Played: A Novel (Gridiron Series Book 4)

by Jen Frederick

  “All right. If you say so. Hold on, though, because your dad wants to chat with you.” She hands off the phone and I can hear her tell him to not badger me.

  Great.

  “What’s going on, son?”

  “Just some nonsense. Nothing really.”

  “For being nothing, it’s made a lot of press.”

  Amazing how your parents can still make you feel small and immature even when you're twenty-three.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not me you should be apologizing to. It’s your mother. She’s been fretting all morning.”

  And guilty. They make you feel real guilty. “I am sorry. Give her the phone back and I’ll tell her that.”

  “I want to know what you’re going to do about Dana. You know I never liked him.”

  “At the time, he was the best pick for me. He did sign the biggest rookie deals last year.”

  “Other than your brother’s,” Dad corrects.

  Since I don’t have a good response, I remain silent.

  “Knox thinks you’re giving the Elam model some serious consideration.”

  I shouldn’t be surprised that Knox arrived at that conclusion even though I didn’t say a word about it. That damn twinsense again.

  “Maybe.” A few years ago, Matt Elam was the last pick in the first round and he negotiated his contract all by his little ol’ lonesome. “The collective bargaining agreement makes it easy, I suppose,” I say. The CBA basically sets what a player gets based on where they are drafted. The only variable is the signing bonus. In the NFL, the signing bonus is the only money that is guaranteed, and for players who will average five years in the pros, that can be very meaningful.

  “I’m still figuring it out. There’ll be agents at the combine,” I tell my dad.

  “You should have an agent before then. You need someone whispering in the ears of management on your behalf.”

  “I’ll figure it out, Dad,” I insist.

  This time it’s his turn to grapple with his temper. “You’re so damn stubborn.”

  “Gee, I wonder where I get that.”

  He snorts and we move on to other things, such as taking a family trip together to Cancún before training camp starts.

  After he hangs up, I reluctantly pull the pink slip from my pocket. I’m not one to shy away from conflict. I’ve always felt it’s better to face it head-on so I might as well start calling agents.

  I start with the biggest firm. Joe Schwartzenbach’s firm handled twenty-three clients in last year’s draft. If I went with him, I’d be one of the herd. On the flip side, it’s a firm that handles everything from cradle to grave.

  I dial him up.

  “Joe here,” he answers immediately.

  “Hi Mr. Schwartzenbach, it’s Ty Masters. We met after the Championship game. You might’ve heard I’m in the market for a new agent.”

  “I have heard that. Tough luck about the Mullen thing.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t see it coming.”

  “You’re a little disconnected, aren’t you?” Joe says, a tinge of skepticism in his voice as if he thinks I might be feigning my ignorance over Dana’s deals.

  “What do you mean?” I want to know what I’m dealing with.

  “I know that you kids are advised to stay off social media, but social media is a big part of an athlete’s image. And it’s a place where news is broken on an hourly basis.”

  “Is there some scandal attached to my name I don’t know about?” If there was, Remy would’ve told me. Or Ara. She’s got an Instagram account.

  “Not so much a scandal but a lot of rumors. Word on the street is that you’re a handful. You have big expectations but aren’t always willing to put in the extra effort.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. Schwartzenbach, I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

  “May I be blunt?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Football isn’t played just on the field anymore. It’s a big business. The athletes I represent share the same vision as I do. We’re a team that’s all working toward the same financial goal.”

  “I work out hard every day. I watch what I eat, what I drink. My combine results are going to look better than anyone else’s. No one played better on my side of the ball than me last season.” I’m not comfortable bragging about myself, but if I have to, I will.

  Schwartzenbach doesn’t bite. “Look, kid, my plate is full. Why don’t you give Randy Dunne a call? He’s a new agent and would be willing to work with you.” He rattles off the phone number and barely gives me a chance to say goodbye before severing the connection.

  I call the next three agents on the list. They all give me the same variation of Schwartzenbach’s refusal. They’re looking for a team player. Athletes these days are personalities, not just grunts on the gridiron.

  By the end of the fifth agent giving me the same bullshit about how I’m too challenging to work with, I’ve had enough.

  I slam my phone on the bench and stomp into the weight room.

  These assholes don’t think I’m good enough because I don’t want to send out stupid cat pictures or record videos of me doing some stupid stunt in hopes it goes viral?

  I have to have a Snapchat and an Instagram account? I have to be a fucking personality?

  I pound the weights, envisioning all these assholes in front of me. I’m going to the combine and I’m going to break every damn record there. I’ll be faster, stronger, more mentally tough than anyone in the draft pool. And when I sign my own damn multi-million-dollar deal, those agents are going to cry in their bourbon.

  At the end, though, my body is tired but my mind is whirling. I need someone to talk to.

  I pick up my phone and dial her number. The line clicks.

  “Ara?”

  “—I can’t come to the phone. Text me. I don’t listen to voicemails.”

  Goddammit! I hurl the phone across the room.

  If she wanted to be friends so badly, where the fuck is she when I need one?

  27

  Ara

  “It’s a good thing you came back. Ty was here a few hours ago and I thought the veins were going to pop out of his neck, he was so mad,” Fleur says to me on the phone. “He said you were being a bad friend.”

  I wince. “Thanks for covering for me.”

  “You owe me a Lush bath bomb and bottle of red wine. The good stuff, too, not the $2.99 bottles from Trader Joe’s.”

  “Those $2.99 bottles are good,” I protest.

  Fleur hangs up instead of arguing with me. I can’t blame her. I haven’t been a good friend to anyone. I ran away, much like my dad does when there’s something he doesn’t like to face. I thought I was better than that, but apparently not.

  Which makes me wonder…was Ty acting irrational or am I the problem? The friendship seal may have been broken, but I’d anticipated that it would be Ty who would drift away. Instead, he’s the one knocking at my door and I’m the one hiding.

  That’s not an image of myself that I particularly like. I guess it’s time to face the music.

  After some investigation, I find out he's at the training center. Remy meets me there to let me in.

  “Are you sure it’s okay if I go in?” I ask as Remy waves his student ID over the security pad.

  “As long as you don’t plan to trash the place, it’ll be fine.”

  “Where is everyone?” Despite it being the afternoon, the hallways look dark and uninviting. I thought that this place was always a hive of activity.

  “Coaches are on recruiting trips. Players are partying or studying. Anything but thinking about football.”

  “Except for a few of you,” I point out.

  “You stalling, girl?”

  “Yes.”

  Remy slaps me on the back. “Doesn’t sound like the Ara I know. Woman up! Show us your ovaries!” he cheers.

  “Show us your ovaries?”

  “Okay, that was a bad one.” He pushes me gent
ly toward the door. “But not as bad as you for standing out here instead of going to see your man.”

  My mouth falls open. “My man?”

  “He’s been your man since the first day. Just took the two of you four years to figure it out. Ty’s denseness can be blamed on all the on-field hits. I’m still working out what your excuse is, but maybe it’s the lack of balls.”

  “The lack of balls! You—” I stop when I see Remy fold over in laughter. Huffing, I push the big man out of the way. “Your reverse psychology’s not going to work on me,” I say but grab the door handle anyway. “If I go to jail for breaking and entering, I expect you to come bail me out.”

  “Sis, I’ll be there with you since it’s my ID that waved you in.” He pats me on the head. “Be good…or don’t,” he chortles as he walks away.

  A reluctant smile curves my lips, but once I’m inside the facility, apprehension sets in. The hallway seems endless; my guilt feels heavy.

  I hate how I’m feeling right now. This dread. This nervousness. If the situation was flipped, I would’ve stomped right down the tile floor and thrown open the locker room door, declaring that he needed to get his head out of his ass ASAP. But I can’t do that now because I’m the headass in this scenario. I’m being weird and timid and freaked out because of what? Because his dick was inside me? Because I enjoyed it and want more?

  I straighten and quicken my pace.

  If this…thing between us turns sour, it’s not going to be because of me. I’m going to be his friend no matter what. No amount of dicking is going to change that. In fact, we should just remove dicking from the equation. No friends with benefits. Just friends. That’s how I’m going to get rid of all these uncomfortable feelings.

  I snap open the doors to the locker room and yell his name.

  He appears in front of me, wearing nothing but a pair of loose-fitting athletic shorts.

  My next words wither in my throat as I take in his almost-nude glory. God, he’s a perfect specimen of a man.

  “You are too fucking attractive,” I blurt out, almost angry at how hot he is. All my good intentions burn to ash at the sight of his ripped body.

  Amused, he rubs his towel against his wet hair. He must’ve just showered. “You could’ve spent more time leering at me if you hadn’t run out of town like a scared baby.”

  “Yes, yes, I could have.” This is the real truth. I lick my lips.

  “What’re you gonna do now?” He drapes the towel around his neck.

  A rivulet of uncaptured water slides down his chest. I track it with avid eyes.

  “Ara?” he prompts.

  “Thinking.” I have a million ideas battling for supremacy in my head and none of them have a damn thing to do with being friends.

  “Still scared?”

  I take a deep, shaky breath. “You have no idea.”

  “Maybe I do.” His bright eyes rake down my body in one obvious, lustful glance. “You were gone for nearly a week.” He advances. I take a step back. “You didn’t answer my texts.” I open my mouth to spit out some excuse, but he places a finger against my lips. “You didn’t call.” Another step. I feel the slick wood of the locker room door against my back. “I was worried.” He drags his finger, pulling my lower lip down. I shiver. “And scared. You need to make it up to me.”

  I slide all the way to my knees because, apparently, in front of Ty Masters, I am a spineless jellyfish. A needy, hungry one.

  I run my fingers over the stiff elastic waistband. “How mad were you?”

  He widens his stance and braces a hand above my head. “Real mad.”

  “On a scale of one to volcano?” I tug the shorts down his thighs. How is it possible for thighs to be so hard? I run my knuckles up the outside of his leg. A hand comes down to rest on my head. There’s a slight tremble of anticipation in his grip.

  His inability to control himself entirely sets me aflame. I thought it was unfair that he affected me so greatly, but knowing I have the same impact on him? Ahhh…my own thighs tighten with want.

  I lean forward and lick a line across his taut abs. He shudders and I can’t keep in a relieved, delighted laugh.

  “I’m waiting,” he says. The rough tone implies he’s not going to wait much longer.

  It’s my show, though. I can tell by the way his hand hasn’t moved in my hair and the stillness in his frame. He’s waiting for me. It’s hard, but he’s waiting.

  I rub my cheek against the length of his cock. It jerks in my light grip. I don’t stifle my laugh.

  “That's a mean laugh.”

  “I'm making it up to you,” I inform him.

  He reaches down and tweaks a nipple. “Don’t start what you can’t finish, little girl.”

  I bite my lip, but I can’t keep the whimper from escaping. What a horribly indecent thing of him to say! It turns me on so much.

  My tongue darts out for a taste. He’s silky soft and delicious. A girl could get addicted to this—not just his flavor or feel, but the intoxicating pleasure of knowing that you can control a stallion like Ty with one flick of your tongue.

  I curl my tongue around the ruddy head. He groans and mumbles something unintelligible. It’s torturous for him but too good to pull away.

  We both moan when I take him fully into my mouth. Slowly, I ease my way down his shaft. Too long to take fully into my mouth, I fist my hand around the lower portion and start to move in long, regular strokes.

  I revel in the gruff sounds he makes from the back of his throat. Long fingers twine through my hair, pushing it aside so he can get a better glimpse. I suck harder, my cheeks collapsing out as I take long draws down his pipe.

  “You look so fucking sexy right now,” he says hoarsely. His fingers caress my cheek. A thumb presses into the hollow of my cheek. “You should see yourself.”

  I look up to find him gazing down at me. His green eyes are nearly black, the pupil so dilated that all I can see is myself. I fill up his gaze.

  And even if it isn’t true, I find myself believing that I’m his whole world. I coax him with my mouth and fingers toward the precipice, but right when I’m sure he’s about to go over, he pulls away.

  “What?” I cry. “No.”

  His cock bobs enticingly in front of me. I scrabble forward, but he lifts me up and plasters his mouth across mine before I can voice another objection.

  His mouth is so voracious my head starts to spin. My knees buckle. Ty catches me and carries me into the room, not breaking our contact once.

  He sits down on the first seat he can find. His fingers fumble with the zipper of my skirt. I brush his hands aside and simply pull the offending fabric up and scoot closer until I can rub against him like the greedy woman I am.

  His mouth slides from my mouth to my throat while his hand slides between us. He twists his fingers around my panties and snaps them with one jerk.

  I gasp.

  “That hurt?”

  Wordlessly, I shake my head no. I stare back into that green gaze. He’s wearing the darkest, hungriest expression I’ve ever seen on a man and it makes me breathless.

  “I missed you,” he says huskily. He curls his hand around the back of my skull and kisses me again. I feel the press of his lips everywhere. Not just on my mouth but in the pads of my fingers, the soles of my feet. Everywhere.

  His tongue licks the roof of my mouth, the insides of my cheek. Two fingers rub over my clit and then slide inside me. I squirm, wet with anticipation.

  “You’re so fine, Ara,” he murmurs against my mouth. “So fucking fine.”

  The hand that’s not busy between my legs runs over my ankle, my calf, teases the back of my knee, and comes to land on my hip.

  “Skirts should be illegal with legs like these.”

  “They're comfortable. It's getting hot out.”

  “Every time I see you in one of these I want to bend you over, spank your pretty ass, and then fuck you till you scream.”

  Oh god. My insides clench.
<
br />   He chuckles, deep and low. “You going to come by just me talking about it?”

  “Maybe?” I ride his fingers. “But I’d rather you put your dick in me.”

  “Let’s take this off first.” He tugs the back of my shirt. I help him remove it.

  Nimbly he unclasps my bra. My boobs spill out. He catches one nipple on his tongue. I lean back, allowing him as much access as he wants. Because he’s extraordinarily talented, he’s able to multitask, keeping one hand inside of me while sucking hard on my nipples, one and then the other.

  His free hand produces a condom from God knows where. I take it and despite my shaky fingers, I sheathe him.

  I dig my fingers into his shoulders, trying to brace myself for the hugeness of his intrusion. And right when I feel like I’ve got myself under control, he lifts me up and thrusts me down onto the long, hard length of him.

  My head falls back. A choked cry escapes my lips. I can’t hold on any longer. I let him take over while he fills me completely. My toes curl. My head spins. The air is thin and in short supply. All I can do is pant out little commands of more, now, there. There. There!

  The pressure is enormous. It’s partly because he’s so big and I’m much smaller. But it’s more than that. Because it’s not merely pressure between my legs. It’s in my head. It’s in my blood. My body feels like it will burst. This isn’t sex. This is communion.

  Each thrust feels deeper than the one before. We catch a perfect rhythm of plunge and retreat. His cock is scraping nerve endings that I didn’t realize existed. My entire body is reeling from sensation overload.

  I shake and shake and shake until I tumble apart, sent to the floor in tiny, miniscule pieces that won’t be able to be put back together.

  His fingers tighten on my hips. His thrusts grow jagged. His own breath is uneven and gasping.

  “Ara. Ara. Ara,” he chants.

  I feel like a goddess. I raise my arms up and ride him until he comes in a torrential flood inside of me. Sticky, slick with sweat, I collapse in his arms.

  Strong hands stroke my back, soothing me while I tremble from the aftershocks.