Love on the Highlight Reel (Connecticut Kings Book 2) Read online

  “Is he in there?” I asked, even though I didn’t stop to wait for an answer. The shades were drawn over the glassed walls, so I couldn’t see inside, but my hand was already on the door handle by the time the “Yes, but,” had made it from her mouth.

  I didn’t have time for buts.

  I pushed the door open and walked inside, stopping short at the site that welcomed me.

  “What the hell is your problem?!” I asked, managing to keep my voice below a scream as I closed the door.

  Jordan looked up from his phone just long enough to shoot me a grin, then turned back to whatever the hell he was doing on the device. I swallowed hard, steeling myself for what was almost assuredly about to be a joke of a meeting, then walked over to my custom-mirrored desk and shoved Jordan’s feet off the top.

  “Where is your agent?” I snapped, sitting down behind the desk. “He’s supposed to be here.”

  Jordan still didn’t look up from his phone. “He’s not.”

  “Obviously. Where is he?”

  “Hell if I know. I fired him.”

  I scoffed. “You can’t just up and fire your agent, Jordan. There’s a little thing called a contract…”

  “Which stipulated that I could fire him when I got ready,” Jordan mumbled, tapping away on the screen. “So I did.”

  “So who… who represents you now? Who is your advocate, who’s doing your PR?”

  I got a shrug. “Me, I guess.”

  “You?!” I laughed, because it was ridiculous, not funny. “Can you put your phone down, and talk to me please?”

  “Yeah, gimme a second.”

  I rolled my eyes as he kept his attention focused on the little device in his hands. One minute stretched into two.

  “Jor—”

  “Just a second, damn,” he said, holding up a finger to… shush me? Was he shushing me? He chuckled loudly at something on his screen, and I let out a sigh. If this was how he wanted to play it…

  I reached up, pulling the pins out of the simple bun I’d pulled my hair into before I rushed out of the door. Stylish, black-rimmed glasses were tossed onto the desk, hair fluffed out and around my shoulders, and I took down enough buttons on my shirt to show off an ample peak of the deep gold, lace trimmed bra I wore underneath.

  “Jordan,” I said – damn near whispered, in a breathy, sexy voice.

  He immediately looked up to see me balanced on my elbows as I leaned across the desk toward him. His eyes dropped to my cleavage, then slowly raked back up to my face, and I hated that a tiny, hopefully-only-perceptible-to-me shudder ran through me. No matter what else I could say about Jordan, there was no denying that he was a gorgeous man. Deep chocolate skin, thick lips, immaculate facial hair, perfectly sculpted face, and those damned dimples.

  I bit my lip – to seduce, and to bring myself back to reality – and leaned a little further.

  “There’s something you and I desperately need to discuss.”

  He lifted an eyebrow, his phone hanging limp and momentarily forgotten in his hand. “What’s that?”

  “Well…” I leaned in a little bit further, and his gaze stuck to my breasts. “Before we start, I just need you to… Give me this goddamn phone,” I said, back to my normal voice, as I snatched it from his unsuspecting hands. I promptly stuck it between my breasts, because I knew he wouldn’t dare try to get it from there, and was already re-buttoning my shirt by the time he’d hopped up from his chair.

  “Jordan Johnson, you sit your ass down and listen to me. Or have you forgotten that I am responsible for your contract?”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Nicki?”

  I ignored his use of that nickname. “It means, that unless you at least try to act like you have some damned sense when you aren’t on the field, I don’t think you’re going to be very happy with the way your negotiations go. You only have a few months left, Jordan. You want to see more money? Then I want to see this team improve.”

  “Then you need to talk to these other motherfuckers,” Jordan snapped, pacing in front of my desk. “Just like I said two nights ago, I’m already pulling all of the offensive weight on this team. Why the fuck does everything fall to me?”

  Because you’re all we have.

  I knew it.

  He knew it

  Everybody knew it, but he was the only one who was about to say it out loud. Truth was, as much as I really did need him to clean up his act off the field, for the sake of the team’s reputation, he’d have to do something pretty horrible for me to follow through on any threats.

  A video of him partying and drinking at Arch & Point wasn’t it.

  We needed him too bad.

  “Listen,” I said, carefully trying to gauge my words to not push him too far. “We are three games into the season, and we’ve only won once. Preseason, three out of four were losses.”

  “You don’t have to remind me,” he muttered through his teeth.

  I nodded. “I know I don’t. But I am anyway, because I need you to act like you understand that this team is floundering this season, Jordan. We aren’t looking good out there on the field, but the least we can do is look good when we’re not. I just pulled you out the club Sunday night, and Monday night you go right back. In the middle of the club popping bottles on a fucking Monday night, like you shouldn’t be down in the weight room working on that shoulder.”

  “My shoulder is fine, and Tuesday is my day off.”

  “Tuesdays are off days for teams who won the week before. Hasn’t that always been the motto? What happened to total domination? You weren’t dominating on that field Sunday. You weren’t “The Flash”. You were slow, and weak.”

  He sucked his teeth. “Man, fuck that noise.”

  I shook my head. “No. That’s the hot take now, Jordan. No wonder they lost, he’s partying during the season. Doesn’t alcohol make you sluggish? Didn’t he have that surgery after last season? You could tell in the performance from last game. That’s what they’re saying now.”

  “I don’t give a shit about that.”

  “But I give a shit. The team gives a shit. The NFL gives a shit. It’s time out for this “bad boy” mess, Jordan. You need to get serious. You’re one of the top wide receivers in the world right now. Fifteen hundred receiving yards your first year out of draft, and on the field, you keep getting better. But if you want the big deal endorsements, longevity on this team, high dollar contracts… Jordan, you are going to have to grow the hell up.”

  There was silence for a long moment after that. More silence than Jordan could usually offer the world. Such a long silence that I shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, but didn’t break eye contact with him. Finally, he nodded, looking away as he scrubbed a hand over his face.

  “That’s how the Kings feel, huh?”

  I said nothing, and he raised his eyebrows.

  “Come on, Nicki. Speak up now. That’s how the Kings feel? Old Jordan is a fucking drag now, because I like to have fun? There weren’t any complaints when me and TB were taking this team to championships, but now that I’m here by myself, no fucking help on the team, now I’m a liability? Well guess what? I’m probably outta here after my contract is up anyway. How about that?”

  Shit. Did not play this right.

  “You’ll be a free agent, Jordan. You can do as you wish, but the Kings have been loyal to you, and obviously want to keep you here with us.”

  “Oh don’t give me that bullshit now. Y’all are out here acting like I’m a damn problem, when I’m the same dude you couldn’t wait to get your hands on a few years ago. Nothing has changed.”

  I swallowed hard, looking him right in the eyes. “And that is exactly the problem.”

  He blinked once, then twice, and for a second the bravado slipped, and I saw… something else. But just as quickly as I’d noticed, he’d blinked it away, and rolled his eyes. “What-the-fuck-ever Nicki.”

  “It’s Cole.”

  “Whatever. Give me my phone.” />
  I wasn’t about to argue. I was drained enough from this completely unproductive meeting, that I couldn’t even remember what I’d hoped to accomplish from. I pulled his phone from between my breasts and handed it to him, and in true Jordan fashion, the first thing he did was lift it to his nose and inhale. “Why do your titties always smell so good?” he asked, in a tone that gave the distinct impression he meant it as a compliment.

  I rolled my eyes. “The better question is, why wouldn’t they? Don’t answer that,” I said, raising my hand to cut him off. “While you’re with us, you need an agent, and you need PR. Chloe McKenna. I’ll set up a meeting.”

  “I don’t need you to hire my people.”

  I scoffed. “I insist.”

  “I insist that if you wanna hire some people, talk to scouting about getting me some offense I can work with on this team. I want a fucking ring. If the Kings can’t do that for me this year… I’ll find a team that can.”

  He turned around without saying anything else, and ambled out the door. I closed my eyes as the door shut behind him, finally taking the opportunity for a deep breath, the kind I hadn’t dared take the whole time we were alone in my office.

  The door opened again, and my head popped up as Presley walked into the office, tablet in hand. “How did it go?” she asked, chewing at the corner of her lip. “Jordan looked unhappy.”

  “Because he is,” I said, finally putting my glasses back on my face. “And we have to figure out how to make him… not that. Set up a meeting with him and Chloe McKenna please.”

  Presley nodded, then left me alone in the office as I sank into my chair, fingers pressed to my temples. I wasn’t about to kiss Jordan’s ass – yet - but him not being on the team wasn’t an option. Especially not while he was my responsibility.

  Twenty-eight years old.

  Black.

  Female.

  I was already a unicorn around here, and I’d never live it down if I lost our star player.

  Somehow, I had to make sure that didn’t happen.

  Two.

  I hated Wednesdays.

  Especially the week after a loss.

  Media all over the locker room for damn near an hour, saying whatever the fuck they wanted. After a win, whatever. I could handle it. But if we didn’t? The motherfuckers went for blood – which I could also handle.

  The team just didn’t usually like the way I handled it.

  “Jordan Johnson, Kendra Fulton with WAWG Sports.”

  With a heavy sigh, I tightened the towel around my waist and turned around, already bracing myself for bullshit. I was tired – mentally and physically – from practice and morning meetings, and I was barely out of the shower, but apparently, none of that mattered.

  I put on a smile, hoping that a little flash of dimples would grant me some mercy. My shoulders dipped in relief when she smiled back – a pretty smile at that, so I grinned even harder.

  “Just a few questions today Jordan,” she said, gesturing to her camera guy to start filming. “Is that okay?”

  She was cute as hell – nice little body, big brown eyes.

  “As long as you plan to take it easy on me,” I flirted, suddenly not so pissed about Wednesday. I hadn’t seen her around here before.

  “Now what fun would that be?” she said in a low voice, obviously not intended to be heard by the mic as she held it away from her face. Her eyes grazed my bare chest and then went lower, before they came back. She winked at me, and then brought the mic up.

  “We’re here with star wide-receiver Jordan Johnson today, subject of recent controversy after video surfaced of him partying in a local gentleman’s club. You seemed slower than usual during the game this past Sunday – do you think it’s the result of your frequent, wild, late nights?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “I wasn’t slow at all. I actually had my best receiving game this season last Sunday, so you may want to check your facts.”

  She smiled. “I’m well aware of the facts, Mr. Johnson. You also had your most dropped passes, and a fumble in that game. Were you hungover from Saturday night, or are you still struggling with your shoulder? We know you had surgery on it in the off season – are you not yet at 100%?”

  “My shoulder is fine, and you may want to review the game film if you’re trying to pin this loss on me, Ms. Fulton. I get on that field and do my job every damn time, no matter what. Not everybody can say the same thing.”

  “Are you saying your teammates aren’t pulling their weight?”

  “I’m not saying anything except what the fuck I said. And I’m done talking.”

  I turned away from her to emphasize my disinterest in finishing the conversation, choosing instead to start getting dressed for the second offensive meeting of the day. Behind me, she spoke into the camera to finish her clip.

  “There you have it. Connecticut Kings wide receiver Jordan Johnson denying that he’s not recovered from the rotator cuff surgery he had this past March. He also staunchly denies that his habit of patronizing strip clubs and heavy drinking have any effect on his performance.”

  “I like how you’re spinning that. That’s impressive,” I muttered, shaking my head.

  “Also, as you heard, he pinned the responsibility of the loss squarely on his team, confirming rumors that he is unhappy. I can’t help but wonder how that will affect the team’s morale.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, turning around after I’d pulled my tee shirt down over my chest. “I didn’t confirm shit, so how about you not put words in my mouth?”

  “I’m just stating the obvious conclusions from the information you gave.”

  “Yeah, keep your fucked up conclusions to yourself and report the facts if you’re gonna talk about me.”

  She sniffed. “There’s no need to be hostile, Mr. Johnson.”

  “This ain’t hostile, Ms. Fulton,” I said, giving her a pointed look as I grabbed the edge of my towel. “Now unless WAWG wants the viewers to see my dick, you may want to get that camera off me. Don’t wanna put any eyes out.”

  I didn’t give her time to react to that, but the camera guy was paying attention. He’d already turned it in a different direction by the time I’d dropped my towel to pull my boxers on, and I simply ignored Kendra until she moved on.

  I didn’t stick around for any other interviews. I already had a good idea of how they were gonna go, so I snuck off with my bag, not returning until I was fully dressed and had my earbuds blasting, drowning out the sounds of anything else.

  The media hour was winding down, so by the time I made it to the hall just outside the locker room, it was starting to fill with other players. I raised my head at a few in greeting. Others, I ignored. Truth be told, I was kinda pissed at 98% of those guys about our embarrassing record.

  “Yo, JJ!”

  I saw, rather than heard the words out of Kyle’s mouth as he approached, arms outstretched. He’d been on the team a little longer than me, offensive line, but relegated to practice squad after never completely coming back from a knee injury. Everybody looked at me as if I was the party boy on the team, but truth be told, I learned from Kyle.

  I pulled the earbuds from my ears, letting them fall around my shoulders as I slapped hands with him. “What’s up boy?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out,” he said, bumping shoulders with me. “Wednesday night at the usual spot? Watch some ass, eat some wings.”

  I shrugged. “I guess I’m down.”

  Kyle’s face spread into a broad smile, and he slapped my hand again. “That’s what the fuck I’m talking about. I knew you’d be down, cause you ain’t ever on no “brand new” bullshit. Always the same JJ.”

  And that is exactly the problem.

  I groaned as Nicki’s words from yesterday rang in my head, immediately making an uncomfortable feeling spring up in my gut. I ran a hand over my face, pushing out a substantial groan. “Man, shit… I just remembered I’ve got this meeting with new PR today. I don’t know how
long that shit is gonna go on. Maybe next time, aiight?”

  “Bet.”

  We shook hands one more time and parted ways, even though we were supposed to be headed to the same place – Offensive meeting. All I really wanted to do was take my ass back home, but I knew that wasn’t an option. We’d started working through the official plan for the upcoming game, and I needed to hear the practice notes, know if any changes were made, everything. I wanted to be prepared to win.

  Off the field, yeah, I had a certain reputation. But when it was game time, I didn’t mess around. Just like I’d told Nicki, and now Kendra, I did my job, no excuses. And yet… people still acted like I was just some fuckup.

  My phone buzzed in the pocket of my sweats, and my shoulders tensed as soon as I saw the name flashing across my screen. I tapped the button to read the message she’d sent.

  “Don’t wanna put any eyes out with your dick? Nice, Jordan. Real nice. Make sure you don’t miss that meeting with Chloe, okay?” – Nicole Richardson.”

  Should have known.

  Of course she’d already seen that clip – the whole world probably had, as quickly as shit traveled. And of course, the problem wasn’t some bullshit reporter fabricating quotes for a story – I was the problem.

  I shoved the phone back into my pocket and shook my head.

  Some things really didn’t change.

  I didn’t go to that meeting.

  Instead, I called Chloe’s people as soon as I got out of my last meeting of the day, and told them I had to reschedule, which was true. I didn’t have extra mental energy just laying around to figure out hiring an agent, or new PR. All of it was a distraction I didn’t need leading into this game in four days.

  So what do you call the strip club on Sunday, Monday, and almost Wednesday too?

  I grunted, then dropped onto the couch with a beer in one hand and the remote in the other, and closed my eyes. I tried to rationalize it. I could rationalize it, to myself at least.