Scoring Wilder(4)

The entire house was a bachelor pad on crack. Open, modern, and filled with every piece of technology imaginable. It was a maze trying to get through the living room, but finally we maneuvered our way into an expansive kitchen. It didn’t disappoint. With marble countertops and chic black appliances, it fit in perfectly with the rest of the house. The space was less crowded than the other rooms, but there were still at least fifty people between us and the freezer.

"Here, you just stand there and I'll get you some ice." Emily gently pushed me to the side against the kitchen counter so that she could prepare a little ice pack for me with a bunch of paper towels.

My feet were starting to hurt from my four inch heels, so I reached back to prop myself up onto the counter. I should have inspected the spot beforehand because as I hopped up I heard the telltale sound of alcohol bottles tipping over and crashing into the sink.

"Oops!" I giggled, then covered my mouth with my hands.

"You're a liability," Becca joked, reaching behind me to right the tipped over bottles.

In my drunken state, I didn't seem to care. Sitting on the counter definitely beat standing up on my high heels, and from my vantage point I could see over the heads of everyone standing in the kitchen. The amount of plastic surgery in that room could have rivaled a Miss America dressing room. Everywhere I looked I was greeted with fake boobs and nose jobs, but it was LA and these women had their jobs cut out for them if they intended on landing a professional athlete.

“Kinsley, scoot back, you’re about to fall off the counter,” Becca said, pulling me out of my people-watching zone. I hadn’t realized I’d been swaying so heavily.

I scooted back a little bit so that more of my thighs pressed against the cold granite.

"Oh, here! I almost forgot," she said, reaching down to dig in her purse.

"What is it? What is it?" I clapped my hands together, feeling giddy from the alcohol and party atmosphere. "A vibrator?" I exclaimed loud enough for the few people around us to eye me with suspicious grins. I shot them all a confident smile.

"No, you hussy! It's a birthday crown. It’s what I had to grab at the Rookie House earlier," she answered, retrieving a pink, sparkly princess crown out of her purse. It looked like a piece of a costume I'd had as a little girl and I instantly loved it.

"Ooooh. It's beeuuooteefuulll," I drawled with wide eyes as she placed it on the top of my head.

Becca started laughing, making me laugh, and eventually I was clutching my stomach. My nineteenth birthday was definitely getting better. Laughing like an insane person sure beat eating cake alone.

"Here, this should help," Emily said, returning from the freezer and handing me a makeshift icepack with a bemused smile. I'd forgotten my cheek was even injured.

I took the pack and gave her a cheesy grin. "What would I do without you two?!"

"Well you're about to find out because I have to use the bathroom."

"I'll go with you," Becca said, turning toward Emily. "I should find the other freshman girls and bring them in here. They're probably wondering where we went."

"What?" I asked with puppy-dog—eyes. "You're both leaving me?" I actually felt sad about it.

"Yes, just stay there and keep icing your face. We'll be right back!" Becca called as she and Emily disappeared through the crowd. What the hell? Now I looked like a big loser sitting by myself with a princess crown and an ice pack. But I'd be damned if I took it off. I was a birthday princess. I even gave a royal wave to anyone that walked by me.

"That crown looks good on you! Want to do a birthday shot?" A dark voice asked. I looked up to find a group of cute guys surrounding me. They looked a bit older and I knew the one speaking to me was on the LA Stars team. If I wasn't drunk I could have told you his name, but I hardly remembered my name. Kinsley Bryant. Kinsley Bryant.

"Well, since my friends ditched me for the pisser, er… I mean the powder room… I might as well," I shrugged.

"That's a good attitude," the cute one said as he passed me a jell-o shot. I decided I’d call him Oliver until I remembered his actual name. He looked like an Oliver.

"Skim your finger around the rim so that you can loosen the jell-o from the plastic," he instructed, stepping closer to me.

I shot him an indignant look. "Do I look like an amateur?" I laughed, tipping back the jell-o in one smooth swoosh.

"Mmm, cherry." I smiled and the guys laughed.

I would have paid more attention to them or asked for another shot, but the moment the words escaped my lips, I looked toward the doorway of the kitchen and my breath caught in my throat.

Liam Wilder.

Sex on steroids rolled in pastry crust. Liam Wilder.

I didn't think he showed up to things like this. I thought he jaunted around on yachts and baptized babies all day. Babies that would one day grow up to be swimsuit models, thanks to his touch. No, he’s not a priest; he’s just a god in the soccer world. (And also in the real world.)

Jeez, he was good-looking up close. Tall, toned, sexy light brown hair, and a face that made you want to cry a little it was so perfect. He was the star of the LA Stars and the resident bad boy of LA. Seriously. Every week there was news coverage of him leaving a bar with some model or actress. He was young, handsome, and could literally sleep with anyone he wanted. Could you blame the guy for taking advantage of it?