by Violet Blaze
I just heard my kid's heartbeat for the first time and honestly, it made me realize how loud mine was beating for you.
.
Football Dick
Copyright © Caitlin Stunich 2016
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
For information address Sarian Royal Indie Publishing, 89365 Old Mohawk Rd, Springfield, OR 97478.
www.sarianroyal.com
ISBN-10: 1938623134 (eBook)
ISBN-13: 978-1-938623-13-4 (eBook)
Cover art and design © Amanda Carroll and Sarian Royal
"Libby" Font © Mathew Welch
"Caviar Dreams" Font © Lauren Thompson
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, businesses, or locales is coincidental and is not intended by the author.
this book is dedicated to love and laughter.
it's almost impossible to find one without the other.
Greetings, Dear Readers! This is Violet Blaze stopping by to say thanks for picking up Della and Big Dick's … I mean, Rhoden's story. P.S. the guy's last name is Richards and he's a tall dude so … Big Dick is his nickname. Nothing dirty about it at all. Nope. Not a single thing. ;) Anyhow, this is a stand-alone novel meaning it's a complete story all in one book. It's a part of my new "Big Girls, Bad Boys, and Babies" line, a series of unrelated books that have three special things in common. Can you guess what those are? =D As usual, if you enjoy the book, could you take a moment to leave a review? I would absolutely love to read it! Now, off you go to enjoy the ridiculously silly and sexy world of Della Garland, loud and proud big girl (according to the newspaper article she just read about herself). As you're reading, feel free to Tweet and Instagram your favorite passages to me @IAmVioletBlaze #footballdick. I can also answer questions, hear compliments or complaints, or just chat!
Kisses, loves, and happy reading (psst … go get a cocktail!).
~Au revoir, Violet Blaze
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“That arrogant son of a …”
I trail off and run my fingers through my hair, risking a glance at my father's face before I refocus my attention on the game. The outside air is like a sauna, turning the chiseled arms and faces of the players into shiny masks of sweat. Of course, I can't exactly see any of that from up here. In my father's skybox, all the brightly uniformed men on the field look like ants.
“He's definitely a bit of a showboater,” Walter Virgil says as he laughs a throaty, husky laugh that used to get me all twisted up in a knot. Lately, it's just not doing it for me. Maybe it's because my dad is trying to marry me off to the guy like I'm some sort of medieval princess? I glance back at him, taking in the crisp, tailored lines of his suit and the perfectly metrosexual sculpting of his five o'clock shadow.
Suddenly, I'm desperate to get out of that air-conditioned cage.
“He's not just a showboater in the dictionary sense of the word,” I interject, causing the numerous suited individuals to squirm in their chairs. See, I don't have a penis, so anything I might have to think or say on the subject of football is pretty much null and void. Okay, so anything I might have to think or say period seems to be null and void in this company.
Being the daughter of a man who owns the Arcata Adders used to seem like a dream to me. Now, it feels more like a nightmare.
“Celebration or taunting of any kind are actual offenses in the NFL, subject to suspensions or large fines.” I hold up a manicured fingernail and continue before any of the good ol' boys enjoying the food, drink, and scantily clad waitresses in my father's skybox can object. “And a player who leaves his feet,” I glare out the window at the tiny ant-sized shape that is Rhoden Richards, “or uses a prop is actually liable for a fifteen yard penalty for excessive celebration.”
I take a deep breath and smile briefly at the men before glancing over at one of five large ultra HD screens that grace the corners of the room. There he is, Mr. Showboater himself, the guy everyone refers to as Big Dick. Like that's clever. Whatever happened to subtlety? Yes, his last name is Richards and well … I've heard from some of the team cheerleaders that the other part, the Big part, is actually true.
Which kind of makes it even worse.
That arrogant son of a bitch is so not screwing up my season, I think as I spin on my heel and reach for the handle of the door. I can practically feel my father's eyes boring into my back, can almost swear I can still hear his voice from last night.
“People act like the world's changed in the last few centuries, Della. But it hasn't. There are only two ways to get ahead: marriage and money. Sometimes it takes the former to bring more of the latter.”
Yeah. My dad wants me to go all Kate Winslet from Titanic and marry for money. Business hasn't been great and my father's afraid a fall from fortune is imminent.
I don't have time to worry about that right now though. Football is sort of my thing, and the fact that my favorite team is now my actual team—okay, my dad's actual team—is just icing on the cake. And I'm not going to let Big Dick ruin it just because he has a monstrously sized penis.
The sun beats down on the warm auburn glaze of my hair as I breeze down the cement aisles, fingers grazing the warm metal railings at my sides as I hit the steps two at a time. Dad doesn't know it, but I always make sure to purchase a front row ticket before the game, just in case I start to get claustrophobic.
Glancing up at the cloudless California sky, all I can say is there's a hell of a lot more of it out here than in the cloistering confines of the so called skybox.
I sigh and flick some hair from my face, pushing my silver Dior shades down to cover my blue eyes. Ten more steps down and the staircase curves into the inner portion of the stadium. To get to my specific seat, I'll have to hurry past the concession stand and show my ID badge to one of the security guards.
Five minutes later, I'm settling onto the sun warmed surface, a cool breeze kissing my cheeks as I watch Rhoden Richards throw yet another touchdown pass. An unbidden smile takes over the red curves of my mouth as I smile and cheer, rising from my seat to pump my fist, wishing I had a flag or a pom-pom or something to wave.
Ever since I was a little girl, I've been an Arcata Adder's fan, sitting glued to the flickering surface of the TV to watch them play. When I was eight and Dad finally made his fortune, I got to see my first game in person, a container of popcorn on my lap and a soda in my hand. It was heaven, pure heaven.
I didn't think things could get any better … until my dad actually bought the team.
I'm on the edge of my seat as I watch our quarterback, Rhoden Richards, jog across the green of the FieldTurf, sweat glistening on the corded muscles in his arms, shining on the hard-set line of his jaw, the generous curve of his lower lip. He might be a showboating a-hole, but I'm still human and the guy is hot.
I lean back in my chair and get ready for the half-time show, enjoying the feel of the warm sun on my skin as I watch the players—mostly Rhoden Richards—move to the sidelines and talk amongst themselves, sip water. I keep watching them, waiting for them to head into the locker room, while I adjust the white jersey Armani tank top that my little sister forced me to wear today. She said it would impress Walter, make him think I was fun and sporty but also fashionable. And of course,
like an idiot I listened to her. The top keeps riding up and the jersey feels cloistering and tight in the hot sun. I should've just worn my own clothes. Nothing against my sister, but she's a size zero and I'm … not.
Oh well. It's not like there's anyone here that I'm trying to impress. Walter seems like a nice guy, but I'm pretty sure he isn't my guy. No, Walter is definitely my father's guy.
I sit up and put my elbows on my knees, aware that a typical half-time is all of twelve minutes. But the guys are just standing there in their red, black and purple uniforms. On the other side of the arena, there's a sea of rippling color like the silver-blue of the Caribbean Sea.
And then I see Rhoden Richards striding to the center of the field with a satisfied smirk plastered to his perfect lips. His coach—a friend of my father's, a man named Odell Hollis—joins him with a mic in hand and a little wave for the crowd. In an instant, his face is displayed on the Jumbotron screen on the far left of the field, white smile beaming as he introduces himself.
“As y'all might be aware,” he begins, his southern accent thick and heavy and pleasant on the ears. My little sister thinks the coach is twice as hot as Rhoden Richards, despite the fact that he's the same age as our dad. I think she has some serious complexes she should work on in therapy. “October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month.” There's a subdued cheer from the crowd, like they're solemn about the idea of cancer but happy to fight against it. “Instead of our usual half-time show, we've got something special for you today.”
There's another pause and the cheering gets louder, like the whole crowd is in on a joke that I'm somehow missing. I've been crazy busy lately, so I haven't been keeping up with much more than the scores. Who has time to get into all the NFL gossip anyway? As far as I can tell, it's mostly about Big Dick and his numerous celebrity conquests and party scandals.
“During each NFL game for the month of October, we'd like to offer you—” Coach Odell points out at the crowd and flashes that blindingly brilliant smile of his “—a chance to Win a Date with an NFL Player.”
The crowd goes nuts, people rising to their feet and waving banners with Rhoden's name on them. Some of them even say Big Dick in outrageously large capital letters. I do my best not to roll my eyes and push my sunglasses up on top of my head.
Hmm.
How nuts is it that I missed something like this? My best friend, Ariana, is a huuuge Rhoden Richards fan, so I'm surprised she wasn't all over this. Then again, she's been a little busy planning her actual wedding to give much of a crap about football.
I stare down at the field as Rhoden removes his helmet and shakes out a sweaty head full of perfectly mussy dark hair. His five o'clock shadow is refreshingly real, not all groomed and plucked up like Walter's. It highlights the generous shape of his mouth and that frustratingly enigmatic smile that promises everything and says nothing. It draws me in, forces me to scoot to the edge of my seat to watch.
“One player from each team has volunteered for the honor of spending an entire day with a fan. It's your date, your choice,” he continues as he spins in a slow circle and the fans of the opposing team pretend to boo at him. Coach just keeps smiling. “You can hang out and play fantasy football,” the crowd snickers, “or ask our eligible bachelor over here out on a romantic candlelit dinner date.”
Rhoden raises his muscular arms up and squeezes his black gloved hands into fists as the women—and some of the dudes—in the crowd start going insane.
“I'm already looking forward to it,” Rhoden purrs as he leans into the mic, his deep voice gliding over my skin and bringing up goose bumps as he flashes that cocksure grin to the crowd. Even from here, I swear I can see the swoony darkness of his eyes. Ariana calls them her dark chocolate almonds and promises that if she ever meets Rhoden in person, she's going to gobble them up.
I can't help myself; I roll my eyes.
Coach laughs and pulls the mic back from his star player.
“As you already know, just by being here today you have a chance to win. For extra chances, we've been selling raffle tickets online and in person at all the concession stands. One hundred percent of the proceeds will go to the Dr. Susan Love Research Foundation.” A massive wave of euphoria ripples over the crowd as people stand up and clap, and I feel a small twinge of guilt at missing out on this promotion. I mean, it's not like I actually want to go on a date with Rhoden, but it would've been nice to donate.
I promise myself I'll pledge some money when I get home.
“The winner's name has been chosen at random,” Coach continues as one of the refs steps up to him in crisp black and white and passes over a red envelope. “And I've got it right here in my hand.”
With a sigh, I lean back and brush some hair off my sticky forehead. For a second there, I almost regret leaving the air-conditioning of the skybox. Not to mention the food, the drink … the company.
Never mind.
I'm good down here.
I watch as Coach Odell starts to open the envelope in his hand, the crackling sound of the paper echoing through the mic and into the stadium. Meanwhile, Rhoden Richards stands next to him in his skintight black football pants and pads, the tight firm shape of his butt almost criminal. The man is shaped like a god, all sculpted and chiseled muscular perfection. The uniform emphasizes the width of his shoulders, exaggerating an already prominent feature. And underneath it all, there's the tantalizing promise of his tattoos, like the ones on his upper arm and back. I can't see any of them now, but I know all about them—courtesy of Ariana and her addiction to Rhoden Richards' Instagram account.
I raise my gaze to his face and the masculine cut of his chin. I feel an overwhelming urge to press my lips to the sharp right angle where his jawline meets his ear. It's impossible not to think that when he's standing there with a self-assured smile, his lips the only soft looking part of his whole body. The rest of the man is hard lines, hard muscles, maybe hard … other things.
I smile and shake my head, leaning back to watch the action unfold before me as I resign myself to admiring Big Dick from afar. He's pretty to look at it, but based on all the stories I've heard, the man seems like a royal asshole.
As he waits for Coach to finish opening and reading the envelope, Rhoden scans the crowd with that cocky smile of his, running his hand over his sweaty face. I've seen the man in interviews, heard the confidence in his voice, seen the way he practically pours himself into chairs. There's this swagger to him—on and off the field—that I think most people have a hard time resisting.
Even me … and even if I refuse to admit it.
“Alright,” Coach Odell begins, his smile getting wider as he looks up and glances around the packed stadium. All around me, I can hear the fans taking in a collective breath, can hear the whisper of clothing as people lean forward in anticipation. “Our winner …” A strange pause and a raised eyebrow as he scans the white card in his hand. “Our winner is Della Garland in seat 15C.”
His gaze follows the swing of the camera as suddenly it becomes my shocked face up on the Jumbotron. My red lips parted in surprise, my sunglasses sliding off my forehead and bouncing against the cement at my feet.
All around me, the crowd goes nuts, strangers clapping their hands on my shoulders and congratulating me for something I can't have won, shouldn't have won. If it'd been my sister sitting here, people would've recognized her as Reuben Garland's daughter, would've known she was the child of the man who owned the team.
Instead, there's her older sister, a person not many would recognize, her last name a possible coincidence linking her to the team's owner.
I'm still sitting there with the cameras zooming in on my face when Rhoden Richards looks up at me and somehow, even across the field from me, manages to catch my eye.
Our gazes lock and I can feel my heart slamming against the inside of my rib cage.
He winks at me and that cocky smile of his turns sensual, like an invitation.
Like a promise.
�
��There's nothing in the official rules that says you can't accept the prize,” Ariana says, planting one hand on her hip and waving the raffle ticket in my face. She looks like she's wearing a sexy librarian costume only … it's not a costume. This look—the thick rimmed glasses, red hair in twin braids, the Kat Von D Hexagram lipstick—it's authentic Ariana Ohlin. Her clothes are prim and proper, consisting mostly of skirt suits and white button-ups, but that face and the slim, lithe body underneath it have been drawing attention for years. “Trust me. I read literally all of the fine print on the website. Twice.”
“I can't accept this, Ariana,” I say from the edge of her plastic wrapped white couch. Her husband-to-be, Scottie Chadha, is a bit of a germaphobe. Since he moved in, he's transformed Ariana's pigsty into a hospital clinic. Is that iodine I smell? I wrinkle my nose. “And I really can't believe you bought me four dozen raffle tickets.” I pause and my mouth twitches. “With my credit card. That's practically identity theft, Ariana.”
She rolls her green eyes at me and flicks the winning raffle ticket stub in my direction. It falls to the floor in lazy circles, like an autumn leaf. Not nearly as dramatic as I think she was hoping for.
“This is a good thing for you, Della,” she tells me, coming to sit next to me and wrinkling her nose at my ensemble. Ariana, like my sister, Hal, is practically obsessed with trying to dress me up. They're a size six and a size zero respectively; they have no idea what it's like to dress me. I'm a size fourteen, and I don't exactly feel comfortable in a midriff top and Daisy Dukes. It's not that I'm ashamed of my body or anything because I'm not. I just … want to dress comfortably. Why is that a crime? “You need more adventure in your life.”
I raise a red brow.
“Adventure? Winning a date with an NFL player is an adventure?”
“Noooo, going out on a date with an NFL player is an adventure.”
I shake my head at her and adjust the baggy black hoodie I'm wearing. I'm swimming in it, but it makes me feel good. I have this thing about my arms and whenever possible, I prefer to cover them up. Again, not ashamed, just … I don't wear Herve Leger bandage dresses like my little sister. I caved and wore the tank top that Hal picked out to the game and look where that got me: my shocked expression and bare arms plastered across the Jumbotron and trending on social media.
