Wildcat (Mavericks Tackle Love Book 1) Read online

  Finally, by sheer force of will, I suspected, as my eyes were moments away from turning into lasers and my hand was starting to cramp up from randomly scrolling through my apps, a text message popped up on the screen.

  Catharine: I…have no idea. I was just talking about my plant. I’m confused and completely blank as to how I should answer you. I tried to think of something cute, but…I’ve got nothing.

  I smiled, completely tickled by her unease—especially the fact that she’d shared it with me.

  Me: Well, I can tell you. According to Cosmopolitan magazine, good boys do the following: they put the toilet seat down, bring home flowers for no reason, listen when you’re talking to them, and plan surprise vacations.

  Her response was immediate and made me laugh embarrassingly loud.

  Catharine: :( My ficus doesn’t do any of that.

  Sean was looking at me funny and a couple of fans were creeping in, but I did something I hardly ever did and turned my back to all of them. I just wanted this moment, a couple more exchanges with Cat, and then I’d get back to them.

  Me: Looks like I’m going to have to give him some lessons.

  Catharine: You mean to tell me YOU do those things?

  Me: I can do almost anything when truly motivated, kitten.

  Catharine: Wow. I think I’m impressed. Maybe a little scared.

  I looked up as someone bumped into my elbow, creeping so far into my personal space that they’d be able to read my screen despite my special privacy cover soon.

  I tilted my phone away and leaned, hoping the moment would hold long enough to tell her goodnight.

  Me: Sounds like the perfect combination to me. I’ve gotta get these guys off their barstools and into cabs, but we’ll talk in the morning, okay?

  Catharine: Um, okay. Have fun.

  I felt unbelievably unsatisfied, like I had conversational blue balls, but I knew what had to be done. If I waited any longer, there’d be hell to pay and teammates to bail out of jail.

  “You done?” Sean asked, shouldering in between me and the nosy fan without shame. He wasn’t rude, but he wasn’t overtly accommodating like I was either.

  I nodded, noting the lipstick smears on his neck and the spot where the missing button at the top of his shirt used to be.

  He’d disappeared earlier, for the better part of an hour. And given the opportunity now, I asked about it, even though I was fairly certain his disheveled appearance said the answer. “Where’d you go before?”

  His cheeks dimpled as he smirked before draining the dregs of his bottle of beer.

  “Nowhere.”

  Nowhere was code for somewhere with someone doing a few sexual somethings. He was highly sexually active in a way even I didn’t really understand.

  And trust me, I loved to fuck.

  I shook my head and smiled, a loud slap to his shoulder my kickstarter to the end of the evening. It was time to get this show on the road.

  “All right!” I shouted as I spun around on my stool. Everyone in the bar’s attention came to me.

  “If you belong to me,” I started, “down your drinks, pay your tabs, tip Amber,” I nodded to the bartender, and she bowed at me, “and get your ass outside.”

  Murmurs started up immediately, and a couple of the guys rolled their eyes, but everyone moved. They were used to this and used to me, making sure they kept their act together, got home safely, and didn’t ruin a good thing for the whole fucking team by being an irresponsible drunk asshole.

  I grabbed a few sheets of paper that hit me in the chest on the way out and gave them a quick sign, and then herded the guys together on the sidewalk. When I did a count, we were a couple over.

  I took another look, and when I really paid attention, it was pretty easy to tell who didn’t belong—their breasts were a dead giveaway.

  “Okay, ladies. Time to hit it,” I instructed, giving a wink and a smile as I indicated they should exit the group.

  This always seemed to happen when I did the roundup, a couple of women trying to blend into our flow. Sometimes they had help from the guys, and sometimes they did it all on their own. Either way, it wasn’t a good idea.

  Oran Wells, the Mavericks middle linebacker, frowned at me and pulled his companion closer. I looked into his eyes to see they were glassy and dilated.

  “Sorry, Oran. Practice starts at five sharp. That’s zero five hundred in military speak. You think she’s gonna help you get out of bed?”

  “Negative,” Sean muttered, and the rest of the guys laughed.

  I stepped up and pulled Oran away, wrapping my arm around his shoulder as I led him to a cab.

  “Look, I’ll give you a free shot tomorrow,” I offered, my tone conciliatory. “Seriously, I’ll make sure Sam lets you come right through. But tonight, I’ve gotta block you.”

  “Cockblock!” he accused, and I laughed.

  “A descendant of the devil, I know. But if it’s any consolation, every time I do it to another man, I get one in return added to my curse. It’s like a séance of male sex bonding or something.”

  “You’re twisted, QB,” he mumbled as I dropped him down into the seat of the cab and gave the driver directions.

  “I will be when you take your free shot,” I returned easily and slammed the door.

  After a double tap to the metal top of the cab, they were off like a shot.

  I looked back at the group on the sidewalk and sighed.

  One down, five to go.

  The remnants of my dream faded away, and the tinglings of reality started to seep in through my senses. The warmth of my down comforter reminded me that I was far too cozy to get out of my bed. Streaks of morning sunlight penetrated the window and, if I’d allow my eyes to open, would probably blind me.

  It felt early.

  Slowly and reluctantly, I uncovered my face. I blinked, closed my eyes, and blinked again. And the sun did exactly what I’d guessed it would, damn near blinding me back into a closed-lid state until I could turn my head and partially cover my face with my cupped hand.

  What in the hell time is it?

  Groggily, I snagged my phone off my nightstand and checked the time: 7:05 a.m.

  “Seriously?” I questioned into the silence of my bedroom.

  I groaned. Most days, unless I had an early flight, I didn’t wake up until a little after nine. Seven a.m. was a time only tolerated for work purposes. Not days where I didn’t have to be to the airport until two.

  My phone vibrated and shot off an alarm in my hand. I startled and dropped it on top of my mattress and just kind of stared down at it in a sleepy, “What the hell is happening?” kind of state.

  I had no idea what that alarm meant, but as my mind started to filter memories into my brain, I quickly realized it had been that very alarm—that godawful sound—that was the culprit behind my early morning wake-up call.

  I really needed to learn to use the Do Not Disturb option.

  With my phone in hand, I finally found the strength to sit up in bed, drag my feet off the mattress, and rub the knuckles of my free hand onto my eyes. I stretched my arms above my head and yawned until I found myself just watching my legs dangle above the hardwood floors of my apartment.

  If the director of The Walking Dead was in my room looking for extras, no doubt, I’d be cast in a starring zombie role.

  Despite my tired as fuck, ready to complain about every-fucking-thing state, the unknown alarm on my phone didn’t seem to give a rat’s ass. Its sound reverberated off the cream walls of my bedroom and vibrated in my hand like it was actually meant to alert me to something.

  For fuck’s sake! What do you want?

  Finally, with sort of focused eyes, I stared down at the notification. It had the little Instagram icon and the words: Direct Message from Quinn Bailey.

  Huh? My eyes squinted in confusion as I reread the notification, only to find that I’d read it correctly the first time.

  I tapped the screen, and it took me directly to the
social media platform.

  Apparently, Instagram had an inbox section where you could send and receive messages. It was news to me. Not to mention, my inbox was filled with no less than ten messages, all from Quinn Bailey.

  How did he even know I was on Instagram?

  Holy hell. My eyes popped wide open of their own accord. Was it because I had social media stalked him last night?

  Had he found out?

  Oh. My. God. He probably knows I followed him.

  One light tap to the heart icon, and all of my notifications popped up on the screen.

  Quinn Bailey liked your photo.

  1 new follower Quinn Bailey.

  New Direct Message from Quinn Bailey.

  Quinn Bailey liked your photo.

  New Direct Message from Quinn Bailey.

  That was just half of them.

  And here I thought I was the social media stalker out of the two of us.

  Apparently, that little bastard of an alarm that had woken me up at the butt crack of dawn was actually the Instagram notification chime. Go figure. It also showed just how much I generally paid attention to social media—a big fat zero for anyone keeping count.

  As I pushed myself to my feet and stumbled toward the kitchen for coffee, I opened up the first message sent at 5:30 a.m.

  It was a video, and I clicked play and watched in rapt attention as the screen of my phone came to life with Quinn Bailey.

  Surrounded by mirrored walls, larger-than-life men moving about behind him, and every variation of weight-lifting equipment, it was pretty easy to ascertain, even for an anti-gym rat like myself, that he was in the weight room.

  Providing me a bird’s eye view of his workout, he proceeded to demonstrate the proper way to do bicep curls. It was like my own personal infomercial. Only, at the end, I wouldn’t be asked to send in three payments of $19.99. Although, with the way his sculpted muscles flexed and rippled with each curling lift of his forearms, I imagined I’d be tempted to lick my screen and attach a debit card to arrange for monthly installments.

  “Now, Kitty Cat,” he instructed, “it is important that you never take more weight than you can handle. That’s how injuries happen.” He held the phone toward his face and grinned into the camera as he finished his current set with the opposite arm.

  Entranced by all of the muscle, I kept my eyes glued to every flex and curl that was bestowed upon me. Good Lord, this was better than porn.

  Once he set the weight down, I frowned but continued watching, secretly hoping there would be more muscle show-and-tell.

  Show me the muscle! my pervy mind shouted like Jerry Maguire.

  The video continued, and Quinn walked around the room, pointing the camera toward the large, muscular men that dominated the otherwise large space.

  Yeah. Definitely better than porn.

  “Everyone say hello to Cat!” he shouted and immediately received several loud Heys and Yos and What ups.

  After he took me on a short tour of the weight room, showing me the equipment, the location of the water station, and introducing me to more men that I assumed were actual New York Mavericks football players, he turned the screen back to his face and said, “I’m going to finish up in here, Kitty Cat. But don’t worry, I’ll be sending you more messages this morning. See ya in a little bit.” He flashed one blue-eyed wink, and a second later, the video ended.

  My nose scrunched up, but the disappointment was brief until I clicked back to my inbox and remembered that it was still chock-full of more Quinn-style greetings.

  With one tap to the screen, I opened the next—a picture of Quinn in the locker room, the words New York Mavericks prestigiously filling up the wall behind him.

  The following message was yet another photo. This time, Quinn took a selfie on the field. The sun shone brightly behind him, highlighting the little blond hairs within his shaggy locks, and the green of the pristine turf framing his face only added to his presence, making him look like football royalty.

  Another one had a video of him inside the therapist’s room, getting his legs stretched out by a smiling man that Quinn introduced as “Denny, the best fucking physical therapist in the NFL.”

  And that wasn’t the end of it. There were more. At least five more messages, to be exact.

  What in the hell was happening?

  I scrolled to the top of my inbox and opened up his most recent message—a selfie of Quinn drinking out of a Gatorade bottle. Delicious droplets of sweat on his chest shimmered under the sun’s early morning rays.

  I sucked my bottom lip into my mouth.

  Dayum, Gina. He looked good with a capital G.

  It was pictures like this that made me understand why women professed marriage and took his name via their Instagram handles.

  Besides the sexy muscles and the urge to virtually lick the sweat off of his chest, I really only had one thing on my mind. And that’s exactly what I sent him before setting my phone down and filling my coffeepot with fresh water.

  @WildCommaCat: What is happening?

  By the time I had Mr. Coffee filled with fresh grounds and hit his brew button, my phone shot off what I now knew was the Instagram chime.

  @QuinnBailey: Good Morning, Kitty Cat. I was wondering when you were going to wake up. And I figured since I’ve seen you at work, I wanted you to see me at work. ;)

  I chuckled at the ridiculousness of it.

  @WildCommaCat: I’m pretty sure I could see that on ESPN.

  @QuinnBailey: Pop Sports Quiz: What does ESPN stand for?

  A snort left my nose. He knew I didn’t have a fucking clue what ESPN stood for. Hell, I hadn’t even known he was the freaking quarterback for the Mavericks until I typed his name into Google.

  @WildCommaCat: Not a damn clue.

  @QuinnBailey: Entertainment and Sports Programming Network.

  I poured freshly brewed coffee into my favorite yellow mug and added my ideal amount of cream and sugar. As I stirred it together with a spoon, the coffee and cream mixing together to create a perfect color of creamy beige, I typed out another response with my free hand and hit send.

  @WildCommaCat: Thank you. That is a valuable piece of information that I will hold on to forever.

  @QuinnBailey: See? We’re so good together. I can teach you everything about sports, and you can show me the ins and outs of airplanes. I’ve always wanted to be a pilot.

  @WildCommaCat: LOL I don’t actually fly the planes…

  @QuinnBailey: Baby steps, Kitty Cat. We’ll both learn together.

  @WildCommaCat: Oh, yeah, of course. By this time next year, I’m sure we’ll be working on our smooth landings. ;)

  @QuinnBailey: When can I see you again?

  My heart kicked up speed and pounded excitedly as I read the words. He wanted to see me. Again. Holy moly.

  My heart screamed Today! Right now! But my brain stayed rational and reminded me with, Girl, you’ve got a busy fucking week of flights.

  Stupid brain.

  @WildCommaCat: Well…my next few days are pretty booked with work. I’ll actually be doing another NYC to Birmingham and back again today.

  @QuinnBailey: When do you fly out today?

  @WildCommaCat: 2 p.m. I have to be to the airport by noon.

  @QuinnBailey: And you’ll be flying straight back to NYC after that?

  @WildCommaCat: Yep. No overnights during this round.

  @QuinnBailey: Can you make me a promise?

  @WildCommaCat: I guess that depends on what the promise is…

  @QuinnBailey: Oh, come on, Kitty Cat. You know I’m a total gentleman. I’d never make you promise to do something that would make you uncomfortable.

  He had a point. Quinn had never been anything but extremely polite to me.

  Well, and sexy and charming as hell, but that was beside the point.

  @WildCommaCat: All right. You got me there. What do you need me to promise?

  @QuinnBailey: As soon as you know your schedule is letting up and you c
an carve out a little time for me, let me know, okay?

  Sugary-sweet and thoughtful as hell. I swooned.

  @WildCommaCat: That I can do.

  @QuinnBailey: Attagirl. All right, I’ve got to head out onto the field. But don’t worry, we’ll chat later.

  @WildCommaCat: Promise me something?

  @QuinnBailey: Anything.

  Damn. So quick to respond. It was like he was trying to make me fall head over heels for him or something…

  @WildCommaCat: Have a safe practice.

  @QuinnBailey: You got it, Kitty Cat.

  Kitty Cat. Apparently, that was my official Quinn Bailey-appointed nickname.

  Well, that, and kitten.

  And I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t like both.

  I slammed my locker shut and swung my bag up on my shoulder, hair still wet and dripping onto my T-shirt-covered shoulders.

  A wedding DJ would be extraordinarily proud of my version of the hustle as I rushed around trying to get my shit together and head out of the stadium in order to make it to my destination in time.

  “Yo, Bailey, grab a bite with me,” Jorge “Teeny” Martinez, my left tackle and the guy who often steamrolled the “me” from the other team, invited, but I was shaking my head before he even finished.