Thousand Yard Bride (2 page)

I could have stayed forever in the steam and the minty air. It was hard to get out of the shower knowing what lay before me at the country club, but I knew I had to hustle. Plus, I didn’t want to be around when the dancer woke up again.

After toweling off, I put on a brand of underwear I had a sponsorship with, the stretchy boxer-brief kind that I’d been told by some star struck admirer made my package “look like a Christmas present.”

It wasn't my first sponsorship, but it had some of the best perks. I got to shoot the promotional materials surrounded by the hottest models in the business. I had some good times during, and mostly after, those shoots.

The new sponsorship was already going well though. I was enjoying the free cases of energy drinks that the C.C. people had sent over. Funny fact, but Croc-Cooler is great for handling killer hangovers.

I drank two of the cans before I even got in my car. The vitamins were great and all, but I doubted there was anything special in them to help me deal with my parents' bullshit . . .

But one could hope.

I thought when my contract had been renewed with the New Haven Hawks that my father would see my potential, that I wasn't a waste of space, and cut me some slack. Being named after the number one wide receiver in the league should have given me some credit.

I'd even made a huge donation to the local children’s hospital—something most guys my age would never consider. I might be a bit of a boozehound who likes to spend his time in the sheets, but I still have a heart. I still care.

You'd think with all of that, my parents would give me a break.

You'd be wrong.

Gunning the gas, I flew down the road with rising speed. Just thinking about how they focused on the negative in my life infuriated me. Whenever I’d pop up in the scandalous headline of some fucking ridiculous sports blog, I’d get a million phone calls blaming me for doing this or saying that.

Back when my dad was quarterback, everyone thought he was some kind of all-American hero. He might have convinced everyone else of that, but I knew who he really was. Even if I was going to make headlines for sleeping with a stripper or whatever, at least I was true to myself. I wasn't going to apologize for that or lie to everyone about what I was really about.

I pulled up to the valet stand to the delight of the teenager in the Haven Oaks Club polo waiting to open my door and take my car.

“Holy shit," he said, stepping to one side as his eyes bugged out. "Is this a McLaren? And I thought the Lambo was the coolest car I’d ever get to park!"

Narrowing my eyes, I leaned incredibly close to him. “Get a scratch on her and you get a beat down, kid.” The teenager just looked at me, horrified. I added a laugh and then said, “I’m joking."

He started to smile nervously. "Oh, haha. Gotcha." Tossing him the keys, I delighted at how big his grin was. "I won't scratch it, I promise."

Shoving my hands in my pants, I threw a two-fingered wave his way. "It's fine. I’d just get a new one. Enjoy.”

The Haven Oaks Club always reminded me of some place where villains from 80s movies would meet to play poker and smoke cigars while talking about their newest schemes to take over the world. My dad had always reminded me of one of those guys, too.

He was the owner of the Hawks, their former star player, and to make matters worse he pretty much ran New Haven. The club was like his headquarters where he met with his minions or where he impressed his investors.

But not today,
I thought grimly.
Today it'll just be where they both make my life a living hell.

I made my way through the archway to the grand foyer where Tina, the energetic-as-a-chihuahua concierge, greeted me with a smile.

“Hi, Tina,” I said.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Daniels. Mr. Daniels Senior is waiting for you in the Veranda Room. Follow me.” I’d been to the club a million times, but Tina always insisted on escorting me around. I didn't mind; I watched her ass in her pencil skirt as it swung in front of me, treating it like a breadcrumb path through the witch's forest.

When we reached the hostess, Tina gestured politely and bowed her head. “Enjoy your meal, Mr. Daniels." I did my best not to be too obvious when I watched her swishing away.

The hostess cleared her throat. "Shall we?"

Grinning without any shame, I shrugged. "If you ask nicely."

She gave me a wink before leading me to my parents’ table. I couldn’t remember her name, only that we’d hooked up several times in the past during whatever boring events my parents forced me to attend. If I had to wear a tux and smile like some idiot, I could at least get a little from the hot hostess between toasts.

They were at their usual table that overlooked the golf course, sipping their usual drinks, being their usual set-in-stone-routine selves. My dad had a scotch and my mom was nursing her champagne.

The unusual thing was the hot chick sitting next to my mom.

I didn't recognize her as one of my dad’s many far-too-young assistants or one of my mom’s unsuspecting mentees from The Women’s League. This chick in a suit worried me. I had figured this was a usual lunch where they’d just unload on me about how I’d messed up lately and threaten or guilt trip me into cleaning up my act.

I'd already made it easy for them by being late after my night of Vegas fun.

When I approached the table, the woman in the suit actually stood up to shake my hand. “Hello, Mr. Daniels.” Her throaty voice had my cock stirring, and she had a nice grip that didn't seem to make sense with her soft hands. As she looked me straight in the eyes, she introduced herself. “I’m Joanne Cooke.”

My dad, always the asshole, said, “You can sit down. We aren’t in a board room, Joanne.”

I could tell that she was nervous because Joanne blushed a rosy red all the way up her elegant throat. I bet her skin was great for showing off hickies.

Side-glancing at my dad, I said, “Sorry about him. He’s got a permanent case of asshole-mouth." My dad grunted, no doubt glaring my way, but I wasn't watching him—I was fixated on Joanne and how her soft lips had curled into a pretty bow shape, her hand covering it.

Ah fuck,
I thought distantly.
She's trying not to laugh at my joke.
I adored people who recognized my dad for the dick he was. I said, "I’m Hunter. Obviously. Pleasure to meet you.”

She kept eye contact with me with her piecing aqua blues as she mouthed
thank you.
“Call me Jo." Again, that fucking decadent voice. It didn't fit the vibe she was trying to give off. The only women in suits I was used to seeing were those cookie-cutter lady sportscasters who are desperate to join the boys club.

Joanne was something else.

I liked the way her strawberry blonde hair highlighted her face, even if it was pulled too tightly back in some sort of librarian-looking bun. Still, there was a definite sexiness about her. It drew me in.

My brain sent me unbidden images of myself sliding a hand up the back of her skirt and squeezing the curve of her ass, but the no-nonsense suit and severe hair reminded me to keep my hands off. Part of me wanted to flirt with her anyway, right in front of my parents—it's a move I often used just to piss them off—but then my mother spoke.

“Do you know why we wanted to meet with you today, Hunter?” she asked.

“I’m guessing that whoever this lovely lady is has something to do with it,” I shot back breezily. “Let me guess, you want me to sell something. Is it shampoo? You look like you could work for a shampoo company. I always thought I’d be
great
as the face of a fine line of hair products.”

“That’s not why she’s here,” my dad said curtly.

I noticed the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of Jo’s mouth.

“Oh, then maybe power tools? I’m really great with one specific tool,” I said, grinning back at Jo as her smile evaporated. “Why didn't my agent tell me about this? Maybe I need to fire Marty and get a new one. So, what is it, babe? Shampoo, or . . .”

Jo cut me off, her friendly demeanor suddenly nowhere in sight now that she was caught in the crossfire of my dad’s domineering attitude and my own antagonistic smarm. “I'm not with a company seeking an endorsement deal. I’m here from SportsFire Public Relations. We—”

Then my dad butted in again. “Junior, we’ve had about enough of your nonsense. You’re an embarrassment to our family and to the entire Hawks franchise.”

I always thought it was funny that I was the highest paid wide receiver in the league, and yet Mom and Dad couldn't see past a tawdry headline here or there that painted me as a bad boy. In fact, I
liked
being a bad boy. It was fun. It allowed me to live each day to the fullest, like it might be my last.

Isn’t that what life’s all about?

Staring my father down, I said, “Your opinion is that I'm a fuckup. Fine, no surprise."

“It’s not an opinion, Junior." I hated it when he called me that, and he knew it. “Your unacceptable behavior is precisely why Ms. Cooke is here. With any luck, she'll turn you around.”

“Is that so?” I shot back, my body going tense. “So that's the game. You hired someone to keep me in line.”

“Actually,” Jo interjected, her hands up like she could actually smooth the tension between all of us, “it might be more accurate to say I’m here to help you refine your image.”

“Thanks, darling, but my image is just fine.” I was still staring down at my dad and his ever-present frown. But as irritated as he seemed, I sensed his smugness. He felt like he was winning, like he'd worked me over somehow. If we weren’t in the middle of this restaurant right now, I’d—

Jo’s hand rested on my arm. It was just a brief, warm press of her fingers, but it was enough to snap me back to reality. Blinking, I marveled at the place she'd touched me.

“Actually," she said, her voice gentle but firm, "your image isn't fine. Croc-Cooler called your agent, Marty, after this latest . . . misadventure of yours. It’s safe to say you've shaken their confidence.” She cleared her throat, letting the words sink in. “And don’t call me ‘darling,’” she added, before pushing her iPad over to me.

I stared at the screen, having trouble making sense of it. It was a picture of me and the dancer—who was probably well on her way to enjoying one of Jeannie’s goodbye smoothies—grinding against each other on stage at an upscale but still pretty scandalous-looking strip club.

My eyes were half open, anyone could tell I was wasted. I struggled to recall when that snapshot was taken as I scrolled down and read the article. Vegas was a blurry experience. What
wasn’t
blurry was the Croc-Cooler t-shirt I'd been wearing that night.

Fuck.
That about summed up my feelings right then.

On one level I was humiliated. I knew I'd messed up big. But with my father right there, his grin twisting up infuriatingly, I couldn't admit my mistake.

Straightening up, I leaned close enough to Jo that I could smell her. “Well, what can I say,
sweetie.
I like to have a good time.”

She bristled at the word ‘sweetie’ but kept her composure. “I’m glad for you. But Marty says you are
this close
to losing your sponsorship with Croc-Cooler. They make beverages for hard-working guys, not drunk assholes . . . sweetie.”

This girl had some serious nerve.

It was kind of a turn on.

Tucking my thumbs in my belt, I said, “Mom, Dad, and . . . what was it again?"

“Jo.” She wasn’t smiling.

I was. “What’s done is done. I don't have a time machine, so I don't know what you expect me to do about this.” I leaned back and put my hands behind my head.

“
You
may not know what to do, Hunter,” Jo said. “But I do.”

Then my dad took over the conversation. “Jo is going with you tonight to the Croc-Cooler event in Los Angeles. Starting right now, you are not to be out of her sight. She will accompany you on the jet, stay by your side, and make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

“What? A
babysitter
?” I choked out, sensing my father’s gloating from across the table.

“I think ‘handler’ might be more accurate,” Jo said carefully.

My mom, Victoria, looking like her usual poised self in a Chanel suit and perfectly styled hair added, “It will be good for you, honey. You’re almost twenty-six. Time to slow down.” She put her hand on mine.

That would have had more impact if I didn't know she had her own motives. My parents were both similar; always worried about the family name.

I pulled away, not enjoying being painted like some kind of child who needed to be on a leash. I could take care of myself.

I always had.

My eyes darted to Jo. She didn't even flinch; impressive. “And what if I say no to this?”

Dad grunted, reaching for his glass. “I don’t think you’ll find that to be an option, Junior. It's not only the Croc-Cooler deal that's at risk. All of your other campaigns will fall down like dominoes if you make a fool of yourself again. And don’t think that the Hawks will keep such a liability around.”

This was getting serious. Very carefully, I said, “That would be a huge mistake. People come to the games to see me catch the damn ball.”

“Yes, son, you score touchdowns, but there’s more to this sport than what you can do on the field. You know I control the team. If I wanted to, I could have you cut in a heartbeat. And with your reputation I doubt it would be easy to get another decent offer, even if it weren’t too late in the season to find another team willing to take a risk on you.”

My mom looked at me with a pleading stare, nervously twisting her wedding band around her finger like she was screwing it onto her joint. This was serious; Dad wasn't kidding. My career would be over before I ever got a chance to really prove myself. I’d never live it down.

It wasn’t just about showing up my dad, either. It was about doing what I was made to do: to play, to win. To conquer. Not because my daddy got me on the team, not because my family had money, not because of politics. But because I was talented enough, I worked my ass off, and I never backed down on the field.

But if achieving my life’s dream meant I’d have to back down right now . . .