Tackled by the King: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (Stand Alone Novel)

by Christina Clark

  I fished out the fare and paid the driver, hastily thanking him as I disembarked from the cab.

  As the cab drove away into the night, I swung the strap of my purse over my shoulder and looked around me. Chelsea Park was glowing from the rows of twin street lamps. The stone walkways were mottled with shadows of leaves from the tall, rustling trees. Couples, both young and old, strolled through the park, sharing laughter and private smooches.

  “Ms. Toussaint?”

  An older man in an old-fashioned overcoat and a matching top hat approached me. Behind him stood a regal horse-drawn carriage with a black body and gold swirls, detailing, and wheels. Vintage oil lanterns hung from every side of the body, crackling prettily as it lit up the carriage path. The horse was equally beautiful, with a flowing black mane and a a rich chestnut coat.

  “I – yes?”

  The man smiled, knocking on the carriage door. Val emerged from within, dressed in a suit reminiscent of the '20s and white bowling shoes capped in black leather. He even had his normally country-club hair parted and slicked back from his face. His old-timey swagger tonight was refreshing and entirely pleasant to look at. The diamond stud on his ear only added an extra touch of bad boy to his visual class act.

  “Oh my – Val, what is all this?” I was flabbergasted, holding onto my chest as I drank it all in. “I thought I'd overdone it when you suggested I wear something special, but I'm starting to feel like I'm a little under-dressed...”

  “You're dressed just right. You look beautiful...I mean, damn.” Val looked me up and down, even leaning back to check out my backless red pouf dress.

  “I – thank you.” I lowered my eyes and flashed him a small smile, enjoying a short burst of pride and titillation at his longing gaze. “You're not looking too shabby yourself.”

  “Thanks.” Val offered me his arm. “Shall we?”

  I took Val's arm and followed him into the carriage. The coachman got up front, guiding the horse onto the walkway. He used the string lights entwined around the street lamps to lead the way, stopping at a cornered off section in the rose garden.

  As Val helped me out of the carriage, my jaw loosened on its own accord. A dressed round table set up with 2 chairs sat in the middle of the grass. Candles on a 5-tiered holder flickered between the fancy dishware. A chef and personal server in uniform bustled behind a portable kitchen, with the breeze carrying the scent of roast beef, garlic, and freshly baked pastries in our direction. Right then, the lonely, overweight, and unloved teenager in me awoke, basking in her moment.

  “I don't even know what to say. This is all so – it's brilliant.” I settled into my seat, beaming uncontrollably. “I can't believe you put this all together. And for our first dinner, too?”

  “Let's just say I wanted to make a good impression.” Val grinned. He leaned back in his chair, snapping his fingers.

  The server hurried over to us, uncorked a bottle of champagne, and filled our glasses.

  “Impression made.” I raised my glass, clinking it against Val's.

  “Salute.”

  The chef brought us our appetizers – goat cheese and strawberry balsamic canapes.

  “Please, dig in.”

  “Don't mind if I do.” I crunched down on half my canape, my eyes rolling to the back of my head. “Mmm.”

  “Right?” Val winked. “You can slow down a little. There's plenty more coming. We've got an 8 course dinner lined up ahead of us.”

  “8?” I swallowed the canape. My eyes bulged even wider when a man in a tuxedo and violin stepped out from the bushes, strumming the tune to “Fur Elise.” “That's beautiful. Remind me, why are you single again?”

  Val laughed nervously. He drank from his glass, but when his whistle was wet, his lips aligned. The corners of his eyes drooped with his reply.

  “Well, I wasn't always single. I was married for 3 years, divorced for 2.”

  “I'm sorry to hear that.” I bowed my head, stuffing the rest of the canape in my mouth to keep myself from adding onto the awkwardness I created.

  “Don't be. It was for the best,” said Val ruefully. “Xiao-Xin was just in it for the money and a green card. Found that out a little too late. But that's over and done with, and I'm not the type to dwell on things. And I mean, it's led me to you, hasn't it?”

  “Maybe.” I shrugged playfully, thanking the server as he replaced our plates with chilled corn soup.

  The exquisite food. The dreamlike ambiance. Val's handsomely chiseled face washed over by the candlelight. Maybe those were all to blame for romancing the moment, but I felt the warm birth of hope coursing through my body, and it was invigorating. The wounds from Kingsley's dog-like deceit were so fresh they were still hot to the touch, but I was already hopeful that they'd scar over and fade out much sooner than I'd expected. Who knows? Maybe this was life's way of catching me up on all the romance I'd chosen to neglect all my life.

  XXX

  “Ooh, that tickles...”

  My tipsy giggles filled the back of Val's Bentley. Val scooched closer towards me, knocking on the leather partition as he kissed a trail along my right ear. The driver rolled the window up, enclosing us in our own little private room.

  I rested my neck against the cushion of the headrest. My body was tingling from feel of Val's soft lips massaging the curve of my ear. I rubbed up and down his strong thighs, teasing him by inching closer to the growing bulge on his form-fitting slacks.

  Val's lips slowly traveled back to mine. It didn't take long for me to melt into the sweet, sensual kiss. I grabbed onto his wrist daintily as I kissed him, tracing the outlines of the long, ropy fingers on his powerful hand.

  Taking 3 of his fingers, I lowered his hand between my knees. Val caught on immediately, the corners of his mouth tugging back behind our kiss. While his tongue pushed past my lips, exploring the roof of my mouth, he drew circles with his fingers across my inner thighs. He made me wait for it, taking his time before he began to prod at my cunt through my lacy red hipsters.

  I pulled away from Val, groaning as I arched my head back against the headrest. He squeezed my breast through my dress and pushed my panties aside. My fingers curled around his arm, twisting and pulling as he wiggled his middle finger into my slit. I gritted my teeth, heaving out my parted lips. His fingers did not disappoint. I could almost feel the ridges of his long, powerful finger pulling in and out of my tight, juicy folds. But as I felt his second finger prepping itself to join in on the fun, the wheels of the vehicle slowed to a halt.

  I peered out the window, gently easing his finger out of me.

  “Here's my stop.” I pulled my panties back up from around my ankles, smoothing my hair and dress. “I suppose we'll have to continue this some other time.”

  Val frowned, but his lips swiftly retracted when I seized his wrist once more. I dried off his finger, licking up every drop of my juices. He pulled me in for another quick kiss, pulling back my bottom lip with his teeth.

  “Good night, Val. Tonight was...just what I needed.”

  “Night, Carrie. Call me?”

  “Maybe.” I beamed, waving at him coquettishly over my shoulder. “You have a good night.”

  As the Bentley sped off, I walked up our driveway with a bit of a spring in my step. I was bubbling with inspiration. All at once, I knew it was time to write my final piece for Wattana. I rummaged through my purse for my keys, eager to get behind my keyboard.

  This was it – I was about to carry out the sweetest revenge of them all.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Kingsley

  I hated to admit it, but hitting the gym downtown for my Saturday morning routine wasn't nearly as fun without Odell around. It took a whole lot of convincing to get the severely pussy-whipped Odell to start going with me in the first place. Rockwood Gym was smack dab in the middle of a modeling agency and casting company, and just 2 blocks away from a flight attendant school. Over the years, it had become my breeding ground to pick up hot, super fit chicks, both local and for
eign.

  But without Odell around, it didn't seem worth the effort to make the 20 minute drive. And during the car ride home, it struck me that Odell had been right all along. I was acting thirsty as fuck, driving all that way for some interchangeable pussy when I had a fully-equipped private gym at home – and my equipment was superior, too. On top of that, I wasn't paying much attention the chicks, anyway. The sexy pair of Indonesian models chatting me up by the leg press machine stormed off in a huff when they realized I'd spaced out in the middle of their drivel. I just couldn't be fucked to even pretend to give a shit about the chick's labradoodle.

  I rolled the tightness out of my shoulders and kicked my gym bag out of the way before dropping on my usual spot on the sofa. As I settled into my ass grooves, I chugged back some of the green spinach crap in my bottle. After drinking the same goddamned protein shakes day after day, I'd conditioned myself to hold my breath to fight off the taste.

  “Nasty ass,” I grumbled, tossing the empty bottle aside.

  I pushed my hair out of my face and reached behind me for my phone. My hair was still damp from the shower I just took. When I unlocked my phone, my eyes narrowed at Coach's text message. I tapped into the link he sent me.

  As my eyes darted from side to side, reading through the article, the door to my bedroom opened.

  “King? What time is it?”

  “What?”

  Ivanka stretched her arms over her head, yawning as she staggered into the living room.

  “I said, what time is it?”

  I blinked, finally peeling my eyes off my phone.

  “Oh. It's a quarter past 12.”

  Ivanka had on one of my jerseys, which was so big on her it ran down to her thighs. I liked seeing her walking around half-asleep. It was rarer than a leprechaun's big toe to see her without any of that thick makeup on her face. Her hair was knotted and sticking out in all directions in the back of her head, and her eyes were still a little puffy and red from her sleep allergies. It was a reminder that she was human, too.

  She climbed onto the sofa next to me, latching onto my shoulder.

  “Why, what are you looking at?”

  “Have you seen this?” I showed her the article.

  “'Clubhouse Confidential: My 1.5 Months With the Detroit Daggers' by Carrie Toussaint,” Ivanka mumbled out loud. I waited as she skimmed through the paragraphs of the extra long article. “I don't understand. But these all seem to be positive stories about family bonding and unity. You are only mentioned once in this article, and it is just a caption of your photograph – 'Kingsley Kelly, quarterback.'”

  “Read the last paragraph.”

  “'For almost 2 months, I searched far and wide to unearth more click-bait material for you, the masses. And as a weathered veteran of celebrity gossip excavation, I was convinced this would be a piece of cake. I was right. I could regurgitate ho-hum articles you've all heard time and time and again. But I cannot and will not, in good conscience, after what I've gathered from my own first-hand experience, do so. The only real story here is the unprecedented comradery between every member and staff in the Detroit Daggers, as well as the overdue and unsung praises of Coach Idris Abasi, the head of the family. And as with every family, the brotherhood may not always see eye to eye, but the common love they share for the sport is what ultimately keeps them on their pedestal.'”

  Ivanka returned my phone with a baffled scowl on her face.

  “But this can't be – this is career suicide! This doesn't make any sense. What could that bitch be up to now?”

  “I don't know. Cold feet?” I suggested numbly, scrolling through the article. “Maybe she had nothing to do with it, after all.”

  “Don't be silly,” Ivanka snorted. She shook her hair loose and started combing it with her fingers. “Who else could it have been? More likely, she is trying to catch you off guard. Women like her are very sneaky –”

  “I'm gonna make myself something to eat.” I got up and walked over to the kitchen. I couldn't deal with another one of Ivanka's hate speeches right now. It only started occurring to me recently how threatened she was about any other woman that wasn't her. “Hasn't Gunther called to ask where you were last night?”

  “I told him I was visiting my cousin upstate today.” Ivanka followed me into the kitchen, standing with her feet apart. “Don't tell me you're actually falling for this? This is exactly what Carrie wants, you know. Now, even when that story came out, I stayed right by your side – I even begged Sam to keep you on the team.”

  “I know.” I gritted my teeth, taking out a pan from the cupboard. Ivanka's been holding that over my head any chance she got. “I know. And I'm grateful for that. I am.”

  “Good, then you better start acting like it.” Ivanka pouted, but she took out a raw chicken breast from my fridge and began seasoning it. “It wouldn't surprise me if I was the reason Carrie had her change of heart, too.”

  “I've been meaning to ask you about that. What exactly did you guys talk about, anyway?”

  Ivanka lifted her chin in the air, passing me the chicken before shuffling over to the sink to wash her hands.

  “Oh, nothing important. We just came to an understanding, that's all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don't you worry about it. And I don't want you getting any ideas about that bitch. She's just trying to get in your head.”

  Ivanka dried her hands on my jersey, flipping me around forcefully on the kitchen stove. She fell to her knees and started pulling off my pants. I gripped the edge of the counter behind me. She rubbed my cock through my boxers, gently coaxing it awake.

  “Why don't we see if we can work you up even more of an appetite?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Carrie

  The door of Wattana's office was closed and the curtains to all her windows drawn, trapping the strong smell of coffee and cigarettes in the room. Wattana had been glowering at me from across her desk for a full minute now, keeping her hands busy with her buzz magnets. She placed one of the chrome, pill-shaped magnets on her table and flicked the other across her desk. They spun in circles before mashing into each other, buzzing in their magnetic embrace. Finally, after about another 30 seconds, Wattana scooped up the noisy magnets and broke her silence.

  “Once again, you've proved that you just don't know your head from your ass when it comes to following instructions.” Wattana rolled the magnets around her in her hand. Her voice was low but shaky, as if she was about tear into my ass any minute. “And you took advantage of the fact that I was at my niece's baptism this weekend, went behind my back, and sent your copy to Maria Estevez, the sappiest know-nothing and incidentally most influential of all the board members. Then the fat bitch goes ahead and decides to publish ahead of schedule.”

  “It wasn't my intention to do anything behind your back,” I defended myself, straightening up in my seat. “You weren't approving any of my articles – won't even give them the time of day. I did what I had to, and all I'd ever hoped for was that she would see the potential in my work and maybe see my vision for the direction I wanted to go with this project, but I had no idea she'd just publish it right off the bat like that.”

  “Don't give me any of that crap.” Wattana pulled out her desk drawer. She chucked her magnets onto the bed of meticulously organized paperwork and slammed it shut. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

  Wattana wasn't completely off in her accusations. I've only met Maria Estevez twice at one of The Daily Dirt sponsored charity galas. We immediately clicked when we found out that Selma Estevez, her older sister, had been my English teacher back in high school. Mrs. E, bless her heart, had apparently raved on about me as one of her favorite students, and was incredibly pleased to hear that I now had a career in “journalism.” Taking that into consideration, I took it upon myself to email Maria my article as soon as I hit “Save”; an email address, if I might add, that Maria gave to me herself. I later found out that Mrs. E personally edited the arti
cle herself before her sister gave the okay to publish it.

  “I stand by what I said.” I puffed out my chest, prepping myself for the incoming shitstorm. “Well, I mean, I'm not sure what the problem is. If I'm not mistaken, the hits and shares on the article have far surpassed the first article I did of Kingsley Kelly. I guess people are responding to a new, positive angle of journalism –”

  “Women shouldn't gloat. It's not attractive,” Wattana sneered. I felt a little glow of pride at her resentment. “Nothing would please me more than to strip you from your position altogether, right here and now...”

  My shoulders sank, and I could practically feel all the color on my face vacating my cheeks.

  “But for reasons I will never fathom, the board members have chosen to reward you for your incompetence,” Wattana finished, breathing heavily. She crossed her leg over the other, eyeing me spitefully. “I've been asked to promote you to Entertainment Editor. It comes with a 20% salary increase and an extra 3 weeks of paid leave.”

  Wattana's words were accompanied by a chorus of singing angels in my ears.

  “What? Really?” I beamed, the color re-sweeping across my face. “Thank you so –”

  “Believe me, I had nothing to do with the decision.” Wattana leaned forward, pressing her eyes so tightly they narrowed to slits. “What the hell happened to the story about the Kansas City game we agreed on?”

  “I know nothing about it.” I felt all my confidence rushing back altogether, inflating me to twice my size. “If you remember the conversation we had a few weeks ago, I tried telling you I knew nothing about it.”

  “You must think you're so clever...” Wattana's lips curled into a thin, knowing smile. “Don't get too comfortable just yet. If you think I'm going to make things any easier for you, you've got another thing coming.”

  I knew Wattana meant every word of what she said, but I was high with elation about the much-needed raise coming my way. I fixed things like I always did, and though this wasn't exactly what I'd envisioned, things were finally turning around. Wattana could ask me to cover the trendiest shades of lip gloss among tween superstars right now and I'd gladly shove a 3,000 article up her ass by midnight.