Quarterback Casanova (Kansas City Griffins #1)

by Lisa Rayne

Of course, he would have heard about that. Foolish of her to think for a moment he’d been keeping tabs on her. “I haven’t married him yet. He claimed Taliana as his right away. He insisted on giving her his last name and putting his name on her birth certificate. Some men do the right thing by their daughters. See you tomorrow.”

  Under the curious glances of the offensive line and another young man dressed in non-team attire, she began to walk away again.

  The young man approached and stopped next to Jeremiah. “Who was that, Dad?”

  The question pulled at her. She stopped and glanced over her shoulder at her father, curious as to what he’d say. He held her gaze steadily, but didn’t respond to the guy who appeared to be in his late twenties.

  Naomi eyed the young man who she recognized from media clippings as one of the three half brothers she’d never met and would probably never be introduced to. He was an attractive young man. He stood tall and fit and had a strong resemblance to his father. She suspected that’s what her father had looked like when her mother had fallen for him.

  She felt her father’s eyes heavy on her, curious no doubt as to what she’d say. She quirked a brow, letting him know she was leaving the answer up to him. As she suspected, he didn’t come up with a response. She was fine with that. She’d delivered her message. She didn’t need anything else from him but for him to show up at the lab tomorrow. Then, she’d be free of this burden she’d been carrying for over three decades.

  She walked away without looking back this time. She was done with looking back, done pining for the love of a man who didn’t deserve that much emotional expenditure. She had all the man she needed waiting for her back home, and it was time to give him an answer.

  *

  A manila envelope smacked against the low table beside the bed where Dash lounged perusing a back issue of Sports Illustrated. “What’s that?” he asked, looking up at Naomi.

  “The results of the paternity test.”

  He noticed that they hadn’t been opened. “Aren’t you curious as to what they say?”

  “I already know what they say.”

  Dash’s eyebrows rose in question.

  “I knew the moment he looked at me. I could see it in his eyes. He may not have seen himself in me when I was a baby, but he saw it that day on the field. It’s what made him show up for the test. He needed to free himself from the prison he’d trapped himself in by denying me all those decades ago. He may not want to be my father in relationship, but he needed to get rid of the ghost of possibility that’s been haunting him all these years.”

  “And what about you? How do you feel?”

  Naomi’s shoes clunked to the floor. She slid under the covers fully dressed and snuggled up against the guy who’d taught her what it meant to stay. “I feel the only family I need is right here in my arms and asleep on the couch in the other room.”

  Dash chuckled. “They’re napping?”

  She nodded.

  “I guess Tallie finally wore out her Gammie.”

  “I guess so.” Naomi put a hand on the magazine he held and flipped the front down so she could see the cover. “Don’t you ever get tired of reading that piece?”

  “I never get tired of seeing my woman’s byline in a national magazine. I love that you were able to turn what started out as cheap gossip into a hard-hitting piece on bigotry and bribery in professional sports.”

  She laughed. “Yeah. All it took was a crooked owner who railroaded a gay player off his team and that player’s desire for revenge to land me in the big leagues.”

  He shook his head. “I still can’t believe Carl Maynard was tossed off the team simply because DuChamps stumbled on him making out with his partner after a game. How many times have players’ wives come down to the locker area to give them a congratulatory kiss? It’s not like they were guilty of indecent exposure or anything. They both had all their clothes on.”

  She rolled over and pulled her sweater off under the covers and tossed it out onto a chair. “I kind of feel sorry for him.”

  “Maynard?”

  “Yeah. He probably could have petitioned for reinstatement if he’d spoken up. Now that everyone knows he conspired to set you up—or who he thought was you—his treachery has forever ruined his chances of getting back in a Griffins uniform. And I heard the team that picked him up as a backup after DuChamps released him recently dropped him down to the practice squad.”

  “That’s unfortunate, but I kinda understand. Trust plays an important role in a quarterback’s success. If your team can’t trust you off the field, then they’re unlikely to trust you on the field.” The postseason hadn’t worked out exactly how he’d envisioned, but he’d learned a thing or two about what it took to lead a franchise to success.

  He closed the magazine and tossed it on top of her envelope. “To think he saw Tatum in Ibiza and thought it was me. I guess when Tatum ignored him, he assumed I was intentionally blowing him off because I was on the down-low and didn’t want to be outed. So, he made sure DuChamps found out about my supposed stomping ground. I could see how it would bother the guy that he’d lost his position for being gay only to be replaced by a guy still in the closet.”

  Dash hadn’t been named starting quarterback for the Griffins … yet. Thanks to Naomi and Pete, he continued to wear number twelve on the granite and gold of a Griffins jersey so he still had a shot.

  “He should have said something. Gotten a lawyer. Approached you—or Tatum—in Ibiza. Something.” Her voice took on that scolding tone she used when she was trying to teach Tallie a lesson. “Attempting to take down another player wasn’t the way. That makes him as bad as DuChamps.”

  “Maybe.” He slid down and wrapped his arms around her. “It’s kind of ironic. For all his talk about being a one-woman man, DuChamps was a lousy husband. With Francine DuChamps planning to divorce him and take her greater than forty percent interest in the team out of his control, I guess the guy panicked.”

  Naomi curled against him. “Yeah. Since he only had twelve percent of the team in his own name, he was intent on building a backing to finagle majority control of the franchise from Mrs. DuChamps by the time the divorce was final.”

  Laughing, Dash stroked her back. “DuChamps about fell out of his chair when she walked into that meeting. Who knew she was the one with the old-money, Texas-oil deep pockets that could buy the DuChamps family holdings several times over? Well, I guess you did.” He kissed her. “You never told me how you got her to show up.”

  Her fingers played along his bottom lip. “I didn’t have to do anything. Turns out, you happen to be her favorite Griffins player.” She leaned back to get a better view of his face. “Hmm. I wonder how that came about?”

  Dash chuckled without response.

  “When I told her DuChamps’s plans for you, she gave a harsh laugh and said, ‘We’ll just see about that.’” Naomi channeled Francine DuChamps’s southern accent. “’Someone’s leaving alright, but it’s not going to be my Dash.’”

  He grinned. “Who knew dancing with the ladies and offering an occasional shoulder to cry on would leave me so well connected.” His hands slowly mapped her torso. When he found she still wore a bra and pants, all thoughts of Francine and Martin’s marital issues fled his mind. “Baby, you have on way too many clothes.”

  “Do I?” Her grin held an edge of deviltry.

  He reached for the button on her pants. “Yes, and I hope you locked the door.”

  She nodded but swatted at his hands. “Wait a minute. Not so fast. I’m not done talking yet.”

  “I am.” He tugged her zipper down.

  Grabbing his wrists, she squeezed hard. “Too bad. Humor me. Because you don’t get to take these off me until—” She rolled to pull something out of the drawer of her bedside table. “You put this on me.” She placed his ring box in his hand.

  He couldn’t breathe or speak. He blinked a few times.

  Her bottom lip tucked into her teeth. “Unless you’ve c
hanged your mind,” she said quietly.

  He grabbed her face and kissed her hard and deep. He released her mouth, but not her face. His eyes bored into hers. “No way.” He looked down at the box. “I was beginning to think you’d pawned this thing.”

  “Never. To get top dollar, I would have sold it on eBay.”

  He swatted her hip. “Very funny, you.” He popped the spring-loaded lid and pulled out a large marquis cut diamond solitaire. He sat the box aside and lifted her left hand. “Naomi Marie Pellier, will you finally finally agree to marry me?”

  “Yes. Yes. And yes!” She watched as he slid the ring on her finger then looked up with tears in her eyes. “Let’s elope to Vegas and do it this weekend.”

  “No can do. I want all the frills and flowers and fuss. Besides your mother would kill us, and I want to see Tallie walk down the aisle in a flower girl dress.”

  She frowned. “Are you marrying me or Tallie?”

  He rolled her beneath him. “I’m marrying both of you. You’re both my girls.” He turned serious and his voice softened. “You’re both my heart.” Slowly, he communicated those words with lips and tongue.

  Naomi melted under the intimate conversation. When he finally released her lips, he gave her a big grin, knowing his dimples were showing and she couldn’t resist those dimples.

  “Fine.” She pouted. “I’ll marry you the old-fashion way. You better be glad I love you.”

  “I am glad. Very very glad.” He tapped her pouting lips. “But Miss Pellier?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You still have on way too many clothes.”

  She laughed while he proceeded to remedy the problem.

  ~ || ~

  Note From The Author

  Once again, I offer my gratitude to the ladies of STCC Book Club (www.stccbookclub.com), who served as beta readers for this novel and dedicated an entire meeting to offering invaluable feedback on the storyline and characters of the book.

  I am also beholden to the 2015 Kansas City Chiefs, whose stellar season with an eleven-game winning streak (and AFC Wild Card victory in the playoffs) helped fuel my creativity when the football scenes wouldn’t flow.

  And of course, to my readers, I’m happy you took the time to read Dash and Naomi’s story. If you’re curious about whether or not the Griffins’ season ended with a trip to the Super Bowl, check out Shave Stephens’s story in Sideline Serenade (Book 2 in the Kansas City Griffins series). I’ve inserted a sneak peek below.

  Please consider letting me and others know what you think of Quarterback Casanova by leaving a review (or just a star rating if you’re pressed for time) on Amazon (scroll down to the Customer Reviews section of the book page and click on “Write a customer review”) and Goodreads. Even if only a few sentences, good or bad, reviews help increase the visibility for a book and can help other readers decide whether to purchase a book.

  Till next time,

  Lisa Rayne

  Sideline Serenade

  (A Kansas City Griffins Novel)

  by Lisa Rayne

  Starting quarterback Jonathan “Shave” Stephens has been sidelined with a career-threatening injury. When his struggle to walk again tanks his attitude and his hope of staying off the injured reserve list, physical therapist VANESSA THOMPSON steps in to give him an attitude adjustment. Shave butts heads with the headstrong PT until she issues him a challenge he can’t refuse.

  Vanessa’s the only supervisor in the sports medicine practice serving Shave’s team, and she’s not about to let the brash football legend destroy her promotion chances by sabotaging his own recovery. A former athlete herself, she’s intentionally foregone marriage and family to pursue the highest sports medicine position in the career of her dreams. So, she’s not opposed to exploiting Shave’s competitive nature to get him to follow her program.

  Vanessa may get more than she bargained for, however. Intrigued by the confirmed bachelorette, Shave’s issuing a challenge of his own. Now that’s she’s got him back on his game, the next pass he’s making is aimed straight for her heart.

  Available Fall 2016

  Turn The Page To Read A Preview

  Sneak Peek:

  Sideline Serenade

  Shave Stephens fell hard on his ass … again. Sharp pain shot up his hip, making him bite off a string of curses that would make his roughneck, ranchhand buddies back home proud, but wouldn’t gel well with the straight-laced role model he’d become. He let his head drop down onto the cold, sterile tile floor—not hard enough to do any damage, just hard enough to knock some sense into his previously in-denial mind.

  His career in the NFL was over. He knew it. No matter what the doctors said to keep his spirits up, his gut told him otherwise.

  Washed up as a starting quarterback at the age of thirty-four. A guttural groan clawed from his throat. With one hand, he gave the wooden walking cane that had failed him a hard shove. The cane skittered along the white tiles and clanged against the gray metal leg of the parallel walking bars his physical therapist intended he use next.

  The uncharacteristic fit came from deep inside, but he felt as frustrated by the immature act as by his current physical limitations. His usual easygoing disposition had abandoned him. He didn’t know where it had gone and doubted it would return anytime soon. He’d felt it sneaking away little by little, day after day, week after week, as regular season play moved on without him.

  He was known for keeping his cool—on the gridiron and off—no matter the pressure or situation, but he didn’t feel like going through the motions anymore. He’d lost the drive to pretend any of this made a difference. It didn’t. He threw an elbow over his eyes but didn’t close them.

  Through the slit between his arm and face, a mahogany, monster of a hand appeared, hovering in the vicinity of his middle chest. “Come on, Shave. We’re not done yet.”

  Shave dropped his elbow and pushed away the PT’s hand. “Leave me alone, Derrick.” His usually understated Lone-Star-State accent thickened with the tension in his voice. “I’m through wasting my time. The leg feels as weak as it did the day I injured it.”

  Derrick, a former offensive lineman for Chicago, ignored Shave’s dismissal and grabbed him under the arms. He yanked Shave off the floor as if he were lifting a child instead of a two-hundred-twenty-five-pound male comprised of solid muscle. “Give it some time, Shave. We’re good at what we do, but we’re not miracle workers. It’s only been a few weeks.”

  In his younger days, a few weeks would have been all it took to get Shave’s body back on the mend. He’d never had this type of injury before though, so in truth, he didn’t have a real-world, personal comparison from which to draw. Nevertheless, he knew his odds. At thirty-four, he couldn’t expect his body to heal itself as quickly as when he was in his twenties. He’d worried about whether the injury would completely heal at all. He’d suspected that even if it did heal, his leg would never be the same. Boy, what an understated negative prognosis that had turned out to be.

  Shave wanted to believe he’d be as good as new, ready to take on the strongest and baddest of his division competitors in no time, but he found it hard to conjure up his usual optimism. His backup quarterback had looked pretty good in the pocket the other day. Now that the kid had loosened up a bit, he had all the makings of a future Hall of Famer. Give the guy another few game starts, and he’d be in full swing. If Shave took too long to get back on the field, he’d find himself out of a job even if he got back to one hundred percent.

  He wasn’t ready to be sidelined. He wanted to take the Kansas City Griffins to the Super Bowl … and win. He already had a Super Bowl ring, but he’d won it as a backup quarterback. He’d only played the last quarter of that game. He’d added two touchdowns to the final score, but the record books credit the win to the starter. He wanted a ring he’d earned—from the start to the finish of the game.

  “Derrick if you keep picking the man up, he’s never going to make any progress.”

  Shave
glanced over Derrick’s shoulder to find the source of the throaty female voice chastising the PT. He encountered caramel-colored eyes so light they almost glowed. The feline-like irises stood out against the rich color of the woman’s skin, a flawless, warm walnut-brown. She’d pulled her long, dark hair into a high ponytail. Her makeup was understated with subtle mascara and liner that made her already dramatic eyes stand out even more. Tall and fit, the lady wore running shoes with black athletic leggings and a gray three-quarter zip, lightweight athletic pullover. She looked like she’d just come from a run.

  “Next time, leave him on the floor until he gets up himself.”

  Shave had seen her a few times in the hallways when leaving or entering the building. He’d never seen her in a white coat so he hadn’t realized she was part of the PT staff. Even now, she stood without the white coat indicative of members of the sports medicine crew, and no coat meant no name tag. He wondered who she was.

  Derrick led Shave to the parallel bars and released him. “I’ve got this, Vanessa. Mr. Stephens just had a rough morning.”

  Vanessa. So that was her name.

  She propped her hands on her shapely hips and gave Derrick a look that left no doubt she considered his explanation a total pile of bull. She glanced at Shave, allowing her caramel eyes to flit down his body and linger on his bad leg. She assessed his posture. He’d been favoring the leg a lot the last few days despite being advised to start putting his full weight on it. As much as he wanted to heed the advice, something didn’t feel right when he tried.

  Vanessa walked over to the PT desk and picked up his file. The pullover fell to her hips, but didn’t completely cover her bottom. The firm, tight shape of her glutes displayed nicely under the form-fitting leggings. The lady’s body was toned and looked near body fat free. He hadn’t hung around female athletes since college. He’d forgotten how sexy a woman with serious muscle tone could be. Sculpted thighs, cut biceps, and full perky breasts made him think of intimate calisthenics—not physical therapy. The woman apparently lived exercise science and didn’t just consider it a career.