Page 1 of The Stunt
PROLOGUE
MAVERICK
“What the fuck,ref? Are you blind?! His foot was out of bounds!” I yell, probably a little closer to the line judge than I should be. But after losing last year’s AFC Championship game because of a blown call, I’m a little bit of a raw nerve. We can clinch a playoff berth with a win today and I just want to get it in the books. I have more pressing matters to attend to after the game is over.
The defense has really had to step up for this one. Our offense isn’t having a great day, most likely due to whatever our best receiver, Blaze Beckham has going on. He’s definitely not himself. He’s been dropping passes and screwing up routes. It’s been weighing on the entire offense, so I’ve been doing my best to hype up my guys on defense to make some big plays. Which, we have.
Coach Mills tosses the red flag he keeps tucked in his sock, challenging the ruling on the field. The refs congregate by the replay machine as we all turn our attention to the Jumbotron, where the slow-motion video begins. The receiver makes the grab, but his left toe is clearly on the line. Our fans erupt into cheers as the replay above us freezes and zooms in onthe offending appendage. The zebras break apart, one of them clicking the microphone button on his belt before speaking.
“After further review, the receiver’s foot was on the line. The ruling on the field of a complete pass has been overturned. Fourth down.”
The cheers get louder as the defense celebrates while returning to the line. We’re up by three points with fifteen seconds left on the clock. The Tennessee Bobcats are just outside of their kicker’s field goal range, so all we have to do is stop them here and the Blizzard are playoff bound.
I take my spot at the end of the defensive line and put my hand on the turf, ready to take off like a rocket as soon as the ball leaves the center’s hands. They have no choice but to go with a pass play here if they want a chance at getting out of bounds in order to stop the clock. They won’t have enough time to get their kicking team out here if they run it. So, my job here is simple.
Get to the quarterback and fuck up his day.
The ball is snapped, and I have tunnel vision. I’m blocked by their lineman, but he’s not nearly as good as I am. Spinning inward, I roll off him, seeing an open lane directly toward their quarterback. He’s oblivious to me approaching as he goes through his progressions, looking for an open man. I go straight for him, aiming for his midsection as I wrap my arms tightly around him. The whistles blow and the crowd cheers as I pop up to my feet and point directly above the thirty-yard line.That was for you, Songbird.
The crowd goes wild as the cameras pan to the suite above, showing their very own pop princess on the Jumbotron as she cheers like a maniac before blowing me a kiss.
Here we fucking go.
ONE
MAVERICK
One Week Earlier
I pullmy Range Rover into the parking lot behind my publicist’s office. I have no idea why the fuck I’m here instead of at home in an ice bath after this week’s game, but Twyla said it was a‘very pressing matter’, so here I am. I swear if this is another one of those meetings that could’ve been an email, I’m taking her off my Christmas card list.
Hitting the elevator button, I almost fall asleep standing up as I make my way to the twenty-eighth floor. I’ve been with Overtime PR since my rookie year, and I’ve only been here a handful of times. I try to stay out of the media unless it’s for good reasons, so it’s rare that Twyla actually needs to see me. Usually, she just sends me an email with upcoming charity events and appearances, I decide which ones won’t interfere with my schedule, and I do what I need to do to keep her off my back.
This is my third season playing for the Boston Blizzard and I’ve managed to somehow keep myself out of the limelight. It’s not that I don’t like the attention that comes with being a professional athlete, I just know how easily the court of publicopinion can turn on you at the drop of a hat, so I try to focus on football and keep my nose clean. I’ve worked too hard to get where I am to get distracted by things that don’t matter. It’s worked well for me, so far.
The doors open and I step out of the elevator. The reception area is elegant and simple, with bright walls, white marble floors, and gold accents everywhere. People in sleek suits move around, most giving their undivided attention to their phones or tablets without even looking up.
Stepping up to the front desk, I greet the receptionist. “Hey, Henry,” I say, leaning forward onto his desk and tapping my knuckles softly.
A smile spreads across his face as he stands, dapping me up. “Mav! My man!” he says excitedly. “Great game yesterday. Been trying to get you in a trade for my fantasy team, but you’re a pretty hot commodity,” he says, sitting back down and wiggling his mouse before typing on his keyboard.
I smirk. “Can’t hear that enough.”
I used to play fantasy football with my friends when I was in high school, dreaming of the day when people would choose me for their teams. It’s still surreal to know that I’m living the dream I’ve been working toward since I first laced up my cleats in fourth grade. A lot of guys get cocky and take their place in the NFL for granted, but that’ll never be me. I pour my heart and soul into every workout, practice, and game.
I hear heels clacking along the marble floors, and Twyla comes into view. She’s young. Maybe in her mid-thirties, with blonde hair and blue eyes. Even with the stilettos, I still have about a foot on her. At six-five and two-hundred seventy pounds, I’m used to being the biggest guy in the room. But Twyla’s personality makes me feel small as shit. The first time I met her, she told me Ihad potential. Like I was a project she was taking on out of sheer boredom. But I wasn’t about to turn downan opportunity to have her as my publicist. Among some other well-known pro athletes, she also works with a slew of huge names in other areas of the entertainment industry.
“Hello, Maverick,” she greets, shaking my hand with an iron grip.Ouch, fuck.“I’m so glad you could make it on such short notice.” She motions toward her office. “Let’s go talk in private.”
I follow her down the hall and into the room as she shuts the door behind us. She motions for me to take a seat in one of the lush chairs situated in front of her desk as she mirrors me on the opposite side. I’m normally a pretty talkative dude, but I know when to keep my mouth shut. So, I wait for her to elaborate on why I’m here.
“So,” she begins, “I called you here because I have a proposition for you.” I squint, trying to figure out where this is going, but she continues. “Before I tell you what I’m thinking, are you seeing anyone?”
My eyes go wide. Does she want to date me?Fuck. I have a strict rule about having girlfriends during football season. I don’t do it. Ever. And since I’m just not the one-night-stand type of guy, that means I usually don’t have sex during that time, either. So, whatever Twyla’s looking for, I’m very muchnother guy. But how do I let her down gently? She fucking scares me.
I swallow, sweat beading down my neck. “Twyla,” I start, my voice cracking like a teenager. “I don’t really see you that way?—”
She barks out a laugh, clutching her chest as she curls forward. I sit and watch her, eyebrows almost touching my hairline, growing more confused by the second. “You thoughtIwould date you?” she asks. Tears fill her eyes as she continues laughing, a small snort escaping her nose as she reins it in. “I don’t date clients. Especially twenty-four-year-old pro athletes whose idea of romance is putting the toilet seat back down after they pee.”
