“Tell me. You know you want to,” I goad.

  My longtime friend rattles off details of a stock trade he made for me when a new app went public this morning. It’s all Martian to me, but Patrick is a finance wizard, which is why he handles my portfolio. We go way back, and he’s magic when it comes to ROI.

  “That sounds a lot like blah, blah, blah to my ears, but your blah, blah, blah usually makes me dollar signs, so go forth and do it,” I say.

  “I am the king of blah, blah, blah,” he says, then takes a beat, shifting gears. “You ready for tonight? You feeling good? Need anything?”

  Patrick is the big brother I never had. We grew up in the same apartment building, and our moms were best friends too. Still are. He’s two years older so he likes to check in on me, and it’s kind of sweet.

  “I am. It should be fun. I hope the vibe is chill and not all tell me about the baby daddies and where they went.”

  “And if anyone does ask you about the players who are gone, you just say I’m just here to play football. Repeat after me.”

  “I’m just here to play football,” I echo.

  “Bingo. You can indeed be trained.”

  I arf like a seal.

  “Good boy,” Patrick says, then we say goodbye and hang up.

  I return to my app, eager to keep chatting with my date, especially since—from the looks of the driver’s GPS—we’ve got about one more mile to go.

  Plenty of time to pre-game with some dirty texting.

  * * *

  Drew: The countdown is on. In one hour and thirty minutes, I will be feeding you, and then fucking you.

  * * *

  IOU: Oh yeah, you will. But wait. Are you gonna do both at the same time?

  * * *

  Drew: Ha ha. Funny girl. You do love to catch me on technicalities. Let me amend my previous text. I will feed you, then fuck you, and then fuck you again and again till you’re shouting my name.

  * * *

  IOU: That all sounds good. But I’m totes down for feeding and fucking too. Can you pull off that feat, stud?

  * * *

  My brow knits. Hmm. Is Brooke into food play? If that’s what the lady wants, I’ll read up on the best way to bring food into the bedroom. Chocolate sauce maybe? Cherries? Not my thing, but I’m game to try, and the lady has thrown down a challenge.

  * * *

  Drew: Say the word. I’ll get chocolate sauce.

  * * *

  IOU: I guess we’re still on for the all-you-can-eat buffet tonight.

  * * *

  Drew: I will spend as much time between your sweet legs as I possibly can. But confession: I’d really like to spank you too, and I bet you’d like that.

  * * *

  IOU: Well, I have been a very bad girl.

  * * *

  Drew: Then I will punish you with my palm.

  * * *

  IOU: Ooh, punish me, baby.

  I side-eye the device. That’s not entirely her style. Baby? But then again, she’s amping up the dirty talk big time over text.

  Trouble is, I’m about to walk into an event sporting wood.

  * * *

  Drew: All right, honey, I need to concentrate on being a good guy for the next hour before I see you and take care of all your bedroom needs.

  * * *

  IOU: Bet you’ll be thinking of spanking me with a taco.

  * * *

  I blink in confusion. What the hell has got into Brooke tonight? No idea, but it’s time to put her out of my mind since we’ve reached the hotel. I didn’t even mention the trade, but there’s time for that later.

  I say goodbye to the driver, then step out of the car, and walk toward the art deco hotel with the peach pastel façade. The sun dips low in the lavender sky over the ocean, and I snap a quick pic to send to Mom. Next time you get a sitter, I’ll put you and Tom up here. This place looks sweet!

  Tucking my phone away, I head inside, spotting Stephen in a corner of the lobby, talking into his phone. Once he sees me, he puts the device away. He escorts me to the ballroom, all exposed pipes and concrete walls, then introduces me to several people with the youth sports organization. A photographer snaps shots the whole time, and I play the role that’s hardly a role—the outgoing, non-troublemaking, peace-loving quarterback, who doesn’t throw punches or raise hell.

  After I chat with some of the biggest donors, Stephen shepherds me to an olive-skinned, bearded man who, it turns out, heads up this charity.

  “Drew, I want you to meet Paul Tavarez with Young Athletes. Paul, this is Drew Adams. He joined our team today as the quarterback. We’re thrilled to have him on board, especially since he’s already active with many wonderful charitable endeavors,” Stephen says to the bearded man.

  “Nice to meet you, Paul. Love the work you’re doing to create opportunities for kids who need and want it. I was one of those kids once upon a time,” I say, shaking Paul’s hand. “And I’d love to get more involved.”

  “Music to my ears,” Paul says, beaming.

  We talk for a few minutes about how I’d like to get more involved when Stephen drops a hand on my shoulder.

  “There’s someone else I want you to meet,” he says, then guides me away from Paul and toward a high table in the corner. “My right-hand woman is sharp as a tack. She makes sure we don’t fumble,” he says, then winks in case I didn’t realize he was making a joke.

  I smile to let him know I get it—fumbling humor and all. Then my smile widens when my gaze narrows in on…

  That’s my rock star goddess surf angel.

  And she’s even sexier than she was on Sunday. Brooke is hot as sin in a red skirt, white blouse, and black heels, her blonde hair flowing over her shoulders. The businesswoman look is almost enough to make me forget my name—

  Wait. Hold the fuck on.

  What is Brooke doing here?

  Oh, I bet I know. Her baseball team’s probably involved with the charity too.

  That must be it. Luck is on my side in all the things—romance, football, traffic.

  Yay me.

  Stephen leads me her way, and I try to rein in a grin, the whole time thinking about kissing Brooke, touching her, stripping her naked later tonight.

  But when I reach her and her eyes lock with mine, Brooke almost seems like a different person. Her genuine smile from the beach is gone, replaced by a plastic grin. Her warm brown eyes are cold.

  What’s that all about?

  “Drew, this is Brooke Holland. She’s my top attorney. She’s been working for the Bandits, and the Carlisles just added the football team to her responsibilities, which means she handles legal work for the Mercenaries, too,” he says.

  And it turns out I’m now working with the woman who wants me to spank her with tacos tonight.

  8

  Naughty Little Goblins

  Brooke

  * * *

  I’ve never been one to run away from a challenge, but now seems like a good time to slap on some sneakers and start.

  I’ve had two hours since Stephen dropped the news on me this afternoon about Drew coming to the Mercenaries. Two hours to figure out how to act when seeing my Sunday night hookup, but I’m no closer to an answer than I was when I left the office. After dropping my car at home so I could change my clothes, I caught a Lyft here. I’ve spent the last hour at this event chatting with donors and executives, and basically avoiding Drew.

  Yet I can’t avoid him any longer. He’s heading my way with Stephen.

  This is weirder than when we were in bed and I didn’t know what to do with my hands.

  What do I do with my whole body now? Do I lean casually against the bar? Maybe flick some hair off my shoulder? Wait. I’ll take a drink.

  I knock back a gulp of my water. Then I flip mentally through my group text with Cara and my good friend Rachel. On the way over, I begged them for advice on how to handle seeing the hookup who ghosted me who’s now become the hotly anticipated new player on the team I work for.

  Cara’s advice? Be cool. Be badass. Be yourself.

  Rachel’s words of wisdom? He doesn’t deserve you. Mark my words—he’s going to be trotting after you tonight, begging for text forgiveness. Have no mercy. Not one ounce. You are badass.

  Right now, I don’t feel badass. I feel foolish because Drew’s in front of me, offering me a hand and smiling curiously. “Nice to meet you, Brooke,” he says, upbeat.

  So that’s how we do it? We pretend we don’t know each other?

  Oh, right. Of course we do. I can’t tell Stephen I screwed our new quarterback and then he blew me off.

  My stomach roils.

  This is such a disaster. I would rather be interviewed by The Shirtless Esquire than talk to Drew. At least I have a buffer, though, in Stephen.

  I extend my free hand. “Pleasure to meet you Drew. We’re excited you’ll be leading the team,” I say.

  There. I’m such a pro.

  “Me too.” Drew’s lips twitch. Seeing me again must be the height of amusement for him. The asshole. It’s not funny that he ditched me. It hurt, and I didn’t like being misled.

  “I heard about your trade this afternoon, right after Stephen told me about my promotion.” I coolly drop in that pertinent info. Drew might be a dick, but I don’t want him to think I am. I definitely don’t want him to think I lied about my job. There’s only one liar among us.

  Except, did I just sound like I’m tooting my own horn?

  Yeah, I did.

  Groan.

  Drew meets my gaze, his focus solely on me. “Good for you on the promotion. That must be—”

  He cuts himself off before he says anything more. Anything like I knew you were down on your job the day I met you and led you on. Sure, I never replied, but good for you in moving up, lady-boss style.

  At least, he has enough sense to fake things.

  “I’m excited for the new opportunity,” I say.

  Stephen flashes a rare smile. “So am I. The hardest part was not saying a damn word when you didn’t get the promotion. But I had bigger things planned for you.” He clears his throat, his gaze drifting briefly around the room, like he’s scanning for something. “Ah. I need to chat with Paul for a few. Drew, if you need anything, Brooke is the legal liaison to the press department this season. She’s tasked with helping to make sure we present the best public face, and don’t break any rules. I’ll let you two get to know each other since I need to chat with a few folks.”

  Then he spins on his heel and takes off.

  I gulp. My buffer is gone. I am all alone with the man I desperately wanted to see again but who didn’t want to see me.

  I take another drink of my water. And that was a rookie mistake. My skull turns to tundra. I fight off a wince. I will not let Drew see my face contort from the brain freeze. I ignore the ice headache as I say, “What a great event.”

  What a bland comment.

  But I can barely think. My forehead is still pulsing with a mind-numbing headache. I grit my teeth.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I bite out, then I draw in air and smile wider. The pain starts to ebb.

  “You sure?”

  “Of course,” I say, “Congratulations on joining the team. Everyone is thrilled to have you.”

  He smirks again. “You said that already.”

  My face flushes. Great. Now he’s pointing out my mistakes. Real fun.

  I can’t be around him right now. I need a moment to regroup. “Excuse me, Drew,” I say, and I jet off, leaving the ballroom and rushing to the ladies’ room, my brain freeze melting off along the way.

  Once inside, I grab my phone and dial Rachel’s number. She owns a jewelry boutique on the main drag in Venice and the store probably just closed.

  Thankfully, my friend answers right away, and I dive into my emergency. “He’s here, like I suspected he’d be, and I’m doing such a bang-up job at being a badass that I ran into the ladies’ room to hide.” I spin around, hunting for an escape hatch. “Can I just pull down the air vent like they do in the movies and crawl out?”

  “That’s an option. Maybe not a wise one, but it’s one nonetheless.”

  I gaze upward at the vent, doing some quick calculations. “It’s seven feet high. Maybe I can step on the sink and sort of swing my legs up.”

  “Sure. That doesn’t sound likely to break your neck at all.”

  I assess the distance. “I think I can make it.”

  “Or just a wild idea. You could face him. And be merciless, like I said.”

  Closing my eyes, I slump against the sink. “The worst part is he’s all…cheery.”

  “Bastard,” she mutters. “That pisses me off.” Then she seems to brighten, or perhaps turn devilishly clever since she says, “Oh, wait. If he’s acting like he didn’t ditch you, you should do the same to him.”

  I perk up. Lift my face. “I should?”

  “Yes, pretend you never texted him. Act like you’re cool with everything. Don’t let on you were checking your phone like it was going to give birth.”

  That’s genius, birthing analogy aside. “You’re brilliant and I love you,” I say, then hang up.

  When I turn around, I take a deep breath, smooth my hands down my skirt, then leave, ready to resume normal human operations again.

  But when I exit the restroom, I stifle a shriek.

  The tall, broad, and too-handsome quarterback waits here in the hall, away from the event and the crowds. His hazel eyes brim with concern. “Hey,” he says gently. “Are you okay?”

  Pretend, Brooke.

  I lift my chin defiantly. My queen move. Then I smile for the camera. “I’m fabulous. Just had to powder my nose,” I say, waving my clutch toward the restroom.

  He arches an eyebrow. Even that simple gesture is impossibly sexy on him. But then, he has an unfair advantage because he’s decked out in tailored pants, a dress shirt, and a vest that fits him like a glove. If he wasn’t already stunning, the damn vest alone would send him to the top of the hot list.

  I’ve seen him in shorts, and now I’ve seen him in a suit. The man makes the clothes every time.

  The universe is a joker.

  “I had no idea you were going to be here,” he says, in a thoughtful tone—that tone makes zero sense. “But the job sounds good?”

  Why is he being so nice? “Yes. Like I said, I just found out today. They added football to my purview. So I guess we’re working together,” I say with the biggest grin I can muster.

  No way am I letting on how hurt I was by his silent treatment. I don’t want to get wounded again. I still have scars from Sailor’s trickery.

  I angle my body toward the ballroom, hoping Drew gets the message that it’s time to return to the event.

  “I was shocked too,” Drew adds, still chatting in spite of my best efforts to grow wings. “I was going to tell you about the trade when we texted earlier,” he says as I take a step down the hall.

  What did he just say?

  I stop and turn back to him, lifting a brow. “Excuse me?”

  He smiles, flirty and just a touch embarrassed—but sexy embarrassed—as he glances around and lowers his voice. “You know. About the tacos, and the chocolate sauce, and the yada yada yada.”

  I know nothing about this yada.

  I frown. “What texts, Drew?”

  He steps closer, leans into me, his mouth dangerously near to my ear. I shiver. Stupid body. “You know—when you let on you’re into food play,” Drew whispers, his voice low and husky and turning me on even though I’m not into food play.

  I am, however, into solving problems.

  I step back, meet his eyes. “We didn’t text, so I’m not sure what you mean. I haven’t heard from you since you left my house.” And I will prove it, stat. Reaching into my clutch, I grab my phone, unlock it, and click to my texts. “See?” I say, eager to show him the evidence.

  He peers at my screen, studying the messages from Sunday, then my text to him on Monday about changing the time for tonight. There’s no reply from him. The chain ends there.

  Such a sad text thread.

  So empty.

  “Oh, shit,” he mutters, then drags a hand down his face in slow, motion. “I should have known you’d never call me stud or baby.” He sounds mortified.

  He pulls his phone from his pocket. “I never got your message on Monday about the time. But I thought we were texting,” he says, sheepishly. “Because of this…”

  He shows me the screen he’s pulled up, and I read a slew of messages between Drew and IOU. My eyes widen, flicking from the screen to him as I follow this bawdy thread.

  By the end, I can barely contain my laughter. “Drew, I think you have two IOUs,” I whisper through my chuckles.

  “Ya think?” he asks drily. “I just want to know which of my jackass friends pulled this off.”

  “Someone who’s going to be crowing about it for a long time,” I say with admiration for the architect of this joke. Someone worked him over big time. “But how did this happen?”

  Before he can attempt to answer, his phone beeps. The name IOU appears in the notification window but there’s a picture of a dark-haired man smirking, next to the words Did you spank her with tacos yet?

  Drew groans. In guy language, that loosely translates to I can’t believe that fucker tricked me. He shakes his head. “I have to tip my cap to my buddy.”

  “But what happened? You wrote back to me on Sunday night and I got it. And then nothing?”

  His brow knits, cogs turning as he thinks. Then the circuit closes and he winces at what he’s about to say. “This is going to sound incredibly ridic, but I had to reset my phone on Monday morning because it was doing wonky phone shit. I don’t know if it was the sand on Sunday or it was possessed by goblins or what.”