Page 3 of The Hot Shot
I draw myself tight and try to remember what they’d been saying. Ah, yes, they were talking about shits. Lovely. It’s time to assert some dominance of my own.
Finn
There’s a lesson I learned early on in life: sometimes you have to suffer through shit. Best buck up and get past it as quickly as possible. As a football player, there’s a lot of shit I suffer through: physical pain, mental exhaustion, mind-numbing questions from the press, rigorous diets, lack of personal time. Looking at it from the outside, you’d wonder why the hell anyone would actually want to be a pro football player. Answer: because it is the best fucking game on earth, and I kick ass at it.
But there are days like today, when I’m asked—ordered—by my team’s marketing director to pose for a calendar, when I really question my devotion to football.
I’ve been told this is for charity, which is the only reason I agreed. Even so, I give to charity. I use my face and my name to promote causes that protect children, the disadvantaged, and the abused. It’s one of the best things about my fame. But striking a pose for a beefcake calendar makes me feel like a right fuckwit.
To top it off, I’m standing outside the photographer’s door with three of my teammates, and he isn’t answering. I pound on the metal door with the side of my fist, and the sound echoes in the wide stairwell. This is technically my day off. I could be napping, soaking in the tub—don’t knock it till you try it—or playingCall of Duty.
Then again, if he doesn’t show, we don’t do the shoot. No skin off my nose. “We get the time wrong?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Nope,” says Dex, my center. “In fact, we’re a few minutes late.”
Perfect.We’re sitting out here with our dicks in our hands. “The photographer had better not be having some sort of artistic huff.”
Dex shrugs, looking bored. “Maybe he’s on the can or something.”
My starting wideout, Jake Ryder, seems more interested in cracking jokes.
Jake shouts at the door again, banging on it with his fist. “Dude! Nip it off and open up!”
If I wasn’t so distracted, I’d be embarrassed. I pace and eye the stairs. It isn’t too late to get away.
Unfortunately, the door whips open. A woman stands there, looking pissed and kind of scary. She’s thin and tall, maybe five foot ten, which still makes her six inches shorter than me. Her eyebrows are arrow straight, not something I’d normally notice on a woman, but it gives her such a fierce expression, as if she’s an Amazonian ready to do battle, that it’s hard to ignore. Or maybe it’s that she’s glaring like she’s deciding which one of us she wants to dismember first.
As if she hears my thoughts, her dark gaze snaps to me. I swear, I feel it down to my balls. She’s not pretty. Her narrow face and high-bridged nose are too severe to be considered pretty. Long straight hair, inky black at the roots and magenta at the tips, gives her a Goth girl vibe as does her black tank top and jeans. A tattoo of dogwood flowers, done in black lines, runs along her left upper arm.
In short, she’s the type of female who has stayed clear of me for my entire postpubescent life. I’ve stayed clear of her type as well. Call it cliché; I don’t care. It’s just a simple truth that women like her have never had any interest in guys like me, and I’ve never given her type a second glance.
Even so, my blood quickens. Her intense stare holds power. And power is something I respect.
I hear it in her husky voice when she finally speaks. “Nip what off, do tell?”
That’s a sex voice, the kind that wraps around a guy’s dick and tugs. I absolutely do not need to respond to her sexy voice. Especially since she clearly considers us nothing more than a bunch of unruly boys.
Take charge. Control the situation.It’s what I do. Always. I step forward, bringing her attention back to me. “We’re here for the calendar shoot.”
Her upper lip curls. “Well, I certainly didn’t think you were here for the little league group shot I have scheduled later.”
Cute. Really cute.Wait. What?
“You’rethe photographer?” Dread punches my gut.
“Let’s not be a cliché, eh, pretty boy?” she scoffs with obvious annoyance.
Prickly heat fills my gut. I’ve been called that my whole grown life. I’m used to it, and don’t really care when the guys tease me about my looks. But hearing it come from this woman pisses me off, as if I’m nothing.
Ryder snickers. “She’s got your number, sweet cheeks.”
No, she doesn’t. Not even a little. But she thinks she does,which fucking irks. “Hey now, we were told our photographer’s name was Chester Copper. Excuse me if I assumed it was a man.”
She flinches as if smacked, and a little crinkle forms between her brows. “I go by Chess. I’ve no idea how your PR manager got my full name.” It sounds as if she aims to find out.
I don’t envy the poor sap who let her full name slip. But I do like that I’m getting to her, too.Turnabout is fair play, honey.“Probably because they do background checks to weed out the freaks.”
Chess responds with a bored roll of her eyes. Now that I’m close enough, I can see that they’re bottle green, the color deep but crystal clear. I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes that particular shade, and it makes me want to keep looking.
