by Erin Hayes
The player laughed.
“So tell me, Miss Harte,” Rodney said, drawing my attention back over to him. “What makes you tick?” He leaned forward, looking at me like he only had eyes for me.
What makes me tick? My mind scrambled for a moment. Handsome football players, even though I’ve never watched a game in my life. Comics. My dog Winston. And these amazing chicken wings.
Instead, I only smiled at him. “Well, a girl never spills her secrets like that.” Mainly because I’d embarrass the fuck out of myself.
Rodney gave a masculine chuckle. “I guess I’ll have to figure out your secrets then.”
“Maybe,” I said. Oh my god, I was flirting. With another football player. As if sleeping with the quarterback wasn’t enough last night, here I was making eyes at the runner back.
I opened my mouth to say something, but then…
A wave of amber liquid fell between us, ending up all in Rodney’s lap. The entire table sprang to action to get away from the spill, as everyone got to their feet. There was a loud, familiar ripping sound that I didn’t quite process.
“What the fuck?” Rodney roared, rising to look at the perpetrator. Everything happened in slow motion as he reached out and roughly grabbed Andre by the shirt. I realized that he had spilled the pitcher of beer on Rodney because…
Because he was jealous?
Andre only gave him a cool look, a wry smile on those luscious lips of his. “Sorry, it slipped out of my hands when I came back.”
Rodney’s expression was murderous as he glared at him.
The tension between the two of them was palpable, thick, like if I threw a football through the room, it would get stuck and just hang there in the air, motionless. The temperature in the entire restaurant felt like it dropped down several degrees, like a cold wind had swept in, brushing across my legs and my...
Oh, shit.
“Uh, Miss Harte...” Clancy said, the apology already apparent in his voice.
My hands flew to my ass, where—fuck!—my too-tight skirt had ripped clean down the seam. Exposing my very bare, lace thong-clad ass all the way up to the waist.
I must have torn it when I stood up to avoid the beer.
Both Rodney and Andre looked over at me, their anger toward each other gone for a moment as they looked at me in horror.
Oh, god, I could have died from embarrassment. If the ground had opened up and swallowed me whole, I would have been thankful that something had at least saved me from this mortifying moment.
“Madison, I—” Andre started, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down.
“Your—” Rodney started as well.
“I’ve gotta go,” I said, a weird sort of numbness coming over me. I tried holding the ruined halves of my skirt together as I crab walked to the wall, so the rest of the team wouldn’t see my butt.
“I’ll take you to the hotel,” Andre said.
“Like hell you will,” Rodney growled to him. “You caused this, you asshole.”
I couldn’t fucking breathe. Holy shit.
“Here, Miss Harte,” a kinder voice said, cutting through my thoughts.
I looked over to see Clancy holding out a jacket for me. Why he had a jacket with him in the middle of July was beyond me, but I took it from him and shrugged it on. The fabric was big enough to swallow me whole and cover up the split seam.
I closed my eyes, feeling marginally better.
Marginally.
Clancy’s jacket still felt warm from him, and I could still smell a hint of the outdoors from his time out on the field.
“Go Hammers,” the big man said with a conspiratorial wink. I found that I was wearing a Yellowhammers jacket. Merchandise from my team.
The realization that my football team had their own clothing line brought me out of my stupor long enough to recover and get the hell out of that restaurant.
“Thanks,” I whispered hoarsely. “I think I got some chicken sauce on it.”
“No problem,” Clancy said. He even held out a stack of napkins that I greedily took and tried to get the stickiness of my fingers.
So this was what a Southern gentleman was like. In the moment, I appreciated Clancy’s kinder approach than the testosterone-filled one from Andre and Rodney. Who seemed like they were fighting over me.
Which was...impossible. Gorgeous men didn’t fight over women like me. At least, in San Francisco, that’s not what happened.
“I’ve gotta go,” I repeated, more for the rest of the table’s benefit than my own. I turned to leave, realizing that I couldn’t just hop in my car and drive off. Great, I’d taken a cab here, thinking I was going to drink, and here I was, stone cold sober.
“I can call a cab for you,” Rodney said, noticing my hesitation. I saw that he was mopping up the beer from his own pants.
“Madison,” Andre said, genuine regret in his voice. “I’m so sorry.”
Then, I made a stupid decision. Because this whole night was full of stupid decisions, especially in the male department. But I wasn’t about to give these two feuding males an inch. Not when it seemed like a petty argument. God, Rodney didn’t even know that I had slept with Andre.
What would have happened if he knew that?
So I made my own petty decision to get back at them. “Clancy? Can you help me get home?”
Really, I should have felt bad that I was using him this way. But I was wearing his jacket, so I could use it as an excuse to give it back to him. And I was the furthest thing from drunk at the moment, so I had zero chance of falling into bed with him.
Not that he’d be interested anyway.
But he turned a kind smile on me and nodded. “Sure thing.”
He said it like, “shore thing” in that strong Southern accent of his, and I suddenly got the appeal of the whole Southern gentleman. Fuck. He truly was a nice guy.
I had a thing for nice guys.
Andre attempted once more to smooth things over with me, but I shot him a glare. “Don’t,” I said in warning. “Until you guys can play nicely together—don’t.”
I slid my gaze to Rodney, giving him an apologetic look, but he still had murder in his eyes whenever he looked at Andre. No, for the sake of the team, I shouldn’t do or say anything further to drive them apart.
So I turned on my heel and left The Clucky Cowboy.
Eight
“There’s always been a bit of a rivalry between Andre and Rodney,” Clancy said with a sigh as we slid into the back of the cab. “Two big city boys trying to lead the team.”
“They’re being two big assholes,” I muttered.
I caught a glimpse of the cabbie’s eyes in the rearview mirror, watching Clancy closely like he was starstruck.
Man, everyone knew who these football players were except me.
“Where to?” the cabbie asked.
“The Aloft,” I said.
“And then onto Mountain Brook for me,” Clancy added with a wink. I nearly sighed in relief that he’d drawn that line in the sand that he wasn’t even thinking about trying anything with me. After last night with Andre, and Rodney’s overt advances tonight—whether it was to get back at Andre or because he was genuinely interested—was enough for at least a few days.
Clancy was a Southern gentleman indeed.
Excuse me while my heart melted. Where were guys like this back home in San Francisco?
I snuggled in deeper into his jacket. “Thank you for giving me a cover up. You really saved my ass back there. Literally.”
“Well,” he said, sitting back, “my momma always said to take care of a lady.”
I snorted. “I ain’t no lady.”
“You ain’t not a lady, too.” Another wink from him.
I chuckled. He had no idea who I really was or how unladylike I could really be. But I appreciated that he wasn’t judging me. I appreciated that there wasn’t anything more to him helping me get back to my hotel.
“I didn’t think it would get that bad between And
re and Rodney,” I said softly. “They’re acting like children.”
Clancy frowned. “Sorry about that. I should have warned you.”
I gave him a sideways glance. “You didn’t know me at all before, well, now.” And he still didn’t know me. Borrowing a jacket does not make us best friends.
He shook his head and combed a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well, you were walking onto a minefield there.” He scoffed. “If only they were that aggressive on the field, we might actually win some games.”
“Can I tell you a secret?” I blurted out. Not that secret, but I was so damn tired of pretending that I was some sports expert. I just wanted someone who knew, someone who was on my side.
Clancy raised an eyebrow and gave a slow nod. “Sure?”
“I don’t know a thing about football. Like...a single thing about it.” I was gesturing with my hands, trying to illustrate just how bad it was. “It’s like I have block against it. I can’t figure out or remember anything.”
“Trust me, Miss Harte,” he said, shifting in his seat. “We all know.”
I froze. “You do?”
“Yep. You can’t quite hide that.”
“Shit,” I muttered. “I’ve been trying to pretend like I do. I read a book—twice—and everything.”
He laughed. “Good thing you aren’t an actress.”
“Like, I don’t even know what the ball is called.”
“A football.”
I blinked. “Oh.” After everything else, I thought it would be a lot more complicated than that. “And what’s a runner back?”
“A running back? Like Rodney?” I gave him a blank look, and he laughed. “It’s an offensive position. They get handoffs or passes from the quarterback. They’re important for touchdowns.”
Still, none of that made sense, and he threw back his head and laughed. Not a mean laugh—not really—and I found myself grinning. The cabbie, meanwhile, was looking at me like I was crazy.
“I think you can use the preseason to learn everything you can about football,” Clancy said. “It’ll be good for you.”
“But what is the preseason?”
Honest question, but Clancy was just grinning and shaking his head. “I’ll help you figure this stuff out.”
And fuck if my traitorous cheeks didn’t burn with emotion. I hoped he couldn’t see it in the dark.
Clancy cleared his throat. “Here we are.”
I ducked to get a glimpse of the Aloft logo from the window as the cabbie pulled up. This night was almost over. Thank god.
Before I could do anything, Clancy got out of the car, ran around to my side, and opened the door. I’d never had a guy open a door for me, unless I was at a fancy restaurant, and even then, I was expected to tip him. In a daze, I slid out of my seat. I started to take off the jacket, and Clancy held out a hand.
“Nah, keep it. Give it back to me tomorrow. There’s a lot of people who can get too good of a look without it.”
Tomorrow. I’d have to go and face Rodney and Andre tomorrow.
I swallowed thickly. “Thank you, Clancy Drew.” And even as I said his name, I couldn’t help grinning. “It’s really an unfortunate name.”
“You’re telling me,” he said with a chuckle. “But there is one thing that Nancy and I have in common.”
“Oh really? And what’s that?”
“We both like to solve mysteries.” He leaned in close to me. “And I’d like to solve yours.”
Everything thudded to a halt around me as I met his eyes, wondering if he had really said what I thought he did. Or if I had imagined it. Surely, I imagined it. Because nothing like that happened to me.
He stepped back, that smug grin on his face, and I wondered if “Southern gentleman” was another word for some sort of ladies’ man. But he didn’t make a move on me, didn’t do anything else.
I was almost disappointed.
“See you tomorrow, Miss Harte.” The light from hotel was enough to where I could see the blush on his cheeks as well. Was he nervous too?
I had to get out of here before I ruined his jacket. I reached into my purse, but Clancy waved it away. “I’ll take care of it. You’re on the way to my house anyway.”
“You sure?”
“Damn sure.” He grinned at me. “Have a good night.”
“You too,” I said slowly.
And as the cab drove off, I wondered what the hell was happening. Andre, Rodney, and now Clancy had made it clear, in one way or another, that they were interested in getting to know me a lot more.
“What the hell?” I muttered out loud.
Ashley had to hear about this new development. I knew that she would die when I told her. If she even believed me. I wasn’t sure I even believed myself.
Once I got back to my room, I tried calling her—not just once, but three times. She didn’t pick up, which was usually the case for my roommate. She had a social life that had her dance card full every single night. I was a homebody, so she and I made the perfect roomies since we had such vastly different schedules.
But as I tried to express everything in a voicemail, it seemed like such a waste to just spill it in a voicemail.
“Hey, Ash, I, well...you’re not going to believe this.” My voice trailed off as I blinked and tugged Clancy’s jacket tighter around me, and something tightened in my throat, causing the words to fail me. I wasn’t an articulate person in the best of times, and this? “Call me back.”
Yet, even as I hung up, my mind was screaming to get it out.
I’d have to email her. And maybe I could get everything straight in my head after that.
I lunged for my laptop in my briefcase and pulled out the busted thing. For living just north of Silicon Valley, my computer was a dinosaur after my breakup with Jacob robbed me of all my money and I burned through my savings. So I had to sit there, drumming my fingers and sipping out of a bottle of Sutter Home from the mini bar while the damn thing booted.
And as I opened my email, my stomach lurched to a halt as I saw an unfamiliar email sitting at the very top. I blinked a few times, trying to make sense of it. I should have gotten notified about that email on my phone. A quick look at my phone told me that I did get that email—my adrenaline must have been up so high, I hadn’t even noticed.
Fair point.
The subject line of the email was simply: Dear Miss Harte. Like an old-fashioned letter.
I clicked on it. And realized why.
It was from the coach, and I could already tell that I wasn’t going to like whatever it was about. I’d need more wine for this, so I grabbed another bottle of wine from the mini fridge.
Dear Miss Harte, I read.
Wait. Who the hell used “Miss” in a business email? Shaking my head, I kept going, my mouth falling wider and wider open the longer I read.
I want to thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule and coming all the way out to Alabama to meet the Yellowhammers.
However, there are some long-standing football traditions here that perhaps you are unaware of and learning about them might help you fit in here a little better.
The main one I think perhaps you’d like to know about is that we don’t allow women on the field during practice.
If you’d like to watch the team during practice, Kathryn has assured me that the owner’s box will be available to you. You can view all public parts of practice from up there.
Please know that this is in no way personal. It’s simply that in my decades as a coach, I have come to the conclusion that having women on the field during practice is simply too distracting for my boys. We don’t even allow the team’s cheerleaders to use the field for their own practice until the Hammers are done for the day.
I appreciate you respecting our Hammer traditions, and I look forward to getting to know you better—maybe during one of the many social events the team owner traditionally holds every year.
Sincerely,
Mark Mackenzie
“As
shole!” I cried out loud. “What a cocky, arrogant, motherfucking asshole!” I ranted on for a long while, unable to get the right insult to form. How could he even think to write something like that...to me? You could say that he was from a different time, a different place, had different values than me—whatever.
That was the most blatant example of a power-grab wrapped in completely sexist mansplaining that I had ever seen.
And I was a woman who’d worked in tech. I’d seen some sexist bullshit power grabs before.
I took another drink of my wine.
“Nope,” I said aloud. “I’m going to need something stronger than this.”
I poured a mini-bottle of Jack Daniels into one of the glasses from the bathroom and downed it.
I stomped back toward the desk and read over the letter again.
“Don’t let the fucking cheerleaders practice? Don’t let? I’m the owner, you stupid ass. I decide who gets to do what.”
Nope. This wouldn’t do. “I need another drink.” There was a tiny bottle of vodka. I downed it without bothering to put it in a glass first.
I blew out an alcohol-tinged breath, finally beginning to feel calmer. For exactly as long as it took me to walk back to the desk and glance down. “Maybe you could take those long-standing traditions and shove them right up your…”
I stumbled over...something...on the floor and sat down hard in the straight-back chair I’d been using.
“Argh,” I muttered as I clicked to reply. I’d send a scathing letter with all the witty comebacks I could think of. I wanted to make him squirm and suffer and feel stupid for being such a prick.
Yet, as my fingers hovered over the keyboard, I realized that I would need time to figure that out. To figure out the perfect way to murder him with my words.
Time to sober up.
“Okay,” I murmured to myself, plan in mind, “I’ll email Ashley. She doesn’t care if I’m drunk. And she won’t give a shit about their stupid long-standing traditions.”
I clicked in the box and began.
Hey Ash,
