Baller Made (Bad Boy Ballers Book 3)

by Rie Warren

  The arena was cold, but I was drenched in sweat nonetheless. I spit on the ground then shoved my mouthpiece back in, sending a nod back to the Mac Daddy of our team.

  At his guttural call, I took the long snap, hoping my aim stayed true and the football zeroed in on his hands.

  I didn’t take the time to check, crashing right against the colossus coming my way.

  Overhead, the pigskin whizzed past.

  Headed for Brooks.

  I ran downfield to throw more of New York’s defense off, following the ball’s trajectory. Marquis rode up beside Brooks just in case. And I fucking ping-ponged through a wave of blockers when Holt sprang up to catch the ball.

  Racing ahead, I cleared a path. Grunts shoved from my throat while hands of the Dragons’ blockers thudded against my chest. Clearing a route, electric energy coursed through me, and I beat motherfucking feet to create a tunnel for Brooklyn.

  At the last moment, one yard left, I pushed on the heat and jumped on a tackler aiming for his feet. I pumped up in time to see Brooks land in the end zone.

  He bellowed out a laugh, spiked the ball. When I made it to him, he thumped his chest against mine so hard he almost sent me sailing into the sky.

  We easily scored the extra point. 42 to 28. A good lead. But that didn’t make me worry any less as our defense took the field.

  Two more minutes on the clock. Jesus Christ. Talk about a heart attack in the making.

  Dragons in possession. And our fans were fucking possessed. On their feet. Shouting wildly. Stomping. Chanting. Whistling. Clapping.

  I looked at Reggie, touched my fingers to my lips then my heart and pointed at her.

  Her cheeks flushed even brighter, and from the distance I saw her lips part as if I’d just kissed her.

  Now all we needed was the win.

  Too bad New York made steady progress into our territory. I didn’t think at this point they had a chance in hell of grabbing the game out from under us but . . .

  Then, with my heart beating frenetically, I watched in awe as motherfucking Deacon Cross leaped up out of nowhere to snag the football from the air.

  Interception!

  Unbelievable.

  The dude was a rockstar.

  Everything went insane all around in that moment.

  But my sole focus was on Cross as the entire team urged him on in his wily zigzagging race back downfield toward the end zone.

  When he crossed the final line, the whistle blew. Game over and holy fuck we’d really done it.

  Carolina Crush made it to the playoffs. Potentially gaining a spot at the Super Bowl.

  A surge of pride so powerful it almost knocked me to my knees, rocked me to my bones, flashed through me.

  Throughout the fanfare and the handshakes with the other team as we walked down the line, during the fireworks above the open-air stadium, I kept watch on Reggie. She stood with her hands clasped to her chest, a smile on her lips, staring straight at me the entire time.

  I got waylaid by reporters, as did Brooks, Marquis, Rafe, and the others. They asked if I was the brains behind the offensive line.

  “Maybe the balls. But not the brains. I leave that thinking shit to Macintyre.” I hooked an eyebrow to laughter all around.

  “Malone, how does it feel being the dark horse of the NFL?”

  “Hey, I’m still a fan favorite, as you can hear. I consider myself a knight in shining armor at this point.” The crowd was still chanting my name. “But I’m trying to make amends for my fuck-ups. Hope you can bleep that in time.” I winked.

  Deacon Cross was mobbed by the press, too. Cross, the veteran player who’d been put out to pasture before his time. He’d been rejuvenated by Carolina Crush just like I’d been rehabilitated by the team and my time here.

  By the time I broke free of the swarming reporters, Reggie was already gone. Her seat empty. For once I admitted to myself I wished I’d asked her to stay behind and wait for me.

  My balls ached from more than just the fucking booty shorts earlier. Reggie had my body in knots day and night. The sexual heat between us unrelieved and building higher day by day.

  I couldn’t wait to get home to her, but my plans to have her all to myself didn’t exactly pan out.

  ****

  I stomped up the steps of my house a couple hours later, still brimming with adrenaline. I slammed open the door, booted it shut, and burst into the living room where Reggie sat on the couch with her phone in hand.

  Walking straight to her, I shucked out of my jacket. I set her phone aside, clasped her hand, and pulled her up.

  “Get dressed. We’re going out.”

  “What?” Her beautiful brown eyes flipped to mine.

  “Apparently Peyton hired out an entire country-and-western bar to celebrate.”

  “Tonight? But you guys must be exhausted.”

  “Hell no.” Swinging her off her feet, I caught her in a hot fast kiss full of tongue. “We just made it to the playoffs, sweetheart. I don’t think I’m gonna sleep for a week.”

  “A honky-tonk bar? What exactly am I supposed to wear? I don’t—”

  Setting her on her feet, I looked her up and down.

  I rubbed my shadowed jaw. “Huh. Good thing I stopped somewhere on the way home then.”

  “You—”

  I presented her with a bag.

  She took it hesitantly. “How’d you know my size?”

  “Sizes. And do you really think I haven’t been paying very close attention to your incredible body.” In fact, I’d paid such close attention my dick remained hard 24-7.

  Pretty sure she got that as she watched my greedy expression.

  “You’ve been snooping in my lingerie drawer.”

  My jaw dropped. “I will in a second now that I know you have a drawer dedicated to lingerie. Jesus.”

  She licked her lush lips and her lashes flickered down flirtatiously. “You wouldn’t be disappointed.”

  Groan.

  “Yeah. You better go change before I rip your clothes off you.”

  “Promise?” she asked archly.

  Grunt.

  I balled my hands to keep them off her.

  I rubbed my neck. My voice dropped. “I uh . . . I hope they fit though. I’ve never bought clothes for a woman before.”

  “Really?” Her eyes lit with a golden glow.

  “Really, Reggie.” I swept a finger across the crest of her cheek to the corner of her lips. “Only you.”

  When I started backing away, she grabbed my wrist. “Whoa, whoa, whoa there, cowboy.”

  “I may be up for a ride, but I ain’t no cowboy. You got me confused with Brooks.”

  “I just wanted to say I enjoyed the cheerleader dance.” She grinned.

  “Fuck my life,” I muttered, my face heating. “You’re never gonna let me live that one down, are you?”

  “Maybe if you give me a repeat performance in private.” Her sultry tone curled around me like a soft fist around my cock.

  I swatted her on the ass. “Yep. Go get changed, trouble.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I’d switched clothes, gobbled a huge sandwich, and downed a glass of water while checking the Crush Twitter feed.

  Some funny shit on there. And some awesome shit. #CarolinaCrushIt. Lots of fan pics and videos. Soundbites from all the coaches and Peyton. Social media was lit up after our performance tonight.

  But none of that mattered when I heard Reggie enter the kitchen behind me.

  The hair on the back of my neck rose, and of course my cock followed suit. I didn’t even have to see her. Just the sense of her, the scent of her, in the same room did it to me.

  I turned slowly, pocketing my phone.

  Then I swiped my hand across my mouth in case drool started to escape. Like I hadn’t seen her nearly naked, eaten her pussy, watched her dance in sensual teases of costumes . . . But this time she was wearing something I’d bought for her. I wanted to give her a lot more than just clothes.

 
; I wanted to be able to give her my heart, and put a damn ring on her finger.

  The silky cream-colored western-cut shirt clung to her tits, and she’d left enough buttons undone a tiny peek of cleavage showed. Her glossy hair swung around her shoulders. Dark makeup made her eyes even more captivating, and that lick-me-red lipstick needed to be smeared all over my dick.

  I scanned lower. The tight black jeans she’d worn the other day paired with the top I’d bought her along with the new boots just purchased. Low-heeled so she’d be her natural height when I held her against me.

  I roamed back up. Stopping at her tits.

  Did I see a hint of her nipples?

  Fucking hell.

  I wanted to ravish her on the spot.

  My cock lurched in my jeans.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Honky Tonk Hunk

  Reggie

  CAROLINA OWNED THE GAME against New York, and I couldn’t be prouder if they’d literally crushed the Dragons all over that field.

  But, as usual, I’d left soon after the final whistle blew. I wasn’t sure how much Calder wanted me around, in his life. Not one for self-pity . . . much, I’d only eaten one pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey and drunk two glasses of wine before I heard his key turn in the door.

  He’d surprised me, swooping me right off my feet. Then the gifts. The invite out with his entire team.

  The gifts and his somewhat shy admission he’d never bought anything like this for a woman before.

  I knew Calder had a way with the ladies. Given his profession, he’d never been lacking female company. But he’d made it clear this was different. I was special. And I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Especially if I could get his horse-sized cock in more than my mouth later.

  I was out for more than being his bedmate. I wanted the whole nine yards with him. I realized now he finally got it. Maybe that was why he was taking it slow, feeling things out, instead of feeling me up like I wanted him to.

  Nevertheless, when he called me trouble and swatted my ass, a tight frisson of need spiraled through me.

  In the guest room I used basically only to house my clothes, I looked in the fancy bag after untying the ribbon on the ropey handles. Something delicate was wrapped in swathes of tissue paper, and a large box completed the package.

  I pulled out the tissue-wrapped parcel first. Unfolding the edges, I reached inside. A tapered western-style shirt in nearly sheer cream-colored pure silk. It was gorgeous, so soft I rubbed it against my cheek, imagining Calder taking the time to stop off at a high-end store after winning the final game of the NFL season to pick something out explicitly for me.

  The turquoise embroidery on the collar and cuffs paired perfectly with a pair of earrings I’d kept with me every day for more years than I could remember.

  Placing the top on the bed, I returned to the box. Inside was a pair of ankle boots in my exact size. Goddamn him. He knew a girl could never have enough shoes. They were black, suede, with silver accents, and nowhere near high-heeled enough to put me on eye level with him.

  He was being sweet, thoughtful . . . and completely alpha, like I always knew he would be.

  And it made me hot.

  Beneath the almost see-through top I wore a lacy white bra. Calder wanted to play? I was up for the challenge. Everything fit perfectly, and I paired the outfit and boots with the tight black jeans he seemed to like so much.

  When I reached the kitchen, he squinted those sizzling ice blue eyes at me.

  In faded jeans, a dark grey shirt that enhanced his eyes all the more, the sight of him knocked me back on my boots. Everything about him screamed Primal. Male. Predator. From his sharp looks to his heady musk.

  I swallowed.

  He advanced.

  “We need to go. Now.” He grabbed the keys to his truck, placed his hand at the small of my back, those long fingers reaching to the roundness of my ass, and hustled me from the house.

  “So you approve?”

  After seating me then ranging around to the driver’s side, he adjusted his jeans quite obviously before turning on the ignition. “You think?”

  God, I loved watching a man in charge. So hot when he curled an arm behind my seat to back out of the driveway—none of that rearview-camera bullshit—then draped one wrist on the steering wheel, laying his other hand—large, rough, and hot—on my thigh.

  “I remembered those earrings,” he mentioned. “When I saw the shirt.”

  “These old things?” I flicked at the turquoise dangling from my earlobes.

  “You bought them on that road trip we took to Colorado one time when Chris was incommunicado and I wanted to cheer you up.”

  Sudden dampness swirled my vision, and I grabbed Calder’s hand. I kissed his knuckles, big and bruised.

  “You’ve always been there for me.”

  “Always will be,” he spoke gruffly.

  “Even if I don’t know how to do the two-step?”

  He shook his head, streetlights glinting off the dark stubble on his jaw. “You can dance to anything.” His fingers curled between mine. “You own me, you know that, right, Reggie?”

  Owning him and possessing him were two entirely different things, I later found out.

  By the time we pulled up to the Kick’n Horse Saloon, the parking lot was packed and the party already heaving. Music swelled from inside, almost lost beneath the sounds of loud booming masculine voices.

  Once inside, heat immediately poured over me. Men and women crowded at the bar, took over the pool tables in the back, and performed some kind of complicated line dance on the dance floor.

  I didn’t recognize everyone, but by my estimation at least the entire team and their wives/girlfriends, the coaching and support staff, the Cougars, and the cheerleaders had shown up to celebrate the big win.

  Unbelievably it was Akoni, not Brooks, who led the line dance.

  “Akoni can move like that?” I asked as the huge jovial Hawaiian nimbly spun and twisted.

  “You haven’t seen his haka yet.”

  “Akoni can do anything,” he said as he passed, pulling me—protesting—into the melee.

  I laughed, immediately fucking everything up before catching on to the dipping, swaying, turning motions. Standing on the sidelines, Calder watched me with unerring eyes, gaze appreciative, lips spread in a smile.

  “C’mon, Calder. Think your dancing days are over because of that stint with the cheerleaders?” one of the men called out.

  “Balls still hurtin’, brah?” That was Brooklyn, heckling.

  “Hey, you forgot to touch up your lipstick before coming out, Milly!” Marquis joined in.

  “Fuck you and you and all of you, too.”

  The song ended, and I wondered if my toes were going to make it through the night. There were a lot of big men in a tight space, but just like Akoni had surprised me, the rest of the guys did, too. Handsome, fit, and full of pride at their win, they made up for their size with amazing agility.

  About ten minutes after we arrived, Brooklyn whistled between his teeth. “Listen up, y’all! Carolina Crush aren’t the only winners here tonight.” He hauled the beautiful quarterback, Delaney, to his side. “Carolina Cougars fucking tore up the Artemis League cup and won their championship last Sunday against the Houston Hellions. So, raise a glass to the Cougars!”

  Shouts and claps and bottles knocking on tables resounded throughout the bar while Brooklyn kissed his fiancée with such incendiary passion I thought the walls would burst into flames.

  Right after Brooklyn’s announcement, a slow song started lilting from the five-piece band on stage. Before I had a chance to claim Calder, Raquel appeared. One of Delaney’s teammates, she was so stunning I almost wanted to dance with the beautiful black woman.

  She grabbed Calder and hustled him onto the floor, wrapping herself nearly all the way around him while he sent me some sort of apologetic look.

  Or it could’ve been one of hi
s trademark smirks.

  Urgh.

  I tried not to let the jealous steam building inside me blow out my ears when Calder and Raquel danced together in soft swaying motions to the love ballad.

  “Thought you’d be out there.” Peyton shouldered up beside me while I ordered a beer.

  “I don’t know that much about country music.” I accepted my bottle, taking a quick drink. Stubbornly turning my back on Calder and Raquel.

  “Neither do I. I’m all about classic rock.” Peyton swirled a straw around her drink, stopping to smile when Rafe Macintyre curled an arm around her shoulder.

  The Crush QB oozed downhome charm and complete sex appeal, and the way he focused solely on his wife made my heart sing. “Whatcha talkin’ about?” he asked.

  “Music,” Peyton murmured. Then she winked at me. “Rafe here is into Justin Bieber.”

  I nearly spit a mouthful of beer across the bar.

  “Evil woman.” He laid a slow kiss on her lips, hand resting possessively on her belly. “Good thing I love the hell out of you.”

  “I know you do.”

  “No Phil tonight?” I asked.

  “She’s getting her auntie time in with Callum,” Peyton answered.

  “Probably spoiling him rotten,” Rafe grumbled.

  “Like you don’t do the same, Daddy.”

  His eyes flared then he shot a look at me. “Wait. You bonded with Phil? The twisted sister?”

  “I think she’s sweet.”

  Rafe groaned. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

  Coach D rolled up, his bald head shiny because he’d just cut a rug with his wife. “You badmouthin’ my baby girl again.”

  “No sir, Coach Yoda.”

  Coach Yoda?

  “Boy, I oughtta—”

  “Congratulate me on an awesome game? A lovely wife? Another baby on the way?”

  “Lucky you are, Peyton’s the big boss, because you I’d sack right now.”

  Ahhh, Coach Yoda.

  “Except we still have a Super Bowl Trophy to win.”

  Even with Chris’s unit—their wives and families—I’d never felt this sense of camaraderie. There were always secrets about their missions, information that could never be shared, problems that rarely saw the light of day because some aspect or other was always classified.