The Penalty

by Piper Westbrook

  That wasn’t really true. She’d grown up popular—an athlete who many people said had been lucky to inherit her Norwegian mother’s Miss Nevada beauty, but she was cursed to take after her “my way is the only way” Texas-bred father. Waverly did what she wanted and had cared less about her looks and more about playing football, getting dirty, and generally defying anyone who tried to stop her from marching to her own tune.

  Attention from boys had never mattered. Now that she was an adult and had kissed her share of frogs that had turned out to be men who were insults to amphibians everywhere, she wasn’t about to expect anything from a man.

  Letting Jeremiah think she was the clingy type who waited for the phone to ring was a cop-out. But wasn’t that better than the absolute truth? She was the Waverly Greer, whose name, at this very moment, was being dragged through sports media mud. The truth was too personal to share with a stranger. And for all she knew, like plenty of the people sidestepping her on the stairwell now, he’d come to Las Vegas for play only.

  Yes, she was ready to finally move forward and put Alex Krasinski behind her. But even though it made no sense, she could tell from how Jeremiah had made her go from zero to wet in two seconds flat that he was no ordinary frog. Give somebody like that an inch and he’d be liable to take her heart. Which wasn’t an option. Anonymous sex was one thing. But an ongoing fling with Jeremiah would be a terrible mistake.

  Are you sure about that?

  That nagging thing called Guilt sure sounded a lot like the annoying thing called Doubt that was buzzing in her mind’s ear like an unswattable fly.

  “I’m sure,” she muttered, flicking her finger next to her ear as if to thump Doubt to oblivion. Waverly stopped short and through the crowd saw Meg still sitting at their table. Alone. Maybe the guy who’d been so attentive to her earlier was in the restroom or off somewhere making a phone call or…

  Meg propped her elbows on the table and dropped her face into her hands with enough force to toss her hair forward.

  “Shit,” Waverly whispered, already violently angry with the man who’d lifted her friend’s hopes only to drop her the second he realized she wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t making assumptions; she knew in her gut what the score was.

  Fishing into her purse for a twenty, Waverly wiggled her way to the bar again. “Rum and Diet Coke, please. Quickly.”

  Armed with the drink, she returned to the table and set the glass down. “I think you ordered this?” she said to Meg, who was still cradling her head.

  Startled, her friend dropped her hands and eyed her with incredulity. “Forever ago. You’re still here?”

  “Yes, and I feel really sucky for skipping out with—”

  “An orgasm waiting to happen.”

  Waverly conceded and grinned. “His name’s Jeremiah. Forget about him. We…whatever we were going to be…it’s not happening.”

  Meg took a gulp of the drink. “Too bad. He turned your head, chica, and that’s saying a lot.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. You’re…what’s the best way to describe it?”

  “Particular?”

  “Loca is more like it.” Meg polished off the drink, then took a deep breath. “What’s wrong with him, then? Tiny penis?”

  “What? No.”

  “Great penis, but no idea what to do with it?”

  “Meg!” Waverly pulled up the chair beside Meg, removed her friend’s cane and sat.

  “Then tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Nothing,” she said, steadying the cane across her lap. “That’s what’s wrong with him. He appears perfect, which is obviously not possible. He’s not a good candidate for a short-and-sweet fling, you know.”

  Although he had several minutes ago had that magic mouth between her thighs.

  “I also know you’re blushing and have that ‘I’ve been screwed’ look. Just sayin’.”

  Blasted Meg. The woman had tossed back at least two drinks and was still probably the most observant person in the room. Insane levels of perception and know-it-all must be prerequisites for DEA agents. “Then I’ll fix my makeup in the car on the way to the party.”

  “You sat on his face, didn’t you?”

  “Briefly.” They giggled. “Let’s go, Meg.”

  “‘Let’s’? I’m not—”

  “Coming to the party? Yes, you are, and don’t even think about passing this up. I’m not leaving you here to wallow in the Land of the Glow Sticks.” To emphasize her point, she subtly tilted her head toward the group nabbing the table behind theirs. Both men and one of the women were waving around the crayon-bright neon sticks. “Definitely time for a change of milieu.”

  Meg shook an ice cube from the glass and popped it into her mouth. “Two different men came up to me tonight, Waverly. Two. And they both lost their huevos and ran off once they found out that not only do I not dance, but I can’t walk more than three steps without this.” She put down the glass and grabbed the cane from Waverly’s hands.

  “Maybe they realized you’d bop them with it if they tried anything ungentlemanly.”

  Meg’s laugh lit her face, and Waverly knew she’d won this round. “Put that cane to use and let’s get out of here. Dad’s probably wondering where I am now.”

  Leaving VooDoo, they took a few minutes to freshen up in the ladies’ room at the Rio before Waverly called her private driver. It went without saying that news camera crews and reporters and paparazzi were already swarming around the party, and it was unlikely she could slink into it without someone snapping at least one shot of her with smudged lipstick. For her mother’s and father’s sakes, she would make an impression at tonight’s party that they could both be proud of. Or she’d at least try to.

  J.T. and Joan Greer were big believers in the whole “reap the rewards of hard work” philosophy, which was why her father had finally acknowledged that Waverly’s determination and proven professional victories made her a viable candidate for the assistant athletic trainer position. If not for her blood and sweat—and the tears that she was now an expert at hiding—she would’ve been overlooked for the job simply because her parents had never really, fully accepted that their firstborn daughter was more warrior than princess and sometimes wanted to be rough-and-tumble and untamed when they thought she should be more delicate.

  All eyes were on her, all right. Particularly J.T.’s and Joan’s. Just that morning, Waverly had gotten up at dawn for a jog and found her mother’s neatly written Post-it on the door to the Bellagio villa bedroom she shared with her sister Aly.

  W—

  Much to do before the get-together. See you tonight. Please no Waverly Slipups.

  —J

  A “Waverly Slipup” ranged from rants to defying authority and was pretty much any action that aggravated her mother or provoked her father’s heartburn episodes and caused him to reach for the antacids he carried in the inside pockets of his tailor-made jackets. Though she had two younger sisters who’d both experienced rebellion of varying shades, her own so-called slipups were the ones that her parents always seemed to recall and held on to like ammunition to shoot down her ambitions.

  No, Waverly would never come close to perfect. But this time she wouldn’t land on her face. She’d worked her ass off to carve out a place for herself in the NFL, and she was going to reap the rewards of it by keeping her team fit for success. It would smooth things, though, to have respect—the media’s, the team’s…her family’s.

  “Waverly, it’s okay,” Meg said, noticing Waverly’s nervousness as they stepped out of the BMW and headed for the Bellagio. An escort greeted them with a smile and led the way into the hotel toward the Tower Ballroom, where the Villains’ party was probably in full swing.

  There were flashes and clicks of cameras, shouts from reporters surging forth with microphones and eager questioning eyes. Waverly remained silent, maintaining a neutral expression on her face as she walked—neither too slowly nor too quickly.

  Once inside
the ballroom she was greeted by upbeat music and some familiar faces. Almost immediately she was swept into the fray and joined in conversation with a few guys from the team whom she’d met previously at one meeting or another. Once she could break away, she and Meg located J.T. and Joan, surrounded by other well-dressed guests.

  In a matter of months, since the official announcement that the Greers had acquired the Las Vegas Villains franchise, her family had reached a new strata of fame. The Greers were seeing a different level of attention than they had when an all-partied-out Aly had returned to school to become a publicist, or when Veronica had founded a nonprofit organization dedicated to getting at-risk youths off the streets and into the classroom. Thankfully, these items had been given some recognition earlier that week, when they’d been interviewed by the producers for a popular network program that highlighted prestigious families.

  A rich Texan, his beauty queen wife, and their three adult daughters who could be—and were—sexualized in every move they made. Yeah, that was the Greer family prestige.

  Waverly doubted there would be much footage of her, since she’d already resigned as athletic trainer for the UNLV Rebels and the official statement announcing her hiring hadn’t yet been released and at that time, while Veronica was the newly minted general manager and Aly one of the team’s new publicists, Waverly had been the only Greer daughter who wasn’t a part of the Villains franchise. Afterward her mother had reprimanded her for being unapproachable simply because she’d refused to discuss her personal life with the interviewer and had been adamant about focusing only on her past achievements and hopes to eventually participate in the NFL’s head-injury studies. But after today’s news she’d likely be seeing that very same interviewer again for an update before the segment’s airdate. “Excuse me, everyone. Just want to let the ’rents know I showed up after all.”

  “Waverly.” Her mother, coiffed and plucked and fresh as the fragrant jasmine and magnolias that filled the ballroom with their scent, folded her into a brief hug and murmured, “That dress says whore, don’t you agree? And not classy whore. More like Wednesday-nights-half-off whore.”

  “You look nice, too, Mom.”

  “Oh, Waverly,” Joan said, sounding put out. “You aren’t just the team owners’ daughter. You’re a trainer. Have a care about how you interact with the men—”

  “It’s a party, Mom. Take a break from griping and have a glass of champagne or something.” She ducked out of Joan’s grasp and said, “I invited Meg. The more the merrier, right?”

  “Meg, you’re always welcome,” Joan said warmly, but shooting Waverly a we’re-not-finished look. “Help yourself to the food.”

  Meg wandered off to take immediate advantage of that offer, and Waverly said to her father, “Dad, Finn Walsh’s here, isn’t he?”

  “That’s right,” J.T. said in his gruff Texas drawl, handing his wineglass to a nearby waiter. “You haven’t met the new HC yet. Let’s take care of that now.”

  He offered his elbow and they approached a broad-shouldered blond man who Waverly guessed to be in his late forties. He could’ve just stepped out of the pages of GQ with his well-coordinated suit and designer watch. He pointed his glass at J.T. as he said, “Aha! There’s the man.”

  The men exchanged greetings in their equally booming voices, then addressed a trio from the offensive line who, though cleaned up in silk shirts and pressed slacks, appeared just as strong and ferocious as they did on the field. Finally, Waverly barged into the conversation with, “Finn, it’s good to meet you. I’m Waverly Greer.”

  Finn turned a pair of flummoxed blue eyes to her before raising his brows expectantly at J.T. as if to gibe, “Is she like this all the time? What a piece of work!”

  At the unapologetic interruption, her father looked at her with an expression that was dashed with irritation. “Right, right, Finn. My daughter asked for you personally.”

  “Can I be flattered?” Finn’s nonplussed look melted into what had to be his version of charm when dealing with the gentler sex. His mouth stretched into a white toothy grin that showed the man clearly wasn’t used to smiling.

  “We’re teammates, Coach. There’s no need for flattery,” Waverly said, sticking out her hand for a shake, which he didn’t hesitate to provide. “You’re a busy man, so it’s expected that we’ve had a difficult time coordinating our schedules. I was hoping to meet my new boss before training camp.”

  J.T. took that moment to stride off to parts of the room unknown.

  “Finn, I thought I’d get to know you a bit. Find out who I’m working with. It’ll be easier to get the particulars out of the way before we all meet in Mount Charleston.”

  Finn nodded to the mix of players and security personnel who’d been lingering quietly and they moved away. “Waverly, let me be frank. I get the feeling J.T. and Joan want to make a statement with this franchise. Out with the old. In with some changes. J.T.’s the muscle and he’s gonna do whatever the hell he wants. My concern’s that with this statement, they—and you—are overlooking the challenges you’re going to face.”

  “My parents didn’t hire me to make a statement,” she objected, pausing to take a slim carrot stick from the tray of a passing server. “I know the role of athletic trainer isn’t an easy job, but I’m the best person for my position. I’m as competent as the rest of your exceptional training staff—I just come with a vagina.” She bit into the carrot with a smirk.

  “Funny.” Finn gestured with his glass for emphasis. “Funny’s good. You’ll need a sense of humor.”

  “Check.”

  “And balls. Bravado, I mean, of course.”

  “Check.”

  Serious now, Finn said, “Listen, Waverly, an all-male locker room’s a world away from what you’re probably used to. Some of these guys around the league are creeps. They’re not on the team because they’re the nicest guys on the planet but because they can play. They aren’t looking forward to curbing how they talk and act because a woman’s been thrown into the mix.”

  She finished the carrot. “I’m not on this team to make all these guys politically correct.”

  “You’ll change your tune the second you hear a lame-as-hell T & A joke.”

  “Come on, now. I don’t discriminate. I’m insulted by any lame-as-hell joke.”

  Pure surprise filled Finn’s eyes, and after a moment he nodded and took a swallow of his drink. “Well, now that we’ve got those particulars out of the way, what do you want to know about me?”

  “Waverly!”

  Waverly whirled around to see her sister pushing through the clusters of guests. “Need you for a moment.”

  “Aly, I’m in the middle—”

  “A party crasher’s asking for you.” Never one to let herself be put off, the redhead jammed her hands on her hips and frowned in a way that would’ve seemed childish and unattractive on anyone else. In a blue-black dress that emphasized the paleness of her skin and high heels that showcased her gazelle legs, she said, “Hi there. I’m Aly, the gal who’ll be making all you men look good.” She took Finn’s hand in a way that could have been seen as cordial or licentious. “I’m a publicist. And Waverly’s younger sister.”

  “Down, girl,” Waverly murmured to Aly. At twenty-two, Aly was the “surprise” her parents had had late in life—a fact she never got tired of flaunting. She disengaged her sister’s hand from Finn’s. “Where’s this party crasher, and why didn’t you let Dad know?”

  “He wants you. Try not to get lost in his eyes.” Aly led the way to the built-in stage behind a curtain that was nothing but dark nooks.

  “Okay, this is a little weird. What were you even doing back here, Aly?”

  “Exploring.”

  For Aly, exploring could mean she’d been scoping out the surroundings or spread-eagled under a waiter.

  Waverly stepped around her sister to see Simon Smith waiting with his arms loose at his sides. Under direct orders, the new general manager—her sister Veronic
a, who’d shot up the ladder as a talent scout-turned-corporate attorney—had relieved him of his QB duties with the Villains and he’d taken the news very badly, very publicly. Notorious as the “blue-eyed badass” off the field, he’d racked up numerous fines over his four seasons with Las Vegas.

  A horrifying thought formed. “Aly, what were you doing here with him? I swear, if Mom and Dad find out this guy touched their daughter—”

  “Um, sis? I didn’t have sex with him.” Under her breath Aly added, “Not that I’d say no if he offered.”

  “Waverly, I’m Simon Sm—”

  “I know who you are, Simon. What I don’t know is what you think I can do for you. The GM and the owners’ decision about your relationship with the team is final.”

  “It wasn’t final when J.T. and Joan turned your application down twice,” Simon volleyed back, his eyes pleading. “That’s what ESPN and every other fucking network is talking about tonight.”

  “I won’t discuss my career with you.”

  “Look, Waverly, your father’s a stubborn bastard—”

  “Hey!” Aly piped up.

  “—but he can bend. Hear me out.”

  “As if I can give you a place on this team? Four seasons, Simon. Four to show you were worth what the previous front office spent on you, and you choked halfway through. All that talent and where’d it go?”

  Simon glowered, but she wasn’t close to backing down. “All of a sudden you got yourself a candy arm. Your on-field decisions, the incomplete passes? Laughable. My parents both want this team to be a contender, and you’re not the quarterback to see us to that. The people who let you go believe you’re too much of a liability.”

  “And your kicker, Omar Beckham, isn’t? He’s goddamn toxic.” Simon exhaled harshly through his nostrils. “He’s a train wreck, and the GM opened the gate to him.”

  “Beckham’s hiring has nothing to do with me. I’m one of the people who’ll work to keep him healthy, that’s all. You should be consulting with your agent to sign with another team—”