Jock: A Secret Baby Sports Romance
Aubrey Irons
Contents
Jock: A Secret Baby Sports Romance
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Note
Mailing List
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Also by Aubrey Irons
Mailing List
About the Author
Score: A Stepbrother Sports Romance
Player: A Secret Baby Sports Romance
Thief: A Shelter Harbor Novel
My job is to recruit him. Not have his baby…
Holden Cade is the filthiest, wildest, most hard-partying quarterback in pro football. A crude, rude, arrogant jock, and the only thing bigger than his ego is his-
Ugh, at least that’s what the tabloids say.
I’d prefer to have nothing to do with a self-obsessed prick like that. But as a talent scout for my father’s football team, I’m about to have a LOT to do with him.
But I’m the best there is in this biz. I don’t take crap from inflated egos like Holden Cade, and I am always in control.
That is, until I hear that filthy voice right in my ear, and until I feel his hands on my skin.
Until I let go for one night, and it ends up being the hottest one of my life.
Technically, I’m his boss now. Technically, continuing this dirty little secret is a breach of both our contracts.
Technically, there’s no way this could get more complicated.
Well, that is, until I find out I’m carrying his baby...
Whoops.
Holden Cade thinks he can make me his.
He might be right.
Copyright © 2016 Aubrey Irons
Cover & Interior Design: Aubrey Irons
Cover Photos: Cura Photography, Yobro10 Photography,
Editor: Ellie McLove, Love N Books
Proofreading: Cassie Dean
Formatting: Vellum
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organizations, actual events or locales is entirely coincidental. The sports teams mentioned in this book are works of fiction. The author acknowledges the trademark status of products referred to in this book and acknowledges that trademarks have been used without permission.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations used for review purposes.
This book is intended for mature, adult audiences only. It contains sexually explicit and graphic scenes and language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please do not continue reading this book of you are under the age of 18 or are offended by content of this nature.
All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older and are in no way blood relations. All acts of a sexual nature are completely consensual.
For my husband, as always. Thanks for coming along on this crazy adventure with me.
To Roxie Noir, for keeping me sane.
To The Iron Angels, for all of your feedback, love, and amazing words of encouragement. You guys are rockstars.
Author’s Note
*New Release Bonus Content Included!*
As a special thank you for picking up this first edition of Jock, I’ve included three previous books of mine right here! Because let’s face it - are you really ever satisfied with just one book about cocky, demanding, criminally attractive quarterbacks and the dirty things they whisper across a page?
Yeah, right there with you.
Jock itself is around 78k words, which means it takes up roughly the first 30% of this book. That means a full 70% of this book file is taken up by the bonus content. Score: A Stepbrother Sports Romance, Player: A Secret Baby Romance, and Thief: A Shelter Harbor Novel immediately follow Jock in this book file.
Thanks so much for reading, and I do hope you enjoy the filthy, panty-melting, wicked-tongued Holden Cade.
Mailing List
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http://eepurl.com/bu3-3P
1
London
“Hey girl, you work at a sandwich shop?”
I turn and drag my eyes up the bare, muscled torso of the man standing behind me in the middle of the locker room. He’s wearing the exact smug, egotistical grin I’d expect to see on a million-dollar football player after an eye-rolling start to a line like that.
“Cause you’re-”
“Because I’m giving you a foot-long, right?”
I sigh loudly, glancing down at the front of his towel before looking back up and holding his eye.
“Aww, poor baby,” I coo. “Is that what you think a foot is?” I shake my head sympathetically. “I guess it’s no wonder your rushing yards were so abysmal last season.”
The smug grin drops from his face as he suddenly glares at me.
I smile right back.
“I’m looking for Holden Cade.”
He clears his throat and puffs his chest out, as if the macho move is a magical fix for my bruise to his ego.
“Called it,” he grins.
“Excuse me?”
That smug look comes back as he places one hand on the tile wall behind me and leans in close. My eyes dart quickly over the swatch of terrible tattoos covering his torso, lingering for a second at the cursive “Trisha” inked over his heart.
“Groupie chicks like you are always sneaking into the locker rooms like this lookin’ for the big-shot QB.” He wags his eyebrows at me. “Tryin’ to live out a little Friday Night Lights fantasy, babe?”
I roll my eyes.
“Yeah, you got me,” I say flatly, my eyes darting past the doofus in front of me to see if I can spot the man I actually came here for.
“You know, I got a better idea.” He winks at me. “What say you skip Holden, and me and you go out on an ATE,” he stresses the last word with a big, eager grin on his face.
“And then later, I can give you-”
“The D, right? You’re going to give me the D later?”
He frowns as I steal his thunder of a line.
“Heard that one before, tiger.”
He clears his throat again, like he’s digging deep for one last attempt at smooth talking the pants off of me.
“You know,” he g
rins, this time moving almost right against me.
“Us halfbacks know how to take it deep, baby,” the almost naked, athletically perfect man purrs into my ear.
I snort out a laugh, shaking my head.
“Oh, now I wouldn’t exactly go bragging about that, given your playoffs performance.”
He suddenly scowls at me as he pulls away.
“You know who the fuck I am?”
I smile sweetly.
“You’re Jackson Collins. You went All-American at U-Pitt, but some might say it was your peak since you’ve been banking that for the last seven years in the pros. You ran a thoroughly underwhelming last two seasons, and the talk around the campfire is that you just don’t have it anymore.”
He blinks and I keep going.
“You favor your left knee entirely too often, and it’s becoming both predictable and a problem. You have a tendency to undershoot conversions, and my guess is that the shoulder surgery you had three years ago is starting to bother you.”
I stop, crossing my arms across my chest and raising a brow at him.
“Oh, and I know you didn’t ask, but it’s my professional opinion that you are wildly overpaid. So, you know, milk that for all it’s worth before you blow that knee in a season or two and go into forced retirement.”
The cocky, self-aggrandizing smugness is gone from his face, replaced with a stunned look and an open mouth.
“Feel like telling me where Holden Cade is? Cause I can keep going if you want.”
Jackson scowls as he tightens the towel around his waist.
“He’s in the PT room; out back.”
“Thanks,” I say sweetly, tipping my hat and letting the Texas twang out that I usually keep held back.
I reach up and pat him on the cheek.
“Good luck with that shoulder, kiddo. And say hi to Trisha for me.”
“We’re divorced,” he mutters lamely.
“Shocking.”
I turn on my booted heel and walk calmly towards the physical therapy room.
“Bitch,” I hear him mutter, but it only makes me grin even wider.
I march past the array of other half-naked or in some cases entirely naked male athletes, tuning out the cat-calls, ignoring the, uh, appendages, and really just doing what I do best.
Owning the situation.
And that’s why I’m here in the locker room of the Denver Rattlesnakes - to own it and win.
I’m also here to see if the rumors are true concerning one of the biggest, hottest, and most talked-about quarterbacks in recent pro football history.
Holden Cade.
Born and raised in Denver, and everyone’s favorite hometown wild-child. Recklessly cocky on and off the field, and known just as well if not more so for his hard-partying and endless stream of high-profile sexual antics than his football skills. Honestly, if he weren’t so damn good at what he does, he’d just be another arrogant jock shaking his tail-feathers for the camera.
Except, he is so damn good.
Well, when he is, that is. Because Holden’s endless summer is finally catching up with him.
A shitty end-of-season performance leading to the Rattlesnakes first championship loss in five years was bad enough. But after he garnered enough bad partying press during the off season to start raising some eyebrows in the Rattlesnakes’ upper management, the rumor mill has it that the hometown hero might be looking to bail.
Loose lips sink ships, as they say, and I’m here for the kill.
I pause outside the PT room door, removing the token cowboy hat I wear to every scouting meeting and running a hand through my auburn hair. The hat is my lucky charm of sorts when I’m on the beat like this, chasing down possible recruitment or trade leads - a little bit of Texas that I carry with me.
I take a deep breath, focusing and centering myself before I slip the hat back on, twist the knob, and step into the physical therapy room to go toe-to-toe with Holden Cade.
It’s empty.
Of course.
I roll my eyes at myself for taking the word of a world-class tool like Jackson Collins. I start to turn to head back into the locker room when I gasp at the feel of warm, muscled, bare skin at my back.
“Hey, sugar.”
I can feel my heart skip a beat and my whole body freeze at the sound of the deep, honeyed voice I’ve only heard on interviews. The voice of the big-sky boy with the golden arm.
The cocky asshole jock I have to recruit.
Holden Cade.
The voice is like tobacco in my ear, and the hand that follows like warm heat as it traces up my bare arm.
Suddenly, the hand drops from my arm and comes swatting firmly across my denim-covered ass, and I gasp out loud.
“Now with an ass like that, how exactly have we not been introduced?”
I swallow the heat that comes to my face as I start to turn towards him.
“Mr. Cade-”
“Oh so you know me, huh?” he chuckles into my ear.
I turn and start to open my mouth, but suddenly the heat of the room and the masculine smell of him come crashing into my senses like some sort of perfect storm.
I swallow quickly as my breath catches in my throat.
He’s gorgeous. I mean I knew that, but he’s also standing there in just a towel, sweat glistening across the tattooed, hard-chiseled muscles of his chest and abs. My eyes dart to that sandy blonde hair, the chiseled chin and carved cheekbones, the perfectly formed lips, and those piercing, icy-blue eyes like a Colorado mountain stream.
Well, at least that’s the way the Colorado beer company described them in that commercial.
…They’re basically right.
“Listen, sweetheart,” he growls. “I’m all dirty right now from the gym, but what say you and me go hop in the shower and you can wash behind my ears, yeah?”
He doesn’t know who I am.
I mean, of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t know who I am or what I’m doing here, or that I’m his ticket to a new team.
He doesn’t know that I know he’s looking for a new team.
Hell, he probably thinks I’m some sort of football-bunny groupie like Jackson did.
He chuckles as he leans close, flashing that panty-melting grin at me as he hooks his thumbs into the already dangerously loose towel around his grooved hips.
“I’ve got this big important meeting with this really big-deal scout in a sec here, sugar.” His hand moves to my waist, sliding over my hip. “But why don’t you go warm up the water for me and I’ll join you aft-”
The door to the PT room suddenly starts to open as the sound of voices floods into the outside room. A portly man in a t-shirt and sport coat looks up at me and smiles as he steps through the door.
“Ahh, Ms. Jacobs!”
I can feel Holden freeze before suddenly and quickly dropping his hand from my waist.
I turn back to him, and I’m grinning as his eyes go wide - staring at me with this sort of half-shocked, half amused look on his face.
“Jacobs?”
I smile widely as I put a hand out, my eyes locking on him. The power is reversed now. Or, I want to tell myself that as I gloat at him.
Except he’s not really that embarrassed, or shy, or uncomfortable.
In fact, he almost looks amused.
“You’re LJ Jacobs?”
“London works, too,” I smile, arching a brow at his bemused expression.
The portly man in the sport coat who I now recognize as Holden Cade’s agent frowns before turning to me.
“Shall we move to an office, Ms. Jacobs?”
“Certainly.”
He nods before turning and stepping through another door.
I start to follow, but I just can’t resist turning back over my shoulder and winking at the gorgeous man in a towel still standing there looking half-confused.
“Enjoy your shower,” I say sassily under my breath. “Better make it a cold one.”
I flash him a smile, h
oping to see him at least react to that little barb as I turn to follow his agent.
But Holden just grins.
2
Holden
This is LJ Jacobs?
No fucking way. LJ Jacobs, the talent scout with the golden eye, whose father Archie Jacobs is the owner of the Houston Bulls. LJ Jacobs the notorious whiskey drinker, shit talker, hardline negotiator.
The LJ Jacobs in my head is a middle-aged balding guy with a paunch. The LJ Jacobs in my head wears suspenders, dabs his forehead with a sweaty handkerchief, and smells like old cigars.
The chick standing in front of me is none of those things.
“London Jacobs, Holden Cade,” Randy says, making the obvious introductions.
“So, let’s get down to business, shall we?”
London smirks again, eyeing me like maybe I should put a shirt on, and I wonder how the hell I didn’t know she was a chick.
I’m definitely not putting a shirt on now. I’m having too much fun watching her try not to stare at my abs.
“We weren’t expecting you until a little later,” Randy frowns, pulling at the cuffs of his jacket in that way he does when he gets flustered by something. Which is often, since dealing with me is his job.
“This is just a trainer’s office, but I can try and find a free conference room for-”
“Don’t bother,” London says.
She flashes a smile at him, and he smiles back like she didn’t just totally cut him off.
Shit, she’s good at this.
London turns back to me, crossing one arm across her chest and letting the fingers of her other hand trace over the soft line of her jaw as she gives me a good, long up-and-down.
We can both play that game. She’s ogleable as hell, auburn-haired, and pixie-small. Tight curves in all the right places, and oozing sex appeal even in jeans, a blouse, and stiletto boots straight off of Fifth Avenue.
And of course, the cowboy hat, perched on her head at just the right angle to cast a little shadow across that smirk.
Jock: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Page 1
