Sugar Rush (Offensive Line #1) (2 page)

COLT

Enclave Estates

Pacific Palisades, CA

This isn’t a house. This is a compound. That’s what the invite should have said. ‘Please burn your only day off at our compound on the hilltop. Background check, piss test, and three forms of ID required.”

That last part is no joke. Coach Bailey’s place is in a gated community where I had to show my ID and be checked off a list before I was allowed to come inside. When I found the address there was a second gate that I had to be buzzed through before I could roar my way up the narrow private road leading to the house.

Sorry, not ‘house’. Castle. Inside a compound.

Coach Bailey is the offensive coordinator for the Kodiaks, but eleven years ago he was a hot shit quarterback out of Arizona. He spent five years with the Broncos and six with the Jets before a shoulder injury took him out of the game. Coach Allen, head coach for the Kodiaks, picked him up immediately and he’s been with the team making that big money ever since. Pacific Palisades mansion money.

His place is three stories of gray brick facade towering imperiously at the end of a perfectly paved drive. There’s a widening just to the right of the house where cars are parked side by side looking like the most expensive car lot in town. Trucks and SUVS in every color. BMWs, Bentley’s, Mercedes, Audis. One powder blue Tesla, a pearl white Vanquish. Two Challengers with racing stripes running matte black down their sleek backs; one yellow, the other orange. Kodiak colors.

I park my Nissan GTR at the end of the line, its candy apple red paint gleaming hot as sex in the sun. I’m the last one here. I can tell that from the car count alone, no help needed from the clock on my dash practically screaming the time at me or the text messages blowing up my phone as I slip it in my pocket. I grab the big yellow box that’s been riding shotgun with me and jump out of the car. I tuck it under my arm while I jog toward the front door.

Out of the corner of my eye I catch the glint of sunlight off a mirror. There are a couple of catering vans parked along the side of the house. A gray door with ornate red writing slams shut and a tall gangly dude in standard black and white waiter attire walks from behind it toward the house, a large white box in his arms and a bored expression on his face. He disappears inside a side entrance, probably one leading into the kitchens, because of course this place has a servant’s entrance.

“You’re late.”

Startled, I miss a step, my stride broken.

Andreas, our kicker, is leaning against the wall by the door, a cigarette dangling lazily from his right hand. He’s wearing black slacks, a gray button down shirt with a white tie, and a disapproving frown on his normally urbane, Latin face. He’s shrouded in a cloud of averse air and smoke that reeks of reluctance. It looks more like he’s attending a funeral than a baby shower.

“I got held up,” I tell him.

“I hope you mean that literally, for your sake. There better have been a gun involved or Lexi is going to flip.”

“What does Lexi care when I show up? She doesn’t even know who I am.”

He snorts, his latest intake of smoke bursting out his nostrils like a suave ass dragon. “She knows who you are.”

“Last summer she called me ‘Matt’ through the entire 4th of July party,” I argue. “She thought I was Kurtis Matthews, and she wasn’t even getting
his
name right.”

“Doesn’t matter. She wants everyone inside before they do the reveal.”

“Has everyone put in their bets?”

“Everyone but you. You’re late, as usual.”

I whip out my phone, bringing up the
BumpBet
app where the team is running a baby pool. The kid’s gender is only the first round, but it’s a big one; four hundred points. Next is the delivery date, then weight and length, but if you don’t get this first one right your odds of winning the pot all but drop off.

When the app loads I see the pie chart of entries. Thirty-two of the guys have placed their bets. Nineteen of them put their money on it being a boy.

“What’d you bet on?” I ask Andreas.

“A girl. What are you going to pick?”

I wrinkle my nose indecisively as I slide my phone back in my pocket. “I don’t know yet.”

“You better figure it out soon.”

“How are they announcing it? Box of balloons? Piñata?”

“Cake. White on the outside, blue or pink on the inside,” he answers slowly, watching me. “How do you know so much about this stuff?”

“My mom’s been to about a million of these. She told me.”

“Is she the one who told you to bring a present?”

“Yeah. She said better safe than sorry.”

He grins maliciously. “Sorry.”

“Seriously? No gifts?”

“Nope. Said so on the invite. Did you even read it?”

“Vaguely.”

“Yeah, I never even saw it. My w—Macie read it. She always handled this shit.”

He exhales a puff of smoke, his dark eyes watching it spin thin as cotton candy before it dissolves into the sky, into nothing, and I wonder why the hell he came here today. If anyone has a pass to not be here, it’s him.

Babies are nothing to celebrate for Andreas. They were for about six months. Right up until he found out his wife, Macie, had cheated with another guy and it was
his
baby she was carrying, not Dre’s. All of his excitement over that kid turned sour in a heartbeat leaving him bitter and battling his way through an ugly divorce. The team has rallied around him, trying to help him out, but a blow like that takes a lot out of a guy. As much as I want to tell him that the best way to get over a girl is to get under a new one, I know it’s not true. Not for him, because he’s not getting over her. He’s getting over a kid that never existed. The ghost of a baby he was never going to have.

That’s some fucked up shit for a guy to deal with.

“What’d you get them?” he asks me numbly.

“A Bumbo chair.”

“What the hell is that?”

I shrug helplessly. “No clue. It’s to park the kid in, I guess.”

He nods his head slowly, his eyes tracing the wide, white ribbon wrapped around the package. “You better put it back in your car.”

“Yeah, alright. Meet you inside?”

He leans down to snub his butt out between the brick steps of the patio. “Sure. I’ll tell ‘em you’re here.”

I head back to my car, popping the trunk to put the box inside. Just as I’m closing it another catering van comes rolling up the road. It’s white with a massive cupcake on the side.

This is the baker.

This is the only person at the party who knows the sex of that baby.

I idle by my car, letting the van pass by. When it comes to a stop behind the other vans and the driver’s side door pops open, I stroll casually down the alley toward it. I smile when I see a woman drop down to the pavement.

Women like me more than men. A
lot
more.

She’s dressed differently than the waiter I saw earlier, wearing a thin, purple sweater that’s the same color as the purple writing on the side of her van. Her white linen pants hug her hips like they’re painted on and her long, brown hair rolls down her back in glossy waves. She’s small, at least compared to me, but her body language makes her seem larger. It speaks volumes in the way she snaps the door shut and strides confidently toward the back of the vehicle.

I hurry around the other side, meeting her at the back just as she pops the doors open, the sugary scent of baked goods exploding around us.

“Nice racks,” I comment.

She jolts, surprised to find me there. Her eyes are a cool blue, fixed in an open stare that devours my face and leaves me hungry.

“What did you say?” she asks, her voice husky and unhurried.

I point to the trays of cupcakes filling the back of the van. “Your racks. They look delicious.”

Her expression grows wary. “Can I help you with something?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“Are you— Do you work here? For Lexi?”

“More for Coach Bailey.”

“You’re a football player?”

I offer her my hand. “Colt Avery. Running back.”

“Lilly Hendricks,” she shakes my hand with surprising strength. “Baker.”

I wrap her hand in both of mine, taking a step closer. “Lilly Hendricks, baker, I have a proposition for you.”

“No,” she answers immediately. Definitively.

“I haven’t told you what it is yet.”

“I have an idea of what it might be.”

“You’d be wrong.”

“Man, I hope so. I’d hate to have to mace you.”

I smile indolently. “I believe you’d do it.”

“I would,” she promises seriously. “I will.”

“Don’t worry. I hear you. You’re working. You don’t want to be hit on, so I won’t. I’m not that guy.”

She snorts lightly. “You know the problem with
that
guy
? He doesn’t know he’s
that
guy
. So saying that you’re not
that guy
is meaningless because if you are in fact
that
guy
, you’re not self-aware enough to realize you’re
that
guy
and you immediately become
that guy
simply by insisting that you’re not.”

“Okay, that—” I blink twice, frowning slightly, “—it was hard to follow, but I think you’re saying you think I’m an asshole.”

Lilly shakes her head sharply. “I’m not saying that.”

“No?”

“No. I would never call a guest at a client’s party an asshole.”

“It’d be unprofessional.”

“Right. No, I’m saying that
if
you were an asshole, you wouldn’t know it.”

“So, like an ignorance is bliss kind of situation?”

“Blissful for you. Torture for those who have to suffer you.”

“
If
I were an asshole,” I remind her.

“Yeah, sure.
If
.”

I smile slowly, loving the cool air around her. The frost in her eyes. The biting edge to this banter. It’s nothing I’m used to, a far cry from the warm reception I get from most women. It’s surprisingly exciting; like sparring.

I’m also loving the feel of her small hand between mine. She still hasn’t pulled it back and I’m not about to let it go.

“You don’t like me,” I point out candidly.

“I don’t know you.”

“But you don’t like me.”

She frowns at me. “What was the first thing you said to me?”

I chuckle, running one of my hands over my head brusquely. “Uh, I forget.”

“Short memory.”

“It’s a curse.”

“’Nice racks’,” she reminds me sternly.

“Thank you.”

She moves to turn away from me, pulling her hand swiftly from mine. “Wow.”

“Come on,” I laugh, touching her elbow lightly to stop her. “It was an opening line. It got you talking to me, right?”

“Right, and if you’re not
that guy
and you’re not hitting on me, why did you need an opening line?”

“Because I need a favor.”

“Sure, why not? Anything you need.”

I frown at her. “Are you being sarcastic?”

“No.”

“
Now
are you being sarcastic?”

She sighs tiredly. “What’s your favor?”

“I’m going to help you unload your van—“

“No,” she interrupts immediately. “I can’t take help from a guest.”

“What if I promise not to tell?”

“I don’t know you. Your word doesn’t mean anything to me.”

I put one hand on my chest. “Colt Avery,” I remind her.

“Running back. Yeah, I remember. I’ll rephrase that; I’ve known you for under a minute. Your word doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“What can I do to change that?”

“Letting me get back to work before I’m fired would be a great start.”

I drop my hand away from her elbow. I hadn’t realized I was still touching her.

She immediately turns to the van, lifting a tray out of the back. “What was the other half of the proposition?”

“You let me inside your box.”

Lilly pauses, the tray half off the rack. “I wasn’t kidding about the mace, dude. I have it. I’ll do it.”

I smile, gesturing to the boxes in the back. “I don’t see the cake on the trays. I’m assuming it’s inside one of those boxes.”

“It’s inside three of them.”

“I only need inside one.”

“I’ll let you inside
none
. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds like the start of a negotiation.”