Loaded: A Bad Boy Sports Romance Read online

  Fuck.

  I’m looking for an escape, but the tunnel only leads in one direction. You think a coach would be happy his star player is racking up the wins, but I know that look. He’s got something to get off his chest, and it ain’t his grandma’s recipe for chocolate chip cookies.

  “Asher,” he starts.

  I stop to stand in front of him. “Coach.”

  “Great game, son,” he begins. I’m waiting for the ‘but’.

  He gets straight to it. That’s Coach Harris for you—anti-bullshit. “I just got off the phone with the Dean.”

  I snort. “Tell him he can congratulate me himself.”

  I go to walk past, but Coach’s hand holds me back. “There’s going to have to be some recompense for your little car-flipping stunt, I’m afraid.”

  “Recompense?” I repeat.

  Coach chews on his lip, looking past me. “It can’t go unpunished. Not this time.”

  A cold chill runs through me. I’ve taken it too far. This is it, my dreams about to be shattered. “What is it? A suspension?”

  Nothing.

  “Holy fuck. Am I being expelled? Come on, you know—”

  Coach puts a hand up, cutting me off. “You should thank your lucky stars I know how to negotiate, Slade.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean all you’re going to have to do to make this right is a little community service.”

  Only one question matters. “I can still play, right?”

  Coach’s hand falls onto my shoulder. “You bet your ass. You won’t miss any games, or training.”

  My lungs fill with relief. “Thanks, Coach. I mean it.”

  “Oh, you’ll mean it, Slade. You’re going to go where the Dean tells you and give it your best fucking shot. I don’t care if this community service is wiping elderly asses. You’re going to suck it up and do it with a smile on your face unless you really do want a one-way ticket out of here. You’re hanging on by the skin of your teeth, son. Remember that.”

  “I will. So, what am I doing? Spot of gardening? Breaking rocks?”

  I don’t like the vaudeville smile that lights up Coach’s face. “How do you feel about kids?”

  *

  The Quagmire is in full swing when I arrive. It’s a small bar, but that doesn’t stop a hundred horny, thirsty students from cramming into the space. It’s easy pickings when you’re the star attraction.

  A guy wearing a clown wig jumps in front of me, his two pointer fingers jammed into my chest. “You’re fucking awesome, man!”

  I thank him and move on, more well-wishers clapping me on the back or trying to get a word in. By the time I reach the actual bar I’ve had three offers of casual sex, an invitation to an orgy, and a proposal.

  Leon’s waiting at the bar with my drink of choice, CC & Dry, waiting. He looks over. “You look fucking exhausted, man. Don’t tell me you stopped to run one through that cheerleader, the one with the space between her teeth,” he taps his own, “right here. Fuck, what’s her name?”

  I pick up my drink. “Lexie.”

  Leon slams his hand down on the counter. There’s a collection of glasses there. Looks like he started without me. “Yes! Fucking Lexie with the perfect ass. Bet you haven’t told Taylor about her.”

  I take a swig and place the bottle down. “Taylor and I aren’t exclusive. She should know that by now.”

  Leon laughs. “Does she know that?”

  I don’t reply.

  A guy approaches Leon. The exchange happens quickly, down low, the customer heading back into the crowd.

  I shake my head. “You’re playing with fire. How many times have I told you to stop dealing that shit?”

  Leon quickly flicks through the bills. “You can’t live large on pennies. Not everyone has loaded mother.”

  I point to myself with my drink. “Like me?”

  “Yes, like you, asshole.” He looks at me closer. “You look tired, bro.”

  In truth, I’m exhausted. The prospect of sleeping with another random girl tonight isn’t actually all that exciting, but I have a certain reputation to uphold. At least it will help you sleep.

  Leon turns, his back to the bar, elbows resting on the runner. “What did Coach have to say? It was about the car-flipping thing, wasn’t it?”

  Leon’s more perceptive than people give him credit for. Not much gets by him. I take another mouthful of my CC & Dry, clearing my throat. A girl lifts her shirt in the corner, shaking her flapjack breasts in our direction. “I knew I wouldn’t get away with it. It was a stupid fucking idea, really.”

  Leon punches me in the shoulder. “Fuck that. You guys were just blowing off some steam, having a little fun. Besides, you were hammered.”

  “That’s no excuse,” I reply. “At least not in the Dean’s eyes”.

  “Fuck the Dean!” Leon exclaims, arms swinging wide, his drink sloshing over the rim of the glass. “Like he didn’t get up to some shit when he was in college.”

  “Did they even have alcohol in the 1800s?”

  Leon knocks on the bar. “Funny motherfucker. What do you have to do then? Blow the old man?” He pops his cheek out with his tongue.

  I shake my head, cradling my drink. “I wish. No, some kind of volunteer-slash-community service crap.” I reach into my pocket and hand him the slip of paper Coach gave me. “I’ve got to report to this place tomorrow first thing and talk to that girl, one of the students who volunteers there.”

  Leon reads. “The McMahon Center For Disadvantaged Kids? Fuck me. Sounds like a sinkhole for dreams if ever there was one.” He keeps reading. “Holy shit.”

  “What is it?”

  He taps the paper, looking up at me. “I know this girl, man, the one you’ve got to meet.”

  “You do?”

  He nods. “Oh, yeah. Willow Grant. We went to high school together.”

  “And?” My head kicks into gear. This could prove useful. Leon can sweet-talk her a little, cut my sentence down. If I’m Maverick when it comes to girls, Leon’s Goose. He’s just as slick as I am when it comes to wooing the fairer sex.

  Leon takes out his cell, swiping and scrolling. He passes it across to me. “See for yourself. She’s doing pre-med here, real studious type, professor’s pet. That kind of shit.”

  Whatever fantasy I had of getting out of this evaporates when I see the face on screen. It’s the girl from the coffee shop, the one who took offense to me cutting in line. “Fuck.”

  Leon takes the phone back. “I feel you. She’s a fox, right? I mean, I don’t usually go for redheads, the glasses are a bit much, but let me tell you, there’s a decent body there.”

  I swallow. “You haven’t…?”

  “Willow?” laughs Leon, shaking his head, but it’s forced. I can’t get a read on whether he’s lying or not. “You’d have better luck getting into Fort Knox than her pants, big boy. I doubt she even comes out of her dorm room.” He sees the expression on my face. “What? You don’t think you’re going to be the one to crack the code, do you? You’re good, bro, but you’re not superhuman. One look at that Batus Gigantis of yours and she’ll run a mile.”

  I was in a rush at the Grind House, but I do remember her. I never forget a face, especially one that hasn’t been below me, twisted in the throes of climax while I work my magic. “What do you propose I do? Coach said the Dean was clear. If I fuck this up in any way, I’m off the team for the rest of the year. I’m talking ‘show up a minute late and you’re out’.”

  Leon slides his cell back into his pocket. “Like I said, your Jedi mind tricks aren’t going to work on this one. Trust me. You’re going to have to go for the long con.”

  I take another hit of my drink. “I can handle it.”

  “Like you handled the Ambrosi twins? Because that story is legend, man.”

  “A legend best forgotten.” I attempt to change the subject. “What about you? How’s economics working out?”

  He faces the bar again, looking dow
n at his glass. “You know the average we have to hold to stay on the team. I’m skating close to the line, bro, but I’ll be fine. Not everyone has the golden ticket for a 4.0 free ride like you do.”

  I play along. “The benefits of being Penbrook’s golden boy.”

  “Do you even have to do fucking anything, or do you just hand in pictures of your dick and wait for the A?”

  I grin. “Why, you want one?”

  He signals the bartender. “How about you shut the fuck up and do some shots, Good Will Hunting?”

  *

  It’s the middle of the night. Leon and I are on the field, not another soul to be seen. The lights burn, far too bright. I lift my bat, but it’s too heavy, like someone’s coated it with cement.

  Leon throws his first pitch. It’s fast, way too fast for me to catch it.

  I shake my head, cursing myself.

  Leon pitches again, a curveball that swings low before sweeping up. I can’t get any wood on this one either.

  What the fuck is happening?

  Third strike and I’m out, Leon laughing. The ground opens up and I’m swallowed into the dirt, suffocating.

  I wake sweaty, my temples beating in time with my pulse. There’s something on my chest. I reach down and toss it, the black thong falling down the wall. I look to my side for its owner, but there’s only the lingering scent of sex to warrant anyone else’s presence.

  My head splits in two when I sit up.

  Fucking Leon. I should know. Never let him buy you shots—never.

  I kick off the sheets, startling myself when I find my dick hard… and bright blue. It takes me a second to realize I’ve still got the condom on.

  I pull it off and head to the bathroom, forced to stand there, hand against the wall, for almost a minute before I’m deflated enough to piss.

  I close the curtains and get back into bed, the darkness as much of a comfort as the quilt. Still, the world continues to spin and turn, no ‘off’ switch on this ride. Thank fuck I’ve got nothing going on today.

  Something about the thought forces me to straighten up. I rub my eyes.

  Shit.

  The volunteer thing.

  I reach for my phone, knocking it onto the floor in my haste.

  It’s five to ten. I’m supposed to be there in five fucking minutes.

  I’m out of bed like Gordon fucking Flash, pulling on jeans and a tee, half-hopping out to my bike and swinging a half-clothed leg over, revving it to life.

  I take off with one hand on the handlebars, unsteady. I barely dodge an oncoming car, swing hard and head for the address, manage to cop every red light on earth on the way there, my boot tapping nervously on the road.

  I’m going to be late. There’s no doubt about it.

  Question is, what’s it going to take for Willow Grant to let me off?

  CHAPTER THREE

  WILLOW

  “I have a penis!” announces three-year-old Dylan, marching around the playroom. “I. Have. A. Penis!” he shouts, pants around his ankles.

  I try to stop myself bursting out with laughter as I pull his pants back up. “I know, buddy, but why don’t we keep our pants on, okay?”

  “Do you have a penis, Will-o?” he asks, genuinely curious.

  I smile, standing. “No, buddy. I have a vagina. Girls have vaginas.”

  With that, he resumes his march around the room, chanting, “Girls have vaginas! Girls have vaginas!”

  All I need is Arnold Schwarzenegger and I’d be on the set of Kindergarten Cop.

  But this is no movie. These kids come from troubled homes and families. Many don’t even have families, given up or orphaned. It almost brings me to tears looking at their chubby little faces and big, button eyes thinking about the kind of horrors they’ve been through so early in life.

  I check my watch. Ten to ten and still no sign of Asher Slade.

  Give him a chance.

  When the Dean, the actual Dean himself, rang me up last night I thought it was to talk about my scholarship, but no. He wanted me to babysit his prize ballplayer, help ‘improve his image’ by having him help around the center.

  I know the truth. Asher will show up, do his time and come away looking good having atoned for this crime. It’s such a cop-out. The others involved in the incident received a slap on the wrist, didn’t even have to cough up for damages.

  Still, you don’t turn down the Dean, not when every brownie point counts. The Dean studied medicine. He’s got plenty of contacts that could benefit my career. I need any leg-up thrown my way.

  So, I agreed to take Asher on. The Dean assured me I had a direct line to him, of course, that if Asher was late, absent or failed to pull his weight, I was to contact him immediately. That lure of power had me pressing the cell harder to my ear.

  I smiled at the thought of getting one over on Penbrook’s glory boy.

  How the tables turn.

  Deep down, though, something more instinctual and primal is telling me this isn’t the worst thing to happen in the history of Willow Grant. Spending one-on-one time with Asher Slade, with his hard, cut body and bulging biceps, that perfectly messy hair and slab of abs I could do my washing on, that…

  I stop myself. Yeah, because ‘one-on-one’ with fifty kids is real date material…

  Glenda, one of the full-time staffers at the center stops by. “No sign of the prisoner yet?”

  I check my watch. A minute to ten. “Not yet.”

  Five minutes pass and what has been an odd kind of excitement over our reunion is fast turning into white-hot anger.

  How dare he? As if the thing in the café wasn’t enough. Now he thinks he can show up late on his first day, no concern for punctuality, no concern for anyone but himself and his big, stupid penis. Little Dylan’s got more going for him than Asher Stupid-Face Slade.

  I’m so worked up my glasses are literally fogged over.

  I’m wiping them when the front door bursts open. In walks a blurry shape.

  I put my glasses back on.

  Asher Slade steps up to the playroom gate. The guy’s over six-foot tall. It barely reaches his knees. He’s smiling. The arrogant imbecile is actually smiling. “We meet again,” he says.

  I cross my arms. “You’re late.”

  “You’re late,” echoes four-year-old Maddy, looped around my leg like a python.

  Asher crouches down, looking at her. “Can you forgive me?” He extends his hand through the bars.

  The little traitor lets go of my leg and takes his hand. “Okay. I forgive you. Do you want to be my friend?”

  Asher looks up at me, indigo eyes lit with the promise of dirty things if I only I were to say the word. “What do you say? Can we be friends?”

  Maddy stands in front of the gate, the two of them looking up to me, and I swear to god Maddy’s puppy dog eyes are wet. They’re playing me.

  Damn him.

  “Fine,” I huff. “Come on.” I open the gate and let him through, Maddy pulling him towards the Lego blocks. She doesn’t even know his name.

  Like he has asked the name of any girl he’s been with…

  He stops beside me, whispering into my ear, breath hot on my lobe. “Thank you.”

  I watch him go, sitting on the floor with Maddy, a few of the other kids crowding around the playroom’s latest attraction.

  He plays for a while with them, building what appears to be some kind of Dali-like rocket ship-cum-seizure before the kids take over. He stands and walks over, hands in his pockets, a smug look on his face. “So, are you going to check me in?”

  I can’t seem to uncross my arms. “’Check you in’? We’re not in grade school.”

  He looks around. “Could have fooled me.”

  Smartass. “I should report you. The Dean said—”

  Asher’s hand goes up. “I know what the Dean said, but forget him. I’m here to please you, aren’t I?”

  I almost expect him to wink the innuendo is so overt. A heated twitch zaps through me a
t the thought of what being pleased by Asher Slade would entail. “Don’t be late again.”

  He salutes. “Yes, ma’am.”

  I open the gate. “Come on. I’ll show you around, introduce you to the staff.”

  Funnily enough, although the ladies who work at the center were outraged by Asher’s actions, now he’s here in the flesh they turn into a gaggle of schoolgirls, fawning over him like they haven’t seen an attractive man in years.

  He plays the part perfectly, slyly pushing his chest out or yawning to flex, charming them with little tidbits about college life.

  We leave them flustered.

  “You’re quite the hit around here,” I tell him as we climb to the rooms upstairs.

  He faces me at the top of the stairs, hands sliding into the pockets of his jeans. “They’re not my type, sorry. I prefer my women…” His eyes pogo up and down my body. “Petite.”

  “Petite like your brain, you mean?”

  He takes his cell out, dialing.

  “Who are you calling?” I ask.

  He looks at me seriously. “The fire brigade, because that was a serious fucking burn.”

  “What’s fucking?” calls a small voice from down the hallway.

  I glare at Asher. “Nothing, Timothy. Go downstairs and play with the others.”

  ‘Sorry,’ mouths Asher.

  All I can do is glare.

  I bet it’s not the first time that mouth of his has gotten him into trouble.

  I show him the rooms, including the changing room. Asher picks up a diaper like it’s nuclear waste. Wait until you see one filled, my friend.

  He prods at a stack of wet wipes. “So, why are all these kids here?”

  Nice to see you did your homework. I take a deep breath. This room feels a lot smaller than usual at the moment. “All kinds of reasons—broken homes, abuse, death in the family. Some of them are too young to remember their parents at all.”

  He leans against the wall, the definition of cool even here, the most uncool place on earth. “Why do you do it?”

  I’m taken aback by the question. I fiddle with the changing table, shifting it back and forth. “I’ve never really thought about it. I suppose I want to give back to the community, do my bit.”

  “It’s not to impress anyone? Have a shiny badge on your record when you leave here, ‘World’s Best Student’ or something?”