Tackled by the King: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (21 page)

But without Odell around, it didn't seem worth the effort to make the 20 minute drive. And during the car ride home, it struck me that Odell had been right all along. I was acting thirsty as fuck, driving all that way for some interchangeable pussy when I had a fully-equipped private gym at home – and my equipment was superior, too. On top of that, I wasn't paying much attention the chicks, anyway. The sexy pair of Indonesian models chatting me up by the leg press machine stormed off in a huff when they realized I'd spaced out in the middle of their drivel. I just couldn't be fucked to even pretend to give a shit about the chick's labradoodle.

I rolled the tightness out of my shoulders and kicked my gym bag out of the way before dropping on my usual spot on the sofa. As I settled into my ass grooves, I chugged back some of the green spinach crap in my bottle. After drinking the same goddamned protein shakes day after day, I'd conditioned myself to hold my breath to fight off the taste.

“Nasty ass,” I grumbled, tossing the empty bottle aside.

I pushed my hair out of my face and reached behind me for my phone. My hair was still damp from the shower I just took. When I unlocked my phone, my eyes narrowed at Coach's text message. I tapped into the link he sent me.

As my eyes darted from side to side, reading through the article, the door to my bedroom opened.

“King? What time is it?”

“What?”

Ivanka stretched her arms over her head, yawning as she staggered into the living room.

“I said, what time is it?”

I blinked, finally peeling my eyes off my phone.

“Oh. It's a quarter past 12.”

Ivanka had on one of my jerseys, which was so big on her it ran down to her thighs. I liked seeing her walking around half-asleep. It was rarer than a leprechaun's big toe to see her without any of that thick makeup on her face. Her hair was knotted and sticking out in all directions in the back of her head, and her eyes were still a little puffy and red from her sleep allergies. It was a reminder that she was human, too.

She climbed onto the sofa next to me, latching onto my shoulder.

“Why, what are you looking at?”

“Have you seen this?” I showed her the article.

“
'Clubhouse Confidential: My 1.5 Months With the Detroit Daggers
' by Carrie Toussaint,” Ivanka mumbled out loud. I waited as she skimmed through the paragraphs of the extra long article. “I don't understand. But these all seem to be positive stories about family bonding and unity. You are only mentioned once in this article, and it is just a caption of your photograph – 'Kingsley Kelly, quarterback.'”

“Read the last paragraph.”

“'For almost 2 months, I searched far and wide to unearth more click-bait material for you, the masses. And as a weathered veteran of celebrity gossip excavation, I was convinced this would be a piece of cake. I was right. I could regurgitate ho-hum articles you've all heard time and time and again. But I cannot and will not, in good conscience, after what I've gathered from my own first-hand experience, do so. The only real story here is the unprecedented comradery between every member and staff in the Detroit Daggers, as well as the overdue and unsung praises of Coach Idris Abasi, the head of the family. And as with every family, the brotherhood may not always see eye to eye, but the common love they share for the sport is what ultimately keeps them on their pedestal.'”

Ivanka returned my phone with a baffled scowl on her face.

“But this can't be – this is career suicide! This doesn't make any sense. What could that bitch be up to now?”

“I don't know. Cold feet?” I suggested numbly, scrolling through the article. “Maybe she had nothing to do with it, after all.”

“Don't be silly,” Ivanka snorted. She shook her hair loose and started combing it with her fingers. “Who else could it have been? More likely, she is trying to catch you off guard. Women like her are very sneaky –”

“I'm gonna make myself something to eat.” I got up and walked over to the kitchen. I couldn't deal with another one of Ivanka's hate speeches right now. It only started occurring to me recently how threatened she was about any other woman that wasn't her. “Hasn't Gunther called to ask where you were last night?”

“I told him I was visiting my cousin upstate today.” Ivanka followed me into the kitchen, standing with her feet apart. “Don't tell me you're actually falling for this? This is exactly what Carrie wants, you know. Now, even when that story came out, I stayed right by your side – I even begged Sam to keep you on the team.”

“I know.” I gritted my teeth, taking out a pan from the cupboard. Ivanka's been holding that over my head any chance she got. “I know. And I'm grateful for that. I am.”

“Good, then you better start acting like it.” Ivanka pouted, but she took out a raw chicken breast from my fridge and began seasoning it. “It wouldn't surprise me if I was the reason Carrie had her change of heart, too.”

“I've been meaning to ask you about that. What exactly did you guys talk about, anyway?”

Ivanka lifted her chin in the air, passing me the chicken before shuffling over to the sink to wash her hands.

“Oh, nothing important. We just came to an understanding, that's all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don't you worry about it. And I don't want you getting any ideas about that bitch. She's just trying to get in your head.”

Ivanka dried her hands on my jersey, flipping me around forcefully on the kitchen stove. She fell to her knees and started pulling off my pants. I gripped the edge of the counter behind me. She rubbed my cock through my boxers, gently coaxing it awake.

“Why don't we see if we can work you up even more of an appetite?”

Chapter Twenty-Eight:
Carrie

The door of Wattana's office was closed and the curtains to all her windows drawn, trapping the strong smell of coffee and cigarettes in the room. Wattana had been glowering at me from across her desk for a full minute now, keeping her hands busy with her buzz magnets. She placed one of the chrome, pill-shaped magnets on her table and flicked the other across her desk. They spun in circles before mashing into each other, buzzing in their magnetic embrace. Finally, after about another 30 seconds, Wattana scooped up the noisy magnets and broke her silence.

“Once again, you've proved that you just don't know your head from your ass when it comes to following instructions.” Wattana rolled the magnets around her in her hand. Her voice was low but shaky, as if she was about tear into my ass any minute. “And you took advantage of the fact that I was at my niece's baptism this weekend, went behind my back, and sent your copy to Maria Estevez, the sappiest know-nothing and incidentally most influential of all the board members. Then the fat bitch goes ahead and decides to publish ahead of schedule.”

“It wasn't my intention to do anything behind your back,” I defended myself, straightening up in my seat. “You weren't approving any of my articles – won't even give them the time of day. I did what I had to, and all I'd ever hoped for was that she would see the potential in my work and maybe see my vision for the direction I wanted to go with this project, but I had no idea she'd just publish it right off the bat like that.”

“Don't give me any of that crap.” Wattana pulled out her desk drawer. She chucked her magnets onto the bed of meticulously organized paperwork and slammed it shut. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”

Wattana wasn't completely off in her accusations. I've only met Maria Estevez twice at one of The Daily Dirt sponsored charity galas. We immediately clicked when we found out that Selma Estevez, her older sister, had been my English teacher back in high school. Mrs. E, bless her heart, had apparently raved on about me as one of her favorite students, and was incredibly pleased to hear that I now had a career in “journalism.” Taking that into consideration, I took it upon myself to email Maria my article as soon as I hit “Save”; an email address, if I might add, that Maria gave to me herself. I later found out that Mrs. E personally edited the article herself before her sister gave the okay to publish it.

“I stand by what I said.” I puffed out my chest, prepping myself for the incoming shitstorm. “Well, I mean, I'm not sure what the problem is. If I'm not mistaken, the hits and shares on the article have far surpassed the first article I did of Kingsley Kelly. I guess people are responding to a new, positive angle of journalism –”

“Women shouldn't gloat. It's not attractive,” Wattana sneered. I felt a little glow of pride at her resentment. “Nothing would please me more than to strip you from your position altogether, right here and now...”

My shoulders sank, and I could practically feel all the color on my face vacating my cheeks.

“But for reasons I will never fathom, the board members have chosen to reward you for your incompetence,” Wattana finished, breathing heavily. She crossed her leg over the other, eyeing me spitefully. “I've been asked to promote you to Entertainment Editor. It comes with a 20% salary increase and an extra 3 weeks of paid leave.”

Wattana's words were accompanied by a chorus of singing angels in my ears.

“What? Really?” I beamed, the color re-sweeping across my face. “Thank you so –”

“Believe me, I had nothing to do with the decision.” Wattana leaned forward, pressing her eyes so tightly they narrowed to slits. “What the hell happened to the story about the Kansas City game we agreed on?”

“I know nothing about it.” I felt all my confidence rushing back altogether, inflating me to twice my size. “If you remember the conversation we had a few weeks ago, I tried telling you I knew nothing about it.”

“You must think you're so clever...” Wattana's lips curled into a thin, knowing smile. “Don't get too comfortable just yet. If you think I'm going to make things any easier for you, you've got another thing coming.”

I knew Wattana meant every word of what she said, but I was high with elation about the much-needed raise coming my way. I fixed things like I always did, and though this wasn't exactly what I'd envisioned, things were finally turning around. Wattana could ask me to cover the trendiest shades of lip gloss among tween superstars right now and I'd gladly shove a 3,000 article up her ass by midnight.

“I understand, Ta – oh, I suppose it's Mrs. Wattana again, isn't it?” Staring back at Wattana's twitching upper lip, I rose from my chair with a winning grin on my face. “I'll see myself out. If you need anything, I'll be in my super cozy cubicle.

XXX

I leaned against the trunk of Val's Bentley, which was shaded by the leaves of the white dogwood tree beyond the fence. Abasi's silver Hummer was the only other car in the parking lot, parked all the way on the opposite end of the vast, empty lot. As I waited for Val, who had forgotten his cleats in his locker, I turned around to check my reflection on the rear windshield.

I adjusted the crystal halter straps of my boysenberry peplum dress. Angling my head from side to side, I checked my hair for flyaways and my lipstick for smears. It was a bold shade I'd chosen to complement my dress.

“Carrie?”

I whirled around, my heels scraping against the smooth rock ground. Goosebumps popped out of my flesh at the unmistakable sound of Kingsley's voice. He came out of the back exit of the clubhouse, his figure enlarging in the distance as he drew closer in my direction. I hated how unbelievably good he looked straight out of the gym. His bronzed, veined arms bulged out of his tank top from having just been pushed to their limits, and his seemingly stenciled pecs were impossible to miss.

“Yes?” I looked around at the near-empty parking lot, frowning. “I thought you'd all left.”

“Thought I'd take the subway today, get some more exercise in before our next game. What are you doing here? Wasn't it your last day last Tuesday?” Kingsley's eyes fell to my purse, which was sitting on top of Val's trunk. I could see him putting the pieces together in his head, and it was gratifying.

“It was.” I made it a point not to add anything further.

“Well, alright. I was hoping I'd run into you, anyway.” Kingsley cleared his throat and switched his weight to his other foot. He opened his mouth to say something, but quickly looked over his shoulder as Val came out of the clubhouse entrance. Turning back to me, he blurted, “You really had nothing to do with any of this, did you?”

“I'm over sounding like a broken record, but no, it wasn't me.” I arched one eyebrow, lowering my tone. “I gave you my word. You see, unlike you, my word actually means something.”

“Listen, Carrie, I'm sorry. Maybe we can talk –”

“You've really got this bad habit of doing things just a little too late.” I cut him off, perhaps a little drunk with self-righteousness.

“I –”

“Ready to go celebrate that promotion?” Val said loudly from behind, appearing over Kingsley's shoulder. He popped his trunk and tossed his cleats inside.

“I can't wait to get out of here,” I announced, not entirely sure if it was aimed more at Val, or Kingsley, to rile him up just a little bit. I snatched up my purse and strutted to the passenger's side of the car, ducking inside as Val held the door open for me. “Thank you.”

Kingsley said nothing. He walked off in the opposite direction, doing his best to keep up with his poker-face. Val slipped into the driver's seat, pecking me on the cheek before strapping himself in. I settled into my seat, feeling another surge of contentment as I spotted Kingsley's brief head-turn in the rearview mirror. Like I said, I'd carried out the sweetest revenge of them all.