Free Baller: An Off-limits, Sports Romance (Bad Boy Ballers Book 2)

by Rie Warren

  “In bed.” She snatched her hand back.

  I chuckled, rising. Her eyes widened as she took in my body, but she wasn’t scared of me. Hell no. She wanted. More.

  “Remember that I love you bit?” My fingers skimmed along her shoulders.

  “But?”

  “Nothing more than that.” Curling her against me, I took her sweet kiss to mean acquiescence.

  ’Course I’d never come up against a woman like Delaney Jones before.

  “Move in, like permanently?” Her chin notched up as soon as I released her succulent lips.

  “Yup.”

  “Jester won’t like the competition.”

  “He’ll get over it. Besides, he has Cinnamon now.”

  “And if I said no?”

  “You know I won’t force you. Hell, I wouldn’t even be able to if I tried.” Her silky skin heated more than my hands as I edged her into my arms. “Do I wanna look out for you? Yeah. Am I gunning for Eric? That’s a given. But you and me? We’re more than our pasts, right?”

  The blankets dropped between us. “If I said yes?”

  “I’d probably post it on Instagram.” I deadpanned.

  She bit my neck, a sharp little nip. “You’re not on Instagram.”

  “Sooo, you looked me up online?” I dragged her into bed with me.

  “I certainly did not.” Delaney’s mouth curved. “I had Raquel do it for me.”

  Laughter boomed out of me, and I spooned around her.

  “So that’s a yes?” I asked, nibbling at her ear.

  “Yes,” she squeaked.

  “I love you.”

  Her hands fell to my forearms, and she held me against her, wiggling back. “I love you too, Brooks.”

  ****

  The day before our latest home game against the Georgia Pride, I had a meeting downtown. With Delaney moved into my house we drove to and from work together, cooked meals together, and cooked up some seriously hot action in the bedroom, the kitchen, the living room . . .

  Everything was fiiiine except somehow that slippery shit Eric had up and disappeared from the radar again. Would’ve been a good thing except I still owed him several beat downs—and the abusive asshole owed serious jail time and a divorce.

  In the thick of Charleston’s maze of streets—heavily decorated for Christmas already—I stepped into a cobblestone alley and peered at the wooden sign above a shop door.

  When I entered, a little bell jingled, and a man who was almost as big as me, boasting a thick crest of hair as black as Delaney’s, squinted at me with dense cigar smoke wafting in front of him.

  “You got an appointment? ’Cause Frankie doesn’t do walk-ins unless—”

  “Brooklyn Holt.” I thrust out my hand.

  “The Baller. In. The. Flesh. Didn’t recognize my favorite tight end out of the tight uniform pants.” Frankie Burelli immediately stubbed out the stogie and pumped my hand. And kept pumping it up and down, up and down.

  Leaning forward, still grasping my hand, he leered. “Need me to measure your inseam?”

  Josh Stone had warned me about Frankie’s nonstop come-ons, but I was confident I could handle the Italian Stallion. “Not in the market for a new suit at the moment.”

  “Madon. That wasn’t really what I was talkin’ about.”

  “Figured.” I finally slipped my palm free from his more than firm grip. “But you know what they say, I’m a one-woman guy.”

  “Straight muthafuckas.” The elegantly dressed bruiser scowled.

  I grinned, looking around the small shop filled to the rafters with bolts of fabric and a million other items that had once earned Frankie infamy as Frankie the Tailor in more than one way. “Looks like business is booming, huh?”

  He leaned against the counter, thick legs stretching the quality material of his suit pants. “Can’t complain.” He toyed with the top of a silver cane propped next to him. “Ya know, that and the side contracts.”

  “About that. I brought you the tickets for the game tomorrow and a signed football.” I handed over the goods, and he made sure our fingertips made contact.

  “Wouldn’t mind if you signed me, with your tongue in my ass.” As he licked his lips I felt my cheeks heating.

  Josh Stone sure hadn’t been kidding.

  Keep him on track, Brooks. “Any updates?”

  “Nada. That fuggin’ loser-bait went to ground. Sorry I didn’t get a chance to take him out on Thanksgiving. Kind of too public, if ya know what I mean.” He pulled on the end of his cane, partially revealing what looked like a glinting, hella sharp sword.

  “Yeah. I can see how that would be . . . messy.”

  Josh really hadn’t been kidding.

  “So if I see him again you want me to intervene?” He slid the blade back into the cleverly designed cane. “Ya know, vermin like him never lay low for long.”

  “Well, I don’t want you to get in trouble with the law or anything.”

  He snorted. “Like I’m fuckin’ worried about that. You’ve heard of my family, right?”

  “How about you call me immediately if you lay eyes on that twat. I got some payback of my own to give him.”

  When I said Delaney needed to let me help, I’d obviously meant beat the fuck outta that punk.

  “I think that can be arranged.” He lit the cigar back up.

  Probably my cue to leave while my ass was still intact. I started for the door.

  “Hey.” Frankie’s voice boomed out. “Think next time you come callin’ you can wear the uniform?”

  Not even touching that one.

  I left with a finger wave. “See you at the game tomorrow.”

  I was tooling through the historic streets in my truck, heading home, when I saw a somewhat familiar figure slouching along.

  Holy fucking fuck.

  I pulled over and slammed on the brakes, the tires spinning and squealing.

  Couldn’t frigging believe my eyes. Frankie was right. That motherfucker hadn’t kept up the disappearing act for long. Here he was, strolling down the street in broad freakin’ daylight like the fat fuck didn’t have a care in the world.

  I leaped out of the truck. “Hey! Eric! Eric Grimes!”

  The douche glanced back, a sudden look of fear widening his eyes until the whites showed. Then he bolted into the nearest alley.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Loser Streak

  Brooklyn

  I SPRINTED AFTER ERIC, nothing on my mind but grabbing him and beating the shit out of him. Entering the mouth of the alley just as he exited the other end, I put the push on. No way was the wife beater getting away from me. Not when I was one of the top runners in the NFL.

  Untamed fury fueled me down to my bones as I sped onto another sidewalk. Eric lumbered up ahead, losing ground.

  I dodged people on the sidewalk crowded with downtownies, tourists, Christmas shoppers.

  Delaney’s husband slipped into one of the cemeteries hidden between Charleston’s one thousand and one churches. He glanced back, that hunted look in his eyes.

  Good. Let him see how it feels for a change.

  In between the gravestones, I chased that fat fuck. Hopping over the last marker in the way, I brought the meat puppet down . . . fucking hard. His chest slammed into the cold earth, his head narrowly missing the corner of a headstone.

  Bummer.

  I flipped him to his back, sneering into his ugly face, and he had the goddamn stupid balls to snarl right back at me.

  “So you’re her new moneybags. Sounds about right. Slut left me when I didn’t become the quarterback with the big bucks she always wanted.”

  “Funny. That’s not how I heard it.” Rampant rage stamped every muscle in my body taut.

  I cocked my fist, about ready to bash his face in.

  Eric Grimes, the grimy cunt, tried to buck me off him. “Lemme guess. She gave you the whole sob story about the miscarriage? The brat probably wasn’t even mine to begin with. Good riddance, I say.”
>
  I hit the redline of anger just before I hit him. My bare-knuckled fist blasted into his face. Black eye to go with his black heart, and I was just starting.

  Other folks—the sightseers, the weekend shoppers, the college students—started converging.

  “You need to get the hell out of Delaney’s life for good.” I brought his fugly face to mine with a hand at his neck, watching the fast blooming bruise spread.

  “Go ahead.” The shitheel’s voice oozed out like slime. “I’d fucking love to have you arrested. Hit me again, and I’ll press charges against you.”

  Breaths steamed in and out of me. My nostrils flared. So close to cold-cocking him one. A clean kill was too good for this abusive bully.

  “Isn’t that Brooklyn Holt?”

  “The tight end from Carolina Crush?”

  My fingers slipped as soon as I realized people recognized me.

  Eric scrambled from beneath me. “How do you think this will go down for your big career?”

  I popped to my feet. My chest tightened.

  Gritting my teeth, I balled my fists at my sides. “You stay away from her.”

  “Yeah. Sure.” He straightened his jacket, ambling backward. “Tell Delaney I said hi.”

  If anyone asked me for a fucking autograph at that moment I’d probably hit them, too.

  Charging from the cemetery, back through the alley to my truck—I was so pissed I couldn’t fucking see straight.

  And there was a parking ticket on the windshield of the Ford. Of course.

  “Goddammit!” I kicked the tire, aching to kick the shit out of Eric Grimes until he bled red into the ground.

  ****

  Delaney was in the stable when I got home. I made sure to comb my hair back with my fingers, checked my knuckles weren’t bruised, and tried to wipe the brutal expression off my face.

  Delaney’s home.

  That was all that mattered.

  She fed Cinnamon another apple, long hair swaying down her back. I stood watching her, need riddling my senses, until she turned around.

  Cool December sunshine from the other end of the barn gilded her in gold.

  “Brooklyn! I thought you’d be back earlier.”

  “I need you now.” The muscle at the corner of my jaw clenched and unclenched.

  Stalking toward her, I pulled off my leather jacket, slapping it aside.

  “Here?” She gasped, pulling away from the stall.

  “Now.” I unbuttoned my shirt, the tails flapping at my hips.

  “Brooks—”

  I hauled her up around my waist, taking her into an empty stall. The smell of old leather and fresh hay rolled around us.

  Setting her on her feet, I flicked open my jeans, yanked them to my thighs, freed my aching cock.

  Delaney’s eyes darted down. Her mouth popped open. She took me in her hand, and I barged against her.

  “Too close?” I gusted a breath against her ear before turning my head and crashing my lips to hers.

  “No.” She shook her head when I pulled up.

  My hands worked at her pants, her panties, dragging both to below her knees.

  “Too fast?” I slowly sent my palm down her belly, her pelvis, into her slit.

  She rose to meet my touch, tongue laving at my neck. “I’m already wet for you.”

  “Turn around. And brace yourself.”

  I watched, savage, as she pivoted and propped her hands against the wooden timbers. Spreading her legs as much as I could, I drew the bursting head of my cock along her pussy.

  “You sure this is okay?” My feet stamped on the floor. I reached a hand around to flick at her nipples through her shirt.

  Back arching, hair flipping, body open, she slanted a wanton look over her shoulder. “Fuck me.”

  Hot, fast, hard entry.

  I bellowed, bucking into her. Every wild impulse drowned in her drenched cunt.

  She howled at each thrust then backed up for more.

  I left marks on her hips. Bites on her neck. Rough words at her ear.

  Rutting, rearing into Delaney, I reached breaking point fast. Too fast. I pushed her with me, jamming my exploding cock to the depths, fingers lightly pulsing on her clit.

  And she came with harsh high breaths of her own, head thrown back, ass pressed to my pumping pelvis.

  Then after, slower strokes, tender words, gentle hands. Pulling out, kissing her with a hand on her cheek, a slow mating of tongues.

  “That was unexpected.”

  I nuzzled her ear. “Yeah.”

  “So you think we’re over the rough patch? You know, having sex the night before a game?” Her sleek black brows rose.

  “Hope so.” But it was more than the game, and all tangled up in the game.

  My hands were tied where her husband was concerned. I couldn’t go around pummeling the fuck outta him in front of folks who recognized me. I couldn’t blow off the game tomorrow against Georgia to track him down.

  Delaney didn’t even want the police involved.

  “Hey.” Her fingers smoothed across my forehead. “Okay in there?”

  “I’m fine.” I struggled for a wink and a grin, pulling her clothes back in place then taking care of myself.

  Jester whinnied from his stall.

  “Sounds like someone isn’t so fine.” She rolled her eyes, taking my arm.

  “He’ll survive.”

  “Hard-ass.” Delaney pinched my ass.

  “You know it.” I slipped an arm around her shoulders.

  And I was going to be the biggest hard-ass of all with her husband. But in the meantime, I wasn’t gonna let Delaney outta my sight. Not for the rest of the day. Not tomorrow. Not until we got shit sorted out with Eric.

  Just need to get through the game. Then I’ll end this shit one way or the other.

  ****

  Nearing the end of the second quarter, we were bruising the field against the Georgia Pride. They were going down. Ten seconds left until halftime, I had two touchdowns under my belt, and Crush was a solid twenty-one points ahead.

  I’d psyched myself up beforehand, hitting the weights, guzzling the electrolytes, trash talking with Rafe and Calder and Marquis and Bunyan. Akoni sang his opera, we all performed a semi-half-assed haka . . . I was trying not to psyche myself out this time.

  We needed this win to have a chance at the playoffs.

  When the whistle blew at the end of the second quarter, I flipped my helmet into my hand and sprinted to Delaney for a quick kiss. Fraternization fuck you.

  Coach D yanked at my arm, herding us off field. “The locker room, get in there now.”

  I took one last peek at Delaney, stretching for her halftime game, before I sprinted into the underbelly of the arena. Then I nodded at Frankie, who had a stellar seat in the first row. He waved his big red foam thumb at me, and I was glad he was there to keep eyes on Delaney when I couldn’t.

  The locker room jock talk went right over my head. I swiped at my face with a towel, tried to clue into Coach D and Coach Frank as they gave us a rip-roaring pep talk.

  I just wanted to get back out there and take this one to the win so I could get Delaney home and safe as fast as possible.

  “You okay?” Rafe asked. “You’re not getting the heeby-jeebies about bein’ my best man next week, are you?”

  I chewed on my lip. “Last thing I’m worried about.”

  “Wanna talk about—”

  “Huddle up!” Coach D blew his whistle. “If we lose this one, we’re not gettin’ to the playoffs. You heard that?”

  “Heard that, Coach!”

  I placed my hand in the middle of my teammates, drawing focus back down.

  “One team! One ring!”

  “One, Two, Three . . .”

  “Crush IT!”

  Fists bumping. Ass slapping. Chest thumping. Onto the field amid the deafening roar of the fans packed into the Carolina Crush stadium in Charleston. Noise blanketed me. Screams rolled around us. I fitted my mouth
guard, hunkering down to listen to any play changes.

  Scanning the sidelines, I glommed onto the Carolina Cougars. Scanned again. Counted the number of players and looked for the QB with the long black ponytail. Punching up to my toes, I sucked in a breath.

  Delaney wasn’t with her tribe.

  I jetted on field, anxiety gnawing at my gut so much I thought I’d throw up on the turf.

  I heard Rafe’s call.

  I ran on automatic.

  I won’t search for her.

  I won’t look for him in the stands.

  I only caught the ball by magic, balanced on my toes then tipping backward.

  End of the play.

  Marquis helped me to my feet.

  He said something.

  I didn’t hear him.

  I focused on the Cougars again.

  Definitely no Delaney.

  Frankie, front and center in the best seats, had stormed to his feet with the rest of our fans. So he wasn’t with her. She had no protection at all. I couldn’t even call her or signal to him. No way could I ditch in the middle of a game Shit, shit, shit. I’d probably escalated the situation by pulling that stunt with Eric yesterday . . .

  Back on the field—fourth quarter, Georgia tightening the score—I stuck to my lane and ran the ball. I just wanted this to end. The adrenaline pushing me had nothing to do with the game against Georgia anymore. Everything to do with locating Delaney.

  I slammed my way through colossal linebackers, the football tucked against my chest. I rammed my head down—gunning for the end zone. Every single moment sliding past in slow motion. Every hit taken hardly registering. Every yard fought for burning my calves like the air burned in my lungs.

  I straight-armed, strong-armed, shredded the field beneath my feet—blasting back against every lineman in my way.

  Didn’t even realize I’d hit the end zone until Marquis grabbed me by the grill of my helmet. “Hellz yeah!”

  Hardly even noticed I’d made the last score. The game was over. We’d won.

  I felt nothing but sheer panic.

  So wild I was outta control, I shoved Marquis away.

  Rushing to the sidelines, I only halted when Rafe got in my face. “What the fuck, man? We won.”

  “Get outta my way.” I barreled past him to the Cougars. “Where is she?”