Chapter Ten
MILLER
Sanchez was waiting for me in the parking lot with the dopiest smile I had ever seen on any human’s face.
“Why do you always look like you’re high?” I asked, once I got out of my Mercedes and grabbed my duffel from the trunk.
“High on life, my man.” He shrugged, the grin back full force. “I just had a good night. Can’t a man smile about a good night?”
“I don’t want to know.” His reputation was legendary. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if the little shit took home four cheerleaders last night and let them take turns doing cartwheels on his dick.
“I wouldn’t tell you anyway.” He grabbed his bag and walked with me toward the practice facility. “You ever been in a relationship?”
I stopped walking.
“Miller?”
“We’re not friends.”
“Why the fuck do people keep rejecting my friendship? First Curves and now you. Damn, it’s like some sick joke.”
“Curves?”
“Hottest cheerleader ever. Rejected me. Twice. But I did get in a nice kiss. Then again, she was trapped. Never mind.”
“You trapped a cheerleader and forced yourself on her?”
Sanchez gave me a pissed-off look. “Do I look like the kind of guy who has to force anything?”
“Chill.” I held up my hands. “I spent the last two years of my life hating you. Cut me some slack, teammate.”
“Everyone hates me.” He grinned. “I take it as a compliment. If you liked me, it would probably be because I wasn’t as dirty as I am on the field. We only hate the good players. We like the shitty ones. It’s how football works.”
“Except for Russell.”
He nodded. “Damn Wilson. Unicorn, that’s what that dude is.”
I reached for the door, but Sanchez slammed his hand against it, keeping it shut. “Really, man?”
“Listen . . .” He looked uncomfortable, his green eyes darting everywhere before finally settling on me. “I don’t want trouble. I want another ring. They’re good guys, all of them. So the minute you walk in, I need to know you’re in, that you’re not still pissed about getting traded. It’s a big-ass compliment, alright? So leave the baggage at the door. Losing isn’t an option.”
I had to respect him for being protective of his team. And I knew that had some punk been traded to my old team, I would have given him the same talk.
“Losing sucks ass,” I countered, holding out my hand in a peace offering. “And I’m in. I swear.”
He studied me for a few minutes before finally clasping my hand, then nodding his head and opening the door. “Then welcome to the Bucks, officially.”
I grinned. “So, last night, not so official?”
“Last night was . . .” His face did that shit-eating-grin-thing again. “Interesting.”
“No details.” I held out my hands.
Laughter and shouting greeted me as I made my way into the large locker room; the damn thing looked like it belonged in a spa magazine, with its huge tubs, tiled showers, and steam rooms. I wasn’t sure I would ever get used to it.
“Miller Quinton.” Sanchez said my name with authority. “Best tight end in the league. With over a thousand yards, and six touchdowns last year, we’re lucky to have him on our team.” My new teammates nodded in my direction; a few of the looks were stern, but for the most part, my reputation preceded itself; thus, the eighteen-million-dollar addition to my contract that my old team still had to cough up. “Now that the introductions have been made . . .” He paused. “Let’s go win that championship.”
Cheers erupted.
Adrenaline spiked through my system as I joined the rest of the guys in a huddle.
“Bucks, Bucks, Bucks!” I’d only ever seen their team cheer as an opponent, but now I was a part of it, a part of the team that six years ago I would have sold my soul to be a part of.
“Who are we?” Sanchez yelled.
“Bucks!” I joined in, feeling oddly at home with my new team.
“What do we do?”
“Buck them up!” we shouted.
“What say you?” Sanchez roared.
“Buck you!”
Sanchez and I locked eyes at the end, and I knew I wasn’t just looking at a future teammate; I was looking at a brother, a soldier, a possible friend.
We’d war together.
And we sure as hell were going to win a championship. I could feel it in my bones.
“Let’s do some work.” I nodded to him.
“You heard the man.” Sanchez returned my intense stare. “Let’s kick some ass.”
Practice was a blur.
A blur of searing pain.
Mixed with running drills.
And another heavy dose of pain as Thomas, one of the defensive ends, decided it would be a good idea to nearly remove my head from my body.
I spit out blood and wiped my face. “Again.”
Sanchez burst out laughing. “You heard the man!”
Jax, our quarterback, the quietest football player I’d ever met, threw a spiral. I ran my route, doubled back, and caught the ball for the touchdown.
“Hot damn!” Sanchez roared. “I can already see that ring. I need to buy a new case.”
“A ring case?” I teased. “Really?”
“I like nice things.” He flipped me off.
My old team had been my only friends. But with a lingering glance at the practice field, the sweat, dirt, and constant shouting, I knew I was finally home.
I was just missing the most important part of the dream.
The girl.
“Whoa.” Sanchez punched me in the arm. “Wipe that sadness off your face and turn it into anger. We still got two hours left of practice.”
“Anger . . .” I nodded. “I can do.”
Jax threw several more passes in my direction; I caught all of them. It was important to be on point with your QB and, although he was deathly quiet, there was a strength about him that commanded not only respect but also your full attention.
When practice finally ended, I was more exhausted than I’d been during the last few years of football put together.
And that, folks, is why the Bucks are the best.
Because they nearly killed their players during practice and played like they never lost a game in their lives.
“Good job, man.” Jax tossed his helmet and held out his gloved hand. His hair was cropped short to his head, jaw clenched, and brown eyes were locked onto mine. He looked like he belonged on the cover of GQ more than he did on the football field.
“Uh . . .” I shook his hand. “Thanks.”
“God, you’re pretty, Jax.” Sanchez came up behind me and fluttered his eyelashes.
“Hey, pain in my ass . . .” Jax was clearly talking to Sanchez as he released my hand. “Try catching the ball next time.”
Sanchez pointed to himself. “Best receiver in the league.” He pointed to Jax. “Second best QB. Sorry, man. Can’t win them all.”
“Bite me.”
“It’s good you guys get along so well,” I interrupted. “Solid.”
Jax smirked. “It’s more like I put up with his shit so we win.”
“We win because he puts up with my shit, and I catch his balls.” Sanchez shrugged. “And I mean the leather ones, not the tiny things you swear up and down that you actually have, even though none of us has ever seen you with any chick other than your mom.”
Jax narrowed him with a glare. “She makes good soup, so drop it.”
I burst out laughing.
“She does make good soup,” Sanchez agreed.
“Jax’s mom’s making soup again?” Thomas asked. “The taco kind?”
Jax cursed and then yelled, “My mom’s not making soup!”
Thomas threw his helmet down. “Damn it. I love that woman’s taco—”
“Thomas . . .” Jax threatened. “Leave it. Don’t pounce on the taco comment. I’d hate to punch you in the face.”
“You always need to worry about the quiet ones, Miller . . .” Sanchez slapped me on the back. “Always.”
“Ouch.” I winced and then followed the rest of the guys off the field and down the hall, only to wonder why the hell whistles and catcalls were permeating the air.
And then I saw a flash of black and white.
Cheerleaders.
My lip curled with disgust.
Evil, all of them.
Several eyed me up and down as they shimmied by; a few tried to touch me, and I jerked back as if they were diseased.
Sanchez moved to stand in front of me.
“Dude,” I groaned. “I’m tired, sweaty, and sore. Stop blocking the way so I can get a shower.”
“I’m busy,” he called over his shoulder.
“Staring at the wall?” I shoved him away and stopped, paralyzed. Unable to breathe.
Emerson.
She was busy pulling her hair into a ponytail. Hell, how many times had I pulled that long blonde hair? Visions of us in bed, of her laughter, of me chasing her so damn hard I swore up and down it was impossible to catch my breath.
She was all curves.
Ass.
Hips.
Muscle.
Perfection.
Irrational anger surged through me. My body shouldn’t still respond to the way her dimples lit up the room or her light-blue eyes that always seemed to look right through my shit.
“Curves!” Sanchez yelled. “I see you read your manual.”
“Full makeup!”
She held up her hand for a high five.
My brain did the mental calculations.
From last night.
To his morning.
She’d kissed Sanchez.
The guys had all taken bets.
He’d called dibs.
My vision turned red; my eyes burned.
My heart cracked a little bit more as she tucked the rest of her sweats into her duffel bag and tied her shoes.
She still hadn’t seen me.
A huge part of me wanted to run.
But the other sick part wanted her to see me, wanted her to see my pain, my anger, my fucking broken heart.
So I stood there.
And waited.
Finally, she was walking in my direction, Sanchez hot on her heels. I swear time stood still, paralyzed just like I was.
Two steps.
Three.
And then, a glance.
A gasp.
The duffel bag dropped right along with her water bottle.
I continued to glare in complete and utter disgust. What fucking right did she have to look so hurt when she’d abandoned me when I needed her the most.
“M-Miller?”
Sanchez looked between us, his eyes searching mine before he wrapped a possessive arm around her and tugged her away from my space.
“Sorry.” I licked my lips and offered her an angry smirk. “Do we know each other?” I nodded to Sanchez. “See ya, man.” One last look, one last, obsessive look. “Have fun.”
You’d think I’d slapped her.
She jerked away from Sanchez, her eyes glassy as if she was ready to burst into tears.
But the joke was on her. Her tears would never be a match for mine—for the days spent in agony that my best friend, the love of my life, my soul mate had abandoned me without warning, without good-bye.