LuckyBastard: A Cocky Hero World Novel

by Ryan, Kaylee

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  From the look on her face, she’s wondering the same thing. I wink, turn on my heel, and walk out the door. If I stay any longer, I’m going to be late for practice and Coach Neil will have my ass and running sprints with a hefty monetary fine is not something I plan on taking on today.

  * * *

  “You’re on fire out there today,” Case says, joining me on the sidelines for a drink of water.

  I grin and take another swig from the Gatorade bottle. “You’re putting the ball in my hands and blocking the D-line.”

  “It’s more than that. You get laid or something? Damn it, Barker. Did you hit up Harvey’s without me?” He gives me a look that tells me if that were the case, he’d be pissed.

  “Nope.” The rest of the team filters over and we start talking about practice and our first preseason game in a few weeks.

  “Hey, man, how’s Luna?” I ask Trent Caudill. He’s our starting right tackle, a beast of a man at six foot eight inches and weighing in at three-hundred-and-fifty-nine pounds.

  “She’s perfect. Pregnancy looks good on her,” he speaks of his wife.

  “When’s the little crumb snatcher coming?” Jack Fields, our starting left tackle, asks. He’s close to Trent in size. At six foot six and two-hundred-and-ninety-eight pounds.

  They’re both blocking machines, and I know that when they’re out on the field with me, I’m protected. To say that they’re good at their jobs is an understatement.

  “The week of Thanksgiving. I’m hoping we’re home when it happens. Or we have a bye the following week. If she could hold off a few days, that would be ideal.”

  “Gentlemen, is this little hen meeting over? We have some tapes to watch.” Coach Neil walks past us and I see the smirk on his face.

  He likes to give us shit, no matter if we’re on the field or not. Not needing to be told twice, we head to the locker room for quick showers, so we can file into the media room to watch film.

  With my phone on my lap, I sit at the back of the room, and it takes herculean effort to stay awake. I debate on texting Emma to see how her ankle is, but I’ll see her soon enough. I don’t know if she believed me or not when I told her and Aubrey I would be back today, but I meant it. Somehow, she’s become more than just the chase and someone I want to get to know. Regardless of whether or not she ever accepts my offer for a proper date, Emma’s cool, and my gut tells me that knowing her, that having her in my life, could only mean good things.

  Two hours later, we’re all blinking as our eyes adjust to the overhead lights that someone just turned on. “Class dismissed.” Coach titters, obviously amused with himself. We hear that line often, and it’s always followed by a laugh. He’s a hardass on the field and about the game; he’s a damn good coach because of it. He’s also a pretty chill guy when he’s not ripping your ass while you’re on the field or pointing out a mistake in a game while going over film.

  “Harvey’s?” Kaden suggests.

  “Can’t.”

  “What do you got going on?” Case gives me a curious look.

  “I have plans.” I’m being vague and we all know it.

  “What kind of plans?”

  “Just plans.”

  “Uh-huh.” Thomas laughs. “He’s getting laid.”

  I’m never going to hear the end of this. “I’m going to the animal shelter.” I’d much rather tell them the truth and take their ribbing than for them to get the wrong idea about Emma when they find out that’s where I went. I’ve never really cared about their opinions of the women I’ve spent time with in the past. Mostly because outside of a hook-up, or a date to a function, there haven’t been any. Not since high school.

  “You getting a dog?” Case asks.

  “No. Emma fell and hurt her ankle, so I’m going to go help.”

  “Emma, is she the hot-as-hell chick that was with Coach Bateman’s wife?” Thomas asks.

  “That would be her.”

  “Nice.” Jack holds his fist out for me.

  “Lucky Bastard,” Kaden mumbles. “Why you gotta take all the prime pussy, QB?”

  I ignore the fact that he just referred to Emma as pussy and push forward. It’s how we talk, we’ve all done it, but suddenly it feels wrong when we’re talking about her. “Look, she’s hurt her ankle and the volunteers are random at best, according to Emma, so I’m just helping out. Feeding some dogs and whatever else needs to be done. No big deal.”

  “Maybe we should come with you,” Jack offers. “You know, lend our brawn.” He flexes his arms as if to show off his muscles.

  “Nah, it’s good. Thanks though.”

  “Oh, I see,” Kaden announces. “You’re afraid she’ll drop you and go for the real Trojan stud.” He puffs out his chest and we laugh at his display.

  “It’s no big deal. I’m just being nice. That’s all.”

  “Okay.” Trent grins. “If that’s how you want to play it. Boys, I’m going home to my wife. I’ll see your ugly mugs on Monday.”

  With a wave of goodbyes, we all go our separate ways, at least Trent and I do. I don’t stick around to see if the guys are meeting up at Harvey’s now or later, for that matter. I have somewhere I need to be. After all, I never break a promise.

  Chapter 7

  Emma

  It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’ve been lounging around the house all day. My ankle still hurts, and I figure two days of rest and I should be good as new for work next week. Aubrey is on call this weekend for the shelter, so I don’t have to worry about following up to make sure the volunteers showed up. We’ve talked about hiring another part-time person. Someone to staff the weekends, but it’s hard to find someone willing to work both weekend days. The hours could be flexible. As long as the animals are fed and watered, the cages are cleaned, and the dogs get to stretch their legs. They could do that in a couple of hours each day. It’s something I should bring up again and see what she says.

  My house is clean, the laundry is washed, folded, and put away, and I have a chicken casserole in the Crock-Pot. It’s way too much food for just me, so that will be my meals for the weekend, and I’ll take the rest to work and send it home with Aubrey for her and Chance on Monday. When I do cook, that’s usually what I end up doing with it. They don’t seem to mind, and I hate the thought of food going to waste.

  I’m scrolling through Netflix trying to find a new series to binge-watch when my phone pings with a message.

  Number 18: How’s your day going?

  Me: Just hanging around the house. Yours?

  I hesitate before hitting send. Replying like this opens up an all-new category of texting. Do I want that? I have to admit Landon has surprised me. He came back to the shelter yesterday and, in no time, had everything on my to-do list completed. Of course, it helped that Aubrey was like a mother hen not letting me get out of my chair. Needless to say, with his help, I got caught up on all of my busy work that there never seems to be enough time in the day to complete. Hence the reason I’m bored. I normally bring it home with me to work on during the weekend. I don’t mind it, and I know Aubrey appreciates me doing so as she does the same thing. I try to take on that role as she has a husband and a little boy at home. I’m just me. My mom is back home in Georgia, and my dating life is nonexistent at the moment.

  Number 18: Same. How about some dinner?

  Me: Already in the Crock-Pot.

  I’m glad that this is the truth and I don’t have to lie or just blatantly shut him down again. I would have thought he would have given up by now.

  Number 18: Perfect. What time should I be there?

  Me: …

  Number 18: Come on, Em. A man’s gotta eat.

  His text is followed by a picture of the inside of what I assume is his refrigerator. It’s empty except for a carton of eggs, a gallon of milk, a few bottles of water, a couple of cans of White Claw, and a few bottles of Gatorade.

  Me: I’m thinking you need to go grocery shopping.r />
  Number 18: Will you go with me?

  Me: No.

  Number 18: I didn’t think so. I’ll be there in an hour. Do I need to bring anything?

  Me: You’re not invited.

  I type the words, but I admit he’s not the worst company I’ve ever had. I was looking forward to a weekend just to relax, but it’s kind of lonely here all weekend, all alone.

  Number 18: I’ve got dessert covered.

  Me: Landon!

  Number 18: Gotta go. See ya soon.

  I don’t bother to text him back. I know he won’t reply. I also know he’s going to be at my door in an hour, possibly less if our previous interactions and his tendency to be earlier is his usual MO.

  I look down at the leggings I have on. They have little puppy golden retrievers on them, and the puppies are wearing Christmas hats. Sure, it’s summertime in California, but my mom bought them for me two Christmases ago and they’re super soft and comfy and they remind me of home. My shirt is a simple black tank top that shows the straps of my sports bra. My hair is a knotted mess of curls on top of my head, my feet are bare, as is my face since I didn’t bother with makeup. I start to freak out then decide this is a good thing. He’s going to see me slumming it, in my loungewear and run far, far away. I refuse to be anyone but myself, even for the sexy quarterback.

  Sure enough, forty-five minutes later there’s a knock at the door. I stand from my nest on the couch, and I say nest because of all the blankets and pillows—I take lounging very seriously. Pulling open the door, I take in the sight before me. Landon is wearing basketball shorts, a skintight T-shirt, and slides. In his hand is a box from a local bakery and a bouquet of flowers.

  “Are you going to invite me in, Emma?” His husky voice is laced with amusement.

  “I told you that you weren’t invited.” I try to sound stern, but it’s hard when the man brings dessert and flowers. Oh, and let’s not forget he looks good enough to eat.

  “Come on now.” He grins, and those damn dimples wink at me.

  I was always going to let him in. I just had to make him think it was an inconvenience. Stepping back, I give him ample space to enter the house before closing the door behind him.

  “Is that dinner I smell?” he asks, making his way to the kitchen to deposit the bakery box. He turns to face me. “Do you have a vase?”

  “Yes, and I do.” Reaching under the kitchen sink, I pull out a vase and add some water. I place it on the counter, and Landon carefully unwraps the flowers and slides them into the vase. I watch him and his big hands, and those strong arms as he arranges the flowers until he’s satisfied. They’re beautiful, and my heart tips over in my chest when I think about what it means when a man brings a woman flowers. Sure, it can be a kind, friendly gesture, but in most cases, that’s not it. They want more—romantically. He’s making it increasingly difficult to remember that he’s in this for the chase. Or is he?

  “There. Where do you want them?”

  “The table is fine.” I point to the center of the kitchen table and then rush to move the bowl of apples and oranges that are currently taking up that space, relocating it to the counter by the stove.

  “So, what’s for dinner?” he asks.

  “Chicken casserole.”

  “It smells delicious.”

  “Thanks. It won’t be done for another hour or so.” I glance at the clock and see it’s a few minutes after four.

  “Perfect, let’s get you off that ankle.” He places his hand on the small of my back and guides us back to the living room.

  The heat from his hand sears through my shirt and warms my skin. It makes me wonder what his calloused hands would feel like as they roam over my body. No, don’t go there, Emma. I take a seat and gather my nest, sliding under the cover and holding the pillows to my chest.

  “What’s up with all that?” He points to my lap.

  I shrug. “It’s more of a comfort thing. I like to cuddle, and well, when you’re single and live alone, that’s not possible, so this is the next best thing.”

  “I’ve never been much of a cuddler.”

  “Have you ever tried it?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “There you go. Don’t knock it until you try it.” He nods and reaches for the pillows in my arms. “Hey, what are you doing? Get your own.” I point to the loveseat that houses two more pillows just like mine.

  “You say don’t knock it until I try it,” he reminds me.

  “Fine.” I concede and hand him the pillows. I expect him to hold them to his chest like I just did, but instead, he tosses them on the floor and then pulls the blanket off me. I don’t fight him, letting him pull it from my lap. My eyes dart to the blanket on the back of the loveseat, so I stand to grab it. In fact, I think I’ll just start over with my nest there; he can have the couch. He is a lot taller than me.

  Carefully, I begin to step over the pillows he tossed on the floor. That’s all I need is to reinjure my ankle, or worse, injure the other one. However, before I have the chance, his hands are on my hips as he pulls me into his lap. “Ahh!” I scream, not expecting this turn of events. “What in the hell are you doing?” I ask, trying to sit up so I can stand.

  “I’m trying it out.”

  “Trying what out?”

  “Cuddling.”

  “Not with me. With the blankets and pillows.”

  “You said they were second best. I need to try the real thing to know if I’m a cuddler, right?”

  “Not with me.” I try again to stand, but his hold is tight.

  “Only with you” is his deep whispered reply. His lips next to my ear cause goose bumps to break out across my skin. “Just let me try it.” His thumb slides under my tank top and he begins to trace the skin just above my leggings.

  I open my mouth to tell him no, but instead, it closes on its own and I’m nodding. It’s been way too long since I’ve cuddled with a man, or had a man’s hands on me. His are big and warm, and if the pad of his thumb is any indication, surprisingly soft for a man who spends hours a day on the football field.

  “How do we do this, Em?”

  “W-We uh, should lay down.” I can’t believe I’m encouraging him, but the thought of snuggling up with him is far too tempting. He taps my hip and this time allows me to stand. I could make a mad dash for the loveseat or hell, I could kick him out, but I do neither. Instead, I stand and watch him arrange the pillows. He grabs the throw and tosses it over the back of the couch, and then reaches for the remote. Once he has what he thinks we’ll need, he stretches out on my couch, lying on his side, and pats the small space in front of him.

  I hesitate. Am I really going to do this? I mean, sure, it’s just cuddling, but what if he thinks that means I’m willing to have sex with him? Well, I mean, I am willing, but I won’t do it. You know, catching feelings and all that.

  “Come here, freckles.” His voice is soft, almost soothing as his eyes capture mine. Taking a deep breath, I lie down in front of him, my body stiff, trying not to melt into his warmth. I really should turn up the thermostat. It’s so hot outside, so I like to keep it cool in here.

  Landon pulls the throw blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it over me. Then to my surprise, he wraps his arms around me and pulls me close. “You good?” he asks, and his hot breath ghosts across my ear.

  “Y-Yeah.”

  “What are we watching?” he asks, turning on the TV. He doesn’t seem the least bit fazed that we’re lying together so intimately on my couch.

  “Anything.” I should have known better than to agree to this. In a way, this is more intimate than having sex. The connection of our bodies, the warmth we share. It’s overwhelming and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like if there was an us. If I was more than just the chase. If this thing between us was more than just the fact that I turned him down. Would this be our thing? Relaxing and cuddling on the couch?

  He flips through the channels and stops on a movie channel that’s
playing Sweet Home Alabama. I love this movie. I am from the South, after all. “This okay?”

  “Yes. But you can watch whatever.” Satisfied with my reply, he sets the remote on the floor, tucking his hand behind his head.

  My body is stiff as I fight the urge to relax into his embrace. We’re lying on our sides, and his hand is resting on my belly, holding me to him. “Relax, freckles.” It’s as if my body needed his words as permission to do just that. I feel my shoulders relax and my body sinks further into the couch.

  He mumbles something that sounds like “That’s my girl,” and I feel his lips press to the back of my head. This is way too much. It’s wrong, to be here with him like this, when we’re nothing to each other. Nothing more than acquaintances, yet here I am, letting him into my home. Again. Giving in to his demands. Letting him hold me. Okay, maybe it wasn’t a demand, but all the same, I shouldn’t be doing this. I just can’t seem to make myself pull away.

  Drawing out of my thoughts, I turn my attention back to the movie. I let myself get lost in the love story. I’ve seen this one at least one hundred times, but it never gets old. I could repeat the lines by heart as if I played the role.

  “So I can kiss you anytime I want,” I whisper with Reese Witherspoon as she stands before her leading man in the pouring rain.

  Landon’s thumb traces small circles over my belly, and I endure it until the credits roll. Needing some distance, I sit up, pulling out of his embrace, and stand. “Dinner should be ready.”

  His eyes are bright blue and filled with something I can’t quite name as he peers up at me. “Em,” he says softly, reaching out for me.

  I step away from him. “I’m going to make us a salad. You eat salad, right?” My eyes travel to the eight-pack of abs clearly outlined beneath his form-fitting shirt.