A sea of burly men exited the meeting room, and I caught the eyes of my favorite camera guy and vlog partner in crime, Joe, standing at the entrance, his wide, captivated eyes watching each and every player leave the room in fascination.
If I was excited about filming the Mavericks, Joe was one rush of excitement away from defying gravity and rocketing himself right into space.
With amusement cresting my lips up at the corners, I walked over toward him and had to tap him on the shoulder with my index finger before he even noticed I was there.
“Oh, hey!” he shouted toward me.
We were three feet away from each other.
I had to open my mouth like a gulping fish to stanch the flow of ringing pounding against my eardrum.
In his defense, the Mavericks football team was making their presence known with loud chatter and boisterous posturing I supposed was common of men of their stature as they dispersed.
My grin grew wider. “Be careful, Joe,” I whispered. “Your inner fanboy is showing. Any second, I fear you might pull out a Sharpie and some glitter from your pocket and start making an I Heart the Mavericks sign.”
“Smartass.” He shoved me playfully with his hip.
I laughed and looked down at the black messenger bags sitting beside his feet. “Got the goods?”
“If by goods, you mean video equipment, then yes, I have most of it. Barry and the rest of the motley crew are toting the other shit into the stadium as we speak.”
“Fantastic.” I glanced down toward the opposite end of the hall and watched in fascination as some of the players started to file back into that magical place known as their locker room. And, trust me, it took a whole lot of willpower to stop my brain from wandering toward visions of man candy land.
Now is not the time for penis pondering, Six.
I cleared my throat and focused on Joe. “Player interviews,” I declared. “Let’s find a nice, quiet place to set up. I don’t think there’s much background shit going on today, but Quinn Bailey should be a pretty good leadoff on his own. But, hey, if you can find a secret room of strippers or something, by all means, ditch my request for quiet and fill the background with classic lap dance song choices like ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me’ or ‘Hot for Teacher.’”
Not that I’d been to a lot of strip clubs, but I’d seen Varsity Blues, so basically, I was an expert in stripper music selections.
I highly doubted the Mavericks had a secret stripper room, but a girl could wish, she could dream, she could fucking hope.
“Sounds good,” Joe said with a laugh and nodded. “I’ll do a little scouting and then shoot Barry and the crew a text and let them know where to meet us.” Before he could jump into action, his phone started ringing. I rolled my eyes to shame him for his popularity, but he pulled it out of his pocket anyway.
I stuck out my tongue as he studied the screen and then snapped my face back into the glossy graciousness of a debutante when he looked back up. “Hold on, give me a sec. It’s Lisa.”
Lisa was Joe’s fiancée. And she was as sweet as a glass of iced tea in the Bronx. That is to say, not. She was a fucking tartlet with big tits and a fake smile, and she was constantly bugging Joe about his schedule. I thought several times about going on a covert mission to switch her nail polishes into different bottles at night, but in the end, I was always too lazy.
I loved Joe, though. We’d been good buddies since NYU, having met at freshman orientation, and he’d been the guy with the plan. A film major with his sights on California, he’d wanted all of the things we were striving for now from the beginning.
I was the opposite—a finance major by my parents’ choosing without a fucking clue what I really wanted to do with my life.
Honestly, I probably wouldn’t have started my career as a YouCam vlogger had Joe not been cute enough to make me want to hang around him. But he had pretty blue eyes, a sweet smile, and back then, a really tight ass. I’d tagged along to several of his stupid film things for the view. Until I realized Joe’s ass in his Levi’s wasn’t my main focus anymore.
All of the stupid film shit wasn’t actually stupid. It was interesting. And I wanted to be a part of it.
His filming and video editing expertise took my interest and turned it into a possibility.
And we’d been together since then.
Lisa was a relatively new addition, but Joe Mellow acted like she was the sun and we should all orbit around her.
News flash, Joe. The sun is 4.6 billion years old. Your punk-ass witch wishes she could handle that shit.
I was a good faker, though. And I never wanted Joe to feel like I was judging him based on his shitty girlfriends. I was, obviously, but I didn’t want him to feel it.
“Tell her Six says hi!” I called sweetly toward his retreating back as he walked down the hall to a place devoid of talkative jocks. He offered a lazy wave of his hand, but other than that, walked several feet down the long hallway and continued his conversation.
Ensuring I wasn’t in the way of the team filing out of the auditorium-style meeting room, I slid the messenger bags out of the doorway and squatted down to start unpacking and making sure we had everything we needed.
Since the lighting inside this wing of the stadium was pretty much shit, I silently prayed Joe brought extra light boxes to fix that sad situation.
Raucous laughter from inside the meeting room filled my ears, and I shook my head in amusement. Football players were real fucking loud, and apparently, a few stragglers had stayed behind, enjoying their own personal chat session.
Well attuned to opportunities in eavesdropping, I melded my mind with my ears and used all of my energy to hyperfocus on their conversation.
“I bet she’s a feisty little thing,” a deep voice said, and my eyes perked up like Scooby.
She! They’re talking about a woman. Fuck yeah, I bet this is pure gold.
“She’s beautiful.”
Beautiful, huh? Fingers crossed they’re talking about me.
I wasn’t walking around needing ego boosts, but I was as single as a stick of gum.
So, yeah, I’d take all the compliments that were inadvertently thrown my way.
Plus, it’d been a while since I’d dated—hooked up with—anyone of substance. And let’s face it, sometimes, a girl just needed and deserved to hear she was attractive.
I wasn’t too proud to admit that. Fuck, I couldn’t even find my pride most days. She was prudish and afraid of glitter hair spray. I wanted nothing to do with the bitch.
“Don’t get too excited, Teeny,” a raspy, sexy as fuck voice responded, but despite its appeal, it was all ego and cocky cajoling. “I call dibs.”
“You can’t call dibs on the vlogger, Sean.”
Oh. My. God. They are talking about me!
My eyes popped wide of their own accord, and I had no idea what I was even doing anymore. Pretty sure no one needed to stare at the lens cap for a camera for this freaking long, but surely none of these people had film expertise. I could pass this off as important for a little while longer.
There were professional football players inside that room talking about me, for fuck’s sake. Mariah who? Beyoncé pssshhh. Six is where it’s at, baby.
“Yeah, Phillips, you can’t call dibs. It’s always ladies’ choice.”
Phillips? As in Sean the Manwhore Phillips? The same man whose insanely huge penis I had just been mentally complimenting not even two hours ago while I was giving my best impression of a real-life, female version of a Peeping Tom?
My, my this is getting interesting.
“Just sit back and watch, boys. Six Malone is in trouble.” A cocky, confident laugh filled my ears, and this time, I knew it was Sean Phillips. “Ladies’ choice? She’ll definitely choose… Me,” he said, his voice filled with presumption. “I mean, did you see her playing with me before? So naughty. And naughty girls get the good end of the stick.”
My mouth gaped.
“Because when I really turn it on, no woman can resist,” he went on. “Especially not sexy as fuck Six Malone.”
“You’re such a cocky little fucker,” someone teased, but Sean just chuckled.
“Cocky? Of course.” His voice filled my ears again. “But little fucker? I don’t think so, Mitchell.”
My jaw tried to unhinge, and my mind whirled.
That motherfucker.
Sean Phillips might have had a penis that deserved rosary beads and an altar, but his self-assurance and cocky as fuck personality did not.
His playboy reputation might prove he could charm the fucking panties off of most women, but I wasn’t most women. Sean Phillips had a serious surprise in store for him if he thought he could actually schmooze me into his bed.
It didn’t matter how awesome his dick was. Or how handsome he was. Or how much I loved watching him play football.
Just, no. Hell to the freaking no.
A throat cleared behind me, and I turned on my heels and then looked up, up, up into the baby-blue eyes of Quinn Bailey. In the middle of the hallway, with his uniform shirt covering his toned and firm chest and a mischievous grin smeared across his full lips, he towered above me and winked.
“Interesting conversation in there,” he stated and slid his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He rocked back and forth on his heels, and that roguish little smile of his only grew wider. “Sounds to me like someone needs to be taught a lesson.”
A laugh bubbled up past my lips at his words. “I agree.”
Quinn winked again, and as if on cue, Cam Mitchell, Jorge “Teeny” Martinez, and Sean the assface, cocky bastard, manwhore, motherfucker Phillips filed out of the room.
“Bail-ey!” Teeny shouted and fist-bumped his quarterback.
Cam nodded.
And Sean, well, he nodded toward Quinn, and then his mesmerizing green eyes met mine.
Fuck, he was dangerous. His eyes. His body. His sexy, raspy voice. He was the full package wrapped up into one bad boy, jerk-off with an ego bigger than this fucking stadium, delectable box.
A man with his kind of ego did not deserve my attention.
Or any woman’s attention, for that matter.
“Hello.” I offered Sean a saccharine, far-too-fucking-sweet smile.
“It’s a pleasure, Six,” he said, sex and hypnotic eyes and pheromones all swirling in a concoction meant to ensnare. “See you around real soon.”
Exactly, I mused. Real soon, I’d take Sean down a few notches and bring that big old head of his back down to earth.
And I didn’t mean the one on his cock.
As Sean and the other guys walked in the opposite direction of Quinn, I mentally started to plot my revenge.
Quinn smiled down at me like he knew exactly what I was thinking, and I couldn’t not smile back. I’d been a huge fan of his since forever, and I was probably an even bigger fan of his relationship with his girlfriend, Cat.
A beautiful flight attendant and the sexy quarterback of the Mavericks—in my opinion, it was a fucking fairy tale.
“Ready to get started?” I asked just as Joe walked over to us, and Quinn grinned.
“Ready whenever you are.”
“Quinn, this is Joe Mellow, my camera guy and video editor.” I introduced the two, and they shook hands. I knew, internally, Joe was probably screaming with excitement like a sixteen-year-old girl.
“I found a good spot for us to film,” Joe said as he picked up the bags of equipment. “Everyone else is already in there setting up.”
“Fantastic. Lead the way,” I said and then smiled at Quinn as we walked side by side behind Joe. “I hope you don’t mind, but I don’t really have a lot of questions about you.”
He quirked a brow.
“I mean, I’m a fan of yours, but I’m a way bigger fan of Cat’s.”
A soft, amused chuckle left his lips, and his blue eyes brightened at the mere mention of her name. “Well, it sounds like we already have a lot in common, Six. But I should warn you, I’m Cat’s biggest fan.”
I damn near swooned. “Oh my God, you guys are so freaking cute it makes my little heart pitter-patter with joy.”
Quinn just laughed, and once we reached the smaller conference room Joe had spotted, our crew quickly finished setting up so we didn’t swallow up all of the famous quarterback’s time for the day.
I took a deep breath and mentally prepared myself for a very long afternoon.
The Mavericks team was huge, and I wanted to get through all of the key players by the end of next week.
Well, all of the key players but one.