Fair Game: A Football Romance (58 page)

“God, your mama is cheery in the morning. I thought she was on to us for a second, but I’m pretty sure we’ve got this.”

“Yeah she’s a morning person. I feel sorta guilty. I’ve never lied to her before.”

“Never? Like, not even a little white lie or anything?”

“Nope. I’ve never had reason to, I guess. I’m a homebody, I get good grades, I play the violin, and I don’t have a boyfriend, so what’s to lie about?”

“Yeah, true. Boring bitch.” There’s a pause before she pounces on me and starts to tickle me mercilessly.

“Ugh. Stop. Stop. I can’t help it that I’m a good girl.” She shoves me aside when she’s finished torturing me, and I curl up into the fetal position to guard my belly and moan.

“I’m gonna barf. I’m never drinking again. This isn’t worth it.”

“Oh yeah, but meeting Mr. Male Model Club Owner was worth it, wasn’t it? I still can’t believe you messed around with that guy—or any guy, for that matter.”

“Me neither.” If she only knew just how much messing around we actually did.

“I want to invite him to the rehearsal studio today. That’s why I wanted you to drive me.” Savannah sits up in bed and turns her whole body to face me.

“Have you lost your mind? I know you two had fun last night, but that was like an adventure. This is real life, and he’s old.” I look up at her out of the corner of my eye and see her throw her hands up in the air and drop them at her sides.

“He’s not that old.”

“Let’s look him up. I’m sure there’s something on the Internet about the new club. There has to be something about him too.”

Shit, I didn’t think of that. Do I really want to know how old he is? It doesn’t matter, though. Savannah is already digging her iPad out of her bag and tapping in
Ecstasy
before I can stop her.

“Okay, here it is. Ecstasy, the newest dance club on the nightlife scene, boasts three levels of entertainment, including the Psychedelic Circle dance floor and a private membership-only club. World-renowned guest D.J.s every weekend. You never know who you might meet at Ecstasy. Only open Friday and Saturday, from six till last call. Reserve a table for the most comfortable evening possible. Table service available on every floor, and seven bars for easy access to drinks. Be where the
IT
people are. Be at Ecstasy. Owned and operated by Mr. King Romero.”

“Well shit. That doesn’t tell us much we didn’t already know, except his last name. I’m Googling King Romero.”

I’m actually relieved that she hasn’t found anything on him, but now she’s digging deeper.

“Okay, here he is. Damn, that man looks fine in a suit.” She straightens her back and holds up the iPad while I peer over her shoulder at the photograph of King with a blonde woman on his arm, attending some kind of red carpet affair. She’s right. He’s striking in his black pinstripe suit, and the woman is gorgeous in a floor-length red gown with a slit up the front that probably shows all of her girly parts if she isn’t careful.

“Says here he’s twenty-five, born and raised in Puerto Rico. His parents are Arturo and Isabella Romero. He owns a bunch of other clubs around the world, and he just happens to be one of the United States’ most eligible bachelors, if you’re looking for the dangerous bad boy type.”

“What? It doesn’t say that.”

“It does too, look here.” She points at the article.

“You made out with the most eligible bachelor in the United States. Holy shit, Holland. How does it feel?”

I can’t get past
dangerous bad boy
. What does that mean? What does that say about what happened between us last night? He’s not just a player; he’s the
ultimate
player. How could I be so stupid? Shit, I think I’m gonna puke again. I slap my hand over my mouth and fly into the bathroom, making it just in time to dry heave bitter stomach acid into the toilet.

“Holland. God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Shit, you have a sensitive stomach.” I grip the edge of the toilet and manage to tell her it’s okay, but this is
so
far from okay.

“You want me to tell your mama you’re sick?” She gathers my hair at the base of my neck and rubs my back.

“No, it’s just a hangover. I’m okay. I’ll take a shower and be down in a minute. You go eat.”

“I don’t know about eating, but I’ll go down and keep your mama company. Don’t take forever, though. She drives me nuts, and I need to shower too. Holland?” I sit back and rest my bottom on my heels and rub my hands on my thighs.

“Yeah?”

“Are you really gonna meet with him?”

Five minutes ago, I wouldn’t have hesitated in answering
yes
, but now that I know that I’ve given my virginity to the biggest player in the country, I’ve changed my mind. It was all a game to him. I was just a conquest, a notch on his bedpost. I wonder how he would feel to know that notch was nineteen years old?

“No, what’s the point? I’m sure I’ll never even cross his mind again.”

“Oh, now stop. That’s not true. Nobody can forget you.” She drops my hair and pulls me into a side hug. My mouth starts to water, and another round of nausea rolls through my stomach.

“Thanks, Savannah, but you’d better let go. I still don’t feel so good.” She quickly releases my shoulder, stands up, and backs out of the bathroom.

“Okay, um, I can’t watch you do that again. I might throw up myself. Meet ya downstairs.” I wave her away, and she closes the door, leaving me to agonize alone. I can’t believe I was so stupid and gullible. What on earth made me think a gorgeous, worldly man like King would be interested in me? He did text me right away, though, right? Yeah, right. He just wanted to make sure he wasn’t responsible for a drunk girl getting into an accident that he was just seen making out with in his club.

When I’m positive I’m not going to throw up again, I drag myself off the floor, flush the toilet, strip down, and turn on the water. I rest my forehead on the glass shower door and wait for the water to warm up before stepping in. It feels so good that I moan and drop my head back to let the water run through my hair.

Maybe Savannah and I should skip practice and just swim all day. I need to work on forgetting about last night. I really need to focus on having good, clean, King-free fun for the rest of the summer. And practicing my ass off—always practicing my ass off.

Chapter Four

King

I stretch my arms above my head and instantly feel a kink in my back. That’s what I get for passing out on the couch, though. Wait. I don’t think that’s how I ended up here. My pillow is under my head and my legs are tangled up in my comforter. I would never drag all that out here if I were drunk.

I open my eyes and it all comes rushing back. Transparent grey eyes, brown skin as soft as silk, long, black hair tangled in my fingers, and the scent of an angel, or how I imagine an angel would smell. Holland. Sweet, sweet Holland. That woman has somehow ingrained herself into my soul. What I feel for her isn’t the typical physical lust I usually have for a woman. Holland seems to have woven herself into a place in my heart that I didn’t know existed. She just opened the door, lit up the dark, forgotten area, and made herself comfortable. How the hell does that happen in an hour? I mean, literally an hour with her, and I can think of nothing else.

I feel around for my phone to check my texts. When the screen glows bright, I see there are eight new messages, and none of them are from her. I don’t know why I expected to hear from her already. Get a grip, King. The first message is from my floor manager last night, checking in with me before closing. Another is from Crystal. Shit . . . Crystal. That’s a mistake I wish I’d never made, a one-night stand that has been holding on for over a year now, waiting for something more. I haven’t helped the situation much by taking her to formal events and having casual sex with her. She’s great eye candy, but there is no chemistry there—not for me, anyway. Crystal has made it ‘crystal clear’ that she would love nothing better than to marry me, settle down in the suburbs, and have a slew of babies. She knows what I do and what I am, and for some insane reason, she still believes I could give her that life. Delusional. She’s totally delusional. I’ve told her that we are going nowhere, but she refuses to believe it, and until now, I haven’t had a reason to quit leading her on. The moment I pressed up against Holland on that dance floor was the moment any desire for any other women ceased. I can’t even entertain the thought of anyone else.

I need to see her again . . . soon. This is ridiculous. I’m acting like a teenager after his first date. Just call her, you fool. It’s ten o’clock. Would she be up by now? I don’t know the first thing about her, let alone her sleeping habits. This is so stupid. Just call her, King. Quit acting like an idiot.

Sitting in the middle of my couch with my legs drawn up and my elbows resting on my knees, I run my fingers through my hair and listen to the phone ring—once, twice, three times—until I’m forced to either hang up or leave a message. “Hi, you’ve reached Holland Bennett. Please leave a message after the tone.”
Beep
. I’m usually a very smooth operator, never at a loss for words, a natural sweet talker. But Holland renders me speechless with her musical voice, asking me to do the simplest thing . . . leave a message. After a few seconds, I finally get a grip and ask her to call me soon.

Is she still sleeping? Is she ignoring my call, screening it? Insecurity. Wow, this is new, and it fucking sucks. I’ve never worried about contacting a woman. In fact, I’ve never called someone the next day—or ever again, for that matter. Usually, I run into my conquests in the club or at a party, but I don’t consider Holland a conquest. She’s more of a blessing or a gift.

I launch myself off the couch, thinking about my meeting this morning. I’m going to be late if I don’t get my ass in gear. Something pink on the floor next to the couch catches my eye. No way, she didn’t. When I reach down to pick up Holland’s pink lace panties, my heart pounds in my chest like a prepubescent boy seeing a nudie calendar for the first time. My fucking morning wood is bordering on pain, and I need to relieve myself, but I choose torture instead, burying my nose in the pink scrap of material that is rich with her scent.

I need to see her again, to feel the heat of her skin near mine, nip her plump, soft lips, trace the curve of her neck with my finger and down between her . . . oh, enough. What the fuck is she doing scrambling my brain like this? I am a strong willed, stubborn, asinine, pig-headed fucking dick, and I’m standing in my living room losing my shit at the mere thought of a woman I’ve met once. One fucking time, damn it.

I stomp to the bathroom for a cold shower. For a fraction of a second, I consider tossing the delicate, torturous reminder of my new obsession back onto the floor, but I can’t do it. When I’m in the bathroom, I lay the bunched-up piece of lace on the counter and turn on the shower. “You’re whipped,” I tell the guy looking back at me in the mirror. He looks like me, but he can’t possibly be me, because not only do I feel different, but I look different. Narrowing my eyes, I lean in close to the mirror, looking hard at myself and trying to see exactly what it is that’s different.

Wow, King Tomas Romero has finally met his match, and for some reason the thought is slightly irritating. I was looking for this, even craving it. But I am completely inexperienced with these kinds of unbridled, no-holds-barred feelings. I am the leader, not the follower, but Holland has claimed an all-encompassing power over my senses. Every one of them pulses with desire for her.

After a difficult time emptying my bladder, I step into the shower and brace myself against the wall as the icy water sluices down my body like a million tiny knives slicing my skin, effectively dowsing my arousal. Any other time, I would have taken care of myself under a hot spray of water, but after being inside of Holland, nothing else can compare.

I dress in a pair of dark jeans and a bright orange fitted t-shirt and make my way through the quiet, empty club to the underground parking garage. Inside the Range Rover, I adjust the seat to accommodate my long legs. My head of security, Sebastián, drove it last, and he’s a good five inches shorter than I am. I start the engine and sit in the dark cab for a few minutes, checking my schedule on my phone and a couple of stock trading apps. When I’m done, I lay the phone in the center console and stare at it. I’m not a very patient man, and she hasn’t returned my call. I want to talk to her, but I don’t want to be a stalker, for shit’s sake. Fuck it. I want her. I’m calling. I snatch up the phone and bring up the recent call list, press her name, and wait for her to answer.

“Hello?” She answers on the second ring.

One word is all it takes, and I’m a bundle of emotions, ranging from an aching desire in my bones to an unfamiliar sense of calm.

“Good morning, beautiful,” I growl, wishing I could crawl through the phone and kiss her when she giggles softly.

“Good morning yourself, King.” I can hear the smile in her voice, and I want to ask her to repeat my name but I resist.

“How did you sleep?”

“Um . . . it took a while to get to sleep.”

Good, maybe she was thinking of me as much as I was thinking of her.

“Same here. I kept thinking about this woman I met recently. She had the most interesting grey eyes, almost transparent, with tiny flecks of violet around her irises.”

“Sounds sort of . . . haunting,” she says, throwing my description of her eyes last night back at me. “You’re very observant, Mr. Romero.”

“Only when I’m interested in something.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I was hoping that woman—you know, the one with the haunting eyes? Well, I was hoping she would see me today. For lunch, maybe?”

She pauses long enough that I start to think we’ve been cut off, but right before I ask if she’s still there, she replies.

“I’d like that very much. I have to practice today, though, until four. I have a rehearsal room reserved . . .” She pauses, and I imagine her biting her lip as she constructs her invitation. “Do you want to come and listen, and then we could go for dinner?”

“Dinner it is. I’m dying to hear to you play, Holland. Text me the address of the rehearsal hall and what room you’ll be in. I have a meeting I have to go to right now that won’t take long, but I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Okay . . . and, King?” she says, sensing I’m about to hang up, which I was, because I didn’t want to give her time to change her mind.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I had a really nice time last night.”

Now I imagine her looking down at her feet, smiling shyly with a red blush blooming over her cheeks, and that vision makes me twitch. It takes all my willpower not to moan.

“I did too, Holland.” More than she knows. “Text me that address, and I’ll see you in a few.”

I can feel her smile through the phone.

“Oh, okay. Bye.”

I disconnect the call and toss my phone into the seat next to me, grinning like a fool. After a deep, cleansing breath, I stretch my arm across the passenger seat and carefully back out of my parking spot. When I exit the garage, I fumble for my sunglasses in the blinding Texas sun. I swing left toward the home of Mexican drug lord, Hector Morales. Shipments are due to arrive soon, and my inside contact with the U.S. government is in town. Generally, these meetings are long. Sometimes days are spent making arrangements, planning, and drinking, but not today. I’m cutting out after I make an appearance. Sebastián can handle the details of the shipment while I handle the much more interesting, delicious details of a Ms. Holland Bennett.