Kissing Madeline (Dearest #3) (4 page)

Her eyebrow raises. “I don’t label myself as such
per se
, but yes, I’m Sheri’s Maddie.”

My mind instantly flashes to the box her roommate joked was likely full of sex toys.

Fucking hell. Maddie and sex toys.

Down, boy.
I need to go before my dick gets any more excited to see her.

“Sorry, Maddie. I’m running late. Tell Sheri hi. If you’re around this weekend, I’m having a Fourth of July party on the river. You guys should join me.”

She shakes her head before I finish talking, her eyes darting down to the ground. “Sheri is heading out of town, and I have to work. But thanks.” She’s frowning like I’ve just asked her to grout my tub.

Okay
. That was a fuck-off vibe if I’ve ever seen one.

Nodding, I grab my gym bag. “Well, have a great Fourth, then. Sorry about knocking you on your ass.” I don’t wait for her answer before I take off for my SUV.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, I’m almost at the stadium, but I’m thinking about Maddie. I don’t know why it’s still bugging me, but she couldn’t have turned me down any faster. Which is so different from the first time we met last fall. Okay, she might have been on the fast track to getting drunk with one of my best friends, Clementine, but Maddie was chatty and sweet and, fucking hell, gorgeous.

I’m wondering if I’ve offended her somehow. This is probably a dickish thing to think, but I’m not turned down often. 

Rubbing my neck, I’m tempted to feel paranoid right now. I wonder if she knows the truth behind Clementine’s book. That’s how Maddie and I met, after she interviewed Clem, when Clem’s identity as a bestselling author was revealed.

I shake my head. It’s probably for the best that Maddie’s not interested. For a million reasons.

Preseason means I don’t fuck around, so my summertime activities have to stop anyway. With a new team, about a hundred new plays to learn, and the stress of the NFL, the last thing I need are head games. And women definitely mean head games. Because I am great at a lot of things, but dealing with female drama is not one of them.

I’ve spent the last two months since my breakup embracing the fuck-till-you-forget lifestyle until the wasteland that was my former relationship is a distant blur. If anything, this summer made me realize my ex and I were over months ago, maybe as far back as Christmas.

Jax, my best friend and Clementine’s twin, likes to tell me it’s about fucking time Veronica and I parted ways. I think he’s right.

Now it’s time to get serious. To focus on football. To play like my life depends on it.

So the last thing I should be thinking is how I’d love to get Maddie McDermott horizontal on my sheets, maybe in my tub, and definitely on the living room floor, preferably near the fireplace.

My cock might be cheering yes right now, but I know better.

But when my phone rings with a call from my realtor, suddenly moving doesn’t seem as pressing as it did this morning.

Maybe living in the city won’t be a hassle. Because living in the Back Bay has at least one perk.

CHAPTER FOUR

- Daren -

Sweat drips down my face as I survey the defensive line. I may have been the shit in college, but the NFL is a whole new stratosphere of intense. Training camp is about three things: getting in elite-level shape, bringing the new players into the fold, and cutting guys who can’t handle it. I’m already in shape. I worked my ass off all spring and summer, but even so, I’m still going to be sore as hell tomorrow. But that’s not my biggest concern.

We’ve run this drill five times, but something’s off with LaDuke, my wide receiver. So much of this game is chemistry, and he and I aren’t clicking. I spot Brentwood, the veteran QB, laughing by the water table, but as we line up again, he stills to watch.

The ball snaps, and as soon as my fingers grip the leather, I drop back into the pocket and eye the field. Bodies shuffle, and I check my options. Finally, LaDuke breaks from his defender, and I reach back for the pass.

The ball leaves my hand in a perfect arc. But at the last minute, the asshole slows down, and my pass sails wide.

LaDuke jogs back and shrugs. “Did that one slip out?” he asks, knowing full well that’s not the case.

Gritting my teeth, I wait to get reamed out by the coach. I make eye contact with the rookie receiver on the sidelines as he paces back and forth. Quentin Alvarez is hungry. He wants the ball.

I jog over to Coach Reynolds so he doesn’t need to raise his voice to chew my ass off. He blows out a breath and frowns. But instead of yelling, he drops his hand on my shoulder and turns me to face the empty field behind us.

“Daren, I like the way you keep a level head. It takes time for the veterans to accept the rookies. Don’t take this personally.”

Taking a deep breath, I nod. He’s right. “No problem, Coach.” That’s usually my answer out on the field. I should keep my mouth shut, but I decide to take a chance. “Do you think we could try Quentin for a few plays?”

Reynolds works his jaw back and forth. “He’ll have his turn. Besides, it’s more likely than not you’ll play with the old guard, and that’s who you need to win over.”

“I hear ya. But I also think Quentin really wants it.”

Coach nods, his tan brow furrowing. “We’ll see. Go grab some water.”

Ten minutes later, we’re back in formation when Coach blows the whistle. “You know what? Let’s try Quentin.” He shouts for LaDuke, and points his chin at the sideline.

It’s hard to fight my smile, so I clench my jaw until I’m focused again. Quentin stalks by, and when our eyes connect, he nods.

This time, when my wide receiver breaks from the defense, he’s on fire. Everyone on the sideline pauses to watch my pass, which lands in Quentin’s hands about two steps before he blazes into the end zone.

That’s how it’s done, motherfuckers.

I’m still grinning when I head into the locker room a half hour later. Until Brentwood sidles up to me like we’re old friends. Then he leans close with a smile on his face.

“What the fuck was that?” he whispers even though the stereo is blasting Eminem.

This is getting old. A week and a half into camp, and I’ve lost count of how many times Brentwood has bitched me out. “Sorry? What the fuck was what?”

“Why did you suggest that Quentin play?”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.” I’m not in the habit of declining credit where credit is due, but I’m also not looking to piss off Brentwood any more than whatever crawled up his ass today.

“Daren!”

Jeanine Cartwright, Vice President of Marketing and PR, saunters in, totally unbothered by the fact that half of the men are in jock straps or naked. She motions toward me while she talks on the phone, and Brentwood gives her a wink and heads toward his locker on the opposite wall.

She nods, continuing her conversation. “That’s a great idea. Yes, I have him right here.” She looks up at me and smiles a half second before she holds up her hand, telling me to wait. Jeanine is the first female executive and the youngest. She’s an attractive woman, but her ice-cold eyes have a predatory gleam. NFL players are not the politest group of guys, but no one bothers her. Probably because they don’t want their balls removed from their bodies. She smooths back her red hair, which is cropped in a short bob. “I’m sure he’ll be on board. Rookies never have a problem doing interviews.”

I get the message, Jeanine. No need to rub my face in the fact that I’m the low guy on the totem pole.

She hangs up while her eyes make a slow perusal down my bare chest and linger around my waist, a flash of disappointment registering in her eyes that I’m still wearing gym shorts. Finally, her attention lifts back up to my face. “I’m going to need you to be available tomorrow morning after your weightlifting session. In fact, you might need to cut it short. I’ll let everyone know you might be late to your second session. Oh, and be sure to shower before you meet me on the practice field. You need it.”

Well, no shit I need a shower. I just spent two hours in ninety-five degree Massachusetts weather in the middle of July.

Jeanine taps her phone and enters the appointment on her calendar. “You and Quentin have an interview with one of the local news stations doing a series of sports segments for women. We’re calling it
Football 101
, and we’ll likely feature different players each time. But since you’re the hot draw right now, I wanted to capitalize on it.”

“I’ll be there.” I force a smile, and I know she thinks it’s sincere because she grins back, taking the time to check me out once more before she stalks over to Quentin.

One of the guys waits until Jeanine leaves before he whips out his phone. “Come check out the pussy I snagged last night. She fit my cock like a glove.” Several players huddle up to check out the footage.

If he were my Boston College teammate, I’d tell him he’s being a dumbass. It only takes one viral video to make your life a living hell, especially if it’s twisted up with gossip someone made up to get those fifteen minutes of fame.

But this isn’t college. And I’m not at the helm of this outfit. My eyes travel over to Brentwood, who doesn’t chime in on the video. He’s too busy watching me. God, he’s a weird asshole.

I keep my expression blank as I grab a towel and head for the showers. I still have another practice session later this afternoon, and I need to clear my head. I’m used to drama, but there’s enough in this stadium to choke a man.

When the hot water is pelting my skin, I close my eyes and try to shut out the noise. Finally, a moment of peace.

And that’s when I think of her face. Those plump pink lips the hue of sweet berries. That pale skin that looks silky soft. Those kohl-rimmed eyes
that remind me of the waters off Santorini, Greece. Blue like ice melted from the sky.

It’s been two weeks since I knocked her on her ass, and I haven’t seen Maddie once. And I’ve been looking.

Despite my better judgment, I want to look harder.

CHAPTER FIVE

- Maddie -

I’m scribbling down the last of the fire chief’s comments from our phone interview when my boss Roger sticks his head into the cubicle.

“Madeline. Nicole. My office. Now.”

My cubicle-mate Nicole blows out a breath. I close my spiral notebook and glance at her.

“Off to see what little man wants,” she mumbles to herself as she grabs her notebook. “At least this interruption got you to stop gnawing your pen cap.” When she faces me, I can tell from her expression she’s about to unleash her not-so-inner bitch. “Can I just mention that it would be awesome if you had someone oil the swivel in your chair? Because you jiggle your leg like you’re having some kind of seizure, and that noise is about to make me batshit crazy.”

For some reason, Nicole’s not my biggest fan. Even though we were both hired at the same time and should be helping each other in this cut-throat industry, she looks at me like I might give her an STD. I’d say I’m usually a confident person—you don’t make it in broadcasting if you’re a wallflower—but there’s something unnerving about this girl.

Normally, I ignore her comments, but I’ve been averaging less than five hours of sleep a night since I landed this job, and my nerves are shot.

“Nicole, how about we try to pretend we’re on the same team here? Enough with the eat-shit-and-die attitude, okay?”

Her eyebrow pops up. “I’ve never heard you curse before. If I piss you off more, will you do it again?”

That’s her response? No, I don’t curse. Not really. Because all it takes is one slip-up on live television to end up on the back roads of Montana doing segments on the mating patterns of bison.

I don’t even know why Nicole and I sit in the same cubicle aside from the fact that we’re both new. She should be hanging out with the sports department on the other side of the hall, but that office is already packed. I think she’s pissed she got stuck with a news reporter and can’t listen to ESPN all day.

She ignores me, as usual, and curls a long strand of her blonde hair around a French-manicured finger. Nicole looks like she was bred by some cheerleading team in Southern California. There’s even a perky little bounce to her step.

Smoothing down my gray pencil skirt, I watch her indecently short dress flounce as she practically skips down the hall.

When we enter Roger’s office, Nicole turns on the bubbly personality. “Hey, boss, can you believe the footage from training camp today? Man, Daren Sloan has one hell of an arm.”

The moment I hear his name, my heart starts racing.
Jesus, Madeline. Chill out.

I don’t know what my problem is, but ever since I plowed into him, whenever I hear his name, little bolts of electricity shoot through me. I blame those hazel eyes… the way he stared down at me… the way he cradled my neck. And, yeah, the way he remembered my name.
Damn him.