A Wild Card Kiss

by Lauren Blakely

I haul in a breath, stealing myself for a reprimand for something I couldn’t foresee. I do my best to stay cool, flashing a smile at the blonde bombshell I want to take home with me, and the brunette pipsqueak in charge of our physical fitness.

  The trainer bounces on her white sneakers. “Harlan, I want to personally introduce you to Katie Madigan.”

  Lacey, that won’t be necessary. I personally introduced myself to every inch of her delicious skin a few months ago when I hand- and cock- and tongue-delivered four orgasms, but thanks for the formality, anyway.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” I say, extending a hand to Katie.

  Her blue eyes twinkle with a cocktail of mischief and regret as she takes my palm. “Pleasure to meet you too, Harlan. I enjoy watching you play.”

  “And I enjoy posing like a flamingo,” I say, still holding her hand. I don’t want to let go. This may be the only time I’ll get to touch her all day.

  Hell, maybe all season.

  I whimper inside.

  My dick wails a song of sorrow.

  My libido curls up in the corner.

  I’ve been cock-blocked by my own damn team.

  “So,” Lacey continues, her brown-eyed gaze straying to our joined hands. Quickly, I let go. “The receiver’s coach and I met earlier today about you, Harlan.”

  I jerk my gaze to Lacey. “You did?”

  Lacey, a former cheerleader, nods enthusiastically. Lacey does everything enthusiastically. “We did, and we thought, given the hamstring strain you sustained the other week, we should make sure your flexibility and balance are at peak levels.”

  For a guy who puts in the extra work, the suggestion sure bristles me. “You’re saying they’re not?”

  Her smile is wide. It usually is. “I’m saying your performance is indeed peak, and we want to keep it there. We think yoga can do that. What do you think?”

  I flash back to my jog this morning. To the wince I felt. Sure, I spend plenty of time lifting weights, running plays. But stretching? I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to improve ye olde flexibility.

  I let go of the momentary annoyance. “Let’s do it.”

  She wipes a hand across her forehead in exaggerated relief. “Whew. I’m glad you agree. Because we’d like you to set up some one-on-one sessions directly with Katie. We need our star receiver corps to be in fantastic shape. Maybe tomorrow morning you could meet up at Katie’s studio? Obviously, the team will cover all the expenses. So, if you two can just exchange numbers and handle the timing?”

  Lacey’s eyes widen as she waits for an answer.

  Katie chimes in first. “Absolutely. I welcome the chance,” she says.

  I clear my throat, hiding the chuckle working its way out. The situation isn’t funny, but the idea that we need to trade numbers is.

  Though, maybe funny isn’t the word. More like devastating to my dick and heart, since both are into Katie.

  Lacey spins on her heel, leaving me alone with the woman I want but can’t have.

  I glance around. Coast is clear. My chest weighs a ton. I hate doing this . . .

  “So, about tonight,” I say heavily.

  Her shoulders hunch. “I know. I figured as much.”

  She’s already on the same page, but I need to be clear. It’s important. “I shouldn’t date someone who works for the team.” It’d look bad, especially in this critical season. I’d look like the playboy I once was. I’m not that guy anymore, and I don’t want to put the team in an awkward position. The potential for a social media blowup is too high.

  “And I can’t date a client,” she adds, sadness in her tone. Her eyes sweep the exercise room, then return to me. “It could hurt our reputation as we’re growing the business. I worry it would look like I’m sleeping my way to deals, especially with such a high-profile one. This is a big opportunity for Sassy Yoga.”

  She sounds wracked by guilt, and I’ll have none of that.

  “Katie, I want this deal to go well for your company, so don’t apologize. I understand completely. Truly, I do.” Especially since it’s harder for women in these situations. Society often gives top athletes a slap on the hand when they mess around with women they work with. But the fairer sex? They usually get the jagged edge of the judgement knife. I hate the thought of that happening to Katie.

  “Thank you for saying that. And please know I would ask for someone else to fill in, but my business manager made it explicitly clear that Wilder Enterprises hired me.” She still sounds like she’s in the worst funk.

  Same here.

  “You’re the face and brand,” I say with a sad smile. “Everyone wants you.”

  She dips her head, laughing wistfully. “But I would otherwise have switched. Because I really wanted to see you tonight,” she says, so sweet, so vulnerable.

  I step closer, daring to get near to her, to inhale her scent. “I really wanted to see you too.”

  Instead, we make plans for the morning.

  Professional plans.

  Even so, when I hit the sack that night, all I want is for the sun to rise.

  15

  Harlan

  Seeing Katie in her cute blue yoga pants, that tight pink yoga top, and that sexy, swishy ponytail? Well, let’s just say it frazzles my brain.

  But I’m a good boy.

  I’m in the zone.

  The cat, cow, dog zone.

  We are just a yoga teacher and a client, not the man and woman who cancelled a hot date last night.

  In a private room at her studio, designed for one-on-one sessions, Katie takes me through several poses, then says it’s time for a lunge twist.

  “This is critical for a receiver. It’ll help as you lunge for catches,” she says.

  I’ve done plenty of stretches over the years, just like this one. But Katie studies me like a scientist then shifts my body like a sculptor, setting her hands on my hips, urging me to deepen the rotation.

  I’d like to deepen other rotations.

  “There! That’s perfect. Now just hold it,” she says, so damn encouraging as she sinks into the same pose, twisting her elbow against her thigh, looking supple and flexible and all sorts of bendy.

  “Show-off.”

  “I just like to move my body,” she says with a smile.

  And that’s not helping, because I like all the ways she moves my body, as well.

  Like when we switch to a frog pose. “On your hands and knees,” she says.

  “Things I’d like to say to you,” I mutter, and dammit, that’s not the cat-cow zone. That’s the naughty zone.

  Must stay out of it.

  “Harlan Taylor,” she admonishes, but there’s a sexy note in her voice that tells me she, too, is savoring every flirty morsel we allow ourselves.

  Which isn’t much, but I’ll take what I can get.

  “Then you need to slide out your knees a little bit, like a frog.”

  I settle into the awkward AF pose. “I look like a dork.”

  “Yes, but who cares?” she asks, with an easy shrug, a sexy jut of her shoulder. I swear, everything this woman does is sexy to me.

  But I also like talking to her.

  Chatting with Katie is one of the easiest things I’ve ever done. Always has been, ever since the first night at that wedding. We just clicked. She’s a kindred spirit.

  “Doesn’t matter if you look dorky. Or silly. Just . . . laugh,” she suggests.

  “Aren’t you supposed to say . . . I dunno . . . omm or namaste?” I tease.

  She settles onto her mat next to me, getting into the same pose, first on her hands and knees, then sliding her knees out to the side. Looking like a frog, obvs. “I take the poses seriously, but I don’t take myself too seriously,” she says, then her lips curve into a sly smirk. “Ribbit.”

  I chuckle. “I’ve got some animal noises for you right here.” As I hold the weird pose, I give her my best roar. “Rawr!”

  She cracks up, falling face-first to the mat as she slaps the floor.

 
“What? Was I not fearsome as a lion?” I arch a brow.

  She turns to me. “You’re as fearsome as the king of the lion frogs, Harlan!”

  “See if I ever entertain you with animal sounds again,” I say, but I’m laughing too.

  Especially since we’re definitely not in the naughty zone anymore. That has to be good for our brand-new working relationship.

  “Moo,” she says, quickly zipping out of the frog pose, and into a bovine one, bowing her back. Seconds later, she’s arching like a cat. “Meow.”

  I whimper.

  Katie is a very sexy yoga cat.

  “Meow-zers,” I say.

  Hopping out of the position, she moves behind me, dropping her hands to my hips and wiggling them. Her tone is teacherly again, the yoga instructor who believes in what she does. “If you can hold the frog pose for at least a few minutes every day, that’ll help release the groin and inner thigh. Those are locations for a lot of injuries. You want to keep the groin nice and soft.”

  “No, I don’t want my groin soft,” I blurt. Because I can’t not go there.

  She laughs, giving another slight adjustment. “There. Just hold.” But her soft voice and her gentle hands are having the opposite effect on me.

  This one-on-one is not helping my dirty brain. I can’t stop thinking about the one-on-ones I crave with her.

  Yup, hands-on is leading to hard-on. I cast about for neutral topics. “So, is it true yoga is cheaper than therapy?”

  Her blue eyes twinkle. “Guess it depends on what I charge the Renegades,” she says with a wink.

  “I like your capitalist side.”

  “Nothing wrong with wanting to make a good living,” she says, lady boss and owning it. Damn, that’s hot too.

  “I couldn’t agree more.” I cycle to another of her yoga sayings from her clothing line. “Is yoga your favorite way to pretend to work out?”

  She’s quiet for a beat, then sits next to me, meeting my gaze. “Are you just quoting me back to me now?”

  I flash a grin. “Seems I am. I researched more about your business before these sessions. Still love the cute sayings.”

  Her smile is magnetic. “Thank you. I’m flattered you did that.”

  “I like your style. I like what you’ve built.”

  Her eyes shimmer with happiness. I love that I put that look there. “That means a lot to me. And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I like watching you play. I’m having a big ol’ watch party this weekend with my girlfriends. We’re talking charcuterie boards, wine, nachos, and Jillian’s special guacamole mix. And we’ll be rooting for you.”

  Pride suffuses my whole being.

  There is something fulfilling about playing a game you’re good at for a woman you like.

  Even if you can’t have her.

  I wish this could work. I wish we could move forward, earning first down after first down. But it seems the universe’s defensive line is tougher than us right now, and we’re punting rather than picking up where we left off.

  Not now, and not for the foreseeable future.

  But maybe at the end of the season? Coach said we’d be doing yoga for that long, but when we’re done, maybe our timing will finally line up.

  I tuck that thought away. I’ll hold on to it until the moment is right to bring it up.

  On Thursday after our team workout, I do one of my favorite things—I pick Abby up from school.

  She bounds down the front steps of the school building, alongside a curly-haired blonde, and barely gives me a chance to say hello.

  “Hello—”

  “Can we go to the playground around the corner? Audrey and I want to do the rock-climbing wall, and it’ll be so fun,” Abby says, then wraps an arm around her friend, who flashes me a gap-toothed smile.

  “Please, Mister Taylor,” Audrey puts in. “My mom said it’s okay and you can drop me off in an hour,” Audrey adds quickly, gesturing to her mom who’s talking to another parent by the school entrance.

  “And she only lives four blocks away,” Abby says at the speed of light.

  Laughing, I finally get a word in edgewise. “Well, it seems you two have already plotted this whole playground playdate.”

  “We did,” Abby says. “So, it’s a yes?”

  “I’ll just check with Audrey’s mom.” I make my way to the school entrance and once I confirm Audrey’s mom is cool with the plan, I return to the girls. “Rock-climbing time,” I say, grateful my life and my job allow me this sort of flexibility in the middle of the week.

  But there’s only so much flexibility I have.

  The next day is also technically my day with Abby, but I won’t be able to spend it with her. I don’t spend any weekend with her during football season. I’m either flying to another city or we’re in the team hotel, deliberately away from family. That’s just how it goes in the league.

  In the morning, we grab the two most excellent apple pies we baked last night, then I take her to Danielle’s house around seven, since we have a nine a.m. flight to Seattle for our game this weekend.

  Danielle lets us in, and I step into the foyer.

  “Thanks again for taking her to school. And having her this weekend and all the other weekends,” I say with a smile, and a little bit of sadness too.

  “Easy-peasy,” Danielle says, and that’s my reminder to sweep away the pang of longing for weekends. Truly, I’m damn lucky to share this kid with a mom who’s so chill about, well, everything.

  “And we made you two pies,” Abby announces, thrusting the pink boxes at her mom. “One’s for us to take to the gymnastics showcase on Saturday, and one is for you and Jamie to take to the hospital.”

  Danielle’s eyes light up with culinary delight. “The parents will love it at Gym Buddies. And I guarantee the nurses will love this one too.” She turns to me. “They seriously appreciate it when doctors bring them pies baked by their favorite player.”

  “You’re famous at Mommy’s hospital,” Abby says.

  “Especially since you’ve been playing like you’re about to own the heck out of free agency,” Jamie calls from the kitchen, then pops his head in the doorway, waiting expectantly.

  Like now is when I’m going to decide my off-season plans.

  My entire career plans.

  Truth is—I still don’t know what I’ll do in January.

  No clue whatsoever. Maybe I’m waiting for a sign. Is my good health—knock on wood—a sign to keep playing? Or is it a sign to quit while I’m ahead?

  I wish I knew.

  Danielle rolls her eyes. “Jamie. He’s not going to just tell us one morning in the entryway.”

  “A man can dream,” Jamie says with an easy shrug.

  “And the answer is—I’ll keep making you pies,” I tell him, like that’s a satisfying answer.

  But it’s the only one I can legitimately give.

  I bend to scoop up Abby, giving her one more hug. “I’ll miss you, little bear. Good luck in your gymnastics showcase,” I say, since that’s another thing I’m going to miss this weekend.

  “Good luck in your game.” She gives me knuckles, and her fist explosion is legendary but it breaks my heart all at the same time.

  We fly to Seattle to vie with one of the toughest teams in the league. That Sunday it’s the game of the day, a marquee matchup between two top teams in the west.

  When we run through the corridor of the stadium and hit the field, that familiar rush of energy blasts through me.

  Always has.

  Ever since I was a kid and touched the gridiron for the first time, I’ve felt it. The thrill. The excitement. For nearly fifteen years, I’ve been playing the game I love for a living.

  Will I still feel this way next year?

  Who knows?

  Right now, though, it’s game time.

  And I’m in the zone.

  Trouble is, so’s Seattle.

  Their defense is on fire, and I don’t get a chance
to make a single play during our first possession. I run a quick route right, but the secondary is all over me like flies on honey.

  The game’s a tight one for the rest of the quarter, with both teams putting up zeroes.

  When we get the ball with three minutes left before the end of the half, I’m raring to break the scoreless streak. Hell, we all are.

  Cooper gives us the play, and I head to my spot on the line of scrimmage. I’m in motion, and once he takes the snap, I race off down the field, slip behind the linebackers, and catch a beautiful twenty-five-yard pass at the edge of the field.

  And hot damn, I would love to sail away with this baby into the end zone, but Seattle’s about to steamroll me. I scramble two feet to get out of bounds, spinning around before the linebackers tackle me.

  I land just so, and for a smidge of a second, I wait for that wince in my hamstring.

  But I feel fine.

  Completely fine.

  And that makes me feel good.

  Now, I know Katie didn’t cure my hamstring strain in a couple sessions. Sports and training don’t work that way.

  But every little bit helps, and I’ll happily enjoy this moment, especially since it turns into a touchdown before the clock runs out and we head inside at the half.

  The seven points is energizing, as it fucking should be.

  And this—this is what I’ll miss if I retire.

  The buzz, the intensity, the utter joy in making plays as a team.

  That’s what we do in the second half too, hunting for a chance to put more numbers up on the board.

  It’s not easy, but Cooper slings another pass my way right before I spin out of bounds. But I haul it in, whirl around, and put my fleet feet to use to bring it all the way home.

  I feel great when I reach the end zone.

  The kind of great that makes me want to run to the stands and kiss the girl I like.

  Too bad she’s not here.

  And, more so, that we’re not together.

  16

  Katie

  That happened fast.

  I lift a glass of Wild Chemistry at The Spotted Zebra. “Let’s toast to Zachary’s deal-making skills,” I say on Monday night. My VP lifts his glass and clinks mine, then Olive’s.