4th & Girl (Mavericks Tackle Love)

by Max Monroe

  It was highly unlikely I’d say no to anything she had to offer at that point, or anytime in the near, career-uncertain future for that matter. I just hoped the next assignment would come with more money and a little more insight into what I should really be doing with my life.

  “Hey, Mable.”

  “I’ve got a job for you, doll,” she said by way of greeting. “Pays well.”

  I fist-pumped the air and silently offered up a prayer to the heavens that “pays well” didn’t include tasks that involve collecting bodily fluids or public places where said bodily fluids were disposed of.

  “Pays well?” I asked. “How well, exactly?”

  “Not as well as the Mavericks thing you screwed up, but that shouldn’t be a shock.”

  She never hesitated to throw that one in my face, no matter the time that had passed.

  I sighed and resigned myself to my fate. “What is it?”

  “Well…” She took a deep inhale, and I could just picture a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. “It’s a seasonal assistant job helping with packing and shipping at a small storefront not too far from your place.”

  “What kind of store is it?”

  “I think they sell stationery…or maybe it’s craft supplies? Hell if I know, but they need someone there by tomorrow morning at eight a.m. And they’re offering thirty hours a week.”

  Stationery or craft supplies? It sounded boring as shit. But it was probably better than mopping up bathroom floors and spritzing air freshener to cover the scent of public restroom poop.

  “How much does it pay?”

  “Thirty bucks an hour, doll.”

  Okay. Okay. I could definitely deal with packing fucking ribbons and glue guns for thirty bucks an hour.

  “How long do they need me?”

  “Looks like they want someone to hang around through December.”

  This could be a steady paycheck for the next three-plus months. I’d have to be brain dead to say no to this thing. And for as much as my parents maybe thought I was a little lacking in brain function thanks to the longevity of my side step from their idea of a picture-perfect future and career, I wasn’t mentally deceased.

  “Count me in.”

  “All right, doll, I’ll text you the address. Be there by eight tomorrow. And for the love of John Stamos, try to leave the buttah fingers at home.”

  Buttah fingers. As in butt-er fingers. As in the same fingers that managed to spill a hot football stud’s piss.

  “Got it.”

  With a swift end to the call, I headed back to my apartment, and once inside, set my grocery bags on the kitchen counter. I had the milk, eggs, and bread unpacked when I heard the hallway toilet flush.

  “You’re out of toilet paper!” Abby shouted from the bathroom, the sounds of running water from the sink faucet only slightly muffling her voice.

  I’d already known about the toilet paper shortage, hence one of the main reasons I’d made a grocery store run at nine in the morning on a Sunday, but I hadn’t known she was here.

  But with Abby’s track record for unpredictability, this was nothing more than routine, and any surprise at the sound of her voice was limited.

  “When did you get here?” I asked out of habit as she walked into the kitchen.

  “Last night.”

  I scrunched up my nose. “What in the hell time?”

  “Who knows. Maybe a little after two?”

  “Seriously? How did I miss you when I left this morning?”

  I knew the question was pointless the instant I’d asked it.

  Abby was like a little ninja. She had the power to creep around my apartment without me ever realizing she was here.

  I probably should’ve been more concerned about that reality, but she’d been my best friend for what felt like forever. Plus, the worst she’d do was eat all of my cookies.

  “Not sure.” She shrugged and started rifling through the grocery bags I’d yet to unpack. “Randy really liked your place, by the way.”

  “Randy?” I asked and turned to watch as she opened my fresh box of vanilla wafers and started munching on them. “I don’t know a Randy.”

  “I didn’t either….” She paused and waggled her brows. “Until last night.”

  “So, let me get this straight,” I started and rested my hip on the kitchen counter. “You brought some strange man back to my apartment, and did what? Had sex on my couch?”

  Her appearances were old hat, but I had to admit, the additional detail of using my apartment as some kind of hookup hotel came as a bit of a shock. One I wasn’t quite sure I was ready to come to terms with.

  And, apparently, I’d been mistaken. The worst she could do was eat all of my cookies and have sweaty sex with random dudes on my couch. I offered up a silent prayer they never occurred at the same time.

  She shrugged again and popped another wafer into her mouth. “The details are a bit fuzzy, but I think you’ve got the gist of it.”

  God. Good thing I’m a sound sleeper.

  “Gross.”

  “Trust me, Randy is not gross,” she retorted, completely unfazed by the situation. “He’s just a good old-fashioned guido from Jersey. Attractive, maybe a little stupid, and a set of washboard abs I could grate your new package of cheddar cheese on,” she said, holding up the cheese as a prop.

  “Don’t you think you should take your one-night stands back to your place?” I asked far more nonchalantly than I felt. Life with Abby was like life in an alternate universe, and the cyborg version of me was just doing the best she could to navigate it. “I mean, I know that’s a huge ask considering I don’t even know when you go to your place, but still. It seems like a common courtesy not to defile your best friend’s couch.”

  “Don’t worry, sweet cheeks, I’ll Lysol the upholstery.”

  I blinked. Sighed. Resigned myself to the fact that I couldn’t take back Abby’s fun night with Randy’s sweaty balls no matter how hard I tried. “Oh, wow. You’re too kind.”

  Abby winked. “That’s what friends are for.”

  “Besides disinfecting my couch, what are your plans for the day?”

  She shrugged. “Not much besides convincing you to make me French toast.”

  I rolled my eyes. I wished I were bold enough to ask for things like Abby was. It didn’t matter whether she’d just stolen your last brownie or not, she could convince anyone of anything. A cop not to give her a ticket. A doorman to let her into a building. A priest that she was, in fact, a devout Catholic who was eligible to take communion during her cousin’s christening, and apparently, me, to make her French toast even though she’d just sullied the most expensive piece of furniture in my apartment.

  “You know, sometimes I feel like I’m a single mother with a seventeen-year-old daughter.”

  Abby laughed. “Your daughter is kind of a floozy.”

  “Tell me about it,” I retorted with an involuntary grin. She really had a special kind of charm I couldn’t put my finger on. “Guidos named Randy aren’t the kind of men I want her hanging around with.”

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” Abby joked back. “Randy isn’t boyfriend material. He was just a guy I wanted to fuck.”

  I laughed. “Well, if that isn’t music to every mother’s ears.”

  While she made coffee, I turned on the stove and started prepping for my famous French toast. Eggs, milk, butter, bread, and my recipe’s secret, a little vanilla and cinnamon.

  Once my best friend had her coffee mug filled to the brim, she made herself comfortable on the kitchen counter and watched as I cooked breakfast.

  “So,” she started after taking a long sip from her mug, “any news on the job front?”

  “Mable called me earlier this morning, actually,” I said and flipped the bread in the pan. It sizzled, and butter bubbled up around the edges. “I’ll be handling packing and shipping for a small store in Brooklyn.”

  “What kind of store?”

  I shrugged. “They either
sell stationery or crafts.”

  “I’d rather gouge my eyes out than do that job.”

  “Tell me about it,” I agreed. “But beggars can’t be choosers. The pay is pretty good, and it’s a steady job for the next three months.”

  “Christ, Gem.” She snorted, and I looked up at her.

  “What?”

  “You do realize you’ve had more random jobs in the past two months than I’ve had my whole damn life, right?”

  “Considering you hardly work and I’m still trying to figure out how you pay your freaking bills, that’s not a fair comparison. I know how you afford food, though,” I said pointedly and jerked my head toward the box of vanilla wafers—my box of vanilla wafers—in her greedy hands.

  A smile and a little shrug told me my accusations, true or not, didn’t concern her.

  I really didn’t know how Abby paid her bills. Besides her occasional, pretty much whenever-she-felt-like-working job at a coffee shop called Cool Brew, the girl’s ability to pay for anything was a goddamn mystery. And whenever I asked about it, she brushed it off with a simple, “I have a little money saved up.”

  If I didn’t know her penchant for lazy firsthand, I would’ve thought she was a high-priced hooker. But even Abby Willis, escort extraordinaire, wouldn’t keep any damn clients with her laissez-faire approach to work.

  “But seriously, Gem, you can’t deny you’ve had a lot of jobs.” She snorted again and started ticking off my most recent jobs on her fingers. “Dog walker, maid at a bed-and-breakfast, server for a catering company, salon assistant, a receptionist—”

  “I get it.”

  “I’m not even half done. And let’s not forget about your one-day stint in piss collection.”

  Okay. Yeah. So I’d had a decent amount of jobs in the past few months.

  The dog walking gig was only temporary, and I had actually been pretty good at it.

  The Millers were a rich family in Manhattan and had three adorable corgis named after the Three Stooges. I’d loved those fucking dogs, but sadly, the Millers had relocated to Atlanta and taken my furry friends with them.

  Being a maid hadn’t been a good match. I mean, I could hardly keep my own apartment clean, much less clean up after other people.

  Working at the salon had gone tits up when I’d accidentally refilled one of the dye bottles with the wrong color. To say Mary Lou had been a little pissed that her hair had turned out far more blond than the auburn glaze she’d been going for would be an understatement. She’d all but threatened my life, and the salon owner had to kindly ask me to leave before her client resorted to actual murder.

  And the other jobs? Well, they’d all kind of ended the same way. Clearly, none of them was right for me.

  “All right, all right,” I said and raised my spatula hand in the air. “So I’ve had a decent amount of jobs in the past two months.”

  Abby grinned. “A decent amount? More like a ridiculous amount.”

  “I just haven’t found a good match.”

  “Because you’re in the wrong damn business, honey.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Not the whole music thing again.”

  “Yes,” she said. “But only because I think you’re crazy talented, and it’s your secret passion that you haven’t realized is actually your soon-to-be career.”

  I slapped two hot pieces of French toast onto a plate and shoved them toward her. “Just go eat your French toast and stop talking like a crazy person.”

  She glared as she walked away, all the way to the little kitchenette table I had set up just outside the kitchen.

  I loved music, I really loved my new guitar, and I might’ve spent most of my free time writing new songs and finding open mic nights throughout the city.

  But it was a hobby.

  It didn’t pay the bills, and it sure as shit wasn’t a career path.

  I looked to Abby as her harping ran through my head and careened into the barrier of practicality every time. Even, let’s face it, when it came to her. With a pseudo-squatter in my apartment who wouldn’t stop eating my food, I needed a steady income to pay the bills.

  Hell, from what I could tell, and the frequency of her visits, if I didn’t keep up with the rent, we’d both be out of a home.

  Okay, so that might’ve been a bit of an exaggeration, but the cold hard truth remained, paying bills with my music wasn’t an option.

  I mean, I came from a family of go-getting engineers.

  From childhood on, it’d been all but pounded into my head to stay far away from creative jobs like music or writing or photography because they were too unstable and unpredictable to build a secure future.

  Mind you, my grandfather called them “artsy-fartsy” jobs. He also adamantly defined them as the opposite of practical or realistic.

  And as much as I would’ve secretly loved for music to be my livelihood, it just wasn’t a viable career choice for me.

  Music pounded from the backyard as I pulled up in the drive behind several expensive cars, shut off the engine, and climbed from my five-year-old Dodge Durango that my parents gave me as a high school graduation present.

  It was team bonding time. And the location? Quinn Bailey’s backyard.

  The first game of the season was this coming weekend, and team cohesiveness, owner Wes Lancaster had insisted, was of the utmost importance. I understood where he was coming from, but all the necessity in the world didn’t stop me from feeling a little bit like a fish out of water.

  Most of these guys had been under contract with the Mavericks or other big-time teams for years, and the money for a new car or a fancy house was nothing more than a drop in the bucket.

  But I was the new guy, fresh out of college with a nice-sized signing bonus but absolutely no guarantees as to how long or how far my ability would take me in a seriously high-stakes sport.

  I’d set my bonus aside, in a fund with my financial advisor, just in case when my three years were up, my luck was too.

  Don’t get me wrong, I was damn good on the field, and I had the drive of four guys combined. But playing in college and playing in the big show were two entirely different things, and I wanted to be smart.

  My parents and my Nonna, my dad’s aunt, had taught me to be that way.

  Checking any nerves and replacing them with the swagger of someone far cockier than I really was, I moved to the gate in the vinyl fence at the side of the house and pushed it open to a crowd of some of the biggest guys in the world.

  Six five, six six, 350 pounds, these weren’t the kind of people who ever had a shot at being a jockey.

  They were big and lean, and most of them had moments of being mean.

  Primarily on the field, I presumed, but hell if I knew how they treated the rookies the rest of the time. Besides practice and conditioning, I hadn’t spent much time with any of them. In fact, this was the first time I was seeing most of them outside of Mavericks Stadium.

  Sean Phillips was the first to spot me as I stepped inside the yard and clicked the gate shut behind me, nudging Cam Mitchell with an elbow to turn around and look for himself.

  Normally, I prided myself on being the kind of guy who stood confidently and demanded respect. But I’d already had a couple of run-ins with Cam where all had not gone well. I hadn’t been a complete fuckup, but he’d certainly gotten some kicks out of messing with me, and I’d played right into his hands. And, as a teasing smile lit his face at the sight of me, I wasn’t sure my embarrassing stint with him was done.

  Falling into step together, the two of them headed in my direction, swift and true, and I did everything I could to cover up the fact that I kind of wanted to turn around and leave.

  Predators prey on the weak—even the ones big enough to prey on the strong—and being a cocky little shit in front of the two of them was my only form of protection.

  I saddled up to enlist the persona’s help, crossing my arms over my chest and settling into my spot to make them come all the way to me.

>   If they were going to give me shit, it was going to be on my terms.

  “Well, well, well,” Sean said when they arrived. “Look what the cat dragged in, Cam.”

  “I see,” Cam said, pretending to sniff the air. “It stinks. Smells like…” More sniffing. “Newbie.”

  I cracked a smirk at that and stuck out a bold hand. Sean’s eyes dropped to it meaningfully while Cam’s grin turned into a smile. Neither moved to take it.

  “Interesting start you’ve had with the team,” Sean mused instead, leaning an elbow into Cam’s shoulder.

  Cam’s smile turned mischievous. “I’ll say. Messing up the piss test on the first official day as a team member. Has to be some kind of record.”

  Sean laughed. I grimaced. Two months later and I was still getting shit about the whole pee debacle. It was bad enough that I’d gotten a reaming from Wes Lancaster about messing up the first of my retakes and had to go back for yet a third time—a transaction I completed successfully, by the way—but it was even worse that I hadn’t been able to go to a single practice in the time since then without someone cracking a joke at my expense.

  It was a huge change from being the most popular guy on my college team, but I was finally getting used to the adjustment. Plus, the amusement associated with my humiliation had to pass at some point. Right?

  Yeah, thanks for the support, guys.

  “Definitely,” Sean responded with amusement. “I’ve never actually heard of that happening, you know? Honest to God, I think you’re the first.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m sure I’ll be the first for a lot of things around here.”

  Cam guffawed. “Is that right?”

  My chest puffed out involuntarily.

  “You bet.”

  “What do you think, Cam?” Sean said teasingly. “First one to show up to practice in panty hose? Or the first to fail miserably against the big dogs?”

  “First one to give you a run for your money and then some,” I challenged.