by Rie Warren
Million BALLER Baby
Bad Boy Ballers Book I
RIE WARREN
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Million Baller Baby
Copyright © 2017 by Rie Warren
Excerpt from Rush, Carolina Bad Boys V © 2016 by Rie Warren
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations.
https://www.riewarren.com
Warren, Rie.
Million Baller Baby / Rie Warren – 1st ed
1.Contemporary Romance—Fiction. 2. Secret Baby—Fiction. 3. Second Chance—Fiction. 4. Erotica—Fiction. 5. Sports Romance—Fiction. 6. Alpha Male—Fiction. I. Title
ASIN:
B01NBP47TL
Cover Design
By Kennedy Kelly, K Creative Designs
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Editing
By Gilly Wright http://www.gillywright.com
Table of Contents
Million BALLER Baby
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
Keep reading for the first chapter of
Chapter One
Also by Rie Warren
Connect with Rie
Acknowledgments
About Rie
Chapter One
Dropped the Ball
Rafe
WORST FUCKING DEFEAT OF the season. And that was saying a goddamn lot considering we’d recently been dubbed Carolina Crushed for our epic bad streak in the NFL.
Going head to head with the Denver Devils, we’d eaten shit every quarter of the game—our helmets handed to us and turf shoved up our noses, probably even up our collective asses.
Cheers didn’t follow us off the field after our defeat of the century. Boos did. Loud hisses and ultra-clear insults as our cleats cut into the diamond-bladed turf.
End of season. Last game. Home field advantage. Yeah right.
Fuck this shit.
Marquis, Akoni, and Brooklyn jogged right in front of me as we headed toward the locker room, straight-up eating another slice of humble pie.
Luck was not on our side this season, unless it was called bad luck.
Sweat drilled down my back.
Former hardcore fans swore at us.
Where’s the love?
Hitting the locker room, I fought with my damp, dirty jersey to stretch it over my chest, pads, shoulders, and off my head. Other players got naked all around, throwing off gear, socks, jockstraps, cleats.
Towels whipped, hitting hot skin. The usual smack talk submersed what we all knew: this team was going fucking down. And not in history.
I kinda wondered about the state of my frickin’ contract. Mr. Fox—the owner of Carolina Crush—had been laid to rest two weeks ago, thanks to a massive heart attack. Possibly caused by another loss in our season-long loser-streak. Our franchise was not only leaking touchdowns and turnovers but goddamn money and financial backers by the minute.
At twenty-seven, a former first round draft pick, the quarterback of this team, I had a motherfuckin’ ricochet arm. I aimed, fired, launched.
Too goddamn bad my receivers didn’t know how to Velcro a friggin’ ball.
And my offensive tackle couldn’t stop the quarterback blitz.
I’d run first downs. Shotgunned my arm off. Made more plays than any other NFL QB, but still got fucked up the ass-chute.
Whatever.
This was still my team.
And we were in it together. Until the end. Which might potentially happen tonight.
“Hey, Rafe!” Brooklyn yelled as I stepped into the shower cubicle where hot water rained all over. “Catch this!”
I nabbed the slippery soapy bar he lobbed at me in one hand.
Velcro.
“Heads up, Marquis,” I shouted, slinging the foamy soap toward the man with the sick dreads glistening under the steaming, streaming water.
Irish Spring slipped right through his fingers.
First string wide receiver?
“Butter fingers, fucker.” I doused my hair under the shower.
“Fuck you, Macintyre.” Running his hand down to his groin, Marquis spread his huge thighs. “And you can suck my big fat hose while you at it.”
“At least you got a good grip on your baby maker.”
Hoots and hollers ranged around the crowded shower block while Marquis did the Big Dick Dance.
“I’m tellin’ Mrs. M. you be disrespectin’ the black beauty.”
“Dude. If that’s the Black Beauty, Disney needs to start rolling out deep-dicking porn.” I laughed, grabbing a bottle of Gatorade from the shelf beside me.
“Tha’s right. Don’t be messin’ with the Black Beast.” Marquis slapped his hands against his chest, squinting as water ran into his eyes.
The whole team let the final defeat slide off our shoulders as we stood under the hot, drenching spray. Screw the Super Bowl. Who the fuck cared anyway? Getting a glorified Jostens high school ring . . .
BFD, right? Besides, I already had one from 2012. Hell, I could sell that shit on eBay if I ever got too hard up for cash. You know, if I got canned tonight.
And right about then Head Coach D busted into the room—bald turtlehead and all. We’d dubbed him Donatello from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and by the sound of his steps stomping across the floor, it appeared our locker room ass-kicking was about to commence.
“Look lively, assholes!”
There was the hoarse-voiced shout, as expected.
We popped out of the showers, and numbnuts Brooklyn stole my towel so I had to walk across the tiled block naked, my dick swinging in the air. With my head down, I rounded the corner only to stop short when I encountered a pair of slim feet in sharp-heeled shoes.
Slowly raising my eyes, I came face-to-face with a gorgeous woman whose ferocious scowl only slipped when her big brown eyes skipped down my dripping wet torso to my cock.
Marquis wasn’t the only one with a big dick.
I cleared my throat, swaggered to my locker, draped a towel over my hips.
The rest of the dudes filed in while the chick’s face flushed, and her soft brown gaze flinted into hard black.
She crossed her arms over the silky black blouse barely containing two handfuls of tit. As my gaze roamed lower I liked what I saw ev
en more. Tight red skirt, a black belt cinched at her hourglass waist, and the tall heels.
Coughing into my hand to hide a sudden throat-deep groan, I hoped my towel covered the growing cock-tent about to take over the terrycloth knotted low at my waist.
Miss Thang’s high heels clacked on the floor until she stood beside Coach D—and they both looked most unhappy.
Marquis scrubbed a hand down his dreads. “Aw, Coach D! Why you always let reporters in here when we’re naked. My lady don’t like it. We’re not strippers, yo.”
“Then put some gaddam clothes on already.”
“Hey, I don’t mind the attention.” My towel slipped lower.
The woman’s eyes followed the motion.
And the dudes stripped down to get dressed, swinging cocks all over the place.
Hard flesh, bruised muscles, and even bigger bruised egos . . .
“Knock off the jock talk, you fucks.” Coach D slammed a fist against the nearest locker. “The lady has somethin’ to say.”
The lady snicked closer on her stilettos. And her pluscious lips pouted just before she let loose.
“You call that a game?” She shook her head. Kicked a helmet. Got really close to my face before she drew back. “My dad is rolling over in his goddamn grave after that piece of shit you have the tiny balls to call a performance in our stadium out there!”
“She’s not a reporter, dude. She’s the new owner.” Brooklyn attempted a stage whisper, stroking his fingers through his beard. “Peyton Fox.”
Peyton. Fucking. Beautiful. Fox.
Talk about a shock to the system. I nearly fell over at her dainty little feet. Looking again, I couldn’t believe I hadn’t recognized her in the first place. I didn’t know what the bigger surprise was—her here, or her taking over ownership of our team after her father’s death.
Five years.
No calls.
I was so screwed.
The woman barely glanced at me again. Once the shock of recognition wore off, I took my time taking inventory. She was even more stunning now, at twenty-six.
Sparkling brown eyes. Deep red, wavy hair flowing down her back. Sassy mouth.
Business savvy.
An absolutely winning combo.
God, but I loved a ballsy woman.
Peyton didn’t disappoint.
One finger raised, her eyes lasering every man on the team, she snarled. “I took a master class in sports management from my dad starting from the time I turned five, and I’ve got the mouth and moves to back this shit up.” Peyton showed her balls, and they were made of nothing but sheer brass. “The question is: do you?
“Because I can play it classy, or I can trash this team with one dial of the phone right now, bitches, and sell off this franchise.”
While she reamed us out, I drifted away. Damn, the legs on her. Not to mention that rack. And the set of lungs . . .
She snapped her fingers right under my nose. “Sell Carolina Crush off just like you sold out of this season.” Her head snaking back, she arched an eyebrow. “I need an answer, playas.”
“We’re all in, Baby Fox,” Akoni, the huge Hawaiian middle linebacker gruffly said.
She glared. “If you ever call me that again I’ll wipe the floor with your jockstrap, your cock chafing inside.”
“Holy Goddamn.” Akoni winced, cupping his nutsack.
Even Coach D looked uncomfortable, and I bet Carolina Crush’s GM, Lou, was in his office bricking it, too. There was so much turnover in the NFL no one was safe, not after the shit-tastic season we’d had.
“Miss Fox is taking over ownership.” Coach D swiped a hand over his bald head—shinier than ever. “The official announcement will be tomorrow at the press conference.”
“If I decide to keep the team, that is.” Peyton’s eyes gleamed, the deep brown almost onyx. “Rafe, as the quarterback five years running, I’m looking to you to step up and lead like a captain.”
I held out my hand to the feisty woman, and she clasped my much larger palm. “You got it, Peyton.”
Before releasing her grip, I lifted her hand to my mouth, gave her a slow wink, and kissed the soft heart of her palm with a light brush of my lips.
Her breath hissing in, she jerked her hand back as if singed.
The dudes amped up the trash talk while Marquis hit a rap star gettin’ some pose with his finger pointed at me. “Crank it up, Mac Daddy!”
“Goin’ after the boss lady already?”
“Thought there was a no fraternization thing?”
Peyton’s withering glare silenced all.
She was in the big leagues now, and she already looked exactly like she owned it.
Which she did.
Jesus.
Double middle fingers aimed at the dudes did the talking for me, not that I had to open my damn mouth because Peyton was wielding another ass-whupping via her viperish tongue.
“There will be a big shakeup in both offensive and defensive line-ups, men.” Sauntering from the locker room, she glanced back just once, her eyes finding and fastening on me. “If you can even call yourselves men after that C-Grade performance.”
I watched her ass sway all the way out . . . sort of dazed.
“Did she just call us pussies?”
“Baby Fox means biz.”
Baby Fox . . . if only they knew.
“Yo, fuck that!” Marquis slammed his duffel onto a bench. “Already kowtow to the missus at home, now I gotta bow down to a woman at work too?”
“Reel it in, dickholes.” I sat down to rake through the clothes in my locker, digging out my boots first. “Assuming y’all want a paycheck next year, Miss Fox holds the keys to the team so we probably better get used to following orders. ’Sides, she’s not wrong. We fucked our games.” I pulled on a shirt after tugging it from the dry-cleaning bag. “Time to man up.”
Tossing on my leather jacket, I hefted my bags.
The Carolina Crush locker room was a warzone littered with damp towels, tossed helmets, gear, guards, cleats.
And lost dreams.
Brooklyn grabbed his duffel and matched my stride, the other dudes falling in. “Off-season first though, right, Rafe?”
“You know it.” I slanted a grin at him, gave Coach D a bear hug that lifted him off his feet, and kissed Angela—the lead physio—on the cheek. “Party time.”
The posse didn’t know party time meant months alone in my solitary cabin in the hills of North Carolina. Fly fishing, hiking, working out, and a plus-one they’d never suspect.
Brooklyn—recently divorced at the ripe old age of twenty-eight—invariably spent his time off catching waves and chasing tail in Australia while his ex-wifey moved on to the next cash cow. Marquis played baby daddy to his baby momma and their one-year-old son. He was headed on a freakin’ Disney Cruise. He’d complain about it, while sending us all his Instagram fam shots. The dude couldn’t get enough of his woman, his kid, or their expected latest edition due to be born late spring. A girl.
Akoni was ready to jet back to Hawaii with his woman and their big brood.
And as I dropped my bags into the back of my International Harvester Scout, I couldn’t get Peyton out of my head.
Peeling out of the parking lot amid flashy sports cars, jacked-up trucks, and thundering motorcycles, I put the Scout into gear. Fuck the flashy and shiny, I didn’t need that showy shit. Fuck fame, too. Although the steady mega money was a bonus.
I rolled down my window, sticking my head outside. “Suck my—”
“Hose!” Marquis in his slick Ferrari gunned past me.
Chapter Two
Already Played
Peyton
SLAMMING THE DOOR BEHIND ME, I stood in the corridor of Carolina Crush central, my knees weak, my legs wobbly.
Fox wasn’t the only name I had to live up to. Crush was my father’s brand and my birthright . . . the team my legacy.
My hand rose to my breast where my heartbeat fluttered. I’d just put it all
out there in the locker room, taking no shits from anyone and giving no fucks at all. There was a first time for everyone, and I’d just gone to the trenches with my team.
Too bad we’d suffered the biggest loss ever. No playoffs. No chance at a ring. No glory at all.
I was not brought up to come in second place. But last? Last was not an option. My legs might be shaking, but so was my head. Tonight had been a straight-up disgrace, and I hadn’t been joking about my dad turning over in his too-recent grave.
But it wasn’t just the balls-out bitch-’tude I’d firmly shoved down those guys’ throats that left me so unsettled.
Guh-gulp-no.
All those big naked sweaty bodies jostling together.
One in particular.
Philomena was right.
I needed to get laid on the Q.T. ASAP.
When the door thrust open after me, I stood up straight, perfect posture, not even rocking in my high heels.
Coach D slid out, his hands folded behind his back. “Y’okay, Pey?”
“Perfect, David.”
“You went a little GI Jane in there.”
“I didn’t have much choice.”
“Fox left you high and dry, sweetheart.” His hard face melted a little, the frown relaxing. “And with a losing team to boot.”
I stowed the sniffles away. “It’s not like he planned on kicking it early, is it?”
David reached for me, and I slipped into his arms.
“He believed in you, kid.”
“Do you?” I dried the tears I refused to let fall with a hand pressed to my face.
“Yeah. The team will too.” He chucked me under the chin. “Not like you gave them any choice.”
“They get paid enough to do any-damn-thing I want.” Drawing back, I grinned. “What about making them moonlight as strippers?”
“You want Bunyan and Akoni rolling out naked on a stage for everyone to see?” He laughed from his belly as he mentioned our two biggest linebackers.
“Not a moneymaker then?” I pouted.
“The money you don’t need to worry about. The spirit to win, you do.” Coach D shook his head. “Big shoes you’re filling, but you give them heart, and we can be a Super Bowl team again.
