Stone

“Bro, we kicked some serious ass out there today!” Snyder yells, bumping my knuckles with his.

I lift my bottle, tapping it against his beer, chuckling. “It was touch and go there for a bit.”

Snyder’s grin damn near swallows his entire face. “The hell it was. We were un-fucking-stoppable.”

Okay, so he’s not remembering it the same way I am, but whatever. It no longer matters because we won, and how close it was is moot at this point.

“This is the shit, man,” Snyder responds, glancing around at the horde of scantily clad women who have come out tonight to celebrate the Wranglers’ ninth straight win in the regular season.

And they are every-fucking-where. Asses and tits all on display, coy giggles and more makeup than a Paris runway. These chicks are in it to win it tonight. Which means there are going to be a lot of happy cocks finding a soft, warm landing, that’s for damn sure.

And why the hell not?

Nine straight wins.

We deserve a happy ending. Or two.

Not too shabby for a team who hasn’t been to the playoffs for the past seven seasons.

I figure to a rookie like Snyder, this is the shit, but in reality, it only goes up from here. The more wins, the more fans, which also means more groupies, more booze, more sex, and more notoriety.

And not to blow my own fucking horn, but yeah, I was brought onto this team to do exactly what I’m doing now. Win.

So, I’m out here tonight making my presence known, keeping the fans riled up and their spirits soaring while I celebrate another tick in the win column. At thirty-four, I’m probably a little old to be hanging with these rookies, but hell, I don’t have anything better to do. I might be riding the line between old enough to know better and who the fuck cares, but I’m damn sure not dead.

Which is exactly the reason I’m at this club, sharing a few beers with the guys, women galore ready to take me back to their place and rock my fucking world. Truthfully, you’ll get no complaints from me.

I turn to set my drink on the bar and come up short, damn near plowing over a cute little redhead who’s practically glued to my hip. I honestly have no fucking clue where she came from, but she’s hot, and the dress is exactly how I like it—black and barely covering all the required parts.

“Would you like to dance?” Her voice is husky and full of promise, her big green eyes peering up at me as though I’m responsible for world peace or some shit.

“Sure.” Why the hell not? I set my beer down on the bar and motion for her to lead the way. I was gearing up to get another, so it’s all good.

I allow her to lead me out to the crowded dance floor, and I manage to smile when appropriate. Less than thirty seconds in, I can already tell that this chick is a sure thing and she doesn’t even know my name.

And I guaran-fucking-tee she has no clue that I’m easily a decade older than she is. Not that those minuscule details would matter to her. Hell, I could probably take her to a dark corner somewhere and do raunchy things to her for the rest of the night and she’d be smiling the entire time, just as long as my bank account is padded with six digits or more.

That’s not going to happen. The sneaking a piece in a corner part, that is. No matter how much my dick thinks he’s in charge of my actions, I’ve been down that road too many times.

For one, the little redhead might be hotter than hell in July, but the girl has dollar signs in her eyes. During my stint in the NFL, I’ve been hit on by hundreds, if not thousands, of women, most of whom have no idea who I am other than another athlete with money. And they’ve all looked at me the same way she is, with hopeful lust burning in her eyes.

When she turns in my arms and presses her sweet little ass against my crotch, I grab her hips and play along. No harm, no foul is my motto. It’s not like I’m married, not like my actions are going to hurt anyone. I know my limits, and when it comes to women, one night is as far as it gets. And sure, there are plenty of chicks who’ll stroke my ego and my dick and tell me that’s all they want as well, but again, I know better. This damn sure isn’t my first rodeo. Having been drafted at the ripe young age of twenty-one, I’m familiar with this dog and pony show.

The no-name redhead whose ass is harmoniously caressing my cock through my pants is not going to be okay with only one night. And that means I’ll be going home alone, like I do every night, because one thing I learned early on is that honesty is the fastest way to spend a night alone with my hand. And I’m okay with that.

Even before I was drafted into the NFL, this was the nuts and bolts of my life. With four years spent at the University of Alabama nursing a winning streak that had me drafted in the first round, I started out hot. The press quickly learned their lesson for calling me a pretty-boy quarterback, arguing that I’d do better gracing the cover of magazines than playing down on the field. I fucking showed them.

During that time, I’ve had more women than any sane man knows what to do with, more booze than a distillery in Kentucky, more parties than the Kardashians attend in a year. And I’m playing along because that’s what’s expected of me.

But banging some unknown chick, having her blow up my phone for weeks after…that I learned to avoid early on. Sure, it sometimes requires a little more effort than I care for to convince my dick that one night buried inside a hot, wet pussy is not worth the hassle that’s going to come along with it, but that’s my rule and as far as I’m concerned, it’s a good one.

She turns in my arms, her hand sliding south to cup my dick through my pants, and I smile down at her. “What’s your name?”

“Jessica,” she says, a distinct Texas twang in her voice.

I’d bet money Jessica turned twenty-one sometime in the last couple of months. Not that age matters to me all that much, but twenty-one is definitely not an age I’m interested in. Hell, there’s no fucking way we have a damn thing in common.

Not to mention, the fact that she likely has more experience in this scene than I do is enough to have my dick trying to find a place to hide. And I don’t mean in the dark recesses of her pussy.

I’ve earned my reputation as the bad boy of football through the years. Women, booze, parties…I’m an old pro at that shit. Even when I wasn’t winning, I had an unlimited supply of pussy. It comes with the territory.

Jessica leans in, her hands coming around to cup my ass, her smile almost predatory.

“I’m gonna be forward about this.” Her twang is thick, her eyes a little glassy, and it’s easy to tell she’s had far too much to drink.

I cock one eyebrow and wait.

“I wanna go home with you.”

I smile. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Why’s that?”

She frowns and I can tell my question threw her. She’s probably used to guys grabbing her hand and lighting up the path to the door.

I’m not that guy.

“I thought, maybe…you know.”

I lean down closer to her face. “I don’t know. Why don’t you enlighten me?”

It’s not that I’m trying to be a dickhead, but like I said, I’ve been propositioned more times than a two-dollar whore on the corner of Desperate and Needy. And that’s just tonight alone. If I’m going home with a woman, I’d like her to at least pretend she’s more interested in me than finding out what my ride looks like and how big my house is. Sure, that might make me sound like a little bitch, but so fucking what.

“We could get naked,” she slurs, naked sounding more like nekkid.

“Is that so?”

“Yep.”

“And after we get nekkid,” I say, using her term, “will you be pissed when I call you a cab?”

Her eyes widen and she pulls back.

I easily let her go. It’s not like I’m surprised by her reaction. I seriously doubt she’s worried about transportation at this point.

She frowns and I can tell she’s contemplating this. Plenty of women would’ve smacked me upside my head for a statement like that, but this woman—not much more than a girl, really—is actually considering it.

I sigh, then shake my head. “Thanks for the dance, Jessica, but I’m gonna have to pass. Got a big day tomorrow.” It’s not a lie. I work on Monday, just like everyone else.

Some of the confusion disappears and what looks a hell of a lot like determination etches her heavily made-up features. But before I can make a clean getaway, she takes my arm, a huge smile plastered on her mouth. “If that’s what you want, I’ll even call my own cab.”

Of course she would.

And I can’t deny that a renewed sense of disappointment fills me.

One day, I’d just like to meet a woman who isn’t willing to fuck me because of the fact that I’m a football player. Then again, now that I’m back in my hometown, taking a somewhat stale team places they haven’t been in a hell of a long time, I don’t see this problem going away any time soon.

You damn sure won’t hear me complaining.

Savannah

“Do you see that girl?” Allison asks. “She’s all up on him. I swear she just met him. Like fifteen seconds ago.”

I glance at my friend and follow her gaze down to the dance floor below us.

“She’s rubbin’ up on his dick. Now, come on. That’s just gross.”

I laugh because it’s true. The redhead is grinding up against Jason Stone like his dick’s made of gold. Not only was she grinding her ass against him, now she’s groping him through his slacks.

Of course, I don’t see him backing away either.

“He’s gonna go home with her,” Allison predicts.

Probably.

Not that I care.

I really don’t give a shit what any of these players do. If I had a choice, I wouldn’t even be here tonight, but since my father owns the Dallas Wranglers and I’m an integral part of the team, he says it’s my duty to be out and about with the players after a win. I rarely concede, but tonight Allison managed to talk me into it.

Truthfully, I’d rather eat glass than sit in this club, but I know Allison loves this shit, so here I am. It pleases my father and my best friend, and I don’t look like an old maid because I’m sitting at home by myself watching Netflix and playing on Snapchat. A few years ago, I easily got away with it, but at twenty-nine, people tend to frown on that.

Not that I care what anyone else thinks of me, however, I do try to make my father happy. He honestly doesn’t ask for much from me or my brothers, so these are the little things.

“He’s probably tellin’ her all the dirty things he wants to do to her tonight.”

I watch as Jason Stone smiles down at the woman, all white teeth and seductive eyes. It’s a look I’ve seen on so many players’ faces, most of the time in the bowels of nightclubs just like this one. Nevertheless, I’m happy to say that look has never been directed at me. Or if it has, I haven’t reciprocated.

Which, according to my best friend, is part of my problem. I think she has likened me to a nun on occasion. I can’t help it if I’m picky.

Allison’s voice deepens when she starts a running dialogue of what they’re saying to each other.

“Oh, honey, you’d look so hot in my bed. I want to see what you’ve got underneath this thing you call a dress.” Her tone changes to a high-pitched whine. “Oh, Hottie McFootball Man, I want that, too. I want to feel your big penis inside me. You can even throw me like a football when you’re finished. I don’t even care.”

I laugh. How can I not? Allison is freaking crazy.

“Oh, Sugar Tits,” Allison continues, once again imitating a male voice, “I want to bend you over the hood of my fancy sports car and bang your brains out. You don’t mind if I don’t look at your face, do you?” She switches voices again. “You have a fancy sports car? Oh, well, in that case, no, I don’t mind. Not at all. So, yes, please. I’d like that. I don’t even know your name, but…yes, yes, yes!”

“She’s far too young for him,” I say casually. Not that I really care, but come on. There has to be at least a ten-, maybe twelve-year age gap there. Or more. I don’t recall off the top of my head how old the man is.

Allison rolls her eyes. “She doesn’t care. His dick could be all shriveled up as long as he has a big…wallet.”

Once again, I’m laughing as I sip my wine and watch from our table, safely positioned in the VIP section above the dance floor.

“Ooh, did you see that?” Allison nudges me. “What did he say? Her eyes got all big and she backed up. You think he turned her down?”

I’m staring at the pair once more and sure enough, it appears Jason Stone said something the woman didn’t like. I wait patiently to see her reaction. I can almost imagine her smacking him across the face, putting him in his place for assuming she was easy.

Granted, that never happens and it doesn’t happen now. Sugar Tits—as Allison referred to her—is suddenly latching onto his arm and grinning like an idiot as she follows him off the dance floor.

My eyes trail them as they move back to the bar. He calls for the bartender—probably to get another round for both of them—before he turns and leans his elbows on the top.

Interesting.

He’s giving the girl his back, as though he’s not interested. Now that’s not something I usually see in here. Most of the time, the first girl who claws her way to the front of the line is the one who’s going to get lucky. Doesn’t look to be the case.

Not that Sugar Tits is deterred in the least. The woman presses up against him, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

I sigh, dragging my attention across the bar to the far corner where I see a beefy guy and a skinny girl practically screwing against the wall. They probably think they’re protected by the shadows, but every so often, one of the strobe lights hits right in that spot. It lights it up enough that I can see his thigh is between her legs, her dress is indecently high, and they’re slobbering all over each other.

His hand falls between them, he shifts, and…

“Oh, my God,” Allison whispers loudly right next to my ear. “They’re fucking.”

Sure enough, his ass thrusts forward and it’s obvious that guy is banging that chick right against the wall.

“And you’re surprised?” I ask Allison, unable to look away from the sight.

“Who is that?” she asks. “I can’t see his face.”

I shrug. I think it’s Leon Downs, but I’m not sure either. And honestly, I really don’t want to know because I have to face these players and the last thing I want to do is have a mental image of one of them fucking in the club.

Not that I haven’t seen it before.

Oh, sure, not all players are horn dogs. If someone claims they’re all like this, it’s a classic case of stereotyping. Football players are people, too. Some are married with children, happily at home tonight with their wife and kids. Some are gladly single, out to have a good time with their friends and not looking to pick up the first available piece of ass that shakes it in front of their face. And yes, there are the players who flaunt their fame and use it to get pussy whenever possible.

My eyes drift back to Jason Stone. He’s standing at the bar with redheaded Skipper-Barbie at his side. He’s still not paying attention to her, but she seems content with that. I watch as he leans in and speaks to the bartender. I’m curious as to what he’s drinking, so I watch the bartender grab a glass, drop some ice in, then squirt in club soda. I wait for what comes next—whiskey or vodka, I assume—but that doesn’t happen and the bartender passes the glass over to Jason.

I smile to myself.

Looks as though our new QB knows his limits.

Why that makes me like him a little bit, I’m not sure.

But, there it is.

Of course, that tiny amount of admiration disappears quickly when he turns around, his eyes scanning the room and somehow coming to land on me.

I watch, seemingly mesmerized by his dark gaze.

For a brief moment, I have to wonder whether or not he recognizes me. After all, I am a fundamental part of the Dallas Wranglers organization, carrying the title of executive vice president as well as chief public relations officer. If I’m being honest, they’re merely titles to explain the exorbitant amount of money that my father pays me. Yes, I have a degree. Yes, I’m damn good at what I do, handling more things than a title can possibly explain. However, my name and face aren’t known worldwide because I prefer to stay out of the spotlight, but anyone within the organization should know who I am.

He lifts his glass in a mock toast then he has the audacity to wink.

Okay. Either he doesn’t realize who I am, or he’s got some serious balls.

“Oh, hell yes,” Allison hisses, leaning close. “I think someone’s spotted you.”

I shake my head and force my gaze away from him.

“Think he knows who you are?” my best friend asks, her brown eyes wide with curiosity.

Honestly, I don’t know and I don’t care, but I say, “Doubtful. He’s too caught up in his own self to have any idea who I am.”

“Well,” Allison smirks, “it might not matter because…yep, yep. Oh, yeah. He’s headed this way.” She leans in close. “Think maybe you’ll ditch the habit tonight and take a ride on the pony express?”

Before I respond to her crude comment, my eyes dart back to that spot at the bar, and sure enough, the space Jason Stone previously occupied is now empty. I try not to look too obvious as I scan the area, attempting to locate him.

Suddenly, Allison is thrusting something into my hand.

“What is this?” I exclaim, quickly closing my fist around the condom she passed over. “Allison! I’m not—”

“Well, hello there, Hottie McFootball Man,” Allison greets.

Shit. I clench my fist around the prophylactic, willing my face to stop heating. I turn to my left, my gaze landing on none other than Jason Stone.

“I was just headin’ to the bar,” Allison says cheerfully, getting to her feet.

No she wasn’t. The traitor.

I grab her dress and try to tug her back down, but she not-so-discreetly shoves my hand off.

“Can I get you somethin’ while I’m up there?” Allison offers.

I glare at the woman who was once my best friend. “No.”

“Okay then,” she says with an extra cheerful note in her voice. “Be back in a bit.”

“Mind if I sit?” Stone asks.

“Actually…” Before I can answer, he pulls the chair out and drops into it.

“You’ve got quite the view from here,” he says, his chin tilting toward the far corner of the bar.

I know I shouldn’t look, but I do it anyway. Once again, my attention is drawn to the guy I’m about ninety-nine percent certain is Leon Downs and the faceless chick he’s banging. Damn, I have to give the guy credit. He’s got some serious stamina.

“Someone should warn him about the spotlight,” Stone says thoughtfully.

I can’t think about anything except for the damn condom in my hand.

“So, what brings you out tonight?” he asks.

Although I wish I was anywhere else, my upbringing doesn’t allow me to be rude to this man. For one, he may not know who I am, but I know who he is and chances are, at some point this season, our paths are going to cross. The least I can do is ensure that won’t be incredibly awkward for me.

“Just spendin’ time with my friend,” I tell him. “You?”

He shrugs. “Just chillin’.”

More like celebrating their win. I find it interesting that Stone doesn’t clarify that. More accurately, I’m surprised he doesn’t launch into a spiel about who he is, maybe sing his own praises a little.

I haven’t yet officially met Jason Stone, since the team only acquired him a few months ago in a quick trade that had the league in an uproar regarding the timing. They pushed it right up until the trade deadline, but somehow managed to sneak it in. Not that my father gave a shit. He works on his own timetable, rules be damned. Despite the fact that I do manage a hefty portion of the organization, I spend a large amount of my time handling various other things, and those things have kept me busy as of late. At this point in time, I’m not disappointed by that fact. It allows me to keep this interaction with Stone impersonal.

Regardless, I’m up to speed on all things Jason Stone. I know about his record, his history, and I’m even aware of his cocky attitude. Sure, the guy is one of the winningest quarterbacks to ever play the game, so he has stats to back him up. On the other hand, that doesn’t mean everyone’s going to like it.

“I have to admit, I like it up here,” Stone says.

“Yeah? Because of the free porn?” I ask, nodding my chin to the pair still going at it.

“Nah. I can get that shit anywhere.”

“Like your own bedroom,” I mutter under my breath. Aloud, I say, “It’s relatively quiet. Plus, it also keeps most of the creepers away.” I supply him with a fake smile. “Usually.”

He laughs at that, although I know he’s aware I’m referring to him.

“Creeper, huh?”

I purse my lips, silently daring him to contradict me.

As I subtly inspect him, I recall that I had recently read a specific description of him somewhere. Something like tall, dark, and distractingly handsome, I believe. Most likely in one of those articles that objectifies football players, calling out all their physically appealing features.

I acknowledge that yes, he is tall. Based on his stats, I know he’s six-five, weighs in at two-hundred-thirty pounds. Up close and personal, six-five and two-thirty is much bigger than it sounds on paper.

I guess dark suits him as well. With his dark brown hair—buzzed on the sides, longer on top and mussed in that sexy I meant to do this way—plus delectable dark brown eyes and bronzed skin, he unquestionably qualifies.

As for distractingly handsome. Well. Okay, I’ll give him that, too. I can’t recall his exact age, although I know he’s over thirty, but he could easily pass for twenty-five. The man is by far one of the hottest men to come out of the NFL, and that’s saying something. I mean, come on, do I have to say anything more than Tom Brady, Miles Austin, Cam Newton, Reggie Bush, Danny Amendola? And no one could forget the smoking hot J. J. Watt.

Yes, I could go on forever.

I know for a fact that Jason Stone has been listed in the top ten of those sexiest men in the NFL lists for…well, I don’t know for how long, but I’m sure it’s been since he hit the ground running thirteen or so years ago. He’s one of those guys who has only improved with age.

Not that I pay attention to those lists.

Much.

However, right now, I do my best not to notice how attractive this man is. He’s off-limits to me, which means it’s pointless to check him out. Granted, it’s not nearly as easy as I pretend it is because the guy is rather attractive.

Then again, he is a player—in more than one sense of the word—and I have absolutely no interest in him in any manner that doesn’t pertain to business.

I just figure tonight probably isn’t the right time to introduce myself.

I’m sure he’ll figure it out sooner or later.