He stares at me like I’m the prize idiot at the county fair. “Yes, of course. What other Outlaws are there in professional football?”
“None.” Fighting to regain control of my breathing, I stare down at my iPad and hit a few keys to give the illusion I’m taking notes. “Is he coming here as backup?” I can’t imagine him playing as the number one quarterback, not when the Outlaws have Ty Mathews who took them to the Super Bowl.
“Officially, yes. Unofficially, no.”
I glance up. “What does that mean?”
“This is for your ears only. Do you understand, Eleanor?” His gaze drills into me.
“Yes, of course.”
“Ty Mathews needs shoulder surgery. He’ll be out of commission the entire season which means the Outlaws need a seasoned quarterback. That’s why they traded for Brock.”
“Who did they trade for him?”
“Pedro Santiago. He’ll be San Diego’s number one.”
“Ouch.” Brock’s gotta be hurting from that decision.
“Yeah, exactly. Which is why he needs to be handled with kid gloves when he gets here.”
And I’m the chump assigned to the job. But, hey, that’s why they pay me the big bucks. “So what do you want me to do?”
“For starters, meet him at O’Hare tomorrow morning. I’ll have my assistant email you the details. He’ll need you to drive him to training camp.”
“Okay.” That doesn’t seem so bad. Wait. “You said for starters. What else would you like me to do?”
“Caught that, did you?”
I nod while I wait for the other shoe to drop.
Leaning back in his chair, he temples his hands across his middle. “I want you to babysit Brock.”
Babysit Brock. Yeah. Sure. Piece of cake. Has he met him? For the last seven years, no one has been able to curb Brock’s wild excesses. Not Marty, not his coaches. Not anyone I know. But now it’s up to me to make sure he behaves? God help me.
At least I know some of his weaknesses which is why I’m waiting at O’Hare’s baggage claim area, caramel macchiato and chocolate croissant in hand. The chock-full-of calories welcome wagon is not a wild guess on my part. He loves sweets. I’ve done my research on him. Not that I needed to do much. I’ve followed his career since high school.
True to his aspirations, Brock attended a southern college, Clemson University, where he’d earned glory for the most passing yards and touchdowns thrown in NCAA history. After graduation, he’d signed with Florida. Three years into his contract, he’d been traded to San Diego after things spun out of control at a house party. And just like that, he’d gone from a promising career to backup. I can only imagine how much that had to hurt.
I glance at my watch for the umpteenth time. His flight arrived ten minutes ago. So he should be here any second. I hope I’m ready for this.
As soon as he steps off the escalator, his gaze lands on me. To my surprise, his lips curl into that sensual smile I remember so well. If he was a gorgeous high school senior, he’s downright stunning now. Six-foot-four of a well-muscled frame, honey blond hair and piercing green eyes would get any woman’s motor running, including me. Most especially me.
He struts forward in his master-of-all-he-surveys sexy walk and the masses of humanity part. Some women stop and stare; others downright gawk. Can’t blame them. It’s not every day you get to witness a living, breathing sex god. But much as he did in high school, he ignores all the female adulation until he comes to a stop dab smack in front of me. “Well, well, well. Eleanor Adams. I thought the name sounded familiar.”
“Hello, Brock. I got your favorites.” Somehow, I keep breathing as I hand him the coffee and croissant.
“Thank you, darling.” His southern twang gets my panties wet, the same as it did a million years ago.
I remind myself I’m older and wiser and not as vulnerable as I once was. Or at least I hope I’m not. Putting on my best professional front, I say, “Your bags should be coming out at carousel thirteen. This way.” I point toward the idle conveyor belt, hoping his luggage doesn’t take long to show up.
Rambling along in that easy, long-legged stride of his, he sips the brew, takes a bite of the pastry. “You were my Shakespeare tutor at Stonewall Jackson High.”
And a fuck buddy one stormy night. But there’s nothing to be gained from those memories, so I pin on the business smile I’ve perfected during the last few years and forge on. “That’s right.”
Done with the croissant, he tosses the wrapper into the nearest can. “So, what have you been up to?”
A strident, foghorn sound goes off at carousel thirteen, and the conveyor belt jerks into motion. “College followed by law school.”
“Where?”
“Duke.”
In a beauty of an arc, he lobs the coffee cup into the trash before pinning his gaze on me.
Knowing what’s coming, I take a deep breath and brace for the hit.
“You left halfway through your senior year.”
“Yes. My mom’s fiancé got transferred out of town to a new position. She offered to stay so I could finish high school at Stonewall Jackson. But I didn’t want to keep them apart. So we moved.” I’ve practiced telling that story more times than I can count. It’s the truth, just not the whole truth. When he doesn’t question me further, I ease out a sigh. One giant hurdle leaped.
“And you’re an agent now?”
“Yes. I’m in Marty’s group.” The sports agency pairs junior associates with senior partners. Since Marty recruited me, it was only natural to be assigned to him.
He comes to a dead stop in front of the carousel and stares at me. “Well, in that case, I want four million more.”
My breath shorts. Didn’t see that coming. Although in retrospect, I really should have. Regardless, I have to handle it. He’s a client, after all. “They won’t give it to you.”
He taps his massive bicep. “This is certainly worth the money.”
Unfortunately, that move gains us more attention. This is not good. Not good at all. If he’s recognized, someone might start wondering what the San Diego quarterback is doing in Chicago. “Keep your voice down, Brock. Please.”
He silently fumes while the bags roll by on the conveyor belt. “Any of these yours?” Please let one of them be. We need to get out of here. Fast.
With barely a glance, he grumbles, “No.”
He’s upset. I get it. Instead of giving him the starting spot, which he totally deserves, San Diego traded him. So, of course, his pride demands more money. Unfortunately, that’s not how things work. I can’t get into an in-depth discussion out here in the open. But given his level of anger, I have to give him some answer before he explodes. “You’re right, Brock. You’re totally worth more money. But you’re under the same contract terms you had at San Diego.”
“That’s bullshit.” His voice booms loud and clear over the myriad of conversations and heads turn.
If he got noticed before, it’s nothing to what’s happening now. If somebody snaps his photo and posts it on social media, the Outlaws’ management is bound to get pissed. I have to manage him before he deep-sixes his career with the Outlaws before it even starts.
Last thing I want to do is touch him. I know what that will do to me. But from experience I know it will calm him down. I brush my hand across that massive bicep of his. “Brock. You don’t want to start a scene in the middle of the airport. Wait until we get to the car. We’ll discuss it then.” The drive will give us enough time to talk.
His gaze lingers on my fingers, but he doesn’t object to my suggestion nor my touch.
A minute later, his bags show up, and he grabs them. He remains silent on the way to my car while I struggle to keep up with his long strides. Once we make it out of the airport, I tell him what he doesn’t want to know. “Chicago is only required to pay you the same amount of money San Diego did.”
“Why?”
“You know why, Brock.” He’s been around
long enough to know the NFL rules, but I’m not about to rub salt in his wounds. “Next year when you’re a free agent, we can renegotiate if you wish to stay here. If you don’t, we can shop around for a new team.”
“We? I thought Marty was my agent.”
“He is. But like I said—I’m part of his group. I perform background research, drum up endorsement deals, and meet with players when Marty’s unable to do so, like I’m doing now.”
The way he juts out his jaw reminds me of the tutoring session when I told him he needed to read the annotations to Macbeth, that reading the text was not enough. He’d resented it then, much as he’s doing now.
“I want a new football team.”
I briefly glance at him. “You know that already?”
“Chicago has Ty Mathews. They’ll never give me the starting position as long as he’s around.”
“Okay. I’ll pass on that information to Marty. We can’t entertain any offers until next year, but in the meantime, we can keep our ear to the ground.”
It takes him a while to stop grinding his teeth. “Guess that’s the best I can hope for.” He stretches his massive left arm over my backrest, pushes his long, powerful legs to the floor of the car, all in an attempt to get comfortable.
Darn it. My mid-size car’s too small for him. I should have leased an SUV. “Sorry.”
“For what?”
“The small car.”
“I’ll live.” He squirms some more before turning to me. “I thought you would become a doctor. How did you end up a sports agent, Ellie?”
Ellie, I haven’t been called that in forever. Prior to mom’s marriage to Steve, she and I had moved in with my aunt who was also an Ellie. So to avoid confusion, I’d been rebranded with my Christian name, Eleanor. It’d stuck through high school, college, and law school as well. Although I’d initially resented it, now I’m glad it did. Eleanor is much more professional than Ellie.
“Medical school would have been too expensive. So I passed on that and focused on pre-law. Shortly before graduated from college, I applied to Duke Law. They offered me a partial scholarship and off I went.”
“Ellie, the brain. That’s what they used to call you in high school,” he says with a grin. “So what happened then?”
“I loved law school, but litigation did not appeal to me. So I explored other options. When I attended a sports agency seminar, everything seemed to click. I’d always loved sports.”
“Yeah, I remember. You used to sit on the bleachers and watch us play.”
“Yes.” Can’t very well tell him I was watching him and his mighty fine gluteus maximus more than anything else. “Anyway, after the seminar ended, the lecturer invited a few students to coffee at the school cafeteria. I dazzled him with my knowledge of sports, and he offered me an internship that summer. When I graduated from Duke Law, I went to work for him.”
“But Duke’s in North Carolina. How did you end up in Chicago?”
His questions unsettle me. I don’t want things to get too personal between us. But he’s a client, and we have thirty minutes to go before we get to training camp. Surely, I can deal with his curiosity that long.
“I met Marty at a meeting of sports agents. He saw something in me and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” Not only was it for a higher salary, but he promised me a junior partnership in three years’ time. Even though I’d hated to leave the South, I snapped it up. My law school debt wasn’t going to pay for itself. “So I pulled up roots and moved to Chicago.”
“You never married?”
“No. Too busy with school and . . . other things.”
When he wiggles his big body some more, I struggle to keep my eyes on the road and not where they’d love to stray.
“Marty said you guys leased me a place?”
A safe topic. Thank God. “Yes, a two-bedroom condo in a very nice building, close to the Outlaws’ facility.”
“Butch hates apartments. I’ll need a house.”
“Not a problem. Once you’re done with training camp, we can find houses for you to look at. We didn’t want to make that decision for you.”
“I’ll need a big backyard with a fence so Butch can run free.” He stretches his arm and the scent of his woodsy cologne sets something loose within me. Some primal need dormant too long.
But giving in to that hunger is not an option. I have to do something fast. “Would you like me to stop so you can stretch your legs?”
“Nah, I’m good.”
That makes one of us. Better focus on something else. Quick. “About Butch. Some jurisdictions prohibit pit bulls. North Chicago being one.”
His head swivels toward me. “That’s bullshit. Butch’s perfectly well-behaved. He’s never even thought about biting anyone.”
“You’re a responsible pet owner. Other pit bull owners are not. Some people breed them to be aggressive. But don’t worry; lots of communities allow them. We’ll help you find a place.”
“I’ll need a big house.”
“For Butch?”
“For parties.”
I glare at him. “No parties. No free-flowing fountains of alcohol. And definitely no photos of skimpily clad women in your bed.” Last year, salacious images had hit the internet of a ménage a quattre—Brock and three sex partners—on a huge mattress fitted with red silk sheets. He’d laughed it off at the time. But more than likely, that had been the main reason he’d been traded away by the owner of the San Diego Missionaries.
He leans over to whisper in my ear. “Can I help it if the ladies want a piece of me?”
Every cell in my body comes to life, but I’ll be damned if I let him know it, cocky bastard that he is. “Honestly, Brock. You’re not seventeen anymore. You’re thirty years old. You have maybe five good years left in your career. Do you really want to be remembered as a player who can’t keep it in his pants? Or as NFL glory?”
He shifts to his side of the car, and the temperature inside the car plummets to a deep freeze.
God. Marty may have asked me to remind him of the rules, but do I have to act like such a bitch? “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” A muscle in his jaw ticks. “You’re right.”
“Then why—Never mind.” Better quit while I’m ahead. Except I can’t. He has to understand how easily he could lose it all. And this time, it might be for good. “Have you met Oliver Lyons?”
“The owner of the Outlaws? No. Not yet.”
I need to be tactful and not lash out at him. So, I have to be careful of what I say. “He hates scandals. It’s rooted in his personal history. Something happened that caused a lot of bad blood in his family. That’s why he can’t stand notoriety, especially the kind that shines a bad light on his team. Don’t give him a reason to call you out. You might not like where you end up.”
For a second, his jaw juts once more. But then it settles down. “Understood.”
I take the off-ramp while he stares out the window in stone-cold silence. Well, at least it stopped his charm offensive. Last time he did that, it almost derailed my life.
The car’s guidance system announces a turn into the Outlaws’ training camp compound. Good. Last thing I want is to dwell on my past. Something I’m finding hard to avoid. Brock’s nearness has awakened deep memories I’d thought long dead and buried.
Once we’re through security, I park in a visitor’s spot and pop open the trunk so he can retrieve his things.
Trying hard not to tremble, I hand him my business card. “My number. In case you need to reach me. Is there anything you want me to do while you’re here?”
“Yeah.” When he heaves his duffel bag over one shoulder and the bicep on his arm bulks, I forget to breathe. I knew he’d have this effect on me, and yet I agreed to drive him to camp anyway.
“Check on Butch. Let me know he’s all right.” Sadly, he’s all business now.
I curse myself for missing his easy charm, his sexy smile. When will I learn? “Will do.”
&nb
sp; He walks away without saying another word. But then, there’s really nothing more to say.
Chapter 3
Brock
THE CHICAGO OUTLAWS’ training camp’s not for pussies. San Diego’s was a walk in the park compared to this team’s bruising drills. After only one day, I feel like I want to curl up and die, but I gotta tough it out. Can’t let anyone think the Outlaws’ new quarterback is a wimp who can’t handle his shit.
After the insanely early wake-up call at 6 a.m., I barely have enough time to wolf down oatmeal, eggs, and a gallon of juice before reporting to the training room for mandatory treatment of all my aches and pains. Even though I don’t complain, the staff knows just what to treat. Obviously, not the first time they’ve been on this rodeo.
Strength training comes next—my least favorite part, but necessary as all get out. If you’re not strong, you can get hurt, and that’s the last thing I need. Next, we report to meetings—one with the entire team, followed by another with the quarterback coach. Then the real fun begins. We’re sent to our lockers to suit up in twenty pounds of training gear for the first practice of the day. Even though I’m the quarterback, I’m still expected to participate in all the grueling maneuvers with the rest of the team. You ever done football drills with pads in eighty-five-degree heat? No? Well, it’s a real treat. It feels like you’re cooking from the inside out.
After an hour of torture, a whistle blows. “Fifteen-minute break.”
Thank the fuck.
As I’m dipping my head in a bucket of ice-cold water, a voice rumbles over my shoulder. “You’re doing fine.”
I jerk up, shake off the water, spraying the starting quarterback of the Outlaws for the last two seasons, Ty Mathews. “Yeah?”
He doesn’t bother to introduce himself. I’d be an idiot not to know who the fuck he is. “Yeah. Coach Grohowski is impressed.”
I glance in the coach’s direction whose expression has not changed since I walked on the field. He’s still got that same scrunch to his mouth and beady-eyed gaze every time his glance lands on me. “How can you tell?”
Roughing the Player (Chicago Outlaws Book 2) Page 2
