Risky Game (3 page)

“What can I get you?” Her smoky Texas drawl seemed out of place with her gawky body, but it was doing crazy things to Brody’s.

Nate went into full narcissist mode. “We’re thirsty. I’d figure you PhD candidates would possess a little more powers of observation than the average Joe.”

Huh? She was a grad student?
That explained her constantly cowering in the corner with a computer each day. It didn’t explain what she was doing with the Blaze, though.

“I see that. What can I get you?” she patiently repeated.

“I’ll have a Michelob in a bottle. No glass necessary. How’s about you, Brody?”

There was no way in hell he was letting Nate know he wasn’t drinking. “I’m good.”

“No way, man, let me buy you a drink. Our lovely
Hairnet Lady
is pouring.”

The bartender—Shannon, Nate had said her name was—didn’t flinch at the little prick’s words or his tone. Points to her for having a backbone.
A very sexy backbone.
Reaching into the cooler beneath the bar, she pulled out a bottle of Michelob, opened it with flick of her wrist, and handed it to Nate.

“Come on, Brody, order up. Pick something complicated and let’s see if we can fluster her.”

“You can’t fluster Sha-nay-nay,” DeShawn said as he joined them, offering the bartender a wide smile. “She’s a pro at this. Learned at her grandaddy’s knee.”

Her mouth twitched as her eyes met Brody’s. Before he knew what she was doing, she’d taken the empty glass from his hand. She dumped it in the slop sink as she pulled a fresh one from the shelf. DeShawn and Nate were busy checking the baseball scores on Nate’s phone. Brody watched as she filled the glass with ice and covertly poured a Perrier on top. Tossing in a slice of lime, she brought the drink over to him.

“This should do the trick,” she said softly.

Brody stood still. He’d ordered his earlier drink from the bartender downstairs. How had she known what he was drinking—or not drinking? She offered up a lopsided smile before taking off down the bar to wait on other customers. Brody desperately wanted her to come back. Except he didn’t. He was afraid those whiskey eyes could see right down to his soul.

No doubt about it,
Nate Dumas was a narcissist. A textbook one at that. Shay didn’t have to go back to her undergraduate psychology class notes for the diagnosis; she had real-life examples to back up her findings. Starting with the previous night at Celtic Charm. He’d taken great delight in strolling up and informing Shay she’d be joining the team for the game in Boston. She would have been ecstatic for the opportunity provided she’d been given some sort of notice. Her gut told her Nate had only decided to include her after he’d seen her tending bar. Judging from the challenge she’d seen in his eyes, he knew he had her over a barrel. If she said no, he’d leave her in the commissary, serving meals for the rest of the season. If she said yes, she’d be scurrying when her shift ended at three
A.M.
to make the team’s noon flight.

What Nate didn’t know was that this wasn’t Shay’s first rodeo. She’d grown up in a house with a game-playing narcissist. While her physique may be tall and gangly, Shay didn’t break easily. It had actually been humorous to see Nate flinch slightly when she’d told him she’d be on the shuttle to the airport at ten thirty.

That was twenty hours ago.

Right now, Shay was dead on her feet and regretting her decision to rise to the trainer’s bait. After a brief nap, she’d woken early this morning to throw a change of clothes in an overnight bag, drop her car off at the repair shop, and reschedule the swim lessons she’d planned to teach that weekend. She’d made the charter bus with minutes to spare. Once they’d arrived at the Boston hotel, Shay was furious to learn that she was again relegated to serving food to the players.

The Blaze commandeered one of the large ballrooms, using it for meetings and to run through plays. Off to the side was a separate dining room where the team, staff, and guests could enjoy a buffet dinner or a snack. It was eight o’clock in the evening and most of the players were taking advantage of their downtime by either giving interviews to the media or relaxing in their rooms before a mandatory team meeting at nine. Trying to keep her body awake, Shay occupied herself by clearing some of the tables in the room.

A teenage girl, one of the coach’s daughters, sat alone at a table, her head in her hand as she stared forlornly at a textbook in front of her.

“Chemistry,” Shay said wistfully as she glanced over the girl’s shoulder. “One of my favorite subjects.”

The girl’s crystalline blue eyes went round as she gazed up at Shay in disbelief. “Are you kidding? You actually understand this stuff?”

“Sure. It’s all just math.”

The girl let out a melodramatic groan, before doing a face-plant right into the open textbook. “Shoot me now, because I might hate math more than chemistry,” she mumbled against the pages.

Shay had to smile at her antics, but science and math were her bedrocks and she hated when teenage girls felt threatened by the two subjects. Sitting down in the chair beside the teen, Shay tapped the tube of lip gloss next to the girl’s pencil. “Did you know that cosmetics companies employ teams of specialized chemists to develop and test each new line of makeup, perfume, lotion, or soap?”

The girl blinked a wary eye at Shay.

“I’m serious,” Shay went on. “There are thousands of career opportunities for a girl with a solid background in math and science.”

“No offense, but you’re a cafeteria lady. Did you study math and science for that job?”

Ouch.

Shay belatedly remembered her ever-present hairnet, whipping it off her head.

“Actually,” she scrubbed at her frizzy hair in a futile attempt to fluff it out. “I’m about to get my PhD in nutrition from Johns Hopkins. I’m only doing an internship with the Blaze for college credit.”

“You’re getting college credit for serving food?”

“No . . . er, yes, I guess. I’m supposed to be working with the trainers, but Nate keeps me on soup kitchen duty.”

The girl wrinkled up her nose. “Nate, ick!”

Shay laughed. “My thoughts exactly.”

“So what will you do with a PhD in nutrition?”

“I hope to work with world-class swimmers to train them how to properly fuel their bodies with food for peak performance.” Of course, what she hoped to do with her degree and what she was being forced to do with it were two different things.

“Like with Michael Phelps? That actually sounds cool,” the girl said before fingering her textbook with a sigh. “But we’ve been in school nearly two weeks and I can’t understand anything Mr. Wu has taught so far. And we have our first quiz on Monday.”

“Maybe I can help?” Shay pulled the textbook closer. “I used to tutor high school math and science when I was an undergraduate.”

“You did?”

Shay nodded.

A hopeful grin spread over the girl’s face. “I’m Emma,” she said sheepishly.

Shay reached out a hand. “Shannon. But my friends call me Shay.”

The next hour flew by as Shay helped Emma with her homework, her exhaustion and anger forgotten as she let her mind exercise its way through chemistry problems and higher math, two things that had always been her escape.

Reality came crashing in as the players began to straggle back toward the ballroom.

“Shannon!” Nate called in his drill sergeant’s voice. “You need to make sure the snack trays are ready. These guys need carbs before they go to bed tonight.”

Shay shoved her hair into her hairnet with a grimace. “Back to the grind. Hey, if a miracle doesn’t happen next week and I’m still in the commissary, stop by and tell me how the quiz went, okay?”

Emma nodded, her bright smile dimming to a look of horror as DeShawn Wilson burst into the room, spewing obscenities and ransacking chairs.

“Hey!” Emma’s father, Blaze head coach Matt Richardson, charged after DeShawn.

“That bitch wrote about me in her blog!” DeShawn yelled. “Personal stuff! Things only someone in our locker room would know about.” He threw another chair for good measure.

“What are you talking about?” Donovan Carter, chief of security for the Blaze, tried to subdue DeShawn.

“That bitch who writes
The Girlfriends’ Guide to the NFL.”

“Hey!” Coach yelled again, gesturing toward his daughter.

Shay helped Emma gather up her books and motioned her out of the ballroom as DeShawn mumbled an apology.

No sooner had Emma cleared the door, he started his rant again. “Someone on this team sold me out to her. One of you told her things about me that now everyone can read in her damn blog! That’s betrayal man! You betrayed this team’s trust.”

“All right, all right.” Coach held his hands up to calm the crowd of players in the room. “That’s exactly what this woman wants. To turn us against ourselves right before a big game. Whoever is behind this is just trying to get in our heads.”

DeShawn wasn’t about to be pacified. “That damn woman read through my devotional book I keep in my locker and found the appointment card for when I got my teeth whitened. Man, I’ve got a six-figure endorsement deal with a toothpaste company. You think they won’t drop me when they find out?”

“Who says it’s a woman?” The words were out of Shay’s mouth before she realized it. Sixty pairs of testosterone-charged eyes turned to her in stunned silence, including Brody Janik’s. She was a fool to speak up. After all, she’d been in that locker room looking for gossip to sell to the same blogger. Apparently someone else had been in there, too. Someone who could have just as easily been in there the other night and heard Brody’s secret. And that was a piece of gossip that could derail a career.

Brody’s deep blue eyes studied hers, searching for something. The familiar heat surged to the surface of her skin as he gazed at her. Could he somehow know she’d been in the locker room the other night? That she knew his deepest secret? That she’d take it to her grave?

“Is there something you’d like to share with us, miss?” Donovan Carter asked, rousing Shay back to the present.
Hell’s bells, I’ve stepped in it now.
Her mama always warned her about her mouth being faster than her brain. The blogger’s identity could be easily uncovered with a little effort and deductive reasoning, but she couldn’t say more without giving herself away. Jerking up her chin, she decided the best course of action was to play the female card.

“Just defending my gender,” she said before parading past a seething Nate to take her place in the galley.

“Tell Mom to stop
hassling me, Gwen. I’m not bringing an inappropriate date to Tricia’s wedding because I won’t be bringing a date at all. Problem solved,” Brody snapped at his sister.

It was Monday evening and he was testy after the Blaze were narrowly defeated by the Patriots the night before; the loss resulting from a controversial play with seconds left in the game. The winning touchdown should have been his, had it not been for a defensive player’s hand glued to Brody’s back, knocking him off his route. A hand that was apparently invisible to the referee because interference hadn’t been called. Adding salt to the wound, the Blaze players watched in disgust as the scene was replayed on the jumbotron, the infraction glaringly obvious, as the Patriots trotted off the field in victory.

“Do you think going dateless is such a smart idea?” The humor in Gwen’s voice traveled through the cell phone mounted in the dash of Brody’s Range Rover. “You’d be fair game for every woman there. I think Mom just wants to make sure you don’t detract attention from the bride. Like when one of the Kennedy kids tried to bring Taylor Swift to his cousin’s wedding. She’s worried you’ll bring Candi the porn star or someone equally scene-stealing.”

Brody gritted his teeth. “For the one millionth time, Candi is an
adult-film actress
.”

“There’s a difference?” his sister teased.

Braking at a red light, Brody massaged his left shin where another player’s cleat had left a painful bruise. He’d spent the last couple of hours with several of his teammates at the practice facility letting the training staff administer to his various aches and pains. “Do you have anything work related to discuss? Because, if not, I’m gonna hang up now.”

Gwen laughed. “You are such a poor loser.”

“Bye-bye.” He reached out a hand to disconnect the call.

“Wait! I do have some decisions I need your okay on. I’ll be nice, I promise.”

Twelve years and three sisters separated him from his oldest sibling. But Brody felt closer to Gwen than he did to his parents; probably because while he was growing up, she’d been the one to intervene when his other sisters insisted on using him as their own personal plaything. The mother of two school-age children herself, Gwen was responsible for handling Brody’s personal correspondence and other publicity issues. It was a job she could do from her home in Boston, which suited them both perfectly. Brody loved his four older sisters. He just loved them more when they were eight hours away.

“Get to the point,” he said as he punched on the gas, merging with the cars on Central Avenue. “I’m on my way home to watch
Monday Night Football
.”

“I know tomorrow’s your day off, but please go over the proposal for the charity auction. You have a meeting with the board next week and they’ll want your agreement.”

“More like they want my money,” he grumbled. Brody didn’t mind sharing his wealth with those in need, but lately he was beginning to feel like a blank check, autonomous in the whole operation of his own charity.

His sister ignored his comment. “
Menswear
magazine wanted you to do a resort spread on your bye weekend, but I had to nix that since Tricia’s wedding is the same day. They won’t give up. They were wondering if you’d do a shoot for their holiday issue, but it would have to be before the end of this month. And they’d need you in New York. Should I tell them they’ll have to come to Baltimore if they want you?”

Brody scrubbed a hand down his face. One of his other sisters, Ashley, was a buyer for Nordstrom. She’d been dressing Brody his entire life. Fortunately for him, he’d outgrown her doll clothes by the time he was eighteen months old. Ash was talented, though, and thanks to her critical eye, he knew he always looked his best, unintentionally finding his way onto many best-dressed lists. But he was getting tired of being known as just another pretty face.

“No.” Time to draw the line on the turf. “Tell them I’m not interested in doing any more photo shoots. I’m done modeling.”

“Crikey, Brody, you are grouchy today.”

He remained silent, easing up on the gas as he entered a school zone.

Gwen blew out a breath. “Okay, as you wish. I’ll tell them the holiday spread is a no, but I’m not closing the door on future shoots in case you’re less hormonal tomorrow and you change your mind. Now, about this personal chef person you want; are you serious? It’s not like you to be so pretentious as to want someone to cook your meals for you. Did I misunderstand your text? I already order all your groceries for you every week. Is there a problem with the delivery service?”

“No, Gwen, you’re the perfect mommy. I just want someone to actually prepare the food you have sent in.”

“Well, jeez, Brody, if you’re that lazy, I’ll tell the company to deliver the food already prepared. They can do that, you know. It just gets a little pricey, but, hey, if that’s what you want.”

It wasn’t what he wanted. Because then he’d have to tell his sister about his blood sugar issues. If his coven of motherly sisters found out, he’d be toast. And that was before they’d rat him out to their mother. Just the thought gave him the willies.

“No, I want someone to cook the meals fresh. Someone who understands nutrition. I’m trying to eat a more balanced diet to keep my body at its peak.” As lies went, his was easily sustainable.

His sister let out a snort, which Brody ignored.

“Just figure out how I hire such a person, Gwen.”

The laughter was back in her voice. “Are there any other specifications you have? Blond? Brunette? Maybe a redhead? Ooh la la, should she be French?”

“Hanging up now.” Brody punched the disconnect button, silencing his sister’s laughter.

All the talk of food made his stomach growl. He’d ventured into the commissary at the practice facility earlier to grab a snack, telling himself he wasn’t looking for a certain whiskey-eyed, leggy woman in a hairnet. But when he didn’t see her there, he’d left without eating anything. Now he wanted a sandwich. A meaty concoction from Santoni’s deli.

It was dinnertime in suburbia and the parking lot of the gourmet market-deli was full. Navigating his SUV into a spot, Brody tried to stroll inconspicuously into the store, but a buzz went up immediately as he was recognized by the shoppers.

“Tough game last night.”

“Damn refs. They’re all blind.”

Brody acknowledged the comments of the Blaze faithful with a head bob and a slight smile as he made a beeline for the deli counter.

“Hey, hey, number eighty, where you been?” Tito, the deli manager, greeted Brody with a booming voice. “Those freakin’ refs were all a bunch of homers last night. They need binoculars, for sure. You want your usual?” He was already slicing the bread before he’d finished his question. Despite the fact he liked celebrities in his store, Tito knew Brody didn’t want to stand around and field questions from fans after a loss.

Trying to look busy, Brody was scanning his cell phone screen when a pair of familiar legs, decked out in formfitting yoga shorts, passed through his peripheral vision. His heart rate sped up as he followed her with his eyes. Unfortunately, his weren’t the only ones trailing the cafeteria lady–bartender. He watched as three college-age twerps tailed her down an aisle, their body language shouting they were up to something.

“Be right back,” he said to Tito as he rounded the corner of the endcap stacked with Goldfish crackers.

“Aww, come on,” one of the frat boys was saying. “I know you were into us the other night at the bar. Why don’t you come by our place tonight and hang with us. We can do some shots and watch some football.”

Brody could only imagine what the three idiots wanted to do to her once they’d gotten her drunk. Whiskey Eyes—he thought he remembered Nate calling her Shannon—was tougher than she looked, though; something he’d already figured out about her. Sporting a “Don’t Mess with Texas” T-shirt, she kept her stance casual even as the three boxed her in.

“Sorry, fellas. I have class tomorrow. But thanks.” Her sexy drawl lulled two of the boys into dazed adoration.

Frat boy number three wasn’t taking no for an answer, though. Belligerently shifting closer, he reached out and grabbed her elbow. Before she could yank her arm free, Brody was heading down the aisle. He grabbed a random box from the shelf and stepped around to her other side.

“Babe,” he said as he slipped the box—a brownie mix—into the handbasket she was carrying. “Do we have any eggs? I thought we could make these tonight.” Placing his palm on her lower back, he pulled her closer toward him, the gesture a universal signal of possession among males.

Brody wasn’t sure who was more startled, the bartender or the three guys hounding her. Her eyes dilated briefly before her long lashes blinked closed. When she opened them again, she seemed to recover a bit of her equilibrium.

“Umm . . .” Her tongue darted over her lower lip, and Brody’s whole body went on alert. “No. No, we, um, we need eggs.”

Giving her back a reassuring rub, he took her basket and guided her away from the three, treating them to the cat-ate-the-canary grin he gave defensive players when he’d beaten them to the football. Once they’d rounded the corner, she blew out a breath, stepping away from his hand at her back.

“Whoa there, Texas.” Brody wrapped his arm across her shoulders. “Keep playing along until they leave,” he said quietly as they made their way toward the dairy section. She kept her eyes down, avoiding the rest of the shoppers who’d begun to take notice of him again.

“That’s Brody Janik,” college boy number three yelled out to his friends. “No way he’s tapping someone like her! Not when he’s got hot models and porn stars to choose from.”

He felt her cringe beneath his arm.

“Ah, hell. Now I’m gonna have to hit that guy,” Brody muttered, his body teeming with anger.

She turned on him, those whiskey eyes filled with alarm. “No! You’re not going to fight over me,” she cried as her hands clenched on to his shirt, the tips of her fingers brushing his chest. Heat surged through him.

“Fine, we’ll do this the pacifist’s way,” he said, just before he dropped the basket and pulled her in for a kiss.

His timing was impeccable, the pests rounded the corner just as Brody took a hold of her toned ass. Not that he was paying attention to the three stooges anymore. He was too busy enjoying the soft mouth of the pliant female in his arms. She was tall enough that he didn’t have to bend himself like a pretzel to kiss her, his body parts meeting up nicely with hers. Her lips parted easily and Brody took advantage, exploring her wide, sweet mouth. A soft moan escaped the back of her throat and her fingers gripped his shirt a little tighter, but she didn’t engage in the kiss. Too bad, because Brody could have kissed her all night. Her skin was warm beneath his touch and he realized she was flushed with embarrassment. Jesus, he was mauling a stranger in a grocery store. Reluctantly, he broke contact, resting his forehead against hers as he tried to get his breathing—and his body parts—under control.

“That ought to do it,” he whispered.

“If you say so.”

Her eyes remained closed—probably from shame—and he was disappointed that the sexual attraction was so obviously one-sided.

 • • • 

Brody Janik was kissing
her, exploring her mouth with a delicacy and tenderness that belied the power of his muscled body. Shay was so stunned by the events of the previous five minutes, that all she could do was stand there.
Stand there and enjoy it
. Truth be told, she was enjoying his kiss right down to the tips of her toes, not to mention everywhere else south of the border. Her fingers, furled in his shirt, itched to feel the sculpted chest she knew lay beneath the soft cotton, but she couldn’t summon the strength to move them. The masterful stroke of his tongue against hers held her entire body transfixed.

And then, just as suddenly as the kiss began, it ended. Shay kept her eyes closed in an effort to retrieve her scattered wits. The murmur of the shoppers surrounding them began to penetrate her senses, but it was Brody’s words that brought her crashing back to reality.

That ought to do it
, he’d murmured.

Shay’s eyelids snapped open to see Brody’s trademark baby blues inches from her own face, his forehead resting against hers. His pupils were bright with mischief and that’s when it hit her: Brody Janik wasn’t kissing her to
kiss
her. He’d kissed her as part of some sort of male-posturing ego trip; the big steer in the herd asserting his dominance. The flush stinging her cheeks, originally brought on by potent desire, was now fueled by embarrassment. And anger.

Closing her eyes again in order to calm the bitter sting of reality, she uttered something. What words she spoke, she wasn’t sure, but her tone was enough for Brody to break the contact between their foreheads. When she pried her eyelids open once again, his own eyes had dimmed and his body was rigid. Shay forced her fingers to release their death grip on his shirt.

“Don’t blow it with a knee to my groin, Texas,” he murmured. “I think they’ve bought it and they’ll leave without any more nonsense.”

Her gaze locked with his. “Does that mean your hand can leave my person now?”

The warm caress of his palm on her left butt cheek relaxed and Shay felt a little bereft as he slowly lifted it away. Her glute muscle twinged in protest.

“Sorry.” His apology stung further, but she still couldn’t seem to walk away, to put some distance between their two bodies. They stood in the crowded market, inches apart. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the sweet scent of freshly showered skin, and taste the mint left from his tongue. Which meant he could probably smell and taste the chlorine on her
.
Argh!
Shay took a giant step back, just then noticing the eyes of the shoppers who didn’t bother hiding their interest in Brody’s activities. Her face felt like it was on fire now.

One of the deli workers slipped a sandwich wrapped in white butcher paper into the handbasket Brody had retrieved from the floor. Her handbasket!