Tackled by the King: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (7 page)

“Yeah?”

“I talked to my cereal bosses and told them about the sugar problem, and we've figured out a way to fix it. They're planning to release a new line of special cereal, one that's completely sugar-free, but still delicious. Now all kinds'a kids, especially those whose bodies can't handle sugar, get to enjoy it. All thanks to you, little buddy.”

“Really?” The excitement Jackson had for the toy couldn't even compare to the look he had when he realized that what he said to an adult had an actually made a difference. He scrunched up his nose and cherub cheeks, beaming. My heart just about melted to a puddle. “That's good. Being sick feels really bad, but I'm always happy. I'm happy sick kids can enjoy the new cereal. I want them to be happy like me, too.”

“Hey, Jackson, I'm going to talk to Kingsley for a minute, okay?”

“Okay.”

Kingsley followed me to the elevators.

“Listen,” I said, pulling at my fingers. “It's nice of you to drop by, but you really didn't have to do that. That must have cost you a fortune – well, maybe not to you, but you know what I mean.”

“It's fine, really. I love kids, and Jackson's something real special.” Kingsley looked back at Jackson, his eyes twinkling. “I can't imagine what it's like to spend more than half your life in and out of the hospital. He's a sweet kid – real sharp, too.”

“He really is.”

“And he kinda reminds me of me when I was his age. I see a lot of me in him.”

“Yeah, no, I don't see it.” I folded my arms, smiling wryly.

“That's 'cause you –” Kingsley raised a hand, reaching into his pocket for his phone. “Hold that thought.”

He turned away from me, swiping his screen to read the new message. I rolled my eyes and started walking away when I caught a glimpse of his screen. Disconcerted by the full-screen photograph attached to the message, I stopped in my tracks. It was a more-than-risque shot of a beautiful woman with snowy-blonde hair, posing in a lacy white corset and garter belt ensemble. There was no mistaking it – the woman was Ivanka Svensson, the wife of Detroit Daggers owner, Sam Gunther.

When Kingsley put his phone away, I looked down on my heels, pretending to check the wedges for wobble.

“Gotta run.” Kingsley waved to Jackson, Jamie, and the nurses, and boarded the elevator without another word.

As Kingsley disappeared behind the closing elevator doors, I found myself quietly fuming. As for why, I had no idea. For the life of me, I had no idea why I was even thinking about Kingsley and his stupid shenanigans.

Chapter Seven:
Carrie

The succulent aroma of grilling meats filled the open air of Coach Abasi's backyard. The place was packed with the team and their families, along with all the staff from the clubhouse. Some were heading for their second and third helpings at the buffet tables. Other hungry folk waited in line for juicy ribs, steak, and fresh seafood from the barbecue grills on every corner, each stocked with a personal chef. Kids and teenagers ran around the deck, some splashing around in the pool while others zipped down the loopy water slides. The rest of the party mingled in different groups, spread out over the outdoor wet bar, the pop-up tables and chairs, and the impromptu dance floor by the towering subwoofers. 

I roamed through the party aimlessly with a highball glass of Sea Breeze in one hand and my handy Nikon in the other, checking out the scene. Coach Abasi and his wife, Cindy, promenaded along the backyard, visiting with and exchanging warm pleasantries and small talk like a newly married couple to their wedding guests. The raucous, backslapping laughter and the carefree smiles added to the blessed atmosphere of home.

As I raised my camera to snap a picture, I crashed into someone from behind me. My glass slipped from my grasp, along with the rest my drink. I lurched backwards at the goat-like shriek.

“Aiyee!”

“Oh, crap!”

I slapped a hand on my forehead, my jaw slacking as I stared at a wild-eyed Ivanka Svensson before me. Her shoulders were hunched to her ears and her splayed fingers raised over her head. Pink cocktail was splattered all over her Louis Vuitton bandeau bikini, dripping down her neck and the crystal butterfly on her bellybutton.

“I'm so, so sorry, Ms. Svensson.” I hunkered down and picked up the empty glass on the sticky blades of grass. “I didn't mean to –”

“Look at what you've done to me!”

Ivanka loured at me, looking like she was ready to smack a bitch. Even as Ivanka stood there, covered in my drink, she still managed to look worthy of the front cover of Swimsuit Illustrated. She donned a pair of oversized aviators and a sleek head scarf that matched her bikini over her big beachy waves. Yet in spite of her swim attire, her look was obviously not made for actual water, judging by her blinding accessories, the glitter on her hair and body, and the body jewels painstakingly laid down her cleavage.    

“Can I get you a towel?” I was riveted to the spot, at a complete loss at what to do next. “Or –”

“Who are you?! Just – you just stay back from me, you clumsy bi –”

“How's it going, ladies? Everything alright here?”

Odell Kahale stepped between us cautiously. Ivanka's chest heaved, the massive gold hoops in her ears swaying. She jabbed a finger in my direction, baring her impeccably straight white teeth.

“This bumbling idiot over here –”

“Is Carrie Toussaint, the Senior Staff Writer of The Daily Dirt,” Odell finished for her emphatically. “She's been assigned to observe the team for 2 months. You remember, don't you?”

Ivanka's eyes ping-ponged back and forth between us. Her clenched jaw shifted from side to side, the disgust on her face slowly morphing to mortification. It was thoroughly satisfying to watch.

“Yes. Yes I do.” Ivanka sniffed, raising her chin. “Now, if you will excuse me, I need to get this washed off before the stain sets in.”

“You do that.”

Ivanka spun around and stormed off towards the bathrooms. Several of the men rubbernecked as Ivanka glided past them, ogling the smooth, rounded ass cheeks hanging out of her skimpy bikini bottom. She yanked a clean towel from the arms of a passing staff member and vanished through the sliding terrace doors.  

“It's not you. Ivanka's got a degree in overreacting and a minor in bad manners, but don't quote me on that,” said Odell with a cordial smile. “Wanna get that drink refreshed?”

“Don't worry, I won't. And definitely.”

I slung my Nikon strap over my shoulder and joined Odell at the bar.

“I'll have another Sea Breeze, please,” I told the bartender. “I had a little accident back there.”

“I'll just have a lemonade, thanks, and easy on the sugar.”

“Coming right up.”

Odell rested an arm against the counter and gazed out at the crowd.

“You got any kids?”

“No, but I have a nephew, Jackson. I love him like my own – I'd do anything for him.” 

“Right on. That's my wife, Nellie, and my baby girl, Faith.”

Odell pointed towards the kiddie pool. His wife was a beautiful bald babe in a silver monokini. When she turned to her right, you could see an ethereal geometric flower tattooed on the side of her head. While she chitchatted with the other mothers, she kept a watchful eye on Faith. The 4-year-old was a precious little girl with pint-sized dreadlocks. She laughed gleefully as she coasted across the pool on the back of an inflatable dolphin.

“You have a beautiful family,” I said earnestly, taking a sip from my new glass.

“Thank you. I thank God everyday for giving me the love of my life and my little angel.”

“I would, too. My sister, Jamie, was a teen mom. The kid that knocked her up bailed right as she told her she was pregnant. Never heard from him again, and I've been our financial rock ever since. Jackson's 5 now. Every day's a struggle, but I wouldn't have it any other way.” 

“That's tough,” Odell sympathized. He rubbed the spot between his thumb and finger, his eyes narrowing in thought. “But I hear you. My brother's bedridden – leukemia. He's got 6 kids to support; they range from 2 to 19. His wife takes care of him around the clock, so I'm taking care of the bills. It ain't easy – if something were to happen to me, I'd be letting all of them down.”

“You're a good man. They're lucky to have you.”

“No, I'm just doing what I'm supposed to. It ain't right to get praised for doing what you supposed to.” Odell's humble words struck a chord with me. “But enough about that. This is a party – we need to lighten up.”

“Some party, too.” I looked around me admiringly. “So what's the occasion?”

“Just another Sunday afternoon. Coach holds these get-togthers for the team and our families once every 2 weeks. He likes to keep the team together – we're all brothers here. We butt heads and disagree a lot, but that's what brothers do, you know? When it all comes down to it, we ride and die together. As for Coach, he gives us a hard time, but that man would do anything to keep us together.”

“I can see that, I mean, I gotta say, if I didn't know any better, I would've thought you all were related.”

“Yeah. The team's got a bad rap – some of us more than most, but the media's never been too interested in what we're really about, know what I mean?”

“I do, and I can tell you first-hand that sadly, you're right.”

Right as I'd said that, there was a loud splash from the pool, followed by the cheery whoops of party goers. Kingsley surfaced from the rippling water, pushing his wet hair out of his face. A group of women circled around him like slutty sharks, pawing at his tanned and deliciously sculpted body.

“He loves being in the spotlight, doesn't he?” I remarked irritably, but I found myself sneaking peeks at the slick dimples on his strong, sexy back.

“What, King?” Odell chuckled, polishing off the last of his lemonade. “Yeah, he's a self-proclaimed ladies' man. For reasons that I don't understand, women stick to him like white on rice.”

“So I've heard.” I licked my lips, turning away from the scene. “And seen.”

“Yeah, King's got a history with the ladies, alright. He may be a little reckless, but he's just having fun, and the guy's got plenty of experience getting himself outta trouble. But that's my man, right there. He's always got my back, no matter what. I trust him with my life.”

My eyes fell on Ivanka, who had reemerged from the bathroom. She was now on the dance floor with 2 of her friends, shimmying her hips and Vogue-ing like there was no tomorrow. Kingsley was just a couple of feet away, and they were acting like perfect strangers.

“So how long has that been going on?”

“What?”

“You know.” I leaned in a little closer, raising my eyebrows. “Ivanka and Kingsley? Does Sam –”

“I don't know anything about that,” said Odell loudly, but everything in his shifty eyes told me otherwise. He glanced over my shoulder, his face growing serious as he warned me in a low voice, “And trust me, it's best you just stay outta that one, yeah?”

“Oh, but –”

“What's going on, guys?”

Val crept up from behind us, joining us at the bar. He thrust his chin at Odell in acknowledgment and grinned at me. I smiled back at him, furtively enjoying his taut washboard abs up close.

“Not much.” Odell's voice was decidedly cooler. He excused himself. “I'm gonna go check if Nellie and Faith need anything.”

When Odell wandered off, Val held out an arm.

“It's not a party if you're just standing around. Wanna dance?”

“Sure, I'd – one second.” I reached into my wristlet for my ringing phone.

“Go ahead.”

“Hello?”

I held the phone to my ear, the laxed smile on my face fading. With every word on the other line, I could feel the energy slowly escaping my legs. But I stood perfectly still, nodding mechanically.

“I'll be right there.”

“Carrie? Everything alright?”

“It's my nephew, Jackson. He's had another seizure – a bad one. They're rushing him to Bellevue's right now.
”

Chapter Eight:
Carrie

“Come on, Daddy. This is boring,” I whined from the driver's seat of the car, swinging my legs restlessly. “The Ghostbusters cartoon is on. Can't we go inside? Pretty please?”

“Nope. Come back out here, Carrie,” Dad called out from behind the raised hood of his beloved Land Rover.

“Fine,” I singsonged under my breath as I hopped out of the car to join him.

“Where's the dipstick?”

“Right there.” I pointed to the yellow looped cap near the front of the engine.

“Good.” Dad pulled out the dipstick and handed it to me. “What's next?”

I sighed, taking the dipstick from him grudgingly, and wiped it down on a dry drag. Dad reached for the dipstick and injected it back into the tube again before handing it back to me. I squinched my eyes and leaned forward, examining the dipstick.

“What's that tell you?”

“The oil's under the minimum mark, so I guess that means it needs more oil, right?”