Booty and the Beast, page 9
“How’s that gonna work?”
“Easy. We’ll be a power couple. Smart. Sexy. Chemistry off the damned charts. You’ll play the part of a perfect, prince charming boyfriend, and I’m going to be passionately in love with you…” She met my gaze. “Until you shatter my heart and leave me after a very public, very tragic break up.”
“Now what man would do something as stupid as that?”
“You,” she said. “We’re not gonna live this lie forever. All we gotta do is pretend that we’re in love…then break each other’s hearts. I will have the perfect excuse to ward my mother away—I’ll be too lovelorn over you. Lost without you. Absolutely crushed and unable to even think of another man.” She laughed. “Hell, I think I could get six blissful, mother-meddling-free months out of this. Maybe a year.”
I started to believe her mother hadn’t driven her crazy but met her halfway.
“You’re sure this is a good idea?” I asked.
The woman had all the confidence in the world.
I liked that a little too much.
“No more bargaining,” she said. “No more guilt trips. No more tactical blind dates. I could probably make it through the entire Rivet’s season with the freedom to focus solely on my career.”
Who was I to argue with the one woman capable of getting me my try-out?
“If you think this will work, I’ll do my part,” I said.
“It shouldn’t be too hard for you.”
“Why?”
Her voice hollowed, but she didn’t face me. She battled with a specter from a less-than-forgotten past.
“Because a long time ago, you hurt me bad, Nick. At least you’ll know how to make it look convincing.”
The woman could drop me to my knees without raising a finger. The guilt gut-punched me, and the shame blindsided me before I could recover.
“Charisma…” How was a man supposed to apologize for the unforgivable? “If I could go back and fix it—”
“You’re fixing it now.” She silenced me, the pain in her voice still as raw as the day I betrayed her. “Lucky for me, this will be the last time you ever have to break my heart.”
5
Charisma
I’d never met a more confident man in my life.
Or one as stupid.
I parked in my usual spot and fumbled through my bag for a practice facility guest pass.
This was a bad idea.
I slid the laminated badge over the roof of my car. Nick peeked at it, smirked, and slipped it into his pocket.
“Last time I’ll need one of these,” he said. “Tomorrow, I won’t be a guest.”
“Yeah. You’ll be a trespasser.”
He had a rich dark laugh, far more mocha latte than Frappuccino.
He winked. “After today, I’ll be an Ironfield Rivet.”
“And I’ll be an accomplice to fraud.”
I gently closed my car door. No sense slamming it and letting the entire world know what the hell we were doing. It might’ve been pre-dawn, but the Rivets took pride in their work ethic. No late mornings. No early afternoons. The practice facility’s lights were the brightest in town, and they stayed lit throughout the night.
It’s what separated the men from the boys, the team said. The wannabes from the Rivets. The hungry from the weak.
Nick shouldered his bag, and the energy emanating from the man—humming through his muscles, tensing his jaw, and darkening his gaze—almost convinced me he that he was prepared for the single hardest challenge of his life.
Almost.
“You do realize…you’re lying your way onto this team,” I said.
“No.” Nick stared only at the Rivets emblem emblazoned on the front of the facility. “You’re lying for me, kiddo.”
“Yeah.” I grumbled. “So don’t screw this up.”
“Just get me onto the field. Football is like the bedroom.”
One could only imagine. “How?”
“I’ll do all the work.”
I shoved him towards the buildings. “I’m no pillow princess. And I’m a tyrant in this facility—you hear me?”
“You make me love you more and more.”
“I am risking my own butt to get you out there, and for what? So the players and coaches can kick your ass all day?”
“They’ll be kissing it by noon.”
Oh, jeeze.
This man had entirely too much self-esteem. One good thing about today’s impending humiliation—it’d put him in his place.
And that was worth potentially jeopardizing my future with the Rivets.
I led him through the player and staff entrance and expected he’d be at least a little impressed by the fame and glory promised by the black and gold banners, photos, and murals decorating the halls. The state-of-the-art facility provided players and staff with everything they could desire on and off the field. Weight rooms with every sort of machine and fitness equipment. A luxury cafeteria fully staffed and serviced by the top executive chefs in the country. A beautiful locker room. Huge meeting rooms with top-of-the-line computers and screens to watch film, design plays, and critique formations and techniques.
A highly trained nutritionist who only wanted the best for her players…and, maybe, just a little more adventure and less GMOs for their palates.
Nick stared only at the field, catching the occasional peek through the giant plate-glass windows framing the facility.
This was a man who didn’t care for weights or fancy foods, indulgent showers or cutting-edge medical bays and staff.
His focus steadied on the endzone. The grass. The sun. The dirt.
That sort of drive was admirable.
Even if it’d get him nowhere.
“Okay…” I led him through the winding halls, dodging a few coworkers and general office administration. He didn’t blend in very well with the other khaki and polo-shirt wearing crew. “Here’s the plan. I’m going to take you to the field, but under no circumstances are you to speak with the woman sitting out front with the sign-up sheet and orientation packets.”
“Why?”
“Because your name isn’t there.”
Nick frowned. “You didn’t even get my name on the list?”
I shushed him before he blew the entire operation. “Those names are screened. The scouts know every man they’ve invited. You’d get found out so fast you’d be on your ass in the parking lot before anyone could say Hike.”
“Then what the hell are we doing?”
“I’m getting you on the field another way.”
“How?”
“Through the kitchens.”
I shoved him through the cafeteria, while ducking a few members of the linebacking core shoveling Lucky Charms into their gullet.
So that’s what they ate when they thought I wasn’t looking?
A snap of my fingers earned a panicked profanity, and Cole Hawthorne—the scariest, largest, and most intimidating linebacker in the league—spit out his hearts, stars, and horseshoes so quickly he nearly choked on the clovers and blue moons.
“Shit.” He pushed the bowl away with a scowl that only darkened the hardened edge to his features—a face that only softened when surrounded by his wife, daughter, and son. “Thought this was an egg white omelet.”
No one ever doubted Cole’s courage—and even fewer people dared to challenge the league’s most notorious player.
Except me.
And it’d been a struggle every damned day.
I’d won on the cereal, but he stared me dead in the eye as he crunched on a piece of crispy bacon.
Cole was the only player brave enough to remain seated in the sprawling cafeteria. Our punter crouched behind a row of orange, apple, and grape juice machines. A defensive end used a mountain of scrambled eggs to hide his donuts. The other linebackers simply bolted, grabbing cartons of chocolate milk in sheer panic.
“You’re real popular.” Nick snickered as I led him through the industrial kitchen already bustling with prep and activity. “Got a lot of friends on the team?”
“I’m not here to make friends…” I hesitated by the fridge, checked the numbers posted on the excel sheet for the day, and called to the sous chef arranging plates for lunch. “We’re gonna need another fifteen pounds of chicken.”
“You think?” The chef asked.
“A lot of the guys are coming in to watch try-outs,” I said. “Get another fifteen or twenty breasts out.”
“Got it.”
Nick wasn’t a stranger to a functioning football-oriented cafeteria, but even he studied the ovens, stoves, and prep stations.
“This is what you do all day? Order chicken?”
“When I’m not babysitting you, yeah. I work with the executive chef.” I gestured over the dozens of stainless-steel bowls loaded with vegetables, stovetops brimming with eggs and bacon, pancakes and sausages, and ovens already roasting every and any grass-fed, free-range proteins I could order. “Three meals a day in the off-season for any player working in the facility.” I eyed him. “That’s five hundred pounds of chicken alone, every week.”
“You don’t go home hungry then?”
I laughed. “I hardly have time to eat at all, who are you kidding? I grab what I can between meetings, ordering, researching, and meal planning.”
“You must love your job.”
“Yeah. That’s why I hope you don’t get me fired.” I pointed him to the emergency exit in the rear of the kitchen, propped open while a couple sous chefs carried boxes to the dumpsters. Two hundred pounds of broccoli made for a lot of cardboard boxes. “Follow me.”
I peeked out the back before guiding Nick across the rear parking lot and away from the buzzing golf cart carrying staff and coaches across the compound. Fortunately, the off-season meant less activity. While some guys arrived for practices, a good majority of the team worked with their own personal trainers in private gyms or stayed near their homes in other cities across the country. It’d be peaceful until training camp, when all hell would break loose and chaos reigned across the organization.
And my life would get hectic.
In a little less than two weeks, I wouldn’t have time to think, breathe, eat, or sleep, let alone fend off my mother from her constant matchmaking. Nick had proved useful. Valuable even.
Made it worth potentially ruining my career by sneaking him onto the field.
His determined strides quickened the instant his feet touched the grass. I’d expected him to be nervous. Throwing up like any other rookie before their first practice. But he didn’t even wait for me to guide him onto a field already bursting with members of the team running laps with two dozen other hopeful attendees vying for a spot.
“Just remember that this is…a long shot.” I kept my voice gentle. “Look, you’re very…”
“What?”
“Attractive.” My stomach pitted. Damn it. Wrong adjective. “Athletic. You’re athletic. And strong. And fast. But that won’t make this guaranteed, do you understand?”
“I’ve been preparing for this moment my whole life, gum drop.”
I didn’t doubt that, but I gestured over the team. Each coach had sectioned out a portion of the field for drills. Players stretched in the endzone while staff lined up small orange cones for various exercises. The grass was littered with training sleds, footwork rope, and a barrage of footballs already hurdling through the air.
“These men have been training for just as long,” I said. “Plus, they’ve had the benefit of the biggest colleges, recommendations from coaches, and proper experience in the league. You can’t compete with that.”
He wasn’t deterred. “I’ve got what it takes.”
“What’s that?”
“Talent.”
Oh, it was too beautiful a morning to watch this man’s life get shattered into a million pieces.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked, flinching as the first of many ear-piercing whistles echoed over the field.
Nick’s smile returned. It seemed the man got off on a challenge.
“You don’t have any confidence in me,” he said.
“None.” I admitted. “I think you’re gonna crash and burn.”
“It’s sweet that you’re worried.”
Ha. The guy was too cute for his own good.
“I’m only worried that you’re gonna get cut so damned fast I won’t be able to film this disaster.”
The sun peeked over the field. Already hot. Sweat glistened over his skin, and I did my best not to admire how the heat only made such proximity to him even harder.
“No shame in waiting with bated breath on the sidelines for me,” he teased. “I bet you’ll be my biggest cheerleader out there.”
The words Charisma Cassidy and Cheerleader had never once been uttered together, unless it was a rumor shared by the cruelest girls in high school about the biggest girl in their grade. Certainly never expected Nick Hart to think of me with pom-poms and a short skirt.
“I’ll cheer,” I promised.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yep, I’m gonna root for you to start running and not stop until you’re far away from me.”
“I know you wanna see what I can do.” He flashed a smile that left me so sticky I practically tasted the sweet. “On and off the field.”
“Not much mystery left—I already saw what you have to offer.”
“And you can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Oh, believe me. I’m trying to forget.”
“No need to fight it…” He surveyed the practice as if he’d already earned his jersey. Too bad that confidence only counted when the cleats hit the grass and the ball was in the air. “Once I impress all the coaches and earn my spot on the team, you and I can spend all night in bed, celebrating my victory.”
“Most guys start with flowers and chocolates when they’re attempting to bed a woman.”
His gaze slipped from his competition to me. “I’m not like most guys.”
“No. You’re worse.”
“Then how am I ever going to sleep with you?”
“You could always build a time machine—head back to the past to undick yourself.”
“I’ll just make it up to you now.”
“Not a chance,” I said. “You’re nothing but a meathead jock. All you want from me is all those dirty things the men talk about in the locker room.”
“You haven’t seen all the moves in my playbook yet.”
“Don’t need much of a playbook if you’re playing with your balls alone.”
Whistles blew. The twenty men attending the try-out began to warm up on the forty.
Nick removed his t-shirt and shoved it into his bag. He wore only a tight tank that covered just enough of his chiseled chest to ensure he didn’t thoroughly intimidate the rest of the men on the field.
My stomach pitted. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I’m making the team, buttercup. Have a little faith.”
This foolish, idiotic, completely delusional man. “I lost my faith in you long ago, Nick Hart. But if you make this team…I’ll eat my words.”
He knelt beside his bag, facing away from the team. Good thing too—that grin might’ve seduced everyone in a ten-yard radius.
“Care to make a wager?”
I wasn’t a betting girl. Had no need for risks. But this was a sure-thing.
“You’re so fucking cocky,” I said. “You’re not making the team.”
“If I do, I get a kiss.”
“Just a kiss?”
“One kiss, and you’ll be begging for more.”
“You’ve already kissed me once.”
“Then what harm is there in a second?”
I thought I’d learned my lesson the last time I’d taunted him with a kiss.
But he wasn’t making the team. No way. And what better revenge could a girl ask for than denying her childhood bully the consolation of a kiss?
“You’re on.” I shook his hand, wishing the heat of his palm hadn’t centered deep in my tummy. “But don’t expect to cry on my shoulder when you lose. I’m popping the champagne.”
“And I’ll pop your cherry.”
“Don’t press your luck, Nick…” I arched an eyebrow. “You’re gonna need it for the try out.”
I spotted our target coach on the thirty-yard line and escorted Nick across the field. The crowd of Rivets’ personnel and staff parted for me a little too quickly. Guess they hadn’t forgiven me for the chia seed debacle earlier this month. A serving of the seeds made for a healthy, nutritious additive to their smoothies and juices, but the players expressed their distain by planting the seeds instead. Lachlan Reed had run an entire practice with a bush sprouting from his Nikes.
“So, how are you doing this?” Nick asked. “Hacking the coach’s computer to put my name on the list? Slipping my file into his clipboard? Blackmailing someone with illicit photos to get me on the field?”
“That doesn’t work as well as you’d think.”
“What?”
He didn’t need to know the scandal spurred by our team’s photographer.
“This is a football team, not the CIA,” I said.
“Then what’s your plan?”
I pointed to the young, ridiculously attractive assistant offensive coordinator. He wielded a whistle, stopwatch, and enough years of experience in the league that he’d literally forgotten more about the game than most players knew.
“Recognize him?” I asked Nick.
He grinned. “Jude fucking Owens? He’s a goddamned legend. One of the greatest running backs ever to play the game. That’s who I gotta impress?”
I stopped him before he took off to shake his hand. “Do as I say. He’ll get you into the try-out.”
“Damn.” Nick shook his head. “That man should still be playing. Shame about the concussion.”
“It wasn’t just one concussion—it was one too many.” My voice hollowed. “He’s lucky he can walk and talk, let alone coach. It could’ve gone a lot worse for him.”
Jude knew it. His wife, the team neurologist, feared it. And every Rivet dreaded the day it’d happen to them.
“You’re crazy for wanting to play this game, you know that?” I asked.
