Risky Play (Red Card #1)(46)

Sure. Was.

“Thanks, man.” I opened it and took a bite to show my appreciation while he beamed to the rest of the kids running up.

I choked it down.

No choice since he kept looking at me to make sure I was chewing.

“Alright, Team Striker, gather around.”

It was Jags against Strikers for our final day. If we won, Jagger had to shave his head. If Jagger won, well, my famous locks were on the chopping block.

I took a deep breath. “Men, we have one goal today. Keep me from being the laughingstock of my team. I gotta be honest, guys, I don’t have a round head. It’s shaped like an ugly football, and I’ll probably never get a girlfriend if I have to shave my hair.” They started snickering. “Lads, I could not be more serious if my life depended on it. Do you want me to die alone?”

“No!” they cheered.

“Guys! We’re a team! Leave no man behind. I’m counting on you! My future self is counting on you! Now, go out there and have fun! Team Striker on three. One, two, three, Striker!”

They ran out screaming.

Jagger sent his out in similar fashion.

We stood side by side watching our handiwork as they warmed up.

“They grow up so damn fast.” I shook my head. “I swear Mitchell grew a hair on his chin this week.”

“Brady told me he found a hair on his balls, I guess they both win.”

We both burst into laughter as the guys ran around us emitting their own happy noises.

“If you ever lose the love of the game . . . just watch it through their eyes, huh?”

“Yeah.” He nodded and, without looking at me, coughed out, “You did good.”

I cupped my ear. “I’m sorry, lots of horns honking and people yelling, what was that?”

He gave me a shove. “You did good, jackass.”

“No cursing!” came Matt’s admonishment from behind us.

We turned, and Jagger shot Matt a death glare.

“You killed our moment, man!” I roared at him.

Matt held up his hands, eyes wide.

“Here we are ready to hug it out.” Jagger shook his head in disappointment.

“Start fresh,” I offered.

“And you”—Jagger spat the word you—“just had to lecture us about our language.”

Matt pinched the bridge of his nose. “I quit.”

I burst out laughing. “You like the smell of money too much. Besides, where would we be without our glue?”

“Oh, you two?” He pointed between us. “Probably dead on the street somewhere. But me? I’d be in the Bahamas. Thanks for the reminder. Not painful at all.”

I just rolled my eyes. “Thanks for coming to the game, now watch me kick Jagger’s ass.”

“Your golden-brown locks are mine, Rodriguez!” Jagger grumbled.

I narrowed my eyes and tilted my head. “That come out the way you planned, or are you really regretting—”

“Shut it.”

Matt laughed just as the ref blew the whistle.

My guys ran over to me. I gave them high fives, grabbed my clipboard, and knelt down. “Remember what I said, guys, my future wife needs you to win, nobody wants to marry a football. Amen?”

“Amen!” they shouted.

I sent them off with a giant smile and prayed they wouldn’t make me a hairless cat after Mack’s own heart when I knew in mine—she really preferred bulldogs.

I gave Jagger major side-eye.

Yeah, I wouldn’t stand a chance with no hair.





Chapter Thirty-Five MACKENZIE

Alton: Your father spoke to me.

I stared at the text while the French toast turned to a rock in my stomach. The last thing I wanted to do after having such a great start to my Saturday was see a text from the guy who accused me of being a whore in front of the guy who rejected me and the one who was . . . what was Jagger doing? It seemed genuine, and I hated that my trust issues were filtering into the way I saw him.

My phone pinged again.

Jagger: We need a redo.

I smiled at the phone and responded. He’d been texting me throughout the week, nothing serious, just asking about my day, telling me about his. Complaining about Slade—the usual.

Me: What were you thinking?

I could tell he was typing since the dots were dancing.

And while he was typing out whatever he was typing out, my eyes fell to the French toast that Slade had made for me—as if he wasn’t busy enough with camp and practice, he woke up and made me something that instantly kicked my day off right. I smiled just as Jagger replied.

Jagger: My place tonight.

I gulped, feeling instantly guilty.

And chewed on my bottom lip. Why did that seem more personal than dinner?

And why did I suddenly feel like I was cheating on Slade when all he’d done was make me breakfast and apologize for his crappy personality? You know, after being sweet all week long, teasing me, forcing me to stay for dinner. I stared down at my phone.

I didn’t overanalyze.

I just responded.

Me: I’ll bring wine.

Jagger: You better . . .

I was about to put my phone away when Alton texted again.

Alton: Look, I don’t know what kind of influence those guys have over you. The fact that you even slept with one or hell who knows? Both of them? Reflects badly on you. Not on me. I just reacted. Like any concerned friend would. I’m worried about you, and it’s wrong of you to take out your own guilt by tattling to your father and trying yet again to get me fired. It’s business, it’s not personal.