Page 36 of Irresistibly Risky

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The moment she and Mason left, I threw on running clothes and ran my ass over to Callan’s. I hung out with him, Katy, and Layla for a few hours, and then I ran back home, but only after I circled the park three times. With each pass, I did my best to get the image of Wynter coming on my fingers out of my head.

By the time I dragged my exhausted ass through my door, I was sweaty and horny and had to jerk off twice in the shower because I could run to the moon and back and I’d never be able to get that visual out of my head.

Her face. Those sounds. The way she tastes.

I should have never promised her it would end there in that dining room, but anything else would result in her turning down my offer for them to live with me, and that’s not an option. One afternoon, a few silly tosses in the air, and that little boy owns my heart. I want to be his dad. I want that to be how my son knows me.

And I want his mother as mine.

It’s complicated. It’s downright messy. It’s irresistibly risky. But isn’t life always?

Monday morning, I walk into the locker room an hour before anyone else typically gets here. This is my favorite time of day here. It’s quiet. No one bothers me. It sets my mental game straight as I run for thirty minutes while watching game footage, and then I do weights, extra mindful of my bad shoulder. Even in the preseason, I do this. Watch the games we lost last season so I can see what I did wrong and how I should fix it.

Only this morning, by the time I finish my pre-practice workout, I’m no longer alone. “Morning, Rookie. This is the first time I’ve seen you here this early.”

I saunter past him, chugging down the last of my sports drink and tossing the empty bottle into the recycle bin. Pulling off my sweat-soaked shirt, I wipe my body down with my towel before going for a clean shirt and my red jersey, setting them down on the bench. I want to get a few reps in before my pre-op thing with Wynter.

“I figured since I’m going to be QB1 by the end of the week, I should try getting in earlier. Coach said I should follow your schedule. He said I had a lot to learn from you, only I don’t see it.”

I roll my eyes at that and swallow down my scoff of derision. “Looks like all you’re doing with that extra time is standing around watching me.”

Leo folds his arms over his chest as he leans against a locker two down from mine. He’s dressed like an asshole. I’m not sure I have any other way to describe it. It’s about ninety degrees and humid as fuck outside right now, and he’s wearing a white fedora with a long feather in it, a bright blue checkered suit jacket that matches the feather, a white shirt, and neon orange pants. Oh, and enough gold and diamonds to sink a battleship.

My guess is he’s here all pissed off because I embarrassed him in front of Wynter and the team on Friday when I hit him straight in the gut with the ball. The other players were teasing him about it all afternoon, from what I heard. I can also tell he really doesn’t enjoy the fact that Coach told him to follow my routine and learn from me when he already thinks he’s God’s gift to the sport. He thinks he knows it all and is about to set me straight. Only, he’s too chicken shit to attempt it with an audience, which is why he’s doing it now, here, with only the two of us.

Except I don’t care about his bullshit or his ego.

“How about you change, and we go get some reps in?” I offer, putting on my practice pads, while ignoring his juvenile attempt at a stand-off.

“I don’t need the extra practice,” he affirms, his tone pure arrogance. “I step on that field, and I’m lights out. Every time.”

“Wow. So you’ve got it all figured out then,” I deadpan. “Know that playbook inside and out. Know how to read every defense that you’ll face. Congrats, man. I mean, I haven’t seen you put in that sort of time or effort to master all that, but maybe I’m missing something.”

“Your reign is over here, old man.”

“Old man?” I throw him an amused side-eye. “I’m twenty-nine, Rookie. Minus the shoulder, that puts me straight in my prime.”

His features harden, even as he tries to maintain his “I’m too cool for school” attitude. “Not here it won’t. Fans have a very short memory, and they lose their loyalty fast. Once I start winning, they’ll forget you.”

That might be true in some markets, but not in Boston. Boston sports fans have memories like elephants and are amongst the most loyal out there. Just ask the Red Sox when they hadn’t won a World Series in eighty-six years. I digress.

“If you’re as lights out as you say you are, then I look forward to the challenge of taking you on when I return next season.”

“No challenge.” His words are ice-cold and full of venom. “That’s what I came here to tell you.” He steps toward me and pokes my bad shoulder. Punk. “By next season, you’ll be gone. They’ll trade your ass. I’m about to own your town and your team, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

That hits me in every sore, soft, miserable, vulnerable part of me. He has no idea what this city means to me. Just how deep my heart goes and how red my blood runs for it.

“That useless chip on your shoulder is about as big as the plastic-looking pendant you’re wearing and likely as heavy.” I slam my locker shut and turn to face him, staring down at him because I’m six-seven and he’s not even six-five. I give him a big once-over. “Let me guess, you blew your entire sign-on bonus on all that shit you’re wearing now. You’re young. What? Twenty-two, twenty-three. Did decently well in college both on and off the field, and now you think because you were drafted in the top twenty of the first round—which you shouldn’t have been by all scouting reports—that you’re going to be a god on that field. Your hubris will be your demise and it won’t help this team.”

Fire lights his cheeks and brightens his dark eyes. “Right. Like you’re the person to take advice from. An ex-boy-bander has-been. You won one Super Bowl on the back of your team and former QB1. You caught a lucky break. Hell, I bet if your slutty manager didn’t eat shower tile, you’d still be singing for your rent money.”

In a flash, I grab him by the lapels of his stupid jacket and slam him as hard as I can into the lockers with a loud, resonating bang. My shoulder twinges, but I hardly feel it as I get right up in his face. My action momentarily startles him—he never thought I’d lose my cool because I never ever do. Unless you fuck with my people.

“Do you have a sister?” I bark in his face, knowing he has at least one.

He swallows hard right before he does his best to reform his smug mask that looks shaky at best.

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