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

by Rie Warren

  Out on the field, I hunkered down before calling out, “Blue thirty-sixer!”

  Hands clapped, and then we got into formation. I crouched, ready for the snap when a flag flew onto the field.

  Better fucking not be because of someone on my team. We still had a point deficit to dig ourselves out of.

  “Offsides. Defense! First down Carolina!”

  We moved to the first down, and hell yeah I’d take that easy yardage in a heartbeat, but I was so ready to dig in and drive forward under my own steam.

  At the next snap the football slid neatly between my hands. This was my life. What I did. My freaking calling.

  I fell back, palming the pigskin, watching the field widen.

  Marquis open.

  The ball shot out of my hand just as I was taken down in a bone-crushing move. So much energy shivered through me I roared back to my feet, tossing the defense player off me.

  Marquis caught the deep pass.

  “RUN,” I shouted until my lungs ached.

  Fuck yeah, Carolina!

  He jumped over downed players, peeled away from almost-tackles, ran like his feet had wings until he toe-tapped over the goal line. Then spiked the ball to the ground.

  The following field goal narrowed the scores.

  We kept Denver from taking it home again with three QB sack attacks in a row, forcing the punt.

  My offensive team and I took the field on our twenty-five.

  By the late fourth quarter we were still down. But not by much. We’d shut out the Devils this half, but they maintained a seven-point lead over us.

  Three minutes to go.

  We couldn’t let the clock run down. And every second zoomed faster than I could throw the football on my best day.

  With the ball in my hands, I was in the zone. The crowd exploded around me, the stadium filled to bursting, but I heard nothing except my heart beating in my chest.

  Everything slowed down in that moment.

  This was it.

  I felt it in my bones.

  Adrenaline sizzled in my veins. There was no opening.

  Time sped.

  I peeled out of the pocket and charged downfield.

  Giant men came at me, falling one by one as I blasted by. My guys created a passageway toward the end zone.

  Twenty yards left and the Devils goliath stood between me and six crucial points.

  I stiff-armed him and got my race on. Eating up the turf beneath my feet, I crossed the line.

  TOUCHDOWN!

  And a tie score after the extra point hit right between the fishbone of the goalpost from our kicker.

  The Devils came right back out and put on the hurt. They steamrolled to another six points, but either by bad luck or fate, they missed the extra point.

  Coach D blasted into us on the sideline. “One team. Our house! They’re only six points ahead. Bring it or go home and cry.” He dragged me to him. “Show me you’re the man.”

  “I’m the man!” I thumped my chest.

  “You the man!” Brooks took up the chant.

  “Mac Daddy! Mac Daddy! Mac Daddy!” The Crush fans surged to their feet when I took the field.

  Sweat covered every inch of my body. I was bruised in more places than I could count. I didn’t feel any of the pain.

  Coach D lectured us about late game scenarios, but my gaze was aimed way up high in the stands, to the owner’s box I knew Pey was in, watching.

  This game was for her.

  And I’d fucking win it.

  Several plays later, we were still down by six points, huddled at the Devils’ forty. Fourth and five.

  Ten seconds on the clock.

  No time outs left.

  I would not take a knee.

  Fourth down and going for it—for the motherfucking win.

  I handled the snap.

  Heard men grunting. Muscles taking a beating. Growls, taunts, and linebackers closing in.

  I saw the chute.

  Brooks sprinting backward. He had a straight shot to the end zone if I could just make one more long-armed pass.

  Ignoring all the safe plays, I lobbed the ball deep.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Playmaker

  Peyton

  I SPRANG FROM MY seat as soon as Rafe got into position to take the fourth down.

  The entire second half I’d shouted so loudly my voice was hoarse. I’d heard his locker room pep talk, approving of every word. And I’d seen him put word into action time after time the past two quarters. Chills shot all over my body, and my hands stung from clapping so much.

  This was the man I knew. The one who could get the job done no holds barred, his entire heart in this game and on the field.

  “I can’t believe it! He’s going for it! Macintyre is really going for it!” One of the announcers bellowed with bone-shaking excitement.

  “Some people might call this reckless, but Macintyre’s always been risky. Today it’s paying off.”

  Serena joined me, unexpectedly clasping my hand in hers while Rafe caught the snap and surveyed the field with that strategic mind of his.

  He can do this. I know he can.

  Ten seconds left on the clock.

  “I don’t know what happened during halftime, but Carolina’s been eee-lectric since retaking the field! Drive after drive with no stop in sight! Stalling out Denver’s game. And it all comes down to this moment!”

  Rafe launched the ball.

  My pulse raced.

  “He’s going deep!”

  Lou jumped up beside me, his chest pumping in and out.

  Brooks was the lone soldier downfield, and the ball shuttled toward him so fast it was a blur.

  Seven seconds.

  “Pleasepleasepleaseplease,” I chanted, possibly crushing Serena’s fingers in mine. “C’mon, Brooklyn, do your magic!”

  “Holy fuck. I’m gonna have a heart attack,” Lou muttered.

  The ball sailed toward Brooks. He leaped up, higher than ever, and it tipped off his fingertips, set on a new trajectory.

  “No!” I yelled.

  With one last push of juice, Brooks snatched that ball right out of the air and clutched it tight in his forearm. Defense was on him. Two huge tacklers. He swung out to the left and pushed right past the first linebacker. The second was faster, gunning beside Brooklyn stride for stride, preparing to pull him down to end the run.

  Brooks turned on one more punch of gas. With his head down he hurtled another ten yards, full steam ahead.

  Five seconds.

  The seven-yard line. The five. The Devils linebacker dove for Brooklyn’s waist, but he spun to the right at the last second . . . crossing into the end zone!

  “TOUCHDOWN!”

  We were tied again, the kick for the field goal would be the final play. I wasn’t sure how much more my heart could handle, but I held onto Serena’s hand as the special team took the field.

  It was over in a flash, the try was good, the ball kicked as swift and true as an arrow!

  Whistles blew all over the place because it was Game Over at 35 Carolina to 34 Denver!

  “Talk about a close win! Carolina Crush clinches it against the Denver Devils! Their first game of the season. Way to wipe the slate clean and come out strong, Carolina!”

  “Oh my God!” My heart palpitated in my chest.

  Lou spun me into a ferocious hug, nearly dislocating my arm since Serena still clutched my hand in hers.

  “Fuck yeah,” Lou shouted. “By the way, Fox, congrats on a winning team and for stickin’ to your guns.”

  “Thanks, Lou. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

  Serena grabbed me as soon as Lou let me go, then the two of them slapped hands together.

  “No wonder Coach D’s bald. I wanted to pull all my hair out tonight,” Serena said after tossing back a glass of champagne.

  I watched the celebration on the field with a massive smile on my lips. Fans unleashed wild applause. Fireworks shot off, lighting
the sky in red and white above the stadium. The entire team absolutely jubilant, the guys chest-bumped and ass-slapped and man-hugged one another down below.

  Then they iced Coach D from the Gatorade bucket, and Rafe . . .

  Rafe looked bigger and better and cockier than ever until his gaze swerved up to the booth, and even from this far away I could read the longing on his face.

  It matched the swelling in my heart. The need to be down there with him.

  “I cannot believe it. Carolina Crush CRUSHED it! We were wrong, folks. This team is strong and . . .”

  I tuned out the noise from the announcers and their beginning postgame chatter, intent instead on the action below. Both teams shaking hands, slapping backs, showing respect. Keeping it humble despite the bad blood that had ended last season.

  When I couldn’t stand the anticipation any longer, I snuck out of the box. My legs quaked, and it wasn’t just because of the towering stilettoes as I made my way down in the private elevator. I should’ve checked my hair, reapplied my lipstick, rethought my whole plan of attack.

  I couldn’t believe what I was about to do. Every step along the corridor, through the tunnel, onto the field, I was beset by nerves attacking my resolve. The probability of looking like a complete and utter fool almost made me turn around with every step forward.

  But as soon as I saw Rafe—sweaty, his cheeks pink against the swarthy stubble, wavy hair wild, green eyes bright—I wanted to run straight into his arms.

  Immediately magnetized to, hypnotized by, this man, I started the walk toward him.

  Waylaid by kisses, handshakes, hugs, congrats, loud voices booming, “Miss Fox Rocks!” I felt like fainting when Rafe’s eyes locked on me.

  That look. That sizzling look reeled me in.

  He had to know what he did to me.

  He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his tight pants clinging to every single muscle I’d touched and kissed and felt sliding against me. His uniform covered in stains, the black marks beneath his eyes slightly smudged, his smile downright wolfish. His forearms and biceps . . . gahhhh.

  In the middle of the roaring crowd, the two of us stood face-to-face, separated by a fraction of space.

  “That was a damn good game, Rafe.”

  “Owe it all to you.” And it felt like his smile shined into every part of my soul.

  Then I couldn’t help myself. Not anymore. Touching his jaw, I rose to my tiptoes, grazing my mouth across his.

  The flame lit immediately, leaping from my belly to my breasts.

  Rafe’s hungry mouth swooped deeply over mine, his growl ringing in my ears as his arms drew me up and into him.

  His tongue swirled, teasing me, reminding me how good we felt together. I notched my arms around his neck, absolutely wallowing in the taste, the feel, the musk, the sweat, the male of him.

  Only screaming loud cheers broke us apart.

  And that was when I realized our kiss had been broadcast to the JumboTron.

  The announcers were probably already breaking the kiss of the century down, point for point.

  Screw it. I was ready to go all in this time.

  On the field, after the win, on live TV in front of everyone, I pulled slightly away.

  “I know I made a lot of mistakes with you, Rafe.” I grasped his hands in mine, trying to make my voice stop wobbling. “But I never meant to hurt you.”

  I heard cameras clicking as the immense quiet spread around us.

  Rafe was the quietest of all as he peered down at me, turning his hands to thread his fingers through mine.

  I steeled myself for what I was about to say next. “I’ve fallen in love with you.”

  That muscle in his jaw pulsing and the green of his eyes turning to brighter embers, he brought our linked hands to his chest.

  “I think I might’ve always loved you.” I suddenly felt his heart beneath my palm, and it pounded as fast as mine.

  Boom boom. Boom boom.

  “Will you marry me, Rafe Macintyre? Be my husband, be a family with Callum and me?”

  The silence ended with an enormous swelling sound—claps and whistles, roars and cheers—bursting all around the two of us.

  Daring to peer up at Rafe again, hope surged inside me.

  “No,” he uttered the one word that dashed my emotions with a slow shake of his head.

  I hadn’t expected it to be easy to win him back but this was . . . I was . . .

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  For the Motherfucking Win

  Rafe

  TOTAL SILENCE REIGNED OVER the entire stadium, the team, the coaches, the announcers.

  Peyton looked devastated.

  Fuck.

  So maybe I could’ve handled that better, but holy fucking shit the woman had surprised the crap out of me.

  Tears sprang to her eyes and she stumbled away from me.

  I had to salvage this pronto.

  “Peyton, wait!” I grasped her hand. “Just wait a second.”

  She stood uncertainly, dashing away the tears cresting her eyes.

  Whistling to Coach D, I caught his eye. He gave me a wide grin before launching a small projectile at me. I snagged the little leather box from the air and returned my gaze to Peyton’s.

  “No, Peyton. Because I was gonna ask you tonight.” I stroked a sole finger across her bright pink cheek.

  The surrounding silence held except for Pey, who gasped.

  “You’re NFL royalty, and . . . damn, woman, you’re the queen of my heart.” Carrying Peyton’s palm to my chest, I dropped to one knee—the standard move to signal the end of a play, but this time it was just the beginning of everything. “Will you make me the proudest man and marry me, Peyton Fox?”

  More tears spiked her eyelashes, and her free hand hovered near her mouth.

  “Pretty sure I know the answer since you just proposed to me, but kinda need to hear you say yes, darlin’.” My heart banging harder than it had during the entire game, on one knee in my dirty, stained uniform, I popped open the box. “Maybe you wanna see the ring first?”

  I hit Peyton with full dimples and a big rock.

  Swiping at the tears that kept coming, she held out her shaking hand. “Yes! Of course, yes! The ring doesn’t matter. None of that matters. Just you.”

  I slipped the ring home, mumbling, “Hope it matters. Cost a fortune.”

  But I wasn’t anywhere near as cool as I made out to be. Felt like I’d been waiting a lifetime for this moment.

  Peyton’s fingers trembled and so did my fucking legs when I rose to my feet. Her hand curled in mine, and I brushed my thumb across her lips before slanting my mouth against hers.

  I caught her gasp, heard her moan, wondered if I could get away with fucking her on the forty-yard line. When her tongue lingered around mine, I groaned. Leaned away.

  “So in love with you, Pey.” I cupped her face.

  “I wanted to tell you—”

  “Think my heart’s about to jump out of my chest.”

  She wiggled against me, a naughty glimmer in her tiger eyes. “Is somethin’ else about to jump out?”

  “Don’t tempt me. Wicked woman.” I pulled her against me, nuzzling her neck.

  Cue the fans going wild. The team getting rowdy. And even more fireworks cascading across the night sky.

  I’d won the game. Won her heart.

  And nothing could rip me from basking in Peyton’s glow except when she pulled a slightly beat-up drawing from her pocket.

  “Callum drew this for you because he wanted to be here tonight,” she hushed against my ear.

  I unfolded the picture and, as soon as I saw Callum’s drawing, I rubbed a hand across my mouth.

  Hapy Frist Game, Daddy!

  Okay, and right then, I knuckled beneath my eyes. He’d colored the three of us together. Pey with giant red hair and me in my gear and him, in the middle, holding both our hands.

  “Shit.”

  “We’re still working on spelling,
” Peyton softly intoned.

  “I know.” I sniffed, looked at the drawing again, then I held it up to the cameras. “From my boy!” Kissing Peyton’s cheek, I said, “Our boy.”

  Whoops. Hollers. Questions shot at us from the reporters invading the field. In the middle of it all, I only had one focus.

  Peyton.

  I barely registered my teammates’ congrats because I was single-minded. And she gave short shrift to the sports newshounds, keeping her hand tucked in mine.

  We finally turned away from the bright camera lights, and I folded my arm across her shoulders.

  “Come home with me?” she asked.

  Leading her from the ongoing commotion, I finally had the chance to get my fill of drinking her in. And hell no, I couldn’t stop the wicked smile climbing up my lips.

  Peyton had done something different to her hair, and I’d definitely never seen those specific sexy high heels before. The skirt was hot-for-it-secretary-style, and the lace of her bra left an impression on her blouse, as did her tight nipples.

  Aaaand prepare for jockstrap-trapped-cock agony . . .

  I ran plays in my head in order not to throw her down on the field immediately. Because we still needed to solve some issues about the future since we were officially engaged and all.

  “And stay the whole night?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And we can take Cal to kindergarten tomorrow morning together?”

  “Or you can take him by yourself because I’m gonna sleep in.”

  “Oh you are, huh?”

  She glided up against me. “Because I imagine you’re going to keep me up late tonight.”

  Her whisper made me instantly greedy for her body.

  But . . . “I’m making breakfast because your pancakes suck.”

  “What?” She reared back. “Cal loves ’em.”

  “He just doesn’t wanna hurt your feelings, darlin’.”

  ****

  In the locker room, I had the fastest shower on record and tried to cut out before Peyton had a chance to change her mind. Or the dudes decided to haze the newly engaged man. Or reporters had a chance to pin me down for more questions.