Backfield in Motion
Jami Davenport
Copyright 2013 Pamela D. Bowerman
Smashwords Edition
ALL YOU’LL EVER BE
IS A PRETTY FACE
Star running back Bruce “Bruiser” Mackey has heard those words his entire life, especially after his twin brother’s tragic accident. He might use his surfer-boy good looks to land lucrative endorsements for his secret charity, but he hates books being judged by their covers. Which is why it’s wrong that his friend Mackenzie Hernandez is intent on giving herself a makeover.
Sure, Mac and her father have been reeling financially since her brother disappeared three years ago, and Lumberjacks management gives an annual scholarship that might get her life back on track, but he can’t imagine anyone smarter, sexier, or more beautiful than Mac already is. He can’t keep his hands off her—and the more they spend time together, the less he wants to. She’s perfect as is. One way or another, he’ll make sure the team’s tomboy groundskeeper gets a full ride. And between the two of them, they can learn to accept what’s behind them and look downfield to a future full of win.
Backfield in Motion
Jami Davenport
www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.
BACKFIELD IN MOTION
Copyright © 2013 Pamela D. Bowerman
All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.
Digital edition created by Maureen Cutajar
www.gopublished.com
ISBN 978-1-938876-80-6
A big thank-you to Adrianne Lee, pie-baking queen, author-extraordinaire, Seahawks fan and Wilson defender. Even more importantly, a friend who is always there when I need her, even when she’s in deadline hell.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A big heartfelt thank-you to my noontime walking buddies, also fabulous authors:
Margaret Mallory, my partner-in-crime and fellow commiserator (is that a word?) for all things Amazon.
Anthea Lawson, for her steadfast practical advice on writing, publishing, and life in general.
Theresa Scott, for her infinite wisdom, her sense of fairness, and awesome listening skills.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1 Pretty is as Pretty Does?
Chapter 2 Gridiron Cinderella
Chapter 3 The Play Fake
Chapter 4 Sisters in Crime
Chapter 5 You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet
Chapter 6 Tackled for a Loss
Chapter 7 Illegal Motion
Chapter 8 Double Date
Chapter 9 Rocking the Ferry
Chapter 10 Crossing the Line
Chapter 11 Running Touchdown
Chapter 12 Staying in Bounds
Chapter 13 Blindsided
Chapter 14 Out of the Huddle
Chapter 15 Free Agent
Chapter 16 Out of Downs
Chapter 17 Coaching Strategies
Chapter 18 Puzzled
Chapter 19 Back and Forth
Chapter 20 Stopping the Play
Chapter 21 Baggage Claim
Chapter 22 Zone Blitz
Chapter 23 Handoff
Chapter 24 Game Over
Author’s Note
Author Bio
Chapter 1
Pretty is as Pretty Does?
“Yeah, yeah, Bruiser, all you’ll ever be is just another pretty face.”
“Never criticize the face that feeds you,” Bruce Mackey, a.k.a. Bruiser, shot back as he gritted his teeth.
Nothing but a pretty face? Hell. That wasn’t the type of thing a person tells a 230-pound premier running back for the Seattle Lumberjacks. Not that Bruiser hadn’t worked his ass off to craft that very superficial image—then worked that much harder on the football field to show the world and the NFL that he was a football player first and pretty face second.
Football was his job and his passion. On a normal day, it took two linebackers and handful of defensive backs to bring him to his knees as he fought like a wild man for a few extra yards, hence the odd nickname Bruiser.
Playing the role of a pretty boy usually suited him just fine. Other than being one tough hombre on the football field, no one expected anything serious or profound from the league’s “Hottest Hunk,” which kept even the nosiest of reporters from diving deep enough to unearth the painful truth lurking behind his carefree mask. That was just fine with Bruiser. He let his play on the field speak for itself. The rest was no one’s business but his.
Harold, the photographer, winked at him. “Hey, I’m not criticizing. That pretty face is certifiable money in the bank.”
Bruiser didn’t wink back.
Click. Click. Click.
He didn’t move, just held his pose and stared over the head of the photographer at nothing.
“Look straight into the camera. Pretend I’m a beautiful woman across the room at a party. I’m beckoning you.”
“You? I don’t have that good of an imagination. No one does.” Bruiser resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He really hated this stuff, but money was money. He had a debt to pay and an even bigger promise to keep.
“Relax. You’re too stiff.”
Stiff? Hell, his dick had shriveled to nothing on this unseasonably chilly forty-five-degree morning. It wasn’t like he was acclimated to anything below sixty degrees after spending the last several months in Southern Cal, having traded the Seattle rainy season for warm sand, mega endorsement deals, movie cameos, and bikini-clad women. He’d only returned to the Emerald City a few short days ago.
“I’m freezing my ass off. Hurry up, will ya?”
“You’re in a snit today.” Harold sniffed as if Bruiser had hurt his feelings. Well, fuck, Harold wasn’t the one standing around in a frigid horse barn wearing nothing but SportsJock underwear, a Stetson, and a pair of Tony Lamas. Harold’s assistant flitted around like a pesky fly, messing with Bruiser’s perfectly styled blond hair. He fought like hell not to bite the poor little guy’s head off just for sport.
“Okay, tease us a little. Hook your thumb in the waistband and pull it down just so it stops short of your junk.”
Bruiser knew the drill. He almost made more from modeling than he did football. Plus, he didn’t have a modest bone in his body. If they’d asked him to strip, he’d have stripped and given them the full-meal deal. But the league frowned on all-out nudity, so Bruiser’s nude modeling had to be tastefully done with the goods disguised in dark shadows.
Bruiser changed his pose, propping one foot on the hay bale.
“Turn slightly. Put your back to me. Good. Good.”
Click. Click. Click.
“Now strip off your shorts, hold them with a finger, and cover your package with your hat.”
�
��How does that sell underwear?” Despite Bruiser’s immodesty, getting nude fucking irritated him today.
“Do I look like a marketing person? Just another pose they asked for.”
Bruiser shrugged and shucked out of his briefs—not easy when wearing boots—and dangled them on one finger as he held his hat over his crotch area. Harold clicked away while Bruiser changed poses and forced himself to stay alert.
“I expected your dick to be so big you’d need a sombrero to cover it.”
Bruiser dropped the hat and spun around to face the speaker. Mackenzie Hernandez, known as Mac to all the guys on the team, stood in the barn door. Small and fit, with a nice little body, Mac was kinda cute with her upturned nose, mischievous deep brown eyes, and long, wavy, dirty blond hair, but she downplayed her physical attributes as if she didn’t give a shit about appearances.
Mac made a show of looking at his crotch and arching an eyebrow, not the least bit embarrassed. But then, not much embarrassed Mac.
Caught off-balance, Bruiser stared down at his dick. A sombrero? Of course it was big enough to need a sombrero. What the hell was she talking about? Even shriveled in the cold, damp Seattle morning, he didn’t think it looked that small.
Did it?
He bent down to pick up his Stetson, not bothering to cover himself, and tamped down his annoyance while ramping up the charm.
Little dick, my ass.
“Now, honey, that cuts me to the quick.” He held his Stetson over his heart and let out an exaggerated sigh.
“I sincerely doubt that. Your skin is as thick as your head is large.”
“Ah, so you admit it. I am big. I knew you were just jerking my chain. I like that in a woman.” A slow smile spread across Bruiser’s face. She’d walked into that one.
Mac’s mouth pulled into a firm, straight line, and her eyes glinted with what looked to Bruiser like murderous intent.
“You creeping up on me, honey? Just had to get a sneak peek? Don’t blame you; all the ladies feel that way.” Bruiser grinned. She deserved a little shit after the sombrero comment.
Bruiser was a flirt and tease, two of his many talents, and he didn’t discriminate. All women were fair game, regardless of age, race, or religion. And Mac was one of his favorite targets because she didn’t know the first thing about flirting. He loved to tease her, try to get beneath her tough-girl exterior. Today he’d hit pay dirt. Flustered yet clearly annoyed, Mac backed away. “I’m not stalking you. I promised Derek and Rachel I’d feed their horses while they’re out of town.”
His teammate, Derek Ramsey, and his wife, Rachel, owned the horse farm.
“Ma’am, you’ll need to leave until we’re done shooting,” Harold said. He sniffed, his boxers all in a bunch over the interruption.
Well, damn. Bruiser was just starting to feel entertained.
“Mac won’t bother me. She’s almost like one of the guys—with boobs.” Bruiser looked her up and down. “Nice boobs, though, hon.” He waggled his eyebrows. “We’ll catch up later. Once you recover from the sight of my incredible body.”
“Overconfident ass,” Mac shot back.
“Absolutely, sweetheart. You like me that way.” He winked at her, and she glared back. He was winning points today.
“I don’t like you any way but on the football field.”
Bruiser opened his mouth to fire off an answering round when Harold interrupted him. “Hey, Bruiser, let’s finish this.”
Still grinning, Bruiser turned away from Mac and struck a pose. He had a job to do and giving her shit wouldn’t get it done.
But later all bets were off.
* * * * *
Mac Hernandez stalked to the grain bins madder than a cat tossed in a swimming pool. Bruiser Mackey was a prick, a pretty-boy prick of the worst kind and as shallow as a dried-up mud puddle in the middle of a Seattle summer. And dammit, just thinking of the guy made her panties wet.
She should’ve flipped his shit right back in his pretty face instead of ogling his perfect abs, nice ass, and, well, his other assets.
Just one of the guys.
Usually she didn’t give a shit about being one of the guys because it was the truth; only today it pissed her off for some reason. Maybe because he’d caught her gawking at his privates, something she never-effing-ever did. Heck, her maintenance and grounds position at the Lumberjacks practice facility put her in direct contact with several tons of muscular egos, many partially dressed or even naked. They never bothered to cover up around her, and she’d never cared because she was like one of the guys.
Until today.
Until the man she’d harbored a secret crush on for the past three years stated that fact out loud.
She shouldn’t have a crush on a superficial guy like Bruiser, but tell that to her heart. He was everything she disliked in a man, a preening peacock who exploited his looks for money. But he was a damn good football player in spite of his preoccupation with his appearance.
Even worse, he continually flirted with her, making every attempt to embarrass the hell out of her with his outrageous comments. And he did embarrass her, though she thought she hid it well—usually.
Mac hazarded a glance back at him, his fine ass once again clad in tight underwear. His perfect eight-pack abs glistened with whatever crap they’d rubbed on his tanned skin, while his arm muscles bulged and flexed as he assumed different poses.
He looked over his shoulder, caught her staring and winked at her, setting her face on fire again. Mac never blushed. Absolutely fucking never. Except when Bruiser gave her shit or looked at her with those penetrating blue-gray eyes. Thank heavens the darkest corner of the barn concealed her face.
Damn, but the man had one fine body, and she’d witnessed some incredibly sculpted bodies in her time with the Lumberjacks—called the Jacks by just about everyone—but Bruiser’s body was the finest of the finest.
Mac’s Aunt Helen used to say never to date a man prettier than you. And Bruiser was way too pretty for a plain woman like her, with her dishwater blond hair, nondescript brown eyes and so-so figure.
Not to mention his—uh—equipment might be more than she could handle. Despite what she said to the glamour boy, he was—ahem—well endowed. Way too well. With her relative inexperience with men, she’d best stay away from said equipment and said pretty boy.
The guys would be shocked that she was sexually inexperienced, but then no one knew the real Mac. They only knew the tomboy Mac they saw every day mowing the practice field grass in perfect straight lines or pulling weeds in the flower beds or beating them at a game of pool at the sports bar near Jacks’ HQ. They knew the Mac who didn’t have a life, and while Mac may not have a life, she had a mission—a mission to figure out what the hell happened to her older brother, who’d gone missing three years ago. She spent all her off hours investigating new leads and going over old ones with her father.
Which was why she fantasized about an absolute fantasy guy like Bruiser. Harmless fun and a distraction from how screwed up her life really was.
Mac turned back to her chore of feeding the horses and forced herself to ignore the photo session several feet away. In fact, she ignored it so well she didn’t even notice when they finished up for the day. Instead, she focused on the horses munching away at their grain and making the deep guttural noises horses make in greeting. Someday she’d have money and a stable full of horses and she’d get a life.
Yeah, that’d happen when hell froze over or Mac wore a dress.
“Hey, sweetheart, did you miss me?”
Mac jumped as Bruiser’s hot breath teased her ear. She whirled around and swatted at his chest, now clad in a Jacks sweatshirt. “You scared the crap out of me, you asshole.”
He chuckled. “I’m not the asshole. That’s Harris’s role.” No one on the team could come close to dethroning Tyler Harris, the team’s quarterback, from his self-proclaimed position as the team’s resident asshole.
“You have a point there.” Mac s
trode away from Bruiser, head held high, throwing flakes of hay into the stalls. Bruiser followed her. Instead of his usual brash smile, he appeared—worried? Bruiser?
“So do you really think I’m small?” He studied her with concern, as if her opinion regarding the length of his penis actually mattered. It wasn’t like overconfident Bruiser would ever be concerned about what she thought.
He stepped closer to her—too close. His scent surrounded her, engulfed her. Oh, God, please. Just one night, just one night with the Jacks’ pretty boy, and she’d never ask for another thing. Never.
His blue-gray eyes bored into her and his brow furrowed. Well, damn, the pretty boy was actually concerned. Mac shook her head, eager to dispel his insecurities, even as she battled with the reason why. “Too bad your brain isn’t as big as your dick.”
A big smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I knew it. You think I’m large.”
“That wasn’t a compliment, so don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late, already has. Both of them.” Then he met her frosty gaze with his steady blue-gray one and a slow, sexy smile crossed his face. “Hey, you’re in luck. I’m at loose ends tonight. How about we get a burger at that place down the road?”
“You buying?” Mac slipped into her usual buddy mode, knowing that’s all she was to Bruiser and being pathetic enough to play her part.
* * * * *
A few minutes later Bruiser slid into a booth seat across from Mac. He pulled a ball cap over his head to avoid being recognized, not that it helped. People still stared. He ignored their stares and took a long pull off his beer.
“So, little lady, how goes the battle?”
“Same old, same old,” Mac muttered.
Something seemed to be stuck in her craw. Bruiser admired that about Mac. She never put on pretenses; what you saw was what you got. Sometimes he envied her ability to be who she was and not give a damn what others thought, while he spent way too much time worrying about others’ expectations and how he measured up. Chalk up that particular issue to a father who made it clear Bruiser never measured up and a mother and sister who believed appearances weren’t everything—they were the only thing.
Backfield in Motion Page 1
