Dating the Player, page 1
Dating the Player
Erin McCarthy
Copyright © 2021 by Erin McCarthy
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover photography by Wander Aguiar
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
About the Author
Also by Erin McCarthy
Chapter One
Eloise
My favorite things in the entire world were football and cats.
Hard-driving balls and soft, purring kitties.
And one sexy, star quarterback named Dak.
Which made me a nerd-girl oxymoron. Crazy cat lady was expected. Sports fanatic? Nope. Not supposed to happen.
But sports, football in particular, was the one connection I still had to my father, who died when I was nine. So, I wasn’t the tailgating, game-day-gear, fist-pumping fan. I was the watching-in-my-apartment-solo kind of fan. With my two cats. I was an intellectual sports fanatic. Into analysis and commentary out loud with Peyton and Eli, my feline besties.
Plus, have you seen most of those players? Swoon. Big, hulking men with firm thighs and tight ends… it got a nerd girl’s blood pumping every Sunday just to watch all that masculinity on the field.
While I may not have been the sexy female sports fan, who managed to make tailgating look like an interview for a reality TV show or for a nightclub VIP “hostess” position, all my life I wanted nothing more than to work somehow, some way, in the world of professional sports.
Mission accomplished when after grad school I secured a position in the marketing department of my dream team. We created and curated social media messages for the team, and engaged with fans. My department directed a vision for the overall tone of the franchise for the season and spent Sundays together in the office, live tweeting throughout the games.
Sundays were easy. It was the other six days that were more challenging, because it felt like instead of pumping up loyal fans, half the time we were running damage control for the star quarterback, Dakota North.
Yep. Dakota. North.
His mother had once said in an interview she’d named him for greatness, because no one with that name could be anything less than a leader. Go figure. She’d been right.
Dak. Party boy. Sexy as sin. Charming with a grin that could and did, coax women out of their panties on a very regular basis. He gambled, he drank, he spouted off stupid things on Twitter without pausing to consider the consequences. He had sex with preachers’ daughters, wealthy cougars, random women at nightclubs, and strippers, depending on the night. Or day. Or morning.
He was an equal opportunity manwhore.
His fingers were always in the cookie jar.
You would have thought he would be universally despised, but he had two things that worked in his favor—a golden arm and big balls. He didn’t care what anyone thought and he smiled his way through every debacle and tossed money out generously in all directions.
He was a social media nightmare.
And the man in my virgin, nerd-girl dreams every night.
Sweaty, dirty, sexy dreams where I was the center, gripping the ball for the snap and his hands were under my ass, among other things.
“I need more coffee,” my co-worker, Will, said, startling me out of my thoughts, as he stood up from his desk across from mine. “Eloise, do you want me to grab you some more too? We’ve got a shitstorm this morning.”
I checked my mug. Still three-quarters full. “I’m okay, thanks.”
There were five of us on the team and our desks were arranged in a rectangle facing each other, much like second grade. But it was necessary given the majority of the time we were in a dialogue over wording, timing, etc. The office was light and airy, with a view on one side of a manmade pond, fountain burbling away in it, the other row of windows showing off the indoor practice field.
That Monday we were debating how to respond to Dak’s statement to a reporter after stomping the Ravens. When asked how he intended to celebrate an unexpected victory, Dak had said, “I have a hot date with your wife.” When the reporter had said, “Excuse me?” Dak had followed up with, “Just kidding. Your daughter is more my type.”
Then he had clapped the reporter on the shoulder, gave him a charming grin, and jogged off.
He had been called into the office. I knew he was in the building already. Getting reprimanded and cautioned were the same things the powers that be did every week and Dak would nod and smile and do it all over again. Whenever he was in the building the estrogen levels increased, I swear. Actual hormone levels were being raised by his masculine presence. Brushes and lipsticks and hairspray all came out as the female staff prepped, practiced their pouts, and perfected their Instagram eyebrows.
As he sauntered through, big and cocky, it was like watching the viral video of fainting goats. First all the women sat up straight, tits out, eyelashes fluttering madly, then as soon as he passed them, they collapsed back, drained and dreamy.
Even though I knew for a fact that he’d had sex with at least two of the women at headquarters, he never spoke to anyone in particular.
Except me.
In the cruelest of all damn ironies, he spoke to me on a regular basis.
So when Will was at the coffeemaker and I saw Dak getting off the elevator at the end of the hall, I braced myself. There was no reason whatsoever he needed to enter the marketing pool, the big room that contained forty employees, but he always did. Sometimes he would announce he wanted to look down on the practice fields. Sometimes he claimed to want coffee.
Mostly I thought he enjoyed the adoration of all the women and the dude-crushes of all the guys in the office.
Wearing track pants that did nothing to hide a huge cock moving freely beneath the cotton, Dak came toward me. And yes, even as a virgin, I had enough experience with penises in general to know that his was nothing short of impressive. He had on a team logo sweatshirt, which also didn’t disguise his broad shoulders and ripped arms. His hands were huge, and I imagined if he spread one across my face, it would block out the sun entirely. Recently he’d seemed to have forgotten to see a barber, his sandy hair veering into Jason Momoa territory. Football warrior. Maybe that was the look he was going for. It was working and then some.
Studying my laptop screen studiously, I pushed up my cherry red glasses and ignored him.
“Hey, Kitty.”
Dak didn’t know my name. He’d never asked. Even if he had, I doubt he would have remembered it.
I turned and gave him a weak smile, my heart rate kicking into overtime. The highlight of my day was when he acknowledged me, but it also threatened to send me into shock every time. Or spontaneous orgasm. My nipples hardened beneath my sweater and I shifted a little on my seat.
“Hi, Dak, how are you today?”
“Living the dream, Kitty.”
In his case, that was hugely accurate.
He gestured to me. “Turn around and let me see you.”
Obediently, I swiveled my chair so I was facing him. This was our routine. I’d say I didn’t know how to break it, but the truth was I didn’t want to.
His eyes raked over me slowly, amusement and mischief in them. “Now that. That right there is the sweetest pussy you’ve given me yet.”
“It’s Siamese,” I told him.
“Kinky.”
I glanced down at my breasts and the cat on my sweater. “I don’t think so. Cute more so than kinky.”
Dak shook his head slowly. “Then clearly our thoughts aren’t running in the same direction.”
I pushed my glasses up on my nose. “Apparently not.” I didn’t take anything he said seriously because Dak was a wicked flirt. He flirted on social media with random women who commented on his posts. He flirted with the team cheerleaders. He flirted with female sports reporters. But he had a type when it came to women he actually had sex with or dated.
They were always what my grandfather would call “hot to trot.”
They were women who oozed sexuality in every look, every gesture. In the way they dressed and moved and spoke.
That wasn’t me. Not by a long shot.
Nope. I was the virgin intellect who dressed her pets in team jerseys.
So, I knew that Dak just found me a kooky cat girl and that I was entertaining for five minutes whenever he was in the office. But he’d never date me or want to have sex with me.
Which sometimes was devastatingly disappointing.
Because, hello, sexy alpha male with a charming smile, muscles on muscles, and a confidence that made him a powerhouse on the field.
Other times I realized that this was Darwin at his finest. If Dak ever got tired of supermodels and decided he wanted to take a dip in the nerd-girl pool, I probably couldn’t handle it.
He would break me, in all ways imaginable.
Survival of the fittest and all that.
“Well, if you ever want me to explain it to you, let me know.” Dak gave me a wink. “It involves pussy and being joined together. Think about it, Kitty.”
I blinked, my cheeks turning pink. Dak wasn’t usually quite so sexual with me.
I liked it.
But I was also flustered. “I’ll think about it,” I assured him, crossing my legs in my yellow flare skirt. My inner thighs felt hot.
Dak laughed.
“North!” The GM’s voice roared from down the hallway. “In my office. Now!”
Dak made a face. “Gotta go. Dad’s going to ground me.”
“Good luck,” I told him. “And don’t worry, we’ll spin it and everything will be fine.”
“I never worry,” he told me. “It’s a wasted emotion. I just live my life.”
I fully believed him. If he worried, he wouldn’t say or post or do half the things he did.
“Must be nice. If worrying were an Olympic sport, I would have the gold,” I said. “I’m just drawn that way.”
Dak tapped my nose. “That’s sad. Loosen up, kid.”
I shivered. Dak was so close to me I could smell his aftershave.
Given that I was sitting and he was standing, his movement shifted that bulge behind his pants perilously close to my face. I wanted to open my mouth and say I would, I absolutely would loosen up.
Heck, I wanted to open my mouth and offer it as an end zone for him, but again, I was a worrier. I could never, ever jeopardize my dream job by screwing around with the star quarterback, who would dump me the second he got bored, which would be five minutes after I took my panties off.
My job was my proudest accomplishment, aside from graduating magna cum laude and being fluent in Klingon, and I wasn’t going to lose it.
“You should go,” I said, before I got melancholy from having to be responsible, and before he got in even more trouble. Jeff Dimarco, the GM, was not known for his patience. “Mr. Dimarco doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
Dak nodded. “Yep.” He backed away from me and gave a wave. “See you around, kid.”
I waved to him and turned back to my computer. I gave a heartfelt sigh.
The words on the screen blurred. What the hell was I doing?
Right. Fixing Dak’s lack of restraint.
Will sat down next to me, plunking his mug down so hard he splashed coffee onto the desk. “Don’t be a basic bitch, Eloise. You’re better than just another notch on that guy’s bedpost.”
I snorted. “Thanks.” Will was a nice guy, reasonably attractive, who had asked me out once.
I had turned him down because we worked together and I didn’t want to make that mistake.
Sure, he was a little pale and a little skinny, but that was my wheelhouse.
He was the type of guy I should be dating, if we didn’t work together.
Dak North was out of my league and that’s why Will’s words seemed so ironic and ridiculous.
“No, I’m serious.” Will adjusted his tie and shook his head. “He’s fucking with you, El. He wants you to like him just to stroke his already huge ego.”
Now my co-worker was just being silly. “He doesn’t need me to like him to feel good about himself. He’s pretty sure he’s awesome already and there is a passel of way-better-looking women than me telling him that.”
“You’re good looking,” Will said.
I rolled my eyes. I wasn’t a troll but neither was I anyone’s idea of a centerfold. We were talking apples and oranges here. “Can we just focus on what we need to do?”
“Sure. Absolutely.” Will threw his hands up in the air. “You tell me how we change the narrative on a guy who clearly doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself.”
I wondered if that were true. Was Dak just a selfish douchebag and nothing more?
Probably.
“Excuse me, Miss Carter?”
I turned at the sound of a woman’s voice and realized the GM’s personal secretary was standing by my desk. “Um, yes?” My heart started to thump. I didn’t even know that she knew who I was.
Madeline Murray was Jeff’s ride-or-die assistant.
“Mr. Dimarco would like to see you in his office.”
Panic made my palms sweat. “Sure,” I said, my voice rising three octaves and cracking like a pubescent boy’s. “When?”
“Now.”
I nodded, then shot Will a look of horror.
His nostrils flared and he shook his head slightly. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
“Oh. Okay. Of course.” I stood up so fast my chair rolled out and hit Madeline in the thigh. “Oh! Sorry.”
“Come with me.”
I pushed up my glasses and prayed that I wasn’t being corporate downsized.
Not only was this a job I wanted to keep more than anything, if I couldn’t be at headquarters, I would never see Dak again.
Both were depressing-as-hell thoughts.
* * *
Dak
Mondays can suck my dick.
Normally Mondays we went over film from the game the day before, but Monday also meant my weekly Stop Being An Asshole speech from our GM. I’ve explained to Jeff I don’t mean to be an asshole. I just open my mouth and shit comes out. My mother said I never had a filter, and she’s right.
I can’t say I even regret ninety percent of what I say. I speak the truth. No bullshit. Say what I think. If people don’t like that, not my problem.
We’ve got one go-round in this life and I don’t want to waste mine worrying that people I don’t even know don’t like me. It amazed me that the team had a whole staff of people to manage social media and respond to haters.
My response to haters?
Get off the internet and get a fucking life.
Not that I would ever say that. I don’t think.
Give me enough tequila and I might tweet the shit out of that statement.
Except Jeff Dimarco and the organization were going to do everything possible to prevent that from happening.
I eyed Jeff over his desk.
He was taking a hard stance with me this morning.
No smiling. No handshake. Arms folded over his chest.
I sat in my chair and waited.
“So. We have the bye week coming up.”
I nodded. The bye week happened once per season and it meant we didn’t play a game that week. Was he going to make me stay in town and train? Because that shit wasn’t happening. I had a trip home to Tennessee planned to see my folks for an early Thanksgiving. Family comes even before football.
“I understand you’re going to see your parents, which is great. I appreciate you wanting to see them. But you have to take one of the social media team members with you to manage you while you’re out of town.”
That caught my attention. What the fuck? I was being given a babysitter?
“Are you serious? You’re sending me with a bodyguard? Why?”
Jeff’s already pink complexion flushed red. He rubbed his bald head back to front. “I don’t even have to answer that. You know exactly why. Fucking Twitter blowing up yesterday and not because we had a come-from-behind win.”
“It was a joke.” Based in a lot of truth. That reporter really did have a fuckable daughter. She’d dropped some pics of herself into my direct messages. Hell, I wouldn’t turn down his wife either.
Maybe both of them…
No, I didn’t do married women. That was my hard line.
I dragged my thoughts back from the gutter and stared down Jeff. “What do you think I’m going to do while I’m in Tennessee? I’m going to my parents’, not Vegas, for fuck’s sake.”
“You think I can predict what the shit you’re going to do? You could get in trouble at a damn funeral.”
Low blow from Dimarco. “Now that is not true. I respect the dead and the grieving process.” In fact, that pissed me the fuck off. Jeff knew my little brother passed when I was in high school.
