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

by Rie Warren

  Especially when that dickhole Buckley fucking loitered way too damn close to Peyton as she scoured over the playbook with Coach D.

  He was practically drooling on her tits.

  The Young Buck was goin’ down.

  “Gather ’round!” I called out through cupped hands after ripping an ear splintering whistle. “Who’s ready for the tossing competition?”

  “Tosser more like!” Brooks made a slick motion in front of his groin like he was rubbing one out.

  I flipped him the double bird for being a double douchebag. “Come one, come fall. ’Cause I’m gonna wipe the field with your asses.”

  The idea was simple, and you didn’t need to be a brain surgeon to compete.

  Probably a good thing all things considered.

  We stood at the fifty-yard sideline with one turn each to hit the black barrel placed just inside the right corner of the end zone. Whoever made the bucket shot was the winner, and the winner won bragging rights until next week.

  The loser whose toss landed farthest away?

  Well, let’s just say the punishment was creative, to say the least.

  Akoni stepped up first. Last year he’d made one goal and lost twice. The fallout had been worth it.

  “The big kahuna has the football in hand,” Marquis commentated.

  “This big kahuna’s gonna make the play today.” Akoni drew his arm back, squinted his eyes against the glinting sunshine, and let fly.

  The whole team gathered:

  “AK! AK! AK!”

  The ball spiraled as if it had wings before it dropped like a dead pigeon just outside the end zone and several feet short of a bucket goal.

  The big dude had a surprisingly wicked arm.

  “Big kahuna, maybe. But you definitely got a big arm.” I slapped him on the back of his jersey.

  His belly laugh rumbled. “Not so fleet on my feet, though.”

  He jumped up for a chest bump with Paul Bunyan, and their impact might have caused a sonic boom.

  Brooks stepped up to the line next, tossing a ball back and forth between his hands then bouncing the oblong shape between his legs like it was a basketball. We watched his tricky moves—the pigskin rolled from one hand along his arm across his back and to his other palm—until I smacked him upside the head.

  “You tryin’ to be the next David Blaine or somethin’?”

  “He couldn’t even be David Copperfield!” Marquis shouted in his John Madden voice.

  “I got this.” Brooklyn rubbed his fingers over his beard, loosened his shoulder.

  He aimed. Focused. Threw with full force.

  The ball sailed like it was fired by jet fuel, and Brooks impressed me, until the football nosedived like a kamikaze pilot on the ten-yard line.

  “Loser bait.” Wannabe golden boy Buckley shoved Brooklyn out of the way, definitely messing with the wrong man if he wanted to live to see another day.

  Brooks tussled with the young’un, taking him down to the turf with one arm cranked behind his back.

  “You are dead to me, dude.” Bigger and stronger, Brooks pressed hard on the back of Buckley’s head before rising off the ground.

  The bigmouth jumped up—almost unfazed. “Yeah? And I’m dead-pooling this ball,” he bragged, rubbing his hands together.

  Coach D passed him the football.

  Peyton observed it all, her clipboard clasped to her chest.

  She better not be betting on that little shit.

  I was the winner. I had big bragging rights.

  Crossing my arms over my chest, I prepared to take Luke Buckley down.

  Not until he went down in flames himself, ’course.

  He toed up to the line, tossed a grin at Peyton—my girl—then unleashed with all his power.

  I scowled as the ball zoomed through the air, a straight true arrow on mission.

  But then it started wobbling.

  The football barely coasted to the twelve-yard line before it lost all altitude, bouncing way shy of the barrel in the end zone.

  “AIRBALL, fuckwad!” Brooks rejoiced.

  “And Buckley with a shocking miss!” Marquis, the commentator, announced.

  Huh. Maybe the dude couldn’t fire under pressure after all. Interesting.

  Time to step up.

  Brooks rubbed my shoulders until I elbowed him away.

  Buckley glared.

  Peyton watched all with keen interest, her deep brown eyes never wavering from me as she shifted her shades to the top of her head.

  “Prepare to get burned, y’all.” I hefted the football, taking it in one grip.

  No countdown. No chants. Just me and the moment. That heady rush when the ball left my hand.

  The way it always happened.

  Like my entire soul went into each pass.

  Lightning fast. Past the forty, the thirty, the twenty.

  A rocketing blur.

  Peyton pushed up on her tiptoes.

  All the guys leaned forward.

  The only sound was Ahhhh! Then whoosh!

  That’s right. The end zone. Straight into the black bucket with no swish whatso-fucking-ever.

  Not even a rim job as the football sank into the rubber depths.

  “Mac Daddy wins the shootout!” Marquis slammed his chest against mine three times with an uh uh uh at each thump.

  Then Brooks met me for a fist bump I wasn’t ready for, and immediate searing pain shot through my hand.

  “Holy Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck!” I cradled my right hand, my throwing hand, Brooks looking on, horrified.

  Peyton rushed to me. “What is it?”

  “Sprain. Maybe dislocated.” I gritted my teeth, pretending it wasn’t so bad.

  I’d lived through dislocated shoulders to play the next game. No way was I about to look like a pussy about a hurt finger in front of Peyton.

  “Ice pack!” she yelled, holding my hand.

  The pain in my arm was replaced by some serious tingling where she touched me.

  “I hope that was worth it.” She scathed.

  “Definitely.”

  “Your ego’s gonna get you in trouble one day.”

  “Don’t care. As long as you’re with me.” One of the medics slapped an icepack on my isolated hand.

  I tried not to flinch.

  Peyton watched, one part concerned, the other part probably pissed off, as I was escorted to the rehab center.

  Halfway to the facility, I shrugged off the medics.

  It was only a frigging finger. Sure. On my throwing hand. But definitely worth it to see Buck eat shit. Totally smoked him. And his punishment AKA humiliation when the season started would be epic.

  Plus, Peyton liked me.

  Always had.

  Just needed to remind her of that.

  Angela, one of the physios, hustled me onto an exam table. “What’d you do now?”

  “Hey, I won the competition.”

  “So, showing off again? Why?”

  “For a good reason.”

  “Who is it this time?” She lifted off the ice pack.

  “Man, you’re a hardass, you know that? Almost as bad as Peyton,” I grumbled as she not-so-gently examined my hurtin’ finger.

  “Peyton, huh?”

  “Rafe!” Kelley-Anne the cheerleader bounced into the clinic.

  Oh Jesus. Kill me now.

  I’d talked to the woman exactly once. Maybe twice. Somehow she’d gotten my phone number and started texting me. I was all delete, delete, delete, but she was persistent. And an unnecessary complication I didn’t need.

  “Mmm hmm,” Angela mumbled.

  “Oh my God, Rafe.” Stopping beside me, Kelley-Anne brushed her hand over my shoulder. “What happened?”

  I looked up at Angela with pleading eyes, hoping she’d help me end this torture.

  “Rafey here got a booboo.” So not helping, Angela. Thanks. Not.

  “I could kiss it better.” Kelley-Anne leaned over me, affording a birds’ eye view of her b
oobs.

  “Usually I prefer proper medical treatment.” Angela rolled her eyes, fitting a finger splint with a little more force than necessary.

  Yet another set of footsteps sounded in the clinic, and I turned my head to see Peyton approaching.

  Whoops.

  She did not look happy.

  Wasn’t sure if it was because of my injured finger or the fact Kelley-Anne was trying to comfort me by smothering my head in her cleavage.

  Now, Peyton? She could kiss it allll better anytime she wanted to. No complaints from me.

  Except it didn’t look like she wanted.

  Angela smirked beside me, mumbling, “Mmm hmm,” again.

  That was it. I was never signing another football for her friends and/or family again.

  “Ladies,” Peyton said in all her haughty, sexy, superior glory.

  And she pulled that shit off without even breaking a sweat while wearing . . . sweats.

  A shiver shot down my spine.

  “I believe your coach is looking for you, Kelley.”

  “It’s actually Kelley-Anne.” She flipped her blonde hair over her shoulder.

  Peyton merely arched her delicate eyebrows, clearly dismissing Kelley-Anne without saying another word.

  Hot.

  “I’ll go get a fresh icepack.” Angela pulled off her sterile gloves. “I just wanted to see the showdown first,” she whispered to me.

  As soon as the door shut behind the pair, Peyton swiveled toward me.

  “You came.” I grinned.

  “You’ll live.” She scowled.

  “Isn’t this classified as fraternization?” I asked in a mock whisper, trying to tease a smile from her.

  “More like concern.” She huffed. “But what was all that?” Cool, calm, so-sure Peyton stood beside me, fidgeting with her fingers. “You know what? Forget I asked. I’m just here to check on my most expensive investment.”

  She spun quickly to leave, but I reached out to grab her wrist.

  “All that?” Drawing Peyton back to me, I peered into her chestnut brown eyes. “Well, first of all, Angela lives to see me in pain. And she’s married so—”

  “That’s not what I—”

  I silenced her with a fingertip against her pretty lips. “And Kelley-Anne is sweet and all that, but there’s nothing going on between us, and I’m not interested in her. Told you so before.”

  Rubbing a slow circle around Peyton’s lips, I felt her quick intake of breath.

  Mesmerizing.

  “Who are you interested in?”

  “I think you know the answer to that.” My heart thumped in my chest, and my body was suddenly on edge.

  “You shaved again.” Her tone softening, she ducked her head.

  “Didn’t think you noticed.” I withdrew my hand to my jaw, the new stubble just beginning to peek through. “Itches like fuck in the summer. Usually only grow a beard during the winter.”

  “When I don’t see you.”

  “Do you want to see me?”

  Peyton drew in another sharp breath, and my heart started knocking even faster. She glanced up, finally, and our eyes caught.

  Hook . . . line . . .

  I pulled her closer, and our hands touched. I couldn’t look away from her. Didn’t want to. Our fingers twined together, and my groin immediately tightened.

  Chemistry? Hell yeah, we had that in spades. Biology and Physiology, the whole nine yards. Enough feels to spread chills across my skin and all we were doing was barely holding hands, hardly touching at all.

  I leaned closer, capturing her scent. My eyes drifted to her moistened mouth, and I reached to skim my fingers along the soft skin of her face then into her loosened hair.

  “Cinnamon,” I said.

  “What?” she whispered breathily, inching closer.

  “Your hair.” Our lips almost touched.

  At the bang of the door, Angela entered the cavernous space, and Peyton’s fingers slipped from mine.

  “So”—she cleared her throat—“I’ll leave you in Angela’s capable hands.”

  We both pretended nothing had happened, but it had. That door, shut so long ago, opened. The desire undiminished.

  While Peyton exchanged a few words with Angela—probably regarding how much more pain she could put me in—I discreetly grabbed Peyton’s playbook she’d left lying on the table.

  With a quick scribble, I wrote: Let me take you to dinner tonight.

  Peyton turned back to me, and I handed her the book, page open.

  A smile tilted her lips when she saw the message.

  Fucking score!

  She made a note then flipped the book toward me:

  No chance.

  Burned.

  But she’d added a winky emoji.

  Or maybe that was the fuck off one.

  She flicked the playbook closed, tucked it under her arm, and started walking away without a backward glance. But, there was an extra swing to her hips.

  “Behave yourself, Rafe,” she called back just before hitting the door.

  What? How the hell did she know my eyes were glued to her ass?

  Angela burst into laughter beside me.

  Evil.

  Chapter Twelve

  Fam Day

  Peyton

  I AVOIDED RAFE AS much as possible after that one magnetic moment in the PT facility. The man was entirely too dangerous for my own good. And he already had everyone else wrapped around his finger—the one he’d messed up. But not me. No way.

  Not even one little bit.

  Six weeks until the opening game, with his finger fully mended, he’d stepped up to the plate as Carolina Crush’s mean and hungry—not too mention hunky—quarterback. He’d also stepped up his game with me.

  I kept pretending he had no game with me.

  Every damn day the insufferable stud found little ways to make it clear his interest in me was one hundred percent genuine. An expensive bar of Swiss dark chocolate sitting on my desk in the middle of a long afternoon of nonstop meetings. A mysterious delivery of new Under Armor workout gear in Carolina Crush colors, each item in my exact size. A #32 Rafe Macintyre Funko Doll—the same bigheaded quarterback figure sold in Toys R Us nationwide.

  Okay, that last gift made me laugh so hard I doubled over, clutching my stomach.

  Nothing sexy. Nothing overt. Every gift was perfectly chosen for me with a card always signed simply with an R.

  Danger.

  I totally wasn’t buying into it.

  Not even a little bit.

  Still, those very personal touches made it very difficult to regard him with the same strict professionalism I treated all the other teammates with. Okay. Professionalism with a side of pull-your-heads-outta-your-asses attitude.

  I had plenty of that on hand to go around.

  Meanwhile, Phil tried to strong-arm me into signing up on some freaking hook-up app called Zoosk. It was so wrong how she continually pimped me out.

  I walked onto the training field, taking in the scene. Family Sunday meant the arena was overrun with kids of all ages, wives, partners . . . the whole nine yards.

  The players got to strut their stuff. The kids got to meet some of their biggest heroes. And there’d be plenty of gossip to go around.

  Callum itched to come with, but complications . . . complications everywhere.

  Akoni stood beside his wife, chuckling from deep in his belly as I navigated through the tangle of their brood. Two boys, two girls . . . and one on the way for the tiebreaker. At least that had been AK’s decree when he’d announced the fifth pregnancy to the team.

  Patting heads, towing two kids off one another, greeting the wives, I was suddenly pulled into a long hug.

  “Peyton! As I live and breathe.” Charmaine—Marquis’s wife, his business manager, and baby momma of two—almost choked me to death before releasing me. “Been too long.”

  “I’m sure Marquis has filled you in on how I’ve—”

  “Been thro
win’ it down like you have a cock in your pants?” She leaned away, eyebrow raised, snaking her head back and forth. “Respect, lady.”

  “Well”—I put my hands on my hips—“someone needed to tear it up.”

  “Girl, you know it. I done told Marquis every time they lose next season his ass is sleepin’ in the guest room.”

  “You didn’t.” I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Damn right I did.” Charmaine struck out one hip. “Straight up made sure he knew I’d tie his dick in a cherry-knot if he didn’t bring it every game.”

  “I like your style.”

  “You’ll like this even better.” Letting out a shrill whistle, Charmaine glanced at me. “Rafe! Hey, boy. Bring Chanel on over here. Peyton hasn’t had a chance to cuddle on her yet.”

  Rafe strolled over, the tiny baby girl nestled in his big arms. He nuzzled his nose to her forehead for one last hit of that all-addictive baby scent.

  Ovaries would probably explode all over the world if this photo op of Rafe made it into the mags. KABOOM.

  Not mine.

  Not even a tiny bit.

  “Here you go, Pey.” His voice dropped, dripping in that luscious husky tone, he passed Chanel to me. “Precious, ain’t she?”

  Accepting the little bundle from his arms, I could just imagine how he would’ve been. If . . .

  I hid the sudden tears in my eyes by burrowing my face against Chanel’s downy soft neck. I eased the sudden knot in my throat by swallowing.

  “Did ya know Rafe here’s the baby whisperer?” Charmaine beamed at the man.

  “I’m not surprised,” I grumbled. “Perfect at everything it appears.”

  “What was that?” A loose grin chased Rafe’s lips, changing him from simply handsome to utterly mouthwatering.

  “Too bad this honky punk ain’t the football whisperer.” Marquis ran an arm around Charmaine’s shoulders, hefting their son Mason on his other arm.

  “Who you callin’ honky?” Rafe’s hand snagged forward, and he honked Marquis’s nose.

  Mason chuckled. Charmaine threw her head back with a laugh. I shook my head, smiling as Marquis darted off to race Rafe across the field.

  Over the next two hours the men horsed around and roughhoused in the bright July sunshine. I didn’t even care they were screwing around. It was Sunday after all. Should’ve been their day off, but there were no days off in this game. They put up with long hours, grueling workouts, and time away from families 24-7.