by Loren, Celia
A Stepbrother Warriors Novel
Book One
By Celia Loren
Copyright © 2015 Hearts Collective
All rights reserved. This document may not be reproduced in any way without the expressed written consent of the author. The ideas, characters, and situations presented in this story are strictly fictional, and any unintentional likeness to real people or real situations is completely coincidental.
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HARD TACKLE
A Stepbrother Warriors Novel
Book One
By Celia Loren
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Book Two (Sneak Peak)
Prologue
I stare at the unusually tall man in the in the charcoal grey suit, his salt-and-pepper hair arranged just so, despite the fact that he just pulled into the parking lot with smoke leaking out of the hood of his car. His car is a Bentley, but still. He looks remarkably well-composed as he scrolls through his Blackberry, glancing up every now and then to the TV mounted on the wall opposite his corner booth.
We don't get many rich people in here. My mom owns the place, a small, kitschy diner in South Tampa, almost smack dab in the middle of the Interbay Peninsula. Old Tampa Bay to the west, Hillsborough Bay on the right, and ABC Diner lies in the center with no sea breeze from either.
I turn toward the kitchen and frown at our line cooks, Andrè and Silvio, who are staring at the radio propped on the counter, as if they can see the football game they're listening to inside its cheap metal exterior.
"Andrè, I've been waiting on a tuna salad sandwich for ten minutes," I sigh. He glances up at me in faux shock and slaps his brother on the arm.
"You believe this girl? I've known you since you were this high," he says, indicating a height about three feet off the ground, "and you're gonna take that tone with me? With the Buccaneers on the ten yard line?"
I roll my eyes. When Andrè and Silvio emigrated from Cuba a couple decades ago, they threw themselves into fitting in with their new American compatriots, assiduously switching from avid baseball fans to football. It was a struggle at first, but their presumed duty turned into a true interest, and now they never miss a game.
"Just give it to Stratton! What are they doing?!" Silvio cries in his lightly accented Spanish.
My mom walks over from the other end of the bar and pokes her head through the window. "Don't make me come back there," she says with a smile. They know she hates having football games playing at all, but she relented to her customers' wishes and her cooks' passion. Silvio begins gesticulating toward the radio as he fires off Spanish that goes over my head, but he grabs a roll from the bag and begins to make the sandwich. The brothers were the first two hires that my mom made when she bought the diner with the last of my father's alimony, before he disappeared altogether, and now they're like family. My mom's always had a good sense when it comes to people. Well, most people.
I rest my head for a moment on her shoulder. We're both just under 5'2", so it's rare to find someone else the same size. She has dark, chestnut brown hair that swings above her shoulder, while I have my father's thick blonde hair, currently pulled into a haphazard bun on top of my head. I've thought about dyeing my hair dark to do away with any trace of him, but my mom always tells me my hair is beautiful and I shouldn't mess with it. At least I inherited her bright green eyes.
Silvio slides the plate toward me and I turn and duck under the bar, headed for the rich man in the corner booth, and place it next to his Diet Coke. Not that he notices; his gaze is now glued to the TV.
"Anything else I can—" I begin, and jump as he suddenly raises his hand and slams it down on the tabletop. I stare at him, shocked, as I feel my heartbeat quicken. "Was there—did you—" I stumble, as I wonder if there's something wrong with his order. I could have sworn he said tuna salad sandwich, hold the cole slaw…
"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," he says in a low, gravelly voice, as he glances up and notices my expression. "That's my son."
I turn to glance around the diner and am vaguely aware of the brothers hollering about the game in the kitchen. "Where?" I ask, frowning. Surely he can't mean the trucker seated at the bar…
"There," he says, pointing at the TV. "Jack Stratton is my son." I follow his extended finger up to the photo of a handsome young man that ESPN is showing next to his stats. The screen cuts back to the game and I see a hulking man leaping from the end zone to chest bump his teammates.
"Mmm," I mutter, unable to keep the scorn out of my voice. I turn around to see a small smile on the man's face.
"Most people are impressed," he says, placing his elbows on the table outside his plate and templing his fingers. I get the distinct impression that he's studying me, and I square my shoulders. Driscoll women don't back down.
"Not me," I reply. He holds my gaze for a moment, then glances toward the bar.
"This your mother's place?" he asks.
"Yes," I answer warily. There's enough of a resemblance between us that people have made the connection before, but there's something about the man's confidence that I find unsettling. And I have a feeling I know where this is headed.
"My name's Ray. Ray Stratton. I was just heading to check on some of my properties when my car started smoking, so I figured I'd grab a bite while I wait for the tow truck. I don't suppose your mother would—"
"She's not interested," I interrupt and spin around. My mom walks toward me as I walk back under the bar and away from the man's penetrating gaze.
"What was that about?" she murmurs, busying herself by cleaning a glass with a cloth.
"Nothing. He's excited about the game, I guess."
"Good-looking," she observes, glancing over at him.
"Really? I don't think so."
"Objectively good-looking," she murmurs with a smile. "Looks like his water glass is a little empty," she says, grabbing the pitcher from the bar.
"It does not—" I argue, but she's already off. I watch her approach the table, her narrow hips swinging. I can't hear what they're saying from here, but the body language is telling.
I bite the cuticle on the edge of my nail as the sounds of the radio drift through the window toward me. My wise, beautiful mother is always losing her otherwise practical head over these brief flings that leave her emotionally exhausted. I see my mom take the pen out of her apron and write something on a napkin. Giving him her number.
Best case scenario, this Ray guy never calls. A girl can dream.
Chapter One
Eight months later
"I can't believe you guys are wearing those," I groan, shaking my head at Andrè as he walks out from the kitchen. They both have on red and black Buccaneers jerseys with Stratton emblazoned in capital letters above his number 41 on their backs. "And I'll tell you when he gets here. You don't have to keep checking."
"I needed a…salt shaker," he replies, sticking his hand out to grab the nearest item as an excuse.
"Yeah, I'm sure the kitchen doesn't have salt," I mutter under my breath. My mom's with Ray now as they head over to the diner with his football star son Jack in tow. She tried to get me excited to meet him, but I'm just not. From everything I've seen and read, he's just some hard-partying jock. I guess I'll have to see him around Ray's mansion every now and then when we move in next week, but thank god he's not actually living there himself.
The front door jingles and I glance up to see my mom and Ray walk in, my mom's arm laced through Ray's. And behind them, the infamous Jack Stratton. My stomach involuntarily tightens and I turn around to hide my face. He's even better-looking in person, with closely-cropped light brown hair, sea blue eyes, and a strong nosed balanced by sensuous lips. And at 6'5'', he's slightly taller than his father, with muscle packed onto every inch.
I hear the entire diner go quiet for a moment. You can't help but notice the younger Stratton's hulking figure, plus he's one of Tampa's heroes, the Buccaneers' star tight end after only two years in the NFL. I take a deep breath and turn around. My mom's looking around for me as they head to Ray's now regular corner booth. People are staring at Jack, but he's either oblivious or used to it, because his expression remains nonplussed.
I hear frantic whispering through the window to the kitchen and can't help but smile at Silvio and Andrè's excitement. "You wanna come over with me?" I ask, sticking my head through.
"No, no, I'm too nervous," Silvio responds in hushed tones.
"He's just a regular guy," I tell them. "Except, you know, bigger." They both shake their heads so I shrug and turn around. The patrons' conversations have resumed around the restaurant, though many sets of eyes are still glancing over at the football player. My mom's watching me expectantly as I walk over. She's sitting next to Ray, his hand resting on her thigh under the table, and Jack's sitting across from them. His thick, jean-covered legs are sticking out onto the tile floor next to the booth, unable to fit under the table.
"Hey, honey," she greets me with a wide smile.
"How's business today?" Ray asks, ever the CEO.
"Not bad," I murmur, feeling my cheeks beginning to burn. I can sense Jack's gaze on me, and I feel reluctant to look at him for some reason. Is it obvious? Am I being awkward?
"I'm Jack," I hear a low voice say next to me. I finally turn to see Jack flashing a megawatt smile at me. Something about the way he's looking at me is too confident, too sure of himself, and I narrow my eyes at him as we shake hands. He lets his rough fingers linger on mine for a second too long, and I know what's bothering me.
He thinks I'm going to fall at his feet, like so many girls in Florida and across the country would. Don’t think so, buddy. Football players just don't do it for me, even ones that look like you.
"Nice to meet you, Jack," I say, slapping his shoulder like we've been pals forever. He looks slightly taken aback and I smile inwardly. I grab a chair from the table behind us, pull it up to the end of the table and sit.
"Jack's in the middle of the off-season right now," my mom says, trying to start conversation between us. I know she and Ray want Jack and me to be friends.
"Oh, right," I reply, nodding politely. Jack leans back in the booth and surveys me, a slight tension creeping into the edges of his lips.
"He's training and everything…and relaxing…" she continues, raising her eyebrows slightly at him.
"A little heavy on the relaxing side, actually," Ray says sternly, though not unkindly.
"Dad, it's fine," Jack assures him.
"What are we talking about here?" I ask, still trying to keep my voice light. Whatever it is, I want him to know I don't care.
"Well, Jack's coaches have suggested that maybe a change in his lifestyle could be helpful," my mom says.
"Why do you sound like a politician?" I ask her suspiciously. Jack leans in, spreading his forearms on the table, a slight smirk on his face.
"She's worried we're not going to like living in the same house," he informs me.
"Same house?" I repeat, alarmed. Shit, I wasn't supposed to care.
"Jack's been partying too much in his penthouse and his coaches think it's better if he spends the off-season training in a quieter atmosphere," Ray sums up concisely.
"You're moving back home?" I ask Jack, unable to keep a hint of derision out of my voice.
"It's not like that," he responds, his jaw muscle twitching. I hear the front door jingle and glance to my right to see a large group walk in. I flush as I recognize all of them: the popular group from high school. Including Jenni, my least favorite person who knew just how to push my buttons, and my most favorite person, Miles, my crush since the second week of ninth grade. We all graduated a couple weeks ago, and I was fervently hoping I'd never see Jenni again. Whether it was my height, my lack of makeup, my baggy clothes…she never let an opportunity pass by to tease me.
Jenni's eyes lock onto mine and I see her grin. Not a nice grin, more like the grin of a shark that just spotted its lunch. I stare down at the laminated tabletop, wishing she would just go away, but knowing she won't.
"Bree! I forgot you work here!" she crows, walking over with the rest of the group in tow. "Oh, and you must be Mrs. Driscoll!" she says sweetly to my mom. She always knew how to make adults happy.
"Yes…you and Bree went to high school together, is that right?" she asks, trying to place her. "Oh, this is my boyfriend, Ray Stratton, and his son—"
"Holy shit. Holy shit!" Jenni exclaims as her eyes land on Jack. "I cannot believe I'm meeting Jack Stratton right now! I'm like, your biggest fan." The rest of the girls around her begin to squeal, and the guys try to hide their excitement. Only Miles seems uninterested, glancing at the specials written above the counter. Jack gives her that mega-watt grin, and I roll my eyes. Jenni's attention snaps back toward me. "Wait. How do you know Jack Stratton?"
"Like my mom said," I say through gritted teeth, "she's dating his father."
"Oh, that makes more sense. Wasn't your dad a football player too, though?" I wince. She knows damn well he was. "That's sort of weird."
"Not really," I reply, shrugging my shoulders. But she knows she's hit a nerve.
"Yeah, that's right! He used to be a big deal, but then he—"
"Yup, that's him," I cut her off.
"Jack would you mind—" Jenni begins, turning to him. But my mom's caught a whiff of her attitude and interrupts her.
"Nice to meet you Jenni. Feel free to grab that table over there," my mom says, pointing to an eight-top on the other side of the diner.
&nb
sp; "I just wanted—" Jenni protests.
"But it was so nice to meet you," my mom repeats with an icy smile. Man, I wish I could handle a mean girl like she can.
Jenni stares at her for a moment, then gives Jack a sweet shrug. "Bye, Jack," she purrs, and the group follows her to the other side of the diner. Jack nods in response, and I stiffen as I see Miles approaching the table from the counter.
"Hey, Bree."
"Hi," I breathe as I look up at his dark brown eyes and long hair pushed carelessly back from his forehead.
"I didn't get a chance to see you after graduation, but I wanted to tell you I liked that piece you wrote for the paper."
"Thank you," I whisper, shocked that he even knows my name, much less admires the short story I wrote for the final issue of the student newspaper. Someone from his group calls him over to their table, and he heads away without another word. Thank goodness – I've forgotten how to breathe and I can feel Jack's eyes on me.
"So, how's your sister doing, Jack?" my mom asks, thankfully changing the subject.
"Good, I guess. Last I heard she was in Monaco, or maybe it was Milan," Jack answers, and his father snorts. In that one short sound, I can hear a wealth of disapproval. Silvio and Andrè shyly approach the table, their posture almost deferential. I stand up to give them room to talk to Jack, and fade back toward the rear wall.
I'm still reeling from my encounters with Jenni and Miles, and now I have to live in the same house as Jack Stratton? His blue eyes glance up from signing the brothers' jerseys and catch me looking at him. The light from the window plays over his irises and I shiver at the expression in them. He's looking at me like he knows me. I don't like it.
Chapter Two
I hold my beat-up laptop and slowly spin it around my new bedroom so that Carter can see it.
"Fuck," he swears as the screen captures images of the palatial Mediterranean-inspired space. "I mean you told me the guy was rich, but…"
