Time of Possession (Seattle Lumberjacks #5) (20 page)

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Authors: Jami Davenport

Tags: #romance, #erotic, #love, #friendship, #pets, #seattle, #brothers, #sports, #football, #sweet, #best friends, #veterans, #soldier, #high society, #broken engagement, #nfl, #team, #friends to lovers, #quarterback, #super bowl, #hot hero, #male bonding, #animal lovers, #lumberjacks, #seattle lumberjacks, #boroughs publishing group, #son and dad, #backup, #seattle football team, #boroughs

BOOK: Time of Possession (Seattle Lumberjacks #5)
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“Syl, I’m in trouble. Deep trouble.”

“And you just figured this out now? Girl,
you’ve been ass-deep in shit since I met you.”

“I know. I just hide it well.”

“You bring it on yourself with all your OCD
behavior.” Sylvia softened her voice, but the effect was just as
powerful as if she’d shouted.

“You think?” Estie stopped herself from
lining up pens on the scarred desk and stared out the large window
at the dreary, gray day as a fine drizzle coated everything.

“I
know
, and the problem has to be a
man.”

“Two men.”

“You poor sorry female. Two men. I can’t
deal with one of the bastards, let alone two.”

“Tell me about it.”

“So give me all the sordid deets.” Sylvia
paused to watch a tall African-American delivery man walk up to the
reception desk. He caught her staring and nodded at her. She smiled
back. He almost tripped over his own feet as he looked over his
shoulder at her. Sylvia laughed. “That man has one fine ass.”

Estie nodded in agreement, as she watched
the gray-haired volunteer at the reception desk literally fall all
over her support hose to get his attention.

“I might have to get his number next time he
makes a delivery.” Sylvia turned back to her. “Back to your
problem. Something happened with our sexy backup quarterback.”

“Starting quarterback,” Estie corrected.

Sylvia smiled, showing straight white teeth,
and tossed her long hair over her shoulder. She winked at the
delivery man and heaved a sad sigh when he walked out the door.
Finally, she focused her attention on her friend. “You and Brett
screwed like chinchilla rabbits.”

“Chinchilla rabbits?”

“You should see them. A friend of mine just
got a pair—you’d love their fur—and those horny little creatures
are doing it all the time.”

“We aren’t doing it all the time.”

“Ah ha, but you’ve done it some of the
time.”

“Yeah.”

“How was he? Was I right about his big hands
and feet…?”

“Sylvia. Really.”

“Well, was I? I bet he’s hung.”

Estie rolled her eyes. “Yes, he’s hung.”

Sylvia slapped her thigh. “I knew it. I can
tell. Besides, he wasn’t overcompensating for a small dick by
being
a dick like Richard, so I figured that wasn’t an
issue.”

Estie almost choked on the water she was
sipping. She wiped her lips with her napkin.

Sylvia gave Estie a sly look. “Richard does
have a small dick, doesn’t he?”

“Well, compared to Brett’s that would be a
yes.”

“I knew it. I tell you, I have sixth sense
about penis size.”

“I’m not sure that’s a marketable
skill.”

Sylvia rubbed her chin, as if considering
the possibilities for a moment. “I could write a book, share my
secrets:
How to Assess the Size of a Man’s Penis before Getting
Him Naked.
So was he good?”

“Yeah, really good.”

“I’m not surprised. What are you going to do
about it?”

“I don’t know. There’s more. A lot more.”
Estie held up her ring hand, and Sylvia actually gasped.

“Okay, let’s hear it, and don’t leave out
any details.”

Almost an hour later, Sylvia knew every
crappy and fantastic detail of Estie’s last couple of days.

“I am so screwed.” Estie crumpled a
half-full water bottle in her hand and some of it squirted out onto
her face.

Sylvia laughed, looking sheepish, and handed
Estie a towel. “You have some serious issues, woman, and I told you
life has a way of throwing a wrench into the most carefully laid
plans.”

“Brett thinks I should go to vet
school.”

“Brett Gunnels is one helluva smart
man.”

Estie couldn’t agree more and damned if she
knew what to do about it. This was unchartered territory for
her.

* * * * *

Brett stared at the game film. The images ran
across the screen but didn’t register in his brain. He shook his
head, trying to clear it of memories of a naked Estie Harris
writhing underneath him, her face flushed, her body sweaty, and her
eyes full of desire—and something scary good that planted false
hope inside him.

“What the fuck is up with you?”

Brett snapped out of the bedroom and into
the film room. “I—uh—”

Harris glared at him with those laser-blue
eyes that never missed a damn thing. “You got laid last night.” The
rat bastard made the statement with absolute confidence.

The heat travelled up Brett’s neck, lapping
at his ears and rendering him speechless. Harris couldn’t know. He
just couldn’t.

A sly, knowing smile crossed the jerk’s
face. “Oh, yeah, you did. I know that look. I wear it myself ninety
percent of the time.” Harris tapped him very annoyingly on the
bicep. “Your problem is that you don’t get laid enough so when you
do, you can’t stop thinking about it. This is football, man.
Nothing interferes with football. Not even the best fucking
mind-blowing sex you’ve had in years.”

Brett nodded slowly. Since Harris hadn’t
beaten the crap out of him, he couldn’t possibly know the
mind-blowing sex had been with Harris’s own sister. “Yeah, you’re
right.”

Harris puffed up a little. The fucker loved
it when Brett acknowledged he was right. “I know guys who claim
they can’t have sex during the season in order to concentrate on
the game. That’s bullshit. Ask Derek. Ask Zach. Hell, ask your
buddy, Bruiser. You’ve held out too long, Gun. Physical guys like
us need it every night. And it helps your game if you fuck on a
regular basis.”

Brett couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
Unknowingly, Harris had just given him his blessing to keep
sleeping with Estie just to improve his game.

“Ask Bruiser what?” Bruiser stuck his head
between the two men, a shit-eating grin on his face, the same one
he’d been sporting since he and Mac got together. It was
disgusting. In fact, the entire group of men that Brett hung out
with were disgustingly happy with their women and their sex
lives.

God, Brett wanted that.

“What are you two talking about?” Bruiser
pressed for the answer.

“Brett got laid, and now he can’t
concentrate on game film. I told him he needed to get laid more
than once a year so it didn’t fuck with him when he finally
did.”

“You did? With who?” Bruiser studied his
buddy, and Brett looked away, not wanting Bruiser to figure it out.
After all, he’d been at Thanksgiving dinner. He was a smart
guy.

“No one you guys know.”

Bruiser rubbed the stubble on his chin, deep
in thought. Harris didn’t seem to notice. Hyper as he was, he’d
already grown bored with the conversation and was debating with
Derek and Zach on the merits of certain play schemes to use against
the Packers.

Bruiser raised one eyebrow and shot Brett
one of those Bruiser looks, full of hidden meaning. “You’re playing
with fire, buddy.”

“No shit.” Oh, yeah, Bruiser knew. How long
before the others would figure it out—including Harris/?

“He’s not going to be happy for so many
reasons,” Bruiser kept his voice low and jerked his thumb in
Harris’s direction.

“Good thing he’s injured. It’ll make it
harder for him to beat the crap out of me without causing damage to
that knee.”

Bruiser snorted. “Yeah, lucky you. If he
finds out you’re banging his sister, he’s devious enough to use
other means to dispose of you.”

Brett nodded. Harris could be formidable. He
scared the crap out of each new crop of rookies, but Brett had
worked with him long enough to know the guy was mostly talk. Buried
under all the asshole bullshit lurked a heart of gold. Hell, the
guy worked with disabled veterans on a regular basis and did tons
of other charity work. And he had a spoiled rotten, fat-assed cat.
The cat alone said a lot about Harris.

You gotta respect a man who loved cats,
despite his other faults.

Harris plopped down into the seat next to
Brett. “Quit wasting my fucking time. Let’s get back to work. Do
you think I do this for my own good? Fuck no. This is for the
team.” Harris started the film again in slow motion, pointing out
the Packers’ defensive strategy on one particular play.

Brett forced himself to concentrate on the
film, wrapping his brain around the plays and how to see the things
Harris saw. He’d always prided himself on having a pretty good eye.
After all, he’d spent most of his NFL career watching the game
instead of playing it. But viewing the field standing behind center
with a pack of rabid linebackers and defensive ends bearing down on
you was a completely different animal than standing on the
sidelines safe and sound and making notes on a clipboard.

Time to get to work and concentrate. He had
a job to do.

Tonight would be for Estie, but the rest of
his day was for football.

And damn it, the team counted on him to give
it everything he had, while he wasn’t sure Estie counted on him at
all. Not like he counted on her.

* * * * *

By the time Brett dragged his weary body out
of the facility, the night janitorial staff had all gone home. A
couple player vehicles still sat in the parking lot. It looked like
Brett was not the only dedicated teammate in the facility, a fact
that made him feel good and a sign the guys hadn’t given up hope
after all. At least not all of them.

Throughout the evening, Brett had texted
Estie three times, apologizing, and each time she said she
understood perfectly. He guessed she probably did, being Harris’s
sister and all. No one worked harder than Harris when it came to
coming in early or staying late. Brett knew, because he’d been here
most of the time, too. Except tonight Harris left early, something
about a hot date with a hot blonde.

Brett was tired, cranky, and itching for a
good fight. Harris had been all over his ass tonight, grilling him
like fresh Chinook salmon. He’d passed every test Harris put to
him, but he still found it a demeaning that the asshole quarterback
treated Brett like a pupil while Harris was the pompous
professor.

Brett rounded the corner of the building and
started across the lot for his car when he heard guys talking,
mentioning his name. He backed out of sight behind a tall shrub. He
should’ve walked right up to the guys, but a bit of the old
insecurity stopped him in his tracks. He wanted to hear what they
said behind his back.

“Gun has a great eye for offensive schemes.
He knows what defense works well against most of them.” Brett
recognized the voice of Steve Costa, the team’s rookie tight end.
Erratic but talented, Brett had spent a lot of time in training
camp working with the kid, as had their selfless All-Pro tight end,
Spin Statler.

“Of course, he does. He spends all his time
watching the game instead of playing in it.” This came from Lamar
Williams, another rookie, a defensive end who wore his cocky
attitude like a medal of honor. Both guys laughed.

“We’re in deep shit,” Steve lowered his
voice.

“Yeah, when Harris went down, this became a
fucking throwaway season.”

If it was a throwaway season why were they
here after oh-dark-thirty studying game film? Time to put their
rookie, size-fourteen feet to the fire. Taking a deep breath, Brett
strode from the shadows into the glow of the overhead lights. Both
men turned to him, guilty looks plastered on their faces.

“Gentlemen.” Brett nodded at each one of
them, actually enjoying their obvious discomfort—maybe a bit of
Harris was rubbing off on him after all. The chickenshit tight end
took a step back and let his defensive teammate take over.

“Hey, man, how’s it going?” Lamar swallowed
and offered up a nervous smile. At least the guy had the decency to
look contrite.

“You two have an issue with me? Tell it to
me straight.” Brett squared his shoulders and got into Lamar’s
space.

Steve shuffled back another step and stared
at his hands, staying out of it.

“No, man, no issue. We’re with you every
step of the way,” Lamar attempted his trademark engaging grin but
it fell flat.

“I appreciate that, and I’ll hold you to
it.” He sized each of them up for a moment, not giving a shit how
nervous it made them. “You guys are here late.”

“Uh, yeah, watching film like everyone
else.”

“We’ll need it. We have a tough opponent
coming up.”

Both heads nodded quickly in unison like
bobblehead dolls in the back window of a 1960 Buick sedan.

“Have a good evening.” Brett inserted just
the right amount of steel into his voice.

The two players beat cleats out of there.
Brett watched for a moment then headed for his car.

“Hey, man, wait up.”

Damn, not another one. Brett paused and
waited for Zach to jog up to him. The entire fucking team must have
been burning the midnight oil tonight.

“What was all that about?” Zach pointed
toward their retreating teammates.

“Bonding with the young guys.”

Zach raised one eyebrow and chuckled. “Gotta
keep those kids in line.”

“Yeah.” Brett shoved his hands in his
pockets and continued his short walk to his SUV, eager to get home
to his “kids” and Estie.

Zach matched him stride for stride. “Harris
was a little hard on you tonight. The guy’s an asshole. We all know
that. Hell, he brags about it.”

Brett nodded, wondering where this was
going. Zach wasn’t the touchy-feely type so he doubted Zach had
approached him just to offer sympathy.

“I want you to know I’ve got your back.”

“Thanks. I appreciate that.”

Zach sobered and shot Brett his steely
glare. “You won’t need it, but my support is there anyway.”

“You sure I won’t need it?” Brett forced a
teasing smile, but Zach remained stone-faced, as if he didn’t buy
into the bullshit.

“Nah. You’re a damn good quarterback, and
this is your time.” Zach paused. “And mine.” He glanced down at
Brett’s hand. “You never wear those two rings of yours, and I’m
sure I know why. Let’s get this thing done and each earn a ring
we’ll be damn proud to wear.”

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