Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 6

kid was being shooed that way along with him. That was the first time he'd heard that soft Southern drawl.
    "Hi there, name's Cameron Hunter. Brad Jameson, right? Oh man, I'm a big fan of yours. This whole show's pretty wild, isn't it?"
    Looking over, Brad had taken in the maroon Philadelphia Railers cap pressed onto unruly dirty blond waves that had already begun to look mussed. He'd looked at the strong square jaw and clear blue eyes that had been set into a friendly, smiling face. He'd seen the powerful shoulders underneath the navy suit and the large palm with its blunt-tipped fingers that had been extended towards him.
    He'd opened his mouth to respond–
    And then he had tripped.
    On something. A stray TV cable. His size fourteen feet. The breath that he had skipped as he'd felt a completely inexplicable– and unwelcome– surge of attraction towards the blond giant walking right next to him. What the fuck? He did not need this right now. Oh, no no no. Not when he was about to step onto the national stage and make his debut into the big leagues.
    "Fucking A!" he had cursed for any number of reasons as he'd stumbled, then righted himself, scowling all the way.
    By the time he'd straightened, the open smile had died on Hunter's face, and he'd drawn back his hand to turn away with a frown.
    Mortified, Brad had made a beeline for the press tables. He hoped to God that weird hitch he'd felt would go away, and he doubly hoped nobody had noticed his uncharacteristic clumsiness and coarse reaction.
    But they had noticed. They'd noticed enough, at least.
    Because that was what the papers had used the next day, to Brad's secret dismay: " LET THE GAMES BEGIN! No. 1 New York Diamonds Pick Bradley Jameson to No. 2 Rival Pick Cameron Hunter: F@#%#*&@!! "
    The papers had loved it.
    And their rivalry had been born with that first headline, simple as that.
    Brad cursed under his breath and rocked to his feet, nabbing the bottle by the neck and taking a last swig of Sam Adams. Entering his galley kitchen, he dropped the bottle into the sink and grabbed a protein bar out of the package that the team nutritionist had sent over.
    Peeling the wrapper off, he glanced at the clock on the wall. Nearly midnight. He'd forgotten that Katja was supposed to swing by that evening– at ten o'clock.
    As if on cue, his phone chirped to remind him of a text message. Picking it up off the counter, he scrolled through to the message: Sorry, shoot ran l8, will make up 2 u, promise. xoxo. K.
    He frowned, then shrugged it off. Hell, there was plenty more where that came from. He'd fallen pretty naturally into the fast-paced models-and-bottles New York lifestyle that his signing bonus, insane salary, and star quarterback status had afforded him. It might not be deep or all that fulfilling, but it was easy and kept the owners happy with the free publicity. To be honest, as long as his performance on the field was on point, he could gangbang the entire cheer squad and they wouldn't give a shit. Sad, but true.
    Polishing off the protein bar, he tossed the wrapper into the hidden trash can that was set into the lower level of maple cabinets and padded down the hall. Stretching his arms above his head, Brad headed towards his bedroom, the lights of New York City twinkling fifty-two stories below him through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
    Shit, with the Philadelphia win, Coach Fletcher was going to be on a rampage, and tomorrow's practice was sure to be painful. Then there was Fontana's bachelor's party that night, too.
    As he stripped and ran the shower, he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. Running a hand through his dark brown hair, he groaned. Tomorrow hadn't even started yet, and it was already a long day.
    ****
    The heavy bass beat of a Flo Rida song thumped its way through the speaker system. It was a strange choice of music for the relatively low-key Lower East Side bar where offensive lineman Mike Fontana and twenty-something of his friends and teammates were celebrating the end of his bachelorhood.
    Brad lifted the Corona to his lips and considered that. Yeah, "celebrating"– not mourning. Fontana was one of those rare sons of bitches who'd actually fallen in love with his college sweetheart and, contrary to any realistic expectations, stayed in love with her through Division I ball and after he'd been drafted to the pros. Brad was fully aware of the unimaginable sins that would've been thrown Fontana's way all this time, what with