Risky Game Read online

  I need a bartender tomorrow night. R U interested?

  Shay exhaled a slow, cleansing breath. She’d entered the locker room earlier to do something nefarious, only to have her conscience remind her that the ends don’t justify the means. Now, the answer to her financial woes had just landed in her lap—or on her cell phone to be precise. Her mama would call it providence. Shay just called it dumb luck. Whatever it was, she needed to get out of there before someone else wandered in and spotted her where she shouldn’t be.

  She stood up slowly, her legs still tingling. Using the flashlight app on her cell phone, she carefully traversed the dark room toward the exit, happy that she didn’t have to betray any of the team’s players. The Blaze organization was known around the league for its professionalism and values. Aside from Nate, everyone Shay came in contact with at the training facility was friendly and she actually enjoyed the work—even if it wasn’t what she’d expected.

  Of course, the author of the blog The Girlfriends’ Guide to the NFL would probably pay big money for Brody Janik’s secret. But a Friday night tending bar at the hugely popular Celtic Charm could bring in several hundred dollars in tips—more if she dressed in a tight blouse and the kilt the waitresses wore. That kind of money would buy a new muffler and a month’s worth of cell phone service, if she was careful. She didn’t need to sell anyone’s secrets.

  Shay made it to the door and listened carefully to make sure no one was lingering in the hallway. The building was supposed to be empty, but Brody and his trainer friend could still be wandering around. Leaning against the doorjamb, she thought about the Blaze tight end.

  Brody Janik was the epitome of a superstar jock: talented, rich, and gorgeous. Men wanted to be him and women wanted to be with him. Even more appealing, arrogance hadn’t tainted his persona. Brody used his slow, wicked smile to charm everyone he met. He doled that smile out to everyone like it was candy. Everyone except her. Instead, he treated Shay with his innate politeness. Almost as if he didn’t put her in the same category as other women. And that stung. A lot.

  Just like every other female between the age of two and one hundred and two, Shay had a big-time crush on Brody. Of course, she knew it would never amount to anything. After all, she was the tall, awkward brainiac with frizzy hair and a wide mouth who was used to being the last one chosen to dance. At twenty-four, she’d had a lifetime of experience being ignored by men like Brody as they scoured the room for the attractive, self-assured catch.

  A more callous woman, bent on revenge, might sell Brody’s story. But Shay Everett wasn’t that woman. Brody was just like every other man who’d looked through her at one point in her life. She really couldn’t single him out for it. It wouldn’t be fair to all the rest of the men who’d ignored her.

  Slipping out the door into the deserted hallway, Shay resolved to forget everything she’d heard while hiding in the locker room. Brody Janik wasn’t her problem. It’s not like they’d exchanged more than a please and thank-you in the cafeteria as she slopped his meal on a plate each day. And she wouldn’t worry about his blood sugar, either. At least that’s what she kept telling herself as she crept out of the Blaze training facility.

  Grabbing her bike, she donned her reflective vest and headed out on the ten-minute trek to her apartment, her conscience clear. She’d do some research for an hour or so before grabbing some sleep. She had swim practice to coach in the morning before arriving at the training facility at eight thirty. If she happened across information on hypoglycemia while she was scanning articles for her dissertation, so be it. As she pedaled along, she told herself it was professional interest making her curious. Not anything special about Brody Janik.

  Two

  The bar swelled with throngs of Charm City’s beautiful people as they mingled and preened. The bass of the music throbbed through the floor of the warehouse-turned-nightclub, the DJ spinning a Pitbull track. Lasers flashed along to the beat, jarring Brody Janik’s nerves. He sat inconspicuously in a corner just off the dance floor trying in vain to hear what his friend was saying. A parade of women sauntered past his table, invitation in their eyes and the sway of their hips.

  “I can’t believe you’ve never been here!” Robbie had to shout to be heard.

  Ignoring the come-hither looks from the women vying for his attention, Brody leaned closer to his best friend from childhood. “It opened this spring while I was away. But, I’ve been wanting to check it out,” he lied.

  Sure, he’d heard of the meat-market mega-bar from his teammates and other Baltimore celebrities, but he never intended on actually walking in the place. A few years ago, a club like this might have been his scene, but Brody’s tastes had mellowed after five seasons in the league. At twenty-seven, he was at the top of his game athletically. By virtue of his good looks and talent, he was practically a household name. He should be out reaping the benefits of his celebrity. But a melancholy had settled over Brody like a blanket of fog rolling over his vacation home on Cape Cod and he couldn’t seem to find his way out of it.

  He was tired of everyone wanting to be with him because of what he was and not who he was. And he was scared shitless that when the game was gone, Brody himself might not know who he was. A college buddy had busted up a vertebra in his neck playing football last season, an injury that was felt throughout the NFL. While other players shoved the incident into the recesses of their minds in order to keep up the nerve to play every week, Brody had trouble shaking the image. It didn’t help that he had a time bomb ticking inside him that could end his career at any moment.

  A waitress dressed in a pleated thigh-length kilt and a blouse two sizes too tight placed a tray of beers onto their table. Her bare thigh not-so-casually brushed against Brody’s forearm as she leaned over.

  “Compliments of the ladies at the bar,” she said brightly, gesturing toward a trio of women seated at the far end of the room, their perfect white smiles making them look innocent. If someone bothered to check their IDs, they’d probably all be fake, Brody thought to himself.

  “Wow, man, you’ve got the life.” Robbie’s tone was reverent as he plucked a fresh beer off the table. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a hot woman buy me a drink.”

  Brody was ashamed of himself as he wondered if Robbie, too, only wanted to be seen with him because he was a big-time jock. Reaching for his glass of mineral water, he reminded himself that this was one of his oldest friends. Sure, their lives had been on different paths the past ten years, but Robbie knew the real Brody. Didn’t he? It was hard to tell over the noise in this place. Brody would have preferred he and Robbie catch up in one of the small neighborhood restaurant bars in Fell’s Point, but his buddy was visiting town and wanted to experience Celtic Charm, Baltimore’s newest place to see and be seen.

  Robbie was also enticed by the opportunity to party with some of Brody’s teammates.

  “Shoot, man, check out that girl in the white skirt! Oooowee, she can sure shake that thang.” Running back DeShawn Wilson flicked his dreads over a shoulder as he crooked a finger at the woman in white. “Com’ere, baby!”

  The object of DeShawn’s desire either didn’t like what he was offering or she was playing hard to get. After throwing him a disdainful look over her shoulder, she sauntered off toward a table of women on the other side of the dance floor. DeShawn’s fellow members of the Blaze receiving corps nearly busted a gut laughing.

  “Oh, no she didn’t!” Righteously indignant, DeShawn grabbed his drink as he rose from the table to follow her. Judging by the slowness of her sashay and the way she was peeking over her shoulder to see if he was following, Brody figured the wide receiver would be rewarded for his efforts before the night was over.

  His place at the table was immediately taken by Shane Devlin, the Blaze quarterback, who, after ten years in the league, was happily assured of a place in NFL history and a life after football. The old man was also well situat
ed in his personal life with a new wife and a baby on the way. Hell, the guy even had a dog that shagged passes on the run.

  Jamal Hollis, the rookie among the Blaze receivers, quickly dashed to the bar to get the quarterback a drink. In a quirky NFL tradition, Devlin wined and dined his offensive linemen each week, while the ball handlers—namely the receivers—paid for their quarterback’s drinks whenever he was out with the team. Rookies, like Hollis, thought the effort might result in seeing more passes thrown their way. Veterans like Brody knew better.

  “So, this is what all the fuss is about. It looks like half of Baltimore is shoved inside this nightclub.” Devlin leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs at the ankles and surveying the dance floor like the field general he was. “Who’s your friend?” he asked, eying Robbie. After a few bad dustups with the tabloids, Devlin guarded his privacy tenaciously, preferring not to mingle with strangers.

  “Robbie Henshaw, meet last year’s Super Bowl MVP, Shane Devlin. Robbie and I grew up next door to each other,” Brody explained.

  “It’s Rob,” Robbie said as he reached across to shake Devlin’s hand. Brody watched his oldest friend try to contain the face-splitting grin threatening to erupt, as he wondered when Robbie had changed his name. “It’s a thrill to meet you. You played amazing in the Super Bowl.”

  Pausing before taking a sip from the bottle of beer Hollis had brought him, Devlin grinned at Brody. “See, even your friend thinks my MVP was deserved.”

  Brody grunted as he chewed on a piece of ice from his empty glass. Shane Devlin had been awarded the Super Bowl MVP after completing all but one of his twenty-seven passes, four of them for touchdowns. Two of those touchdowns and eleven of the passes were caught by Brody. In the locker room after the game, it was revealed that the MVP balloting had been close between the two men, which led to a lot of good-natured ribbing by their Blaze teammates.

  But Brody didn’t begrudge his quarterback the title. Without his leadership, the Blaze might not have made it to the Super Bowl. Besides, at the time, Brody figured he’d get another shot at the elite award. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

  Ricky Gerrard, the Blaze receiver who caught one of those other Super Bowl touchdown passes, laughed from his seat beside Shane. “Yeah, Devlin, tell Brody’s buddy who your favorite receiver is,” he challenged.

  It was a familiar refrain among the ball handlers; one that Devlin never bit at.

  “The one who doesn’t drop the ball,” Devlin answered, his eyes fixed on Brody as the rest of the table laughed. Brody kept his posture nonchalant and his own gaze steady on the quarterback, not giving an inch. Those two drops in practice the other day were a blip in his performance. His hands were as reliable as his grandpa Gus’s daily constitutional each morning. And Devlin better damn well know it, because if his quarterback doubted his ability, it was going to be a long black-and-blue season blocking for the other guys.

  “So, Rob, what brings you to Baltimore?” Shane asked.

  “Actually, I’ve been in DC all week trying to get some federal funding for a project our company is doing overseas,” Robbie answered.

  “Oh yeah?” Devlin took another pull of his beer. “What type of project?”

  The quarterback’s attention was rapt as Robbie explained his work as a mechanical engineer in his father’s company and their efforts to harness sufficient drinking water in West Africa. Surprisingly, Devlin asked pointed questions about the project and its funding. Having heard of Robbie’s work before, Brody tuned out, instead wondering when his boyhood friend had gotten a grown-up job to go with his grown-up name. Robbie—Rob, was out doing something good for society while Brody was making millions playing a game.

  “I’m headed back to Boston tomorrow morning,” Robbie was saying. “My fiancée is meeting me there. It’s the big meet-the-parents weekend. We met each other while we were in Africa this past year. Faith was in the Peace Corps.”

  Of course she was, Brody thought, bewildered at the disgust he felt.

  “So you’ll be up there for our game Sunday,” Devlin said. “Tell me something, has this bum given you tickets?”

  Robbie laughed. “I’m sure everyone wants tickets from Brody, seeing as Boston is his hometown. Our firm has a box, so I don’t have to rely on his comp seats. Between all of his sisters and their families, he needs all his tickets and then some. Besides, I should probably sit with my folks and Faith’s family just in case I need to run interference.”

  “It sounds like you might need an extra ticket just to watch the game,” Brody joked.

  Devlin took another swallow of his beer. “When’s the wedding?”

  “We haven’t gotten that far in the planning,” Robbie said sheepishly. “But I’m sure the mothers will work it all out this weekend.”

  “Can I give you some advice?” Devlin asked, continuing on before Robbie could answer. “Just go with the flow, unless something feels too ridiculous. Your game plan should be to just ‘Yes, dear’ it all the way to the altar. Aside from that, being married is great.” A rare, wistful smile actually appeared on the Devil of the NFL’s face, forcing Brody to his feet.

  “If you two are going to discuss china patterns now, I’m headed over to the bar for a refill.”

  “Hey, if you sit here long enough, the waitress will bring you another freebie,” Robbie said.

  Brody didn’t want a freebie. In fact, he didn’t want any alcohol. What he wanted was another glass of mineral water and a slice of lime to disguise it. “I’ll be back,” he called over his shoulder as, empty glass in hand, he negotiated his way around the dance floor, trying not to make eye contact with any of the patrons who wanted his attention.

  He made his way up to an empty spot at the end of the bar next to the double doors leading to the kitchen, hoping he could hide for a moment in the darkened hallway. Scrubbing a hand down his face, Brody wondered what the hell was wrong with him. His best friend had a great career and a woman to spend his life with, he should be happy for him. Instead, he was insanely jealous. Him. Brody Janik. A man who was supposed to have the world by the tail.

  DeShawn’s contagious laughter snapped Brody out of his contemplation. The tailback stood with a few Blaze players huddled at the other end of the bar, the female bartender entertaining them with a trick of some sort. In no hurry for his refill, Brody let his eyes drink in the tall woman chatting up his teammates. Like the rest of the servers, she wore a white blouse—hers tied at a knot at her waist, the sleeveless arms exposing toned muscle. Her kilt was a little shorter in the back, giving Brody a tantalizing view of long lean legs as she bent to scoop ice out of the ice maker. His body suddenly perked up at the mental image of those legs wrapped around him.

  Maybe that’s the problem. He’d gone too long without sex. But he’d been caught in the vicious cycle of getting involved with women who were too attached to being Brody Janik’s girlfriend. The rise in his popularity had spiked a surge in kiss-and-tell tweets and posts on social media by the women he’d been with. It was impossible for him to enjoy a night of uncommitted sex. And, deep down, Brody didn’t think he really wanted that anymore.

  He caught a glimpse of the bartender’s elegant, nimble fingers as she twirled a drink straw before putting it in DeShawn’s glass. Brody shifted his hip against the bar. His body was screaming at him to make the moves on the bartender. Maybe he could take just one more chance.

  “It’s like that scene out of Flashdance,” a voice said behind him, startling Brody.

  He turned to find Nate Dumas, the Blaze trainer, standing beside him, his shorn head barely reaching Brody’s shoulder.

  “Nate,” Brody tried not to groan. He’d meant it the other night when he’d said the man was a pain in the ass. The two didn’t see eye-to-eye on anything—literally and figuratively. Not that Brody had an issue with people who were shorter than him, most people were. But Nate wore his vertical chal
lenge as if it were a disability, taking it out on those around him, and that pissed Brody off.

  “You know, the movie where the guy in the bar is fascinated with one of the dancers, and his buddy not only gives him her phone number but her Social Security number as well,” Nate babbled on.

  Clearly he and Nate had vastly different taste in movies because Brody had no clue what the jerk was talking about. He shot the trainer a baffled look. “I’m not fascinated with anybody.”

  “Bull,” Nat said smugly. “You can’t take your eyes off her. Of course, you don’t need her phone number. You can just stop by the commissary at the training center and flirt with her. Too bad she doesn’t dress like that every day, huh?”

  Brody’s head snapped back around toward the bar, taking in the woman’s tall frame and her kinky auburn hair, recognition suddenly dawning on him. “Is that Hairnet Lady?” He hadn’t meant to ask the question out loud.

  Nate laughed. “Hey, Shannon, how’s about you concentrate on some of your other customers!”

  The bartender turned just in time to see Brody gesturing to his hair. Her whiskey eyes widened infinitesimally at the sight of Nate before narrowing as she took in Brody’s mimic of a hairnet. It was her eyes that always did him in. From the first moment she’d leveled them in his direction, those whiskey eyes had unmanned him. Brody couldn’t figure out what it was about them, but he was lost every time he looked into their depths. He’d made a point to keep his distance until he had his reaction under control. Based on how his body was responding tonight, he had a long way to go to gain that kind of restraint.

  Her face was all angles; her wild hair forming a messy halo while her wide mouth, fixed in a polite smile that could almost be a smirk, greeted Nate.