O’Neal’s Irish Pub—that’s where we celebrate or commiserate after home games. The ambitious females of Atlanta know it, those who are dying to ball a baller. How they yearn to snap our pictures while we’re sleeping in their beds, covers tangled around our satiated, mammoth-sized, naked bodies. The girls without a brain in their heads share these pics on social media, thinking it gives them importance. Do we mind? Hell to the fuckin’ no. That kind of free publicity keeps our personal and professional reputations pumping hot and hungry.
It sells tickets.
Gets us laid more.
Win win.
The waitress is unaware I’m standing behind her as focused fingers tap onto the sole computer screen at a cluttered service station. I scan her voluptuous body. She’s got some meat on her. Nice round ass accentuated by jeans designed to show it off. Her racer-back tank top gives anyone interested a sneak peek of ink etched into her right shoulder, but I can’t make out exactly what it’s of. Now I want to slip my fingers under the cotton, pull it back and uncover the mystery.
The hand tattoo we all got a glimpse of earlier, I can see up close now. Tiny birds perched on a slender branch that travels from her wrist down her middle finger, stopping just above the first knuckle. It’s done tribal-style—no color, just black. But the needle used had a fine point, artwork delicate and feminine.
As Mike sets down drinks meant for someone else, I motion to tell him I’ll order what I need from the waitress.
He gives me a knowing smirk and heads away, under the wrong assumption that I’m intent on getting in this brunette’s tight pants.
I haven’t made my decision about who I’ll take home tonight—I came over here to get some beer for my buddies and at the same time, show Mott up.
But now that I’m standing here behind this body…
Mmm.
Mmm.
Mmm.
CHAPTER 2
ERIC
Since it’s swamped, she’s got a lot to type in, so I skim a curious glance around the service station. In the darkness of walnut shelves lie unopened boxes of straws beside stacks of empty trays that could use a cleaning. And that’s a lot of fuckin’ drinks to take to the floor. How many orders are waiting to be delivered? No room for any more, that’s for damn sure.
Craning my neck I search the place to see if she’s got backup out there. Is she the only waitress working this crazy shift today?
Now that I think about it, nobody’s served us since we arrived but her. The staff here wears jeans and t-shirts, so maybe I didn’t notice another girl working the floor besides Sweet Tits. Right over there is a bar-back doubling as bus boy. Look at him sweat, poor kid. Other than them, I think it’s just the bartender, Mike. And he’s just one skilled guy handling her drinks, plus all the locals sitting at a crowded counter, plus the impatient excess.
That’s nuts.
Suddenly feeling like a jerk for barging in on her when she’s clearly overwhelmed, I ask, “Hey, how many waitresses are on today?” just so I can get some clarity and apologize.
A quick glance over her shoulder and we lock eyes. First good look I’ve had at the copper beauties. She’s got what I call laughing eyes, like she knows a secret she’ll never tell. Without missing a beat she says, “We’re servers, not waitresses. Get it right,” and turns back around, swiping a paper napkin from her tray with words scrawled on it, stuffing it in her pocket.
Chuckling I repeat the question my way, “How many waitresses are on today?”
For another hot second we lock eyes before hers drop to rake down my body. She gives me the once over like I’m handsome but a total asshole she wishes would go away. Turning away from me, she stacks her tray so full I’m sure something’s going to topple, telling me while she works, “I’ll get to your team of jackasses when I can. Or you can order from the bar. Kinda busy here, Cocker.”
My thumbs hook into my pockets as I lift an eyebrow. “Oh, so you know who I am.”
“Yep,” she mutters, tucking cocktail napkins in her short apron. “Now ask me if I care.”
Laughter ripples through my muscles. “Do you care?”
Lifting the tray like the pro that she is, those dancing coppers sparkle like wild. “You know how big an ant’s foot is? That’s how little I give a shit. Bye bye.” Maneuvering around me with the skill of a running back dodging the opposing team, she disappears into a throng of bodies and leaves me staring after her with a nagging urge to make her care.
And that nagging is all in my cock.
Fuck is that waitress sexy.
Have to get on that a.s.a.p.
With this in my head I glance back to my team and discover them laughing their butts off. The sound gets louder, surfing over both the playlist and the mob of indiscernible conversations.
I burst out laughing, realizing how that exchange must have looked to them. Through my hands I call back, “Fuck you guys!” and turn to call over the amused bartender who caught it all, too, “Mike, stop smirking and get us some beer. On my tab this round.”
“You got it, Eric!” While he pours I watch the girl move, flitting about and not spilling a drop in the process. I keep waiting for her to look my way, but she never does. When two overflowing pitchers thump next to my elbow I glance over, a little surprised. Guess I got lost in watching. Forgot where I was for a second.
“Hey, Mike, what’s her deal?”
“She’s just like that.”
“Playing hard to get or really hard to get?”
“Really hard to get. One, she’s not into jocks. Two, she’s taken.”
CHAPTER 3
ERIC
G rabbing the handles I hike my chin in thanks and head off.
Mott fakes
