Christmas Break

Copyright 2013 Pamela D. Bowerman
Smashwords Edition

As a college football star and a waitress
stave off cold loneliness through one hot holiday break, a passion
begins that will carry them both all the way into the NFL.

Seattle Lumberjacks: The Rookies

www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com

PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons,
living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not
have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author
or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.

CHRISTMAS BREAK
Copyright © 2013 Pamela D. Bowerman

All rights reserved. Unless specifically
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Digital edition created by Maureen
Cutajar
www.gopublished.com

ISBN 978-1-938876-82-0

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1. Game Plan

Chapter 2. Pre-Christmas Eve

Chapter 3. Burger Bender

Chapter 4. Night before Christmas

Chapter 5. Gifting

Chapter 6. Unwrapped

Chapter 7. Tattoo Fantasy

Chapter 8. Christmas Present

Chapter 9. Magic

Author’s Note

About the Author

Chapter 1

First and foremost, I am a football player.
Football has defined me since I first held a ball in my chubby
toddler hands. It defines me today, and it’ll define me tomorrow.
Life without football is simply not possible.

My dad says my game plan is shortsighted,
that the average length of an NFL career is three and a half
years—if I make it to the NFL. But I’m making it. Not only am I
making it; I’m going to do better than make it. I don’t believe in
aiming low. Mom and Dad should know that. After all, they’ve
drummed those very words into my head all of my life.
Aim
high.

On the outside looking in, you’d think my
family is too perfect. There has to be a fatal flaw, some big hole
in our Brady Bunch–lifestyle. I can tell you right now: There
isn’t. Truly. As the baby of the clan, I’m following behind a
sister who’s in med school and a brother who does cancer research
at Fred Hutchinson, and regardless of my choice of a less daunting
academic path—I’m a communications major—my parents have always
supported me, even in sports, though it isn’t their thing. Did I
mention that my dad is a cardiologist at the University of
Washington hospital? And my mom is a family practitioner for a GMO.
You can see where I might have a little issue with not being viewed
as being as smart as the rest of them.

My problem, not theirs. I chose my path.

That’s why I wasn’t going home for Christmas
this year, though. I couldn’t take listening to them talk about
medicine ad nauseam with me as the odd man out. I was staying here
in this small college town in Eastern Washington near the Idaho
border. I had a good reason, sorta. My team was playing in a bowl
game that weekend and we had practices all week. Coach gave us
Christmas Eve and Christmas Day off with our next practice starting
about two p.m. on the twenty-sixth. Plenty of time for me to make
it home, but my parents didn’t know that.

When I walked out of practice on the evening
of the twenty-third after saying goodbye to my teammates, an odd
melancholy mood descended over me. My frat was deserted except for
me, and no food service was available. I had the munchies worse
than a pot-smoker at two a.m. I don’t smoke the stuff, by the way,
my body being a temple and all that crap, even though it’s legal
now in the state of Washington.

Maybe I should’ve accepted Mike’s offer to
go home to Spokane with him, but I just didn’t feel like hanging
with any family, even my own. I’d broken up with my cheerleader
girlfriend around Thanksgiving, and I was still getting over her.
We’d been together since last year. I’d had a few one-nighters but
not much since, and I was lonely for company that didn’t reek of
testosterone and beer.

My feet carried me to the Grizzly Den, a
local watering hole I’d been to a couple times since I turned
twenty-one a few months ago. I sat down at the counter in the
nearly deserted bar and opened a menu, scanning the hamburger
choices. A curvy waitress with tattoos peeking out from the long
sleeves of her black shirt sauntered over. My eyes travelled the
tourist route to get to her face, starting at a pair of short biker
boots with wicked heels, moving up a nice pair of thighs, rounded
hips, and a bit of tattooed skin with a navel ring exposed between
her low-slung jeans and her tight black, long-sleeved shirt.

My gaze stalled at her tits. They were
incredible. I’ve always been a tits man. She wasn’t the tall,
willowy type I usually go for, but her compact little body packed a
lot of feminine muscle and plenty of curves, which I definitely
liked. Maybe a change of pace was in order.

She cleared her throat and tapped her pencil
on my arm. Embarrassed but scrambling to hide it, I shot her my
signature babe-melting grin.

She didn’t melt, swoon, or even crack a
smile. Tough, this one. She was going to make me work for it. I
liked that.

Damn, but she was beautiful—in a
street-smart sort of way. Thick, gorgeous reddish-brown hair tied
in a ponytail tumbled down her back in sexy disarray. I itched to
loosen the band and feel her hair slide across my body as she rode
me into oblivion. Hey, I’m a young, athletic, horny guy, and she
was one hot woman. Even better, she didn’t fall at my feet and
worship the turf my cleats trod on. Instead she glared at me with
disdain and suspicion. I leaned back against the ratty booth and
fingered a torn piece of vinyl, just like I wanted to be fingering
her.

Her sweet face contradicted her sinner’s
body. She had this flawlessly pale skin and huge, expressive green
eyes. Right now those eyes were expressing a lot, most of it not
good, at least not as far as her opinion of me.

She tapped her pencil on the Formica table,
and a yellow butterfly perched on a pink flower peeked out from
beneath her shirt sleeve. I wanted to see more. A lot more. I
wondered if those tattoos went up her arm, across her chest, and
down to her crotch. Had her entire body been a canvas for a tattoo
artist? Oh, yeah, I wondered. The women I’d dated might have a
subtle tattoo here or there, but nothing like what I suspected hid
under those clothes.

“What can I get you?” Her voice vibrated
with a husky sexuality, like she’d smoked too many packs of
cigarettes.

I pried my tongue from the roof of my mouth
and attempted casual conversation. “I’ll have a beer and a bacon
cheeseburger with fries. Everything on it.”

“ID.” She held out her hand, sounding all
bored and sexy and floating in attitude.

I whipped out my wallet and flipped it open.
She eyed it, eyed me, eyed it again. I waited for recognition to
cross her beautiful face. You’d have to be dead or a hermit not to
know my name around this place, even if you aren’t a football
fan.

Nothing. Without comment, she scribbled my
order on a worn pad and sashayed toward a table of customers who
were getting ready to leave, her hips swinging and her ass
beckoning me to follow.

Not that she actually wanted me to follow
her ass or her, which both intrigued me and turned me on. Women
fall at my feet, strip off their clothes and give me whatever I
want in any position I want it. But not this girl. Her disinterest
challenged me, and as a competitive guy, I rarely back down from a
challenge.

I wasn’t about to start.

Chapter 2

Oh my God, Braxton Davis.
The
Braxton Davis
.

The most popular guy on campus, star of the
football team, and more gorgeous at close range than he looked
across the lecture hall or on the football field. He’d walked in
the door as if he owned the place and sauntered across the room
with the powerful grace of a panther on the prowl. Six-foot-four
with a mane of dark, wavy hair, sexy stubble, and piercing
turquoise blue eyes, he towered over my five-foot-two height.

I couldn’t believe he’d come into my bar
when every other student had scattered to the four corners of the
state days ago. I knew why I wasn’t going home for Christmas, but
what was his story?

It had been so dead, Marta went home. That
meant I was alone in the bar with him—not that he worried me. I
could hold my own with guys a lot scarier than Braxton, even though
he stared intently as if I was going to be his midnight snack.

Of course, not a glimmer of recognition
showed on his face, even as he stripped me with his eyes. As
seniors in communications, we’d shared more than one class together
over the past few years, but Braxton always sat in the back of the
classroom or lecture hall and hung with his buddies, while I sat in
the front like the good student I was—even though I don’t look the
part. But, hey, I ditched the nose ring, kept my tats covered, and
tried to fit in.

To prevent myself from going all fan-girl on
the arrogant ass, I shifted into my normal mode of self-protection
by copping an attitude. Unfortunately, if the spark in his eyes was
any indication, my act might’ve backfired. Obviously, the man
wasn’t used to a woman not going all gaga over him, and my feigned
disinterest seemed to fascinate him. I couldn’t decide if that was
good or bad. Well, guess what, Mr. Big Man on Campus? If you don’t
recognize me, then I’m not recognizing you.

Walking behind the bar, I poured a beer and
pushed it across to him. When he reached for it, our fingers
touched. A little shiver of sexual excitement slid up my spine.

I stared at my smaller hand next to his
large one, mesmerized. Braxton coughed. I looked up and blinked a
few times. His dark eyebrows climbed up his forehead to hide in his
shaggy hair, and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

I snapped out of my fog and jerked my hand
away. “I’ll get that food right out to you.”

He was so gorgeous, an unwanted smile
threatened to ruin my scowl, but obviously, Braxton had no such
reservation about smiling. His sexy lips tipped up, revealing
straight white teeth, the kind only money could buy. “Take your
time, I’m not going anywhere.”

He leaned over the counter and grabbed the
remote off the shelf, as if he were sitting in his own living room,
then flipped through channels until he found ESPN. I mumbled
something totally stupid and ran for the kitchen to cook his
burger.

Damn.
I leaned against the wall for a
moment and stared at my trembling hands. What the fuck? Guys did
not make me tremble or run from the room like some scared virgin.
This was so not me.