I don’t even know who you call for something like that, though. A locksmith? A tow truck? Do I need proof that the car is mine before they’ll agree to do it? I can’t even remember if my registration is in the glove box. What if I can’t prove the car belongs to me once they unlock it? I wonder. What would they do — just lock it back up again?
In spite of how upset I am, I snort to myself at how ridiculous that would be. Then, shaking my head, I reach for my phone, which is still sitting on the roof of my car. I wince when I see the cracked screen. Great, just great.
And when I press the power button, nothing happens.
“No, dammit, no!” I moan to myself in disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me with this?”
Can this night get any worse?
“You fucking, stupid, old, beat up fucker!” I yell uselessly at my car. I resist the urge to kick the tire, knowing I’d probably only hurt my foot. Instead, I bang on the hood with my hands, like that’s gonna convince it to spontaneously unlock itself. My old Renault just sits there innocently against my barrage of insults and abuse.
It does nothing, of course, but somehow swearing and pounding on the thing makes me feel just a tiny bit better. I take a deep breath to refill my lungs, and am just about to start hurling a fresh round of swearing at it, when a deep voice behind me almost makes me jump out of my skin.
“Hey there,” the voice says. “What did that poor car ever do to you?”
3
Mason
The girl hammering on the car jumps a little, then turns to look at me with a scowl. “What?”
I ignore the anger in her tone. “I heard you from clear over there,” I say, pointing behind me with my thumb to the Penalty Box. “You want some help?” I say want instead of need, because she definitely needs it.
She narrows her eyes and I hold still as she regards me, her foot tapping impatiently on the concrete. Finally, she sighs, and folds her arms under her tits.
Her tits are fantastic, by the way.
“And what do you get for helping me?” she asks sarcastically.
My eyebrows shoot up. I wasn’t thinking of rewards, exactly, but I have to admit I was expecting a little gratitude. But this girl looks at me like she’s figured me out coming and going, and she wants me to know it. I open my mouth to tell her nothing but a thank you is necessary. But then I get a good look at her in the light of the street lamp.
She’s fucking hot. She has long dark hair that falls over her shoulders with a slight wave to it, deep brown eyes, and a curvy body in a clingy dress that falls down to mid-thigh. At the end of her long, sexy legs are black high heels.
Damn. I’d love to peel that dress off her.
With my teeth.
She’s been watching me in irritation as I look her over. Then, suddenly something in her face shifts just a little. Her foot stops tapping, and she tilts her head a little to the side. She snorts softly and shakes her head at some private joke.
“How about as a thank you, you let me take you out for a drink?” I offer, stepping closer as I pull a hand from my jeans pocket to hold it out for a handshake. “I’m Mason Robichaud.”
“I know you,” she says, rolling her eyes. When her eyes meet mine again, they aren’t as quite as annoyed as they were a moment ago.
Aha! Sports fan, I think. Her knowing me could be good or bad, depending on how closely she follows the news. I decide to play it cool.
“And you are…?” I prompt.
She laughs, but still looks cautious, though she does take my hand. “I’m Anna Wilder. But you can forget about the drink.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because I know you,” she repeats, rolling her eyes.
Ah. “My reputation is worse than the reality,” I smirk.
Which is true, at least in part. I definitely don’t deserve the reputation that got me un-signed from the Rockets last year.
But the other part of my rep? That I’m a player? Well, yeah, that’s pretty well-deserved.
The chick — Anna — shakes her head. “All I know is, if you’re asking me out for a drink now, you’ll want something more at the end of the night.” She places her hands on her waist and cocks her hip. “I’m afraid I’m not that kind of girl.”
I’m not sure whether to be impressed or not. She’s sexy as hell, and she’s got sass, which I like. But generally, women fall into my lap with very little effort on my part. Looks like this one’s gonna make me work for it a little.
But I’m not about to give her the upper hand.
“Well then,” I say blankly, turning to leave. “You have a nice night, Ms. Wilder.”
There’s a short silence from behind me. Then: “Wait!”
The shout is frantic, even a little desperate. My lips curl into a smirk, which I’m careful to wipe off my face before I turn back around. When I do, I see she’s shifted her stance a little. Her arms are by her sides, her head tilted in a way that’s silently beseeching me, though I doubt she realizes it. Her lips are parted, like she’s about to speak.
“Well?” I mutter impatiently, even though inside my mind is triumphantly braying, Got her!
Anna’s mouth snaps shut. I can see the inner war written all over her face. Finally, she seems to make a decision, and nods curtly. “Okay. One drink. And that’s it.”
I turn around and start for my car again.
“Wait!” she calls, panic rising in her voice. “I thought you said you’d help me!”
The knowing smirk returns, tugging at the corners of my lips. “I am helping you,” I call back. “I have to grab something from my car.”
This evening is going to be one hell of a lot more interesting than I thought.
The something I’m going to get is a wire, which I have in my SUV for… reasons. I cross the parking lot, press the unlock button on my key fob, grab the wire from the back, and head back toward Anna.
“I’d appreciate it if you would be the lookout,” I tell her as I step up to the car.
“How do you know how to do that?” Anna asks skeptically,
“You know the expression about looking a gift horse in the mouth?” I bark back. She doesn’t answer.
Jacking a car is actually pretty easy once you’ve done it before, and I have, a few times. The wire slides easily into the space between the door and the window, and with a bit of wiggling, there’s a click. I pull the wire out and turn to her with a smirk as I open the car door.
Anna lets out a relieved breath. “Thank God,” she sighs.
I move aside as she reaches in and grabs her keys and bag from the inside of the car.
“So,” I say with a grin when she straightens. “How about that drink?”
I don’t want to go back into the Penalty Box because Aaron and the guys are there. So I take her next door to the Happiness Bar. We find a free table and I ask her what she wants. Anna asks for a vodka sour, and I go grab our drinks from the bar.
When I come back, she looks at me with a curious expression as I set the drinks down on the table.
“What’s that?” she asks, nodding toward mine.
“Coke,” I tell her, and slide into my chair.
She frowns in confusion, then something seems to click in her head. “Oh. Right,” she says, reddening.
“Hey, it’s no big deal,” I shrug. “It’s just easier this way.”
Which is true. The last thing I need is some asshole taking a picture of me at a bar with a drink in my hand, and having it go viral all over social media. As far as the world knows, I’m a drunk who went through rehab last year, and that’s why I had to sit out the season.
“I really don’t think I can do this.”
I raise a questioning brow at her.
“Do you have somewhere you need to be?” I ask, cocking a brow. “Or do you just not like my company?”
“It’s not that,” she says, pointing to her drink. “I can't drink this while watching you drink a soda. It feels too awkward.”
I wave a dismissive hand at her. “I didn’t mean for you to feel awkward. Please, it’s really not a big deal at all.”
She’s holding herself stiffly, like she’s uncomfortable. “So, are you just, um, not allowed to drink at all anymore? I’m sorry if that’s too personal a question.”
I shrug and take a swig of my Coke. “It’s not that I’m not allowed. But I’m looking for a contract right now, so I need to be on my best behavior. I already have a team interested, but the standards are pretty high.”
Her eyes widen. “The Springville Rockets?” she guesses, her eyes widening. “Are you up for being signed back on with them?”
“Yeah,” I say easily. “At least, I hope so. Should know in a few days.”
She looks at me for a moment, completely stupefied, then covers my mouth and bursts into laughter.
I frown in confusion. “What? What’s so funny?”
“I can’t believe it,” she chokes out, shaking her head as she erupts into a fit of giggles. “What are the odds?”
“I take it you’re interested in the team?” I ask, trying to figure out what the fuck she’s laughing about.
She’s still shaking her head as she takes a long sip from her drink. When her eyes meet mine, they’re shining with amusement. “I’m a journalist,” she says bluntly. “Well, an aspiring sports journalist. From a local news station. I’ve been trying to get a lead on a rumor that there’s going to be a shakeup in the team’s roster. That’s actually why I was here tonight,” she continues, looking around the bar. “Hoping to run into some of the players. I left because I struck out.”
“You’re mixing your sports metaphors,” I point out.
She snorts softly at my joke and continues. “And then just when I’ve given up, I end up running into you in the parking lot.” She shakes her head in amazement and laughs. “Unbelievable. I should give my poor car a tuneup and a spa day for locking my keys up.”
I have to laugh with her, even though her words send a jolt of worry through me. “That is a pretty funny damn coincidence. But look. You can’t use this story, Anna.”
“What?” she asks in amazement. “Why not?”
“Because. It’s not a done deal yet. Rumors aren’t gonna help me get signed.” And I’m feeling pretty goddamn superstitious about this deal. Even though I don’t tell her that.
I need this contract. I need to get back in the game. And the fucking media screwed me over bad once before. The whole fucking reason I’m in this situation in the first place is because of a fucked-up story they didn’t even bother to check. By the time it was out there complete with photographic “evidence,” everyone believed it. Whether it was true or not didn’t matter at that point.
I’m not about to let that happen again. For one long moment, I’m fucking furious with myself for even going over to help Anna. Just my goddamn luck she’d be a fucking journalist. Jesus Christ.
“Listen to me, Anna,” I repeat, my voice urgent. “If the story goes out before the team makes the decision, the whole fucking thing could fall through. I mean it. I can’t have you breaking this story.” I grab her hand and pull it to me. “Promise me.”
It’s the first time I’ve touched her. At the contact, she seems to start a little in surprise. Her eyes meet mine, dark and wide. As her lips part, I can see her breathing speed up from the way her breasts start to rise and fall more quickly. My gaze travels down to take a long look at them. Before I know it, I’m imagining what it would be like to take them out of that dress. To tease her nipples with my thumbs, and suck them into my mouth one by one. I’m instantly rock hard. Jesus. This girl would be fucking heaven in the sack, I’m almost certain of it. She’s got just enough sass that I bet it’d be like sparring. I bet she gives as good as she gets.
And Jesus Christ, do I want to find out.
My eyes travel back up to meet hers. Anna’s face flushes pink. She knows what I’m thinking.
And in any other situation, I’d be making plans for our exit to someplace where I could get her naked as soon as possible.
In any other situation.
I stare at her, hard, trying to ignore the growing steel bat in my pants. I know from experience that journalists can’t be trusted to tell the truth. Hell, Anna’s already told me she came here tonight to try to break a story so she could get ahead. I know that if I fuck her, I’d be giving her even more ammunition to break a tell-all story about me. I can’t take that chance.
“Promise me,” I demand, keeping my voice low and insistent.
When the words come out, it sounds like I’m asking something else.
Her lips part. Like she’s thinking the same thing.
A long moment passes.
Fuck, her lips would look good wrapped around my cock.
“I promise,” she finally breathes.
At this point, I have no other option but to believe her, and hope for the best. Reluctantly, I let go of her hand. The moment’s over. She’s given me what I need.
Except that right now, it’s exactly the opposite of what I want.
4
Anna
“I promise,” I say in a shaky voice.
Mason gives me a long, searching look, and then nods briefly. “Good. Thanks,” he says. He drops my hand, and I almost moan at the loss of contact. As much as I hate to admit it, being so close to him is having an effect on me. I’ve been up close and personal with pro athletes before, but never one as good-looking as him.
I’ve seen Mason Robichaud on television and in magazines, of course. He’s almost impossibly good-looking, and incredibly photogenic, like a lot of pro football players. But in person, like this, I realize that the camera doesn’t capture the intense, almost intoxicating magnetism of him. He’s gorgeous, with blond hair that falls just above his shoulders. He’s wearing a tight-fitting gray T-shirt that molds to his physique, showing every last muscle in his arms and chest. Pale, intense blue eyes stare penetratingly at me from across the table. The way he’s looking at me now, almost like we’re in a bedroom and not a crowded bar — it’s nearly impossible to look away. God, I don’t think anyone has ever looked at me quite like this. It feels like he’s staring right through me. Right into me.
It feels like I’m naked.
My nipples grow taut. My skin grows electric. I have to admit it, I’m dying for him to touch me again. I want to feel those rough, callused hands sliding over me. Cupping my bare ass. Pulling me to him…
Holy shit. Between my legs, I’m soaking wet.
I straighten in my chair and try to compose myself. I’m hoping like hell he’s not aware of the effect he’s having on me. Clearing my throat, I draw a deep, unsteady breath.
“I want you to know, you’re asking a hell of a lot, Mason Robichaud,” I tell him. “This could have been my ticket to finally being taken seriously as a sports journalist. It’s exactly the sort of story I came here looking for tonight.”
It’s the truth. I fucking hate giving up a story like this.
I haven’t closely followed the news on Mason, I keep up with most of the major players. And up until last year, he was on a path to becoming one of the biggest names in the NFL. Of course, I remember what happened last year, and so I know he’s not on any team at the moment. I also know he’s a damn good linebacker. Good enough that teams should be falling all over themselves to have him. But they aren’t, because he has a problem with alcohol.
Mason Robichaud started out his pro career at Arizona. He quickly established his name as one of the top linebackers in the league. He got offered a better deal for significantly more money with the Rockets last year, and football fans in Springville were really excited about the addition to their team. But not long after he signed on with the Rockets, the deal unexpectedly fell through. Then the story broke that he’d been going through rehab at a well-known in-patient alcohol treatment center, complete with photos of him on the grounds of the center’s campus. The media had a field day breaking the story that Mason Robic
haud was an alcoholic, and speculating on whether the team had dropped him, or whether he had pulled out of the deal to go into detox.
He’s been sidelined for the last year. That’s why he’s so desperate to get back in the game.
Someone else — some other, more ambitious journalist — would probably break this story anyway. But Mason helped me out of a jam. I owe him one. Plus, I feel for him. Everyone deserves a second chance.
So, no, I won’t break the news about the Rockets being on the verge of signing him again.
But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t incredibly disappointed. Just my luck, I’ve finally got an amazing scoop, and now I can’t even use it.
Mason leans back in his chair and gives me a puzzled frown. “I don’t get it. Why aren’t you being taken seriously as a journalist now?”
He seems genuinely confused. A loud bark of laughter escapes me, and I raise a self-conscious hand to my mouth. “Are you kidding me?” I ask, just managing not to roll my eyes.
“No, I’m serious,” he insists. “Why the hell not?”
It’s weird. Mason Robichaud is a well-known man-whore. A player. His reputation for going through women like candy is well-earned, as far as I know. And the slight smirk playing across his lips is telling me he’s thinking about more than just why I’m not being taken seriously at work.
But somehow, he still seems genuinely clueless about why I’m having trouble being seen as a serious journalist.
“My boss is pretty old-school,” I begin. “He doesn’t think women should be covering men’s sports. Plus, when he looks at me, he doesn’t see a capable journalist. He just sees…” I look down at myself as I trail off.
“A hot chick,” Mason finishes for me.
I nod and mock clap. “Right,” I agree. “He uses me to pull in more viewers in the late-night spots. The lonely male insomniacs. So far, that’s all I’ve been good for. And I’m sick of it. I’ve been trying to show him I’m more than just a pretty face and a nice ass.”
PLAYERS: The Complete Series (Springville Rockets (Sports Romance Books 1-3) Page 36
