by Rie Warren
I agreed. One hundred percent.
Brooklyn did, too. A pump of his fist against Buckley’s giving the green kid just that much more confidence.
Marquis and the rest of us had hazed him hundreds of times, but now he needed to know he had us in his pocket, and we wouldn’t let anyone else take him out of pocket.
Marquis bumped his fist. “Do it. Prove it.”
We all clapped our hands. Got into formation. Third down and five on the Sidewinders thirty.
I’d practiced a million times with Rafe and Buckley. I couldn’t let myself wonder if he’d miss the handoff. He had to own this one.
I heard him pop his neck, crack his knuckles. I felt him get in position behind me, steadying his breaths and taking control.
Snap!
Buckley captured the football one-handed, just like we taught him.
The defensive dickhead toe-to-toe with me went full ragey in my face.
“Oh no, boy, you ain’t getting to the kid tonight.” I hammered him five yards downfield and ended him with a back-splat.
Everyone tight, we protected Luke Buckley on his first play—first fucking play in the Super Bowl of all things.
Unbelievably, he found the deep pocket, and all I could do was watch—seconds frozen in time—as the ball flew like a hawk straight into Brooklyn’s outstretched hands.
As Brooks took the last leap and dive to the end zone to even the score, I could almost hear the announcers:
In-cred-ible! In the final minutes of Super Bowl 2017, Luke Buckley gets his first trial run and he nails it. Annihilates it! The Cornhusker, the Golden Boy, shines through for Carolina Crush. Helllooooo, Midwest, and welcome to the Carolina Crush!
I raced up to Buckley as we ran off field. “How’d that feel?”
“Like the night I popped my cherry.”
“Pretty sure that’s what you just did.” Brooks stopped long enough to throw Buckley a sledgehammer-sized fist tap.
The Sidewinders took the field, snow beginning to come down heavier all around. Mighty breaths frosted from flaring nostrils. Nine minutes between two teams and the Super Bowl Trophy. Even score.
Rafe walked up to Buckley. “And that’s how you do it.” He met Buckley’s fist then grabbed him around the neck. “But if you think you’re bringin’ home the ring just because I almost broke my finger you’re dead wrong.”
Chuckles filtered through the rest of us, settling as soon as the Sidewinders got their hands on the football to make their drive.
Our defense could not, better not, let the Sidewinders score.
San Fran made a valiant—vicious and violent—effort. No doubt about that. When they made it to our twenty, my heart clenched like a vise gripped it.
But then it was third and eight because our line drilled them backward during the second play.
Harsh breaths gusted in and out of my chest. I didn’t blink. Their talented quarterback would have no problem making a TD money shot given half the chance.
The play began. Akoni led the charge forward, ramped up like a Hawaiian mad man. With Bunyan at his back, he bulldozed past blockers, and—holy motherfucking yes—delivered the blitz right back to the San Francisco Sidewinders!
TD attempt failed, forcing the punt to our team.
Monumental shouts cascaded through the arena, shivered like a visible force over my body.
No time to think. We took possession after their punt downfield.
The flurries from before had become near blizzard-like conditions. My fingers were numb, my heart thumping, pumping.
Fans stampeded to their feet:
“Mac Daddy! Mac Daddy! Mac Daddy!”
“Baller! Baller! Baller!”
“Calder! Calder! Calder!”
I shook my head, settled my shit. I stamped my feet, punching footprints into the snow, and play began.
What felt like seconds later, we’d managed to doggedly push forward—the runs and passes and throws on point in the pursuit of a final, game winning touchdown.
I felt no pain, no cold, no fear. Not anymore. Final play. Super Bowl 2017. New season. New team.
New dreams.
Tie to overcome. No one on the Crush squad wanted to drag this shit into an overtime, an occurrence that had never happened in the history of the Super Bowl.
Wasn’t gonna happen on our watch either.
We hoped.
I hoped just to keep my hands from fumbling, shaking.
I knew my folks were watching this game, as were millions of others.
“Not the shotgun formation again,” I muttered as soon as I saw the gleam in Rafe’s eyes before the play that would either make us or break us.
“Nah. Something a little different this time,” he murmured.
Voice low, he gave the word to take the Sidewinders feet right out from under them.
We were the Crush. The lightning. The thunder. And we hadn’t made it to the Super Bowl by being anything less than fast on our feet and fucking football savvy.
Boosted by Buckley’s unerring play, team morale soared to the fricking Sky Box where Peyton Fox-Macintyre no doubt watched our every move.
“Ready to shake this shit up and bring the game home?” Rafe—the football whisperer—asked.
Silent tense nods. Low muttered words of approval. Knuckle bumps. Then our third down. Our final hope. The end zone beckoned.
Rafe took the snap.
I blocked like a fucking bull on the charge while he sailed back as if scanning his options. Brooklyn snuck around, and Rafe made the fake hand-off to him. Brooks began his run downfield, huddling over thin air as if he nestled the ball in his arms.
And Rafe tore off down the other side with the Sidewinders momentarily distracted by the bootleg play.
The football held close to his chest, he sprinted with the full force of love for his wife, pride for his game, victory for his team compelling him forward.
And—fuck me—he drove it all the way home for Peyton.
In the flash of seconds, we’d won Super Bowl 2017!
I’d barely managed to drag in a breath before the entire team rushed Rafe in the end zone. It was a jumble of red and white and arms and legs and hugs and high fives as the roar of Carolina Crush fans heaved louder than ever before.
Streamers fell through the air, mingling with the snow.
Brooklyn lifted a laughing Rafe up onto his shoulder.
Coach D grinned so big I thought his face was gonna break apart.
Fireworks shredded the black night sky.
Reporters swarmed the field, trying to get a soundbite from anyone who would listen, but we were celebrating too hard to pay any attention whatsoever.
The Gatorade cooler was upended for a sticky shower.
I heard Peyton shout, probably at her new husband, Rafe, “Don’t you dare douse me with that!”
We soaked Coach D until he was wet all the way through. He didn’t give a fuck as he stood dripping in the possibly subzero temps, the smile never leaving his face and a boisterous laugh coming straight from his belly.
Winning the biggest fucking game in the NFL with no one of my own to share it with suddenly brought it all home.
Reggie is home.
A reporter finally snagged me. “Who’d have thought underdogs Carolina Crush would ride this season all the way to the Super Bowl and come out with a victory!” He shoved a mic in my face. “Calder Malone! Black sheep of the NFL no longer. How does it feel to . . .?”
He kept rambling on, but I barely registered.
“Sorry, man.” I started walking away.
Then I started sprinting.
“Where you going, Calder?” Brooks called out.
“I gotta go. I gotta get to Reggie.”
“Right now?” He looked at me like I’d completely lost the plot, even though he knew better than anyone how I felt about the woman.
“What’s the rush, Malone?” Those words halted me. Only that time it wasn’t Brooklyn asking.
> The voice came from close behind me.
The voice I’d wanted to hear so much.
Stunned, I spun slowly. “Reggie?”
Chapter Twenty-Five
To the Victor It Goes
Calder
SHOCK AT SEEING REGGIE here, in Denver, was quickly replaced by such a surge of pure joy it almost rocked me to my knees.
Joy that multiplied when she stepped straight into my open arms.
I quickly wrapped her against me, no other thought than to keep her with me forever.
She lifted her face, her lips softening, then I drew her up that final inch. Her lips against mine made me groan, and I tasted her from one corner to the other before delving inside. Hot fire flooded me. I cupped the back of her head, fingers tangled in her hair. Our tongues sought deeper, swirling tasting touching and it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.
It was the loud whoops, hollers, and shouts from my teammates that broke us apart.
“Thatta boy!”
“’Bout goddamn time.”
“So sick of him mooning around since Christmas.”
“Hey, Reggie!” That was unmistakably Bunyan. “Promise not to leave lover boy again? He’s been fucking unbearable.”
I flipped everyone off while Reggie giggled at the comments. All remarks at my expense of course.
Assholes.
“Ignore them,” I said.
“I think they’re amusing.”
I growled low in my throat, which only made her laugh again. Then I just stared at her, drinking her in. Tight jeans and high boots and red lips and a red leather jacket. Fluffy snowflakes settled in her hair, startlingly white against the deep brown gloss of her curls.
“God, you look amazing,” I whispered. She was even more beautiful than I remembered. “But . . . what are you doing here?”
“Did you really think I’d be anywhere else?” Her hand rose, and she drew fingertips along the side of my jaw. “Besides, I scored epic seats in the Sky Box.” She pointed toward Peyton, Phil, and our GM Lou.
I narrowed my eyes. “You planned this without telling me.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“Mission accomplished.” I kissed her again, softer and slower, cold air melting from between us.
When I released her, she let out a shaky breath. “I would’ve come sooner but—”
“But what?”
“I wanted to give you time to come to your senses.”
I barked a laugh. “Is that so? And what did you think about . . . the letters?” I nearly stuttered, asking that question, and I was pretty damn sure I blushed.
She nuzzled her nose against my neck for a moment despite the fact that after hours of rough game play I wasn’t smelling too sweet. “Your letters. I read every single one of them more than once.”
“How many times?”
“I’m not telling.” Her hands curled over my shoulders. “They delighted me. Gave me something to look forward to every day.” Her eyes lifted. “They made me feel wanted. And loved.”
I pulled her hand against my heart. “You are.”
She looked away shyly, and in the middle of the crowded field, in the aftermath of a massive Super Bowl win, I felt like we were completely alone.
“I waited because I wanted you to be able to focus on your game. And I needed to get some things in order.”
“Like what?” That crazy joy began to build inside me again.
She must’ve felt my thundering heartbeat knocking against her palm.
“A place to stay.”
“Where?”
“In the Charleston area.”
Thud thud.
“You have a place to stay,” I said.
A smile started to curve her very red lips. “A job.”
“In the Charleston area?”
“Perhaps.” She continued to toy with me.
Thump thump.
“You left the show?”
“No. I just looked into other opportunities.” She hedged for a moment before admitting, “You’re not exactly a sure bet, Calder.”
“I’m sorry. About Christmas and after going to Chris’s grave and for being a cowa—”
Her fingers pressed against my mouth silenced me. “I told you I don’t ever want you to apologize about that again. I’m here now. You don’t have to prove yourself to me.” Her eyes slanted at me. “But if you did want to keep writing me romantic thoughtful sweet, maybe even sexy letters . . .”
“I’ll do whatever it takes,” I said earnestly.
“You already have.” Her kiss was a light touch, a little lick at the corner of my mouth while I hungered for more.
My body reacted savagely to her words, her presence, after her absence, but she reared back, a wickedly playful look painting her deep dark brown irises. “Anyway, you know your friend Frankie?”
Wouldn’t exactly call him a friend. He was more like a stone-cold killer who’d done Brooks a solid with Delaney. “What about him?”
“He hooked me up with this boy he knows—”
“Back it up a minute. Hooked you up? With this boy?”
“Arranged so I could meet this guy—”
“Boy or man?” I asked point blank.
“Are you jealous?”
“Damn right I am.”
“Kinkaid Ryder. A young man. Friend of Frankie’s. He owns HardCorps Gym/ Hardcore Strippers in Mt. Pleasant with this other man, Bo Maverick. They’d be able to rent me space to teach lessons.”
“What exactly do this Kinkaid and Bo do?” Narrowed eyes.
Yeah. Jealous.
“Kinkaid’s an ex-stripper.”
My jaw dropped. My eyes nearly popped out of my head.
Reggie merely laughed at my reaction, like no big about the male stripper.
“Relax. He teaches the stripping classes, both as workout routines and for other professional dancers, and Bo’s a former Marine who—”
“Leave it to you.” I snorted.
“Who hardcore fitness trains.”
“And you’d be working with these two guys?”
“It’s no different than you all and the cheerleaders. Or the Cougars. Mr. Double Standard.”
“Now that I’ve got you, I don’t wanna share you.” I hooked her closer.
“Who says you’ve got me?” she asked teasingly.
That time I didn’t even bother to growl. I just looked at her with absolute love and wonder. “How the hell did you get so goddamn brave?”
“Well, I mostly wear a G-string and little else in front of a huge crowd four nights a week for Rouge.”
“You just had to remind me of that, didn’t you?” I groaned.
“The jealous streak is kind of cute.”
“I’ll show you cute.” I hitched her up against me for a kiss so powerful our tongues lashed together, our bodies rocking, my cock insistent inside the hard cup.
The celebration in progress interrupted us. More correctly, Brooklyn interrupted.
“Yo, Reggie. Thank fuck you came.”
I pulled back to slug him on the arm.
“This dude . . . and his moping. Not sure I could’ve taken much more.”
“Was he in on it?” I asked Reggie.
“It’s a secret,” she whispered.
“Sorry, though, darlin’, we got photo ops and the trophy and shit we gotta do, so I’m gonna have to steal your man here for a bit.” Brooks apologized.
I shot him a dirty look then said, “Give us a second?”
He stepped away, back into the wild melee.
“Will you wait for me, sweetheart?” I asked, longing etched throughout my body.
Reggie looked around at the total chaos on the field. “I think you’re going to be awhile.”
“How about heading to my hotel room?” Grasping her hands, I held them tightly, unwilling to let go.
Not yet.
Not ever.
“Why, Calder Malone, are you propositioning me?”
; “You bet your sweet ass I am. And definitely not just for tonight.”
“In that case, I’ll see you at the hotel.” Her voice came out low and smoky, a promise of sex—yes—but so much more than that.
As she backed away, she called out, “Hey, Calder?”
“Yeah?”
“Congrats on winning the Super Bowl.”
“And that wasn’t even the best part of tonight.” Truth.
****
Felt like frigging hours passed. The photo ops. The press conference. The Vince Lombardi Trophy ceremony that sent shivers down my spine and another massive swell of applause from our fans. Posing for pictures. Shaking more hands. The bla bla bla bla when all I wanted to do was get back to Reggie.
Not that it was just any old game day—not at all—but part of me worried she wouldn’t be at the hotel, waiting.
Part of me didn’t believe she was really giving me a second chance.
And the other part of me was biting at the bit to tackle her to a bed and fuck her right through it.
Finally, fucking finally, we hit the locker room.
I was halfway through dressing—just about to knot that fucking throat-choking tie around my neck—when Buckley slid over, buttoning his shirt.
“Hey. You and Reggie, right?” he mentioned what everyone was most likely thinking since I’d never publicly made out with Reggie before.
Everybody in the locker room stilled. Even the air felt hushed with expectation.
Because when Buckley spouted off, someone usually ended up punching him in the mouth.
“What about us?” I asked.
“Nothing. Just . . . at least when you two get married like all these other schmucks around here she won’t have to change her last name.”
Silence reigned while the others awaited my reaction.
“And then there’s that.” I quirked an eyebrow in his direction.
Everyone else still silent.
Buckley started backpedaling. “Didn’t mean anything about your brother though, man. Because I can’t imagine—”
“Buckley?”
“Yeah.” He winced.
“Probably best to shut the fuck up while you’re still ahead.” I chuckled.
Then all the other dudes chimed in:
“It’s a night of firsts! Buckley didn’t get his face shoved in.”
