Stroker: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (21 page)

Jensen’s stunning, yes, probably a fine lay, but he’s still a Collins. There are skeletons in that closet somewhere.

It’s dropped a few degrees as I make my way across the parking lot. Underneath my blouse my nipples are take-your-eyes-out hard and it’s sure as not because of the cold change.

I spot my humble Jeep waiting all alone. I’m fishing for my keys when I’m suddenly blinded by the World’s Brightest Light.

“Scarlet, can you comment on the tension between Josh and Jensen on the field tonight?”

I squint my eyes, the cameraman right up in my face and Angela Damn-Her-Hair Barnet from HBC Live with microphone out. I’m quite certain the thing’s glued to her hand.

I try to keep walking, but they swing around and block my path. I want to get to my car, not play netball all night.

“Can you confirm rumors of an altercation in the locker room tonight?” Angela continues.

I move left, but the light on the top of that camera’s the Second Coming. I’m quite expecting the good Lord to show up soon.

Any closer and I’m going to be deep-throating that mic. “No comment,” I manage to get out, side-stepping and Angela right there, throwing question after question at me. I mean, I know she’s only doing her job, but this is going too far. She probably knows I’m weak, easy prey.

“Is it true drug abuse is rampant at Victory?”

“Is Jensen Collins switching teams?

“Is Josh Collins cheating on you?”

A bag drops. The light swings sideways. I hear Jensen’s voice in the darkness.

“Get the fuck away from her!”

“Hey, pal,” says the cameraman, “we’re just doing our—”

Jensen snatches the camera, switching it off and lifting it above his head ready to bring it down. I’ve never seen him so angry… until he sees me.

“You can’t do that,” says Angela.

Still watching me, Jensen lets the camera down, shoving it back to the cameraman and addressing Angela with pointed finger. “I can do whatever the fuck I want, and last time I checked this is still stadium grounds.”

“We have a right to be here.”

“And harasses this pool girl? Keep it up and I’ll make sure the closest you get to a game is watching ESPN.”

I can see Angela fighting with it. She’s desperate for the scoop, but she gives in, reluctantly taking hold of the camera guy and heading across the lot.

“Thanks,” I offer, the two of us alone again. “They can be a bit over the top.”

Jensen picks up his bag. Even as he bends over there’s not a muscle out of place, no sagging or weakness. He is perfection. “Any time.”

He winks and walks off, duty done. I watch him go, that eleven-ouncer in my chest growing more and more excited with every shift of those tightly packaged buns.

Danger,
I tell myself.
That’s all he is. Danger with an ass to die for and a capital, cocky ‘D’.

JENSEN

Scarlet Matthews—the one that got away, not that she went far.

I’m thinking of her as I head home, the small details that have always made her so appealing—the way she bites her lip when she’s nervous, that aqua blue nail polish she’s been wearing since she was sixteen. Most guys see only the voluptuous blonde in front of them, but I see more. She’s sexy—sexy as hell—but she doesn’t know it, never has, and I think that’s always been the appeal. She might have the looks, but she’s too sweet to be part of the claw-your-eyes-out clique of players’ girls. That’s why she sits in the stands instead of the sidelines.

Road makers whip past the window. It’s the same sound the ball makes when it moves through the air, that black-and-white truncated icosahedron bitch. I own it. I send it wherever the fuck I want and I do it with power. I’m a striker,
the
striker. Victory was languishing before Josh and I came in. We were young, fresh, and we could play, but more than that we put asses on the seats. Coach knows it, the Board knows it and soon the world will when we take out the Cup.

Do I care? Of course. I’m competitive. Sue me, but it’s more than that. I’m in it for the power. When I get it right, when my boot connects with the ball just right, there is nothing better. Catch me in form and you won’t find a goalie in the world who can stop one of my drives. That’s always been my strong suit—brute fucking force. I have the muscle, the speed. Josh is different. He’s an all-rounder, fantastic at all elements of the game but not a champion of any one in particular. He can kick, but he can’t
kick.

Still, I don’t have everything. I have my game. I have girls a text away, girls who’ll do damn near anything I ask, and have, but I don’t have
her
. That’s the problem and there’s sweet FA I can do about it.

Sex is fun, sure. But the groupie girls that frequent my bed don’t always seem into it, at least not for the act itself. It’s more like I’m an amusement ride to be conquered and soon forgotten. They laugh at my jokes, moan and grab the sheets at the right moments, talk dirty, but it’s a show, an act. I’ve caught more than one texting before I’m even pulled out, literally unable to wait to tell their friends they’ve bedding Jensen Collins. I hate their kind, phones glued to their faces 24/7, only living through the approval of others, a virtual life without substance or reason.

I hear Pops in my head.
And how is your life any better, Jenny?
I hated him calling me that.
What good are you doing? Kicking a ball into a net? Fucking bravo, big boy.

He’s right, though. I’ve got the fame I always wanted, plenty to show for it, but there’s a missing piece to the puzzle.

You know what it is.

The turn-off looms for home. I start to exit the highway, but I can’t shake the way Scarlet looked in the tunnel, the redness around her eyes. She’d been crying, and it certainly wasn’t with joy over our win. No, it’s Josh. It’s
always
Josh.

I yank the wheel and swerve hard back onto the highway, just missing a barrier, and cutting across the path of a semi.

Always fucking Josh.

I grip the wheel tighter and step on the gas. He can’t treat her like shit and expect to get away with it because she doesn’t know better.

Blood or not, he’s going to get a piece of my mind.

*

Gangster rap is cranking when I pull up, the front windows of Josh’s house open and the whole neighborhood no doubt getting a dose of his fine musical pedigree. I almost have to laugh given how at odds the music is with this cushy street in the Hills, every house bigger than the next and the average age of the occupants probably three-hundred. They call the cops on him almost daily, not that Josh gives a shit. He can weasel his way out of anything now that he has money. He forgets where we came from. Maybe that’s the problem.

I smack the door. “Josh! Open up.”

I hold the wall and lean out to a window. One of the local soccer groupies, Carolina, has her feet up on the coffee table, a joint between her lips.

The fuck?

I pound the door again, growing angrier. “Josh! Open the fucking door!”

The music suddenly cuts off, the door swinging open and a clearly wasted Josh swaying in front of me. There’s a Crystal Head Vodka skull cradled in his arm that definitely wasn’t half-empty when I visited yesterday.

He holds it up in front of me. “Can you believe they pay me fifty grand just to drink this shit?” He heaves the skull over my head. It shatters on the driveway. “How much is Nike paying you to wear their crap? It’s more, isn’t it?”

We’ve always been competitive, but it’s getting worse now we’re on the same team, now we’ve made it. It’s consuming him.

I push past him. Place smells of weed, sweat, and rip-off J’Adore.

Carolina watches me enter, lifting her legs off the table, skirt sliding up, but I’m not buying. “Hey, Jensen.”

I have nothing against Latino girls. I’ve had my share, but Carolina’s a different breed. She’s the kind of girl who’ll do anything to be part of the inner circle, become a real player’s girlfriend.

I ignore her and turn back to Josh. He’s in boxers, half of his dick hanging out. “What’s she doing here, Josh?”

He steps forward and slams the door closed behind me. “I’m not sharing, if that’s what you’re asking. She’s
mine
.”

“I’m right here,” comes Carolina’s whiney voice.

“
Scarlet
is yours,” I tell Josh, making sure I’m saying it nice and loud so everyone can hear.

Carolina stands and moves behind me, even her walk practiced, sultry—a stripper’s parade. She places her hand on my back, lets it turn into a finger that runs up my spine before glancing off my shoulder. She moves between us, purring, “Don’t worry. We were only having a little fun, weren’t we, Josh? Nothing untoward.” She slides up against Josh, rubbing herself against his crotch.

I cross my arms. “Yeah? Because it looks to me like you’re halfway to sucking his cock.”

Josh pushes her away and shoves me in the chest. If it comes down to that, I’m going to break his arm. He’s strong, but I’m stronger.

He stabs his finger at me, but I refuse to step back, holding my ground. “What’s your problem, bro? You heard her. I’m relaxing. I can’t do that when Scarlet’s around. You know how she gets.”

“Does she know,” I direct my eyes to Carolina, “
that
is here.”

Josh throws his arms up. “Of course not, and you’re not fucking well going to tell her.”

“Or what?”

He gets right into my face, but he’s so drunk I doubt he could even land a punch if he tried. “Or I’m going to lay you the fuck out for stealing that goal tonight.”

I laugh, nostrils flaring on an indrawn breath. “Stealing? Their defenders were over you like flies on honey. I was the only one open. What did you want me to do? Lose the match? Is that it?”

“Coach made it clear.” He taps his finger into his chest. “That was
my
play.”

I shrug. “Call it improvisation.”

“You’re not fucking Miles Davis, man. If you
ever
fucking do that again…”

“You’ll lay me out, right?” I lean out, expose my jaw. “Go on, take a shot. Call it a freebie.”

Carolina looks a little concerned.
Good.

Josh starts to bounce around, thinks he’s suddenly become Mayweather. He throws a right, but it’s wide. I duck away and slap him in the face.

“Fuck!” he screams, swinging again but catching only air. He falls onto a knee, swaying. He knows he hasn’t got a shot in hell of doing any damage.

I crouch down in front of him. “I should tell Scarlet. She deserves to know what’s going on here.”

Josh looks past me to Carolina. “How about you get us some drinks? Take your time.”

Carolina looks reluctant to leave our little gathering. This is probably a dream come true for her, the kind of goss the tabloids would lap up like fresh milk. But she nods and sways off to the kitchen down the back.

Josh stands, cracks his neck. For a second he looks somber, almost composed. “Scarlet is none of your business.”

“I bumped into her before I left. She wasn’t a picture of happiness.”

Josh rolls his eyes. “And that’s
my
fault?”

“Yeah, I kind of think it is. You should treat her better. She deserves that.”

He takes it in, nodding like Pops does before he explodes, but Josh isn’t Pops. He holds his cool, lets his words do the damage. “You had your chance, bro. She could have been yours, but you fucked around um’ing and ah’ing. You snoozed, so I scooped her up and you’re still holding it over me because you lost.”

“She’s not a game, Josh, a ball to be tossed around.”

But she has been. I know it. Josh knows it. She was more than the girl next door. She was different. I think we both sensed it right out of the gate. She was shy. Took us a week to even lure her out of her room, forever trying to evade Old Man Matthews. He saw us for the ratbags we were right away. No pulling the wool over his eyes. What would he think if he knew she was with Josh, that she was deeply unhappy?

Probably doesn’t give a shit.

Josh pauses. Maybe it was real back then when we were younger, but whatever he feels for her now isn’t love. It’s all about possession and it’s all because of me. He points again. “She’s mine and that’s all there is to it. I’ll treat her however the fuck I want.”

I snap, shove him so hard he goes ass over heels into the sunken lounge. I jump down on top of him, a tumbler falling off the table beside us, its amber contents running into the carpet. “You’re going to treat her with fucking respect or I’m going to fucking break you. I swear to god.”

He’s smiling, eyes glassy. “Little brother,” he taunts, knowing we were only born minutes apart. “Always with the shining armor routine. It’s getting fucking old, bro. She doesn’t want you. Go home.”

I take hold of his hair and raise my fist, ready to smash it into his smug fucking face. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t make any attempt to stop me. He wants it. The thought makes me sick. I roll off him and stand, heading for the door.

Carolina returns, placing the drinks down. “Stay a little, babe. Relax. Have some fun.”

One hand on the doorknob, I turn. “I think I’ve had quite enough fun for one evening.”

I open the door and step out listening to Josh call at my back.

“Fucking pussy. Get the fuck out of here.”

Outside, I can’t move. I stand there seething, temples beating and a blood-red anger desperate to be released.

I close my eyes and breathe, force myself to calm down. It works, but it’s short-lived when I hear a thud against the door.

There’s a gasp from the other side, another thud.

A laugh, Carolina’s—
thud, thud, thud,
her laugh turning into a deep groan.

My fist clenches.
The fucking balls…

Let it go.

I’m caught. He’s laughing in my face, fucking that groupie whore right under my nose.

Leave, before you do something stupid.

But I want to. Boy, do I want to.

I listen to them screwing and can’t take any more. I storm down to my car and throw it into reverse, give Josh’s neighbors something else to complain about besides 50 Cent.