Page 39 of Dirty Player

His eyes narrowed and he put his hands on his hips. “Even if I’m too slow in the pocket?”

I popped my jaw. Was he teasing me? I assumed Shannon had told him what I’d said, but had she made me seem like the asshole I probably was? I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want to know if she’d shown up at his place this morning ranting about me.

“You’ll get there,” I replied. “Takes a few weeks and it’s a new team. You’ll adjust.”

His eyes narrowed further. “If you hadn’t just been with my sister last night I’d ask if you somehow slipped your dick into magical pussy to make you nice today.” He held up a hand again. “I don’t want to know. Honest. So don’t tell me.”

He grinned then and shook his head, almost as disbelieving as me that we might actually be getting along.

“I’ll up my game,” he responded. “Anything else?”

He seemed honest—sincere and open to anything I could say. We’d reached some detente. He wasn’t going to be a jerk about me screwing his sister.

I could trust that Shannon was honest about how much he wanted his team to be successful.

“Yeah.” I grinned and stepped back, out of his punching range. Then I held up the paper with Shannon’s number. “Voodoo pussy. Not magical. Thanks for helping me get more.”

He lunged for me, but I jumped back, straight into Rudolph. We both tumbled to the floor, a round of shouts andWhat the fucks echoing in my ear from the surprise of our movements.

I rolled to my back and off Rudolph only to get his elbow in my ribs. Hale’s body landed on me with a thud.

The madness of the locker room took over and soon I was on the bottom of a fucking dog pile of men who had never outgrown their teenage years. We acted like assholes, pushed and punched and shoved until I realized that my abs weren’t hurting so hard from the playful hits and kicks I’d taken from my teammates, but from the fucking laughter that wouldn’t stop.

Chapter NINE

SHANNON

The crowd around me rose to their feet as we shouted for the amazing forty-yard pass Beaux had just made. It landed soft and perfect in Oliver’s outstretched hands, where he ran another seven yards for a touchdown to move the Rough Riders ahead.

Twenty-one to seventeen. The team was doing it. It was late in the third quarter, but I couldn’t relax. Beaux had played the first quarter and then the first string had taken the bench until late in the third quarter. I had seen what Oliver meant: Beaux hesitated in the pocket more than normal, like he hadn’t quite found his rhythm.

I’d chewed off any nails—which had grown since summer training camp—during the first quarter, but when he took the field again he looked more relaxed. More confident. More like the Beaux Hale people were used to seeing, and the crowd ate it up.

I stayed on my feet, cheering, and gave him a thumbs-up as he hurried off the field. I’d done it since he was in the youth leagues in Iowa and never stopped. It didn’t matter that most of the time he couldn’t see me.

He’d bought these seats. He knew exactly where I was. I was still surprised when he trotted off the field, slapping Oliver on the back for the leaping catch he’d had to make, and his eyes came directly to me.

He hit his hand to his chest and flashed a peace sign in my direction. My grin exploded as the fans around me whispered, “He’s looking right at us.”

Fifteen rows up from the fifty-yard line behind the Rough Rider’s bench, I had the perfect pair of season tickets.

I tilted my chin toward Beaux, in acknowledgment, and then looked at Oliver. He was still standing next to Beaux, the animosity between them either having disappeared or been expertly hidden, when I saw him looking directly at me.

His hands went to his chin straps and he ripped them off before yanking off his helmet.

His eyes met mine and my breath faltered. Amidst the crowd of cheering fans, I still knew he was looking directly at me. I hadn’t seen him since he’d dropped me off at Beaux’s earlier in the week, although we’d spoken.

Most recently it was this morning, when he’d called me only to whisper in his gravelly voice, “Tonight, after the game, I’m going to do wicked things to you.”

I’d barely been given time to agree before he hung up, leaving me on edge and unfocused for the rest of the day.

All those feelings magnified while he held his helmet in one hand. I saw him listening to the offensive line coach, nodding. He never took his eyes off me.

The crowd cheered again, returning to their feet when the special teams kicked the extra point.

Coach Marks turned from Oliver to talk to someone else, but the whole time Oliver’s gaze stayed fixed on mine—unyielding. Relentless.

Powerful.

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