This would be a piece of cake.
TWO
Brody Croft circled the pool table, his eyes sharp as a hawk’s as he examined his options. With a quick nod, he pointed and said, “Thirteen, side pocket.”
His young companion, wearing a bright red Hawaiian T-shirt that made Brody’s eyes hurt, raised his eyebrows. “Really? Tough shot, man.”
“I can handle it.”
And handle it he did. The ball slid cleanly into the pocket, making the kid beside him groan.
“Nice, man. Nice.”
“Thanks.” He moved to line up his next shot when he noticed his opponent staring at him. “Something wrong?”
“No, uh, nothing’s wrong. Are—are you Brody Croft?” the guy blurted out, looking embarrassed.
Brody smothered a laugh. He’d wondered how long it would take the kid to ask. Not that he was conceited enough to think everyone on the planet knew who he was, but seeing as this bar was owned by Luke Stevens and Jeff Wolinski, two fellow Warriors, most of the patrons were bound to be hockey fans.
“At your service,” he said easily, extending his hand.
The kid gripped it tightly, as if he were sinking in a pit of quicksand and Brody’s hand was the lifeline keeping him alive. “This is so awesome! I’m Mike, by the way.”
The look of pure adoration on Mike’s face brought a knot of discomfort to Brody’s gut. He always enjoyed meeting fans, but sometimes the hero-worship went a little too far.
“What do you say we keep playing?” he suggested, gesturing to the pool table.
“Yeah. I mean, sure! Let’s play!” Mike’s eyes practically popped out of his angular face. “I can’t wait to tell the guys I played a round of pool with Brody Croft.”
Since he couldn’t come up with a response that didn’t include something asinine, like “thank you,” Brody chalked up the end of his cue. The next shot would be more difficult than the first, but again, nothing he couldn’t manage. He’d worked in a bar like this one back when he’d played for the farm team and was barely bringing in enough cash to feed himself. He used to hang out after work shooting pool with the other waiters, eventually developing a fondness for the game. With the way his schedule was now, he rarely had time to play anymore.
But with rumors about a possible league investigation swirling, thanks to allegations made in a recent interview with the team owner’s soon-to-be ex-wife, Brody might end up with more free time than he wanted. Mrs. Houston apparently had proof that her husband had bribed at least two players to bring forth a loss. And that he’d placed substantial—illegal—bets on those fixed games.
While there was probably no truth to any of it, Brody was growing concerned with the rumors.
Around five years ago, a similar scandal had plagued the Colorado Kodiaks. Only three players had been involved, but many innocent players suffered, their reputations dragged through the mud thanks to the tarnished franchise.
Hell would freeze over before he’d accept a payout, and he had no intention of being lumped in with any of the players who might have. His agent was in the process of renegotiating his contract, since his current one was due to expire at the end of the season. He’d be a free agent then, which meant he needed to remain squeaky clean if he wanted to sign with a new team or remain with the Warriors.
He tried to remind himself that this morning’s headlines were nothing but rumors. If something materialized from Sheila Houston’s claims, he’d worry about it then. Right now, he needed to focus on playing hard, so the Warriors could win the first playoffs round and move on to the next.
Resting the cue between his thumb and forefinger, he positioned the shot, took one last look and pulled the cue back.
From the corner of his eye, a woman’s curvy figure drew his attention, distracting him just as he pushed the cue forward. The brief diversion caused his fingers to slip. The white ball sailed across the felt, avoided every other ball on the table and slid directly into the far pocket. Scratch.
Damn.
Scowling, he lifted his head just as the source of his distraction drew near.
“You could do it over,” Mike said quickly, fumbling for the white ball and placing it back on the table. “It’s called a mulligan or something.”
“That’s golf,” Brody muttered, his gaze glued to the approaching brunette.
A few years ago an interviewer for Sports Illustrated had asked him to describe the type of women he was attracted to. “Leggy blondes” had been his swift response, which was pretty much the exact opposite of the woman who’d now stopped two feet in front of him. And yet, his mouth went dry at the sight of her, his body quickly responding to every little detail. The silky chocolate-brown hair falling over her shoulders, the vibrant green eyes the same shade as a lush rainforest, the petite body with more curves than his brain could register.
His breath hitched as their eyes met. The whisper of an uncertain smile that tugged at her full lips sent a jolt to his groin.
Fuck. He couldn’t remember the last time a single smile from a woman had evoked such an intense response.
“I thought I’d play the winner.” Her soft, husky voice promptly delivered another shock wave to Brody’s dick.
Stunned to find he was two seconds away from a full-blown erection, he tried to remind his body that he wasn’t a teenager any longer, but a twenty-nine-year-old man who knew how to control himself. Hell, he could control the puck while fending off elbows and cross-checks from opposing attackers; getting a hold of his hormones should be a piece of cake.
“Here, just take my place now,” Mike blurted out, quickly pushing his cue into her hands. His gaze dropped to the cleavage spilling over the scooped neckline of the brunette’s yellow tank top, and then the kid turned to Brody and winked. “Have fun, man.”
Brody swallowed, then focused his eyes on the woman who’d managed to get him hard with one smile.
She didn’t look like the type you’d find in a sports bar, even one as upscale as this. Sure, her body was out of this world, but something about her screamed innocence. The freckles splattering the bridge of her nose maybe. Or perhaps the way she kept biting on the corner of her bottom lip.
Before he could stop it, the image of those plump red lips nibbling on one particular part of his anatomy slid to the forefront of his brain like a well-placed slap shot to the net. His cock pushed against the fly of his jeans.
So much for controlling his hormones.
“I’m guessing it’s my turn,” she said. Tilting her head, she offered another endearing smile. “Seeing as you just blew your shot.”
He cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah.”
Snap out of it, man.
