Lucky Bastard.
Chapter 2
Landon
It’s been a long three weeks of camp, but we’re ready. Both rookies and veterans are on point, and I can feel it. This is going to be another great season. The final whistle blows and a collective cheer goes up among us. Mostly because we’re ready to get to our own beds, and for those who are married and have kids, home to their families. Me? I’m looking forward to my bed. It’s pillow-soft, and exactly what I would imagine it feels like sleeping on clouds, and it’s calling my name. But first… “Bateman, wait up,” I call to our new kicking coach, Chance Bateman.
He stops and turns to look for whoever happens to be calling his name. I jog up to him and grin. “Can I ask for a favor?” I’ve been thinking nonstop about Emma, and it kind of pisses me off. No other woman has managed to keep me on the hook this long. Then again, I’ve been tied up at training camp. It might also have a little something to do with the fact that she turned me down. Cold. That’s never happened to me. Not that I can remember. It’s also a little her. She’s a fucking knockout. Long, dark curly locks and green eyes I could get lost in. That’s if I let myself. I can imagine the way they would heat as I pushed inside her. I shift my stance, my cock already on board with my imagination.
“Depends,” he says with a laugh.
“Emma,” I say, throwing her name out there.
“What about her?” he asks, standing taller, squaring his shoulders.
“Can I get her number?”
“Did you ask her for it?”
“Yeah, she shot me down.”
A slow grin tilts his lips. “Did she now?”
“Laugh it up,” I say with a grin of my own. “Come on, Coach,” I urge him.
“Look, Landon, you seem like a good guy. Emma is my wife’s best friend, and a close friend of mine as well. I’m not just going to hand her number over. You want her, you have to work for her.” He stares me down, begging me to argue with him.
“How do you expect me to do that? I don’t even know her last name. The only connection I have to her is you.” I’m well aware I’m starting to sound desperate and, in a way, I am. I can’t break my perfect record. She can’t be the first woman to ever turn me down. That just won’t do.
“Fine, I’ll throw you a bone. Her name is Emma Deaton.” He slides his hands into the pockets of his shorts and the bastard full-on grins at me. He’s enjoying this way too much.
“Guy code and all that. Come on, man. You have to give me more than that.”
“I don’t have to do anything but love my wife and son. Well, and pay taxes.” I give him a pleading look, and he sighs. “Fine, she works with my wife at the South Bay Animal Shelter. That’s all you’re getting so don’t ask for more from me. And”—he points his index finger at me—“don’t make me regret telling you.”
“Scout’s honor,” I say, holding up three fingers.
“Right. Like I believe you were ever a scout,” he scoffs.
“Okay, so maybe I was never a boy scout, but I can promise you I’m not some kind of crazy stalker.”
“Yeah, yeah. Like I said, don’t make me regret it, and we’re good.”
It’s not like he’s my actual coach; he’s the kicking coach. He can’t torture me on the field. “Done.” I jog off to the locker room to shower and head to the hotel to get my shit and get home.
“Where’s the fire?” Case Riley, our center, asks as I’m tossing my shit in my bag.
“No fire. Just ready to get home.”
“We hitting up Harvey’s tonight?”
Harvey’s is a small bar close to the stadium. I’m not sure when or how it got started, but he has a side entrance with a key code. The players enter there into a private room. We have our own bartender, music, big-screen TVs, the whole nine yards. If we want to just slip away out of the limelight but still feel normal, Harvey’s is the place to go. The place stays packed, both for its location to the stadium and for the players who decide to venture out into the public area of the bar. Cleat chasers make it their stomping grounds.
“Maybe.” I’m not committing until I talk to her. I might have better options. And if not, tonight, I’m going to stay hidden, no matter how hard Case tries to convince me otherwise. A couple of beers and then my big comfy bed. That is the exciting life of a professional quarterback.
“Eight,” he calls after me. I’ve already got my bag thrown over my shoulder and heading toward the door. I have a phone call to make.
* * *
Walking into my condo, I drop my bags by the door. Three long weeks away, but we’re ready. The team is meshing, and I see good things in our future. I also see my ass sleeping in my ultra-soft bed for the next twenty-four hours. Walking down the hall to my room, I flop back on the bed. Damn, it’s good to be home.
Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I hold it in the air over my face and pull up my search engine. I type in South Bay Animal Shelter and wait for the results. Clicking on their website, I see Chance’s wife, Aubrey, and Emma smiling back at me. I skim through the main page until I get to the bottom and find a contact us. Clicking that, the number pops up
