Read an Excerpt
Nine straight wins.
We deserve a happy ending. Or two.
Not too shabby for a team who hasn’t been to the playoffs for the past seven seasons.
I figure to a rookie like Snyder, this is the shit, but in reality, it only goes up from here. The more wins, the more fans, which also means more groupies, more booze, more sex, and more notoriety.
And not to blow my own horn, but yeah, I was brought onto this team to do exactly what I’m doing now. Win.
So, I’m out here tonight making my presence known, keeping the fans riled up and their spirits soaring while I celebrate another tick in the win column. At thirty-four, I’m probably a little old to be hanging with these rookies, but hell, I don’t have anything better to do. I might be riding the line between old enough to know better and who the heck cares, but I’m damn sure not dead.
Which is exactly the reason I’m at this club, sharing a few beers with the guys, women galore ready to take me back to their place and rock my world. Truthfully, you’ll get no complaints from me.
I turn to set my drink on the bar and come up short, damn near plowing over a cute little redhead who’s practically glued to my hip. I honestly have no damn clue where she came from, but she’s hot, and the dress is exactly how I like it—black and barely covering all the required parts.
“Would you like to dance?” Her voice is husky and full of promise, her big green eyes peering up at me as though I’m responsible for world peace or some crap.
“Sure.” Why the heck not? I set my beer down on the bar and motion for her to lead the way. I was gearing up to get another, so it’s all good.
I allow her to lead me out to the crowded dance floor, and I manage to smile when appropriate. Less than thirty seconds in, I can already tell that this chick is a sure thing and she doesn’t even know my name.
And I guarantee she has no clue that I’m easily a decade older than she is. Not that those minuscule details would matter to her. Heck, I could probably take her to a dark corner somewhere and do raunchy things to her for the rest of the night and she’d be smiling the entire time, just as long as my bank account is padded with six digits or more.
That’s not going to happen. The sneaking a piece in a corner part, that is. No matter how much my dick thinks he’s in charge of my actions, I’ve been down that road too many times.
For one, the little redhead might be hotter than hell in July, but the girl has dollar signs in her eyes. During my stint in the NFL, I’ve been hit on by hundreds, if not thousands, of women, most of whom have no idea who I am other than another athlete with money. And they’ve all looked at me the same way she is, with hopeful lust burning in her eyes.
When she turns in my arms and presses her sweet little ass against my crotch, I grab her hips and play along. No harm, no foul is my motto. It’s not like I’m married, not like my actions are going to hurt anyone. I know my limits, and when it comes to women, one night is as far as it gets. And sure, there are plenty of chicks who’ll stroke my ego and my dick and tell me that’s all they want as well, but again, I know better. This damn sure isn’t my first rodeo. Having been drafted at the ripe young age of twenty-one, I’m familiar with this dog and pony show.
The no-name redhead whose tush is harmoniously caressing me through my pants is not going to be okay with only one night. And that means I’ll be going home alone, like I do every night, because one thing I learned early on is that honesty is the fastest way to spend a night alone with my hand. And I’m okay with that.
Even before I was drafted into the NFL, this was the nuts and bolts of my life. With four years spent at the University of Alabama nursing a winning streak that had me drafted in the first round, I started out hot. The press quickly learned their lesson for calling me a pretty-boy quarterback, arguing that I’d do better gracing the cover of magazines than playing down on the field. I showed them.
During that time, I’ve had more women than any sane man knows what to do with, more booze than a distillery in Kentucky, more parties than the Kardashians attend in a year. And I’m playing along because that’s what’s expected of me.
But banging some unknown chick, having her blow up my phone for weeks after . . . that I learned to avoid early on. Sure, it sometimes requires a little more effort than I care for to convince my dick that one night buried inside a hot woman is not worth the hassle that’s going to come along with it, but that’s my rule and as far as I’m concerned, it’s a good one.
She turns in my arms, her hand sliding south to cup me through my pants, and I smile down at her. “What’s your name?”
“Jessica,” she says, a distinct Texas twang in her voice.
I’d bet money Jessica turned twenty-one sometime in the last couple of months. Not that age matters to me all that much, but twenty-one is definitely not an age I’m interested in. Hell, there’s no way we have a dang thing in common.
Not to mention, the fact that she likely has more experience in this scene than I do is enough to have my dick trying to find a place to hide. And I don’t mean in the dark recesses of her, either.
I’ve earned my reputation as the bad boy of football through the years. Women, booze, parties . . . I’m an old pro at that stuff. Even when I wasn’t winning, I had an unlimited supply. It comes with the territory.
Jessica leans in, her hands coming around to cup my ass, her smile almost predatory.
“I’m gonna be forward about this.” Her twang is thick, her eyes a little glassy, and it’s easy to tell she’s had far too much to drink.
I cock one eyebrow and wait.
“I wanna go home with you.”
I smile. “Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Why’s that?”
She frowns and I can tell my question threw her. She’s probably used to guys grabbing her hand and lighting up the path to the door.
I’m not that guy.
“I thought, maybe . . . you know.”
I lean down closer to her face. “I don’t know. Why don’t you enlighten me?”
