Cocky Quarterback: Eric Cocker (Cocker Brothers of Atlanta Book 12)

by Faleena Hopkins

  My teammates cheer behind me.

  Coach looks like a hero.

  God, he hates when I pull shit like this.

  The reporter, an Atlanta resident and loyal fan, beams with relief. Fuck being unbiased. She turns to the camera and announces, live, with bright eyes and a huge smile, “You heard it from the Falcon’s locker room, folks, Eric Cocker will be playing with blisters on his hands to take his team to victory.”

  Behind her I hold up my palm to show the world. Her cameraman angles for a better shot. Since I’ve got the screen to myself I grin, “This is how much I love my city. Oh, and Wren, I know you’re bartending today with blisters all over your body, but baby it was worth it.” Giving a wink I wiggle my fingers.

  The cameraman tries not to laugh, and the reporter blinks at me, realizing that not only am I directing that to a particular female, I’m calling her name out to the entire country. Any woman knows that’s a big deal, and it’s all over this one’s face.

  The coach mutters, “Alright get out of here, we’ve gotta talk strategy.”

  They scuttle out but I know I haven’t heard the end of that.

  Especially from my family.

  Chapter 28

  WREN

  My jaw drops to the rubber mats as the bar goes nuts with laughter and cheering, everyone craning to get a good look at my reaction. I’m pouring an Orpheus draft into a recently washed pint glass. We’re so busy we keep running out of glasses. As the golden lager streams its overflow down my stunned fingers, I hit the faucet and jump back. I never spill.

  More laughter.

  Rolling my eyes I call out, “Okay, so now you know what these red patches on my face are!”

  Applause breaks out in the funniest way, southerners cupping their hands and hooting all kinds of lewd things. “He scratch that itch, Wren?” “Tell us where it aches?” “Hurts so good, though, huh?!”

  If I were a fragile flower I’d wilt.

  I’m not feeling fragile anymore.

  I feel kind of like a superhero now that I told Peter to shove it.

  So with a proud grin I call back, “Just watch the damn screen and pray he takes the game back from those bastards!”

  Next to me, Mike hollers, “Damn straight! Cocker get us the fuck out of this mess, would ya?!”

  Everyone cheers their agreement, hopeful and emboldened by their star player going in there with a wounded hand and promising he’s going to make it right.

  The commercials end, half time show over, and the bar gets so quiet you’d think someone died. My heart is pounding, but not for them to win, although of course I want that.

  He just said my name into the camera. He just claimed me, didn’t he? It sure felt like that. We haven’t talked about what we are to each other, but my blood is racing with the belief that something special really has happened. And that it’s not just me. He’s emotionally here, too. He dedicated this projected win to me and seeing him run onto the field and huddle, camera getting as close as it can to his famous face, my heart expands to the size of that stadium.

  Everyone chemically reacts to Poison Ivy differently. Eric got the worst of it. I have some splotches, but no blisters. And my pussy feels like she’s on fire, but it was worth it. I almost didn’t come in to work since my face, where he touched it so often, is patches of hot pink. But Mike told me to be here. “We’re not a bunch of sissies in the South, nobody will care!” he’d said.

  I land fists on my hips and watch with everyone else. Even Mike stops making drinks. Nobody cares about one right now, happy to wait until we can all breathe again. The Falcons have the ball and the offensive line on the field, a close up of Eric behind Mott, waiting for the pass. My chest kicks, and our crowd breaks into, “Come on Number Three! Show ‘em what you’re workin’ with!”

  “He’s workin’ with a bad case of poison ivy,” someone jokes, but nobody laughs. He shuts up, comedian career put on hold, hopefully for good.

  Mott throws to Eric who catches it, jogs back as the Patriot’s linebackers lunge for him. Our running backs take off and Eric spots the rookie, Sooks, open, running sideways, hoping for a chance. Eric pitches the ball at him, a perfect throw. Sooks catches, cuddles it like it’s his own child he’s gotta save from a bomb about to detonate. The bar gasps as the rookie almost gets taken down by one Patriot. Immediately after he narrowly escapes, another one is hot on his tail. Tony Sanchez grabs the second Patriot’s legs and the guy goes down. Sooks keeps running, running, and he crosses the touchdown line!

  The stadium goes wild.

  But the bar roars ballistic.

  Maybe it’s because we can hear our screaming up close, or maybe because the Falcons come here after every home game, or maybe because Eric just singled me out and everyone here felt like they were a part of that, making this victory more personal than it would normally have been. Whatever the reason, joy clamors through our veins and we are all shouting our asses off. Mike runs over, picks me up, spins me around, sets me down and fist pumps the air. “Yeah! That’s. How. We. Motherfucking. DO IT!”

  Not only did Eric follow through with what he said, even with that hand, he took a chance on a rookie everyone knows has been hungering for a chance. It’s one thing to try to run the ball himself, or pass it to a veteran he could rely on when the stakes were this high, but Eric took a chance on Sooks and that made this all the more legendary.

  And the game just gets better from there.

  The reception our players get when they walk into O’Neal’s is pure jubilation. Everyone high fives or pats them on the back. Most of the team showed up tonight since the game was so epic. All the Falcons have huge grins on their faces, just like the ones they had when they lifted Sooks and Eric above their heads in a cheering stadium at the end of the winning game.

  Since everyone’s distracted, Mike walks up and whispers in my ear, “Bet your mind’s off scratchin’ those itches now, huh?”

  I’ve been miserable for hours, keeping my fucked-up face as friendly as I could and he knows it. “What itch?”

  He laughs and I glance over to Eric who looks so handsome, cracking up with a bunch of familiar fans giving him shit for being a pussy and sitting out the first half.

  Mott says over the din, “Yeah, Cocker, what took you so long to grow some balls? Or are they too blistered they crawled back up in ya?”

  Everyone guffaws!

  Eric glances to the bar, searching for and finding me. As our eyes lock he lights up and gives me a wink. I swear to God I’ve never felt so special, so happy, in my whole life.

  But people need drinks and I’m on the clock. While he makes the rounds of stardom I go back to working, my hands moving fast and light.

  When he left my apartment yesterday morning after two days in my bed, kitchen sink filled with delivery cartons and plastic silverware, his hand was a disaster, not to mention the rest of him. We took what felt like twenty-baths filled with chamomile tea we boiled on my stove. Swathed ourselves in numbing cream he had delivered from a physical therapist the team employs for player’s injuries. And while we tried not to have sex we didn’t always succeed in abstinence despite the fact that the redness stopped us mid-coitus more than once. I think if it had been a romantic few days, that might have been fun. But the laughter and the agony we shared trying to combat his foible of handing me a grouping of poisonous leaves to blow my nose with, then rubbing it all over his pants which then rubbed all over me, was way more bonding than some sweet words and heavy petting could ever have accomplished.

  From virtual strangers to his human compassion forcing him to tell me the truth, to our attraction losing the leash that held it at bay, to lovers, and finally to something even more concrete than that…to friends.

  Eric Cocker no longer feels like an abstract idea of a jock stereotype to me. He’s tangible—kind and thoughtful, sidesplittingly funny, incredibly protective, masculine and cocky as hell, panty-meltingly sexy, and maybe a little sweeter than he’d like to admit.
/>
  “What’re you thinking about, Wren?” Eleanor asks as she loads her tray with the drinks I just made. “Or do I even have to ask?”

  With a private smile I tell her, “It’s not what you think.”

  “Oh?” Her eyebrows lift.

  “I was wrong about jocks. They’re more complicated than they first seem.”

  Rolling her eyes yet happy for me, she heads into the crowd, throwing, “Duh!” over her naked shoulder, tank top tight in the hopes of alluring Dion Lewis to her bed again. She didn’t tell me that, but I know that lipstick is her come-and-get-it shade.

  “Were you watching,” I hear from my left.

  Turning at his familiar voice, I see Eric on the other side of the counter, in a v-neck T that fits him to perfection. His hazel eyes are on fire, lopsided grin adorable.

  Feigning boredom I ask, “Who are you?”

  He roars with laughter and jumps mermaid-style on the bar, his torso stretching across and knocking over empty glasses. I grab his face and kiss him, making out like this in front of everyone as word spreads, applause following.

  Eric grins and presses one last hard kiss on me, dropping back to his side of the bar. He glances around, nods to the masses, then cocks an eyebrow my way. “Can I get a beer or what? Fuck, the service in this place sucks!”

  With a lift of my eyebrow I dryly say, “Drop your pants and see if you can say that.”

  He whoops along with all those close enough to have heard.

  Chapter 29

  WREN

  I know I’m smiling way too much.

  So happy and carefree.

  My dry humor and detached snarky-bartender attitude are gone as I ask the pretty, dirty-blonde, “What can I get for you, Bethany?”

  She’s a regular on game days. I saw her go home with Tony Sanchez the day I met Eric, and Eleanor confided in me that she was toying with another player last season. We’re not judging, we secretly admire her. If she has a thing for extremely large men who are the best in their field, party down, I say.

  She slyly leans in and whispers, “I guess he gets the thousand bucks after all, huh?”

  “Excuse me?”

  People are pressed in around her, deep in conversation and not paying attention. Everything feels normal except I have no idea what she’s talking about, and the glint in her eyes is confusing me. We’re not friends, but it feels like she thinks we are.

  “Not that he needs the money,” she smiles, “but you know how guys are. Dare them and they’ll do anything. Especially if you add money and everyone watching, right?”

  “I’m sorry, you lost me. What are you talking about?”

  “The bet. Tony bet Eric he couldn’t fuck you.”

  My heart evaporates. “What…?”

  Leaning closer she goes on to say, “I would have told you earlier but I thought there was no way he’d succeed after Tony said your legs were closed all through college. You guys went to school together, didn’t you?”

  Numb I cut a stunned look to where Eric is laughing with Mott and Tony. He glances to me, his smirk set on his face as he gives me a nod. Tony leans in and says something in his ear and Eric’s lips curve into a grin, looking away from me as they all toast.

  The cleavage-heavy messenger hammers the nail to my coffin one last time. “But did he really have to announce it on live television? I mean, the wink…come on. That was in really bad taste to soil your reputation like that, especially after you’d made it so clear he was the slut and not you. Remember that night, you guys here on the bar, him on that table? He’s such a sneaky bastard, right? Disgusting! So I just had to tell you. Us girls have to look out for each other, right?”

  I dart out from behind the bar and push my way to the back exit because this is definitely an emergency. In the alley I bend over, grab my hair, the back of my calf, and hurl. It’s not pretty and there are no witnesses. I’m too stunned to cry so as soon as everything is out of my stomach I gasp for air, walking in jagged circles amidst painted over graffiti and industrial trash cans, recycling bins, the garbage left behind when it’s used up.

  Like me.

  My head swings up to the stars and I hold my chest. God how I ache.

  But I’m on the clock.

  What am I going to do?

  It’s too busy to leave Mike by himself.

  I wish I could beg off and use the itching as an excuse.

  But I can’t do that to my friend.

  I don’t fuck people over.

  Yanking the now heavier door open I push past people waiting for the bathroom, and make my way into the crowd.

  Eric appears. “Hey, I was looking for you. Where’d you go?”

  I want to disappear.

  Or hit him.

  Or punch him and then vanish.

  But he’s the hero here.

  I have to be nice.

  I’ve no choice.

  To lash out at him today would make me the villain and further ostracize me. All of this rushes through my mind as I stare at the man I’d begun to really care about. I thought he was my hero. But he punched Peter with an ulterior motive. To get me to have sex with him. And it worked. Right there in the woods where he gave me the news.

  I was right.

  I am so dumb.

  Such an idiot.

  Always picking bad guys.

  “Oh, uh,” I stammer, shoving a hand in my hair. “I wasn’t feeling well. Had to puke. Sorry about my breath.” I’m not sorry at all.

  He shrugs that he doesn’t care, reaching for my stomach, “You eat something bad?”

  I recoil, pushing my back into strangers. Eric’s eyebrows shoot up and I mutter, “Sorry, it’s just really queasy. Don’t touch…it. I have to get back to work.”

  “Have Mike cover for you.”

  I wish I could.

  “It’s too busy, Eric, but thank you. I’ll be fine. Excuse me.” I step around him and he moves to let me by. Glancing over my shoulder I see he’s following me. “I’ll talk to you in a bit, okay?”

  He stops walking, “Sure, yeah. Drink some soda water. Might help settle the nausea.”

  Escaping behind the bar I throw myself into my work. That girl is gone.

  In a daze, slinging drinks on auto-pilot I finish my shift. Forced smiles. Quick hands. Throbbing chest.

  What was I thinking?

  That something real had happened between us?

  My initial instincts told me what he was.

  Why didn’t I listen?

  “Hey Wren,” I hear him say, as I hand a credit card to a customer.

  Steeling myself I meet his eyes. “Yeah?”

  “You need a ride home?”

  “Um, I just want to go to bed, still not feeling well.” I touch my stomach.

  He nods once, “I could drive your car and make sure you get back, have one of the guys follow so he can drive me to mine after. Let me help.”

  Rolling my eyes I mutter under my breath, “Oh my God, just give it a rest,” and meet his confused look. He heard me but you know what, who cares? We’re almost closed. The nightmare is nearly over. “I just want to go home, Eric, okay?”

  He throws up his hands, and has the gall to appear hurt. “Okay! Sorry.”

  How long are you going to keep this act up, Eric?

  I turn away and grab a waving credit card, hear the girl say, “We left a tab open but I want to use this card instead. Name is Turner.”

  “Got it,” I mutter, begging the clock to move faster, just this one night.

  Please just make it all end.

  “Wren?”

  My heart slams, and then I realize it’s Mike calling me. I glance over and see the bar nearly empty. It’s like I checked out of my body for the last hour. “Yeah?”

  “Eric told me you weren’t feeling well. Why don’t you go home? I’ll clean up. The big stuff is for the janitors anyway. I hire larger crews for home games, don’t worry about it.”

  Covering my face with my hands I strugg
le against tears, breathing deeply to plug the faucet before it breaks and I make a fool of myself. Untying my ponytail and redoing it way too tightly I blink around the mess and ask, “You sure?”

  “Yeah, you’re pale!” He comes over, places his hand on my forehead. “You need to go to a hospital?

  “No, I just need my bed. I’m okay. Long night. Poison Ivy is killing me.” I grab my keys and phone.

  With concern he touches my back as I walk by him. “Sure, get some rest. I’ll wrap the tips up for you.”

  Muttering thanks I go out the back, terrified I’ll run into swarming Falcons out front.

  When I get to my car I see them all in the distance around his Jeep. Bethany is hanging on Tony’s arm, laughing at something they’re saying. Eric spots me and waves, starts to come over.

  I hold up my hand in the universal signal for STOP. His footsteps slow and he frowns, raking his hair back.

  Dipping into my car I lock the door and turn the ignition fast, before I start to cry in front of the man who has no heart.

  Chapter 30

  ERIC

  Watching her drive away I just stand here in the middle of the street, confused.

  Mott asks, “Hey, wasn’t that your girl?”

  “Yeah,” I mutter, still following her taillights as I head back to my friends.

  “Guess she’s not into you, huh?” Bethany frowns from under Tony’s bicep.

  He shushes her.

  “She’s not feeling good,” I inform them all. “You know how it is when you’ve got food poisoning. You just want to be alone. Add that to this hell.” I hold up my hand.

  Bethany’s eyebrows jog up a little as she looks at me like I’m a lost puppy dog. “Is that what she told you?”

  Everyone’s glancing from her to me as I ask, “Yeah, and did you see how pale she was—”

  Bethany smiles, head tilting. “You know how easy it is to fake that? I don’t want to break your heart, Eric, but no girl who likes a guy holds up her hand like Wren just did. I mean that stop sign was a bit much, don’t you think? If she was feeling ill wouldn’t she have wanted to at least get a hug, or I don’t know, a ride home?”