Roughing the Player (Chicago Outlaws Book 2)

by Magda Alexander

  “Oh?”

  “He has orgies, Mom.”

  “Kaylee! How do you even know that word?”

  She scoffs. “I’m about to turn twelve. What do you think some boys talk about in school?”

  Good God. “Sex?”

  “Yep.”

  “You stay away from them, you hear me.”

  “I do, Mom. Don’t worry.” She twists her mouth, chews on her bottom lip. “Meghan’s brother talks about him all the time.”

  “Brock Parker?”

  “Yes.” She huffs out a breath. “Mike wants to be just like Brock Parker. That’s why I don’t care for him.”

  “But I thought you liked Mike.”

  She lets out a dramatic sigh. “Brock Parker, Mom.”

  I’m getting whiplash from her zig-zagging. But I don’t want her to think badly of Brock. Even if she doesn’t know who he is. Even if I don’t want to talk about him. I cover her hand with my own. “Honey, his career was ruined because of what happened that night.”

  Her glance cuts to me. “What are you talking about? He’s a professional football player who makes oodles of money.”

  “Yes, but at the end of that season, he lost his starting quarterback position. He was traded to San Diego to play backup.”

  “Big woo. He still got to play football.”

  “Not as the number one. As a backup. And that’s the kiss of death for a quarterback.”

  “How can that be? Last season he played the starting position for San Diego, didn’t he? And he took the team to the playoffs.”

  Her breadth of knowledge about Brock alarms me. “How do you know that?”

  She shrugs. “I looked him up.”

  Oh, God. If my heart stuttered before, it’s downright thundering now. But I can’t let her see through me. I have to stay calm. “Honey, it didn’t matter how well he played. San Diego didn’t want him as their starter. So they traded him to the Chicago Outlaws.”

  “As backup to Ty Mathews?”

  “Yes. Honestly Kaylee, where does this sudden interest in football come from?”

  Glancing down, she fidgets on the chair. “Well, Mike plays varsity football. I thought if I boned up on the subject, he might like me or something.”

  And we’re back to her budding crush on her friend’s brother. “Sweetheart.”

  She firms her lips as her chin comes up. “Don’t worry. Now that you explained how things work, I’m over him.”

  I sincerely hope that’s true.

  Her cell phone rings, and she glances at it. “Meghan. She probably wants to talk about Brock Parker.” She rolls her eyes.

  What?!! “Why?”

  “She saw him on the news. They showed that press conference when the Outlaws introduced him. Of course, Mike was watching. She flipped when she saw him. She thinks he’s hot.” Kaylee sticks a finger in her mouth and fake gags.

  Meghan’s skipping high school and college boys and going right for an older man? Hope her parents are keeping close tabs on her, because that girl is headed for trouble.

  “Brock Parker might not be a jerk, but he’s definitely a liar. When someone asked him how he felt about being traded to the Outlaws, he said he was thrilled to play for the best team in the league. He didn’t look thrilled.”

  He’d need to say he was, even if he wasn’t. It’s all part of the game. I point to her phone. “Better take that call before it rolls over to voice mail.”

  She lets out a dramatic sigh. “Yeah.” She pushes a button on the phone. “Hey, Meghan.” And wanders out of the room, leaving me shell-shocked.

  Meghan saw Brock Parker on TV but didn’t realize how much Kaylee resembles him. Because if she had, she would have told Kaylee about it. I watched that conference. Brock wore a Chicago Outlaws cap throughout the interview. So she probably didn’t get a good look at him. As boy crazy as Meghan is, she’s probably going to do what every pre-teen girl has done since time immemorial. Pin Brock’s picture to her bedroom wall. Kaylee’s not stupid. Far from it. Sooner or later either she or Meghan will notice a resemblance. And then I’ll be well and truly screwed. God. What am I going to do?

  Chapter 5

  Brock

  ONCE THE PLAYERS ARE RELEASED after lunch on Saturday, they practically leave skid marks as they peel out of the Outlaws’ parking lot. Not me, though. Since my furniture is still a no-show, I have nowhere to go. I’ll just hang out until it’s time to leave for the banquet.

  The silence at camp is downright eerie. I miss the noise dozens of football players make—the grunts, the curses, the crunching of one body against another. But then football has been my whole life. Since I was eight in fact—the year my mother died.

  My parents never had any use for me. They’d never intended to have children. But somehow my mother had gotten pregnant with me. After I was born, they’d hardly missed a beat. She’d continued with her hectic, country club social life, and he’d kept his nose to the grindstone, making millions from his pharmaceutical business. They never concerned themselves with me. That’s what nannies were for.

  After my mother passed away, there was even less of a reason for my father to notice me. All he cared about was his drug company so ignoring me was easy. A caretaker made sure I showered, ate and got to school on time. When I expressed an interest in football, he’d totally approved. Of course he had. I’d be spending more time away from home so he wouldn’t be reminded of the one mistake he made. When he died from a massive heart attack during my last year of college, he didn’t leave me a dime. My party lifestyle had been too much for him. But his pride prevented him from outright disinheriting me. After all, I was his only son. So he’d neatly tied up his millions in a trust fund which would reinvest his money and parcel out enough to cover my bare necessities.

  I hadn’t asked for a fucking dime. After I graduated from college, football had taken care of all my needs.

  And it still does. Prime example is the limo the Director of Player Relations arranged for me. I’ll be arriving at the Hilton in style. You gotta give the Outlaws credit. They do things right.

  After grabbing my gear and the one nice suit I brought to camp, I head out. Rather than chance wrinkling my clothes, I plan to dress in the hotel room the team reserved for me. Sharp dressed man and all that. Tonight, I’ll sleep on a luxury king mattress instead of the twin bed that almost took off my knees.

  I really wanted to see Butch, but the dog kennel talked me out of it. They said it would be best if I didn’t drop by until I picked him up for good. Makes sense. My buddy would probably get his hopes up. And then be devastated when he didn’t come home with me.

  On the way to the Hilton, I call Ellie to let her know when I’ll be there. She should arrive a half hour after I do. After I change into my suit at the hotel, I park myself in the lobby to wait for her. Some of the women parading through the space are dolled up in shimmering, floor-length gowns. Hope Ellie’s wearing something somewhat sexy. A bare shoulder, a hint of cleavage would do. But I’m not holding out much hope. She never was much for dolling up in high school. And now she’s hell-bent on being a professional, so I’m guessing no peekaboo dress. Too bad, she has the most beautiful skin.

  Antsy, I glance at my watch for the tenth time. Damn it. She should be here by now. Is she running late? No. She would have called. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to check. As I’m about to dial her number, Ellie emerges from the elevator on the other side of the lobby. She’s wearing one of those little black dresses that every woman owns. On most women, it’s a utilitarian choice. But on her? It looks sexy as hell. As she glides across the room, I can’t keep my eyes off her. It’s only when she stops in front of me that I remember to breathe.

  “Ellie. Good of you to come.”

  Her nervous gaze darts around the lobby. “I should have worn something fancier. Not that I have any such thing.” She glances at me, her gaze filled with apprehension. “What do you think? It’s not too plain, is it?”

  Going by the tighte
ning of my balls, hell, no. I smile, to put her at ease. “I’ll let you know as soon as I put my tongue back in my mouth.”

  She appears adorably confused. As if she didn’t expect that answer.

  I leisurely take my fill of the wonder that is Ellie tonight. Her mahogany hair—half tossed back, half spilled forward across a v-neckline that hints at her sweet breasts. Fire-engine red mouth I want to taste, nibble, hell, downright devour. A rhinestone belt sharply shows off her tiny waist, and a flared skirt hides her treasures. I know what lies beneath that dress. Sugar and spice and everything nice, along with a hint of honey. I’ve never forgotten the flavor of her skin, the cinnamony taste of her breasts, and, most especially, the sweet intoxication of that spot between her legs. “You look lovely.”

  She breathes out a relieved sigh. “Thank you.”

  That’s Ellie, polite to the end, even when she can’t make heads or tails of me.

  Rather than take her somewhere private and dark where I can do wicked things to her, I crook my arm. After all, I did promise to behave. “Cocktails are being served. Would you care for a drink?”

  “A glass of white wine would be nice.” She glances at the shimmery black wrap folded over her arm. “Should I check this?”

  “If you wish. I can keep you warm if you get cold.”

  “Brock.” An arched-brow reprimand. The first of the night, but, God willing, not the last.

  With a smile, I beg for forgiveness. “Sorry.”

  Her “Umph,” doesn’t quite pardon, but it does give me a pass.

  As we walk toward the cloakroom, I ask, “So, who’s watching your daughter?”

  For a moment, she tenses, but then her shoulders relax. “She’s at a sleepover at a friend’s house.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’d originally asked Mama, but—”

  “Your mother’s here?” I rarely saw Mrs. Adams during our tutoring sessions, but when I did, she was always nice to me.

  “Yes. She followed us to Chicago.”

  Followed us which would mean her child was born before Ellie moved up north. That would make her daughter seven or eight? I can’t imagine having a kid while in college, but Ellie must have. “That’s great.”

  “Yes, it is.” She doesn’t volunteer more than that. Like before, I get the feeling she doesn’t want to talk about her family life. Fine. I get it. I drop the subject, even though I’m curious as hell.

  After checking her wrap, we stroll toward one of the bar stations outside the ballroom where the dinner will be held. She orders a glass of white wine. Needing something stronger, I request a neat whiskey for me. Since I’m staying at the hotel, I don’t have to watch my alcohol consumption. That wouldn’t be a problem anyway. I’ve never been one to get drunk. My vices have always been women and a great screw. The more, the merrier.

  We enter the ballroom to find Trevor coming toward us, a gorgeous woman on his arm. With her chocolate skin, slender figure and majestic height, she could pass for a model. Hell, for all I know, she could be.

  When they reach our side, I introduce him to Ellie. “Trevor Johnson, my center. Trevor, my date, Eleanor Adams.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Eleanor.” He points to the lady next to him. “My fiancee, Bonita Martin.”

  “You’re engaged. How lovely,” Ellie says.

  Bonita pats Trevor’s bicep. “Yeah, I plan to make an honest man out of him.”

  I laugh. “Lucky him.” I mean it. Even though I’ve never married, I understand the attraction of a wife and a family. It centers a man, roots him in something real. Don’t know why I feel that way since I didn’t have a happy home.

  “We’ve been assigned seating,” Trevor says. “You’re in the front, next to Ty Mathews and his fiancée.”

  “Thanks for the heads up.”

  The lights flicker, and I turn to Ellie. “Looks like they’re getting ready to start. Should we go grab our seats?”

  She nods.

  After a quick goodbye to Trevor and Bonita, I maneuver our way to the front of the room, holding Ellie’s hand all the while. Our table is easy to spot through the sea of black and red. Ty’s already seated there, a gorgeous redhead by his side. His fiancée, MacKenna Perkins.

  We barely get to greet everyone at the table before the waiters fan out across the room with salad plates which everyone wolves down. Soon, we’re being served our entrees. Given the choices of filet mignon, veal parmigiana, and some chicken dish, I’d chosen the beef. I hadn’t known what Ellie would like, so I’d ordered the same for her. Too late, I’m kicking myself. What if she’s turned into a vegan? When the plate is placed in front of her, I lean sideways and whisper in her ear. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I guessed.”

  She grins. “You did well. I love filet mignon.”

  Going by the way she tucks into her meal, she’s not lying.

  After dessert’s served and the tables cleared, the lights in the ballroom dim. As the room grows silent, an assistant coach walks up to the podium to introduce the first speaker, Coach Grohowski, who gives a rousing speech about the Outlaws’ success and everyone’s contribution to the big win. He follows through on his words by naming every single member of the team. Some draw applause when they stand; others get downright cheered, most especially Ty Mathews. Makes sense. He’s the main reason they won the Super Bowl.

  When my name’s called, I come to my feet, expecting a polite reception. But to my amazement, I get an enthusiastic response. Dumbfounded, I briefly nod to the crowd and the coach before plunking my ass right back on the chair.

  Once the applause dies down, Ty leans in to whisper. “Don’t be surprised. They know how good you are. They expect great things from you.”

  I don’t have a humble bone, but right now, that’s my uppermost emotion. Who knew I’d be welcomed with open arms? “I’ll do my best.”

  That’s all I get to say. Oliver Lyons, the Outlaws’ owner, is stepping up to the dais, and the room hushes once more.

  “This is the best part,” someone at our table murmurs. Every player at our table is sporting a full-toothed grin, much like a kid’s on Christmas day.

  I don’t have long to wonder why. Upon Oliver Lyons’s signal, women dressed in the Outlaws’ colors spread across the room and pass out envelopes to the players. The ones at my table eagerly tear them open. Some whoop and holler when they spot what’s inside. Others quietly slip the envelopes into their jackets. Ty shows what’s inside his envelope to his fiancée before sharing a kiss with her.

  Since I wasn’t a member of the team during their winning season, I don’t expect anything. But much to my surprise, I’m handed a box with my name on it. I open it up to find a key and a message inside: “Your very own Porsche Cayenne with the Chicago Outlaws’ colors. Thank you for choosing to be part of our team.”

  Ironic, since I didn’t want to come in the first place. “Wow. That’s very generous.”

  “Oliver Lyons is a very generous owner,” Ty says. “You work hard, and he will reward you.” He drops his voice. “Just don’t screw up.”

  I cut my gaze to his. “Meaning?”

  “He hates scandals. Last season he fired our kicker. Granted he was a sorry excuse of skin, but he had a great leg. Didn’t matter. When Oliver found out about an old college scandal, he cut him from the team.”

  I frown. My past history isn’t exactly rosy.

  “Don’t worry. They know what happened at that party in Florida. They don’t blame you. And San Diego involved grown women, not an innocent college kid.” A shadow crosses his face, and his expression grows haunted.

  “Ty,” his fiancée says, covering her hand with his.

  “I’m okay.” He drops a kiss on her mouth.

  Whatever happened with the kicker, Ty was involved somehow. Something that pains him still.

  Shaking off his sadness, he turns back to me. “Just watch what you do.”

  “Got it.”

  “Good.”

  It doesn’t
take a rocket scientist to understand why they sat me next to Ty Mathews. They want to make sure I understand what’s expected of me. No scandals, meaning no rowdy parties or ménages. I already knew it, but this year is going to suck.

  With the speeches and gift giving done, the band strikes up a bouncy tune sure to get people on their feet. I turn to Ellie to ask if she wants to dance

  But she’s glancing at her watch. “I better go. It’s getting late.”

  Already? I want her to stay so I can enjoy more of this evening with her. But I did promise to keep things professional, which means I have to let her go. Without fuss, without protest. “Okay. Let’s get your wrap, and I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Brock.”

  “Yes. I do.” I’d be a total jerk if I didn’t escort her out.

  After she gets her wrap, we stroll to the parking lot elevator. When the car arrives, we climb in. It’s just the two of us, and I’m having a hard time saying goodbye. “Is it far, your house?”

  “About a half hour drive.”

  The elevator stops at the P1 parking level, but before she can step out, I ask, “Are you sure you have to leave so soon? It’s only a little after ten.” So much for not making a fuss.

  “Brock.” She’s wearing that same, prim schoolmarm expression she used back in the day when I didn’t finish the homework she’d assigned me.

  Little did she know how much that look turned me on. In fact, I’d loved it so much, I would screw up on purpose. “There’s a bottle of champagne in my room. One drink?”

  Her mouth scrunches. “I have to drive home.”

  “You’ve had exactly one glass of wine. Some bubbly won’t be enough to get you drunk.” When she arches a brow, I know what she’s thinking. That I want to screw her. She’s right. I do. But I’m not a horny seventeen-year-old anymore. I’ve got more discipline than that. “No messing around, I promise.”

  After thinking about it for a moment, she nods. “Okay.” She holds up a finger. “One drink, that’s it.”

  I grin. “One drink.”