It's possible we need to revisit our mutual protection plan.
But since there hasn't been anyone I wanted to date in a long time, and the last time I did date it turned into the hand-model debacle of which we will not speak again, it's been fine.
And it's still fine. Because Fuerte? Right.
As offensive as the guy's very existence is to me, I can't help leaning back into the deep couch cushions and pulling up a browser on my phone. I type in his ridiculous alliterative name—Fernando Fuerte, really? It's like even his mother wanted him to be a player. But once I put his name in and pull up an image search, my screen is overwhelmed with hotness.
Hey, I can loathe the guy and still feel a tingling in my lady parts when I look at him. I told you he was hot.
Those chilling green eyes and the dark hair? Yeah, he's pretty much my type. Now if we could just remove his ability to say self-important things and hit on everything that breathes and has breasts, he'd be perfect.
I scrolled through photo after photo of Fernando, annoyed at myself for gawking but unable to stop. There was no one around anyway.
"What are you doing?" Suddenly Trace was at my shoulder, squatting and staring at me staring at Fernando. Shit!
I fumble my phone, trying to pull up Words with Friends before he gets a good view. Shit again.
"Why are you stalking Fuerte? Is he who you were talking about?" Trace's voice is less angry than it was earlier.
"No. What? Why?" I was not a good liar, and I was terrible at playing anything off. It's a wonder I ended up in public relations, but I did better when the subject wasn't me.
Trace glared at me and sauntered off toward the kitchen, probably knowing I'd leap off the couch to follow him since he'd just done a complete one-eighty on the whole teammate situation. He didn't sound pissed.
"Wait, so if I want to date a teammate it's a no go, unless it's Fernando?" I asked, dropping my butt onto a barstool while Trace stood in front of the open fridge. Why would Trace be cool with me dating the biggest player on the team?
He lifted a shoulder. "I might be able to handle it if it was him."
What was this nonsense?
"Trace. The guy's a complete player."
"Oh, yeah." He didn't say anything else, and I knew something was up.
"That's it? You'd let me go out with a scumbag like him, but I can't date anyone else on the team?"
"You can't date anyone on the team," Trace corrected. "But if you had to, like if the world was flooding and we had to like pair up and get on an ark or something, I guess he would be the best choice for you."
"Did you just use a Bible story to talk about me dating Fuerte?"
"I'm very worldly."
I shook my head. This was new and interesting. But it didn't mean I was going to date Fernando, and it didn't mean that Mr. Match actually was a genius. Just that there was something up with Trace. "Well, there's nothing to worry about. I'm not going out with him."
"You say that like he's asked." He looked over his shoulder, his grip on the refrigerator handle tightening. "Wait, did he ask you?'
I narrowed my eyes at him. "No. But the Mr. Match algorithm thinks he should. Evidently, mathematically speaking, we're perfect for each other."
"Ha!" Trace relaxed and turned back around.
"What do you mean, 'ha!'?"
"Just that it's totally lame. There's no way Fuerte would go out with you."
Now my lady parts were feeling offended. "Why not?"
"You're too...you're just you. You're my sister."
"That's why you wouldn't go out with me. Why wouldn't Fuerte?"
"You're just not exactly his type, that's all." He pulled a gallon of milk from the refrigerator and then took out a block of cheese.
"Hey, that's my cheese," I said. I'd picked it up at the fancy supermarket, planning to elevate my cheese and crackers game next time the girls came over for wine. It was something super fancy. I knew because it had cranberries in it.
"I'll get you more cheese. Chill." Trace proceeded to eat about half the block while I sat watching.
"So you don't think Fuerte will ask me out. Even though we're a perfect match. Mathematically speaking." I watched him chug milk. "Are you doing some kind of dairy challenge right now?"
"Fuerte, not a chance." More cheese disappeared. My brother was gross.
"Care to place a wager?"
He paused, my block of fancy cheese halfway to his mouth. "Wait, now you want to put money on a guy you can't stand asking you out? And your side of the bet is that he will ask you out?"
"Yeah." When he put it like that it did sound stupid, but I was too invested to consider how I'd managed to get here. And there was a small chance I was still thinking about Fuerte's green eyes and what they might feel like if they ever actually landed on me.
"Fine, but the wager doesn't stop at the ask. You have to actually go."
"Done. Wait. What are we betting?"
"You said money, but I say more cheese. This stuff is the bomb." He pulled the wrapper from where he'd discarded it on the counter. "Wensleydale. Sounds fancy."
I watched as the last of my cheese disappeared into Trace's mouth. "It was." I was glad I had plans that day because I did not want to see the digestive results of eating a whole block of Wensleydale cheese chased with a gallon of milk. "You actually want to place a bet for cheese?"
"Yes. Cheese," he confirmed through a full mouth.
"Okay, well, good luck with that whole dairy digestion situation," I said, as Trace's face took on a suddenly uncertain look. "I'm meeting Beckie for lunch."
I picked up my purse and headed out to lunch, my head still spinning around Fernando Fuerte and all his hotness, and slowing to a standstill as I contemplated how I’d ever get the guy to ask me out when I’d spent over a year making sure he knew how much I loathed him.
Chapter 7
Top-Level Assets
Fernando
I had a hard time focusing the next week at practice.
My mom had called Sunday night, coughing relentlessly, and I was worried about her. It was just the two of us here—my parents had brought me here when I was small and then Dad had died in an accident on the construction site where he worked. The insurance money had made it possible for us to stay, for me to get the coaching that got me the scholarship that took me to college. And then to pro soccer. Now money was not the issue. But as soon as I was flush enough to buy Mama whatever she wanted or needed, she got sick.
That was the biggest thing on my mind, but it wasn’t the only thing.
The stadium where we played was the same place our corporate offices were located. Which meant there was a bit more interaction between the corporate staff and the players than I might have liked.
The owner tended to hang around, for one thing. Because of the situation with his ex, he'd made it very clear that the Sharks needed to perform to offset the bad PR surrounding his nasty divorce. There were some further PR-type nightmares waiting in the wings as his ex-wife started naming players she'd supposedly had interactions with. I didn't believe most of it, but it still sounded pretty bad in the papers, and the owner had made noise about firing players if anything was proven. And I was a little bit worried about whether she’d aim her accusations at me at some point.
The other issue at practice was Erica.
Since Max's stupid site had suggested I should take her out, fall in love, make tiny angry mini-Ericas, and live happily ever after, I'd had a hard time thinking about anything else. Sure, she was a little tough to take, but I'm pretty sure I've mentioned a couple times that she's also not too hard to look at. If I could just convince her to sit quietly while I charmed her into passivity, things could work. Though if I was honest, part of the attraction was that fire that seemed to burn just beneath her surface.
I managed to put myself anyplace but where Erica Johnson was until Wednesday. My mind was on my latest call with Mama when I bumped directly into Erica. I slipped my player v
eneer back into place.
We'd just finished up and I was headed for the locker room when she strode out of the corridor leading to the corporate offices in a tight black pencil skirt, sky-high red heels and a blouse that hugged her...assets. Her top-level assets.
I didn't mean to, but after spending the last four days trying to think of anything except her, I'd kind of ended up obsessing about her. And since she'd starred in last night's jackoff session (sometimes you just have to give into what the universe is telling you), I hadn't been able to forget my imagined version of her, bent over, looking up at me over her shoulder with all that long dark hair wrapped in my fist.
"Can I help you?" Oh God, it was her ice-queen tone. I'd imagined it almost perfectly the night before, but hadn't gotten it quite icy enough. Her blue eyes were narrowed at me and the tiniest little crease had appeared between her eyebrows. I realized, a beat too late, that I was blocking her path, but I didn't move.
"Maybe you can," I said, unable to stop myself.
She rolled those pretty eyes, but then something in her posture shifted. "All right," she said, and a little smile played at the corner of her mouth.
"Wait, what?" I was suddenly off guard. Erica hated me. What was this?
"You know as well as I do that Mr. Match thinks we should go out. So let's go out."
I was stunned. Erica wanted to go out now? Just because Max’s stupid site said we were a match? "I also know you hate me. And to be honest, I've never been that fond of you." When she pressed her pretty lips into a thin line, I added. "But I am fond of my balls and I'm pretty sure your twin would take them if I changed my mind about that. Mr. Match's software must be broken."
She crossed her arms, that long straight hair fell over one shoulder, and her breasts swelled together, supported by her forearms in soft firm mounds that had parts of me swelling too. "What if it's not? And Trace is fine with it, by the way."
"Are you asking me out, Erica?" I was poised to say yes, to agree. My dick was already envisioning various scenarios involving those red heels. And who knew? Maybe the software wasn't broken.
But as soon as I'd changed my tune, she flipped that long hair back over her shoulder and turned on her heel. "Nope. I'm not asking."
What was that?
I watched her walk away, whatever had brought her out of the office obviously wasn't that important. Or had she come out here just to mess with me? Her round ass swayed in the tight skirt and her curvy legs had me practically salivating as she disappeared back into corporate. Now what?
Asking Erica out was playing with fire. I was pretty sure she hated me, no matter what little act she'd been working just now. And that meant she had some kind of ulterior motive for the angle she'd just played. But damn if she hadn't gotten my attention. Now I actually wanted to take her out. I wanted to see what other surprises she might have up her sleeve.
I wandered back into the locker room, hoping it had cleared out a bit. I didn't feel like chatting. But Trace Johnson was waiting for me, grinning like he knew something. He stepped into my path and I bumped him good-naturedly as I moved past him, hoping he didn’t feel like a chat. Trace and I usually talked about the game and about girls, and one time I'd told him a bit about my family, but that was definitely not our comfort zone.
"Look where you're going, Fuerte," Trace deadpanned, a tiny smile lifting one side of his face as he punched me in the arm.
"Sorry, man. Distracted, I guess."
"Yeah, I saw you talking to my sister. I know what you're distracted with."
I looked up at him, tried to read his expression. Was he still playing or did he actually know about Mr. Match? "You do, huh?"
"Yeah I do, and if you touch my sister, I'll twist off your nipples and shove them up your ass. And then I'll castrate you."
I stared at him. Erica had just said he was fine with it. Whatever, I didn't have time for this. "Good chat," I told him, sidestepping the guy and heading for the showers.
"I mean it Fuerte."
"Got it. Noted."
As I stood under the hot spray of the shower, I had a lot on my mind. My mom's assurances that she was fine, even as she coughed relentlessly. Erica's tight round ass as she walked away from me—practically an invitation. And then, Trace's gentle suggestion that he would definitely not be okay with the idea of me taking out his sister. Though technically, he said I couldn't touch her. Not that I couldn't take her out.
And I didn't like to back down from a challenge.
Chapter 8
Tesla Confession
Erica
I was pretty sure it was on. The gauntlet had been thrown.
"So you're going to go out with him? When he asks, I mean?" I’d told Beckie about my match, and about my bet with Trace. "For cheese?"
"Not for cheese. For respect. I can't lose a bet."
"You're sure you have no ulterior motive? What if you really are perfect for each other?"
"Meh." I shrugged. I was pretending that there was nothing more to it. This was about Wensleydale cheese, and if you've ever tried it, you'd understand exactly why.
Though there might have been a little more to it. Something only my body was ready to admit. My mind was a stubborn bitch. "The only reason I'm even considering going on a date with Fuerte is because Trace ate all my fancy cheese."
"You do realize that sounds insane." Beckie sipped her pinot noir and stared at me across the table at our favorite wine bar downtown as we sat after work on Thursday night.
"I don't care."
"You like him."
"I actually think I might hate him."
"He's really hot though." She raised her glass to tap it with mine.
I tapped glasses with her and smiled as I took a sip of my wine. "That he is."
But all the planning and betting and chatting with Beckie about Fernando's clear hotness did nothing to prepare me for what actually happened next.
* * *
On Friday, I was the last person to leave the office, as I tried to line up press for Monday coming off an impressive scrimmage against Phoenix mid-week. I was also hard at work deflecting the owner's ex's repeated allegations that players had acted inappropriately with her. It was a mess. She was grasping at straws and saying Isley had been with her just two days before his wife had delivered.
Poor Isley was a disaster over the whole thing.
“All I know is the local news isn’t going to touch it,” Beckie assured me. “She’s got no evidence at all, and he’s a media favorite since he sent us those happy newborn shots.”
“That’s a relief,” I said.
“She hinted that she has more—something she did have evidence for,” Beckie said.
“What?”
“I have no clue, just letting you know. She said she was thinking about whether she wanted to out this guy.”
“Another player?”
“She didn’t say.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I said, hanging up and staring across the desk for a few seconds, wishing Marissa would just go away, but also wondering what could make a relationship go so wrong that a woman would resort to hurting anyone she could, just to get revenge. A little shudder went through me.
After shutting the lights out and setting the alarm in the offices, I went out to my car. There was one other car parked near mine—Fuerte's Tesla. And when I got near, I found Fuerte sitting inside, staring out over the steering wheel. I figured he was probably listening to music or a book, or maybe a very one-sided phone conversation. I took my time getting into my car, keeping an eye on Fernando. Why was he just sitting there like that?
He wasn't moving. He wasn't talking. He was just staring straight ahead, those piercing green eyes focused on something only he could see.
Something was wrong.
We weren’t exactly friends, but if something was really wrong, he might need some help. And I was a big enough person to check on him—no matter what other issues might currently be between us. Wasn’t I? I s
at in my car for another beat, considering.
I took a steadying breath and got back out of my car and strolled toward him. I knocked on the driver-side window, and he startled slightly and then lowered it.
"Erica. Hey."
"Hey," I returned, a little unsure what to say. I was good at flirty, somewhat mean-spirited banter. I wasn't as good at...whatever this was. "You okay?"
He chuckled and lifted a hand to scratch the back of his neck, then looked around as if only just realizing he was sitting alone in his car in a darkening parking lot. "Yeah, no. I'm fine." He turned the green eyes on me. "Thanks."
"Okay," I said, taking a step back but feeling a strange compulsion to stay, to make sure he really was okay. "You sure? I mean..."
Something cracked in him. I saw it in the way his posture fell ever so slightly, the way the cocky smile slipped just a fraction of a centimeter. "Yeah, fine, I..."
I straightened up and walked around to the passenger side, opening the door and sliding in next to him. "You're not fine. Talk."
He stared at me incredulously. "What?"
"It's clear something is wrong. And while I know we're not friends, and I'm probably not your first choice, I think you need someone to talk to. And here I am. So talk." I turned in the seat, tucking one leg beneath me and facing him. I tried to make my face look interested and approachable—this was important because I'd been told on more than one occasion that I had a wicked case of resting bitch face and I knew I usually looked totally unwelcoming. I was trying to look understanding and friendly. I even tried to smile a little bit.
"Uh, I'm..." he trailed off, squinting his eyes at me and then shaking his head with a mirthless chuckle. "Sorry, this is just..."
"Yeah, I know. It's weird, but why don't you try? I hate seeing you looking so upset. It makes it really hard to continue hating you."
Scoring the Keeper’s Sister: Mr. Match Book 1 Page 3
