by Rie Warren
The new jersey—number 32 put into service just for me for the number of years my folks had been married. The congratulations. The frigging confetti and balloons and my mom on stage with me.
The first time I’d seen the girl. Practically the last.
At the booming afterparty at Rancho del Fox, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. The massive celebration rolled on around me but no amount of fanfare cut through the attraction spinning between us. When she’d beckoned me with a smile and a wink it was no surprise I’d followed, leaving the noisy crowd behind.
She found a bedroom, and my hands were in her hair, my mouth slanted across hers before we even crossed the threshold.
We’d hooked up.
Fucked hard.
Gotten hot and sweaty. Naked and naughty. Rough and raunchy.
Her kisses had blown my mind apart. And the number she did on my cock . . . That juicy mouth sliding up and down, the way her gaze locked on mine when she lifted her plump lips off my thick dick head to lick me one last time before I’d groaned and come.
Her soft body writhing beneath my calloused hands and her pink nipples turning brighter with every lick from my tongue, every bite from my teeth.
Then her legs—long and curvy—hiked around my hips. Her hands clenched in my hair. Mine cupping her ass to draw her into every long stroke.
The second time we fucked I’d slammed into her from behind, those deep red tresses curled tightly in my fist so I could watch the insane angle of her sexy back as I belted in and out.
The bedroom was a disaster area after the third round of premium fucking. She’d snuffled in a cute way, curling up to me on the big bed, half the covers and almost all the pillows on the floor from when we’d torn it up.
The bedroom, in Mr. Fox’s house.
I’d slipped silently from beneath the cuddling woman—the gorgeous girl. It only took one look at the photo on her dresser to realize she wasn’t gonna end up as some random fuck buddy.
Could’ve ruined my just-starting career, and my agent didn’t even have to give me an earful to tell me just how much deep shit I could be in.
I’d reached for my jeans to make a clean-enough getaway when my cell started buzzing in the pocket.
“What?” I’d answered, my voice low so as not to wake sleeping beauty.
“Where the fuck are you?”
Aaand of course it’d been my agent, the snake charmer named Serena Dixon.
Serene the woman was not.
“I went for a walk.” I buttoned my shirt with one hand.
“YOU WENT FOR A WALK?” she’d screeched. “Biggest goddamn night of your life and you—”
“Needed to blow off some steam.” I’d looked back to the soft body snuggled in the big bed.
Something sure had gotten blown.
My fucking mind not to mention my body.
“Get your fifteen million-dollar ass back to chez motherfucking Fox ASAP, Rafe,” Serena had hissed.
“Can do.”
Jesus.
She hadn’t known I was still in the house, silently opening the door and slipping into the hall while raking my hands through my hair.
The next day I’d pretended I didn’t remember a goddamn thing.
Not a single thing. For five plus years running.
We’d won the Super Bowl in 2012.
Contract incentives and bonuses all around.
Women on both arms and practically wrapped around my legs—not to mention my highly insured fingers—whenever I went out.
My bad reputation well deserved from my younger, wilder days.
Aaaand back to the deep, deep woods—and please fuck off with the deep, deep thoughts already.
The dudes all thought I was busy getting laid on the regular, getting my nuts drained, my hose wet . . .
If only they knew.
Maybe the place would’ve been lonely. Not possible with the wriggly body next to me in the bed in my Blue Ridge cabin.
Chapter Five
Deep Shit
Rafe
LIV SNORED.
She drooled, too. On my pillow and hers.
She must’ve had weird-as-shit dreams because she kicked out with bony arms and twiggy legs all night long.
And she always woke me up way too frigging early in the morning.
I tried to roll over quietly, taking a corner of the sheet with me, because Liv, the bed hog who snored like a freight train, woke up on a hairpin trigger, and the birds hadn’t even started chirping outside yet.
Fuck my life, as soon as I slipped onto my back, Liv popped up like a janky-haired jack-in-the-box, shouting, “Who? Who did it?”
“Oh. Fuckin’ A, Liv.” I crossed an arm over my face. “Too early and you need to stop watching whodunnits on Masterpiece Theatre. You’re eleven, for God’s sakes. Miss Marple is not cool.”
“Swear jar! And Miss Marple? Pffft. Mom and me been watchin’ the new Sherlock Holmes series. Duh.” Eye roll, aaaand she yelled way to close to my ear.
Eyes scrunched tight, trying to shut my ears off, too, I scrabbled through the loose change on the bedside table before locating a crumpled bill. It better not be a tenner. I shoved it in my little sister’s general direction.
“I’m putting a lock on my door today,” I grumbled, sleep deprived. Not for any good reason either.
Liv. My sister.
Loved her.
But wished she had a mute button.
She had nightmares.
Who didn’t?
So sometimes she ended up in my bed. The least I could do since I was her only father figure. She’d been a massive midlife surprise for our folks—not a planned pregnancy at all, not that our parents ever regretted having her sixteen years after me. But our dad died before she’d even turned one, and that was part of the reason I’d cleaned up my act. So I could be a better role model for her.
No more easy lays for me, not when Liv and my mom could hook up to the internet or tune into TMZ anytime they wanted for an update on my love-lust life.
I took care of her every chance I could. Wasn’t a hardship. And my mom deserved a break from all the shit that was life.
She ran a salon in Newberry, South Carolina, where I’d grown up. Never asked for anything. And speaking of love lives, she could do with one of her own.
Huh. Coach D’s Yoda-speak was rubbing off on me.
Whatever.
Still too early, but Liv was never gonna go back to sleep. Probably not for two more months. I scraped my palms down my face then peeked at my phone. 5:30.
Hate.
Smile.
“What do you want for breakfast, Livvy?”
“Pancakes!”
“You’re too perky at this time of the morning.”
She punched my arm. “Too grumpy.”
“More like Sleepy.”
“Dopey.” She dropped her voice and frowned.
Standing to stretch, I checked the outside temp on my phone. A cool forty-five degrees to start the day. “Hey, Happy. You go grab a shower, and I’ll crank up the fire.”
She gave me some kind of street-kid gangsta gesture that meant nada to me. “Meet you in the kitchen.”
While I lit the fire in the great room with fresh wood, watching sparks fly, I heard her singing—tunelessly—upstairs.
I’d broken Liv out of school a couple weeks before summer vacation. Since I was the town celebrity and the largest donor to her private school, it wasn’t like they were gonna say no to me. Before this annual summer venture, I’d had her with me at spring break.
I’d spent Christmas—coming off the heels of Carolina Crush’s regular season shitshow—in Newberry with her and Mom. The same eighties ranch I’d been raised in, even though I’d offered to upgrade her to something newer, something bigger. Mom had declined. So those bucks went into investments and a college fund for Livvy instead.
I’d bought Mom a car, though—a freakin’ Toyota Prius, the only thing she’d accept.
Biggest Christmas tree in Newberry? You know it. And a huge open-bar blow-out party for the locals and old friends on New Year’s Eve? You bet. I’d bought Liv the latest street-style, high-top kicks made by the most sought-after graffiti artist.
The kid slept in them Christmas night.
And for our mom? A new china cabinet, with interior lighting.
It wasn’t about the money.
It was what I could do for my family.
And all winter long, every time I walked outside of my cabin, I wrapped the Carolina Crush-colored scarf around my neck Liv had knitted for me. Not that she was destined to be Suzy Homemaker. The kid was . . . eclectic.
I heard cleats clicking on the wood flooring of the kitchen and turned in her direction.
Yup.
Different. That was my sis.
Damp dark hair. Deep green eyes.
“Whaddya want for breakfast again?” I asked.
“Pancakes!”
“Bacon?”
“Do pigs fly?”
“Not really. But this one’s definitely gonna fry.” I tossed the package of bacon in her direction. “Catch.”
She was wearing a Crush football helmet and had painted big black streaks across her cheeks. The tomboy girl wanted to be the first female NFL player.
Or Sherlock Homey.
She caught the package one handed, performing a mini Marquis-inspired dance on her tiptoes. “Touchdown!”
“You don’t really need the faceguard in the kitchen,” I said after the fist bump.
“The way you cook I do.”
Touché.
****
Hours later we sat on a flat rock beside the stream, catching hot sunrays through the leafy canopy like a couple of lizards lounging around.
“Are you dating anyone?” Liv asked.
“How old are you again?” I finished tying a complicated fly, biting off the vibrant orange thread. “And none of your business, Agatha Christie.”
“Almost twelve,” she piped up.
“Going on twenty.”
She threw a worm at me, one of the blood-fat wrigglers fresh from the dirt we’d dug up.
Tossing the fly aside, I lightly pinched the worm between two fingers. “You want this shoved down the back of your shirt, squirt?”
“Keepaway! Keepaway!” She scrambled into the stream like a crab on crack.
“Too bad you don’t have any boy-cootie spray.” I went back to my pole, threading the new super-fly on.
“How old are you again?” Liv stood up to her ankles in the fresh mountain creek, her fresh mouth never ending.
Wading past her into the burbling stream up to my thighs, I called back, “Duck unless you really want a nose piercing.”
“You suck, Ray.” She still wore the helmet. Probably a good thing when I almost hooked her head.
Touché.
My phone vibrated on the rock, and Liv made a mad dash for it. Closer than me, she took one look at the caller, shook her head, and muttered, “Nnnn nh.”
All the fucks.
Had to be Serena, the demon agent.
I crossed the brook.
Took the phone.
Wondered if I could drown it?
“Yup?” I answered instead.
“Rafe, trying to nail you down during the off-season is harder than—”
“Your black, black heart?” I winked at Liv.
“I don’t have any heart at all. What are you talking about?” Serena hissed. “I’m calling to ask if you know about a little thing called Black Monday?”
“Mmm. Lemme think for a second.” I skipped a pebble across the stream. “That shopping thing broads lose their humanity over after Thanksgiving?” I played dumb.
“Noooo, idiot. That’s Black Friday. I’m talking about when craptastic players get traded down after the end of the season.”
“Sounds bad, Serena.” I tucked my fishing pole under my arm, inspecting the shiny new fly. “But that was months ago, and I ain’t been traded yet.”
“It’s real bad. Like getting stuck at a second-rate team bad.” Her voice lowered from the usual high pitch. “There are changes afoot at Crush.”
I shuddered. Afoot. She was starting to sound like Liv after a PBS-BBC-Masterpiece-whatevs marathon.
“Rafe, dislodge that fly-fishing pole from your ass and pack your truck up right motherfucking now.”
“How’d you know I was fly fishing?”
“Wearing waders?”
Before I could tell her I was not wearing waders but an old pair of cargo shorts, Serena snickered. “And you wanna be an international sports sex symbol or just a pussy laughingstock?”
“Damn. You really are a bitc—” Clenching down on my jaw, I glanced at Liv.
“Olivia standing there with you?” Serena’s tone sweetened until it was equal parts saccharine and sarcastic.
“Yes.” I grinded my clenched jaw.
“What were you saying again?” Sickly sweet Serena, like butter wouldn’t melt.
“You’re a ballbuster.”
“You know it. And I’m really gonna bust your balls if you don’t get back into shape. Peyton’s calling everyone in for early training and team Russian roulette.” She clicked her fingernails audibly on her desk, or against the phone . . . or perhaps on a sharpening stone. “Miss Fox isn’t going to put up with another losing season. She’s ready for heads to roll.”
I thumbed the phone off with Serena’s threat ringing in my ears. This was already shaping up to be another fucked-up season if the team and I didn’t stop dicking around.
Liv, who’d listened intently to the one-sided conversation, looked at me with her eyebrows arched high. “And?”
“Pack it up, kid. We’re heading to training camp.”
“Score!”
Chapter Six
Baby Face
Peyton
CALLUM’S SMALL HEAD WAS the only thing visible above the covers on his bed. That red hair—cinnamon like mine—was probably something he’d get teased about over and over again once he hit kindergarten in August.
Five-years-old already.
How the hell had that happened?
I still carried the initial ultrasound image around in my wallet. And a photo of the two of us on his first Christmas was the only personal touch on my desk in my office at Carolina Crush.
The office I’d finally redecorated, made mine. From January to now June I’d put my stamp all over the football team, barking orders at the coaches, busting the big danglies of the scouting agents, going more than one round with Lou, the general manager.
The one constant through the total NFL mayhem, always, was this little kid right here.
The first time I’d held him in my arms, uncontrollable tears raced down my cheeks. And just like that—the moment I cradled him against me—the focus of my entire world shifted on its axis. I fell completely in love with the utter rightness of this thing, this mommy-ness. His squirmy body, his mewling cry. The cry only I could quiet. The unbreakable mother-love bond for my baby boy.
Callum.
All soppiness aside, I banged my fist on his open door, shouting in a drill sergeant’s voice, “Up and at ’em, Cal!”
His face wrinkled, and he rubbed both fists over his eyes as I moved into his room, opening the curtains so bright sunshine cascaded inside.
“Mommy?” He rolled over, bleary-eyed.
“Kick it into gear, sweet boy. Breakfast, five minutes.” I hugged him hard and smooched kisses on both his cheeks, and he wrapped his arms around me.
Those few minutes between sleeping and waking he was still my little baby.
In ten minutes he’d probably turn into a demanding toddler-monster whose favorite words were why and no.
“Brush hair. Brush teeth. Uniform on the end of your bed.”
Too bad I’d forgotten my own uniform. Somehow I’d ended up with one expensive stiletto on, and a Fozzie Bear slipper—total classic—on my other foot.
Par
for the course.
I crossed the landing and searched my closet high and low for the other heel. With my shirt buttoned at an odd angle I only noticed when I caught sight of myself in the mirror . . . and the coffee percolating and bacon more than likely burning in the kitchen.
Total glamor. All the damn time.
I had this shit down.
By the time I located my other shoe, rebuttoned my blouse, and salvaged the ultra-crispy, possibly inedible bacon, Callum the Cranky plopped himself at the table and bent his head into his hand, a frown etched on his pint-sized forehead.
Passing by to rummage at the hall table for my purse when my cell started jingling, I ruffled his hair. “You are so not a morning person, my love.”
“Wanna go to work with you today,” he called after me, pouty-face in full puppy-dog mode.
I found the iPhone, answering it while I joined Callum at the table—two plates balanced in my hands and the phone nestled at my ear. “Last day of preschool for you. Not possible.”
I passed Cal his plate and watched the smile fight with his frown when he saw the pancakes I’d made.
Banana and chocolate chips. His favorite.
I muttered into the phone, talking to Serena Dixon, agent to one Rafe Macintyre. Sipping my coffee, I listened to her excuses as to why the potential QB of the century would be arriving at practice late.
Rafe. AKA the bane of my existence.
I rolled my eyes then cut that crap right out when Callum—watching me closely—repeated the eye-rollz. I shook my finger at him. He grinned back.
Tiny trickster.
As soon as I ended the call with Serena, the landline started ringing off the hook. At the kitchen bar, I flipped open my MacBook, pulling up the day’s schedule and scrolling through emails while answering the other call.
That time from Lou, who finally confirmed the months of hard work, the wheeling and dealing, the travel and contract packages paid off. Three new key players had landed and been taken under the Carolina wings. Three key new players including an on-fire rookie QB scored from Nebraska during first-round draft picks.
Let’s see how much Rafe likes that.
