Out Of Bounds: Risky Game Part 1

RISKY GAME.

by Tracy Solheim.

This one is dedicated to the next generation of girl power: Meredith, Kirsten, Jillian, Casey, and Catherine. Don't just follow your dreams, OWN them.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Thanks, as always, to Cindy Hw.a.n.g and the wonderful staff at Berkley who guide me through the writing process.

To my agent, Melissa Jeglinski, thanks for always having my back.

Also, I couldn't do this without a dedicated group of beta readers-Melanie, Chris, Mary, Allison, and Kathy. Thanks ladies.

Thanks to my fellow authors at Women Unplugged, Romancing the Jock, and Georgia Romance Writers for always answering my pleas for help.

To Kim and the staff at Read It Again, a huge thank you for your support.

Thanks to the women of Talking Volumes Book Club, the gym rats, the barn moms, the band moms, and my Epiphany People, for understanding when I needed backup-and that was often this year!

It goes without saying that I couldn't do this without the love and support of my family, particularly my husband, Greg, and our two works-in-progress, Austin and Meredith. Love you guys.

Finally, and most importantly, a heartfelt thank-you to all the readers. You are what this is all about and I am truly humbled by your enthusiastic support of my books. You rock!.

Prologue.

From the blog:.

THE GIRLFRIENDS' GUIDE TO THE NFL.

It's that time again, girlfriends! Kickoff weekend in the NFL. Men in tight pants fighting over a ball. Yum. And while those macho talking heads on cable are breaking down the plays, we'll be giving you all the stats you really want to know: the inside scoop on your fantasy players. Ladies, forget about the games, because we all know the real scoring takes place off the field. So let's get right to it.

Rumor has it Miami running back Al Stephens and his estranged wife are reuniting-in court that is. According to sources, Stephens will spend his day off next Tuesday in a Dade County courtroom answering to his wife's claims of infidelity. Prepare yourselves, ladies, because it's about to get nastier than an episode of the Real Housewives. My spies tell me Stephens's wife, Jackie, will be naming the girlfriend of one of his Miami teammates as the other woman. Wouldn't you just looove to be in that locker room next week?

Speaking of other women, a little bear told me that Chicago head coach Ray Clooney has not one, but two new ladies in his life-besides his wife, of course. Clooney is apparently the secret father of a daughter with a certain Chicago-area restaurant hostess. No word on Clooney's wife's reaction, but I think it's a safe bet he'll be dining out for the foreseeable future.

Finally, the return of the pigskin brings back the fine tight end of Baltimore's Brody Janik, every girlfriend's favorite fantasy player. Brody and his s.e.xy baby blues have been lying low this off-season. Apparently, he's lost interest in a certain flavor of Candi. One has to wonder how-and with whom-he's been spending his free time.

Got some football fantasies to share? Maybe a photo of our favorite guys of the gridiron doing something naughty? Send it to us at

One.

Shannon "Shay" Everett had been in some compromising positions in her life. Many of them even of her own doing. Growing up in a small town in Texas as the daughter of a down-and-out rodeo rider and a beauty salon owner, the rebellious tomboy had gotten into more embarra.s.sing sc.r.a.pes than she could reckon. That being said, she never envisioned herself stuffed into a cubby inside an NFL locker room late at night. A locker room that was supposed to be empty. Only it wasn't.

h.e.l.l's bells.

Shay would have kicked her own b.u.t.t for this little escapade if it wouldn't call attention to her presence. The guilt she felt over her task had already swayed her to abort the whole thing the minute she'd entered the players' domain. Not to mention that she was risking her interns.h.i.+p with the team and her scholars.h.i.+p along with it. She'd just have to keep riding her bike to work and the bus downtown to campus because the money to replace her car's m.u.f.fler wouldn't be coming from some mystery Internet blogger who paid handsomely for personal information on professional football players. Shay was ashamed for even attempting it, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Now she just needed to quickly extricate herself from her perch huddled in a dark corner of the Baltimore Blaze's state-of-the-art locker room. Unfortunately, her punishment was to endure painful pins and needles in her legs and feet as she waited out the room's other two occupants; both of whom seemingly had all the time in the world. Not that any woman would complain given the view. Standing twenty feet in front of Shay was Blaze tight end and all-American heartthrob Brody Janik.

A deliciously naked Brody Janik.

Shay willed her stomach not to growl at the sight before her, but Brody was a spectacular example of grade-A prime athlete in all his physical glory. Her mouth watered as she took in six feet three inches, two hundred ten pounds of perfectly sculpted muscle standing beneath a single shaft of light, the scene reminiscent of a statue of a Greek G.o.d on display in a museum somewhere. All that was missing was the pedestal for him to stand on.

Not that she hadn't seen nearly this much of his perfect body before. The whole world had. As the spokesman for an international designer's line of men's underwear, pictures of Brody wearing nothing but his sparkling blue eyes and his skivvies had been plastered all over billboards and buses for months now. Except tonight, his BVDs were noticeably absent.

She licked her lips as he scrubbed his neatly trimmed brown hair with a towel, the muscles in his broad back rippling. Her eyes drifted lower to the two fine dimples on his backside-one that saw a lot of sun based on the lack of a discernible tan line. She slammed her eyelids shut as he turned to reach for something out of his locker. Surely this was an invasion of his privacy and she ought not to be looking. Except when would she get another chance like this one?

She blinked one eye open. Dang! He'd already pulled on a pair of skintight gray boxers, a noticeably abundant bulge hidden beneath the Egyptian cotton.

"It's going to be hard to keep this under wraps," a heavily accented male voice said from the shadows, a few lockers over.

Ain't that the truth, Shay thought. She mentally shook herself in an effort to refocus her attention from the s.e.xy scene in front of her and tried to make sense of the conversation. The other voice in the room wasn't hard to recognize; the distinct accent belonged to Mr. Pomegranate Smoothie with Extra Flaxseed, Brody's personal trainer, whose last name was something Scandinavian and unp.r.o.nounceable. Shay only knew him by what he ordered in the Blaze commissary each time he visited.

"It won't be that hard, Erik." Brody tugged on a pair of jeans over his well-defined, long legs as Shay stifled a sigh. He sat down on the folding chair in front of his locker and pulled on his socks and sneakers. "The p.i.s.s Man only checks for banned substances. He's not checking my blood sugar."

Pardon? She tore her eyes away from Brody's still nude torso to concentrate on the words coming out of his wicked mouth. She'd heard the phrase p.i.s.s Man before; it was the players' nickname for the league representative who tested their urine for illegal steroid use. It was the second part of Brody's sentence that sent Shay's brain scrambling. Was something up with his blood sugar?

"That's not the point." The fair-haired Dane moved out from the shadows to stand beside Brody's chair. "What if you get disoriented on the field again and miss a route or a pa.s.s? It was only practice today, but it could happen during a game if you can't keep your sugar regulated."

Brody stood up from the chair, his chiseled body elegant and a.s.sured as he peered down at the stocky trainer. Good looks, superior athleticism, and an affluent upbringing gave him the confidence to believe he could beat anything. Even, apparently, a problem with his blood sugar.

"Not gonna happen." He pulled a black Lacoste polo over his head.

"You can't beat it by mainlining Pop-Tarts like you did before your training camp physical," his trainer persisted. "That ended with you nearly comatose two hours later."

Shay worried her bottom lip as she considered the implications of Brody's predicament. As a PhD candidate in nutrition, she knew full well how the tight end's fluctuating blood sugar could spell doom for his career. She also didn't want to contemplate the scenario of him trying to regulate it by himself.

Brody shoved his sweaty clothes into his mesh bag. "You worry too much. I'll take precautions before and during games. Whatever I need, I can have on the sidelines or in the locker room during halftime. My plan worked fine during the opening game last week."

His friend shook his head. "I'd feel better if you told the training staff. That way, someone could keep an eye on you during the game. You aren't always aware that your sugar's dropping until it's too late."

"No. n.o.body knows. Not even my family." The vehemence in Brody's voice echoed throughout the empty locker room. "I'm in the last year of my contract and my mom is a diabetic. If the team finds out my blood sugar is a little schizophrenic, the negotiations for a new deal will spin out of control. Besides, Nate the Narcissist is a pain in the a.s.s. The guy's got a real Napoleon complex. He'd lord it over me and take over my life. No thank you, dude." Brody shuddered as he tossed the bag into the equipment manager's cage.

Shay sucked in a breath. Nate, the team's head trainer, was her boss and she had to agree with Brody's a.s.sessment of him. As her mama would say, Nate was "all hat and no cattle." It was a relief to know she wasn't the only one who suffered under the man's delusions of grandeur.

When she'd accepted the interns.h.i.+p, Shay was told she'd be working with the training staff on the day-to-day nutritional coaching for the players. The information she obtained would be useful in the compilation of her dissertation, an examination of carbohydrates used during peak athletic performance. Instead, Nate had banished her to the team's cafeteria, telling her the caterer needed extra hands during training camp. Now, the season was in its second week and he showed no intention of allowing her to move up from food service. By the time Shay realized she wouldn't get the experience she wanted, all the other interns.h.i.+ps had been taken. She needed the credits to fulfill a requirement to receive her degree at the end of the semester. Worse still, she wasn't even getting paid for the work she did.

"I don't like the risk you're taking, Brody."

"It's not a risk. I'll be fine as long as I make sure to eat a balanced diet every day. I wasn't diligent during the off-season and I'm paying for it now, that's all."

His trainer let out a harrumph of displeasure.

Brody's whole body tensed, his cover-boy jaw firm as he spoke. "I a.s.sume this is something we can keep between us. Or do I have to specifically invoke client-trainer confidentiality?"

The trainer bristled at Brody's tone. Normally laid-back and carefree, Brody was all business now, forcing his trainer to take a step back.

"Whoa." He held his hands up. "I'm on your side, Brody. Of course this stays between us. But you pay me to train and advise you. I'm just giving you my opinion, that's all."

Brody's face was cool and calculated for a brief moment before relaxing into the boyish charm he was famous for. "Duly noted, Erik." He slapped the trainer on the back, leading him toward the exit. "Tell you what. You can advise me on what to order for dinner tonight to keep my blood sugar from taking a nosedive."

"Are you buying?"

Brody's laugh was hollow, almost as if he was resigned to picking up the tab. "Aren't I always?"

The room went dark and Shay waited a few minutes before letting out a pained breath as she eased her numb legs out from under her. She sat still for another moment, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness and her mind to adjust to everything she'd heard. Her heart skipped a beat when her cell phone buzzed in her pocket, its noise loud in the now ghostly locker room.

"Holy s.h.i.+take!" she whispered, nearly jumping out of her skin. "Good thing that didn't go off five minutes ago." She hadn't thought to silence her cell phone, innocently a.s.suming the locker room would be empty. Her hand shook as she checked the bright screen to scan her text message. It was from Ken Daly, the manager of Celtic Charm, one of Baltimore's newest nightclubs.

I need a bartender tomorrow night. R U interested?

Shay exhaled a slow, cleansing breath. She'd entered the locker room earlier to do something nefarious, only to have her conscience remind her that the ends don't justify the means. Now, the answer to her financial woes had just landed in her lap-or on her cell phone to be precise. Her mama would call it providence. Shay just called it dumb luck. Whatever it was, she needed to get out of there before someone else wandered in and spotted her where she shouldn't be.

She stood up slowly, her legs still tingling. Using the flashlight app on her cell phone, she carefully traversed the dark room toward the exit, happy that she didn't have to betray any of the team's players. The Blaze organization was known around the league for its professionalism and values. Aside from Nate, everyone Shay came in contact with at the training facility was friendly and she actually enjoyed the work-even if it wasn't what she'd expected.

Of course, the author of the blog The Girlfriends' Guide to the NFL would probably pay big money for Brody Janik's secret. But a Friday night tending bar at the hugely popular Celtic Charm could bring in several hundred dollars in tips-more if she dressed in a tight blouse and the kilt the waitresses wore. That kind of money would buy a new m.u.f.fler and a month's worth of cell phone service, if she was careful. She didn't need to sell anyone's secrets.

Shay made it to the door and listened carefully to make sure no one was lingering in the hallway. The building was supposed to be empty, but Brody and his trainer friend could still be wandering around. Leaning against the doorjamb, she thought about the Blaze tight end.

Brody Janik was the epitome of a superstar jock: talented, rich, and gorgeous. Men wanted to be him and women wanted to be with him. Even more appealing, arrogance hadn't tainted his persona. Brody used his slow, wicked smile to charm everyone he met. He doled that smile out to everyone like it was candy. Everyone except her. Instead, he treated Shay with his innate politeness. Almost as if he didn't put her in the same category as other women. And that stung. A lot.

Just like every other female between the age of two and one hundred and two, Shay had a big-time crush on Brody. Of course, she knew it would never amount to anything. After all, she was the tall, awkward brainiac with frizzy hair and a wide mouth who was used to being the last one chosen to dance. At twenty-four, she'd had a lifetime of experience being ignored by men like Brody as they scoured the room for the attractive, self-a.s.sured catch.

A more callous woman, bent on revenge, might sell Brody's story. But Shay Everett wasn't that woman. Brody was just like every other man who'd looked through her at one point in her life. She really couldn't single him out for it. It wouldn't be fair to all the rest of the men who'd ignored her.

Slipping out the door into the deserted hallway, Shay resolved to forget everything she'd heard while hiding in the locker room. Brody Janik wasn't her problem. It's not like they'd exchanged more than a please and thank-you in the cafeteria as she slopped his meal on a plate each day. And she wouldn't worry about his blood sugar, either. At least that's what she kept telling herself as she crept out of the Blaze training facility.

Grabbing her bike, she donned her reflective vest and headed out on the ten-minute trek to her apartment, her conscience clear. She'd do some research for an hour or so before grabbing some sleep. She had swim practice to coach in the morning before arriving at the training facility at eight thirty. If she happened across information on hypoglycemia while she was scanning articles for her dissertation, so be it. As she pedaled along, she told herself it was professional interest making her curious. Not anything special about Brody Janik.

Two.

The bar swelled with throngs of Charm City's beautiful people as they mingled and preened. The ba.s.s of the music throbbed through the floor of the warehouse-turned-nightclub, the DJ spinning a Pitbull track. Lasers flashed along to the beat, jarring Brody Janik's nerves. He sat inconspicuously in a corner just off the dance floor trying in vain to hear what his friend was saying. A parade of women sauntered past his table, invitation in their eyes and the sway of their hips.

"I can't believe you've never been here!" Robbie had to shout to be heard.

Ignoring the come-hither looks from the women vying for his attention, Brody leaned closer to his best friend from childhood. "It opened this spring while I was away. But, I've been wanting to check it out," he lied.

Sure, he'd heard of the meat-market mega-bar from his teammates and other Baltimore celebrities, but he never intended on actually walking in the place. A few years ago, a club like this might have been his scene, but Brody's tastes had mellowed after five seasons in the league. At twenty-seven, he was at the top of his game athletically. By virtue of his good looks and talent, he was practically a household name. He should be out reaping the benefits of his celebrity. But a melancholy had settled over Brody like a blanket of fog rolling over his vacation home on Cape Cod and he couldn't seem to find his way out of it.

He was tired of everyone wanting to be with him because of what he was and not who he was. And he was scared s.h.i.+tless that when the game was gone, Brody himself might not know who he was. A college buddy had busted up a vertebra in his neck playing football last season, an injury that was felt throughout the NFL. While other players shoved the incident into the recesses of their minds in order to keep up the nerve to play every week, Brody had trouble shaking the image. It didn't help that he had a time bomb ticking inside him that could end his career at any moment.

A waitress dressed in a pleated thigh-length kilt and a blouse two sizes too tight placed a tray of beers onto their table. Her bare thigh not-so-casually brushed against Brody's forearm as she leaned over.

"Compliments of the ladies at the bar," she said brightly, gesturing toward a trio of women seated at the far end of the room, their perfect white smiles making them look innocent. If someone bothered to check their IDs, they'd probably all be fake, Brody thought to himself.

"Wow, man, you've got the life." Robbie's tone was reverent as he plucked a fresh beer off the table. "I don't think I've ever had a hot woman buy me a drink."

Brody was ashamed of himself as he wondered if Robbie, too, only wanted to be seen with him because he was a big-time jock. Reaching for his gla.s.s of mineral water, he reminded himself that this was one of his oldest friends. Sure, their lives had been on different paths the past ten years, but Robbie knew the real Brody. Didn't he? It was hard to tell over the noise in this place. Brody would have preferred he and Robbie catch up in one of the small neighborhood restaurant bars in Fell's Point, but his buddy was visiting town and wanted to experience Celtic Charm, Baltimore's newest place to see and be seen.

Robbie was also enticed by the opportunity to party with some of Brody's teammates.

"Shoot, man, check out that girl in the white skirt! Oooowee, she can sure shake that thang." Running back DeShawn Wilson flicked his dreads over a shoulder as he crooked a finger at the woman in white. "Com'ere, baby!"

The object of DeShawn's desire either didn't like what he was offering or she was playing hard to get. After throwing him a disdainful look over her shoulder, she sauntered off toward a table of women on the other side of the dance floor. DeShawn's fellow members of the Blaze receiving corps nearly busted a gut laughing.

"Oh, no she didn't!" Righteously indignant, DeShawn grabbed his drink as he rose from the table to follow her. Judging by the slowness of her sashay and the way she was peeking over her shoulder to see if he was following, Brody figured the wide receiver would be rewarded for his efforts before the night was over.

His place at the table was immediately taken by Shane Devlin, the Blaze quarterback, who, after ten years in the league, was happily a.s.sured of a place in NFL history and a life after football. The old man was also well situated in his personal life with a new wife and a baby on the way. h.e.l.l, the guy even had a dog that s.h.a.gged pa.s.ses on the run.

Jamal Hollis, the rookie among the Blaze receivers, quickly dashed to the bar to get the quarterback a drink. In a quirky NFL tradition, Devlin wined and dined his offensive linemen each week, while the ball handlers-namely the receivers-paid for their quarterback's drinks whenever he was out with the team. Rookies, like Hollis, thought the effort might result in seeing more pa.s.ses thrown their way. Veterans like Brody knew better.

"So, this is what all the fuss is about. It looks like half of Baltimore is shoved inside this nightclub." Devlin leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs at the ankles and surveying the dance floor like the field general he was. "Who's your friend?" he asked, eying Robbie. After a few bad dustups with the tabloids, Devlin guarded his privacy tenaciously, preferring not to mingle with strangers.

"Robbie Henshaw, meet last year's Super Bowl MVP, Shane Devlin. Robbie and I grew up next door to each other," Brody explained.

"It's Rob," Robbie said as he reached across to shake Devlin's hand. Brody watched his oldest friend try to contain the face-splitting grin threatening to erupt, as he wondered when Robbie had changed his name. "It's a thrill to meet you. You played amazing in the Super Bowl."

Pausing before taking a sip from the bottle of beer Hollis had brought him, Devlin grinned at Brody. "See, even your friend thinks my MVP was deserved."

Brody grunted as he chewed on a piece of ice from his empty gla.s.s. Shane Devlin had been awarded the Super Bowl MVP after completing all but one of his twenty-seven pa.s.ses, four of them for touchdowns. Two of those touchdowns and eleven of the pa.s.ses were caught by Brody. In the locker room after the game, it was revealed that the MVP balloting had been close between the two men, which led to a lot of good-natured ribbing by their Blaze teammates.

But Brody didn't begrudge his quarterback the t.i.tle. Without his leaders.h.i.+p, the Blaze might not have made it to the Super Bowl. Besides, at the time, Brody figured he'd get another shot at the elite award. Now, he wasn't so sure.