Kickin' It (Red Card #2)(3)

Slade I didn’t worry about, he was in love. He was married.

Jagger, however, was single.

And ever since Slade had cleaned up his act, Jagger had just gotten worse, fighting with other players, sleeping around with girls who had big mouths and dollar signs in their eyes. His actions were either a cry for help or this was just who he was.

“She’s . . . beautiful.” I settled on beautiful because pretty sounded too interesting, hot sounded weird, and sexy, well, no, just no. “And completely off-limits—Jagger.”

He held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, it’s not my fault women come at me with their mouths open and shirts off—I call it the Jag effect.”

“Something’s wrong with you”—I narrowed my eyes at him—“besides the obvious character flaws the media seems to be gnawing on like a fucking bone.” I loved the guy. I did. I’d been friends with him for years, but putting out his fires was getting exhausting.

“Oh, that’s why I’m here.” Slade raised his hand. “I figured we could do another charity game or something and put Jagger back in the spotlight in a positive way that helps the community.” He grinned like he’d just gotten an A for awesome.

“Riiiight, let’s just put the Jag effect out there for all to see and record and upload to YouTube . . .” I scowled. Even though that plan had worked before, we needed a different angle this time, and nothing screamed “good guy” more than family, and I knew just the woman to keep him in line. “You’re taking your grandma to dinner.”

Jagger paled, and Slade almost fell off the couch laughing.

“Anything but that,” Jagger pleaded. “Look, I’ll go paint houses, I’ll build a fucking school!”

“It’s just dinner.” I smiled knowingly—I’d been on the opposite end of that woman’s lectures more times than I could count.

“That’s like saying it was just the Cold War.” He glared. “She’s very, very Russian, and she’s loud, and last time she used a racial slur that almost got us kicked out of the restaurant.”

“But she looks adorable, and if she starts getting loud be a big boy and stop her.” I shot him an evil grin. “And people loved it when you held her hand in the parking lot. Those shots went viral.”

“Right, about that: She asked me to hold her hand because she thought the police were following us because she used to date a Russian spy. Then she turned to me and asked, ‘Or am I the spy?’” Jagger shuddered. “Matt, she talked into her wrist every few minutes like she was the KGB!”

“Take her out. Make it public. I don’t care if she is a fucking spy, you strap her in that car of yours and take her out, you kiss her on the cheek, you pay for the bill, and when all is said and done, they’ll post about how sweet it was that you were out with your grandma and not at some seedy bar signing autographs and picking out girls from a line.”

“Once.” He raised a forefinger. “And I was drunk. It was the only way I could decide which one was prettier.”

“Yeah, I have to agree with Matt about Grandma,” Slade said with a nod. “Also, stay far, far away from Willow.”

“I love the name Willow.” Jagger stared me down.

“I have no problem shoving you off my yacht and dumping a bucket of blood in afterward for good measure.”

“Graphic.” Jagger grinned. “I like it.”

Slade stood. “What’s for lunch?”

“You aren’t staying for lunch.”

“I’ll get the plates!” Jagger followed.

I sighed and gave up. I was physically tired and mentally exhausted. These guys knew they could give me shit and I’d take off my agent hat and join in, but lately, I’d been feeling the pressure of my intense schedule. Maybe it was good timing having Willow come. Maybe I was overthinking things. Maybe everything was going to be totally fine and I needed to just lay off. After all, what could possibly be so horrible about spending time with my sister?





Chapter Two PARKER

The house was huge.

Intimidating.

It was three stories of financial security, determination, blood, sweat, tears—it was three stories of all the things I wanted out of my soccer career—out of my life.

I gulped at the sight of the modern house and its intimidating landscaping. My dad owned a landscaping business, so I knew the cost of a mature tree—or the cost of at least twenty with shrubs, flowers, intricate water fountains and a Japanese garden that looked so Zen I had the instinctual urge to let out the breath I was holding in and relax.

But I couldn’t.

I was meeting one of the biggest sports agents in the world.

Matt Kingston.

Might as well call him King.

He was my best friend’s older brother, and every single time she’d talked about him he’d sounded smooth, calculating, and damn good at his job. I didn’t want to put all my eggs in one basket, but first impressions were everything. I got out of the rental car holding a plate of peanut-butter cookies in one hand and my backpack in the other, leaving the rest of my stuff behind. It was either this or move back in with my dad. The thought was daunting; we weren’t close, at all. We saw each other during the holidays but other than that, I kept to myself. And after everything this last year, I needed a break. I needed . . . something.