Pick Six

  Pick Six

  Mavericks Tackle Love #2

  Published by Max Monroe LLC © 2018, Max Monroe

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9780998943053

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editing by Silently Correcting Your Grammar

  Formatting by Champagne Book Design

  Cover Design by Peter Alderweireld

  Photo Credit: Wander Aguiar

  Title Font by: Font Forestry

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Intro

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  To all the curvy girls who love tacos and donuts as much as we do:

  You’re fucking beautiful.

  To delirium: Thank you for making hitting this nearly impossible book deadline possible and then erasing any and all memories of the trauma. You’re just like childbirth.

  Our book baby is fucking beautiful—and not at all weird-looking.

  To the music goddess Rihanna: we’re so happy you fictionally agreed to fictionally perform inside this book. You were supersexy, sang amazing, and your fictional concert was on fire.

  We still don’t know what words come after work, work, work, work, work, but we trust you. We’re sure they’re amazing.

  Sean Phillips

  The New York Mavericks

  #26 | Wide Receiver

  Height: 6-3 | Weight: 210 lbs. | Age: 26

  Alma Mater: University of Washington

  Last Season Stats: REC: 112 | YDS: 1533 | TD: 13

  As the best wide receiver in the national professional football league, I’m the envy of almost every man in the United States.

  I’m quick on my feet, sure with my hands, and trained to score frequently. You’d think with my expertise, I would have spent my entire young life playing this position, but the truth is different.

  I’ve played almost every position there is to play in the game of football, and that’s what really makes me good.

  I can adapt. I can visualize.

  And I sure as fuck can win. That’s why I’m in the end zone, and everyone else is standing around holding their dicks.

  I go after what I want, and I always get it.

  Just wait. You’ll see.

  Insanely tall steel framing, cement ceilings, and a gigantic mural of NYC painted on one of the walls, the grandeur of my location was hard to miss. It was substantial and important, and it was the kind of thing that made your stomach flip with excitement.

  I can’t believe I’m officially inside the New York Mavericks’ Stadium with an all-access security pass to boot.

  I smiled, big, proud, overwhelmed.

  Today was a big day.

  Gladiators in the form of professional football gods fought many a battle here, and starting this afternoon, I would be a tiny woman among giants.

  Well, not of the scoring touchdowns or kicking field goals variety, but I’d be all up in their business just the same. I was a video blogger who made money from posting all sorts of hysterical videos to the number one personal content channel in the world, YouCam, and the idea of access to things other people couldn’t see on a regular basis set my blood on fire.

  Popularity on YouCam was all about originality and never-before-seen content, and I was nothing if not a girl with a lack of societal rhythm. I was outspoken, playful, and I rarely gave much attention to being ladylike. My parents, truthfully, were often horrified by how I conducted myself in mixed company. Curses, insults, and dirty jokes were all staples of my repertoire, and they were first-generation immigrants. Apparently, I didn’t do an adequate job of blending.

  Earbuds in and Rihanna’s “Pon De Replay” providing my own personal soundtrack, I walked through the Mavericks’ stadium with a little pep in my step.

  My hips swayed, my toes bounced, and the bagel and cream cheese I’d eaten before arriving blessed me by sparing me its usual heartburn.

  Ready to conquer the world—aka a room full of huge, muscular, professional football players—I followed the instructions Georgia Brooks had given to me via email earlier in the week.

  Six,

  The New York Mavericks organization would like to send you an official welcome. Everyone here is buzzing with excitement over this exclusive series with the very creative, talented, and popular YouCam vlogger, Pick Six.

  We have everything set for Friday at noon. I’ve couriered over a security pass for you. You’ll need that to get into the stadium.

  When you arrive:

  -Park in the back lot marked Staff and use that stadium entrance.

  -Take the elevator to the first floor and take a left.

  -Follow the long hallway until you reach the end, then take a right.

  -You’ll see two big doors (they should be open), and that’s the small auditorium/meeting room where we’ll do the meet-and-greet with the players.

  And I can’t say it enough, everyone here, especially me, is thrilled to have you on board! Don’t hesitate to reach out to me if you have any questions.

  See you Friday!

  Sincerely,

  Georgia Brooks

  Director of Marketing

  The New York Mavericks

  I scanned through the email on my phone and shrugged my shoulders.

  Left, right, big ole set of balls…I mean doors.

  Sounds easy enough. Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I hopped onto the elevator and made my way to the first floor.

  I was so damn pumped I could hardly contain the frenetic energy coursing throughout my body. Like a kid hopped up on Pixy Stix and Mountain Dew, I did my best to tamp down all of the anxious vigor by listening to music as I walked.

  But when I paused to dance it out a bit in the middle of the long and very empty hallway and dropped into position to twerk, I started to rethink my music selection.

  Yeah, okay, Six. How about a little less booty popping and a little more professional and focused?

  I couldn’t take back the dance moves now,
but I could replace them with my game face.

  Which I did.

  Eyes focused forward. Shoulders high. Back straight. Chin up.

  Thanks to the Rocky III Soundtrack, this girl was ready to knock ’em out with charm and sophistication, and tiger’s eye had more meaning to me than its use in my nighttime eyewear. I was ready to win over the crowd, and maybe, if necessary, surprise an attacker with a hard as hell right hook.

  Once I reached the end of the hallway, I took a left and saw the two big doors Georgia’s email had mentioned, but they were closed.

  That’s weird…

  With a quick glance to the watch on my wrist, I confirmed my early arrival and explained away the discrepancy.

  Obviously, Georgia and the players had yet to move on from the last item on their schedule, but that didn’t mean I had to wait.

  I could just go in and acquaint myself with the room, test out the flow, and prepare myself for the acoustics. I might’ve been an expert at chitchat, but that didn’t mean I was impervious to nerves and occasionally using an outside voice when I should have used one designed for inside. Yeah, a few quiet moments to get my thoughts in order was a fantastic idea.

  Hand wrapped around the metal handle, I switched my playlist yet again to Shania Twain singing about feeling like a woman and pushed gently, but the damn door didn’t budge.

  Thanks to being vertically challenged, this kind of thing actually happened to me a lot.

  With an annoyed sigh, I bent my elbows and pressed my hip to the wood, and with all of the energy my five-foot-one body could muster, I shoved. Hard.

  With a creak and a crank, the doors opened…six inches.

  My face was distorted as I took four deep breaths and sucked in hard to make myself skinny enough to slip inside. I keened and wailed a little, but the sounds were muffled by my scream as the doors I’d just come through closed and swallowed me into utter darkness.

  Ah, fuck.

  Light switch, light switch…

  The cinder block wall felt bumpy under my fingertips as I scrubbed tentatively along the area to my side. I estimated the switch to be at throat height, but as anxiety crept in, my legs spread and bent, pulling me into a fearful squat.

  Arms stretched above my head now, I crab-walked the line of the wall to a corner and then down another wall, but the next corner came too soon.

  Jesus flipping Christmas, am I in a closet?

  I was going to miss the biggest break of my blogging life because I couldn’t get the fuck out of a closet! I panicked then, turning back to the doors and pulling with all of my body weight, but they wouldn’t open again. Sweat pooled in my armpits and under my baby boobs. They started to cry at the possibility of facing some of the hottest men on the planet while sporting sweat underlines.

  “Hush, little babies,” I comforted my breasts. “It’ll all be okay. Mama’s gonna get you out of here.”

  Oh God, I was hysterical.

  Chill out, Six. You’re just nervous because you’re about to meet the freaking New York Mavericks.

  Surely, the auditorium was just on the other side of this wall. This was an entryway, not a closet.

  Yeah, had to be.

  I ignored the sense of impending doom and turned back to the other wall in search of another door.

  The handle felt cool against my palm when I finally located it, so I took a moment to press my overheated boobs to the surface. They cheered their gratefulness, and my mind cleared, poised and ready to conquer all over again.

  This time, the door opened easily, and I pointed at it victoriously as though I’d gotten away with something.

  But my momentary confidence skidded to a halt, along with my feet, once I found myself a few inches into the actual room.

  The landscape didn’t make sense. At fucking all.

  A shelf of white towels. Bins of dirty laundry.

  Football equipment scattered pretty much everywhere.

  Unless the Mavericks’ auditorium for meetings looked a lot like a locker room, it was safe to say I was in the wrong place.

  Ho-lee shit. This is literally a locker room.

  Oh. My. God. Can anyone see me?

  Like I was watching a tennis match at lightning-fast speed, I swiveled my head back and forth to find out the answer, but the adrenaline coursing through my veins made rational thought impossible.

  I dropped down to the floor, ninja style, did a roll to put out the imaginary fire, and crawled behind a giant cart filled with white towels.

  I was officially reporting from behind enemy genitalia lines. If I were truly lucky, I might actually find the big set of balls I’d thought Georgia had sent me to find.

  With my back pressed into the wall and my body hidden behind the towel cart, I exhaled the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

  Good God. Had I really just stumbled into the New York Maverick’s locker room? Like, the real one? Maybe this was, like, the west wing locker room that they never used.

  Well, good news, these are clean towels instead of dirty jock straps sitting right in front of your nose…

  As I lifted my gaze from the towels, I realized the cart I was using as my own personal cloaking device was essentially see-through. Like, if I peeked just above the rows of towels, I could see straight into the locker room.

  Everything, in the locker room.

  Then, as if on cue, a penis walked by…

  A walking penis. Right in front of my face.

  Well, it didn’t have legs, but it had balls. Huge balls.

  Don’t worry, Mrs. Brooks. I’ve located them.

  My ears buzzed loudly, and everything around me turned to white noise. Apparently, adrenaline rushes made my brain prioritize penis sightings over actual sounds, and I couldn’t really criticize its priorities. I’d much, much rather see penises than hear what someone said if they caught me seeing them.

  Speaking of penises, there goes another…

  Like Dr. Seuss had trained me for, they came in all sizes and shapes.

  One dick, two dicks, red dick, blue dick, and all that.

  Okay, so there weren’t any blue dicks, but that was beside the point.

  With some circumcised and a few sporting turtlenecks, these puppies were out and ready to party.

  Men in white towels. Men naked. Men half dressed. Men in boxer briefs.

  It was a buffet of delectable muscles, and I was the thirsty weirdo in the corner salivating over sausages.

  Holy moly, this is like a hot guy secret convention.

  But with dicks. Lots and lots of dicks.

  Like my brain flipped the on switch for my ears, all at once, the sounds of the room blared inside my head. Music with deep bass, hearty laughter, and loud chatter reverberated throughout the large space. And the sounds of running water echoed from the far back corner as steam billowed up toward the ceiling from what I assumed were the showers.

  Those are the very showers where all of these penises get clean.

  Jesus. What was wrong with me? Why was I still sitting on the ground staring at all of the man candy?

  Dick-i-pops. Cock-tarts. Shaft-treats.

  Fucking hell, now is not the time to come up with penis-inspired candy names.

  I had to get it together and get the H-E-double hockey sticks out of here before someone saw me.

  It’d taken months and months of persistence and contact with Georgia Brooks, the Mavericks’ Director of Marketing, to get this gig of a lifetime. And I highly doubted she’d be too thrilled if she found out, on the day I was supposed to actually meet the team, I’d taken a pit stop into their locker rooms to hobnob it up with the shafts and schlongs of the organization.

  Hell, I’d traveled from San Diego, which was literally across the freaking country, just to be here. Not to mention the fact that I’d be living out of my suitcase inside of hotel rooms whenever I was in New York or at away games for filming.

  Thankfully, all travel, including flights, was paid for by the Mavericks’
organization, but still, I’d worked my ass off and sacrificed the comforts of home to get this big career chance.

  Rare and amazing, this opportunity wasn’t the norm, and I couldn’t let a little cock bomb distract me from the prize. Endorsed by the New York Mavericks as this season’s official YouCam vlogger, I’d scored an eight-episode series with my dad’s and my favorite professional football team, and if things went really well, there was even the possibility of seeing this upcoming series on actual television.

  Which is exactly why you should rethink your current location…

  The longer I sat here, hiding behind a towel cart and staring at dicks, the closer the opportunity drapes got to the fireplace.

  Wide-eyed and heart pounding wildly inside of my chest, I peeked over the towels again and glanced around the room to see if anyone had noticed my presence.

  Instantly, I sighed in relief when I noted everyone inside the locker room was completely oblivious to the little voyeur behind the linen cart.

  Thank God, I thought to myself, but for some unknown reason, I didn’t move.

  God, I’m so creepy right now, like a little Peeping Tom.

  I really needed to get the fuck out of here.

  But before I plotted my getaway plan, I saw it.

  Well, him. Sean motherfucking Phillips. One of my top ten favorite professional football players, and oftentimes, when I watched Mavericks games, the sole recipient of my attention.

  Good God, he was glorious.

  Gloriously naked.

  Him. His body. And his…Holy peen-asurus-rex.

  As Sean Phillips’s penis and I made direct eye contact, all I could think was no wonder women flock to him like he’s some kind of god among men. It was perfect in shape and impressive in size, and I would swear until the day I died that the snake between his legs had used its one and only eye to wink at me.

  Like my own personal mirage, he beckoned from the other side of the room.

  That penis deserved headshots and an agent and his own Hollywood film. If American Idol looked for the X-factor in future musicians, I’d just found the star among swinging shafts.