Bad Boy's Bridesmaid (A Secret Baby Romance)(94)

“Aw, come on.” Blonde halter-top tapped my beer bottle. “I thought Jack Carson liked to party.”

“Baby, the party hasn’t started yet.” I rubbed her thigh. She wore too much perfume and no panties. Too easy.

“Don’t you want to play?”

Yeah, but there was a fine line between fun and forgetting the condom. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, baby.”

I left half of my beer and gulped the rest of my water. If I wasn’t blacking out, no sense wasting calories. I planned to bulk, but we were doing it right. Chicken breasts. Eggs. Almonds.

Besides, my publicist had a shitfit the last time a story passed on the internet about me being drunk. I wasn’t even driving and, somehow, I became the bad guy for having fun.

Of course, the story also included the picture of the girl with her hand down my pants. And, if I remembered that incident right, we might have had an issue with some slight public exposure too. Nothing that embarrassed me, but, then again, what I packed deserved to be admired.

Still, we were supposed to be partying. If my publicist couldn’t understand that, then Leah needed to get laid instead of bitching about my image and bad publicity. My chosen friends were more impressed by the story of me bouncing three girls in my lap, but the league and media wanted ribbon cuttings and donations to charity. I did that too, but where was the fun in it?

The waitress dodged Bryon’s slap, juking just as good as he did on Sunday afternoons. If opposing defenses groped instead of tackled, she’d have made an excellent addition to the team. She hurried out, but two men from the general dining room rushed inside.

It amazed me how adult men could lose their shit when face-to-face with their idols. They were gruff, dirty construction workers probably having a beer after their shift, but standing in the presence of the team made them as happy as a kid getting a Playboy for Christmas.

The first man brushed the dust from his plaid shirt and hollered at the table in glee. The second, an older and balding man, tried to text with trembling fingers. I gave him credit. At least his phone had an Ironfield cover.

“Holy shit!” Plaid hooted. “Goddamn, I’m the biggest Rivets fan in the fucking world. Mind if we get some pictures?”

Bryon grunted, freeing his girl from the corner. “Man, we’re eating—”

“It’s okay.” I scooted the girls from my lap. “I don’t mind.”

Technically, I was told by my PR team not to mind. One of Leah’s fucking rules. Be gracious to the fans, even if they interrupt your dinner, your night out, or your score with three beautiful women. After the run-in with the drunk asshole who thought it’d be a good idea to grab my dick while taking the selfie, Leah clarified I also wasn’t allowed to punch any fans. Apparently having a bruise on my cock wasn’t an excuse.

Nothing was an excuse for Leah.

“Goddamn, Jack-fucking-Carson!” Plaid stumbled before me to shake my hand. “My oldest son played for Oakdale High School. He faced you every damn year. You whooped our ass.”

Everyone loved a local boy. “I broke every record Shawnee Hills had.”

“And State too.” He pointed at me, posing for the selfie. “Never saw a quarterback like you. You’re goddamned talented, Carson. One in a million.”

So I’d heard. Again and again. It didn’t stop them from praising me, and the hundredth time it was said sounded just as good as the first.

I graced their camera with a grin that showed both dimples. The women giggled. I offered to sign an autograph, despite Bryon gesturing like I volunteered to give the fans a blowjob.

Plaid shook my hand again. “Can’t wait to tell the guys at work I met a damned hero today.”

The older man snorted. “Hero? Christ. What the hell happened during that championship game last season? Goddamn, never saw a man choke so bad in my life.”

My team hushed into silence.

My dimples disappeared.

The pen tore through the napkin I meant to sign.

The old man slapped his friend’s shoulder. “How much money we lose? Five hundred bucks?” He shook his head. “Third and inches, and you audible and throw the ball? When you got Bryon Washington over there with sixteen consecutive one hundred yard games? Jesus. That was a bad play call, and you knew it before throwing the interception.”

It didn’t take a lot to piss me off, but I didn’t have enough to drink to dull my temper.

Talking about that game didn’t just tempt the rage. It unleashed it.

Championship game. Tie-fucking-score. We were almost in field-goal range for the last goddamned minute of the game…and I threw an interception that was run back for a touchdown.