by Jamie Wesley
“Yes?” he said, pleased his voice came out steady. Mack was six-six, which meant Brady had to look up to him, but he did so without reservation. He respected his coach, but he wouldn’t cower. Not even when he suspected his eardrums would be ringing in a few seconds from all the yelling.
Mack sighed. “I understand what you were trying to do. I appreciate the competitive fire. But you have four teammates with you on the court. You don’t have to take it all on your shoulders. All you need to do to succeed here is keep your nose clean and play basketball.”
He wasn’t going to get his ass handed to him? Really? He’d take it. “Got it.” Brady used the excuse of wiping his face with the towel to exhale in relative privacy.
“Oh, but Hudson?”
He glanced up. And met Mack’s scorching glower.
“If you ever pull that shit again, your ass is mine. Believe that.”
Brady did. Mack had a completely deserved reputation as a hard-ass. A fair and intelligent hard-ass who’d forgotten more about the game of basketball than Brady could ever hope to know, but a hard-ass all the same. Brady nodded once and left the practice gym.
Most of his teammates had taken advantage of their head start on him and were already in the shower. He made his way to his locker and stared at the nameplate on the top shelf, his name etched in the Stampede’s signature purple. At times, he still found it hard to believe he no longer wore the Knicks’ blue and orange.
He was an arrogant son of a bitch. He knew that. Had never seen any problem with it. The NBA was a business. And the best way to succeed in business was to show up every day ready to work as hard as you could. And he’d done that. He was the best point guard in the league. That wasn’t up for debate. He had the records, the accolades, the awards to prove it.
Yes, he was the best. He demanded the best from his teammates. The other players could either get with the program or get the hell out. They respected him, even if they didn’t necessarily like him, something that had never bothered him much.
Until the day he’d been told to get out. Because the team had stopped winning. And he’d made a perfect scapegoat. Especially after the punch heard ’round the world happened.
He’d found himself in his coach’s office facing the Knicks’ general manager, Jesse Waters. Waters didn’t like him because Brady had been there before him. He hated that when Brady spoke, people listened. That Brady’s opinion mattered to everyone in the organization. That important team decisions weren’t made until Brady was consulted.
“You’ve become a disrupting influence in the locker room,” Waters said, leaning back in his chair, shaking his head, his disappointment cloying in its fakeness.
Brady gripped the chair arms hard until the leather bit into his palms to stop himself from leaping up and strangling Waters. He couldn’t stand the sanctimonious prick. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m the disrupting influence?”
“Yes. When you demand another player be traded, you’re disrupting.”
“Because Jenkins doesn’t know the meaning of loyalty. Of what it means to be a team guy.”
“Neither do you. You want to get rid of a guy with his skillset because he slept with your girlfriend, who you shouldn’t have been dating anyway. Team rules about not fraternizing with dancers and other employees weren’t enforced because no one wanted to upset the great Brady Hudson, and look what happened. It’s time for a change if we’re going to go to the next level.”
Brady spoke through gritted teeth. “I’ll take the team to the next level.”
“Hudson, come on.” Oiliness oozed in the words. “We haven’t been to the Finals in three years. The past few years, we’ve been knocked out earlier and earlier in the playoffs. Last year, we didn’t come close to making it. And our record so far this season, well, I don’t have to tell you what that is.”
“Maybe if you did your job and knew how to evaluate talent, we wouldn’t be in this mess,” Brady shot back.
The GM’s blue eyes flashed. “I can evaluate talent just fine. Your talent isn’t where it used to be. Deandre Baker is ready to step in as the starting point guard. You have no one to blame but yourself. Fighting with a teammate over a woman.”
“I already told you what happened.”
“Did you or did you not punch Jenkins in the locker room, which turned into the top story on SportsCenter?”
Brady wouldn’t defend himself. It didn’t matter. Waters’ mind was already made up. It didn’t matter that Brady’s skills hadn’t eroded. Waters had his new pet in Baker and couldn’t wait to exert his authority over the team once Brady was gone. He didn’t bother glancing at his coach, Ted Carson. Carson wouldn’t be much help. Not when he was concerned about holding on to his own job. Nothing shocking there. Number one rule of the NBA. Of life. People looked out for themselves first. Always. He’d learned that lesson over and over throughout his thirty years on Earth.
Brady had left the meeting and headed back to the locker room. He’d expected some backing from his teammates, guys he’d known and played with for years. He didn’t receive it. Oh, they’d paid lip service about being sad to see him go, but he wasn’t born yesterday. He thought if anyone would see past the bullshit, it would be his teammates. That they were coworkers and not bosom buddies had never bothered him, but no one had reached out to him. No one had stood up for him.
Now he was a member of the Dallas Stampede. The first time in eleven years he’d been the new guy in the locker room. His new teammates had heard the rumors. That he’d used the girlfriend thing as an excuse to get Jenkins traded. That he really wanted Jenkins gone because he was usurping Brady’s role as the best player on the team. That he’d divided the locker room. That he was a me-guy who put himself above the team. All bullshit. Pride had kept him from defending himself.
Brady dropped onto the bench in front of the locker and unlaced his high tops. He eased the shoes off and flexed his feet.
He simply wanted to win. Push everybody to be the best they could be. The only way he knew how to do that was with his play on the court. So he needed to get better. He would get better. There was no other choice.
With a resolute nod, he stood, stretched his back, and headed to the shower. Half an hour later, he exited the locker room and headed for the garage.
“Hey, Brady, hold up!”
He halted while the “fucks” started taking round-trip flights through his head.
Elise hurried up to him, breathless. “Hey.”
“Hey,” he answered with a forced smile.
“How was practice?”
“Intense.”
“Well, that should pay off tonight. The Jazz are on a three-game losing streak.” She stepped directly in front of him, clearly not giving a damn about personal space, and stroked his arm.
And of course, Maguire chose that moment to walk by. He didn’t stop, but he did shoot a disgusted look over his shoulder before he opened the door leading to the garage. Fuck.
Shifting his attention back to Elise, Brady shrugged and stepped back. “Maybe. Can’t take anyone for granted though.”
“Is your girlfriend going to be there tonight?”
His cell phone rang, offering the perfect excuse not to answer her. Even more so when he saw who was calling. “Sorry. I have to take this.” He stepped a few feet away, well aware that Elise was listening.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said to Caitlin.
“Let me guess,” she said drily. “Elise is there.”
“Got it in one.” He continued toward the exit. Thankfully, Elise headed in the opposite direction toward the team offices. When he was sure she was out of hearing range, he continued, “Ms. Caitlin. Couldn’t stop thinking about me?”
“Hardly.” The sniff was silent, but loud nonetheless.
A smile broke across his face. She was fun. And if he thought about her and the kiss that had ended their night, well, it was only because it had been so unexpected. And okay, he wondered if it had been as spectac
ular as his memory insisted it was. “How can I believe you when you called me less than twenty-four hours after we parted ways?”
“It’ll be hard for you I know, but put your pretty little head to the task and try.”
“You think I’m pretty?”
“I insult you and that’s what you choose to concentrate on?”
“That’s because I know you didn’t mean it.”
Grumbling emitted through the phone. Brady struggled not to laugh. This was exactly what he needed after a hard practice.
“We need to talk. In person.”
He stopped walking. She didn’t sound upset. A little nervous, maybe. “Okay. Where do you suggest?”
“My job. I can’t leave, but I want to get this taken care of ASAP.”
Surprise darted through him. He hadn’t expected that, but she’d hooked him. “Give me the address.”
Ten minutes later, he arrived at the building that housed the radio station WTLK. The woman at the front desk buzzed Caitlin, who came sashaying down the hall a minute later. She looked good. Not as dressed up as the previous night, obviously, but good. Great actually. The green of the sweater complemented the sienna tone of her skin and clung to pert breasts. Before meeting Caitlin, if anyone had asked him, he would have said the bigger, the better, but now… His gaze traveled up past plump lips, a small nose that was the definition of cute, to her big doe eyes.
“Brady, hi. Please follow me.” Her hips gently swung side to side as she led him to her office and shut the door behind him. “Is the fake girlfriend gig still open?” she asked with no preamble.
“Absolutely.”
She nodded. “Great. I want in.”
Just like that? Yeah, there was more to the story than her wanting to help him out. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“You need a favor.” Her chin lifted. “And I need a favor.”
Now they were getting somewhere. “What kind of favor?”
“I produce a radio show that’s about to go into syndication. To kick it off, we need a guest with a name.”
“Let me guess. I’m the name.”
“Yes.” She beamed a call-me-a-genius smile.
He wasn’t ready to acquiesce. Not yet. “What kind of show?”
“Relationship advice.”
He suppressed a groan. Really? What the hell did he know about relationships? “What would I be doing?”
“Ideally, you’ll come into the studio, but we can do it over the phone if need be. We’ll do a Love Letters to Brady segment where you offer advice to callers. The host, Noelle, will probably tell you you’re wrong, but the listeners will love it.”
“That’s it?”
“Yep. It will be one day out of your life. You should do it.” She sounded certain. Too certain.
“Why?”
“It’ll give you a chance to get away from the game for a bit.”
“I don’t want to get away from the game.”
Caitlin clasped her hands together. “Okay, look. How do I say this? You have a reputation for being difficult and arrogant.”
“I am.” He shrugged.
She shot him a look. “Be that as it may, underneath all the arrogance, you’re a good guy.”
Brady shifted, uncomfortable with the label. He’d looked out for himself for so long, relying solely on himself, trusting no one because doing so always blew up in his face, that he’d stopped thinking of himself as a good guy a long time ago.
“Doing the show will present you in a new, less intense light to all the naysayers.”
Which sounded good except he didn’t give a shit about his reputation. But he needed to, if he was being honest with himself. If the media heard him giving advice to others and acting like a regular guy, maybe they would back off and stop crowding around his locker looking for quotes that painted him in a bad light. Maybe his teammates would stop thinking of him as a raging egotist, only out for himself.
“If that doesn’t convince you, need I remind you that you need a pretend girlfriend?” Caitlin drove home the point he couldn’t ignore even if he wanted to.
Yes, he needed a girlfriend, especially after the scene Maguire witnessed.
He focused in on the mastermind of this plot. “So if I do what you want, you’ll do what I want. How real would this pretend relationship be? Ms. Caitlin, are you trying to get in my pants?”
Her eyes widened. “No. I’m not sleeping with you.”
“I don’t recall asking you to.” Her glare only made him grin harder. “I just wanted to see where your head was at.”
“I’m not interested in you. This is strictly a business proposition.” She ticked her fingers. “No sleeping together. No kissing other than polite kisses on the cheek when the situation calls for it. No touching. No—”
Brady held up a hand. “I get it.” He refused to acknowledge the twinge of something that hit near his chest again at her assertion that she wasn’t interested in him.
She stared up at him again with those pleading, beautiful eyes. “Will you do it?”
Brady studied her. Caitlin had been nothing but honest and straightforward with him, something he appreciated more than he could say. She didn’t want to get involved with him. She’d made that abundantly clear. Good. His last girlfriend had taught him that he was much better off concentrating on basketball than letting someone who’d only end up hurting him get close. The story of his life. So, yes, he could and would hold Caitlin at arm’s length. Just because he’d lain awake for half the night reliving their kiss didn’t mean he couldn’t control his hormones. As he’d proven over and over, he could accomplish whatever he put his mind to.
Besides, it was only a few weeks. Maybe not even that long. How bad could it be?
“Fine. I’m in.” Despite Caitlin’s claims, he wasn’t a nice guy, but he was opportunistic. “You can start tonight. We have a game. I would love to have my girlfriend there cheering me on.”
Chapter Four
“Thanks for coming with me,” Caitlin said to her twin brother, Christian, as they maneuvered through the crowd milling in the arena concourse. She clutched a twelve-dollar margarita in her hand. Ordinarily she would have balked at the price, but she needed the liquid courage to get through the night.
Yes, she was being dramatic, and yes, this whole pretense had been her idea, but she hadn’t given proper consideration to what attending Brady’s games entailed. Like trying to pretend she didn’t notice everyone in the arena staring at her.
At the moment, she was regretting her decision not to sit in the suite Brady had offered to get for her. Not that she wanted to sit in a suite. She preferred sitting in the stands with fellow loud and rowdy fans, but a suite would have been more private. Way fewer eyeballs on her. But wasn’t that the point? Eyeballs on her while she played the dutiful girlfriend? So she needed to get it together. The margarita would help.
“No problem,” Christian said. “How could I say no to free tickets to a Stampede game and a chance to check out my sister’s new boyfriend?”
“Shut up, Chris,” she said mildly. Her brother had that quiet sarcasm thing down cold. She’d told him she was “dating” Brady in exchange for him being a guest on the radio show because he knew she’d never date an athlete in a million years. Not after her football player ex played her for the biggest fool known to mankind. Christian didn’t know about their fa—Mack— yet. She wanted to get his impressions of the coach before laying that news on him. Christian was the epitome of calm. But she had a feeling her news would ruffle even his normally unruffleable feathers. He’d never talked about their father growing up—even when she wondered who he was, Christian was always the one to shrug off her curiosity, saying he didn’t know and didn’t care.
And maybe you haven’t told him because you don’t want him to tell you that your plan is stupid. That maybe you shouldn’t be involving an innocent party in your scheme.
A thought that had occurred to her w
ith startling frequency since she’d come up with this idea. But she couldn’t stop now. Pretending to date Brady was the easiest, most natural way to gain access to Mack to get some dirt on him. Brady wouldn’t get hurt. When everything came to light, she’d make sure everyone understood that he’d known nothing about her plot.
“What?” Christian asked, breaking into her thoughts. “I asked a perfectly innocent question.”
She side-eyed him. “Yeah, okay.”
Caitlin sidestepped a woman who’d abruptly stopped in the middle of the concourse, all without spilling a drop of her margarita. There was a God. “Has Mama said anything about the photo?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Good. Maybe that means she hasn’t seen it.”
“Maybe.” Or she was waiting to strike with a well-planned attack, his expression said. Miranda Monroe never acted without thinking it all the way through first and then double-thinking just in case.
They entered the arena bowl and climbed the stairs to their seats. Again, eyes latched on to her while she and Christian completed the excuse-me shuffle step to their seats in the middle of the row. She did her best to ignore them and the tension creeping into her shoulders, but couldn’t stop a sigh of relief from escaping when she reached her seat with no drink or ass spillage.
She took a sip of her margarita. No one spoke to her. So awkward. And ridiculous. Time to take matters into her own hands.
“Hi, I’m Caitlin Monroe,” she said to an older lady sitting a few seats away, who wore a bedazzled number 43 jersey. Dante Whitmore’s number.
The woman took her laser-like focus off the court where the players were warming up long enough to look Caitlin up and down. “Honey, I know who you are. Thanks to that kiss, everyone in this arena knows who you are.”
Great.
She’d met a few of the wives and girlfriends at casino night. They’d been nice enough, but she’d sensed their reticence. They weren’t sure what to make of her. How would she change the group dynamics? Would she bring drama? Would she be a permanent fixture or a one-and-doner? Caitlin’s lips lifted in a slight smile. “That kiss is not what I expected my claim to fame to be.”
