Blind Side: A Fake Dating Sports Romance (Red Zone Rivals)

It was blissfully quiet in my bedroom two nights after Chart Day, the gentle hum of the ceiling fan and crackling of my wood-wick candle the only sound. I was propped up against the headboard, fuzzy sock-covered feet folded underneath me as my latest addiction sat spread like a map in my lap.

One hand held my book open, the other kept a consistent stream of crunchy Cheetos flowing from the bowl beside me into my mouth. My eyes raced across the pages, heart picking up its pace as Nino wrapped his hand around Francesca’s throat and pinned her against the door to the room he was keeping her hostage in.

Having my own apartment had been absolutely crucial for me after the hellish experience of having a roommate my freshman year. I learned very quickly that growing up in a large family that mostly ignored me had made me value my personal space.

I could not say the same for my roommate.

Two semesters of her bounding in my room after midnight drunk as a skunk and either crying to me about a boy or squealing to me about a boy, and I’d had enough. Not to mention the amount of dishes that girl dirtied, or how she couldn’t be bothered to clear her hair out of a sink or shower no matter how many times I’d asked.

The final straw had been when she’d taken a stack of my books without asking — and not even to read them, but to use them as a door stopper while she brought in groceries.

Fury snaked down my spine even at the memory.

I’d saved and saved and begged Mom and Dad to help fill the gaps so I could get this place, a tiny studio apartment just a few blocks from the NBU campus. It was small, old, and smelled a little like mothballs — but I loved it. And since I much preferred to be alone than to be in any sort of forced friendship, I was happy here.

And tonight, I was indulging in a self-care night, one I desperately needed after fielding the media circus that had been keeping me busy all week. Things would slow down a bit now that Chart Day was behind us — at least, until the season opener this weekend — and I was celebrating the fact that I survived rounding up more than two-dozen football players for interviews, social media stunts, and fan appearances.

Not to mention the fact that I’d survived kissing Clay Johnson.

Just like it had a hundred times since that day, the memory of it had my pulse racing, and I let my book flop against my chest as I reached for the glass of water on my bedside table and gulped half of it down. After, I just sat there, staring at my bookcase at the foot of my bed as I replayed it.

I’d been kissed before. I had.

There was Ricky in the fifth grade, who threw a dodgeball over the playground fence and then asked the teacher if we could go retrieve it together. He pressed his lips against mine and held them there for three seconds — ones he counted on his fingers — before running off laughing.

There was also Matthew, the closest thing I’d had to a boyfriend, who made out with me in a very slobbery way every chance he could get my entire sophomore year of high school. He was also the first one to stick his hand up my shirt, which deterred me from ever wanting that to happen again if all boys groped as hard as he did.

But other than that?

I was not well-versed in the subject.

Well, unless you counted my romance novels, which was about all I could think about the moment I leapt into Clay’s arms at the cafeteria with every single person watching.

We’d practiced. We’d rehearsed. I knew exactly what to do, what to say, to make a scene and make it convincing. I felt like the main character in a cheesy rom com, caught up in a crazy scheme with a guy way out of my league. It was thrilling. It was fun.

Until the moment he caught me, and my legs wrapped around him, and I realized there was nothing between us but my cotton thong that said Monday on the crotch.

It had stolen my breath, that recognition, the way I’d felt his stone-hard abs brush against my center. But it was nothing compared to when he tilted my chin like a cinnamon roll hero would and kissed me.

I didn’t mean to lean into it, to inhale that kiss and nonverbally ask for more when I arched into him.

But I also hadn’t expected it to feel so good.

He held me like I weighed nothing, his knuckles still there under my chin as his lips pressed softly against my own. And when I’d deepened the kiss, when I’d wrapped my arms tighter around his neck? He’d only pulled me closer, a low groan rumbling out of his throat that made something… different happen to me. It sent a spark of fire roaring up my inner thighs, one that sparked at my core and had me flushing any time I thought about it since.

It also had me salivating at the thought of doing it with Shawn.

Sure, it was fun with Clay, but it was pretend. Having an actual boyfriend who would kiss me like that all the time? So long, I’d yearned for that.

And until Clay offered me this ridiculous fake-dating situation, I hadn’t realized how desperate I was to get it, what lengths I would go.

Now?

I was all in.

My boss had been as surprised as that cafeteria full of football players, calling me into her office after the media had finally packed it in and crawled off campus that evening.

“So. I see you’ve figured out how to wrangle Clay Johnson,” Charlotte had said, not so much as looking at me from where she was typing away on her computer.

I’d merely pushed my glasses up my nose, knowing a response wasn’t warranted.

“Be careful,” she’d warned, but then her lips had tilted into a smile as her eyes met mine. “And have fun.”

That was it. Permission granted.

I had a feeling it had a lot more to do with the fantastic interview Clay had provided ESPN’s Sarah Blackwell than anything else, but I didn’t question it. He’d owed me that much, at the very least.

And now, he owed me his part of our little dating bargain, too.

I blinked, coming out of my thoughts as I settled deeper into my sheets and folded my book open again. Another handful of Cheetos went in my mouth, and then I propped my book on my chest and slipped back into another universe.

“You forget who makes the rules here, Francesca,” Nino warned against Francesca’s lips, his breath like the hot metal of a gun against her neck. “And who hands out the punishment to those who break them.”

She pressed into him, not backing away from where his fingers wrapped around her throat. “You’ve been dying to punish me ever since you locked me down here,” she spat. And in a move so bold she couldn’t believe it was she who made it, Francesca wrapped her hand around the bulge protruding through Nino’s expensive Boglioli slacks. “What’s stopping you?”

His grip on her throat tightened, and in the next breath, she was thrown back on the bed, gasping as her airway finally cleared.

Nino towered over her, hands steadily unfastening his belt as his eyes raked over her lean frame.

I swallowed, heat creeping down my neck, my spine, all the way to my toes as I soaked in the scene. One hand held my book open while the other explored, touching my neck the way Nino touched Francesca’s, following his lead as he tortured her slowly. I heaved a sigh as my hand trailed over my breasts, and then I tiptoed my way down, slipping my fingertips beneath the band of my sleep shorts.

“On your knees,” he commanded.

I shuddered, licking my bottom lip as I rolled my hips, my hand sliding lower. I spread my legs, wanting more access…

And kicked the bowl of Cheetos off the bed in the process.

“Shit!” I cursed as the orange snack littered my floor, the metal bowl that held the crunchy nuggets clanging loudly against the old wood. I hastily rolled out of bed, smashing a few Cheetos to dust in the process, which made me curse again.

After a quick clean up, I flopped back into my bed, staring at where I’d left that scene bookmarked and closed in the center of the bed.

I wanted that so badly — the passion, the need, the heat. I wanted Shawn to look at me that way, with possessive desire rolling off him in plumes. I wanted him to kiss me the way Clay had, for it to not be a joke or a pretense, but real.

I chewed the inside of my cheek, considering whether or not I should just pick up where I left off in my self-care. But instead, I rolled over onto my stomach, reaching for where my phone rested on the wireless charger on my bedside table. A few taps later and it was ringing.

“Hello, Kitten,” Clay’s voice purred, deep and seductive in a way that made me believe he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

I chewed my thumbnail, but before I could back out, I took a breath and spoke as confidently as I could.

“I think I’m ready for my first lesson.”