by Harper James
STUFFED
The Slate Brothers, Book Two
Harper James
Favor Ford Publishing
Contents
Want To Be In The Know?
STUFFED (The Slate Brothers, Book Two) by Harper James
Excerpt: Pump Fake by Lila Price
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Copyright © 2017 by Favor Ford Publishing
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover Design © Cover Couture
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STUFFED (The Slate Brothers, Book Two) by Harper James
1
There’s a locker room full of half-naked, sweaty men on the other side of this door. The door in front of which I’ve been standing for god knows how long…
And in a moment, I’m going to be walking into the lion’s den, pretending that this is a normal, everyday occurrence for me.
But instead of putting one foot in front of the other and going inside, I’m still standing out in the hallway and trying to psych myself up.
It’s not working, though. My traitorous feet aren’t moving, as a text from my editor appears on my cell phone.
If you cant do this I need to know asap, I can send someone else
I glare at the text for a few minutes. This is so Devin— he’s always been the sort of editor who assumes I’ll fail without giving me a chance to succeed. While admittedly, I’m definitely feeling out of my league, I’m also not planning on throwing in the towel this early.
Sports aren’t really my thing, but the school paper was in a bind and needed someone to handle this interview for a headline story. It’s not like sophomores can just turn down assignments and cite a preference for fine arts over football. Besides, if I want to be a real writer, I’ve got to stray outside of my comfort zone, right?
Astrid? Answer please.
I roll my eyes and respond, hoping he can read the “fuck you” I’m crafting between the lines.
I’m on it.
Of course, now I have to do this, or admit to Devin that I chickened out. Not that I was going to chicken out, because I’m a journalist and journalists don’t freak out over going into a locker room full of football players—
“Can I help you?” someone asks, staring at me. My eyes snap off my phone, and I force a smile. It’s a man wearing a Bowen University Staff polo, with gray hair that matches the hallway paint color perfectly. I know he’s one of the coaches— an important one, in fact, given that I’ve seen him at televised press conferences before.
“Hi! Yes! I’m with the newspaper. I have a press pass. I’m supposed to get after game interviews with the starting players.” I have no idea why, suddenly, everything I’m saying sounds stupidly excited, but I can’t seem to stop myself. I smile bigger because I’m not sure what else to do.
“Which one?” the coach asks politely.
“This one!” I say, holding up the press pass, wondering what other type of press pass exists.
“Which paper?” he clarifies, still polite, but now clearly more than a little exhausted by me. I can’t say I blame him.
“Oh, sorry— the school paper. The Bowen Blaze.”
“Sure,” the coach says, nodding. “Well, go on in. If you’ve got a press pass, you don’t have to wait out here.”
“Thanks. Great. Got it!” I say, nodding robotically. I’m so, so glad that Devin isn’t here right now to see this. I’d be stuck editing the horoscope for the next three years. The coach reaches back to hold the door for me, and I slink into the locker room as fast as I can.
The humidity hits me first, so intense that it’s nearly difficult to breathe.
Next, the scent in the air hits me. To my surprise, it’s not an awful smell— which I had prepared for, what with it being a college football locker room and all. No, it’s more…masculine. Heavy, and spicy, like deodorant and sweat and toothpaste and soap.
There’s a short hallway ahead of me that ends in double doors; the walls leading up to them are lined with inspiration sayings about Bowen University, and quotes from former famous Bowen coaches. There are two frosted windows on the doors— which are dark navy, one of Bowen’s school colors— through which I can see shadows of players milling around. I can hear them laughing, carousing, shouting at one another. They’re understandably in a good mood— they won the first game of the season.
Other reporters are surely in there already— I saw them practically sprinting from the press boxes to the locker room as the clock ran out. I take a deep breath of thick air and march forward, putting Devin and his irritatingly persistent doubt out of my mind. I’ve got a press pass. I’m a reporter. I’ve got every right to be in there. And besides, they’re just a bunch of jocks— it’s not like they’re the kind of guys I’m trying to impress. I reach the navy doors and push through, head held high.
Then immediately squeeze my eyes shut, because there are three naked guys right in front of me.
“Oh, god, sorry, I just— I’m sorry,” I stammer, yanking my hands to my chest defensively. My mind is racing, replaying what I just saw over and over and over. A room full of very large, very muscular guys, all with tattoos and thick arms and shining, just-showered faces. Most with towels wrapped around their waists or wearing athletic shorts or boxers. But three— one putting something in a locker, two others drying off— with everything hanging out for me to see. My chest feels hot, my heart races— I’ve never actually seen a guy naked in person before, not really, and this was not at all how I expected it to happen.
“Sorry, seriously,” I say again, mostly because now I’m thinking about the length of the three cocks I just saw, which is totally not what a professional reporter should be thinking about, and also that’s such a huge violation—
“Excuse me,” someone says, brushing past me. I flinch, then open my eyes. It was a player headed out the double doors— and he barely even stopped to notice me. In fact, no one seems to have noticed me. The three previously-naked guys are now wearing towels; everyone is going about his post-game ritual without so much as a glance my way. I lower my arms, and realize that with all the noise, they likely didn’t hear me come in— or my frantic apologies. Which, given how many reporters I now see scattered among the players, were unnecessary anyhow. I guess sports reporters just have to get used to seeing a few naked players now and again?
This is so not at all like covering the fine arts section.
I plaster a smile on my face and walk forward again, waiting for someone to make eye contact with me so I can swoop in for a question or two. I feel tiny and inconsequential, like a little girl wandering through a forest. Only instead of a forest, it’s actual human guys with bodies the size of redwood trunks. I try to take note of how the other reporters are doing it— most of them are bright, bubbly men with personalities that easily capture the attention of players. There are a few women here and there, each a flawless blend of charismatic and professional. They’re all sporting sleek ponytails or buns, apparently having anticipated the locker room humidity.
This is fine. I can do this. Just start with someone who’s by himself, someone who usually doesn’t get a lot of reporter attention. I scan the room— surely there’s so
me lowly freshman player somewhere who’d love for a reporter to corner him. Even a reporter who wore the wrong hairstyle, wrong shoes, and freaked out when she saw some naked guys about five minutes ago.
My eyes finally land on a player whose back is to me, his head ducked into his locker. He’s moving slowly, deliberately, and is entirely on his own— no reporters, no other players, no one. He’s wearing a towel around his waist, and as I draw closer I can make out back muscles so perfectly carved and toned that he looks like he’s made of stone. There’s a tattoo on his shoulder of the Bowen mascot— a bear— which seems fitting, given that this guy is practically the size of a grizzly. At only a few feet away, I realize he must be a foot and a half taller than me. Still, he’s on his own, so there’s something a little less intimidating about him.
“Uh, hello?” I say, trying to sound confident.
And then he turns around.
I’m not a boy-crazy type of girl, but this guy is the most attractive human I’ve seen in real life. Everything about him looks photo shopped, from the perfect, ice-cube shaped muscles of his abs to the slate gray color of his eyes. He lifts an eyebrow when he sees me so close to him, and it arcs perfectly, like it was painted in that new position. I don’t know how I thought for a moment that this guy was “less intimidating”— everything about him is powerful and massive and intense. I think that the locker room has gone a quiet behind me, but it feels just as possible that this football player is simply absorbing all sound and light and existence.
“Yes?” he asks. There’s a hint of amusement in his eyes, and I’m pretty sure it’s at my expense.
“Hi. I’m, uh—“ I scramble for the lanyard around my neck, and hold up my press pass. “I’m with the Bowen Blaze. Can I ask a few questions about the game?”
“A few questions,” the guy says, as if he’s not so sure he likes the idea. When he breathes, his pectorals lift, and it’s impossible not to wonder how my palm would feel pressed against them. It’s impossible not to wonder how I would feel pressed against him—
“Just a few. Do you mind?” I press.
The guy leans back against his locker, looking for all the world like one of those classical Grecian statues. His forearms are corded, and I can see the bulge of his leg muscles through the white towel around him. “You’re new, aren’t you?”
“I—uh, yeah. I’ve never covered sports before. I’m normally on the fine arts beat,” I say quickly, with a little shrug.
“Ah. That’s why you don’t know me,” he says, shaking his head, a scoff in his voice. “I don’t talk to reporters.”
Maybe it’s because Devin’s texts are still rubbing me the wrong way, but there’s a swell of irritation in my chest at this degree of arrogance. Seriously, dude? You think everyone at this school should know you just because you throw a football around on a field? What the actual fuck.
I mash my lips together and say, calmly and fearlessly as possible. “Yeah, I don’t know who you are. So maybe instead of acting like this,” I pause to motion at his entire demeanor, “you could just answer a few questions for me and fill me in? It’s not like you’re busy.”
My voice shakes a little at the end, but I’m glad I said it. I fold my arms over my chest and try to give him a steely, Lois Lane type of look.
The guy’s eyes widen, but his look of pitying amusement doesn’t waver. He turns to his locker, grabs a t-shirt, then shuts the locker behind him. He then sits down on the bench, straddling it in a way that makes the placement of the towel around his waist very, very precarious. He motions for me to take a seat as well.
“Alright, Bowen Blaze,” he sighs. “Have a seat. Let’s talk.”
“Thanks,” I say stiffly, and hurriedly sit down, crossing my legs tightly.
I glance up at his gorgeous face and force myself to look away again. My heart is racing every time I so much as make the tiniest bit of eye contact with him.
I pull up the notes app on my phone and position my thumbs to start typing. “So, first, let me get your name.”
“Carson Slate,” he says firmly.
I swallow, trying to hide my surprise, followed by a hot flush of embarrassment. Carson Slate. The Carson Slate. You don’t have to be a sports fan to know two things about him:
1) He’s only a junior, but is already being looked at by professional scouts
2) His father is a murderer. Or at least, he’s accused of being a murderer.
I guess I didn’t recognize Carson Slate in the flesh, shirtless, wearing a towel, rather than his jersey. I take a few slow breaths and pretend to type on my phone, trying to figure out what I should say next, what I should do next, where I should look next—
“C-a-r-s-o-n,” Carson says. He knows that I’ve realized who he is, I’m sure of it.
I force a smile and look back up with a deep breath. “Got it. So, Carson— tell me about your approach for this game.”
“To win the game.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“To win the game by a lot of points,” he says, with a combination of arrogance and annoyance at the stupidity of my question.
I look back down at my phone and hold in a glower. “Great. Perfect. So, clearly you don’t want to talk about the approach to the game. What about your teammates? Do you feel like anyone played especially well today?”
“We all did. It’s always a team effort,” Carson says, sounding the tiniest bit more serious. “People always want to give the quarterback more credit than he deserves.”
“Is that why you don’t want to talk to reporters? Because you want the rest of the team to get more attention?” I ask.
“No,” Carson says. “I don’t want to talk to reporters because they like to ask about my father’s case, even when they’re supposedly sports reporters rather than crime reporters.”
“You can’t really blame them for trying, though,” I say. “I mean, it’s a big case and people are curious—“
“Actually, I can blame them. And the sports reporters have all agreed not to approach me for interviews after games since I requested my privacy be respected. Things got a lot better after that. Until now, that is.”
I freeze, mouth drying. I made the mistake of looking up again and Carson’s eyes have trapped mine; I can’t look away as I feel a deep flush rise from my neck up through my cheeks.
“I didn’t know,” I say flatly, tearing my eyes from his. “Sorry, I don’t usually cover sports, and—“
“Clearly,” he says. “Any other questions, Bowen Blaze?”
“No. Sorry. No,” I say, shaking my head. I stand up, knees wobbly. What if he calls Devin about this? It’s a huge violation— the paper could lose our passes to the locker room. The sports reporter is going to kill me, if Devin doesn’t kill me first. “It was an honest mistake, okay? I didn’t know about the prohibition on speaking to you after a game, really. I’m sorry.”
“What’s your name?” he asks, and even though I didn’t think it possible, my stomach drops even farther. He’s going to tell Devin that I spoke to him. He’s going to wreck my college journalism career. He’s going to get me thrown off the paper, which means I won’t have anything to show for internships, which means I won’t have anything for job applications…
I close my eyes. “Astrid Tyler.”
“Astrid Tyler,” he repeats, and when I dare to open my eyes, he’s nodding. He isn’t looking at my eyes, though— he’s scanning up and down my body, like he’s assessing something. “Well. Any other questions, Astrid Tyler?” he asks, leaning back a bit. I involuntarily glance down, and my eyes land on his crotch. The towel is still covering everything, but I can see the shape of his—
“No, no,” I say hurriedly. “I should go.” I scramble to my feet, hair sticking to my face, cheeks burning. I have basically nothing for the story that I have to write, but there’s no way I can stay here a moment longer. I carve past the rest of the locker room, past the embarrassed faces of the other reporters and the condemni
ng faces of the other players. I wanted to be a real journalist, and now I’ve blown it all in a college locker room covering a subject I don’t even care about.
I hit to navy doors at a near run, and don’t stop until I’m back to my dorm room.
2
It’s dusk by the time I make it across campus— the post-game crowd is crazy, and packs of alumni and students alike block my way and slow down the crosswalks.
I get back to my dorm room and hit my bed, force my eyes shut, willing myself to fall asleep. If I can just fall asleep, I won’t have to think about this disaster for the next hour or two or however long I can manage to stay in dreamland. Unfortunately, after an hour, I’m still wide awake, staring at my phone, waiting to see Devin’s name pop up with the “there’s not even a word for how fired you are” phone call that I know is coming.
Except, by eight o’clock, I still haven’t heard from my notorious editor. At eight fifteen, I get a text from Devin.
When can I expect your story? Need info on who you spoke to so we can start prepping photos.
I cringe. Story? What story? The story of my total demise? I open my newspaper-issued laptop and log into the program we use to write all our stories in, so we can see how they’ll be formatted on screen. I audition a few sentences and titles— Blaze Reporter’s Blunder Causes Chaos.
Maybe I can try for something humorous, a little off-beat story that would make up for my lack of actually getting anything resembling a real interview.
I blow air out of my nostrils and close my eyes.
Fuck.
Then I send a text back to Devin.
I’ll try to get something to you tomorrow. I spoke to Carson Slate.
I mean, he’s going to find out sooner or later, right? I might as well tear the Band-Aid off. I’ve barely sent the text when my phone rings— Devin is calling. I take a long, steadying breath and answer.
