Parker (Face-Off Series Book 1)

by Jillian Quinn

  After I finish my speech about mental and physical conditioning, I introduce Kyle Barker, center of the Philadelphia 76ers, and pass him the microphone. He gives a speech about good sportsmanship and being a team player.

  Given the size of the clinic, it’s much harder to spend the whole day going over hands-on skills. We spend most of the morning listening to different players from the team give the children advice. Some of the parents chime in to ask questions at the end of each lecture, and overall, the camp is a success.

  But I can tell the kids are eager to get on the court. Jamie kept the Gladiators in their own group with Rico and Tommy sitting in the front row, leading our team. Those two together crack me up as they go back and forth about who can score the most points by the end of the day. Ten rows back, I spot Rosario talking to some of the boys’ parents, wearing her light-blue nurse uniform with her dark hair pulled up into a ponytail. She must’ve come straight from her night shift at the hospital.

  Jamie and the rest of the coaches and players who are helping with the event each take a group of boys and girls. A few of the local girls youth basketball teams have decided to join this year along with their coaches and parents.

  After we spend the next two hours teaching the kids the fundamentals of shooting, passing, and dribbling, my boys still haven’t had their fill.

  “Can we do some layups?” Rico asks, looking up at me with those big hazel eyes that I can never say no to.

  “Yeah, can we, Coach?” Tommy chimes in.

  Glancing around the court, I see the parents and their kids are making their way toward the sidelines while my team is still full of energy, amped up and ready to play more. I take a basketball from a rack at center court and dribble with my right hand as I walk toward my team.

  “How about you play me in a game of Horse?” a deep voice that I know says from behind me.

  I turn around and see Dante Fisher, all six foot eight of him, only a few yards away from me.

  A few screams from parents and kids echo throughout the event center when they realize that Dante, the leading scorer in the NBA, is in the building. He’s wearing his red and black Chicago Bulls uniform, matching black socks that go midway up his muscular calves, and the latest pair of shoes Nike named for him. I helped get him that deal.

  Speechless, my mouth falls open in shock. “What are you doing here?”

  He leans into me, pulling me against his chest and into a hug. “I heard from a reliable source that you could use an assist. You drop everything for me. I thought I could come and give you a hand.”

  I am so overcome with emotion, I have no idea how to process this show of support for my local charity event.

  Dante releases me from his strong grip and takes the basketball from my hands. “So, you gonna play me or what, Coach?”

  “Show us the Coach Crossover,” another voice says from behind Dante.

  I step to the side of Dante to see Shawn West, the center for the Los Angeles Clippers and one of the first clients I ever signed with DMG. He’s an inch or two shorter than Dante and dressed in his white, red, and blue uniform with the same white compression wrap he wears on his right arm for games.

  “Westie, what are you doing here?” I ask, sidestepping around Dante to shake his hand.

  Before he can answer, I spot Terrence Hopkins, one of my latest recruits, marching over toward us along with a handful of professional basketball players on my client list.

  My mouth falls open even wider as I watch while the line continues, feeling as though it will never end, each of them wearing their uniforms and entering from the locker room entrance. The crowd inside the arena goes wild, clapping and screaming, as the players make their way toward me. As the guys exchange pleasantries with each other, I make my rounds and greet each of them, still stunned that they’ve shown up here to help me coach.

  “How about we show these kids how it’s done?” Terrence says, his voice so deep, it’s hard not to pay attention when he speaks. “You ready to school these punks, Coach?” He slaps his big hand on my back, practically knocking the wind out of me, and motions to the men crowded around us.

  Chris Spence elbows Terrence in the bicep and pushes his way between us. “We’ll see who you’re calling a punk when I’m wiping the floor with you.”

  And that is the attitude that not only makes him one of the biggest shit talkers in the NBA, but also made me want to sign him the second I spotted him at a community college in South Dakota. I had heard about a player who locals were comparing to LeBron James and had to see for myself. I signed Chris before anyone could get to him, and he has been with me ever since.

  I take the ball from Dante’s hands and walk out to the sideline at half-court. Cupping my hand around my mouth since I don’t have the microphone and have no idea where Jamie set it down last, I address the people in the stands, “I was going to start handing out the prizes, but before I do that, do you want to watch a quick pickup game first?”

  Their screams reverberate throughout the building. I jokingly hold my hand to the back of my ear to tell them I can’t hear them, and the cheers get louder. I am still in awe that all my ballers are here. Rico and the rest of my team slip through the guys, jumping to slap each player’s hand.

  “Coach!” Rico yells with his hands up in the air.

  I pass him the ball that he catches, and he spins it on his index finger, showing off. This kid will no doubt be a star one day. He has the talent, drive, and confidence…and he has me. These kids and my players are my entire life.

  The volume reaches a higher octave with cheers and more clapping, which I attribute to the crowd wanting us to start the game.

  “All right, stop showboating, kiddo.”

  I hold my palm up for him to pass the ball back, and he winks, throwing the ball too far to my right, forcing me to leap. My face slams into rock-hard muscle, and a big, strong hand clamps down on my shoulder to keep me from falling. The fabric in my hands is rough and orange, and…it’s a Flyers jersey.

  My jaw just about hits the floor when I look up and into Alex’s gray eyes that appear bluer today. He presses the ball Rico threw to me against my chest, and I take it from him, stunned, as I step back.

  “What are you doing here?” I am so confused.

  But it’s not just Alex they are cheering for in the audience. Behind him, I spot several NFL, MLB, and NHL players and a golfer I signed long before he won a few PGA Tours. Each of them is making some form of acknowledgment to me. Kane and Donovan wave to me along with a few of the players from Alex’s team.

  Mickey is last, and he strolls across the court, his eyes fixed on mine. For once, he’s not decked out in a thousand-dollar suit and tie. I almost laugh at the sight of Mickey in a basketball jersey, shorts, and sneakers. I have never seen him look so…comfortable. And relaxed. He flashes a rare smile and stops next to Kane with a young blonde woman at his side. She has a camera in her hand and a press badge around her neck.

  “This means…” I glance at Alex and shake my head, bewildered. “You did it? Mickey is okay with us?”

  He nods, a broad smile on his face that makes my insides melt. “Yep. All of your clients are here. I didn’t plan to highjack your camp, but it was hard enough to get all these guys’ schedules to line up with mine. I also thought it would be a nice surprise for the kids. There are bags of autographed stuff in the locker room that we plan to help you give out.”

  I raise my hand to cover my mouth. “Alex, I knew you’d do it, but this…this means so much to me.”

  He takes my hand from my mouth and rubs it between both of his before letting it drop to my side. “I know, baby. I even got the guys to donate money to Philly Clean in your name.”

  He points to his left, and I follow his finger and see Carl Thompson, the Director of Donor Relations at Philly Clean, who is holding up one of those huge cardboard checks.

  “One hundred thousand dollars,” I mutter, my words stuck in my throat. Fanning myself, I try
to hold back the tears. “Wow, Alex. I can’t believe you did all this for me. I don’t even know what to say. Thank you.”

  “I got you something.” He removes a square robin’s-egg blue box from Tiffany & Co. from his pocket.

  My breath catches for a second, and my heart is beating so fast, I can hear it in my ears, but then I realize it’s not the right shape to be an engagement ring. If he were to propose, I would say yes on the spot.

  Alex opens the lid and reveals a white gold whistle with diamond chips. Engraved on one side is Charlotte, and the other side is Coach. “Do you remember when I told you that there was more than one side to a person?”

  “Yes,” I choke out, almost in tears by his gesture. “You said that everyone knows Coach, but you wanted to know Charlotte.”

  He takes the whistle from the box, lowers it over my head, and secures it in place around my neck, staring into my eyes. “You’re not just Coach anymore. It’s okay to be Charlotte sometimes. I fell in love with Charlotte.”

  “I love you,” I whisper, our lips so close, they are almost touching.

  “I love you more than hockey,” he says, his voice low, a smile on his lips.

  That makes me laugh like a fool. “Basketball was my first love. You have got some stiff competition, Parker.”

  Grinning, he presses his lips to my ear, the heat from his breath sending chills down my spine, leaving a trail of heat on my skin. “Speaking of things that are stiff, that whistle is all you will be wearing later.”

  I giggle, excited by the promise. “Sounds like you will have plenty of penalties to work off. I plan to make use of this gift.”

  He grabs ahold of my hips, pinning me in place, and he inches back just enough that he’s looking into my eyes when he says, “Looking forward to it.”

  “Damn, Coach, would you kiss him already?” Dante yells from behind me, followed by a resounding echo of grunts in agreement.

  “We should give the people what they want,” Alex says, shrugging.

  I grab Alex by his hockey jersey, and his lips crash against mine. He parts my lips with his tongue and kisses me as if I were his last meal, hungry and passionate, making my toes curl, as the crowd claps and cheers, fading into the background.

  Nine Months Later

  Coach

  I’m straddling Alex in bed with my hand wrapped around his rock-hard erection, about to push him inside me, when he says, “Go get that whistle, Coach.”

  “I’ll get it for the next round, Parker.” I lift my hips, and Alex grabs ahold of them to keep me in place.

  Why is he so insistent I get that now of all times?

  I’m dripping wet, my insides clenching at the promise of another mind-blowing orgasm.

  We’ve had sex twice since dinner, and I have no intentions of stopping after going two weeks without Alex. Phone sex only goes so far before you need the real thing. One thing that sucks about dating a professional athlete is that they are on the road as much, if not more, as they are home.

  “C’mon, babe, just do it. For me.” He stresses the words, begging me with his eyes that make my ovaries explode.

  This man is ten shades of sex appeal. Alex fulfills all my fantasies, so it’s only fair that I indulge his. He really loves it when I’m Coach in bed, which works for me because I get off on our sports-themed sex.

  When he walked through the door of my apartment earlier, I had the white gold whistle he had given me last year around my neck, paired with black-and-white-striped calf socks and cleats, holding a field hockey stick in my hands. That has been our thing for the past year. We make a game of what sport we’re playing every time Alex travels. I think some sick part of us secretly likes when he leaves and comes home. But our emotional connection was and always will be stronger, no matter how hot and intense the sex.

  But, right now, I am denying his request. Pushing my palms down on his chest, I break his grip enough to lift my hips and push him inside my slickness. He makes a hissing sound, and as I move faster, he clutches my hips tight enough to leave fingerprints, working in harmony with me. It doesn’t take long before a brush of fire spreads beneath my skin, and my entire body tingles and shakes from the ovary-exploding orgasm that won’t quit, making my gums go numb and my toes curl. Alex and his thick cock are the real masters of sex.

  He flips me over and onto my side of the bed where he spreads my legs, entering me, as I lean my forearms onto the mattress. I love when he’s an animal, both rough and passionate, just as much as I like when he makes love to me. But, after a long road trip, I need him to take what he wants and show me how much he missed me.

  He gives me two more orgasms by the time his body jerks against mine. Alex leaves a trail of sweaty kisses on my back and neck and says, “I love you, Charlotte,” before he rolls over onto his back, still sporting a semi hard-on.

  My legs are trembling, his juices seeping out of me and running down my inner thighs. Instead of cuddling, I plant my ass on the mattress and give myself a second to recover.

  Alex snuggles up next to me. “Go get your whistle, baby.”

  Looking over my shoulder at him, I flash a smile. “What is your obsession with that thing? Are you ready for another round already?”

  “Just go get it,” he pleads.

  “Fine. Let go of me then, so I can get up. I left it on the living room table.”

  Sliding off the mattress, I bring the silk robe at the edge of the bed with me to the bathroom and slip my arms through the sleeves. Alex winks at me as I close the door. He has been acting so weird lately. After I clean up and wash my hands, I tie the robe at my waist. When I open the door, I’m surprised when I find Alex missing from the bed.

  This must be part of whatever game we are playing. A little game of, Where’s the Hot and Hopefully Still-Naked Hockey Player?

  Without looking too hard, I hear him rustling around in the kitchen, and I take a right out of my bedroom and head down the hallway. Alex is making a sandwich in dark gray boxer briefs, looking as if he just stepped out of an underwear ad. For over a year, I have had the pleasure of this incredible view every morning and night.

  The drunken man-whore version of Alex that I first met is nothing like the man standing in front of me, stuffing his face with a turkey sandwich. I take a seat on a stool at the kitchen island and watch him eat, leaning my elbows on the counter

  He shoves the last of it into his mouth and chugs half of a bottle of water before he pushes my Tiffany box across the marble to me. “Bring that into the bedroom,” he commands.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, saluting him. “Anything else?”

  He laughs, and the smile that comes next reaches up to his eyes, having a mirroring effect on me. Then, he strolls around to my side of the island and places his hand on my back, sliding it down to my hip. “Come to bed with me.”

  I am so exhausted from all the sex we’ve already had today that I doubt I can go another round. I snatch the water from his hand and drink the remainder as I slide off the stool, holding on to the Tiffany box.

  If he needs more, he will have to settle for a blow job at this point because my legs are wobbly and feel like Jell-O. But I have no problem with wearing the necklace if that will make him happy. I throw the bottle into the recycle bin and follow Alex into my bedroom that feels more like our bedroom at this point. Alex still keeps the apartment next door even though he spends every second of his free time and nights with me.

  When we reach the bed, I sit down on the edge, and he kneels in front of me, holding on to my thighs. Then, he takes the box from my hand and flips open the lid.

  Gasping for air, I fan myself with one hand as Alex takes the other and plants a soft kiss on my skin. Instead of my whistle, a huge diamond ring is in its place, sparkling in the dim light provided by the lamp next to us.

  “Charlotte Elizabeth Coachman, you changed my life the day you pulled me out of my apartment and made me live with you.” He smiles, his hand shaking as he holds on to the diamond. “And
, as much as I didn’t want to clean up my act, after one night with you, I knew you were worth it. You are the reason I’ve stayed sober this long and the reason why the team is on track for the playoffs. Because of you, I am a better man. I love you so much, baby.”

  “I love you, too, Alex.” I lean in to kiss him, and his tongue glides across my lips and into my mouth.

  “You know, I almost screwed this up by asking you to get the box earlier. I’m glad you hardly ever listen to me because, when I looked up at you, naked and beautiful and mine, all I could think about was getting this ring on your finger and making you my wife.”

  As I’m overwhelmed with so much love and joy, a single tear slides down my cheek.

  Alex wipes it away with his thumb and holds the ring up in front of me. “Charlotte, will you be my wingwoman, now and forever?”

  “I think I love you more than basketball,” I whisper as I hold out my finger for him to slip on the ring.

  This relationship is so weird and dysfunctional to people on the outside, but it works for us. We bonded through our love of sports and troubled pasts, and those things are what have kept us together.

  He has the band halfway up my finger when he stops and peeks up at me from under his brows. “What do you mean, you think you love me more?”

  “I’m joking, Parker. Don’t get your boxers in a bunch.”

  “You’d better be.” He smirks, and I help him slide the ring the rest of the way, holding on to his hand. “Because you already know I love you more than hockey.”

  “You know sports talk wouldn’t work on most girls.”

  “Because you’re better than most girls. You’re my girl.”

  “Hand me my cell phone. I need to call Jamie and tell him the news.”

  “He already knows. Who do you think I asked for permission?”

  “What?” I am stunned. “You actually asked Jamie if you could marry me?”

  He nods. “Of course I did. He’s known you longer than anyone. I assume he will give you away at our wedding. Unless you are planning to ask Mickey, whom I also asked for permission.”