Baller Babe

Brooklyn

 

 

 

DELANEY’S LONG TANNED LEGS wrapped around my waist. Her arms wound around my neck. Her body twined with mine, and her dark hair shivering against my neck. Her cunt hot and wet and swallowing my cock.

“Hey, fuckwit.” Rafe snapped his fingers in front of my face in the middle of the Jacksonville Charge stadium. “Get your head outta your ass and into the game, Brooks.”

Rafe Macintyre—#32 and the Carolina Crush quarterback—reached out and grasped the grill of my helmet.

Sweat soaked through my #43 jersey, and I knocked his hand away. “Knew you had a thing for my ass.”

Getting into huddle formation with Rafe, Calder Malone—the new center—Marquis—the talented son-of-a-gun wide receiver—and the rest of the offensive team, I listened to Rafe’s strategy then Calder called the blocks.

Our team had gotten fucked up the ass last season.

We’d turned that shit around after an extended preseason training camp. New owner. New season. And we were fucking winning it.

No one was winning at life more than Rafe, who’d proposed to Peyton Fox on the field after our very first game, after it came out she’d had his secret baby five years ago.

Babies.

Didn’t have any of my own. In fact, the little I knew about the tiny human beings I’d learned from hanging with Marquis and his family or Akoni and his never-ending brood. Apparently Akoni, the seasoned linebacker who hailed from Hawaii, wanted a litter as big as his three hundred-pound frame.

I was older than Rafe by a year, recently divorced, and jaded as fuck.

The only thing I enjoyed anymore was the game.

And catching sight of a woman I couldn’t get out of my head. Definitely not my ex-wife.

“Y’all, remember we got a bye week next, so let’s go out with a bang!” Rafe peered at each and every one of us, that focused gleam in his green eyes matched by a ferocious gaze in all of ours.

We clapped our hands, Rafe shouting, “Time to hammer it home!”

“Hammer time. I got this.” Marquis put his own spin on “U Can’t Touch This”, cutting up some MC Hammer moves on the field.

“What is That’s So 90s for one hundred dollars, Alex?” I smacked Marquis on the back of his helmet.

“Fuck you, Milly Vanilla.” Marquis grinned.

“Yeah, and this is Final Jeopardy, assholes,” Rafe mumbled through his mouthguard as we all lined up.

Opposite us, on their twenty-yard line, the Jacksonville Charge defense stacked up deep, hoping to stop our touchdown run. Them in their black and gold uniforms, us in red and white, and everyone from the players to the coaches to the cheerleaders wearing pink—pink towels, laces, gloves, wrist bands—for October’s breast cancer awareness.

Wearing pink didn’t mean we were pussies. Not us, and not the Charge. And I had the bruises from four quarters of play to prove it.

Five seconds on the clock. Third down. Our ball. And at a forty-two to twenty-one lead we didn’t need the last touchdown. But we were out to prove a point. Carolina Crush was out to crush this season, one game after another.

“2-4-2 red cross on two!” Rafe called out the play, changing it up at the last second to try to shake off the Charge defense.

He took the snap from Calder, and as soon as that ball flew into his hands, I ducked and spun away from the meat castle of a man guarding me.

I followed my passing route, watching tank-like tacklers fall around me, dropped to the turf by Crush linemen. I needed to find the chute.

What I loved about football? Nothing registered in those moments on the field while the ball whistled through the air and my feet flew across the turf.

I didn’t have to goddamn think. Pure action and reaction.

A hole opened in the Charge line, and I rushed with my arms pumping, my feet a blur, hurtling toward the end zone.

Turning as I crossed the line, I saw the football spiraling toward me. Reading the trajectory, I sprinted backward, jumping in the air just as a linebacker dove for my feet.

My fingers stretched out, and whoosh, I snagged the ball. Cradling it against me, I went down on one shoulder. Seconds after I clutched the ball to my chest, the whistle blew.

Rolling to my feet, I held that bastard triumphantly above my head.

Fuck yeah, motherfuckers.

After the kick that only reinforced our solid win, the postgame celebration and fanfare went ballistic. Chants of Baller! Baller! Baller! for me interspersed with Mac Daddy! for Rafe funneled down from the arena and filled the stadium.

Baller. My bad.

My reputation preceded me. After the painful divorce, I’d maybe-sorta fucked everything pretty that moved. Probably wasn’t the best way to handle the breakup, but screw it. After more than ten years I was a free agent with the ladies. Free agent, on the dating scene at least.

Dating. Fucking joke.

I didn’t wanna date. Didn’t know how to win a woman’s heart, or at least not how to keep it.

Only thing I knew how to do with any confidence was play football and fuck good.

Wasn’t sure it was such a stellar idea to put my heart on the line again anyway, but seeing Rafe with Peyton as they played tongue-tag in the middle of the field with fireworks shooting off overhead sure made me think twice about no-strings relationships. Peyton Fox. The new she-owner of the Carolina Crush franchise who now owned my best buddy’s heart.

Wished him all the luck with that. I knew from past ex-experience shit could go awry without a moment’s notice. But Rafe and Peyton, and their newly revealed mystery son, Callum, made one complete unit, and I’d never seen my friend happier. In love. Knew for a fact they were trying to get pregnant again.

Brianna had always insisted on birth control. She hadn’t wanted to ruin her body like that.

Jesus Christ. Put a pair of tits on me already and call me done.

I’d just exchanged a few words with one of my former Aggies from Texas A&M who was now a defensive back for the Jacksonville Charge when I glimpsed a tall woman with banging tits and loosened black hair.

Delaney.

Talk about a bod . . .

Delaney Jones. The quarterback for Carolina Cougars from the all-female Artemis Football League. I tracked her progress across the field, my eyes targeted to her and her alone.

Used to be Brooklyn and Brianna, me and my wife, a pair since high school. My ex’s name slipped my mind every time I saw Delaney, starting from the first moment I’d spotted her on the practice field at Carolina Crush HQ in Charleston, South Carolina.

Peyton had contracted the Cougars as a publicity stunt—they played during all our halftime shows and, in return, were allowed full reign over our team’s resources.

I wanted to give Delaney full reign over me.

Not only was the woman fierce, she was one helluva ball player. Not to mention so goddamn gorgeous I’d pretty much swallowed my tongue the first time I’d seen her.

It’d been a few weeks after Rafe and Peyton got engaged—the Cougars racing onto the turf of our practice field. Delaney’s black hair pulled high in a ponytail. Her jersey—as well as those of all the other women—so short it nearly showed the bottom of her sports bra. It also showed some hella-hot abs, glowing skin, incredibly long sinful legs.

And her eyes were some sexy sorta whiskey color, her voice just as smoky.

Peyton had taken me to task when I’d basically drooled, telling me the league was all about female empowerment and strength.

I could see that from a mile away.

Delaney and her teammates didn’t just put on a halftime show—most of ’em I’d Tivoed so I could watch over and over again whenever the hell I wanted to torture myself. The Cougars possessed skill, wiliness, some serious fucking muscle too, and Delaney was the center of it all.

The center of my attention.

After bringing it home for this fourth back-to-back win—Carolina Crush so far undefeated—I only wanted one other thing.

And it sure as hell wasn’t to shake more hands, bump more fists, slap more backs while I followed Delaney’s progress to the women’s locker room on the opposite side of the stadium.

Goddamn, I wanted to do drills with her. Actually, I really wanted to drill her. Fuck her long, hard, and deep until she wept my name and clutched onto me with those unholy long legs and . . .

“Move out, Brooks.” Rafe bumped against me, interrupting my horny fantasy again.

Probably a good thing. A hard cup was fucking agony with a hard-on.

I sprinted toward the locker room, my helmet cradled under my arm, my cock constricted in the nut-cup, smiling at every bright camera flash aimed in my direction from the mic’d-up reporters working for ESPN, NBC Sports, SportsCenter . . .

Everyone wanted the money shot.

“Holy fuckballs, Brooklyn. That last score. Jeeesus.” Calder Malone grinned beside me as more cameras blinded us.

“You got in some good points too, Malone.”

Marquis swept past, slapping my ass. “Hey, Milly and Vanilly! Lest you forget, I had high score this game.”

“Gonna change that when we meet up with New York Dragons in two weeks.” I shoved past the dude with the long dreads and opened the locker room door.

Everyone streamed by: Marquis, Rafe, Malone, Cross, Akoni, Bunyan . . . Buckley.

Luke Buckley the Fuckley. Peyton had taken him on as a quarterback to rattle Rafe’s cage and make him get his game back on. Sly tactic had worked surprisingly well, especially when the young Buck started hitting on Peyton. Rafe seeing red at that time meant he was all about The Red, Carolina Crush. With Rafe back on point, Buckley still hadn’t gotten any playtime or spotlight, but he’d learned to bite his tongue . . . mostly. Made a nice change.

We’d just ripped up the field, on our way to winning our place in the NFL playoffs. At the rate we were gunning, maybe even after an undefeated motherfucking season. And now that the game against Jacksonville was over, I had an entirely different play in mind.

Didn’t involve watching my teammates strip down, slinging gear all over the place. Didn’t have anything to do with Akoni doing his opera singing in the shower.

Had nothing to do with the rebel yells resounding through the room.

Not a cheerleader either—that shit was tired.

Only one woman I knew could hold her own—maybe even against me.

Legs flexing, abs tight, tits high.

Her mean face couldn’t mask the gorgeousness that shined from her.

And her skills? Above par with every play she made, every pass she threw.

Too bad so far she’d iced me out. Every time I approached Delaney, she glanced aside, whipped her hair over shoulder, and gave me nothing but cold dismissal.

I thought I’d learned my lesson with Brianna, but . . . fuck it. My cock wanted what it wanted.

I was rubbing a towel over my hair after my shower when Paul Biggs AKA Bunyan stretched a clean shirt over his head. “Hey, Brooks. You up for a brewskie?”

“Can’t. Coach is breathing down my neck.” Excuses. Because I had my sights set on something other than a bar-dive and a hook-up for a one-hour stand. For a change.

“Jesus. You’re beginning to sound like Rafe with the wifey at home.” Bunyan winked.

Rafe’s head snapped up. “The fuck you say. Peyton ain’t my wifey yet, but I can’t wait until she is.”

He laughed freely, and for a second I wondered if that douchebag of a Cornhusker recruit—Buckley—would pop around the corner with another dickhead comment that had made him Worst Player when he’d joined the Crush in June.

Coach D stomped into the locker room, clipboard clamped under his arm.

We all stood to show our respect, clapping and whistling as he grinned, pulling his baseball cap deeper over his forehead. We’d put our head coach through so much crap last season he deserved more than our applause for setting us on this winning streak.

“Yeah, yeah,” he gruffly said. “Knock it off before I start tearing up like Akoni over there.”

The whistles were replaced by a general overspill of laughter, Coach’s reference to Akoni’s tendency to get weepy a well-known fact to all of us.

“Akoni takes offense.” The massive Hawaiian crossed his arms over his chest, but his forming grin overtook the scowl.

“Listen here, y’all. Made me damn proud tonight. You came out like a shot fired from a cannon and never lost traction.” Coach rubbed his hands together. “That performance out there is how this team is gonna make it to the Super Bowl, right?”

“Yes, Coach!” we all shouted back.

Getting a rousing speech after a successful game was so much freakin’ better than having our reputations as players shredded apart when we’d stuck nothing but loss after loss last season.

“All righty then.” He made a fist and raised it high. “One, two, three—”

“CAROLINA CRUSH IT!” Our voices boomed with his, the electricity in the air surging that much higher.

“Now”—Coach D stepped back from the group and lowered his voice—“this may be an overnighter, but same rules apply here as they do on home turf, and that extends to the cheerleaders as well as the ladies on the Cougars team too. Fraternization, not allowed.”

“Aw, Coach!” came another resounding call from pretty much all of us—well, except for the married men.

Then Bunyan played the dumb jock, aping around. “What’s that mean again?”

“No screwing around with the baller babes.”

“Aw, Coach!” We groaned collectively, me probably more than the others.

Same shit. Different day. But at least we were killing it on the field.

Just needed to figure out a way around this whole no fraternization bullshit, after I made Captain Queen of the Carolina Cougars all-female team—Delaney Jones—give me, Baller Brooks, the time of day.

****

Back at the hotel I’d successfully blown my teammates off, making a quick escape to my room.

I’d showered again. Trimmed my beard. Slapped on aftershave. But half an hour later as I stood outside Delaney’s door I was more nervous than I’d ever been during any game, winning or losing.

There was just something about the woman I couldn’t put my finger on. But I wanted to.

Fuck, I wanted to get my whole hands on her.

The sound of chicks’ voices filtered through the door of her hotel room. I’d only had to turn on the panty-dropper charm a little with the woman at the front desk to get Delaney’s room number.

I drew in a deep breath, combed my fingers through my hair, then rapped my knuckles against the door.

Seconds later it swung open, and Delicious Delaney Jones stood there in a T-shirt that slipped off one bare shoulder, tight ripped jeans, and laughter bubbling from her lips.

And I was jonesing for her hard.

Her golden-colored eyes peered up at me with a hint of wickedness. “Hi, Brooks. We were just not talking about you.”

Looking beyond her, I listened to her laugh again, laughter echoed by what appeared to be a whole horde of women from the Cougars.

My face heated up—thank fuck for the beard covering most of it. I was just glad none of the other dudes were around to witness my so burned moment.