight into the camera and grinned, even though my heart was beating out of control. “I just got here. I was unaware Peters got injured. If I get the call, I promise the folks of Bitsberg I’ll be ready to go. I know the offense inside and out and have a good feel for the plays, and I’m confident I can execute them. Thank you.”

  I excused myself before I shit a brick right there in the parking lot on live TV and made my way into the team’s facility. When I pushed through the door, the first thing that hit me was how eerily quiet it was.

  The news wasn’t good for Peters and could end his career since he was pushing forty. Tom, our starter, was done for the year, and the fate of the season now rested on my shoulders. Not only was I the guy, but I was the only guy still standing. Sure we would activate a guy or two from the practice squad, but this was all on me now.

  If something happened to me, we’d be fucked. But I’d be hitting the field in the playoffs, and the entire country would be watching.

  Fuck me. No pressure or anything.

  2

  Shelby

  It had become a daily ritual—one that probably had all the neighbors wondering what on earth was going on at the Markson house—but I couldn’t help myself. Every day at three fifteen, the little white mail truck would amble around the corner and come to a stop at the navy blue box in front of my parents’ house. I’d be standing by the front window, one hand on the door, slippers on my feet. As soon as the truck shimmied back to life and started for the Keelson’s house next door, I’d bolt out the door like a starter’s pistol had just gone off behind me. A flat-out sprint to the mailbox later, I’d tear open the front, grabbing the stack of envelopes like a junkie getting their next fix.

  And every day, I shuffled back to the house with slumped shoulders, mail dangling from my fingertips.

  “Well?” My mom, Veronica, asked as I trudged back inside and kicked the door closed with my heel.

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m sorry, Shelby. Tomorrow. I’m sure of it.”

  The problem was, she’d been sure of it for the last two weeks. Not that it was her fault. The Ohio Bar Association was the one dragging their feet. My test results were probably locked away on some server, just waiting for someone to push print and stuff into an envelope.

  I nodded anyway, choosing to buy into her reassurance—at least for the moment. “Thanks, Mom.” I avoided her sympathetic brown eyes as I handed her the stack of mail. “I’m just eager to get started to work.”

  “I know, baby. You’re in a rush to get a paycheck and abandon us old fogies,” she joked, patting my shoulder as I crossed through the front room and swung into the kitchen.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” I replied with a laugh. I tossed my long, mahogany hair behind me and pulled open a cupboard. “I think it’s safe to say you and Dad are stuck with me for a while. Between student loans and the cost of apartments in this town, I’ll be lucky to get out before I’m thirty.”

  My mom laughed softly and opened the fridge. I grabbed two glasses down from the cupboard and took them to where she was waiting with a pitcher of raspberry iced tea. She filled both glasses and then put the pitcher away. “I’m fine with that,” she said. “Especially this time of year. Speaking of, are you going with us to Jensen’s Christmas party tonight? I wasn’t sure if you were interested.” I made a face and she laughed. “Guess that answers that question.”

  “Sorry.”

  My mom waved her hand. “Don’t worry about it. Your dad doesn’t want to go either. But he promised he’d go with me for at least an hour.”

  “I’m working at Aunt Maggie’s tonight, anyway.”

  “Oh, that’s right! Do you need a ride?”

  A wisp of self-pity curled up in the pit of my stomach. Three weeks ago, my Civic had gone belly up, and I hadn’t been able to afford to get it fixed yet. The estimate from the local auto body shop was a little—okay, a lot—steeper than I’d imagined. “Aunt Maggie is picking me up. I’m not sure if she’ll be able to give me a ride home, though. Kind of depends on the weather.”

  I glanced out the kitchen window, a boxy, three-paneled garden window that overlooked the backyard. Mom kept tiny potted plants on the sill and even though it leaked air like mad, she refused to let Dad replace it with a dual-paned upgrade. The sky was grey and overcast and if the sneak preview I got on my little sprint to the mailbox was any indication, we were in for a frosty night. It hadn’t snowed in a couple of days, but every night it dropped well below freezing and left a slick coat of ice on everything.

  “How that woman still has her license is beyond me,” my mom muttered as she crossed over to put her empty glass in the sink. />
  My lips quirked into a smile. “Like anyone could take it from her.”

  My mom scoffed and I laughed. Aunt Maggie was a force to be reckoned with. It would take a lot more than a letter from the DMV to get her to stop driving her land shark of a Buick around town.

  “Good thing you’re about to be a lawyer. You can bail Aunt Maggie out once she’s caught driving without her license when the day finally comes.”

  I giggled and finished off my own glass of tea. “Well, if I ever get my test results.”

  “You will, honey.”

  I didn’t add in the secret doubt tucked into the back of my mind that silently added: if I even passed. I’d taken the bar exam back in July, and the results were supposed to be sent by Thanksgiving. Well, it was almost Christmas, and I still had heard nothing. That little voice had plagued me telling me I hadn’t studied hard enough, long enough, or that I wasn’t smart enough to be a lawyer. Most days, I could shut it out, but as I wandered off to my bedroom to get ready for the diner, I wondered if I was ever going to get back out on my own again.

  “Order’s up, child!”

  I whipped around at Aunt Maggie’s barked command, marveling that the petite woman with a knitted sweater and bifocal glasses could still sound as sharp as a drill sergeant. “Yes, ma’am!” I surged forward and grabbed the dishes waiting on the metal shelf between the kitchen and front counter of Maggie’s Homestyle Diner. “Table five?”