Touchdowns and Tiaras: The Complete Boxed Set

by Frost, Sosie

  The waitress sighed and grabbed her pad and pencil, though halter-top blonde scoffed as she had to repeat her order over the noise. My offensive line roared in laughter and stole the remote, turning the television to a show replaying one of our critical games last season.

  One of my best passes was highlighted in full glory for us to admire. The table bumbled, and glasses went flying. The girls laughed. Blondie ran a hand over my throwing arm.

  She squeezed the muscle.

  Giggled.

  She’d learn soon enough that wasn’t the hardest part of me.

  The waitress bolted to the kitchen and returned, red-faced and brushing the sweaty hair from her cheeks. She looped the room, depositing drinks and collecting dishes. This time she left the door open, and our private party was no longer separated from the restaurant. It wasn’t a great place, just some trendy little burger bar that seemed a good investment for when I got my contract renegotiated. The burgers were greasy, the women attractive, and it offered a night of endless fun.

  Except Rivets’ management said we weren’t technically supposed to be partying in public anymore. They said we were likely to cause a scene and our behavior was hard to spin to the fans.

  I didn’t understand that. We acted like any other red-blooded man who had a couple million to blow and the attention of short-skirted women. Apparently, that was a problem. The team and league were as big a pain in the ass as my publicist.

  What was the point of being rich, famous, and sporting a nine-inch cock if you didn’t get to celebrate with it once in a while?

  Or two or three times a week?

  I only lived once. I owed it to myself to make the most of it.

  The brunette freaked before anyone could enjoy their drinks. “Waitress, I ordered olives not onions.” She punctuated her displeasure by eating the onion anyway.

  “Sorry!” The waitress gritted her teeth as the brunette tossed the martini glass at her tray. It splashed on her apron. “I’ll get you a new one.”

  “With two olives. Or should we write it out for you?” She giggled at me. “Honestly, is it that hard?”

  The waitress blushed and looked at me. “Anything else for you, M—Mr. Carson?”

  “Call me Jack.”

  “O—okay.” The waitress teetered between star-struck and terrified, like she stared down the entire defensive line of the Ashenville Hawks. “Anything for you, Jack?”

  “Nah.” I watched Bryon grab another girl. He cornered her in the shadows, and that meant it was time to go. The guys were a little too rowdy, and my women were antsy. “Just whatever the girls want, honey.”

  “Aw, come on.” Blonde halter-top tapped my beer bottle. “I thought Jack Carson liked to party.”

  “Baby, the party hasn’t started yet.” I rubbed her thigh. She wore too much perfume and no panties. Too easy.

  “Don’t you want to play?”

  Yeah, but there was a fine line between fun and forgetting the condom. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, baby.”

  I left half of my beer and gulped the rest of my water. If I wasn’t blacking out, no sense wasting calories. I planned to bulk, but we were doing it right. Chicken breasts. Eggs. Almonds.

  Besides, my publicist had a shitfit the last time a story passed on the internet about me being drunk. I wasn’t even driving and, somehow, I became the bad guy for having fun.

  Of course, the story also included the picture of the girl with her hand down my pants. And, if I remembered that incident right, we might have had an issue with some slight public exposure too. Nothing that embarrassed me, but, then again, what I packed deserved to be admired.

  Still, we were supposed to be partying. If my publicist couldn’t understand that, then Leah needed to get laid instead of bitching about my image and bad publicity. My chosen friends were more impressed by the story of me bouncing three girls in my lap, but the league and media wanted ribbon cuttings and donations to charity. I did that too, but where was the fun in it?

  The waitress dodged Bryon’s slap, juking just as good as he did on Sunday afternoons. If opposing defenses groped instead of tackled, she’d have made an excellent addition to the team. She hurried out, but two men from the general dining room rushed inside.

  It amazed me how adult men could lose their shit when face-to-face with their idols. They were gruff, dirty construction workers probably having a beer after their shift, but standing in the presence of the team made them as happy as a kid getting a Playboy for Christmas.

  The first man brushed the dust from his plaid shirt and hollered at the table in glee. The second, an older and balding man, tried to text with trembling fingers. I gave him credit. At least his phone had an Ironfield cover.

  “Holy shit!” Plaid hooted. “Goddamn, I’m the biggest Rivets fan in the fucking world. Mind if we get some pictures?”

  Bryon grunted, freeing his girl from the corner. “Man, we’re eating—”

  “It’s okay.” I scooted the girls from my lap. “I don’t mind.”

  Technically, I was told by my PR team not to mind. One of Leah’s fucking rules. Be gracious to the fans, even if they interrupt your dinner, your night out, or your score with three beautiful women. After the run-in with the drunk asshole who thought it’d be a good idea to grab my dick while taking the selfie, Leah clarified I also wasn’t allowed to punch any fans. Apparently having a bruise on my cock wasn’t an excuse.

  Nothing was an excuse for Leah.

  “Goddamn, Jack-fucking-Carson!” Plaid stumbled before me to shake my hand. “My oldest son played for Oakdale High School. He faced you every damn year. You whooped our ass.”

  Everyone loved a local boy. “I broke every record Shawnee Hills had.”

  “And State too.” He pointed at me, posing for the selfie. “Never saw a quarterback like you. You’re goddamned talented, Carson. One in a million.”

  So I’d heard. Again and again. It didn’t stop them from praising me, and the hundredth time it was said sounded just as good as the first.

  I graced their camera with a grin that showed both dimples. The women giggled. I offered to sign an autograph, despite Bryon gesturing like I volunteered to give the fans a blowjob.

  Plaid shook my hand again. “Can’t wait to tell the guys at work I met a damned hero today.”

  The older man snorted. “Hero? Christ. What the hell happened during that championship game last season? Goddamn, never saw a man choke so bad in my life.”

  My team hushed into silence.

  My dimples disappeared.

  The pen tore through the napkin I meant to sign.

  The old man slapped his friend’s shoulder. “How much money we lose? Five hundred bucks?” He shook his head. “Third and inches, and you audible and throw the ball? When you got Bryon Washington over there with sixteen consecutive one hundred yard games? Jesus. That was a bad play call, and you knew it before throwing the interception.”

  It didn’t take a lot to piss me off, but I didn’t have enough to drink to dull my temper.

  Talking about that game didn’t just tempt the rage. It unleashed it.

  Championship game. Tie-fucking-score. We were almost in field-goal range for the last goddamned minute of the game…and I threw an interception that was run back for a touchdown.

  I still had fucking nightmares from that game, and this random asshole thought he could judge me without ever stepping on a football field? He lost money? I lost more than that.

  Sponsorships. The renegotiated contract. My face on every video game.

  Respect.

  I slammed the napkin against the man in plaid. My guys hadn’t moved. Smart.

  The older man sensed he was in mortal fucking danger and wisely cleared his throat. He thanked us for our time and led his friend away. Plaid scolded him as they ducked into the main room.

  “What the fuck did you do that for? You’re lucky he didn’t deck you. That bastard is a loose cannon.”

  And so it went.

&n
bsp; Cocksuckers. The only cannon in the room was my goddamned arm, and it was more than ready to lead us back to the championship.

  I snapped my fingers and summoned the girls to my side.

  “We’re leaving.”

  The rest of the team took the hint. The waitress brought the check. I didn’t even look at the total. I counted out ten, one hundred dollar bills from my wallet and tossed it on the table. Half of them fell onto the plates of wings and burgers, but the girl would earn four hundred in a tip if she just wiped the barbeque sauce off the bills.

  I led the women from the table without a word. Good thing I was taking home three girls. I’d have to get sucked off twice before I’d relax after dealing with that bullshit. They could fight over who got the shit fucked out of them first. It didn’t matter to me which pussy sat on my cock, just so long as they realized what a goddamned privilege it was to get fucked by me.

  Even if I didn’t have that final win of the season.

  Halter-Top snorted in the parking lot as I led them to my car. “That’s…your ride?”

  She needed a cock in her mouth before she said anything else stupid. I glanced from her to a beautiful classic car that shouldn’t have existed in such great shape. “That is a 1968 Camaro Z28. Mint condition.”

  “It’s old. I thought you’d have a Hummer or something.”

  Yeah. One of those sounded perfect about now. I opened the door for her like a gentleman, but where was the press to take that picture?

  “It’s a classic,” I said. “Anyone can get a Hummer. There’s only a few of these cars left in good condition.”

  Blondie peeked inside. “It doesn’t have a GPS.”

  The brunette pouted and held out her phone. “I need a charger.”

  Jesus Christ. Three times the pussy, three times the headaches. None of them wanted to ride in the back seat. I finally pointed Halter-Top and Blondie to the rear. Brunette would ride with me.

  I sunk into my seat and started the car. It roared to life, a sexy purr that’d sound better once all three of the women made similar sounds. Black dress knew what to do. Her hand immediately found my leg. I glanced at the two pouting in the backseat.

  “Feel free to warm up together.” I peeled from the parking lot. “Gonna be a long night ladies.”

  That got smiles from them.

  The brunette unzipped my pants as we crossed the bridge to downtown. I adjusted my arm and let her lean across the seat. She was in for a show.

  She gasped as my cock burst from my jeans—hard, throbbing, and demanding that one of the girls swallow every inch. Brunette obliged, immediately gagging over the length. I put up with it until her tooth accidentally scraped me.

  Oh, hell no. One of Ironfield’s famous potholes and I’d be circumcised. I tugged on her hair and encouraged her to use her hand instead.

  It wasn’t as good, but Blondie and Halter-Top made up for it. They timidly kissed as if neither of the girls were bad enough to experiment in college. After a few seconds, they started groaning. Blondie got the right idea. Her fingers slipped beneath Halter-Top’s shirt and crept up, up, up until her new friend’s eyes widened and she breathed that telling little Oh!

  Never let it be said Jack Carson didn’t offer his girls a good time and a variety of new experiences.

  My luck didn’t last long. I merged onto the bridge and into traffic just as Brunette screamed.

  She braced herself against the dash as a minivan tried to exit the bridge by cutting across three lanes of traffic and weaving in front of my car. I jammed the brakes, but it didn’t do a damn thing when the van swerved into my lane. For whatever bullshit reason, the van slammed her brakes too.

  I couldn’t prevent the collision.

  My pristine 1968 Camaro crashed into some shitty soccer mom’s rusted van. Both vehicles lurched across the lanes as frames bent and tires popped. My hopes of getting laid ended as my head bounced off the steering wheel.

  Smacking my nose was better than my arm or knee, but not by much.

  The women turned to banshees, shrieking in terror like the cars crashed and careened over the bridge and into the water below. My headlights and windshield shattered, but the van got it worse, twisting into the next two lanes.

  Fuck. We blocked the entire highway.

  The traffic stopped behind us, and I struggled to stuff my cock in my pants before the frantic van driver launched from her seat and dropped to the road in absolute hysterics.

  My girls burst from the car too, scampering over each other in a rush to get away from the crash.

  Halter-Top screamed. “Run! It’ll blow up like in the movies!”

  At least she had a killer rack, even if she didn’t have any fucking common sense.

  I kicked open my door and ran a hand over my bloodied nose. I didn’t care that I probably broke it. My car was completely totaled.

  A camera flashed.

  I grunted, turning to face a slew of onlookers who also rushed from their cars the instant someone recognized me and screamed my name. Another camera flashed, this time belonging to the three women I had escorted. My dates categorized their injuries and the damage to the car in detailed selfies.

  Those pictured would be uploaded to the internet in minutes. Not good. I was in enough hashtags at the moment.

  Flashing red and blue lights lit the distance, speeding to the accident. The arrival of the police officially ruined my night. The cop jogged from his car and surveyed the scene. He pulled a flashlight and demanded licenses. Then his light flashed over my face.

  “Hey! You’re Jack Carson!” The cop grinned. It was probably the greatest first-responder’s call in his life. “I can’t believe it! Name’s Officer Ryan. You okay, man? What happened?”

  I wished my nose would stop bleeding. “Just had an accident—”

  “Can’t be any worse than that championship game, am I right?”

  I forced a laugh. The officer didn’t have the faintest idea of how bad this would be for me.

  Coach Thompson would flip his shit. My agent would be tossing Xanax again.

  And Leah?

  Holy shit. Unless I wound up in a full-body cast, I had no way to explain this night to her.

  Leah was going to have my balls.

  If she didn’t kill me instead.

  2

  Leah

  “What did you do this time?”

  I wanted to slam the door the conference room. I thought better of it as it’d look just as bad as the headlines this morning. Instead I imagined the click of the latch as a thunderous crash.

  Jack Carson flashed me a devil-may-care-and-nearly-collected-his-sorry-ass grin. Those dimples charmed, the fuck-me blue eyes brightened, and every muscle his body flexed as he stretched his long arms.

  He rubbed the five o’clock shadow on his chin. Jack was the type of man who had a perpetual scruff, like he rolled out of bed, smoothed his collar-length blonde hair, and greeted the day with a middle finger and morning wood that’d make an honest, hard-working girl blush.

  And I was the one who made sunshine out of moonshine and pixies out of the disgraced starlets sneaking from his bedroom.

  Not today.

  Oh, not today.

  I was in no mood for Jack “Play-Maker” Carson. I didn’t give a damn what prestige followed his name. His athleticism might have astounded coaches, players, and analysts, but Jack had only one nickname with me.

  Trouble-Maker.

  At least, that’s the only thing I could call him in polite company without losing my job. He deserved many more names—starting with bone-head and working up to the insults my father yelled watching his championship game.

  “Mornin’, Kiss.” He gave me a victorious grin that probably melted the panties off the girls from last night. If they had been wearing panties. Knowing Jack, that was unlikely. “Looking good today.”

  “Don’t start,” I warned.

  “What?”

  “Don’t you start with me.”


  He surrendered and held up his hands. His arm was bruised, but not as bad as his face. Did he break his nose last night? I considered throwing the newspaper at him, but a calming breath worked wonders to deal with his crises in the past.

  I set the article on the table, neatly folded next to my laptop, cell phone, and untouched mocha latte. I usually needed the coffee, but anything I drank this morning would have spit up in a panic. I ordered one anyway, just to give the appearance that today was like any other scandal. It wasn’t, but I had my own reputation to maintain.

  Three hours of sleep left me cranky, but that was fine. I could be professional during the interviews and press conferences. Cordial. I’d handle Jack Carson’s latest catastrophe with the grace expected of T&R Publicists LLC. He hired us to buff out the blemishes in his reputation. Sometimes we needed a heavy rag. Today, we…needed a sledgehammer.

  This problem wasn’t like Jack’s other situations. It was worse. Much worse. The league scheduled a call for eight AM, and the email we received from the president wasn’t friendly.

  I’d rather deal with prosecutors and jilted lovers than Frank Bennett, president of the American League. Not only was he a hard-ass with the teams, he had a hard-on to destroy Jack’s career.

  Which meant he’d destroy my career.

  And that was quite unacceptable.

  Jack took the newspaper and glanced over the headline. Playboy Quarterback Blitzed In Car Crash. The picture was graphic, a candid photo of Jack with blood smeared over his face and dripping onto his shirt. I ignored the three women in the background of the picture—for now. We had enough work to do.

  I didn’t wait for my boss to arrive. For nearly a year, Jolene had trusted me to tame the untamable, if only because she had too much of a crush on Jack to take the lead on his case. Not a problem for me. Jack wasn’t my type. I kept myself out of trouble.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” I asked.

  Jack shrugged, those broad shoulders impossibly large. “Anything you want me to say, Kiss. Isn’t that your job?”