Bad Boys Teaser: A Sizzling Bad Boys Anthology

by Rie Warren

  She ran a salon in Newberry, South Carolina, where I’d grown up. Never asked for anything. And speaking of love lives, she could do with one of her own.

  Huh. Coach D’s Yoda-speak was rubbing off on me.

  Whatever.

  Still too early, but Liv was never gonna go back to sleep. Probably not for two more months. I scraped my palms down my face then peeked at my phone. 5:30.

  Hate.

  Smile.

  “What do you want for breakfast, Livvy?”

  “Pancakes!”

  “You’re too perky at this time of the morning.”

  She punched my arm. “Too grumpy.”

  “More like Sleepy.”

  “Dopey.” She dropped her voice and frowned.

  Standing to stretch, I checked the outside temp on my phone. A cool forty-five degrees to start the day. “Hey, Happy. You go grab a shower, and I’ll crank up the fire.”

  She gave me some kind of street-kid gangsta gesture that meant nada to me. “Meet you in the kitchen.”

  While I lit the fire in the great room with fresh wood, watching sparks fly, I heard her singing—tunelessly—upstairs.

  I’d broken Liv out of school a couple weeks before summer vacation. Since I was the town celebrity and the largest donor to her private school, it wasn’t like they were gonna say no to me. Before this annual summer venture, I’d had her with me at spring break.

  I’d spent Christmas—coming off the heels of Carolina Crush’s regular season shitshow—in Newberry with her and Mom. The same eighties ranch I’d been raised in, even though I’d offered to upgrade her to something newer, something bigger. Mom had declined. So those bucks went into investments and a college fund for Livvy instead.

  I’d bought Mom a car, though—a freakin’ Toyota Prius, the only thing she’d accept.

  Biggest Christmas tree in Newberry? You know it. And a huge open-bar blow-out party for the locals and old friends on New Year’s Eve? You bet. I’d bought Liv the latest street-style, high-top kicks made by the most sought-after graffiti artist.

  The kid slept in them Christmas night.

  And for our mom? A new china cabinet, with interior lighting.

  It wasn’t about the money.

  It was what I could do for my family.

  And all winter long, every time I walked outside of my cabin, I wrapped the Carolina Crush-colored scarf around my neck Liv had knitted for me. Not that she was destined to be Suzy Homemaker. The kid was . . . eclectic.

  I heard cleats clicking on the wood flooring of the kitchen and turned in her direction.

  Yup.

  Different. That was my sis.

  Damp dark hair. Deep green eyes.

  “Whaddya want for breakfast again?” I asked.

  “Pancakes!”

  “Bacon?”

  “Do pigs fly?”

  “Not really. But this one’s definitely gonna fry.” I tossed the package of bacon in her direction. “Catch.”

  She was wearing a Crush football helmet and had painted big black streaks across her cheeks. The tomboy girl wanted to be the first female NFL player.

  Or Sherlock Homey.

  She caught the package one handed, performing a mini Marquis-inspired dance on her tiptoes. “Touchdown!”

  “You don’t really need the faceguard in the kitchen,” I said after the fist bump.

  “The way you cook I do.”

  Touché.

  Hours later we sat on a flat rock beside the stream, catching hot sunrays through the leafy canopy like a couple of lizards lounging around.

  “Are you dating anyone?” Liv asked.

  “How old are you again?” I finished tying a complicated fly, biting off the vibrant orange thread. “And none of your business, Agatha Christie.”

  “Almost twelve,” she piped up.

  “Going on twenty.”

  She threw a worm at me, one of the blood-fat wrigglers fresh from the dirt we’d dug up.

  Tossing the fly aside, I lightly pinched the worm between two fingers. “You want this shoved down the back of your shirt, squirt?”

  “Keepaway! Keepaway!” She scrambled into the stream like a crab on crack.

  “Too bad you don’t have any boy-cootie spray.” I went back to my pole, threading the new super-fly on.

  “How old are you again?” Liv stood up to her ankles in the fresh mountain creek, her fresh mouth never ending.

  Wading past her into the burbling stream up to my thighs, I called back, “Duck unless you really want a nose piercing.”

  “You suck, Ray.” She still wore the helmet. Probably a good thing when I almost hooked her head.

  Touché.

  My phone vibrated on the rock, and Liv made a mad dash for it. Closer than me, she took one look at the caller, shook her head, and muttered, “Nnnn nh.”

  All the fucks.

  Had to be Serena, the demon agent.

  I crossed the brook.

  Took the phone.

  Wondered if I could drown it?

  “Yup?” I answered instead.

  “Rafe, trying to nail you down during the off-season is harder than—”

  “Your black, black heart?” I winked at Liv.

  “I don’t have any heart at all. What are you talking about?” Serena hissed. “I’m calling to ask if you know about a little thing called Black Monday?”

  “Mmm. Lemme think for a second.” I skipped a pebble across the stream. “That shopping thing broads lose their humanity over after Thanksgiving?” I played dumb.

  “Noooo, idiot. That’s Black Friday. I’m talking about when craptastic players get traded down after the end of the season.”

  “Sounds bad, Serena.” I tucked my fishing pole under my arm, inspecting the shiny new fly. “But that was months ago, and I ain’t been traded yet.”

  “It’s real bad. Like getting stuck at a second-rate team bad.” Her voice lowered from the usual high pitch. “There are changes afoot at Crush.”

  I shuddered. Afoot. She was starting to sound like Liv after a PBS-BBC-Masterpiece-whatevs marathon.

  “Rafe, dislodge that fly-fishing pole from your ass and pack your truck up right motherfucking now.”

  “How’d you know I was fly fishing?”

  “Wearing waders?”

  Before I could tell her I was not wearing waders but an old pair of cargo shorts, Serena snickered. “And you wanna be an international sports sex symbol or just a pussy laughingstock?”

  “Damn. You really are a bitc—” Clenching down on my jaw, I glanced at Liv.

  “Olivia standing there with you?” Serena’s tone sweetened until it was equal parts saccharine and sarcastic.

  “Yes.” I grinded my clenched jaw.

  “What were you saying again?” Sickly sweet Serena, like butter wouldn’t melt.

  “You’re a ballbuster.”

  “You know it. And I’m really gonna bust your balls if you don’t get back into shape. Peyton’s calling everyone in for early training and team Russian roulette.” She clicked her fingernails audibly on her desk, or against the phone . . . or perhaps on a sharpening stone. “Miss Fox isn’t going to put up with another losing season. She’s ready for heads to roll.”

  I thumbed the phone off with Serena’s threat ringing in my ears. This was already shaping up to be another fucked-up season if the team and I didn’t stop dicking around.

  Liv, who’d listened intently to the one-sided conversation, looked at me with her eyebrows arched high. “And?”

  “Pack it up, kid. We’re heading to training camp.”

  “Score!”

  Six

  Baby Face

  Peyton

  CALLUM’S SMALL HEAD WAS the only thing visible above the covers on his bed. That red hair—cinnamon like mine—was probably something he’d get teased about over and over again once he hit kindergarten in August.

  Five-years-old already.

  How the hell had that happened?

  I st
ill carried the initial ultrasound image around in my wallet. And a photo of the two of us on his first Christmas was the only personal touch on my desk in my office at Carolina Crush.

  The office I’d finally redecorated, made mine. From January to now June I’d put my stamp all over the football team, barking orders at the coaches, busting the big danglies of the scouting agents, going more than one round with Lou, the general manager.

  The one constant through the total NFL mayhem, always, was this little kid right here.

  The first time I’d held him in my arms, uncontrollable tears raced down my cheeks. And just like that—the moment I cradled him against me—the focus of my entire world shifted on its axis. I fell completely in love with the utter rightness of this thing, this mommy-ness. His squirmy body, his mewling cry. The cry only I could quiet. The unbreakable mother-love bond for my baby boy.

  Callum.

  All soppiness aside, I banged my fist on his open door, shouting in a drill sergeant’s voice, “Up and at ’em, Cal!”

  His face wrinkled, and he rubbed both fists over his eyes as I moved into his room, opening the curtains so bright sunshine cascaded inside.

  “Mommy?” He rolled over, bleary-eyed.

  “Kick it into gear, sweet boy. Breakfast, five minutes.” I hugged him hard and smooched kisses on both his cheeks, and he wrapped his arms around me.

  Those few minutes between sleeping and waking he was still my little baby.

  In ten minutes he’d probably turn into a demanding toddler-monster whose favorite words were why and no.

  “Brush hair. Brush teeth. Uniform on the end of your bed.”

  Too bad I’d forgotten my own uniform. Somehow I’d ended up with one expensive stiletto on, and a Fozzie Bear slipper—total classic—on my other foot.

  Par for the course.

  I crossed the landing and searched my closet high and low for the other heel. With my shirt buttoned at an odd angle I only noticed when I caught sight of myself in the mirror . . . and the coffee percolating and bacon more than likely burning in the kitchen.

  Total glamor. All the damn time.

  I had this shit down.

  By the time I located my other shoe, rebuttoned my blouse, and salvaged the ultra-crispy, possibly inedible bacon, Callum the Cranky plopped himself at the table and bent his head into his hand, a frown etched on his pint-sized forehead.

  Passing by to rummage at the hall table for my purse when my cell started jingling, I ruffled his hair. “You are so not a morning person, my love.”

  “Wanna go to work with you today,” he called after me, pouty-face in full puppy-dog mode.

  I found the iPhone, answering it while I joined Callum at the table—two plates balanced in my hands and the phone nestled at my ear. “Last day of preschool for you. Not possible.”

  I passed Cal his plate and watched the smile fight with his frown when he saw the pancakes I’d made.

  Banana and chocolate chips. His favorite.

  I muttered into the phone, talking to Serena Dixon, agent to one Rafe Macintyre. Sipping my coffee, I listened to her excuses as to why the potential QB of the century would be arriving at practice late.

  Rafe. AKA the bane of my existence.

  I rolled my eyes then cut that crap right out when Callum—watching me closely—repeated the eye-rollz. I shook my finger at him. He grinned back.

  Tiny trickster.

  As soon as I ended the call with Serena, the landline started ringing off the hook. At the kitchen bar, I flipped open my MacBook, pulling up the day’s schedule and scrolling through emails while answering the other call.

  That time from Lou, who finally confirmed the months of hard work, the wheeling and dealing, the travel and contract packages paid off. Three new key players had landed and been taken under the Carolina wings. Three key new players including an on-fire rookie QB scored from Nebraska during first-round draft picks.

  Let’s see how much Rafe likes that.

  I returned to the table . . . and my iPhone bleeped with a voicemail. A voicemail I forgot all about when I saw what Callum had written in thick, drippy maple syrup on my stack of pancakes: Luv u mommy!!!

  Grabbing him for a syrupy sweet kiss, I laughed when he followed up with an Eskimo kiss of noses nudging. And my stupid eyes teared up.

  He made it all worth it, morning grumpies and all.

  Herding him to the car, with his oversized backpack on his tiny shoulders, was a totally different story.

  But at least I was schooling him in classic rock as I dialed into 104.5 and Heart’s “Magic Man” started blaring. I ignored the Bluetooth and joined Callum in an epic rock anthem sung at the top of our lungs.

  I pulled up to the church-run preschool, corralled him through the door with dozens of other toddler parents, and fielded the usual questions of interest re: was Carolina Crush going to make a comeback?

  Despite the saddest performance possibly on record, everybody wanted season tickets.

  I was just happy when I remembered to deliver the juice boxes and cupcakes on time for the regularly scheduled preschool parties.

  And to have color-coordinated my outfit, tucked in my blouse, and remembered to ditch the Fozzie Bear slippers before heading out of the house.

  After greeting Cal’s teachers, I crouched for one last hug, but he blew me off with a fist tap.

  Did I say little kid?

  I hesitantly bumped that. “Why?”

  “Auntie Phil taught me.”

  “That woman needs lessons in decorum.” I grabbed him to me while I still could.

  My little tagalong was growing up way too fast. Damn, he even had the cleft chin. The two dimples. The lopsided grin that got right to my heart.

  “Peyton! Peyton Fox!” One of the robo-blondie moms kind of cat-walked down the multicolored, muraled corridor toward me. “We were wondering if you’d like to be proposed for membership in the Junior League?”

  Speaking of decorum gone way too Blonde Ambition . . .

  “Is that like the minors or something?” I played dumb.

  Blondie tittered. “No.” She grasped my wrist. “It’s the United Daughters of the Confederacy, but we’re politically correct.”

  Uhm. No.

  On second thought I’d never sic decorum lessons on Phil again.

  “Buh-bye, Mommy.” Cal waggled his fingers at me.

  “Hey,” I called after him, watching him stow his backpack in his cubby. “Auntie Phil might get to your graduation before me. But I’ll be here.”

  “No worries!”

  Huh?

  Something clawed right into my heart as he was surrounded by his classmates, forgetting all about me.

  Jesus. Yep. I did need to get that life Philomena kept preaching about. I was suffering from empty nest syndrome, and Callum was only headed to kindergarten at the end of the summer?

  Christ.

  Meanwhile, Phil had gone through dozens of chicks since Christmas while I’d had no sex. Not a single masculine kiss. No dates at all because I turned everyone down.

  Phil wanted to put me on Tinder. She accused me of being a nun. A born-again virgin.

  Re-hymen-ated.

  Yeah. She was such a friend like that.

  What she didn’t know was I could’ve potentially had that great love. Except for one crazy, sexy, sheet-burning, bed-breaking night . . . and the morning of forgetfulness that had followed.

  A night that changed my life in the best and the worst ways.

  She claimed I was surrounded by some of the best cock in the US of A, and she wasn’t wrong—cocky bastards that was. But I wasn’t about to jeopardize my fragile hold on hard-won professional respect by getting off with one of my players.

  Hell and no.

  Not gonna happen.

  I wasn’t a prude, but the love-lust thing was waaay down on my list of priorities that included: 1. Callum, 2. The team, 3. I wouldn’t mind being able to pull off the domestic diva thing while I ran my ass ragge
d to make sure Crush wasn’t the laughingstock of the NFL two seasons in a row.

  And, 4. A little romance might be nice, too.

  Or at least someone to help me find my car keys as I dug through my depthless purse so I could get to work.

  Seven

  Game Face

  Peyton

  MY TOES ACHED AS I sat through morning meetings at Carolina headquarters. My head ached, too. After two cups of strong java, several rounds with Lou about how to manage the first day of practice after I’d already outlined the schedule and emailed it to the entire coaching staff two weeks in advance, I wanted nothing more than to get on the field.

  Finally closing the talking heads down, I hit my office, kicked off my stilettoes, and reached behind to unclasp my bra.

  Blessed relief.

  In the adjoining bathroom, I stripped down, changing from biz-woman-wear into workout gear. Sneakers, yes. Hair in a ponytail. Red and white team colors all the way.

  Before the players arrived, I ran laps around the training ground, working it all out. The sudden, unplanned move from Nashville. Uprooting Cal and enrolling him in a new preschool. Putting the team back together piece by player piece.

  My frustrations.

  My sexual frustration?

  Damn Phil and the way she’d gotten inside my head about not having a man to share my bed. Dr. Phil. Pffft.

  My feet hit the track as I ran, my head down, steam rising in the rapidly warming air.

  Coach D sat on a bench, tipping his water bottle at me every time I passed him until he stood and blew his whistle. Seemed our guys had finally arrived.

  Sweat clung to my temples and chest, and I mopped myself up with the towel D tossed at me. Frank, Sam, and Mark joined us as I chugged water, and the team—newly replenished—streamed onto their home practice field.

  Familiar with these stomping grounds since I hadn’t gone with the usual total training camp immersion at an away facility because I couldn’t leave Callum, the men joked, rapped, and danced, strutting around like they didn’t have a single care in the world.

  They weren’t just athletes. They were showmen. And they’d definitely shown their asses last season, not in a good way.