Page 5 of Protecting Player #73 (Portland, Settlers #1 | Gridiron Warriors)

Brea

“ A sshole.” I mutter the word under my breath over and over until I’m on the field, preferring to yell it in his face. But like so many other women, the stupid jerk rendered me speechless because he’s too handsome for his own good.

That thick, slightly longer hair on his head, those piercing chocolate eyes that see inside your soul, and those plump, kissable lips surrounded by a layer of facial hair. He’s probably left more than a few scuff marks on the inside of thighs and sides of necks. I hate my jealousy.

The man is sex on a stick, with hands of pure gold, and a body built for sin. “Shut up, B.” Sexualizing him won’t do me any good.

As the sun’s warmth hits my face while walking around to blow off steam, earning curious stares from the team, I smile as I look up at the gorgeous blue sky and close my eyes. The sunrays have always helped settle my turbulent thoughts.

For a long time, I’ve struggled to accept my overall personality.

Being a little more carefree, a little less rigid, and a whole lot of girly, many people have labeled me as flighty and unreliable.

And sure, I can sometimes be those things.

I rely entirely too much on my phone for the calendar and reminder apps, but there’s so much I want to do in my life that sometimes, I get carried away, forgetful, or overwhelmed.

Nevertheless, I’m determined to be the best.

So, as I wait for the team meeting to finish, I sit on one of the benches and edit the locker room video from before Tate Kelly Weston decided to accost me.

I’m still ashamed of my reaction to him–getting tongue-tied while a million words raced through my head but wanting to shoot back something acerbic to scold him for his intimidating attitude.

I also longed to kiss him but couldn’t because I had signed a contract strictly prohibiting me from interacting with players or coaching staff in a sexual manner.

No hookups, no relationships, no doing anything inappropriate or that could reflect poorly on the team.

It works for me because I’m not interested in being involved with a married man or, in this case, a self-affirmed playboy.

I want that forever kind of love. I want someone who is as invested in me as I am in him.

And sure, playboys can change their ways, but I don’t particularly want someone who has always treated women like a toy instead of a partner.

Spotting Kace Walker, the team’s best kicker, walking towards the opposite end zone alongside the Special Teams coach, Leroy Davids, who’s holding a kicking tee and a freshly pumped ball, I swap to camera mode and begin recording, deciding to immediately post this with the team’s entrance song, “Legends” by The Score.

Kace warms up by running in place before stretching out his back, shoulders, and hamstrings. He and Leroy have a quick conversation before setting up the equipment, readying him to kick.

Kace sails the ball through the air and right between the uprights. Perfect conditions for the perfect kick. As he turns around, he spots me recording and gives a goofy little dance before refocusing his attention on Leroy.

I’ve always admired the accuracy of a solid kick and how well Kace plays.

Many people think the team’s kicker is the weakest link, but I don’t share that belief.

I’ve always viewed them as focused and dedicated.

Sure, they don’t play as much as the others on the field, but they’re an essential member of the team and always bring their A-game.

Catching movement from the side, I spot T.K. sprinting from the tunnel and watch him while pretending to be busy on my phone. His head tilts up to the sky, the same way I do every time I’m in the sun, and an odd kinship forms before he’s yelled at by his defensive coordinator, Ryan Becker.

I cringe at the thought of five hundred suicide sprints.

I’m lucky if I can do thirty. He needs better-than-average stamina to complete that many, but takes it in stride.

No arguing, just sets his helmet on the bench, sheds his jersey and shoulder pads, and spends a few minutes warming up and stretching.

I covertly admire the flexion of his muscles, the sinew of his body, the way he so easily moves, given his size.

T.K. Weston is six feet two and nearly two hundred and forty pounds of finely sculpted muscle. There’s not an ounce of fat on him. Makes sense why he’s got such a cocky attitude. Why girls and women are always all over him.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve crushed on the man something fierce.

While I only know of his personality from the tabloids, I’ve always had this weird fantasy of him being a sweet guy with a gruff exterior; however, after our locker room exchange, that theory is shot.

Unless, of course, it’s a deep-seated, hidden, sweet attitude that would only shine with the right woman at his side.

A girl can dream, I suppose. Though mine have been stymied thanks to a contract and a preference to establish a career first. My parents were initially skeptical about my major, but Alex brought them around, and they began to support me, which has bolstered my confidence.

Since my early teens, I’ve been fascinated by social media and how it could transform the world for a business or a team, and I wanted to be a part of that.

Dabbling in it over that first summer, just to get my name out there and gain references for my resume, I realized I had chosen the right profession.

I’ve spent years learning the ins and outs of ReelShotz.

What works, what doesn’t, how to stay within the consumer’s eyesight, and make the algorithm work to my benefit.

Then I learned graphic design, video enhancement, editing, and testing videos and image reels to gauge popularity.

I enjoyed doing live videos, and once the chance arose to do these things for someone else, I had four viral videos in three days.

Blowing this opportunity is not an option. I’ve spent a small fortune on video equipment, along with one of the best still image cameras on the market. If I fail, it’ll all be for nothing.

Wandering the field, I stick to the outskirts and shoot pictures of the players as they practice, laugh, and cheer each other on, then shift my attention to the coaches. Watching them scribble on clipboards, point and shout at players, blow whistles, and huddle to talk about progress.

“So, who are you?” I jump and spin around at a male voice behind me. It’s Cash Rowan, removing his gloves as he waits on my answer.

“I’m Brea King, your new social media manager.” I offer him my hand and could swear T.K. growls as he sprints past us to grab a water bottle.

Cash smirks as he regards his teammate. “Cash Rowan, QB. So, you’re taking pictures and videos…?”

I nod. “I’ll also be conducting interviews when the coaches allow me to. I might also travel with the team occasionally, as long as things go well.”

His eyes scan my body, but I don’t get the same feeling as when men do it in a sexual manner. It’s more like he’s sizing me up. “Sounds interesting. Care to interview me now? I’ve got five minutes before huddling up. Jacob Badry will be ready after me.”

Turning my head towards the wide receiver, he throws up a wave before dropping his head and focusing on the play. “Sure. You okay if we go live? I did a short one yesterday, and it went viral in minutes.”

At first, he seems skeptical. “No overly personal questions.” The boundary is set.

“Promise. I’ll keep it about the game and maybe some preseason activities.

” He contemplates my offer for a moment, then agrees.

To position him better, we walk farther away from the team to subdue the noise.

After scouting the stadium for the perfect backdrop, I attach the rod to my phone to keep it at the optimum distance. “Ready?” I get a thumbs up.

Hitting the live button, I wait three seconds, then begin. “Hey, Settlers Nation, it’s me, Brea, back with an exciting first preseason interview with none other than your favorite quarterback, Cash Rowan!”

He pops into view, wraps an arm across my shoulders, and smiles brightly. “Hey, fam, how’s those summer vacays going?”

Comments flood in.

“Yesterday, I asked you guys to drop some questions for our players, and Cash has graciously agreed to answer a few.

But we only have a couple of minutes, so let's start with…” I tap my finger to my cheek, pretending to think about it.

“What was the first thing you did after your last game against the Seattle Westerners when you were eliminated from the playoffs?”

I wince as he cringes and shakes his head. Too fresh? I hope not. “I spent the night drinking the loss away with Kace and Jacob. We had it, man. We had the game, then a wicked shift sent us off course, and the rest is history.”

“Did you learn anything from that loss?”

“Yeah, Brogan Bennett has one hell of a throw.” He laughs, thinking about the Westerners' own QB.

“Fair, fair. Okay, so last question, because I can see Coach Rogers glaring our way…. What team do you want to play in the Victory Bowl this year?”

Cash squeezes my shoulder, looking amused. “I love that you believe in us enough to think we’ll make it. I’d love to play the San Antonio Rattlers. They’ve got a competitive game, and I’d like to show them our prowess.”

“Coach is waving you over. Thanks for hanging with us, Cash!”

“Anytime, princess.” After dropping a kiss on my temple, he yells for Jacob and rushes back to the field.

“Well, I guess we get Jacob Badry now.” I smile brightly because Jacob is one of the sweetest guys on and off the field.

“Hey, Rip City fam, let’s get this show on the road. What do you want to ask me, princess?” Oh boy , I get the feeling this nickname will spread around.

“How about… What’s your pregame meal?” It was a comment that scrolled by while talking to Cash.

“Ohhhh”–he rubs his hands together–“I like a thick turkey sandwich on seven-grain bread, with jalapeno cheese, honey mustard, spinach, and a side of fresh fruit. I’ll also have a strawberry banana smoothie with low-fat Greek yogurt and chia seeds.

” He nearly looks like he’s drooling just thinking about it.

“That sounds delicious.” I’m oddly craving it now.

“Come around for the first game. I have it catered for the team and staff; I’ll make sure there’s enough for you.” He looks me up and down again. “You’re small, but I bet you can pack it away as well as any of the guys.”

I shrug, not ready to admit to the world that I can eat as much as most grown men. Instead, I say,“I’m definitely interested. So, how about your favorite off-season meal? What are we going to find you eating on, say, Fourth of July?”

“I’m slow cooking as many racks of ribs in the smoker as’ll fit. Mom will bring her famous macaroni salad. Pops is probably bringing his homemade stout, and my little sister makes a killer ambrosia salad. Watermelon across its own table, as well.”

“Sounds like one heck of a meal.”

We read aloud a few comments from people sharing what they’re having, too.

“Man, these sound like some amazing meals,” Jacob says, looking away when something catches his eye. “My time is up, guys. Talk to you next time. See ya, princess.” He winks while running backwards to the team huddle.

“What did you think? Do you want more shorts with the guys? What about the coaches?” A bunch of yeses chimes through in the comments, making me laugh until an intense heat flares up my back.

“What about me, pup? Got any questions I can answer for you?” T.K. is pressed against my back as tightly as humanly possible, with his hands on my hips, fingers digging into my flesh, holding me still.

“Oh, uhm, sure, yes. What do you guys want to know about our star nose tackle, T.K. Weston?” I ask hastily, my brain on the fritz as his sweat seeps through the thin backing of my dress.

“How about that one, pup?” He points to a comment, and I swallow.

“I don’t think that’s appropriate.” My mouth dries out as I scan the question that asks if he’s as big as the leaked video implies. Clearing my throat, I read a simple one aloud. “If you could play for any other team, which one would you choose and why?”

“Crazed Lunatics. They hit harder than any other team, and I want in on that kind of action.” One of his hands moves around to the front of my stomach, his thumb caressing up and down, launching butterflies in my belly. “Got another one for me?”

“How are you still standing after that punishment you were handed?” Seriously, I’d be a puddle of jelly and sweat on the ground by now.

“Incentives,” he murmurs before his name is called, and he leisurely leaves after brushing his fingers across my ass and lifting my skirt a few inches. His implication is clear. He wants it off me.

“Alright, guys, one quick look at practice and I’m off to edit some videos I took this morning that’ll be posted later on. Keep those questions coming, we have an entire roster to get through.”

It takes two minutes, and I log off with a new case of heart palpitations, forehead sweat, and a brain that is a fuzzy mess of mush because, what was that? And why the hell did I react so strongly?

I’m screwed if we’re ever that close again.