“Trust me. I can tell.” He bops me on the shoulder. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”
“Will do.” If I don’t die from heat exhaustion first.
When the final whistle signals the end of practice, we head back to the locker room. After a quick shower, I’m ordered to the rehabilitation room where I’m given a full body massage by Sven, a Swedish masseur with ham-sized hands and the disposition of the Marquis de Sade. Before long, the massage table becomes a rack of pain.
After he’s finished, I crawl back hunched over to my locker to get dressed.
“Hurting?” Trevor, my six foot seven center, asks. He’s sitting on a bench slipping his size fourteen feet into a pair of designer loafers.
“A little.” Pride drives me to straighten up and reach for my shirt, no matter how much it fucking hurts.
Trevor flashes a sympathetic grin. “Sven’s a sadist, man. He loves to torture players.”
“Now you tell me.” I’d laugh if it wouldn’t hurt so much.
He stands and slaps me on the back. “You’ll be all right.”
I scream silently. Bastard.
“You coming to the team dinner on Saturday, right?”
“Dinner?” We’re being cut loose on Saturday afternoon and not expected to report back to camp until Sunday night. I’d planned to spend the time lying on a bed somewhere without moving a muscle. Or breathing.
“Yeah. At the Chicago Hilton. Seven o’clock. Nobody told you?”
“Nope.” More than likely, they would have gotten around to it before the weekend. Probably after tomorrow’s press conference announcing my presence in Chicago.
“All the players are expected to attend.”
“Okay. I’ll be there. Thanks for letting me know.”
He pauses while giving me the once-over. Out of all the players, he’s the one I’ve gotten to know best in the short time I’ve been here.
“If you need a date, I can hook you up.”
“Nah. I got it.” Can’t very well show up at a team dinner without a chick on my arm. After all, I got a reputation to protect. Problem is, I only know one woman in Chicago, and I’m pretty sure she’s going to turn me down.
Team dinners offer the usual locker room talk. Who got blown, who got screwed, what chick’s willing to do what. Not only have I heard it all, but I’ve done most of it. Rather than join in, I focus on my food and keep my head down.
Done with the meal, I head back to my room, hoping to find oblivion. But first, I have to call Ellie. I dig in my wallet for her business card and punch her number into my cell.
She picks up on the second ring. “Brock?”
“Yeah, it’s me. How did you know?”
“I programmed your number into my phone. Anything wrong?”
“You know that spot at the top of the head where my hair sticks up.” I hope she remembers. A million years ago, she’d mentioned it a time or two.
“Yes.” I can almost hear the smile in her voice.
“It’s the only part that doesn’t hurt.”
“Ouch.”
“Mom, do you know where—” A girl’s voice. She sounds young.
The voice gets muffled as if Ellie has covered up the mouthpiece. A few seconds later, she returns to our call.
“Sorry about that,” she says.
“You have a kid.” Why I’m surprised is beyond me. She’s certainly old enough.
She hesitates for a second before she says, “Yes.”
When she doesn’t volunteer more than that, I sense it’s a touchy subject, So, other than a “That’s good,” I don’t pry.
“Is there something you need?” Her tone’s businesslike, yet not unkind.
“Yeah, ahh, have you heard about Butch?”
She laughs, a nice tinkling laugh that reminds me of that time long ago when we were young and she was innocent. So, so innocent.
“As a matter of fact, I have. They’ve reached Denver. Butch traveled well. He’s probably enjoying a nice sleep right about now. They should make it to Chicago by tomorrow. The dog kennel’s waiting for him.”
“That’s good.” I miss the snuggle bunny. Even though Butch has his own doggie bed, he always climbed into mine.
“How long have you had him?”
“Six years. Since he was a puppy. A Florida teammate’s dog gave birth to fourteen of them. Butch was the runt of the litter, but I fell in love with him. You have a dog?”
“No. Too busy with school and—”
“Your daughter.”
“Yes.” I’m curious as hell to find out about her kid. But it’s none of my business, so I don’t ask.
“Anything else?”
She’s growing impatient, so I better get to the main reason I called. “Yeah. How would you like to attend a team dinner with me this Saturday?”
For a couple of heartbeats, she doesn’t say a thing, and I hope like hell she’s leaning toward yes. But then she says, “It would not be a good thing for us to cross the professional line, Brock.”
Damn it. Should have known she’d come down on the other side. “You’re not my agent.”
“But I work for the agency that represents you. So, same thing.”
“Have you met anyone from the Outlaws’ team?”
“No.”
“They don’t know you then.”
“Even if I don’t know them now, I might meet them in the future if I represent one of their athletes.”
Should have known she’d return a great come back. But I have one of my own. “Do you represent any football players now?”
“No. But give me a couple of years, and I will.”
“Marty said you were good.”
“I am. I do my homework, and I work very hard for our agency’s clients.”
“Do you have any of your own? Clients, I mean.”
“Not yet. It takes time to learn the ropes. Get to know the athletes.”
Marty might think the world of her, but she’s got a long way to go. I’ve heard of a few women who represent athletes, but I don’t know a single one who represents football players. “If you came to the dinner on Saturday, you’d get to know some. I can introduce you to the ones I know. In the meantime, I can keep my ears open to see if anyone is unhappy with his representation.”
“You’d do that for me?”
“Of course, Ellie. What are friends for?”
“We’re not friends.”
Man, that’s harsh. But I get it. She wants me to think of her as a professional. Thing is, I don’t know if I can. Seeing her again stirred something in me, feelings I’d only felt when I’d been with her.
“We were friends once.” And for one glorious evening, we were a hell of a lot more than that. I’d gotten a great grade on my Macbeth midterm, something I’d never expected to do. Wanting to celebrate, I’d driven through a hellacious thunderstorm to get to her. When the storm had knocked out the power in her house, she’d been terrified. I’d tried to comfort her, and before I knew it, we were doing the deed on her mother’s kitchen table with me riding her bareback. Something I’d never done before. Or since.
“That was a long time ago.” Clearly, it’s something she’d rather forget. A shame. I never could.
But why would she want to remember? We were young and stupid. Well, she was young. I was stupid. But that’s neither here nor there. Sensing I’m losing my window of opportunity, I change tack. “All right. Not friends. Business acquaintances, then. You scratch my back. I’ll scratch yours.”
“That’s not happening.” She thinks I’m putting the moves on her. Can’t blame her. Not with my reputation.
But for some reason, I’m offended. “It’s nothing dirty, Ellie.”
“Then what is it?”
“Simple. You come as my plus one. I introduce you to some football players. At the end of the evening, you go home—alone—with the knowledge you’ve made some contacts in the team. Win-win all around.”
“I don’t know, Broc
k. It sounds skeevy not to identify myself as an agent.”
“But you wouldn’t be on the hunt for clients. You’d be my date. If anybody asks, which they won’t. Please.” What’s wrong with me? I’ve never had to beg a woman to go out with me. They usually jump at the chance.
“When is it again?”
“Saturday at the Hilton Chicago. Dinner’s at eight.”
“Let me check my schedule.” Something rustles in the background. A few seconds later, she’s back. “That works. I can meet you there.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Can’t very well say I’ll pick her up. Although my SUV might be here by Saturday, it hasn’t been delivered yet. I could rent a car, I suppose, but I don’t know this city. And GPS gets you only so far.
“Anything else, Brock?”
I should let her go. She’s got things to do with her kid. “No. That’s it.”
“All right.”
But then the devil in me blurts out, “Wear something sexy.”
She barks out a laugh. Usually not the sexiest sound on a woman, but somehow it works on her. “You’re pushing your luck, Parker. You’re lucky I said yes.”
Parker. That’s what she used to call me during our tutoring sessions whenever I did something she didn’t approve. Somehow, it makes me happy to hear her call me that. “Yes, ma’am. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Well, well, well. So Ellie has a daughter. Who would have thunk? She’s not married. Not that you need to be married to have a kid. But back then Ellie planned everything to the nth degree, so no way would she have a child without working it into her schedule. I rub my face and scoot deeper into the bed. Thank God I hadn’t gotten her pregnant. We’d definitely dodged a bullet there. I’d been so embarrassed about not taking precautions, I’d stopped going to our tutoring sessions. The month and a half after we did the deed, I’d lived in fear of her telling me I’d knocked her up. After suffering the hell of the damned for six weeks, I’d manned up and asked her if everything was okay. When she’d said everything was fine, I was finally able to breathe. That kid would have been awesome, though. How could he not be with her brains and my abilities? But thank God Ellie hadn’t been pregnant. Last thing I’d have needed in high school was a kid. But my carelessness taught me a lesson. After that night, I’ve never fucked a woman without suiting up.
I toss my cell on the night table and turn off the desk light. Lying in the dark, I wonder what Ellie’s kid is like. Does she have her mother’s smarts? Does she look like her daddy? Whoever he is, I hope he’s treating Ellie and his kid right. Because if he doesn’t, he’s a total tool.
Chapter 4
Eleanor
DARN IT. I whisper under my breath. The last thing I wanted was for Brock to know I have a daughter. Because once he learned I had a child, he might start asking questions. Who am I kidding? There’s no might about it. He will ask questions—about her name, her age, her father. And that he must never, ever know. I’ll need to skirt my way around the truth. No lies, though. If I even think about lying, he’ll see right through me. He always could.
“Who were you talking to, Mom?” Kaylee interrupts, her face lit up with curiosity. That’s when I realize, Brock’s not the only one I need to keep in the dark.
“One of my firm’s clients.”
“Who?”
“No one you know.” And no one she will ever know if I have anything to say about it. “Ready for your birthday party?”
To celebrate her twelfth birthday, she’d campaigned for a sleepover with her closest friends. I’d been reluctant to say yes. Hosting a dozen pre-teens is not my idea of a good time. They talk too loud, giggle nonstop, and their main topic of conversation, at least among her crowd, seems to be boys. That last thing petrifies me.
Lips turned down, she shrugs. “I guess.”
I guess? A week ago, she’d been so excited. What on earth has changed her mood? “What’s wrong?”
“Meghan’s brother.”
Meghan. Her best friend whose older brother Mike is in high school. Last year Kaylee barely knew he existed. Seemingly, things have changed. “What about him?”
“I invited him, but he’s not coming.”
My mom alarm goes off. “Since when do you invite boys to a slumber party?”
“Mom.” She scrunches her face at me. “Everyone does it. They don’t spend the night. They just come for the party.”
Okay. This is news to me. How do you even handle the logistics of such a thing? Kick them out at nine o’clock? That seems . . . odd.
She scuffs her toe into the rug. “But it doesn’t matter. He can’t make it.”
My little girl’s first heartbreak. With surely more to come. Boys, after all, will be boys, as well I know. “He’s in high school, honey.”
She tilts her head to the side. “What does that mean?”
“Well, high school boys tend to like high school girls.”
“So I’m too young for him?”
“That’s part of it. Yes.”
“What’s the other part?” She’s nothing if not inquisitive.
“Well, high school boys like to date within their own school. Bringing a junior high student to a senior high dance is not cool.”
“That sucks.”
“You’ll get there soon enough, sweetheart. The good thing is that you can attend school dances with boys your own age.” She’s growing up way too fast. Is it wrong of me to wish she’d stay a little girl just a little while longer? “Now how about we plan the party. What would your friends like to eat?”
“Well, Marcy’s a vegan, Charlene won’t eat anything that isn’t gluten-free.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “And Ki-Ki is a pesco-vegetarian.”
Pesco what? “What on earth is that?”
“She only eats vegetables and fish.”
Lord have mercy. “We’ll need to plan the menu very carefully then.” I retrieve a white legal pad from my briefcase, drop it on the table, and pat the chair next to me. “Sit.”
An hour later, I have a list of food to buy and dishes to make. I’ll need to recruit Mama for the event because I can’t prepare all this food by myself. She’ll love my asking her. After all, she and Steve moved to Chicago to be with us. After I told them about my job offer in the Windy City, he put the word out to the Chicago grocery store community that he was looking for a job. It didn’t take long for a local chain to snap him up.
After years of him catering to a southern clientele, the Chicago population posed a brand new challenge for him. But he’s excelled at it by bringing that famous southern hospitality to his supermarkets. He set up southern cooking demos at every one of the stores he managed, and Chicagoans took to southern fried chicken, fried catfish, with a side of greens, and cornbread pudding with a vengeance. Since he took over, sales at his grocery stores have soared.
The move hadn’t been easy, though. After years of living in the mild temperatures of the south, we’d all found it difficult to deal with the cold and snowy landscape of Chicago. I’d worried about uprooting Kaylee from her nice, friendly school and dropping her into an environment filled with strangers. Turns out I had nothing to worry about. With the effortless charm she’d inherited from her father, she’d made friends easily. She had it all—brains, beauty, and charisma. Plus a good dose of street smarts. She can spot a lie a mile away. That’s why I have to be so very careful around her.
There had been one more plus to living in Chicago. The move had given me the opportunity to become a homeowner. For the first time in my life, I own a house. Our home contains two bedrooms, one full and half-bath, and a decent kitchen. But the big plus is the huge backyard. When the weather allows, we gather back there to barbecue. Plus, Mama has started a vegetable and herb garden.
But the biggest advantage is to Kaylee. She’s enrolled in the number one junior high school in Illinois. She’s getting the very best education my tax dollars can buy.
With my future and Kaylee’s education secure
d, I’d breathed easy for the first time in years. Until Marty called me into his office this week to tell me Brock Parker had been traded to the Chicago Outlaws. Just like that, the bottom had fallen out of my world.
“Earth to Mom.” I blink back to find Kaylee waving her hand in front of my face.
“What?”
“I’ve asked you the same question three times.”
“Sorry, honey.”
Scrunching her brow, she studies me as if I were a puzzle to be solved. “You’ve been off the last few days. Since Saturday. The day you picked up Brock Parker at the airport.”
My heart skips a beat. She has a sixth sense when it comes to me. She knows when I’m upset. But she can’t find out what’s bothering me.
But before I can point her scrutiny in another direction, she says, “He’s a jerk.”
That assessment surprises me. She’s usually not that harsh. “Why do you say that?”
“Somebody overdosed at one of his parties.”
“Honey, he didn’t provide the drugs.”
“How do you know?”
“The player who died brought it himself. They found drug paraphernalia on him.” Why am I discussing Brock when that’s the last thing I want?
“Doesn’t matter. He should have been more careful about who he invited.”
Eleven-year-olds about to turn twelve possess all the wisdom in the world. “He was a member of his team. It would have been weird if he hadn’t invited him.”
“Why are you defending him, Mom?”
“Because it’s wrong to accuse an innocent man. Brock did not provide the drugs. He even hired a security firm to check his guests. But somehow, this player managed to sneak them in, and he paid for it with his death.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Brock Parker is a client. It’s my job to know his history—personal and professional.”
She tosses her blond hair over her shoulder, its honey shade so close to her father’s. “Still, he shouldn’t have allowed it to happen.”
“Kaylee, it’s not like the player asked his permission.”
“Besides, that’s not the only reason I don’t like Mr. Parker.”
Roughing the Player (Chicago Outlaws Book 2) Page 3
