The Playbook (a Secret Baby Sports Romance) (2 page)

“Wanna take a look?” John asked, and I nodded eagerly.

Under the Florida sun the field glistened, the grass was pristine, the lines were startling white and crisp. Leaning against a cold rail, I breathed it all in. The place was empty, but there was something akin to a soul lingering in the stadium, like it almost breathed with me. I loved the potential of a new field, especially the first game of the season, the way my cleats sank into the turf as I set my stance to make a big play. There was no other feeling like it, the scoreboard set at zero with everything to play for. But now I was going to be fighting to even get onto the field this season.

I hated the uncertainty—the damage it had done to my pride. The serenity that I’d felt earlier in my career was stripped away. But it left me even more determined not to fuck up or to let others fuck it up for me again.

I was not washed up. I was not done with this sport, no matter what they said on the TV and radio. I was going to show them exactly what I was made of, and by the end of the fucking season, so help me God, the whole world would know my name.

“C’mon, we better get going. The team is here today out on the practice fields,” John was saying. “I would like for you to meet them and then get you started if you’re up for sweating a little bit on your first day. We can get some reps in, get a true feel for your style, and let you meet Danny.”

“Sure,” I replied confidently, “no time like the present.” Danny Miller was my competition, the starting quarterback, and I wanted to know everything about him—his weaknesses, his strengths, anything that could potentially give me a leg up and help me make my dreams come true. It was ruthless to think that way about a teammate, but he was getting on; it was time he let a new guy take over.

We found our way back outside, and John commandeered a cart that would take us around the back of the main stadium. He drove us into a second gated area, practice fields on either side. There was a stout-looking three-story building up ahead, plain, but in the same style as its bigger brother that we’d just come from. Glass and concrete were married together in perfect harmony, with familiar archways that lined the facade. John eased the cart up in front, and we hopped off.

He first escorted me through the building’s office-like interior—practical but with modern flourishes here and there—and then as he led me down what I presumed to be the main tunnel, which would eventually lead back out to the practice fields, I started to get chills. Anticipation, nerves, and everything in between were building up like a coiled spring within me. And of course it hadn’t helped that I was ready to bust a nut, too. But this was it, this was to be my home for the foreseeable future, and a familiar sense of pressure weighed down upon me.

We took a turn off the tunnel and into a room that blasted out air conditioning, the sudden drop in temperature causing the chills to turn to shivers. We walked through a final set of glass doors and into a large locker room, the carpet plush under my feet. Rows of large, open lockers completed a semi-circle, each of them painted in the team’s colors and labeled with a name. Glancing at each one of them, I immediately started to look for my own name but found it nowhere.

“Your locker is this way,” John said, sensing my question. I cleared my throat and walked past the first row of lockers to the second row, clearly separated from the starters. Hell, I was second even in the locker room! It was to be expected, of course, I just didn’t realize how much of a gut-punch it would actually be.

A few of the guys noticed us, pausing in their preparation for practice as I passed by. I kept my smile, clenching my jaw tight, nodding to a few of them as John led me to my locker.
On the second fucking row
. I didn’t belong there, but I didn’t plan on being there for long.

“I’ll let you get settled in; the boys will soon introduce themselves,” he was saying, giving me a nervous smile. “If you need anything, just holler, Jacob. We are glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad to be here, too,” I forced out. He nodded, and I turned to the locker, removed my jacket, and hung it up.

Sitting at the bottom of the locker, all ready for me, was a set of all new practice gear, emblazoned with the team’s logo. No longer was I wearing the gold and green that I had worn in my first year. Now my colors were blue and yellow, a dazzling sun with sharp rays as my logo. It was going to take some getting used to. When I had signed my first NFL contract, I’d expected to be with the team for the entire five years… longer if possible. I’d imagined a long and loyal career. Instead, I’d carried the program to a two-and-fourteen loss, throwing more interceptions than anyone else in the entire league. Though every player had the fear of a trade in the back of his mind, I had no idea that it was going to come as quickly as it had.

“Hey, you’re Jacob Maddox.”

I turned to see a young guy next to me, an eager smile on his face. “Dude, I heard you were coming, but I didn’t believe them. Terrence, Terrence Gold. I’ll be your wide receiver.”

“Terrence, nice to meet ya,” I said, sticking out my hand. “Second string?”

“You know it,” he laughed, shaking my hand. “At least it’s not third. Hell, I’m just glad to be on the team, you know?”

“Yeah, well, second isn’t good enough for me,” I grumbled, releasing his tight grip. “I’ll be a starter before the end of this season, you watch.”

“Good luck with that. Danny’s on fire. In the zone,” Terrence answered absently as he reached into his locker. I watched as he tidied away a shirt and inadvertently pushed forward a small black object against the side. The thing fell down with a flutter onto the floor. “Shit,” he said, looking down. “Dude, can you grab that for me?”

Not wanting to make an enemy right off the bat, I reached down and picked up the object for him like he asked, and I realized it was a little book, almost Bible-like. Small and thick. But this one didn’t have the delicate flimsy pages of a Bible; it was, on second glance, just a normal, everyday ledger. Come to think of it, it looked lot like a little black book. Terrence was still busy, and I chanced a peek. Opening it up, I thumbed through the pages. There was writing on practically every page, but there was an undecipherable code alongside it. “What’s this? What does this number mean?”

“Aw man it’s… shit, just give it back.” He was trying to a hide a smile but wasn’t doing a good job at it.

“What is it? Let me in on the secret,” I said and took a step out of his reach as he tried to snatch it from me. It was a feeble attempt, and I easily dodged him.

“Fine. It’s, you know, one of those books,” he replied, giving me a light punch on the shoulder. “Every woman that has ever been with one of the players is tagged in there.”

“Tagged?” I frowned trying to get his meaning and stopped to read one of the entries.

Number twelve, banging body
.
Ginger likes it rough. Pull her hair during doggie style and she will do the big o.
It was signed with a number—twenty-four, a jersey number?—and what looked to be a date from last year beside it. Looking up at Terrence, I pointed at the entry.

“You can’t be serious!” It was something that teenagers did in high school, not grown men worth millions of dollars, but I had to admit, it did have an element of fun to it.

“Don’t give me that look. I know you’re a total player if last year’s gossip rags are anything to go by. But seriously, dude, it’s the best thing ever,” Terrence said, almost bouncing on his heels. “You can find any girl you want in there; those that like it rough or easy, exhibitionists, ones that are like the girl next door, or even a dom if you’re into that kinky shit. I tell you that playbook has made many men extremely happy.”

“Playbook?” I said with an amused shake of my head. It was a good name—immature, but genius at the same time, especially considering the men using it. Even I had to see the brilliance in that. I flipped through the remaining pages, a big red X catching my eye. “What’s up with this one? There’s no jersey number,” I asked, pointing to the entry.

The entry continued in different handwriting beneath the first.

“Oh, man, that’s Lucia,” Terrence replied, swallowing hard as he looked at the entry. “Like it says on the score sheet, she’s not worth your time or any other man’s, for that matter. Strictly off limits.”

“What’s wrong with her?” I asked, my curiosity piqued as I continued to look at the long list of things that Lucia didn’t like. Not one entry was positive.

“Nothing’s wrong with her physically… Bangin’ body, if I’m to be honest, slammin’ curves in all the right places,” Terrence said with a sigh, pulling the book out of my hands. “She’s just one of those all-business types, you know? Won’t go near jocks. Trust me, there’s no point even trying. She’s a lost cause. If you’re interested, better to go for a guaranteed lay. Less hassle.” Terrence threw the book back into the locker and grabbed his cleats. “Come on, get changed. I’ll show you the practice field.”

With a lingering look at the small black playbook, I started to get undressed. No one had resisted my charms before, and I doubted this Lucia would be any different. Don’t even try? We’ll see about that.

M
y heels sank
into the deep carpet as I walked down the hall, my mind always going back to why anyone would put carpeting where sweaty men will drip on it.
Eugh,
it was disgusting—they really needed to get it replaced. This type of carpet belonged in a nice house, not a football training building. Most of the men had already made it out to the practice field, but as I rounded the corner, I saw two guys huddled together near the therapy room, heads together, reminding me of schoolgirls talking about their crushes.

“Dude, he totally bought it. We are going to have some fun with this one.”

The other chuckled and shook his head, his tight braids sliding back and forth on his practice jersey. “I can’t believe that. Are you sure it’s going to go down tonight?”

I frowned, wondering what they could be talking about. Pranks were a common theme in the locker room, the guys enjoying a chance to blow off some steam from the stress of performing. I had seen numerous ones over the years, even been the butt of some harmless ones last year. But none ever got out of control or harmed anyone. Putting my best strict teacher face on, one that I had perfected to keep unruly clients in check, I put my hands on my hips and cleared my throat. “Guys, I hope you aren’t planning to do something you are going to regret?”

At the sound of my voice, they turned quickly, both of them looking guilty as hell that they were caught slacking off. Like two little boys who’d been caught stealing cookies, they bolted upright with hands behind their backs, a small flash of black disappearing as they did so. They certainly were not acting like twenty-something year-old men who made millions of dollars a year. “Ms. Cortes, we weren’t doing nothing.”

“Sure,” I said, holding their stares. “Who’s the unlucky soul this time? You better not be hazing another cheerleader again, or I will have your balls, gentlemen.”

One of them looked away, guilt written all over his face. The other, Terrence—a running back if I remembered correctly—cleared his throat and gave me a smile, one that normally would melt the panties off a girl. Not me; I was too used to it. I’d been around guys like this all my life. I knew every cocky smile, every twinkling wink and every muscle-bulging move they used to sway women to their side.

“We were just talking. You know, guy talk.”

I smiled knowingly, crossing my arms over my chest. “Is that right? Well if you like to talk so much, Terrence, you could have made your last appointment with me.”

The other guy snickered, and Terrence averted his gaze, his winning smile fading. I’d inadvertently embarrassed him.

“Lucia! What the hell are you doing?”

I turned around to find the head coach, Greg Hanshield, staring me down, his hands on his hips. Greg was in his fifteenth year as coach of the Jupiter Suns, his record better than most.

“How can I help you, Greg?”

He walked toward me, his pot belly leading the way, looking over my shoulder at the two players still standing there. “Are you harassing my players? It’s the damn start of the season, Lucia. They don’t have time for your mumbo jumbo!”

Mumbo jumbo?
He had a nerve! I hated that he thought I was some kind of sideshow attraction. Why couldn’t he understand that I was a professional, just like him, here to make a difference?

“Excuse me? I wasn’t harassing them.”

“Sure sounded like it to me,” Greg grumbled, the stink of his body odor becoming increasingly suffocating. “Your daddy would hate to hear that you were keeping his players from doing their jobs.”

I swallowed a retort that was on the tip of my tongue. He knew bringing up my father would stop me in my tracks, and I hated that it had that effect on me. I started to count to ten, trying to let the anger dissipate. Why I ever thought taking a job here would be a good idea, I didn’t know.

Greg, picking up on my rising anger, sneered at me, knowing he’d won this round. “Why don’t you run along and go play therapist like your daddy expects you to, Lucia. Leave the real work to the professionals.”

The two players snickered, and Greg turned on them, his grin evaporating. “Get the hell out of here before I make you both run until you pass out!” The two players turned and hightailed it out of the hall, leaving just Greg and me there. He turned back to me, his smirk not at all friendly. “Now Lucia, I know you think you rule the roost around here, but one word from me to your daddy, and he will pull you out faster than I can snap my fingers.” Taking a step forward, he leaned in so that I could be the only one to hear his words, even though we were alone. “Do not fucking harass my players, or else.”

My fists felt like they wanted to fly; I wanted to hit him so bad I could taste it. But if I did, it wouldn’t solve anything—Greg would get what he’d wanted since last year: me out on my ear and his precious players left with a myriad of mental health issues. Not that he wanted that last part of course, he was just oblivious to their psychological needs.

Drumming up as much willpower as I could, I spun on my heel and started to walk away, but upon hearing his laughter, I called back, “Oh, by the way, Greg? You stink.”

Enjoying the tiny victory, I stayed only long enough to see the smirk slip off his face as his nose instinctively dipped downwards towards his sweat-laden armpit.

My office was situated at the end of the long hall, with close access to the locker room so the players could visit me at any time should they need to. Not that they did. With assholes like Greg Hanshield on the coaching staff, they tended to shy away from me except for their mandatory therapy sessions that I’d pushed for with my father.

Slamming the door, I crossed over to my desk and fell into the chair, rage bubbling at the surface. The way I had just been treated made me want to scream. I’d been the Jupiter Suns’ performance therapist for a little over a year. My master’s degree in psychology hung proudly on the wall in front of me, but you’d think it was a blank piece of paper if you went by the staff’s reactions to my presence.

When I finished school, I’d expected to be bombarded with offers, but of course times were tight and there wasn’t much call for my specialization. Waiting on pins and needles, I’d applied for every job I thought I could do, but when nothing was forthcoming, my father stepped in. He offered to make me part of the franchise, a therapist to help the guys with any mental struggles they had and to just give them someone to talk to. And with all the pressure they experienced, I jumped at the chance, thrilled to finally apply what I had learned. I thought I’d be turning players away, but no such luck. Even so, I had to admit my position, effectively working for my dad, was incredibly fortuitous. Yet now, after what seemed like years of hazing, I was tempted to throw in the towel.

I looked down at my carefully constructed—but mostly empty—day-planner on my desk, seeing that I had the newest member of the team, Jacob Maddox, scheduled within the hour. Regardless of my thoughts of quitting, I knew I couldn’t bail—today was not that day. I tapped my pen against the desk, thinking how I could make our first session a success. Perhaps a change in my method was needed.

He was a second string quarterback that my father picked up to help offload some of the stress on his star quarterback, Danny Miller. It should have been a good choice, but from my own research into his background (it would be a cold day in hell before the coaches shared their notes on their players with me), I knew that Jacob had struggled last season, his team ending up at the bottom of the entire league.
That, quite possibly, could be something Jacob needs to deal with
, I mused. In fact, I remembered that my father had been the butt of many jokes for signing him. And more than once I’d heard him cussing out his operations manager for putting him in such a situation. The Jupiter Suns had a chance at a good season this year, and someone coming in with a great deal of baggage tied to his name was going to be a burden they really didn’t need.

Leaning back in my chair, I thought about Jacob Maddox’ arrival earlier, the way he had allowed the cheerleaders to drape all over him like he was a celebrity. I had to admit, he was insanely cute up close, his thick brown hair barely brushing the collar of his suit jacket, and his dazzling blue eyes reminding me of a clear summer’s day. There was a mischievousness to them, like he knew exactly what you were thinking, and he was going to tell the whole world.

His smile, well, it was the kind that would make a woman involuntarily moan out loud, and I could tell he knew how to use it to his advantage. Another flash of that winning smile, and I knew my heart would race uncontrollably again—just like it had done earlier. I thought I was going to faint when he noticed me looking at his bulging crotch. The result of having all those women wrapped around him no doubt, I thought spitefully, wishing that I could have that effect on someone. I never thought I’d be jealous of how close they were to him, but cheerleaders had all the fun.

“Quit it, Lucia,” I scolded myself, shaking my head clear of any other musings about the new, hot, and very lickable player. What was wrong with me? I had lost all of my good common sense. He was going to be my patient. I was a professional, and professionals did not fantasize about good-looking football players.

What on earth was I thinking? He was a player—off limits—and long ago, I had decided that I wanted nothing to do with jocks of any kind. They never took anything seriously. And even though some of them were down-to-earth, married with cute kids, it had never even crossed my mind to become a player’s wife, let alone girlfriend, most of whom were forced to be alone or single parents during the football season. I knew for a fact that most of these guys saw their families or significant others only once or twice during the week when they were training, less during the season itself. Nowadays, their off season was so short, too, since they made appearances for charity and such as representatives of the team.

I couldn’t do that. I wouldn’t do that. I was on the verge of making my own career take off and to have it occupied by another person was not going to happen… I didn’t slave through six years of college just to have someone overshadow what I wanted to accomplish. And yet, there was still that little voice in my head that said it might be nice to share those things with someone else.

No. I was fine. My way—keeping my head down, absorbed in my work—hadn’t failed me thus far, so why even try something new?

Bracing my hands on the desk, I grabbed a stack of files that needed to be dictated into my extensive records. I had to keep my head in the game, no pun intended. I was here for a reason, and it wasn’t to ogle over the new players, even if the upcoming meeting with a certain quarterback was making my stomach flutter with a thousand anxious butterflies.