Million Baller Baby: A Secret Baby, Second Chance, Sports Romance (Bad Boy Ballers Book 1)

by Rie Warren

  “They lost their fire, Peyton. Lost their way. Got too soft.” Turning back to the locker room, he added, “If you can motivate those men you got a chance.”

  “Isn’t that your job?” I called out.

  “Balls of steel, my girl, you got ’em. The men are already shittin’ themselves.” Chuckling, he disappeared back into the realm of testosterone-fueled infamy.

  “I can just bench Macintyre, you know!”

  “Rafe’s your winning arm.” David propped open the door to shove his head outside again. “He’s always been a game-changer.”

  Tell me about it.

  “Could just be the Crush’s saving grace.” He disappeared into the locker room with a last wink.

  Saving grace.

  We’d see about that.

  I walked through the compound, stopped for a final network TV soundbite. I tried to recoup our loss with a heartfelt mention of my father’s death. I shook hands wherever I went, laying it on with a smile I never felt.

  Finally reaching my office, I shut myself inside, tried to pull myself together.

  My office.

  Two weeks ago I’d been living in Nashville, working for the Tennessee Titans team as head of public relations. Relocating had meant mourning my dad, taking care of his estate, and cruising to the helm of Carolina Crush. My life had changed in a matter of minutes with barely a moment to breathe in between all the mayhem leading to tonight’s massive loss.

  I took a second to catch my breath now, pushing my fingers through my hair.

  The room with the oxblood leather chesterfield and the heavy decanters on the bar had been my dad’s, of course. The office still smelled like him—equal parts his cologne and ghosts of faded cigar smoke.

  I’d redecorate, eventually, when I could stomach the fact I’d never see him again, never listen to his laugh, never know his particular brand of gruff fatherly comfort again.

  I wouldn’t replace his memorabilia, though. The signed footballs, the Super Bowl rings, the framed photos of boss wins with my dad on the field getting doused from Gatorade coolers or sprayed all over from bottles of champagne.

  Family portraits.

  One in particular . . .

  The heart attack had hit him so quickly, so devastatingly, he was gone before my redeye flight touched down in Charleston, South Carolina. At the hospital where he was pronounced dead, they let me sit with him. Hold his hand. Too shocked to cry and too alone to call anyone for help. The larger-than-life man taken from me and his team far too early.

  Coach D had been a godsend. Two days later, he’d stood next to me, graveside. The funeral was a quiet affair, private, although an enormous outpouring of condolences came from every corner of the athletic community from owners to coaches to players across the NFL to the NCAA. Sportscasters, celebs, and folks who’d known my father as not only a kickass icon in the world of professional sports, but also as a dedicated father, expressed grief in his death while celebrating his life.

  We buried him under Carolina Crush red and white colors.

  My mom had walked out when I was twelve. Billy Fox had little left to give a wife after the game. Strange that he’d been such an awesome dad, my role model and my protector.

  I’d stayed with him.

  And now I was here, dabbing at my damp cheeks, in the office that had been my preschool and, many years later, my intro to the business of the NFL.

  Rattling the bottom left drawer of the desk—the one that stuck unless you tilted it just right—I retrieved Dad’s bottle of top-shelf bourbon hidden inside.

  I blew into a glass, dropped in two ice cubes, and poured a healthy dose.

  The first sip relaxed my shoulders. The second saw me toeing off my hellish high heels.

  By the fourth large swallow, I unclasped my bra, pulling it from beneath the blouse and down my arms—no mean feat. Just ask any woman.

  Sinking into the deep leather chair, I rolled the drink between my fingers.

  I’d be personally involved with the team just like my dad. Football was a family biz, and now I owned it.

  And that meant I was fully invested in kicking this crew back into shape if I had to drag them through each practice with my foot planted on their perfect athletic asses.

  I’d just poured a second drink, capping the bottle, when my phone rang.

  “Phil,” I answered, the ice in my glass clinking together.

  “Drinking on the job again?”

  “You saw the game, didn’t you?”

  “The game was the bomb. And not in a good way, my sistah.”

  I rolled my eyes at Phil’s throaty laugh. “Hence the drinks.”

  Phil—Philomena—my best friend gurgled another laugh like the fucked-up fate of Carolina Crush was her own private joke. If her name was unusual, so was everything else about the woman. She was stunning. Grace Jones-gorgeous. A fast-tracked teen fashion model who’d hung up the expensive haute couture to hit medical school. Brains, beauty, and balls. She had the trifecta. And one of the perks of moving back to the Charleston area was having her in my life again.

  “Thanks so much for your support, Phil.” Well, one of the perks . . . sometimes . . . when she wasn’t going full-on snark-attack with me.

  “I could make it up to you and come take you out for a night on the town?”

  “I’ve got to get home.” I glanced at my watch, knowing I’d have to meet with the team coaches and the GM before I could even think about calling it a night.

  “Gotcha. Just thought I’d try.” She gave a small grunt then a long sigh.

  “Taking off the heels?” Wearing a lab coat didn’t mean she wasn’t still all about the glamor.

  “Hell yes. Fucking torture contraptions. I’m gonna start coming to the hospital in Crocs.”

  Sputtering through a mouthful of bourbon, I almost choked. “Don’t even joke about that shit.”

  “Mary Janes?” She suggested with a hint of amusement in her voice.

  “I’ll never talk to you again.”

  “Fashion snob.”

  “Bullshit artist.”

  “Hey, while I’ve still got you on the phone, spill the friggin’ beans already.”

  “What beans?” I pushed my chair back to lift my feet onto the desk.

  “I don’t know . . . something about a sexy as fuck quarterback goes by the name of Rafe Macintyre?”

  “Rafe?” I snorted. “I’m going to roll up his contract and shove it so far up his fine ass—”

  “Girlfriend! I didn’t know you were into anal too.” Phil chuckled. “You know I’m all about the LGBTQ.”

  “Bull and shit. You can’t be all those things at the same time. You’re a lipstick lesbian, a dyke who occasionally likes a side of dick.”

  “Unless I’m wearing my strap-on. And I guess you can just keep on having your vagina monologues since you’re clearly never getting laid again.”

  “I hate that word.” I shuddered.

  “Vagina? What about peeenis?” She gave her trademark cackle.

  “A cock is a cock is a cock.”

  “Speaking of cocks, can’t you just pull Rafe already for a threesome and I can get some of your sweetness finally?”

  “In your dreams, Phil.”

  “Every night, sugar.”

  My best friend was a lesbian who liked to hit on me every so often, probably because she thought I’d never bite. My love life was a shambles. My dream man was an unapologetic player, and I really was gonna fire his fine ass . . .

  “Listen”—Phil’s voice lowered—“I can come over later. Hang out. I won’t even put the moves on you.”

  “I’m good.”

  “You sure? Because I know you’re in your dad’s office right now, drinking his booze, and the team you just took over tanked bigtime.”

  “You’re gonna make me tear up over here, Phil.”

  “I’m serious, girl.”

  “I know.” I dropped my head onto the back of the seat, shutting my eyes. “I�
�ll be okay, hon.”

  “And you’ll call me if you’re not.”

  “And I’ll call you if I’m not.”

  “Okay. Holla back at me tomorrow.”

  “Hey!” I leaned an elbow on my desk. “Remember to wrap that dildo if you use it on someone tonight.”

  “Abso. Safe sex with the fake peeeenis.”

  “You’re such a whore.”

  “And you’re almost revirginized, Mary.”

  “G’night now.”

  “Hang the fuck up already.”

  Smiling, I clicked the phone off. I tossed it into my bag, rising as a commotion in the parking lot drew me to the huge bank of windows. Rafe surrounded by the rest of the team, roughhousing and laughing it up like they’d just made it to the postseason playoffs instead of getting their asses handed to them on the field.

  Loud voices, the usual lewd comments I could hear even through the solid windows, then the even louder roar of sports cars, huge trucks, expensive SUVs, and custom bikes. Then they raced from the parking lot, zigzagging for pole position, windows rolled down, music pumping from the vehicles at the same rate as their good-natured insults.

  Despite the shit day, I smiled.

  Boys.

  Pfft.

  Except they weren’t boys at all. They were grown men. Hard-muscled hunks. Highly talented football players.

  One in particular.

  Chapter Three

  Mac Daddy

  Peyton

  RAFE MACINTYRE. SEEING HIM again face-to-face was inevitable. I hadn’t expected the insta-reaction, though.

  Over the years during my visits home, I’d remained in the owner’s box whenever I made it to a game. Even when I was back in Nashville working for a competing team, I’d always kept my eye on the Crush, paying close attention to my dad’s three-deep roster and the players who got sold off or brought in. From afar, I’d never lost sight of the fact the team might someday be mine. I just hadn’t expected the life changing turn of events to happen so soon.

  No doubt Rafe Macintyre was one to watch just as Coach D said. He always had been. The man had an arm rarely outplayed and aim unmatched, and his magic fingers . . .

  Goddamn Rafe. Hunky. Gorgeous. He had star quality but was down to earth. An incredible fuck you wanted on repeat until your bedroom reeked of wild sex and you passed out with him between your legs. Even if he forgot all about it the next morning . . .

  Or so I'd heard.

  Damn Rafe Macintyre. The sexy asshole with the unforgettable green eyes and built body, the tats and his cocky grin, and the too-long tousled black hair.

  The reputation.

  The multimillion dollar contract.

  As I peered out the windows, the last player pulled out of the parking lot with a rebel yell, and I slipped my heels back on. I put a blazer over my shoulders, buttoned up, and left my bra dangling off the edge of the desk.

  At the conference room door, I patted my hair, brandished my iPad, then stepped inside.

  Coach D sat at the long oval table joined by Frank from the offensive team, Sam the defensive coordinator, Mark the QB coach, Lou the GM, and Dick, our head scout.

  I slid copies of my proposal like poker chips across the table. “I think it’s time to shake this shit up, men.”

  Dick took one look at the photocopies then slammed the folder to the table. “No fucking way.”

  I tapped a finger against my iPad. “Other option? I could sell. Tonight.”

  Coach D sat with his fingers steepled at his chin.

  “I’ll call your bluff, Peyton.” Lou was known for being a hothead, and he hadn’t gotten this far for nothing.

  But neither had I.

  “I’ll fire you too, Lou.”

  “When the fuck did you grow a set of balls instead of boobs?” Dick asked.

  “The boobs have always been here.” Leaning away from the table, I motioned to my crotch. “My testicles dropped years ago thanks to my dad, Dickless, so I’m not looking for a vote. I don’t need your say-so, and I don’t give two fucks if you all agree.

  “This is what next season looks like for the Crush.” I stabbed another finger down on the spread-out photos of new key players for our team.

  “That has-been?” Lou scowled, just his normal everyday expression. “Cross was put out to pasture last season.”

  “Fuck Deacon Cross. What about Calder Malone? No one in the league’s touching him! He’s not fit to be a center lineman anymore—he’s a goddamn certified druggie. Jesus Christ, Peyton.” Frank ripped the paper full of stats in two. “He’s been branded and blackballed.”

  “Not anymore. It’s time to take some risks. Employ some outlaw players no one would ever expect.” My phone chimed, but I ignored it.

  Cruising around the conference room, I stopped briefly behind each man who thought he knew this team better than me. “We’re bringing back the old and giving new life.”

  “Vets and rookies?” Lou flipped through the folder before slamming his fist down. “You want Luke Buckley to front this?”

  “He’s first string,” I said.

  “He’s first string at Loser U in Nebraska!”

  “I don’t give a shit, Lou.” It was on the tip of my tongue to call the ornery man who was shaped like a walrus Lou-ser, but I held myself in check. Barely. “He’s got an epic arm, and you know it. We need someone just in case Rafe gets injured or can’t step up like we need him to.”

  Lord knows I have experience in that regard.

  Making my way to my chair, I stared around the room. “And have you seen Malone’s stats? He fucked up for a second. Got caught with pot. So what? Everyone deserves a second chance.” And Calder Malone was only the beginning.

  “Christ, Peyton.” Lou chomped on the end of his pen like he wanted to bite the thing in half like a chicken neck.

  “You don’t have to agree with me. Just train ’em up and cash your huge checks.” We needed new talent, enough to rebuild that deep roster, one we could feed from and fire up the other men with.

  Vets. Rookies. Loose cannons.

  I hadn’t gone completely crazy.

  Three players—some with mileage, some screeched to a stop at the starting blocks.

  After the initial bluster and blatant disagreement, the meeting went better than expected. I’d discovered power, sue me. I also struggled back into my bra once in my office, no one the wiser.

  It’d been one long day. An even longer night.

  Lights shined inside the house I’d just bought in Mt. Pleasant when I pulled up outside. Nothing too fancy, too big, or too flashy. Completely downhome style and lowcountry welcoming.

  By the time I hit the brakes in the driveway, I wanted only one thing.

  A soft hug.

  A sloppy kiss.

  The big eyes.

  A new day.

  I walked through the front door, barely dropping my bag before he swung from the bottom stairs and straight into my waiting arms.

  “Mommy!”

  Chapter Four

  Deep Woods

  Rafe

  MONTHS AFTER THAT FUCKED-UP final game against the Devils, I was still deep in my natural habitat. Not under the bright lights partying it up with celebs or inside the big mega-million-dollar football stadiums. Definitely not attending red carpet events with a supermodel on my arm, and I for sure wasn’t barricaded inside a monstrosity of a mansion.

  Hell no.

  I was entrenched in my cabin in Cashiers, North Carolina. The log cabin, nestled in the heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains, overlooked an endless early summertime vista of green and gold and blue.

  I’d forgotten about the red and white, the Carolina Crush, and all things South Carolina—including one woman in particular—for five hibernating months. Tried to, anyway.

  I’d grown out my beard and had a new uniform—flannel shirts and old jeans or raggedy shorts—screw shaving twice a day and wearing custom-tailored suits or the team gear.

  Back to n
ature.

  Hiking trails, swinging an ax daily to keep the woodpile stocked even though it was getting too warm to stoke the fireplace—shit, the dudes should’ve called me Paul Bunyan, not Akoni’s defensive partner in crime, Paul Biggs.

  Okay, not like I was going completely fucking granola. My cabin of two thousand square feet was totally blinged out. I was hooked up to satellite WiFi, and the sauna was as big as the bathroom we’d had when I was growing up, the Jacuzzi on the deck overlooking the mountains the size of a small pool.

  What I liked best about being off the ESPN grid was the anonymity. The peace and fucking quiet.

  Mostly.

  But even stacking cords of wood daily, burning off energy by hiking through the deep woods, slogging through mud to reach my favorite stream couldn’t clear my brain of one particular moment that had multiplied over and over in my head.

  It wasn’t that last intercepted pass during the Devils game.

  Not the fact we’d scored a measly 14 to their 35, thereby getting shut out.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Peyton Fox.

  It had to be her hair. The color of autumn leaves—dark red, lustrous even. Or the way she smelled. Something light—feminine and sexy. Could’ve been her eyes. Because they could be so soft brown, deep and curious, sometimes even richer than velvety black.

  But it definitely wasn’t the way she smiled, because the last time I’d seen her she preferred the angry snarl, gritted gleaming teeth and all.

  Probably well deserved.

  Probably all my fault.

  Peyton Fox.

  Such a bad idea.

  Such a good goddamn feeling she seeped into my bones, into my being, into my memory.

  See, I’d met this woman the night I was drafted by the Carolina Crush. Biggest fucking contract of my life. Twenty-two years old, the star quarterback for the USC Gamecocks, and on the verge of getting my sports management degree—just for a fallback option.

  Courted by scouts from the Washington Whalers, the Austin Angels, and—yup, you guessed it—even the Denver Devils, I’d decided I wanted to stay on home turf. Carolina all the way.

  The whole signing thing—what a fucking rush. The live announcement. Standing room only auditorium with my college coaches, team, and sportscasters from across the country cheering me on.