by Kylie Walker
“So they’re sending you to Cali.” Jordan quickly availed himself of my fridge, stealing one of my expensive beers before plopping his six foot three form down on my couch. “To my enemy.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, to dress their wounds and soothe their hurts after you kick their asses. Don’t worry, my allegiances still lie with the family.”
“Family comes first.” My brother affected a thick, horrible Italian accent that made me cringe before I burst into giddy laughter.
“Can you believe it? Me in Cali? I’m still just trying to process it all.”
“Hey,” Jordan gestured at me with his beer bottle, his blue gaze softening. “You earned this, Erica. Don’t let anyone tell you different.” He took a swing of his beer before sighing as he let his head rest against a plush embroidered pillow. “You’ve worked hard, and I’m proud of you.”
I stuck my tongue out at him playfully. “Aren’t you going to lecture me about painting the town red with Adele? Caution safety. Tell me to watch out for all the new guys trying to get in my pants?”
Jordan shrugged, taking another sip of his beer. “Eh. You can take care of yourself. Besides, you’re not that pretty…”
The pillow I chucked at his face hit dead center and he had to scramble not to spill his beer as I smirked triumphantly. “Pretty, with an arm like Rodger Clemens.” I declared, making a show of stretching said arm as Jordan groaned long-sufferingly.
“Christ, those guys aren’t going to know what to do with you.”
Chapter 5
BRETT
I ache all over.
I’ve been out in the sun since six am and I’m watching the clock count down the minutes until three, caught somewhere between overworked muscular numbness and absolute exhaustion. When I leave practice, I never have to worry about getting my work out in for the day. In fact, I’m usually lucky if I can do anything other than consume the lost calories for the rest of the afternoon.
But just now, I’m down to the final drill, and when Coach Scalla blows the whistle, I put everything I have into it. The monster sled I’m dragging across the field is loaded with two hundred pounds, and every step is a mountain of resistance. Even so, my teammates and I power through. My motivation is the trip to ‘In and Out’ waiting for me the moment practice has wrapped.
We all need something to get us through, right?
When I finally reached the fifty yard mark, I released my load with a grunt, straightening so what seemed like an ocean of sweat could cascade down my bare chest. I had the fastest time, my best buddy Colin was right behind me, cursing lowly as he dropped his own load. “Is it three yet? Christ.”
I chuckled at his show of exhaustion. “What, Colin? Don’t you want to be in beast shape for the upcoming season?”
“What I want is a damn cheeseburger.” Colin grumbled, running a hand through his damp black hair. As he did so, half of the cheerleaders practicing on the sidelines fell all over themselves and I shook my head. As per a vote we’d taken during the last season, it was understood that, per some unspoken female rule, Colin got the most play. Something having to do with his dark eyes, brooding demeanor and the scruff he constantly wore on the lower half of his face. Never mind that the man didn’t usually give women the time of day. He’d been burned before, and would much rather be at home with a cold beer and the latest action movie than chasing tail.
Which, of course, made him a very unique member of the San Diego Rogues. There were entire tabloid spreads about our exploits – never mind that half of said exploits had been made up by overzealous reporters with a picture and itchy typing fingers. For instance, a story that I’d read just that morning accused me of knocking up some poor blonde ballerina and ruining her career. While it was true that I’d slept with Tatiana, she most certainly wasn’t pregnant. She was just tired of prancing en pointe for twelve hours a day. The last time we were together she confided in me that she’d never really wanted to be a dancer – it was just her ticket to the US so she could pursue her real passion: acting.
The only thing I’d done was give her a couple of earth-shattering orgasms and wished her god speed. We had a good thing, Tatiana and I. No strings attached sex and a sense of companionship that came from loss.
But that wasn’t something I wanted to think about at that particular moment. I wanted my goddamn burger, a shower, and an entire six pack of beers.
As the rest of the team finished their drills, it became pretty apparent that there was a consensus. Food and showers were a must.
I think a big misconception that a lot of people have about professional athletes is that we’re machines. We live eat and sleep our profession, constantly training, constantly planning – soldiered to playbooks by the hip and slaves to our obsessive coaches. In all honestly, we’re just guys – some of us young, some of us with more experience, and all damned good at what we do. Sure, we train a lot, but we also eat a lot of junk, drink a lot of beer and talk a lot of shit.
And in my third year with the San Diego Rogues, the latter was truer than ever before.
“We taking the pep squad to lunch?” Zeke, the self-appointed team joker, hailed from Alabama, and his southern charm never failed to impress the girls who weren’t star struck by Colin. In my honest opinion, they either went for the strong, silent type or the freckled, red-haired jokester.
Of course, that wasn’t to say that I’d never been with a member of the San Diego Rogues Cheerleading squad. Mind you, they were slightly monotonous for my taste. Ridiculous regulations required that they all be between five six and five ten, bleached blonde, and a C or D cup. Far be it from me to enforce the idiotic standards the team wanted to place on women, but I’d taken a few of them home and found them as sadly lackluster as the regulations they were so obsessed with meeting. No red meat and no carbs equaled no fun in my book.
But tonight wasn’t about women, as much as I adored them. No, tonight was Friday, which meant no training for two days and a night out with the guys. Hallelujah. “No pep squad,” I sighed, rubbing the base of my neck to take out some of the kinks there. “I’m looking for a sausage fest tonight, and I mean that in the straightest way humanly possible.”
“Which is none,” Zeke sniped with a mischievous grin. “That statement was decidedly homosexual, but we’re not judging. We can stop off at a different kind of bar tonight if you like, Brett.” I rolled my eyes. Funnily enough, I’d been to my share of gay bars. I had gay friends. I just wasn’t of a similar persuasion.
“Hilarious, Zeke. You should do stand up.”
“What, and have the team fall to pieces without me? Never.” Sometimes the caveat of being surrounded by your closest friends was wanting to punch them – but thankfully, I hadn’t gotten to that point quite yet.
“Alright, guys. Bring it in.” Before we were let off the hook, there was, of course, a weekly powwow with the coach. Thankfully, he wasn’t as much of a hard ass as most men in the league and only got really pissed when we pulled stupid shit on his watch. Exhibit A: Last year Colin thought it would be fucking hilarious to show up for practice hung over as hell from the night before and attempt to get some of the cheerleaders to practice with us. To say the least, Don was not amused and Colin got suspended for a game over his little stunt. He hadn’t pulled something so dipshit since, to his merit.
Don Harper was a balding man of meddling height with piercing green eyes and an eye for incredible plays. While some of his competitors criticized him for letting his body go to seed a bit, not a single one of them could match his brilliance on the field – which was why the Rogues had more than one Super bowl Title under their belt. I was proud to be a part of the team – and loathe to do anything to undermine its success.
(Aka), when I played pranks, I didn’t get caught. Simple as that.
“You looked great out there guys. Four days until the next game. Not a doubt in my mind that we’re ready.” The entire team huddled around Don. Despite bein
g the smallest man there, he commanded the most attention by far. “Brett.” I jerked to attention when he called me, stepping forward. Don’s hand snapped up as he offered me an unmarked, tattered black notebook. “I want you to go over this with the guys first thing next week. We’ve got some good shit up our sleeves.” I nodded curtly, grinning. “The rest of you, get some rest and for God’s sake, don’t do anything to screw me over this weekend.”
A chorus of “Right coaches” swept through the assembled players. I was so close to that burger I could taste it – but to my surprise, Don had more to say. “Before you go, I also want to announce that we have a new member joining our team here at the dome.” At that particular information, my ears perked. New member? Don was notorious for being ridiculously selective when it came to anyone working for the team. He only accepted the best of the best – those who worked with us had been at the dome for an average of seven years – as long as Don had been head coach.
Someone new was out of the ordinary, to say the least.
“If something’s bothering you and you see a new face in the therapy room, welcome her, ok? Let’s not have any antics.” With that, he let us go – leaving half of our number with expressions of equal surprise on our faces. After we recovered, I have to profess that I wasn’t the one coming up with plots to see who exactly the new member of the dome superfamily was before the weekend was out.
But did I participate? Maybe.
Suffice to say that Josh, the Rogue’s best kicker and one of my best wingmen, developed a tendon injury in the space of the next ten minutes. He moaned and groaned as Colin helped him traipse his way “painfully” to the therapy rooms, most of which were on the second level of the Dome.
And then he disappeared.
I’d like to have stooped low enough to follow him – really I would have. But Coach’s speech about fucking around was still fresh in my mind and I was too much of a goody two-shoes. That, and I wanted my fucking cheeseburger. So, instead, I made it to my truck and headed home to change. I had plenty of time to kill before I went out that night, and we all planned to meet at the closest in and out in half an hour to get our grub on.
Well, all of us except Josh, who was presumably trying to schmooze whatever new female therapist was on board. For his sake, I hoped she was middle aged and strict. Might teach him not to pull shit like this on Friday nights.
As Josh later hinted, however, the new addition was neither middle aged nor strict. In fact, over our favorite table at La Hacienda, one of the hottest bars in towns, Josh espoused on how ridiculously fucking gorgeous she was and how her hands felt like silk.
I snorted into my drink, shaking my head. “You just say that because it’s been an eternity since you’ve been with a woman. King Kong’s hands would feel like silk.”
Josh politely shot me the bird. “King Kong isn’t a sexy little brunette with curves for days, last time I checked.”
Zeke smirked. “When was the last time you checked, Josh?” We all had a good laugh at that one. La Hacienda had that effect on people. For anyone that came on the weekends, there was amazing music, killer food and strong drinks. For us, four members of one of the best football teams in the league, there was private table, a complimentary bottle of Effen Vodka and a ton of women raring to go at the slightest word.
In the latter, however, I had little interest that night. That wasn’t to say that I didn’t look. For me, women were a passion. My mother was a strong influence on me, and she always instilled in me how important that it was to treat women right. Even if I wasn’t a serial monogamist, I didn’t play games. What you saw was what you got with me – and let’s be honest, most women saw a lot. I’d never had a problem with money –my father had seen to that. He was a lawyer that ensured our family was comfortable from a young age. My mom, a doctor by trade, gave up her profession to ensure that we were happy and fulfilled – me and my youngest sister that was. I had another sister but she wasn’t around much. She’s only a year younger than me but we grew apart when she was in high school. Actually she pulled away from us all, but that’s another story.
I’d gone to private schools and an Ivy League college, so few usually doubted my intelligence. That I’d chosen sports was simply an outlet for me. I was good at football, and I loved it – so why not make a career of it? I hadn’t played on any organized teams until I lucked my way into a draft pick and now here I was – a miracle boy.
Women liked that – and I liked them.
But tonight, out of respect for the recently departed Russian ballerina who I liked to consider myself friends with, I hit the bottle hard and let the guys go for the women.
Truth be told, I hit the bottle a little too hard. My mistake, thinking that enough In and Out to feed a small country would protect me from guzzling almost half a bottle of Jack Daniels, but I was invincible.
Or so I thought.
Thankfully, I wasn’t the DD, but when the guys started splitting off to go their own ways, that left me to get a taxi alone. Despite the late hour, La Hacienda was still packed – crowds of people still rolling in. One of those people was a meathead sporting an expensive stick-shift sports car.
Since I wasn’t really the type of guy to quote car statistics at you, I didn’t notice much when he parked. What I did noticed was when the already-tipsy bastard’s vehicle started rolling backwards down the incline – straight towards a crowd of people just outside the club. Despite the fact that the sidewalk was swaying, I still had enough hustle in me to play the hero.
“Hey, get out of the way!” My feet pounded the pavement as I leapt towards what had to be a good ten or fifteen people at least as drunk as I was. “There’s a fucking car coming!”
I had precious few seconds, and despite thinking I was invincible, I knew very well that if that fucking car hit me, I’d be the only invincible dead guy in the cosmos. Thankfully, after I shouted a few times, most of the crowd broke into yells and dove the hell out of the way, leaving just a few stragglers too intoxicated to know any better. By the time I shoved them out of harm’s way, it was a bit too late for me to get away myself.
The car clipped me before slamming into a building, and I cursed, hitting the ground hard as pain seared upwards from my knee.
Fuck. Fuck!
I didn’t need anyone to tell me my leg was monumentally fucked. Any football player knew a serious injury when he felt one – and this was fucking serious.
Even so, I tried to make it through the weekend without heading to the hospital. When the guys caught up with me, they plied me with more drink, and even though I was limping, in typical guy spirit, we laughed it off. At the time, we were more interested in how incredibly fucking built the walls were at La Hacienda. The idiotic bro’s car was totaled, but our favorite locale had barely taken a scratch, which was a win as far as we were concerned.
When I sobered up the next morning and took a look at my leg, I tried to enthuse over the fact that nothing seemed broken. There were no bones sticking out, no blood and no lacerations. What I did see was a hell of a lot of blue and purple bruising, and along with my hangover, the pain was enough to keep me in bed for most of the day.
When I finally did venture out to make myself a sandwich, I uttered every curse word I knew trying to get to the kitchen.
My weekend was a back and forth of me trying to convince myself that I had overstated my injury while wondering if I really belonged in a hospital. While I mulled over that difficult decision, I didn’t contact any of my teammates. I was worried that in the light of day, they would confirm what scared the hell out of me.
Ultimately, however, my little bubble of indecision was burst when Don found out that his star quarter back was laid up. Monday morning rolled around and I was toast. Don sent a car to come get me and I had the pleasure of seeing the horror on all the guys faces when they took in my shitty leg.
Josh and Zeke helped me make my way up to the therapy facilities on the second level
of the dome – by which point I was calling on pretty much every God given a name throughout history. A doctor had been called in especially for me – fuck my life – and when they hefted me onto the table, he frowned deeply at the sight before him. “I need a therapist to come and take note of this. There’s going to be a long recovery period.”
At that point, I was certain my day couldn’t get any worse.
“Right here, Doctor.”
And then I saw her.
Her features were unmistakable – the same bright, mischievous blue eyes. The same dark mahogany waves, though now, they were pulled back from her face in a ponytail that trailed over her shoulder. She wore a uniform that proudly pronounced that she was the Rogue’s newest facility member over the swell of breasts that I remembered making myself intimately familiar with.
We had met before.
How could I ever forget Erica Stanley, the only girl to leave me in the dust?
Chapter 6
ERICA
Even though I considered myself the epitome of professionalism when working with doctors, I very nearly shouted a particularly nasty word upon getting a good look at my patient.
Brett.
Despite the fact that it had been five years, I remembered as if it were yesterday. The fourth of July pool party, a night that taught me about all the mind-blowing sex I’d be missing…and the inevitable run around that had followed.
What the hell was Brett doing here?
The moment the question entered my mind, I suppressed a groan. That much was obvious. If he was on the table in front of me that meant that he was a player for the San Diego Rogues. How the hell had I missed that? I considered myself pretty sports savvy, and the Rogues were a decent team. Of course, I was never at the level of being able to quote quarterbacks off the top of my head. Maybe if I had been, I wouldn’t have found myself in such a precarious position.
