Page 2 of Dirty Player
Today was the last day. Preseason games started next Thursday. Just over one week until Beaux made his debut as a starting quarterback for the NFL.
The thrill of excitement rolled down my spine until my little brother reached out and pulled me to him.
“You fucking made it,” he whispered. His large, meaty hand clasped around my neck and held me to his shoulder. At twenty-five, he was three years younger than me. Almost a foot taller at six-five and more than a hundred extra pounds, he was no longer my little brother.
He was a monster. And a machine.
And I freaking adored him.
“I did. Saw you play today—you were great.”
“My short game was slow and felt too forced.” He frowned when he pulled back.
Only I would catch the worry in his dark blue eyes.
“You’ll warm up,” I assured him, grinning. “This is your year.”
The worry evaporated and softened. His fingers flexed on my neck. He said more without words than he ever could have with them, but he still tried. “I couldn’t have done any of this shit without you.”
He would have. The game was so ingrained into his DNA from the moment he was born that he would have found a way.
I just helped make it easier for him.
“You promised if I came out here you wouldn’t make me cry.”
I pushed at his shoulder only to have my hand slide off him and brush against another mountain of well-formed, toned, and tanned muscle I knew was hidden beneath shoulder pads.
“Look at you, newbie.”
I looked toward the new, masculine voice. It was unavoidable. The voice instantly brought up visions of morning sex and shower sex, public sex, and sheet-clawing, multiple-orgasm, ecstatically screaming sex.
Oliver Powell.
My breath hitched as Beaux pulled me closer to the fence.
Powell was the best tight end in the league for the last six years. Five pro-bowl games. A handful of MVPs. He had awards and decorations and trophies and recognition. He had a body that drove women to distraction.
He had a voice that would make a nun drop to her knees and pray for forgiveness for her sinful thoughts.
A body that’d been plastered on every magazine cover, not always clothed.
Full lips that made you want to lean into him for a taste.
“Look at you,” he drawled again, his hand coming down and clasping onto Beaux’s shoulder. “One week at camp and you’ve already found some pussy.”
…And an attitude of the biggest asshole around.
He was surly and crass. He’d been fined for refusing to give interviews, or when he did give them, he gave one-word answers. Yeah, Oliver Powell had an ass that fit his position on the field, but he was a complete prick.
I stiffened and pulled back from Beaux.
He only held me tighter, glaring at Powell. “Knock it off.”
“You move in between the sheets like you move on the field, and I bet this girl’s going to be screaming your name before you make it to the parking lot.”
Beaux’s rage started bubbling beneath the surface. He was younger, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t protective. His size had always made him feel like he needed to be my bodyguard.
If I didn’t want to puke from the vileness of Powell’s thoughts, not to mention he was talking about my brother…I would have said something.
