All In: Playing to Win (Gambling With Love Book 5) (3 page)

"Wow." There are no other words.

"You've both been warned before. Keep your dicks in your pants and out of the press and fucking civil suits. Or better yet, get a goddamn girlfriend! Not some whore, but a regular woman that lasts more than a fucking night!" Jerry yells at us, his face red in anger and a vein in his temple throbbing. Then suddenly his wrathful expression fades and he stands up.      

"In fact, that's exactly what you're going to do if you're going to keep playing for this family-oriented team. You're going to find a fucking saint and take her out where the paparazzi can see you, not just once, but for
weeks
. Do you hear me?
Weeks
! This is damage control for future's sake, too. No more sluts on planes, no more young girls, no more threesomes, and no more contracts! If you think a woman is so untrustworthy that she needs to sign something in writing before she fucks you, then
don't fuck her!
"

After Lacy dumped me I had become more promiscuous in public than ever before, including getting caught fucking two flight attendants mid-flight in the first class bathroom. I still felt a little bad about them both getting fired, and one getting divorced.

Of course the media had noticed my mile high club exploits. I tried to do damage control at the time but Lacy adamantly refused to help me by pretending we were back together. Jake, well, he's always been an all-out man-whore. He just barely squeaked out of a statutory rape charge a few months back when he idiotically screwed a fifteen-year-old girl who lied and told him she was eighteen. Luckily for him, the shit actually went down after midnight on her sixteenth birthday. We were both fucking disgusting.

"If this gets out, how many more women are going to come forward with the same threesome story wanting a handout?" Satan asks, looking between the two of us. 

I try to do the math in my head, but I'm too angry, too embarrassed, too...everything, to think or respond.

"Maybe a dozen," Jake says. "This year," he adds, and I want to sock him in the jaw after his brutal honesty.

"From now on, you two are settling down!" Jerry screams, smacking his palms on the table in front of us. "No more partying! I want you both looking so pussy whipped you can't breathe without your woman's say so. Everywhere you go, she goes. If I hear of a single slut near either of you, you're done! Maybe then you'll stop thinking with your dicks and screwing off long enough to finally win some goddamn games. That's what we're paying you a fortune to do - play football. Not to be fuck-ups by disgracing this franchise and the entire league!"

"But...Alex Marshall," I start. "If you let me go-"

"You. Are. Replaceable. Just like every other player on this team. There's hundreds of guys who’d kill for a shot at your job, and some who will probably even do it better. I'll throw you out on your ass and smear your name quicker than you can say 'blackballed.' If you think I'll keep putting up with your shit just because you've got a decent arm then you're a fucking idiot."

Damn, that's a low blow.

I've always been the best, but I haven't started the season out so great. I'd thrown at least one interception in each of the first three games, and been sacked more times than I can count. I know I'm lucky to have made it this far in the league, and I realize I need to get my shit together on and off the field.

Especially if I'm about to be someone's father.

I need to keep my contract, so I can make sure Lacy and the baby have everything they could ever want or need if it comes down to it. It's not like I have any type of backup plan in place if I can't keep playing football. And Jerry's right, there's not enough quick fucks from all the sluts in the world worth losing an eighty million dollar contract for.

"You've both got until Sunday's home game to find and serve up your goody two-shoes on a silver fucking platter for the press, or this time you're done!" Jerry barks. Then he strides out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Fuck.

Natalie

I look down at my cell phone again, knowing no more than a minute could've passed since the last time I checked the time. Zack Bradford, the "star" quarterback, is late.

An hour late.

If his items didn't bring in the most money for our fundraiser then I would've already given up. But no, I need his famous signature if I'm going to raise the ten thousand dollars I need. The money will pay for a hundred women who can't afford mammograms to receive one for free.

It seems like such a small number that we'll be able to help, and I wish we could do something to raise even more money. But if just one of those hundred women have breast cancer, hopefully it'll be caught early enough to save her life.                                                                

I boxed up all the signed merchandise and sat down in one of the leather conference room chairs, spinning in circles while I waited. And waited. Then waited some more.

Now I'm really starting to get angry at the famous jerk. What an arrogant ass! He's standing me up when women's lives could benefit from his name scratched on a few measly items. These early screenings could save the lives of mothers, daughters, and grandmothers, but he can't take five minutes out of his freaking day to help out! 

There's also another more selfish reason I'm so determined to wait Zack out.

It's been four years since the last time I've spoken to him...not that many words were exchanged on that particular day.

It's disappointing to think that the man I've had a crush on since my freshman year of college isn't as wonderful as I imagined him to be. None of the other players had been late. Most had been early, and they'd all been genuinely nice guys, even though they're famous.  

I built Zack Bradford up on a pedestal in my fantasies right after I started cheering on the sidelines for him in his very first college game. Not that he ever noticed me in a school as big as ours. Well, except for that away game during our sophomore year when we played Virginia Tech.

On a read option play, Zack had held onto the football and ran it in for a touchdown, coming from behind to win the game for our team in the last few seconds. A bastard playing for Virginia Tech hit him late after he'd scored and was already out of bounds. I'd been creamed by Zack, landing flat on my back with his two hundred plus pounds of hotness lying on top of me. His warm, sincere brown eyes had looked down into mine as he asked if I was okay before helping me to my feet. Then, for whatever reason, he'd jerked his helmet off, grabbed my face with both hands and kissed me. Not just a quick peck of a kiss, but a honey-I'm-home-from-war-and-missed-you-like-crazy kiss. 

It had been surreal, and afterwards I thought I'd received a concussion or imagined it after taking the hit to the ground. But no, there were video replays that confirmed Zack Bradford laid one on me that made my knees weak and my heart race in front of the entire stadium and televised audience.

I even deluded myself into thinking it had been more than a spur of the moment kiss. That maybe he'd actually noticed me and wanted me.

Wrong!

The man never looked at me again after that game.

A few days later I received the unexpected results of my biopsy and dropped out of school to start treatment. So that kiss had just been a single moment. An unbelievable, seriously romantic moment that I'll never forget for as long as I live.

Just as I've given up all hope, the man of the hour - no make that now almost
two
hours - finally appears, strolling in like he doesn't have a care in the world. The ridiculously sexy man looks like a modern day Viking warrior, and my first thought is that I'd like to be pillaged by him. Sad but true.

Mr. Star Quarterback is unfortunately even more gorgeous than the last time I saw him in person. His normally blonde hair is wet, making it look darker. All his muscular skin that's showing is shiny, and his clothing is dripping with sweat. The normally unpleasant moisture has never looked so deliciously good on anyone before.

I take a quick second to admire his tight fitting gray team tee stretched across his massive chest that tapers into his narrow waist before I get to his long legs covered by loose fitting, black workout pants. Zack was big in college, but now he's…yummy size.

Apparently he's also become an ego-centric prick over the years, one who thinks his time is more important than anyone else’s. Or maybe he's always been this way, but I just never made it past his devastating good looks to notice.

"Hey, how's it going? You got some shit for me to sign?" he asks, his eyes darting around and over to the items laid out on the table like he's in a hurry. Ha! What an asshole!  

"Mr. Bradford, it's so nice of you to
finally
make an appearance. You obviously had more important things to do that required me to sit here waiting an extra
two hours
for you to grace me with your almighty presence. I'm sure that
your workout
absolutely couldn't wait until later." Wow, I didn't know I had such a bitchy attitude in me. This man managed to bring out the worst.

He just stands there, blinking his milk chocolate eyes down at me like I just shocked the shit out of him. Crap, if I piss him off and don't get these items signed then our fundraiser is screwed. As much as I hate to admit it, last year his items brought in the same amount of money as all the other players combined.

I take a deep breath to get my hormones under control and tone down my snippiness. Before I can insincerely apologize, his high and mighty speaks again.

"Sorry, I, ah, had a lot on my mind, and lost track of time," he says in that deep, sexy baritone of his, making him sound almost genuine and believable. Just hearing him speak a few words nearly wipes away my anger, but I have no intention of letting him off so easy.

"Well then, let's get down to it so you can move on to more important things in your busy day," I respond.

"Yes, let's...get down to it," he says, making the comment sound more sensual than is appropriate. Then the tall, good looking bastard actually smiles down at me in amusement. I have to look quickly away from his Hershey eyes before I swoon. I really don't want the cocky man to see he's already made me blush.        

"You're so damn cute and tiny, like a...oh, I know," he says with a snap of his fingers. "Like a miniature Barbie!"

My heart skips several beats. Maybe I actually imagined those very bizarre words coming from his perfect mouth.

"And you look familiar. Have we…met before?" he asks, raking his gaze up and down my body. It's obvious from his pause that the word "met" could easily have been substituted with "fucked."

My breath catches and I don't immediately respond. I wait those few seconds, willing him to remember me. To remember us and that amazing kiss, proving that it was more than a random, spontaneous, heat of the moment occurrence. That it had meant...
something
to him, damn it!

When there's no recognition my shoulders slump in disappointment. If he doesn't remember then I'm certainly not going to embarrass myself by trying to help him recall our moment. "No, this is the first time I've had the pleasure of waiting two hours to meet you," I lie, although technically, we've never exchanged names, just tongues. "Here's the marker, and everything is laid out. Your name and jersey number should be fine on each," I tell him exasperatedly, not looking at him as I hold out the marker in his general direction.

"Do
you
know my jersey number?" he asks, not taking the offered pen. I look up at him to see what he's playing at. Damn it, he continues to give me that sexy, cocky grin.     

"W-what?" I ask.

"Do you know my jersey number?"

"Why, have you forgotten it?" I ask.

Of course I know he wears the number fourteen. Same as from college. I actually have several of his jerseys hanging in my closet, not that I'd admit that shit in front of the arrogant prick. I'm seriously considering using them to line my cat's litter pan. I don't actually have a cat, but now I want to go rescue one from the pound to do just that.

"Come on, it's a simple question," he teases, clearly not dropping the issue or taking the offered marker to get this over with.

"Sixteen?" I huff out the wrong number just to be bitchy.

He crosses his massive arms over his wide expanse of chest and raises a dirty blonde eyebrow. "Sixteen? No. That would be my sorry ass backup's number."

"As shitty as you've been playing, Alex Marshall just might take your job soon." This statement is complete bullshit, but I can't miss the chance to try and bring his egotism down a notch.

Alex Marshall's a horrible player, washed up after eleven years in the league. He was picked up by the Wildcats three years ago for pennies. Even at five-foot-nothing and a little under a hundred pounds I might make a better quarterback than Marshall. Jesus help the Wildcats if Zack gets hurt.

The intimidatingly attractive man in front of me is not amused. His strong, bristly, golden jaw drops and he actually scoffs. "Wow. That's...really harsh."

"Oh, please. Like it's possible to bruise your enormous ego," I say with a roll of my eyes. Although, he does look somewhat upset. He's probably just a great actor.         

"So not only are you cute, but you're a feisty little thing, too." He shakes his head and then finally grabs the offered marker to start signing.

After the last piece is marked and my box is loaded, I'm finally ready to head out.

"Thank you, Mr. Bradford. I'm so sorry you had to take five minutes from your incredibly busy day to help our cause."

I pick up the big, awkward box, lifting from my knees. Shit, this is going to be a challenge. If I can just get to Mr. Jones's office then I'm sure he'll help get it to my car.

"Yo, Polly Pocket? You need some help with your box?" the sexy jerk behind me asks. I'm instantly offended by his innuendo and nickname. I'm also momentarily distracted by the warmth of nostalgia that has me recalling a happy childhood memory. Playing with the little yellow
Polly Pocket
compact case that held the tiny wedding scene for a miniature bride and groom. It was probably my all-time favorite toy, and damn it, now he's tainted it!

"No, I've got it," I respond. In my rush to escape, I try to wedge the wide ass cardboard box through the narrow doorway and then immediately bounce backwards like a rubber ball when it doesn't fit.

"No, you don't," he says followed by a raspy laugh. He then reaches over my head and lifts the box from my hands. "Here, let me. I'm an expert at maneuvering large objects through tight spaces."

After his ridiculous comment he tilts the box through the door. Waiting for me in the hallway, he holds it up at shoulder level, balancing the box with one flat palm like it weighs nothing. "Where to, Polly?"

"To Mr. Jones's office."

"Then lead the way, feisty lady," he says. "What's your name anyway?"

"Natalie."

"Natalie?" he repeats in his deep baritone, simultaneously releasing a dozen butterflies in my belly. "I like it. It's also a helluva lot sexier than Polly."

"I'll be sure to tell my parents you approve of their name choice," I say with another eye roll to hide my pleasure in hearing my name come out from between his perfect lips. His bottom lip is all pouty and fuller than the top, begging to be nipped.

Oh sweet baby Jesus, I'm losing it.

"So, Natalie, do you ever come to our home games?" he asks.

I walk swiftly in front of him, more than ready to get out of this stadium before I embarrass myself even more. "A few."

"Do you watch the rest on TV?"

"Maybe."

"Are you married?" he asks.

"What?" My high heels stop moving and I spin around to look at him.

"Marr-ied?" he says slowly. "As in, do you have a husband?"

Was he implying that I look so old that I should be married by now?

"No, I don't have a husband. I'm only twenty-five, thank you very much."

"Hey, I'm twenty-five, too! When's your birthday?"

Did Zack Bradford seriously just ask me my birthday?

"January fourth."

"Then you're one month and ten days older than me." February fourteenth. Of course the charming man is a Valentine's baby, which also explained his jersey number.

"Thank you so much for pointing that out. Women love being reminded that they're older than other people." I shake my head at his audacity.

"Luckily for you, I happen to like older women." He chuckles and I try to ignore his ridiculous flirting as I knock on Mr. Jones's door. Apparently the man can't turn off the charm, and I don't know how much more I can take before I lose control and start licking sweat off of his massive body.

"Come in," Mr. Jones calls and I push his door open, glad to have a buffer from the hot quarterback.

"Hi, Mr. Jones. I just wanted to let you know I'm all finished up."

He looks at the clock on the wall and then around me at the big man holding the cardboard box.