Page 10 of Mad Rivals (The Bradley Legacy #1)

Game Fucking On

I watch carefully as she snags her lip between her teeth, and for as much as I know nothing about her, I know women . She’s telling me everything I need to know with her body language.

She regrets saying that she’ll be handling this project for VBC. She doesn’t even appear to want to work for her father, and we share more in common than she’ll admit—or than I’ll admit this early in the game, to be honest.

So why is she taking on this project? My arrogance has the answer.

She’ll get to work with me.

She’s only pretending to hate me.

Though she did pique my curiosity with that line about the history between our fathers. I know nothing of it, but I did my best to school my reaction when she mentioned it.

I’ve tucked it into my pocket for later. I’ll bring it up when he’s reaming me out for not scoring the full project.

My ego took a hit when she said I’m not her type, but I don’t buy it anyway .

“Great. I’m heading it up for Bradley, so it looks like we’ll be spending a lot of time together. Do you have other projects?” I ask.

She glances away, and then she admits what I suspected. “No.”

“Will you look at that,” I say, feigning shock. “Neither do I.”

She rolls her eyes. “Enough with the theatrics, Bradley. How are we going to do this?”

“Do what?”

“Work on this project together when I can’t—” She cuts herself off.

Can’t…what?

Can’t stand me? Can’t stop staring at my mouth? Can’t stop wanting me?

All three?

“When you can’t…” I prompt.

She sighs and shakes her head. “Look, full disclosure, I just started full-time with VBC. I’ve been around the company my whole life, and I know what I’m doing there, but I don’t need you and your complications while I get my feet under me.”

I force the sly smile off my lips, but my cock thickens at her assessment. I’m a complication to her, which only means one thing to me.

She’s interested.

Well, so am I.

But she wants to play games? She wants to make me the enemy?

Fine. I’ll play. There’s nothing I love more in life than a good game. The competitive spirit is alive and well inside me, and it thrives on a good challenge.

I’ll get her to admit how she really feels before next season starts. That’s a guarantee.

And then I’ll get her naked.

Game fucking on .

“I won’t complicate matters for you,” I say. “So allow me to be honest with you, too. My father expects me to take on Bradley when I retire. I’ve always loved to build, but whether I liked it or not never mattered. I’m the oldest of seven children, so the company will be mine someday.”

Her brows rise a little, and she tilts her head with sympathy. “I’m in a similar boat, but can we back up a second? Seven children? Is your mom some sort of saint?”

I chuckle at the question. “Hardly. The nanny who raised us might be, though.”

“If you don’t want it, why can’t it go to one of the others?”

I take a sip of my iced coffee before I field that one.

“The Bradley legacy is very important to my father. So important that, frankly, I’m sick of hearing about it,” I mutter.

“But I also think that he trusts me with it. Birth order comes with some inherent responsibilities that I’ve stepped up to, and I’m most likely to retire from the game first since I’m the oldest, so I’m the natural pick.

I can choose whether to give my siblings responsibilities if I so choose once they retire, too, I suppose. ”

“The game?” she asks. “Your brothers play football, too?”

“Three of them do,” I say. “One plays baseball, and the other two are female.”

“Five boys and two girls?” She shakes her head. “What was that like growing up?”

“How many siblings do you have?” I ask instead of answering that question.

“None.”

“You’re an only child?”

She nods.

“What was that like?”

She chuckles. “Lonely.”

“At times, it felt that way with six siblings, too.”

“How?”

I lift a shoulder. “Just that feeling of being alone in a crowd.”

She nods. “Are you close with them? ”

“Some more than others.”

“Can you fire off their names and ages off the top of your head?”

I laugh. “I can. Dex, thirty-three. Everleigh is thirty-two, and Ford is twenty-nine. Archer is twenty-eight, Liam is twenty-six, and baby Ivy completed our family as a surprise just twenty years ago.”

“And you are?” she asks.

“Thirty-five.”

Her brows shoot up.

“Geriatric, right?” I ask wryly.

“Well, kind of.” Her neck is corded as she pulls a face as if to say sorry, even though I don’t get the impression she actually is.

I chuckle. “I know it’s impolite to ask, but what about you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

It’s my turn to be surprised as my own brows shoot up. “A baby,” I murmur.

“Hardly,” she says haughtily.

“And what were you doing before you started full-time at VBC?” I ask.

“Graphic design,” she says, and I almost think she’s about to give more to the story, but she stops. “So how’s this going to work when you have to go play football?”

It’s a valid question, and it’s one I’ve put some thought into—though I have to rethink it now that SCS split the project rather than handing it all over to me. “I’ll likely have someone else from the company step in when I’m not around, but all approvals will go through me.”

That someone else will definitely be a female. No way in hell I’m giving some other guy the chance to work closely with Kennedy.

She drains the rest of her coffee. “Well, I should get back to the office. You ready?”

No, I’m not. I’m rather enjoying this chance to sit and chat with her .

It started to feel like we were moving beyond that enemy energy and even toward friendly territory, but as soon as she realized it, she stiffened up on me.

I nod, and I stand and finish what’s left in my cup. We walk back toward her car, and I slide into the passenger seat.

Her car smells like her.

I noticed it the day I accidentally bumped into her that morning we met, and it’s more powerful locked in this small space with her.

It’s something coconutty and…full of joy or something. I’m not used to joyful scents. I’m used to locker rooms, to be honest.

It’s making me want to smell more of it. It’s making me want to run my nose along her skin as I breathe more of her in.

Fuck, I have got to get this under control.

These errant thoughts have to be because I haven’t had sex in a few weeks. I should flip through my contacts and find somebody to satisfy that craving so I stop acting like a horny bastard around this woman.

I won’t, though. Right now, she’s the focus of my interest, and I’m at that beginning phase where I don’t think anyone else will do.

As she starts the car, music comes blaring out of her speakers with Eminem and Rihanna’s “Love the Way You Lie” on full blast.

“Shit, sorry,” she says, clearly flustered as she moves to turn down the volume.

“It’s a good tune,” I say, turning it back up, and she laughs as she pulls into traffic.

When the song ends, a Megan Thee Stallion hit starts to play, and she turns off the radio altogether. Silence envelops us, and I break it by asking, “So you’re an Eminem fan?”

“I like that song. What do you listen to?”

I shrug. “Everything. Whatever speaks to me. I like songs I can run to.”

“What’s on your pregame playlist? ”

“Mostly rap. Some classic rock.” These questions feel too personal, and I’m not sure why. It’s like things just got intimate between us when it wasn’t supposed to be that way.

She navigates to her parking garage, and it turns out her office is only a few blocks from mine. I walk with her toward the elevator, but she’s going up and I’m going down.

It’s strange. I’m not quite sure how to say goodbye.

I want to lean in for a hug. Maybe press my lips to her cheek.

But this is business professional, and she’s already set a boundary telling me that she isn’t interested in my complications. So I will respect that boundary.

As we’re waiting, she glances at me. “Well, this has been fun,” she says awkwardly.

I nod. “We’ll need to touch base in the next few days about the project.”

“Of course. Call the office, and we’ll set something up.”

I pull my wallet out and grab a business card.

It’s old school for football players to have business cards since everything is done via social media these days, but when I was a young player ready to take on sponsorships, I had about a thousand made.

I’ve given out a little over a handful to actual potential sponsors over the course of my career, but I still keep them in my wallet since they make an easy way to give a woman my number.

“My personal number is on there,” I say, handing it over to her. “Don’t lose that. I don’t want to have to change my number and order new cards.”

She giggles as she flips it over in her hand, and then she grips it tightly. “I promise to use caution.”

Her elevator arrives, and as the doors open, she says, “Well, bye.”

I hold up a hand to wave, and I wish I wasn’t so goddamn excited for the moment she decides to actually use the number on the card.