Page 24 of Scarlett and the Big Bad Billionaire
“Glad I’m not a player,” I said to Wilder as the two of us sat watching the afternoon session of the New England Nauticals’ summer training camp.
On the field in front of us, men of massive size and strength crashed into each other under the blazing summer sun while on the next section of the field, others ran wind sprints in their pads and helmets.
I was sweating just sitting still on the grassy hillside overlooking the summer practice fields located in Eastport Bay. The team’s games were played at their stadium in the state capital of Providence, about a half-hour’s drive away.
“Yeah, I don’t miss this part,” Wilder said. “Though looking back on it, training camp two-a-days were nothing compared to BUD/S training. Whenever my brothers give me shit about declining to go through the NFL draft, I politely invite them to see how long they’d last during basic underwater demolition training.”
We both laughed. Wilder had played college football but decided to join the Navy and become a SEAL instead of going pro in the sport.
All three of his younger brothers were big bastards and tough as hell, but still, to make it through SEAL training, you had to want it more than anything—and have a brain that could override the torturous twenty-four-week assault on the body.
Out of forty thousand Navy recruits each year, only six percent qualified to even begin the training program. Out of those, only one in four completed it.
Still, these Nauticals’ players were no joke. Two of Wilder’s brothers were on the team. Presley had been drafted by the Nauties, as they were nicknamed, right out of college. Dylan had just been traded from Tampa.
“Your parents have to be thrilled about this,” I said. “Three of you living in Rhode Island now.”
Wilder nodded. “Oh yeah. My mom is back to cooking massive amounts of food every Sunday trying to lure us over there, and Dad bought season tickets. All we need now is to get Merc here and they’ll have to change the team’s name to the New England Lowes.”
His middle brother Mercury, Merc for short, played for San Francisco. He was as fast on the field as his name suggested, a wide receiver with an all-time regular season touchdown reception record approaching those of Randy Moss and Jerry Rice.
Word had it he was even fasteroffthe field. Honestly, none of the Lowe brothers were hurting for female attention.
All of them were tall, jacked, and good-looking, and all of them had been named after classic rock musicians—except for Wilder, who as the firstborn had been given his father’s name.
Reportedly he’d lived up to it when he was younger, though now that he was married to Jessica, he’d proclaimed himself “tame.”
The hillside around us and the stands below were packed with Nauties fans dressed in jerseys or t-shirts bearing the team’s logo, a heavily muscled sailor wearing a “let’s enjoy some shore leave” expression.
The local fans were just getting to know Dylan, but they already loved Pres—especially the women. I couldn’t help but notice the proliferation of females, young and old, in attendance.
Some of them held signs with Presley’s name on them. One read, “Ready to get Nautie anytime you are.”
Another wore a shirt with his picture, and the words “Nautie by Nature” beneath it. A few had those blow-up pics of his head, which they held up while screaming declarations of love anytime he ran over to this side of the field.
During one of the breaks, Pres looked up to our position and gestured to the two of us, motioning for us to come down to the fence separating the field from the crowd.
As we reached him, he stretched an arm over the fence to clasp hands with his brother then with me.
“You candy-ass SEALs come to see how the real men do it?” Pres teased.
“When I see some real men, I’ll let you know,” Wilder said, and the brothers laughed.
“You guys are looking good,” I said.
“Thanks man. It’s always hard at the start of camp after a summer off. But I think we’ve got a good team this year.”
“How’s Dylan doing so far?” Wilder asked.
“Great. He’s learning the plays fast, putting in the full effort on the field—of course—you know him. The coaches love him.”
“Good, good,” Wilder said. “I can’t wait to see a game. It’ll be almost like being in the back yard on Fairfax Street again.”
“Only we won’t haveyouthere to run circles around our asses and make us look like untalented hacks,” Presley said.
It was clear he idolized his oldest brother, and Wilder had just as much affection for him.
A player jogged toward us, grinning ear to ear.
