Booty and the Beast, page 10
“Can’t help it. It’s in my blood.”
“Just keep your blood in your body and not on the grass.” I sucked in a reluctant breath. “Follow my lead.”
Jude Owens had the right blend of charm and looks that might’ve drawn every eligible bachelorette in Ironfield into the facility had the brand-new shiny gold band on his ring finger not deterred them. He might’ve retired from the game, but Jude took his role as coach just as serious as if he laced up and headed into the huddle. He worked hard. Kept in even better shape than as a player. It seemed to mitigate his symptoms.
I greeted Jude with raised hands, same way I had to approach nearly every man on the team. No vitamin supplements tucked in my sleeves, no unidentified leafy vegetables behind my back.
And yet, he still warded me away with a shake of his clipboard.
“No, no.” He groaned. “Not today, Charisma. Don’t you dare toss any algae or pollen or quinoa at me. I shouldn’t have to eat all the weird shit you force on the rest of the team.”
Everyone had a million excuses not to try a mangosteen.
I rolled my eyes. “Relax. Unclench yourself before I toss some prunes in your next smoothie.”
Jude surrendered. “Damn. Between Rory and you, my brain and stomach can’t get a break.”
“Your wife loves how I dote on you.”
“You’re both more obsessed with my insides than the outside.”
Judging by Rory Owen’s newest baby bump, I found that unlikely.
“I’m only here to thank you for adding Nick to the try-out list.” I introduced the men with a pat to their shoulders. “Nick Hart, this is Coach Jude Owens. Coach, this is Nick.”
“Nice to meet you.” Nick shook his hand.
Jude nodded, furrowing his brow. “Yeah. Likewise.”
“This is the wide-receiver I told you about.” I pretended that this was old news, something we’d spoken about time and time again. “The one you said you wanted to see work today.”
Jude did an excellent job masking his confusion. “…Right.”
“We can’t find his packet though. But I didn’t think you’d care, since I cleared it with you last week.”
“You did?”
Never told a lie so sweet before. “Yep.”
It wasn’t fair manipulating the memory-addled mind of a man who had suffered a career ending concussion, but this was just a little fib. So what if Jude occasionally wore two different shoes or if he forgot to give his wife a ride home after practice for the third time? Rory acted as both team neurologist and his loving wife. If she wasn’t worried, we weren’t worried.
And I had it on good authority she’d already painted their new baby’s nursery the sunshine yellow Jude hated but couldn’t remember protesting.
I’d make this work.
Jude checked his clipboard with a frown. “And you’re sure I meant the try-out today?”
“Oh yeah. We talked about it back on Monday or Tuesday.” I waved as hand as if I couldn’t remember it either. “It was the day I tried to get you to eat sorghum, but you accused me of trying to choke you with birdseed.”
“I stand by that.”
I kept my voice light, knowing full well the answer would kill him. “Don’t you remember what happened next?”
“Oh, yeah.” He faked it well, and his charm took care of the rest. “I’ve met a lot of guys already today. Tell me about yourself, Nick.”
I spoke for him. “He’s a longtime friend. Played college ball, but he didn’t get drafted. He’s been working with personal trainers and conditioning to try out with a few other teams. You were so excited to see him play. Maybe your memory is a little fuzzy?”
Neither Jude Owens nor his pride would ever admit to forgetting something like that.
It was a dirty, low-down, wicked sort of trick, but it worked.
He patted Nick on the shoulder and welcomed him to the field.
“Don’t worry about the orientation packet,” Jude said. “I’ll have someone on the staff grab a copy for you. Go get warmed up. We’re starting drills with the forty-yard dash. Hope you’re fast.”
Nick didn’t hesitate. “Blink and you’ll miss me.”
“Perfect.” Jude excused himself as a group of players clustered in the far endzone. “I’ve gotta go cut down Lachlan Reed from the goalposts before the team uses up all the tape we’ve got on the sidelines.”
Jude wished Nick good luck and jogged away, chastising the third-year tight end for still getting hazed like he was a rookie.
The field opened before us. I gestured over the green.
“I fulfilled my end of the bargain,” I said. “The rest is up to you.”
Nick’s jaw tightened. His muscles tensed, but it wasn’t nerves. The man was eager to run, fight, hit someone and get hit in return. I’d never known a man so desperate to prove his worth, and so damned confident that his skill would be recognized.
I’d almost hate to see him fail. Almost.
“Don’t blow it,” I said. “Might be your last chance.”
“I don’t believe in last chances,” he said. “A man only needs one to make his mark. I’m not afraid of hard work. I’ve fought and clawed and sacrificed for every inch I’ve ever gained. Nothing has ever come easy to me, but I’ve never given up. Never questioned it.” His voice lowered. “There’s only one thing I don’t know how to do.”
“What’s that?”
“I never learned how to ask for help.”
Oh.
I sucked in a breath. “Afraid no one would give it to you?”
“Yeah. Learned from experience.” His eyes hardened as he studied me. Warmed me. Twisted my stomach into fluttering knots. “But I sure as hell know how to be grateful. No matter what happens today, I just wanted to say thank you.”
Words I’d never expected from Nick Hart.
“You’re…welcome.”
He hesitated before heading to the practice. “I better hear you cheering for me.”
“And if I don’t?”
“One way or another, I’ll get you moaning my name.” His molten words nearly melted me to the thirty-yard line. “Either you scream for me during the game, or it’ll echo in your bedroom. Lady’s choice.”
Insufferable man.
I shoved him away, forcing him to join the try-out he’d so relentlessly hounded me to get him.
Christ, those hopefuls had no idea the beast in their midst. I only hoped he’d go easy on them.
For the first time, I didn’t doubt the man’s resolve. Nick wouldn’t allow anything to stand in his way or prevent him from getting what he wanted.
But if he thought the tryout would be hard?
He’d met his match in me.
6
Nick
It wasn’t a good day unless sweat poured off my body.
It wasn’t a good workout until every muscle hurt.
And it’d only be a good tryout once I made the team.
I’d do anything to see it happen.
Never got the chance to play ball at a big school. Didn’t get to prove myself in the draft. I had no other prospects except the Rivets, and I’d already lied my ass off to get here.
My name wasn’t on any scouting lists. They didn’t have a goddamned clue who I was, what I could do, or why I wasn’t already playing in the league.
And I liked that.
Sometimes a man had to make his own luck. The world wasn’t fair, and the only way to get ahead was to give it the middle finger and fuck it even harder.
It’d gotten me this far. And I wasn’t leaving the field until I had what I wanted—a spot on the team, a jersey with my name on it, and every opportunity to become the greatest goddamned Ironfield Rivet to ever catch a ball.
The try-out started like any other. I laced my shoes. Got fitted for a temporary set of pads. And I prepared to thoroughly embarrass any other man who dared to think he was half the athlete I was.
Only thing I did differently?
Compression pants under the gym shorts. No sense letting the world see the fading scar on my knee. The car accident was a distant memory, but no coach ever gave me a second look once they saw the bullshit scar that stitched me back together.
Still had the speed. Had the strength.
But the Rivets not knowing my name, my past, or the real reason I’d lost my college scholarship?
That was goddamned priceless.
And I owed it all to the one woman who never should’ve helped me.
To her credit, Charisma might’ve taken me to the field and then fucked off inside the facility. Instead, she lingered on the sidelines with the coaching staff.
Looked a hell of a lot better than most of them too.
Last thing I needed to be watching was how tight those khaki pants hugged her curves, or how her plump booty swayed just right as she chased players and staff up and down the field. The polo shirt hid most of her body, but just the hint of her breasts swelled beneath the Rivets’ emblem.
If I were any other red-blooded man, I might’ve stopped to imagine what perfection awaited a lucky son of a bitch under that shirt.
But my focus had to remain on the field.
Because I had nothing else.
And that made me better than everyone.
The forty-yard dash was usually the pinnacle of athletic evaluation. Didn’t matter how big a guy could bulk, how much he could bench press, or how many balls he could catch—if he wasn’t quick, he had no business stepping foot on the grass. The coaches used it to gauge speed and explosiveness.
I used it to prove myself.
The men lined up individually on the goal line, but the first five who ran their route were a disappointment to everyone, including themselves. That made it all the sweeter when Coach Owens called my name.
Everything rode on this single run. Good thing I was quick enough to outpace any doubts.
I took my place at the goal line, body tensed and feet planted.
The air grew hot and stagnant, and the sweat poured down my back. I welcomed it. Loved the sting in my eyes and the heat in my veins. Prepped me for what was to come.
The whistle blew, sharp and trill.
I dug my cleats into the dirt and pushed off, ripping through the ground as every muscle in my body propelled me forward. I pumped my arms, drew myself to my full height, and burst across the field in an utter blur of speed and strength. Long strides meant quick times, and I’d worked for years on perfecting my speed.
I crossed the forty in a dead-fucking sprint, practically ripping muscle from bone to squeeze those extra milliseconds from the unyielding grass. I slowed only as the other men murmured amongst themselves in surprise.
“4.32!” The coach with the stopwatch nearly dropped his clipboard. “God damn. That’s top ten in the fucking Combine this year. Where the hell did this kid come from?”
I stopped at the fifty and circled back to return to the coaches, but a voice called to me before I got far.
“Not too bad, walk-on.”
I turned. The words belonged to a man who only gave compliments to those who deserved them.
Jack Playmaker Carson wasn’t just the quarterback of the Rivets, he was the team’s heart, soul, and bad reputation. The media said he’d changed—met a wonderful woman who straightened his ass out. A man’s personal life was his own business, but on the field? Jack remained a monster. One of the best quarterbacks in the league, and, soon enough…
My new best friend.
For a quarterback, the man was built like a tank. It’s how the Rivets liked their men. Strong. Intimidating. Fearless. Made it all the easier for a guy like me to extend my hand and introduce myself to the one player who could make or break this try-out.
Jack had a troublemaker’s grin, a playboy’s swagger, and an ego that could fill a stadium. I liked him already.
“Haven’t been able to use this line on anyone in a long time…but where have you been all my life?” Jack asked.
“Waiting for the moment I could tell you my name,” I said. “I’m Nick Hart. And I’m about to be your go-to wide-receiver.”
“You can be more than that. I’ll buy you dinner if you can run a route that fast and catch a ball.”
“I’m not a cheap date.”
“And I’m not easily impressed.” Jack spun a football in his hands. “You up for the challenge?”
“Just tell me where you want me, and I’ll be there.”
He eyed me with a grin. “If only my wife listened as good as you.”
“Believe me when I say I’ve got better hands.”
He laughed. “If you’re half as talented as she is, I’m not sure if I want you in my huddle or in my bed.”
“I’d need one hell of a decent contract for that.”
Jack pointed toward the fifty-yard line for me to set up. “Let’s hold off on the engagement rings until I see what you can do.”
Whistles blew from the endzone. I jerked a thumb over my shoulder.
“Supposed to be preparing for the vertical jump,” I said.
“Fuck the vertical jump.” Jack pointed the ball at me. “This is your test now, Walk-On. I wanna see how you do on the field. Run a post for me. Twenty yards. The ball will be waiting for you. Snag it, and you’ll have my attention—which is hard to do without at least a C-Cup.”
Should’ve given me a tougher task than simply catching a ball, but I knew better than to underestimate a battle while trying to win the war. Catching a couple passes was only the beginning.
The coaches gave us space as I lined up on the fifty, waiting for his signal.
“Hike!”
Jack dropped five steps, but I was already down the field. I cut at the thirty for the post and didn’t need to think, worry, or doubt the accuracy of the quarterback. He delivered the ball just as promised, and I snagged it without any difficulty.
I jogged to our imagined line of scrimmage and tossed the ball to him underhanded. He only pointed me to the twenty.
“Do it again.” His order silenced the few players and coaches drawing close to watch. “Same route.”
Who was I to argue?
I lined up once more, listening for Jack’s snap count.
“Ready…” The words weren’t meant for me. Jack signaled to Coach Owens on the sidelines. “Hike!”
Same route. Still wasn’t a challenge. I burst down the field, did my cut, and caught the ball as Jack shot a damned laser into my hands. The impact stung, but I lived for that pain. The solid punch of a ball into waiting palms. I held onto it cleanly and tucked it as if I had a full field to run.
I returned the ball, but Jack had no words for me. He pointed to the line and ordered me to take my place once more.
“Hike!”
This time I ran the route perfectly, but Jack decided to piss with me. He deliberately threw the ball badly—a toss too high and behind the route.
I twisted as I leapt into the air. My outstretched fingertips brushed the bottom of the ball just enough to slow the pass. It tumbled as I fell, but my left hand extended and nabbed it before it struck the ground. I pulled the ball into my chest as I landed on the grass.
A beautiful catch of an ugly ass pass.
And Jack wasn’t the only one watching.
The coaches chatted amongst themselves and scribbled enough notes to earn the mouth-dropping surprise from the one person who had doubted me the most.
Charisma Cassidy watched in awe from the sidelines as Jack Carson helped me from the grass and slapped my shoulder.
“I don’t know whether to give you a playbook or smoke a cigarette,” Jack said. “Lucky for you, my wife won’t let me smoke anymore.”
I winked. “Then I guess you’ll have to give me a challenge.”
His hands clapped hard over the ball. “You’re one cocky bastard, you know that?”
“I got the moves, the talent, and dedication. It’s not cocky if you know you’re that good.”
Jack and I spoke the same language. He stared me down.
“You’re going deep this time, Walk-On. And I don’t mean fucking whatever gash happens to spread her legs.”
“Don’t tease me like this.”
“The ball’s gonna be waiting for you in the endzone,” he said. “If you miss it, don’t bother walking back.”
Finally—a decent contest.
“Tell you what…” I cracked my neck as I lined up. “If I catch that ball, I’ll put it in my new locker. You won’t have trouble finding it. It’ll be the one right next to yours.”
“Not sure what’s bigger—your balls or your mouth.”
“My talent.”
“Christ, I like you.” Jack shook his head. “You better fucking catch this ball, Walk-On.”
I readied myself as silence fell over the field. The try-outs paused. The coaches watched the play.
My entire future rode on one goddamned pass.
I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Hike!”
Running was second-nature.
The drills were imbedded in my head.
I knew the routes. Understood the fundamentals. Predicted the passes.
It was instinct at this point. Pure adrenaline-fueled, testosterone-spawned nature. I didn’t need to think or wonder or even pray for perfection.
I hit the ten-yard line and looked behind me. The ball sliced through the air, and I didn’t need to jump. It materialized in my arms, a precision strike from one of the greatest quarterbacks to play the game. I crossed the endzone with a grin.
Only thing that would’ve made it sweeter was if an entire stadium cheered instead of the one dark-skinned goddess hopping on the sidelines.
Charisma.
I cradled that damn ball as I returned to Jack. I hadn’t been lying. He wasn’t getting it back.
“Not bad,” he said. “But a man can only take so much teasing.”
“You want me…” I extended my arms. “You better learn my name.”
“You’re an arrogant son of a bitch.” Jack shook my hand once more. “And that’s why I want you on my team.”
The excitement thudded my heart even harder.
“I knew you would,” I said.
He pointed to the coaches. “Finish the try-out. Run the routes and drills. Sweet talk the guys with the clipboards.”
