Jock: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (57 page)

D
amn
, now that’s an ass you could sink your teeth into.

I let my eyes wander over the tight, curvy back-end of the redhead on the other side of the restaurant from the bar, laughing mechanically as she playfully slaps the arm of one of the two Hollywood-type suits standing next to her. She looks vaguely familiar, but of course if there’s one thing I’ve learned since moving to LA, it’s that
every
girl looks vaguely familiar.

Your sexy waitress, the girl at the gym with the great tits, the cute chick that makes eyes at you as she steams milk for your latte, your neighbor. Whoever the girl, you’ve probably seen thirty others that look
exactly
like her in commercials, or on some movie poster, or hell, porn for that matter.

Welcome to fucking LA.

Ten-to-one, of course, they’re also all batshit crazy as I’ve come to learn. Especially when you’re young, famous, and most importantly
fantastically
newly rich.

Of course, all those factors combined also make a perfect fucking storm of getting laid, and it’s with that in mind that I’m ignoring the ridiculous air-kisses and “ciao’s” coming from the redhead’s mouth and thinking of
other
things I’d like to see coming
in
that mouth.

Me.

“Austin.”

I smirk as I sip on the whiskey in my glass, letting my eyes drop to that ass that looks like you could bounce a feather off of it. She looks up this time, noticing me.

She smiles seductively.

Oh yeah, she knows who I am.

“Austin, are you fucking listening to me?”

I groan as I tear my attention away from the redhead, my Jessica-Rabbit fantasies evaporating like smoke as I frown at my chubby, balding manager.

“Yes, Derek, I’m listening.”

He frowns at me. “You sure? I mean, hey, I bet the ginger over there could
totally
negotiate you a fucking forty-million dollar first-round contract too, buddy.”

I roll my eyes and grin. “Okay, okay, you have my attention.”

“Should I dress up pretty for our next meeting?” Derek says dryly. “You know I’m sure I could find that dress in my size.”

“Please don’t.”

Derek smirks. “May I proceed?”

“Yeah, but back it up. I honestly wasn’t listening.”

Derek sighs and reaches up to stroke his goatee. “Put bluntly, you need to get your shit together, Taylor.”

He scowls at me over the rim of his diet soda, his best “serious manager” face on. It’s a tough look to pull off because Derek is one of those baby-faced guys that has a hard time looking over the age of fifteen, despite the paunch and the thinning hair. It’s also a tough look to pull off when you’re drinking a fucking
diet
soda with four lemon slices in it.

But of course, it doesn’t stop him from bitching me out like
I’m
the kid here.

“I’m not fucking around here, man, this is thin-ice territory.”

I roll my eyes at him as I slug back the rest of my whiskey and motion to the bartender for a refill.

“Little early to go nuts, isn’t it?”

I turn and give Derek a look. “Says the man who wanted to have this meeting in a bar.”

“For the low profile, genius,” Derek grumbles, gesturing with his chin at the near-empty hotel bar around us. “Not so you could get loaded.”

“Well,” I grin and thank the bartender before I raise my fresh glass to Derek. “To best laid plans.” He scowls as I take a slug. “Cheers, buddy.”

“You know all of this is about more than getting wasted and getting laid, right?”

I chuckle. “Yes, Derek, I’m aware there’s some football playing involved.”

“Jesus Christ, Austin.” He pulls his glasses away from his face and rubs the bridge of his nose - something he tends to do when I make him play the babysitter role like this.

And I know he’s right, to a degree. I’m aware that at
some point
I need to shape up, at least a little bit. But the season hasn’t even started yet, and until then, I
fully
plan on reveling in my new place as a fucking
God
amongst men.

Or more specifically, amongst women.

Being the star of college ball was one thing. Being the hottest thing to come through Texas football got me laid more than most entire fraternities on Spring Break. But when you’re the biggest thing to hit the goddamn NFL since Super Bowl halftime shows, life gets interesting
real
fast. Banging college hotties was junior league shit. Sleeping my way through sororities and coeds was practice.

Forty-million dollar contracts and twenty-four hour ESPN coverage is the
big
leagues. That’s lingerie models and pop stars, crazy shit college coeds have never even fucking
heard of
. Because let’s be real, when you’re the most talked about quarterback in cable news history, and the number one NFL draft pick at twenty-three years old in
this
football-obsessed country?

Yeah, you’re basically the second coming of Christ.

Derek hooks his glasses back on his face and shakes his head at me again. “I need you to think long-term, Austin. Think past your next lay once in a while, okay?”

I nod earnestly. “Derek, c’mon. You know I do.”

He raises a brow.

“I’m
always
thinking past the next lay, to the one
after
that.”

Derek’s mouth tightens as I chuckle, before he mumbles something and starts to get up.

“Okay! Okay!” I laugh as I grab his arm. “Derek, stay, I’m sorry. I’m listening now.”

He glares at me.

“Scout’s honor, I’m listening.”

He sighs. “I’m talking endorsements, asshole. I’m talking sports drinks, and shoes, and your handsome mug behind the wheel of a Lexus up on a billboard.” He steeples his fingers as he looks at me. “I’m talking money that makes your contract look like pocket change. Sound good?”

Okay, I’m listening.

I nod. “You’ve got my attention.”

“It’s where the real money is, buddy.”

I snort and raise my hands up. “Well? Why aren’t they knocking?”

Derek turns, snagging the gossip magazine lying on the bar, and tossing it at me. “
That’s
why.”

I grin as I look down at the headline in my hands. It’s two days old, and I’ve of course already seen it, but it’s still making me crack up.

My “shenanigans”, as Derek put it when the story first broke. My “predilections towards fucking my own shit up,” I believe were his exact words. I glance down at the paparazzi shots - then ones of me leaving the club with that girl that night, followed by pictures of my Maserati crashed into the side of that Starbucks on Vine about twenty minutes later.

“No one got hurt, the place was closed.”

He gives me a look.

“Derek, it’s
fine
, she was eighteen.”

I can literally see the temperature of Derek’s face rising.

“She’s the
junior commissioner’s
daughter
, dip-shit.”

I grin as I take a big pull of my whiskey, thinking about that night and that hot little mouth. “Well she should learn to keep her hands to herself in moving vehicles, Derek.” I shake my head. “I really don’t see how it’s suddenly
my
fault-”

“I know you’re not
really
that fucking stupid, Taylor.” Derek’s glasses are back off as he rubs the bridge of his nose again. “Junior. Commissioner’s. Daughter,” he says, annunciating each word.

“Well, what the hell is he doing letting his daughter hang around NFL players then?”

“For fuck’s sake, Austin,” he shakes his head. “You’re not hearing me. Clean your shit up, or you’re going to get shut down faster than you can say minor leagues.”

I snort. “Please, with this arm?”

“People have been blackballed for less.” Derek puts his glasses back on and gives me a stern look. “Don’t fuck with these people, Austin. This isn’t college ball where everyone’s going to hold your hand, and jerk you off, and let you get away with murder. These people hold your paychecks, and your future. You gotta learn to play ball with them. Besides,” he pulls his phone out of his pocket. “As much a nightmare as that one is, we’ve got bigger problems.”

He slides the phone my way, but it only takes one glance down at the tabloid site headline for my face to sour.

“Derek, you know that’s bullshit.”

He glares at me. “
Is it?
”

I frown as I glare down at the article, at that condescending,
knowing
grin on the blonde girl’s face.

“I never
touched
her, Derek, so unless she’s claiming immaculate conception-”

“Austin, she could say the father is an alien, or Elvis fucking Presley, and it wouldn’t matter. People are
listening
to her, and bullshit or not, that stink is going to rub off on you.”

I swear into my glass.

“Look, we can
deal
with shit like this, but
only
if you clean up your fucking act, man. If you’re strutting around like you’re the Mick Jagger of pro football, you’re never going to get away from shit like this.”

I frown as Derek’s serious face finally gets to me, and the weight of what he’s saying finally starts to sink in.

“Fine,” I grumble. “Fine, I yield. Teach me your ways, wise one.”

“Atta boy.”

I sigh as I down the last of my whiskey. “So what the hell do I do?”

Derek’s frown slowly turns into a small smile. “You’re not gonna like it.”

“Try me.”

He grins. He’s enjoying this. “The media team and I came up with something that might - uh,
soften
your image a little. Make you more family-friendly and more viable to product endorsements.”

I no longer like where this is going.

“Derek-”

He shrugs, that shrug that says he knows I’m going to hate what he’s about to say, but he’s going to say it anyways.

“You need to settle down.”

I groan. “Yeah, dude, we’ve established that I need some image work, so what’s the fucking plan-”

“No, Austin, you need to
settle down.
”

I frown, not really getting what he’s trying to say. “Derek, what are you-”

“You need to get married, pal.”

I laugh as I turn and raise my empty glass at the bartender for another one. “Yeah,
definitely
.”

“Research shows it’s amazing for public image, Austin, and the endorsements are going to fall into your lap.”

I slowly turn to him, my face falling. “Jesus Christ, you’re actually serious aren’t you?”

“It doesn’t even have to be real, Austin.”

The bartender slides the whiskey in front of me, but I’m barely aware of it as I stare dumbfounded at my manager.

“
What?
”

He shrugs. “This happens all the time with big name players. Look it’s just for image, I’m not saying you have to
actually
get married. But you do need the appearance of it.”

“A fake marriage.” It feels ridiculous to even say it out loud, like I’m some sort of English lord negotiating a land dispute or securing my lineage.

“Yep.”

I swear. “What fucking century is this?”

“The one where you make a
shitload
of money by listening to me.”

I slug back a hefty swig of the booze, feeling like the walls of the bar are starting to close in a little. “So I fake-marry some gold-digger.”

Derek quickly shakes his head. “Oh, no, nothing like that. We’ve already put together some eligible candidates.”

“Eligible candidates?” I swallow another third of my glass, feeling like I’m going to be sick. “Do these women have fucking resumes for this shit or something?”

Derek looks at me plainly. “Of course they do.”

“Jesus fucking Ch-”

“You need someone who fits the part,” Derek rattles on. “Someone classy, someone with poise - nothing fake or plastic, like your usual.”

I groan, shaking my head and reaching for my glass as I look past Derek, when the door to the bar opens, and
she
walks in.

And
damn
, what a walk.

She moves like she was born in those heels, the little back dress painted onto her body like it’s a second skin. It’s not slutty, or skanky at all, she just looks goddamn classy as
fuck
in it - like some sort of movie star.

And in
this
town, that’s actually hard to pull off.

Her long dark brown hair is pulled back over one shoulder, and those sparkling, crystal blue eyes flit briefly across the dimmed room before she just sort of floats towards the other end of the bar.

The world suddenly goes still, and I grin.

This is
exactly
the type of distraction I need right now.

“Austin, you need someone wholesome, someone cultured - someone unknown and outside the public spotlight,” Derek drones on, oblivious to the fact that he’s completely lost the war for my attention.

She moves with elegance, like she some sort of royalty or something. Head held high, shoulders back as she glides towards the bar. I watch, utterly ignoring whatever Derek is saying as she smiles easily at the bartender, those perfect pouty red lips pulling back across a dazzling smile as she tucks a strand of hair back behind her ear.

The handful of whiskeys and the total lack of anything to eat since breakfast is going to my head, but I’m focused like I’m about to rattle off a play on the starting line of a game.

“Goddamnit, Austin, we’re not done here.”

Derek is swearing as I pat his shoulder, my attention firmly on the girl at the end of the bar.

“Let’s put a pin in this, buddy.”

“
Austin
, for fuck’s sake-”

“Yep, sounds good man.”

Derek says something else, but I’m not even listening anymore as my eyes suddenly narrow on the yuppie looking prick in the suit jacket leaning against the bar next to her. I can feel my jaw tighten as I see him slide close to her, and the look on her face as she glances around the room.

I don’t know shit about this girl, or her situation, or what’s even really going on with her and that guy at the far side of the bar. And I know damn well even as I move down that way that getting involved is the definition of Derek’s whole “predilections towards fucking my own shit up” theory.