Trick Play (Mavericks Tackle Love Book 3)

by Max Monroe

  Trick Play

  Mavericks Tackle Love #3

  Published by Max Monroe LLC © 2018, Max Monroe

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9780998943060

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editing by Silently Correcting Your Grammar

  Formatting by Champagne Book Design

  Cover Design by “Banana” Peter Alderweireld

  Photo Credit: Wander Aguiar

  Title Font by: Font Forestry

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Intro

  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

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  To Traeger Smokers: For keeping our husbands occupied while we’re busy writing this book. Your pellets and your flavors and your smoky intricacies are things we don’t actually care about at all.

  Monroe: Uhh…what’s a Traeger Smoker?

  Max: Are you seriously asking me this right now? In the middle of our dedication?

  Monroe: I can’t help it! I’m confused.

  Max: It’s a damn grill, Monroe. Well, sort of. Basically, it smokes meat.

  Monroe: Ohhhh, gotcha. Yeah. Okay. Now that makes sense. I thought it was a pack of smokes or something, but then I got really confused because I didn’t know cigs came in meaty flavors—

  Max: Mind if we get back to the important shit? Like, the dedication for this book?

  Monroe: By all means, let’s give our readers Trick Play!

  Max: And now on to the rest of this dedication…

  To Wawa in New Jersey: For being one of the only places in the world you can have someone hold a door for you, offer you a polite remark, and then cut you off and give you the finger in the parking lot within the same five minutes.

  And to sex: For always being easier to do in real life than write in books. Look, Ma, she’s somehow got six hands!

  Hey there, ladies.

  Formally, I’m Cameron Mitchell. But you can just call me Cam.

  I play tight end for the New York Mavericks, and as I’m sure you’ve heard, Quinn Bailey and Sean Phillips are two of my best friends.

  I’d love to give you the trademark Mavericks’ spiel about what hot shit I am like they did, or how the face of professional football wouldn’t be the same without a tight end like me—or how I’m one in a million with a track record for nothing but success with every female I’ve ever set my sights on.

  I’d like to tell you I’m a smart guy with smarter moves, and when it comes to any match I meet on the field, there’s nothing I can’t best.

  I’d like to tell you I’m the kind of guy who can’t be stopped—won’t be stopped—and that life as you know it would be a little poorer without the presence of me in it. In fact, I’d like to tell you that you can’t possibly understand the true meaning of big in all the right places until you’ve been with a guy like me.

  But I’m…uh…a little busy.

  Thwack.

  More than a little, actually.

  Pain shoots through my forehead, and my eyes cross as the uncomfortable hold on my hands—handcuffed behind my back, mind you—cinches tighter.

  “Don’t move,” the large officer pinning me to his car offers politely.

  Despite the strain on the fabric of my two-hundred-dollar shirt and the smell of charred, crispy, destroyed pride in the air, I decide it’s best to accept his invitation without any special remarks.

  My eye is half closed thanks to the pillow of hard metal squishing playfully into it, but I can just barely make out Quinn Bailey as he paces in the distance, a phone to his ear. I can’t make out the words he’s saying, but they look big and important and like they’re all about me.

  Fuck, I hope he’s talking to my lawyer.

  Okay. Full disclosure: my night could be going better.

  Truthfully, no more than a half an hour ago, it was.

  “Come on, hot shot,” the cop commands, and my face scrapes across the squad car as he pulls me back to my feet, opens the back door, and puts a helpful hand to my head to shove me into the back seat.

  One glance out the window is the only view of my friends I get as the car starts to pull away.

  The rest of the time, I spend looking right into the eyes of the problem.

  Dark cobalt, framed with raven hair, and twinkling in the blue and red strobing lights, they’re just as powerful as the moment they first trapped me—and just as mysterious.

  I’m sure you’re hoping for a recap—or maybe even a complete retelling of the details, right from the beginning.

  Well, not to worry.

  If I had to guess, I’d say my night in jail will be a provocative time, ripe for reliving every single second of it.

  Earlier that night…

  “Skins? Jesus, guys. I thought I told you no strip clubs,” Quinn Bailey protested as Sean Phillips, one of the finest wide receivers this country had ever seen, finally removed Quinn’s blindfold and pushed him down the last step off the party bus.

  Quinn, the self-appointed leader and trusty quarterback of the professional football team we all played for, the New York Mavericks, was a Southern boy with dependable manners and an even more reliable veneration for his fiancée.

  Ever since he’d gotten engaged to the lovely flight attendant he’d met through a chance encounter, Catharine Wild, he’d been even more of a wet mop than usual.

  Of course, I only insulted him with the utmost respect and affection. Quinn was the kind of man you couldn’t not respect. A good guy through and through. Not only in his personal life, but on the field too. Hell, he took care of me and the rest of our team like he’d hatched us in his own nest and personally hunted for our first meals.

  Still. A bachelor party was a bachelor party, and I was hoping he’d come around to the
planned activities for the evening sooner rather than later. Just because he behaved like a pamphlet-pusher making the rounds to teach you about the good Lord at your door didn’t mean the rest of us hot-blooded American males had to.

  He’d hung around us enough that, honestly, he should have known that by now.

  “What are we doing here?” Quinn asked and narrowed his eyes.

  “I can tell you this isn’t an endeavor in charity work,” “Teeny” Martinez interjected with his usual jovial grin. He was a beloved member of the team and a Grade A jokester, and I, personally, found I never got quite enough time with him. His size intimidated the best of our opponents, but to those of us who knew him, he was no more than a gentle giant.

  “It’s your bachelor party,” I chimed in helpfully, much to Quinn’s chagrin if his glare was anything to go by. “We know how you feel about Cat, but you’ve gotta do the strip club for your bachelor party.”

  Sean waggled his eyebrows as he boasted, “I don’t know why you think Cat would have a problem with this. Six wanted to come.”

  I laughed. “Of course she did. Your girl is crazy.”

  Sean shrugged, unaffected by my assertion. Much like Quinn, he was head over heels for the apple of his eye, and he didn’t care who knew it. Unlike Quinn, he was pretty much the exact opposite of a choirboy—so much so that I suspected good reverends cowered at just the sight of him. His wife Six and her perky, petite bombshell disposition had gone a long way to tame his philandering—as in, squashed it completely—but when it came to everything else, he was the same old good time.

  “Listen,” I said, my voice dropping an octave to be extra soothing as Quinn frowned even harder. With a step and a swing, I threw my arm around his shoulders and started leading him to the entrance. “If it would help you out at all, I’ll volunteer as tribute to take any and all lap dances that get thrown your way.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned, maybe this is about philanthropy.” Teeny chuckled and patted me on the shoulder. “Someone get Ellen DeGeneres on the line. We’ve got a certified humanitarian in our midst.”

  Finally, Quinn rolled his eyes and laughed. “Yeah. Real thoughtful of you, Cam.”

  “I’m just that kind of guy,” I teased. If a tough job needed doing, you could bet I’d be the guy to volunteer to do it. I didn’t have a fiancée or a girlfriend, and I sure as shit didn’t have any problems with taking one for the team.

  “Wow.” An incredulous laugh left his lips. “They should make statues in your honor for your sacrifice.”

  “I mean, lap dances might be a dirty job, QB,” I added with another pat to his shoulder. “But don’t worry, I’m certain I’ll survive.”

  He sighed. “Well, I guess I’ll have no choice but to take you up on it since you’re practically dragging me inside.”

  My smile let loose as he caved to our will. And just like that, I set my night in motion with a wink.

  The bass was strong and the whiskey was stronger as I relaxed into the questionable leather sofa and stretched out one arm across the back.

  Tanned skin and thin, toned limbs, the body of a beautiful woman moved in front of me to the rhythm of the music. The swing of her hips was intoxicating and her gestures alluring, but after twenty or so ten-minute installments of yards and yards of bottle-blond hair, fake tits, and this very scene—thanks to the enthusiasm of my teammates and the deal I’d made with Quinn—I was starting to, dare I say it, become numb to the seduction.

  I know. Blasphemy.

  But the whole scene was beginning to bore me.

  Every woman looked the same, and every dance felt like a repeat of the one prior.

  Nevertheless, my eyes wandered the large, dark room of their own volition—we were in the group lap dance VIP section rather than a private room for convenience sake—and my cock stayed flaccid and behaved behind the fly of my pants.

  At this point, I might as well have been sitting around watching episodes of the Golden Girls. Rose had something special, but my dick and I had a strict rule that he didn’t salute anyone over the age of seventy-five.

  A new song started, a snazzy tune by Rihanna where she demands her money from a bitch, and a new wave of talent flooded onto the center stage. I perked up at the sight of a raven-dark head among all of the bleach.

  She was a muscular little thing, tiny in all the right spots but well-appointed in the others required of the job, and her skin seemed to glow under a soft shine. Her steps were delicate and pointed, almost as though she wasn’t quite one hundred percent sure of herself in the sky-high Lucite heels, but her presence was overwhelming. Engrossing.

  I just couldn’t put my finger on why.

  The other two strippers who made their way to the corners of the stage with practiced sashays were no more than background noise as the dark-haired beauty took her spot at the center pole, and I found myself actually shifting in my seat to peer around the woman shaking her tits directly in my face in order to watch her.

  The world is upside down tonight, folks.

  With harsh movements, the two women on the outside crouched hard and slammed their hands to the stage right at the end of Rihanna’s chorus-induced demand. The brunette stunner’s movements were softer in contrast.

  With a gentle swing and a roll of her hips, she arced out around the pole and waved in invitation, and the men before her made money fall at her feet.

  They were the bitches and she was Rihanna, and before the end of the night, she’d have the money she was owed and then some.

  Skin skimmed my face and pulled my attention back to the woman in front of me. Her lips turned down in a pout as she protested my lack of attention.

  I didn’t have all that much experience with strippers—at least, I hadn’t until tonight—but I knew enough to know some of them were the kind of women who’d crow over just about anything to please you but turn bitter and vengeful the moment you hinted they might not be the center of your universe.

  And no, I wasn’t just spitballing.

  I wasn’t what you’d call a serial dater, but I’d tried my fair share of relationships over the years, and though I was no mathematician, I’d wager at least forty percent of them had ended because a woman wanted me to spend countless hours blowing high-priced smoke up her ass. I didn’t like the taste or taxes involved in pipe tobacco.

  Blond and buxom, the dancer in front of me, the one Sean had kindly paid to give me yet another lap dance, perked up along with her dance moves as I reverted my attention back to her.

  She was attractive—of course. They didn’t let just anybody dance at Skins. But there was something jaded about her; something changed by the very distinct difference in stripping as a stepping stone and stripping as a career.

  Chastity, I believe she’d said her name was, was no single mom looking for a quick buck to turn her kid’s life around. She wasn’t a student working her way through medical school or an abused teen who’d found a home in fast money when she’d been down on her luck.

  No, not Chastity. She was oiled, buffed, and tanned to perfection, and the day she hung up her stripper shoes would be the day the doctor told her she was too old to have another boob job.

  She was a lifer. A woman of the night with skills someone just passing through Skins as a stepping stone could only dream of. In fact, the purchase of this very special dance had been Sean’s idea, and it’d come after she’d done an entire dance on the main stage with a beer bottle trapped between her breasts, climbed the pole, and poured the contents of the bottle down some excited sap’s throat as she flipped upside down for the finale.

  I’m sure some of the male clients inside this club worshiped at her fucking feet, but for me, I only felt relief when the song came to a close and her lap dance ended.

  I gritted my teeth against the urge to sneak a glance at the stage before the object of my interest disappeared from view, and I tucked a nice tip under the string of Chastity’s thong instead.

  Her face melted into a sug
ary-sweet smile, and I breathed a sigh of relief that she wouldn’t be sending the bouncers after me when we finally headed for the party bus.

  “Thanks, Chastity. You’re a really talented dancer.”

  I winced a little inside at how fucking ridiculous I sounded, but she didn’t seem too bothered by the weird goodbye.

  No doubt the hundred-dollar tip she was now rifling through helped with that.

  “Anytime, baby. This kind of cash normally requires a little something special,” she divulged with a wink.

  Yeah, I thought sardonically. Spending a hundred dollars normally requires something special for me too.

  Still, it was worth it if it kept her from having the cocktail waitress spike my next glass of whiskey with something gross or toxic.

  Freed from my strange cage, I hopped up from the couch and made my way back to the guys who were gathered in a group by the main stage, drinking and laughing so much they were the current object of attention.

  The stage was empty—meaning, yes, I had missed the exit of the raven-haired woman—and a rowdy group of big-ass guys was the kind of thing that could fill the entertainment void in a pinch.

  It wasn’t often that we got to let loose like this, and I was happy to find my teammates enjoying this rare occasion of camaraderie that didn’t revolve around tackles and touchdowns.

  Cheers to strip clubs and the off-season.

  “So?” Sean asked, a huge smile on his face as he noticed me making my return. “How was it? Good, right?”

  I shrugged noncommittally instead of faking enthusiasm, but without outing just how mundane I’d found it all the same.

  Sean wasn’t the kind of friend who’d let a lackluster commitment to being enthralled by a lap dance pass, and I wasn’t the kind of idiot who’d give him the ammunition.

  I was more the type of person to throw someone else under the bus.

  All in good fun, of course.

  “Why don’t you ask Quinn how it was?” I taunted with a smirk.