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

by Rie Warren

  The team turned up in their Sunday Best—mostly top-notch designer duds—except for Buckley, who winked at me when he strolled past. Clearly I needed to call his agent with a little reminder about the away game suit policy, which included all road trips, flights, and press ops. The kid might also need to receive a heads-up that the owner he worked for—namely me—was strictly off-limits.

  That strictly off-limits thing didn’t stop the slight widening of my eyes when Rafe walked toward the first bus. Jesus. He should be illegal. Sweaty and shirtless and on the field, he spelled danger to every single rule I’d ever given myself.

  Recently clean-shaven, wearing a sand-colored linen suit that only accentuated his dark hair and deep tan, he was, in one word, drool-worthy.

  My breath caught as he approached.

  My toes literally curled in my stilettoes, and my pulse sped lightning fast. I licked my lips unconsciously, catching the scent of his cologne as he brushed past me.

  “Miss Fox.” Deep chill-inducing voice. Spine-tingling touch on my elbow. The slow nod and slowly growing smile.

  It didn’t matter I’d been running his ass ragged on the field. Just one of those panty-dropper smiles and I was goddamn goo.

  Raffish indeed.

  Criminal.

  And I was in danger of melting from his touch on my arm alone.

  “Rafe.” I returned his nod, keeping my voice steady instead of bend-me-over breathless.

  When he moved by, I cemented myself to the spot.

  I would not check out his ass.

  Would. Not. Check. Out . . .

  I peeked over my shoulder, and his pants pulled tight over that ass. I started fanning myself without even realizing it.

  “Y’okay, Coach P?” Akoni in his Big ’n’ Tall suit frowned in front of me.

  I cleared my throat. “Just the heat. And you can call me Miss Fox, you know?”

  “Not the way you make us bleed during training.”

  His big booming laugh rumbled as the rest of the team filed onto the bus, the cheerleaders crowding onto the second one behind us.

  I boarded with Coach D bringing up the rear, and we sat at the front as the bus rolled out of the parking lot.

  “What’s the deal with Rafe?” I opened two bottles of water and passed one to David.

  “Rafe?”

  “Uhm. Only our star quarterback.”

  D drank a swig then squinted over at me. “You playing cat and mouse with him?”

  “Hardly. You know my policy. I’ve never been with a football player.” Much.

  “Mmm.”

  “What does that mean?” Turning toward him, I slugged him on the shoulder.

  “You’ve had a personal interest in him since training started.”

  “Not personal. Professional.” I scowled.

  “In that case, I don’t keep personal tabs on their lives unless they’re goin’ off the rails. And he’s not. He’s performing at his best.” David grabbed a Sports Illustrated from his backpack. “Maybe you got somethin’ to do with that.”

  I slapped the magazine closed. “Is he playa of the week or Player of the Week material?”

  “The latter.” A grin cruised over his lips. “You been a little hard on him, though, dontcha think?”

  “Hmmph.” I slouched in my seat, crossing my arms over my chest.

  Not hard enough if you asked me.

  “Got him stuck in your craw, huh?”

  “Not likely.” I snorted.

  Coach D—a stand-in father figure to me—had watched me grow up. He and his wife, along with Phil, had attended Callum’s preschool graduation, showing their pride in my boy when he received his diploma by whooping it up like he’d just scored a Heisman Trophy.

  He knew almost everything there was to know about me, just like Phil. Well, not entirely, because my girl was still asking me to join her for a threesome with Rafe as the third. As if I needed more fodder for the imagination when it came to that man.

  Two weeks after starting camp early, it was now normal training season. And Coach D was right . . . I was still running Rafe hard.

  Why?

  Because he was the beating heart of Carolina Crush.

  Without him there was no center, no soul, and we’d be crushed forever. The Fox family name and bankrolling could only carry us so far. I needed wins. Big scores.

  No second chances.

  It didn’t hurt any Rafe was like a bronzed athletic god when he had that ball in his hands. He could throw a pass with the narrowest margins, hit the receiver like the pigskin was magnetized. When his entire body coiled, sweat-slicked and hard-muscled all over, he was a perfectly poised statue in that moment before snap and release.

  Absolutely mesmerizing. Completely winning. Utterly Gripping.

  A fantasy.

  When we arrived at the Air Force base, our red and white colors decorated the parking lot, and our nation’s men and women came out in force with their spouses, their partners, parents, and kids. The crowd was amazing, surging forward to meet the team, the cheerleaders, the coaches who made it all happen.

  I watched from afar. No one knew who I was unless they followed the sports news, and I wasn’t the big draw anyway. Rafe was. Time and time again I saw him snatched for a selfie, snagged for an autograph, caught for a few minutes to talk about NFL stats.

  Through it all, he wore the same easy smile, shaking hands, giving hugs. He signed everything pushed under his nose like he hadn’t just put in a grueling, ball-busting, man-killing eighty-hour week of taking shit and training hard.

  He was—simply put—awesome. Of course. And gorgeous. Obvi. Complete eye candy.

  Apparently I wasn’t the only one who thought so.

  A woman in dress uniform slipped him a piece of paper he folded in two and shoved into his pocket. He caught me watching, and our eyes locked together. He frowned before glancing at the woman whose number he’d just scored. The frown deepened, and he spun away from me, moving off into the throng.

  Was that guilt? Embarrassment? Did he even know what he did to me?

  I couldn’t blame the woman for making a move on him. Who wouldn’t want to get off with an NFL quarterback, especially one with Rafe’s looks?

  Not me, I reminded myself.

  Inside the hangar, the atmosphere was just as electric. Our event organizers had outdone themselves. Big balloon arrangements decorated the place. Giant posters of the team and individual players and the cheerleaders hung in every direction. People converged at the tables set up with premium swag for all while Rafe and the other men signed autographs until their Sharpies must’ve dried out.

  Akoni was another big draw for fans. Everyone loved the giant teddy bear, even more so when he strutted onto the stage set up in the middle of the hangar. He’d changed into shorts and stood barefoot and bare chested as beaming lights swung to him, illuminating him in red. And when the crowd quieted, he began his performance.

  With stomping steps and strong movements that made his arms swell, he gathered all attention for the haka. A chill shot down my spine as his booming voice melded the native Polynesian warrior’s words together. His chants grew louder, the motions more and more powerful, raising the atmosphere another notch. And he mesmerized everyone with the intricate black tats standing out on his chest and biceps.

  Marquis, Paul, Brooklyn, Rafe, and a few of the others leaped up to join him when Akoni gestured to them. They performed beside him with the same fierce intensity that made my knees quiver. Clearly the guys had been practicing the haka in private, and they were nothing short of incredible.

  Their last chant rang out into echoing silence then the crowd exploded with shouts. Cheers. Whistles. Round after round of applause.

  I couldn’t stop smiling as they jumped off the stage to be mobbed once again.

  Some time later the cheerleaders bounded up, waving and smiling. In immediate formation, they had the crowd riveted even before the pop song blared from the speakers. They were all ama
zing, their fast-paced routine intricate, engaging, fun. And every one of the Crush cheerleaders was gorgeous. Somehow they managed to balance wholesomeness with a side of sex appeal that never crossed the line into raunchiness.

  I was impressed. Lord knows I could never dance like that. I was pretty sure my legs would cry mercy if I even tried.

  One by one they hopped down, slinking into the audience to continue a more free-spirited routine. Even the footballers got involved. Rafe was snagged by one of the new cheerleaders—Kelley-Anne. All of twenty-one, she was the full package. Perky. Blonde. Pretty. And pretty damn flexible considering the splits and kicks I’d seen her do.

  Rafe sure didn’t seem to be complaining as she twisted all around him.

  Argh.

  My phone jingled in my pocket, and I answered one-handed. “Yeah.”

  “Gurrrrrl! What’s the what?”

  Philomena. Dr. Phil. A pill. “I’m at that event. Remember?”

  “With Rafe?”

  “With the whole team.” I sighed.

  Meanwhile Rafe was getting full-body rubbed-on by Miss Leggy USA.

  “And Rafe,” Phil said with a noticeable amount of interest in her voice.

  “Don’t know why you keep talking about him.”

  “Because you never talk about him.”

  Somehow Rafe managed to disentangle himself from the cheerleader’s flirty grip, and he started ambling my way. His eyes dark, his lips moist, his suit a little off-kilter.

  And my heart beat a little bit faster in my chest.

  He stopped right in front of me, that slight smirk of his tilting one corner of his delicious looking lips.

  “Can’t talk right now, Phil.” I shut off the phone as soon as she started squawking in my ear.

  “Would you dance with me?” Rafe asked, adjusting his tie.

  “Doubtful.”

  Leaning in closer so his lips hovered near my ear, he slipped a hand around my waist. “Why not?”

  “You’re a player and I’m your boss.” I reeled on impact from his touch—again. But I wasn’t gonna be his game.

  Not this time.

  “The only thing I play at is football. Not women.”

  “Rafe, we can’t do this here. Not in front of everyone.”

  Catching my fingers inside his, he towed me quickly from the hangar. Outside, around a corner, he boxed me against the wall. His chest lifted and fell rapidly, and I knew it wasn’t because of the dancing.

  “Peyton.” His voice was rough, his hands, too, as he slid them up my arms to my shoulders.

  But.

  Player.

  His mouth moved closer, but I turned my head before he could kiss me. “What’d she give you?”

  “Who?”

  “The officer lady earlier.”

  “Her?” He pulled his head back, that frown once again creasing his forehead. “Her son’s at Parris Island. Marines. She asked if I could send him a signed photo.”

  “Yeah. That’s . . .” I blushed, feeling immediately stupid. “You should definitely do that. Of course.”

  “You thought I took her number to get with her?”

  I blinked up at Rafe. “About that. You and Kelley-Anne—”

  “Kelley-Anne?”

  “The bouncy blonde cheerleader.”

  With a warning growl, he lowered his mouth near mine. “Only woman I wanna get with is you. And you fucking know it.”

  And Rafe’s absolute rawness was just what I needed.

  The silent tension multiplied. Frustration and . . . sheer want rolled off him.

  A hot shot of lust poured down my spine. My back arched, and I grabbed his shoulders.

  “Peyton . . .” His lips barely touched mine. “Tell me I can kiss you. Fuck. Please.”

  I felt his entire body tensed against mine. Straining for mine. For more.

  I clung to him, wanting so much to push up against him. “You know there’s a no-fraternization policy with the cheerleaders.”

  “I was making friendly. Like you want me to do with the new blood.” His hand curled around my neck, rough palm, soft touch . . . the way I remembered.

  “Maybe you took my advice too far.”

  “Oh yeah?” Getting up close, crowding me, Rafe took my earlobe between his teeth for a light bite.

  Enough to make me tingle.

  “And who the hell is Phil?” His ragged timbre brushed the corner of my lips.

  “Phil?” Rearing back, I started giggling.

  Rafe stared at me with narrowed eyes. “Yeah. Phil.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Pey Day

  Rafe

  PEYTON LAUGHED LONG AND loud while my scowl deepened.

  The woman had a damn nerve getting on my case about Kerry-whatever when she was flirting on the phone with who-the-fuck-ever this Phil asshole was.

  “Phil?” She sputtered again, swiping at her eyes.

  “Yeah.” Pinning her against the wall, I hit her with a hard glare. “The guy you were giggling with on the phone when I walked up?”

  “Phil is . . . Philomena. Jackass.”

  “Phil’s a woman?” Color me happy.

  She pulled a pic up on her phone and shoved it beneath my nose.

  The black woman was stunning but still no match for Peyton. Especially when she tucked the iPhone away and flashed her gaze at me.

  “Hang on. Isn’t that Coach D’s daughter?”

  “Uh huh.” Peyton nodded.

  “Why didn’t you just say that?”

  “I like to watch you squirm.”

  “That ain’t nice.”

  “Who said I was nice?”

  Growl. “Peyton.”

  “You can back off now.” She pushed at my unmoving shoulders.

  “Not gonna happen. Not even a little.” I smirked, moving even closer with her caged against the wall.

  My hard frame hit her soft curves, and I would’ve given my left nut to feel her against me totally naked.

  “Rafe.” Her voice dropped, her breathing ragged.

  “Peyton.” My grin widened.

  Totally getting to her.

  She cleared her throat, a nervous habit I’d picked up on.

  “Anyway.” She began rubbing little circles on my shoulders and stopped immediately when she realized what she was doing. “She’s my best friend.”

  “She is, huh?” I twirled a strand of Peyton’s loose red hair around my finger, watching as she shivered from the lightest of contact.

  She gulped. “And she’s a lesbian. Well, bisexual. A little. Sometimes.”

  I dropped the tendril of hair. “Wait. So you’re playing for the pink team now?”

  “Ugh.” She leaned her head back against the wall. “You’re jealous?”

  “You’re jealous of that cheerleader!”

  “You’re a flirt,” she hissed.

  “You’re—” Leaning away, I let my gaze caress her from head to toe.

  That blazing hair I couldn’t get out of my head. The silky yellow tank top baring her shoulders, hugging her tits. The tight skirt and all those legs.

  Raising my eyes again, I cupped the back of her neck. “Beautiful.”

  “Rafe,” she breathed out.

  I watched her through heavy-lidded eyes, my lips so close to hers. “Mmm?”

  “You forgot about me,” she whispered.

  “Not for a single goddamn minute. Not ever.” I was two seconds away from kissing the holy hell out of her. “This has been building for weeks.”

  “Don’t you mean years?”

  “Yes.” I dragged her up against me, my lips coasting to her temple. “All those years I want back. With you.”

  “Not gonna happen. Not even a little bit.” But her hips swiveled closer to me, and she moaned.

  “You sure about that?”

  She whimpered . . . once. “I have to go.”

  “No. You don’t.”

  I pulled Peyton to me, and our lips met, opened. Our tongues touched, twin
ed. Immediate hunger and sudden slick greed electrified us.

  Curled around one another, we clung together. Grabbing. Grinding. Gasping.

  Groaning.

  She pulled back, nibbling at my mouth while her hands sought my ass.

  I jerked her to me, coiling around her.

  I loved the way the top of her head only reached my shoulder when I held her against me. How she lifted her face to glide her mouth against mine, her tongue seeking mine.

  How her curves hit me just right.

  How single-minded and stubborn she was.

  “Peyton. Peyton Fox! Time to motor!” Coach D’s disembodied bellow broke us apart.

  She looked at me with startled eyes then wriggled from my arms.

  “Pey, wait!” I grabbed her hand, but she slipped free.

  “Not gonna happen, Rafe.” She started stalking away.

  “Not even a little bit?”

  Spinning around, her red hazy hair whipped across her flushed cheeks. “No chance.”

  But she looked even less convinced by the words than I was.

  ****

  After the Armed Forces event, Peyton put up an even bigger wall between us. Definitely no one-on-one training with her busting my ass anymore.

  So that sucked, but I wasn’t gonna let it stop me. Especially when she was always there at the training camp, on the field, watching.

  You’re damn right I made sure to put on a show for her. Rushing yards to avoid quarterback sacks. Fifty, sixty, seventy yard passes straight down the chute. Marquis and Brooks kept delivering clean catches with Velcro fingers.

  The team started coming together as a well-oiled machine—the machine that got massacred last season.

  Even Deacon Cross—fresh from retirement—stepped up as defensive tackle, and Calder Malone—fresh from the drug debacle—handled himself as center lineman.

  Peyton wanted a dream team.

  I was prepared to deliver.

  On more than just the field.

  At the beginning of July, we were two short months away from starting the season. I decided it was time to step shit up with the traditional throwing competition.