Tackled by the King: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (4 page)

“Like I said, nuts –”

“Shit.” I reread my only new text message, sent from an unknown number. My fingers shook as I read it out loud. “'I know what you did, you selfish sack of shit, and you're going to pay for this. I've alerted the press. Now your fans will know what a phony you really are.'”

Odell's face clouded with fear, his voice sounding strangled.

“Who is it?”

“I don't – shit! My phone died.” I slid my phone back onto the top shelf and punted my locker door shut. “Check your phone.”

Odell snatched his phone from his bag hastily. He unlocked his screen with both hands. I'd never seen the dude so shook in all the 8 years we've known each other.

“Did you get a message, too?”

“No.”

“Okay, well get on that shit and Google me.” I wrapped a towel around my waist and stood behind him, looking over his shoulder.

Odell tapped away at the search bar, his brows furrowed in concentration. But when the page of search results loaded, our shoulders relaxed. The “Breaking News” tags published just 4 hours ago boasted similar headlines: “
Superstar Quarterback Kingsley Kelly Spotted With Banker's Wife.”

“Damn, brother. I know you're young and just having fun, but you can't go around porking every rando's wife. You know you're one screw-up away from getting benched for the rest of the season.”

“Yeah, well, not all of us fall in love and get hitched to our high school sweethearts. And in my defense, Wendy said they were separated.”

“Maybe I should get Nellie to set you up with one of her –”

“You dick weasels should really put a sock on the door if you're thinking of doing any of that faggot business around here.”

Val Presley, the Wide Receiver, strutted through the door. He dropped his bag onto the bench closest to the door, chuckling at his own shitty remark. I opened my mouth to say something, but a wet and buck-naked Farrah came sauntering out of the shower from behind me, and did all the talking for me.

“King? King, what's taking you so – oh. I didn't know you had company. Hey, fellas.”

Val curled his lip and narrowed his eyes at the psychotic, but sexy woman cozying up to my side. I turned around and cloaked her with the towel hanging over my shoulder. As she snuck an arm around my waist, I could see Odell's I-told-you-so eyebrows climbing up his forehead from the corner of my eye.

“Figures. The drains have been acting up lately,” said Val resentfully as he rummaged through his bag. “Should've known it was you clogging 'em up with your cock snot.”

“That's not very nice –” Farrah started indignantly.

“I see Coach, Abigail, and the rest of the guys coming up the field,” Odell warned from the door. “You better get her outta here.”

Just as Odell warned me, one of the towel boys busted into the room with a squeaking laundry cart. I pried Farrah's arms off me, scooped her off the ground, and chucked her into the pile of dirty jockstraps and towels. Farrah pinched her nose, gagging.

“Sorry, but you needed to leave 10 minutes ago.” I slipped the towel boy a 20 and jerked my head towards the door. “Get her outta here.”

The towel boy threw a towel over Farrah's head and wheeled her out the door before she could object. Odell and I peered out the slitted window. We watched as the towel boy steered away from the approaching crowd and out of sight. That kid was the real MVP.

Coach Abasi and the rest of the team poured in to the locker room with Abigail following closely behind.

“Everyone here?” Coach thundered, looking around at us. “Alright, listen up. The Daily Dirt will be sending one of their journalists, Carrie Toussaint, to shadow the team for 2 months.”

“Carrie starts this afternoon. She'll be observing you all at practice, attending your games, social events, and will be doing pieces on a couple of the players,” Abigail explained. “Our team could really use the good publicity –”

“What she means is, you lot better get your shit straightened out. I don't give a damn what any of you do, just don't get caught. I'm talking to you, Kelly. Take it down a notch and stop screwing everything that moves.”

“Will do, Coach,” I replied, acknowledging Val's snorts with a silent fuck-you behind my back.

Coach glared at me before turning back to the team.

“And I expect nothing but your best behavior when you're around this woman. You treat her with the utmost respect – no funny business, understood?”

“Yes, Coach,” the team replied in lackluster unison.

“Good. I want your asses out in the field in 5. Get those laps in and start off with some X-drills. I'll be back later.”

When Coach and Abigail left the locker room, the team broke out in sleazy discourse over the chick reporter. I was halfway back to the shower when Louie Banks, our Tight End, called for everyone's attention. He waved his phone in the air, beckoning us towards him.

“I'm on The Daily Dirt
'
s staff page. Who wants to check out this Carrie chick?”

I wandered back into the crowd gathering around Louie, who was scrolling across the different faces and bios on the page.

“Toussaint – sounds like one of those sexy French babes,” Val piped up, rubbing his hands together.

“Here she is – Carrie Toussaint.”

The team griped in shared disappointment.

I frowned at the picture, noting how outdated it looked compared to the rest. In fact, it appeared to be the senior portrait of a high school girl. The chubby girl wore old-fashioned glasses, and had unkempt black hair and a mouthful of colorful braces. Despite the cluster of acne on her forehead and cheeks, there was a glowing grin on her face as she posed in front of the starry backdrop. I wasn't sure why, but it was pretty refreshing, and I could feel the corners of my lips tugging back at the girl's unshakable confidence.

“Of all the fine pieces of ass on this page – shit, this bitch looks like Ugly Betty's uglier sister.” Val sneered, waving a hand dismissively.

I felt my fists balling up, but I caught myself and backed off instantly. Val had this extraordinary ability to rub me the wrong way, especially with the disrespectful diarrhea sharting out of his mouth 24/7. I cracked my neck and spun around, stalking back to the shower. Val and some random reporter weren't worth the suspension.

Chapter Four:
Carrie

I leaned against the driver's door of my blue sedan in the clubhouse parking lot. My car had been parked for over 15 minutes now, and my fingers were pinched around my second cigarette. As a religious stress smoker, I've always needed the cool blast of menthol and nicotine to quell the nerves.

This was far from my first “journalistic” piece, but my career was at stake here. And just maybe, even the promotion and pay raise I was robbed of. God knows I deserved it for prostituting myself to the public's warped idea of journalism for years. Having said that, there may have been another reason for the unyielding nerves. When I told Wattana I didn't know diddly squat about football, I wasn't lying, but this wouldn't exactly be my first run-in with footballers.  

Back in high school, 17-year-old me was kicking butt and taking names in the debate club and annihilating rival schools at Mathlete competitions. With my once unmanageable hair and angry teenage acne that attacked in droves, I was also typecast as the “hot girl's fat friend.” And as it is with high school politics, my presence was only remembered when someone needed last night's homework, or when groups of friends wanted their picture taken.

Aching to find some kind of social acceptance, I took it upon myself to try out for baton twirling. The squad's routines were pure fire, kicking off the performances and cheers during halftime. What's more, the girls on the squad were everything I wanted to be – fit, beautiful, and talented, dazzling the whole school with their graceful skill and sequin leotards.

On the day of the tryouts, I was ecstatic, arriving before anyone else did. I charged into the empty locker room and into the first stall to change. Highly self-conscious about my non-Size 2 figure, I wore a long-sleeved turtleneck under my stuffy velvet leotard. As I left the stall, feeling more confident than I'd ever been, the door of the locker room opened, and in came the entire high school football team. As a result of my enthusiasm, not only did I walk into the wrong locker room, I had to walk out of there with my chin held high as more than a dozen teenage boys called me “Cheese Butt.” Positively mortified, I never made it to the tryouts.

Of course, that was almost 8 years ago, and I wasn't in high school anymore. These were grown men, and I, a grown woman. These testosterone-overloaded men tackled each other for a living, but I tackled real problems in my sleep. This really should be a walk in the park for me.

“Ms. Toussaint?”

I took one last puff from my cigarette and flicked it into the trash, blowing out the side of my mouth.

An older black gentleman in a striped polo shirt and gray sports pants stepped out of the clubhouse entrance. He crossed the parking lot in my direction, raising a hand over his wide forehead to block out the blazing sun. I fished around in my purse for my mints and popped one into my mouth. 

“Present.” I smiled warmly at the man, extending a hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Abasi.”

“Just Coach will do.” Abasi led me towards the clubhouse. “The boys are wrapping up at practice, and they'll be hitting the showers soon.”

“No problem. Thanks.” I slipped into the lobby as Abasi held the door open for me. “I know I'm a little early.”

“I'll take you to the lounge –”

The stench of wet socks, sweat, and body odor pervaded the air. A mob of burly men in football gear and varying states of undress trickled into the hallway. I felt my shoulders tense up a little as I noticed several of them doing double-takes at me. But through the sea of curious faces, one starkly stood out above the rest.

#33 was a little over 6 feet tall, with a thick crop of wavy, ashy-brown hair and playful, but startlingly blue-gray eyes. It was the same face splashed all over stadium billboards, sports ads, bobble heads, action figures, T-shirts, and a host of other memorabilia. It was also the same face linked with scandal, known for his well-known history of fiendish promiscuity and fast living.

Yup, it was none other than the world-famous Kingsley Kelly. But as much as the overrated and overpaid footballer's name left a bad taste in my mouth, I couldn't deny it. Kingsley was even more gorgeous in person, with the kind of eyes that made your panties just a little damp.

So when I felt his lingering eyes sweeping up my body from the ground up, I peeled my eyes off him and directed my gaze straight ahead.

“What are you jackasses still standing around for?” Abasi hollered at his team. “I know y'all see Ms. Toussaint standing here. So git! You don't keep a lady waiting.”

As the team filed into their locker room, Abasi ushered me towards the lounge.

The lounge was designed with the team's colors in mind, the furniture in cohesive colors of nautical blue, royal red, fiery orange, and white. It was decked out with expensive leather sofas, armchairs, and a 152-inch plasma with surround sound in the center of the room. Display cases filled with glinting trophies lined the walls, along with tacked up jerseys, framed plaques, and team photographs. Finally, an old-timey wood paneled bar sat in the back of the room, which connected to a large kitchen.

“Have a seat in the bar.” Abasi pulled up one of the stools for me. “Would you like something to drink?”

“I'll just have a glass of water, thank you.”

Abasi slid behind the bar and fixed me a beer mug of iced water.

“I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave you on your own while I make a few phone calls in the office.”

“You go right ahead. Ms. Schwartz sent me the team's schedule earlier today. We'll be meeting again later tonight to go over some formalities. I can take it from here.”

Abasi nodded, the crotchety look on his face softening.

“They can get a little rowdy, sometimes, but they're harmless. They're good boys.” Abasi started towards the door, looking over his shoulder to make one last remark. “But boys will be boys. You let me know if any of these fools make you the least bit uncomfortable.”

“I will, Coach. Thanks again for the hospitality.”

When Abasi left the lounge, I whirled around in my chair to check my reflection on the bar wall. I adjusted my topknot and leaned in for another once-over of my makeup. Wanting to look professional but comfortable when I follow the athletes around, I'd opted for a black spaghetti-strap, a form-fitting aqua blazer, black jeans, and a pair of oxfords.

As I was fiddling with the upturned strap of my top, the first wave of players wandered into the lounge.

I hopped off the bar stool, straightening the hem of my blazer nervously. Some smiled at me politely, but they all made a beeline for the dining tables to refuel. Hearing the commotion, the staff rolled out individual platters of grilled chicken, salmon, and vegetables, as well as hearty tuna and spinach sandwiches.

When the sound of high-pitched tittering floated into the room, my attention quickly snapped back to the doorway.