Baller Made (Bad Boy Ballers Book 3) Page 2

  I rubbed two hands down my face, smudging the thick black marks high on my cheeks. “We’re flying back home in two days. Practice tomorrow and then some sort of team surprise tomorrow night. Then we’re gone. I don’t have time to see the ’rents.”

  “I know you haven’t called them either.” Reggie wouldn’t back down.

  “I can’t, Reggie. Please.” My voice came out hoarse.

  Nodding sadly, she wrapped her arms around me . . . briefly. “Just think about it.” She lifted damp eyes. “For me? You’re not the only one hurting. We need you no matter what you think.”

  I kissed her forehead, squeezing those last moments into my memory.

  “Will you pick up the phone next time I call?”

  “I gotta go, Reggie.” I backed up, wanting to sprint hard and fast and as far away as I could from everything she dredged up.

  She snagged my hand, and I could’ve pulled free if I wanted to. Instead I turned my palm to hers, brushed her knuckles against my cheek.

  “I’ll answer.”

  Letting her go, I rushed after the team, huge breaths burning my lungs. I only glanced back once to see her walking away, just like I’d walked away from everything in my past. Thinking it was the only way I could survive.

  I busted in on the usual locker room antics. Akoni and his opera. Rafe and Marquis—with his pink shower cap over the long dreadlocks—playing toss the slippery soap, Bunyan whipping the end of his towel against Deacon Cross’s ass.

  I stripped off, threw my gear onto a bench, almost sank into a hot shower.

  Spray pinged into my eyes, and I wet my hair before shampooing up with a harsh lather.

  “How’d it feel bringing the pain against the Ravens?” Brooks doused his head under the shower next to me.

  Like the past will never die.

  “Told you. Those dudes don’t owe me anything. I owe them everything.”

  “What about us? Don’t we rate, Malone?” Paul Biggs/Bunyan soaped up.

  “Dude, we been here before.” I shook water from my face. “And winning always feels goddamn good. You know it.”

  “’S’what I like to hear.” Coach D had entered and paced through the steaming shower block, ball cap pulled low over his bald head.

  He gave us five more minutes to luxuriate in the hot, massaging showers before calling us front and center in the locker room.

  Guys dripped water. Huge bare feet padded on the tiled floors. Towels slung around our hips. Our swank suits were all hung in garment bags, shirts ironed, shoes polished for the Walk of Fame we’d take down the halls through top-tier fans and the bullpen of sports reporters sticking mics and cameras in our faces.

  So much better than my Walk of Shame away from Reno Ravens last year.

  “We don’t have many games left this season. More wins, needed.” Coach D handed his clipboard to Coach Frank.

  The father of football crossed his hands under his pits. “Now, I know Rafe’s gonna gun for the Super Bowl for Peyton.”

  “Fuck yeah, I am,” Rafe avowed.

  “Brooklyn’s after the win for Delaney.”

  “Damn right, Coach!”

  “What are the rest of you men playin’ for? Family? Wives? Children? What you got down deep inside?” His eyes landed on me, locking in. “What do you need to prove?”

  “I’m worth it, Coach.” Even if I didn’t think I was. Not in those haunted dark corners of my mind.

  I firmed up my stance nevertheless. I put my fist in the ring, surrounded by muscle and brawn and a team I believed in, even if I don’t believe in myself.

  “One. Goal!” Coach bellowed.

  We echoed his yell.

  “One Team!”

  “One team, Coach!”

  “One chance to win!”

  “ONE CHANCE!”

  “Super Bowl!” Coach D’s deep voice vibrated from his chest.

  “THE TROPHY! THE RING!”

  “Good.” Coach pulled back. “The drill. You know it.” He did the Yoda thing with a speech we all knew by heart: no fraternization—hahaha—no fucking around.

  Especially not me even though I’d been clean for twelve-plus months. And they had my weekly urine samples to prove it.

  Before he hit the door, Coach D rubbed his pate one last time as he slapped the baseball cap against his thigh. “Like I told you earlier, I got somethin’ special planned for y’all tomorrow night. After a practice that’s gonna make you wish you had another bye week.”

  Groans.

  The door slammed behind him, and Brooklyn dressed beside me, getting his tie all tangled the hell up.

  “Your folks in the stands today?” He scowled at the knot he’d made then started over again.

  “Don’t think so.” I wasn’t the type of son parents could be proud of.

  I’d basically self-exiled myself from my family. Too scared to go home. Too ashamed to call home.

  I expertly tied my blue tie, straightening my collar. My brother had taught me, once, a long time ago.

  “Who was that fox you were talking to after the game?” Luke Buckley, the Cornhusker, had a habit of going all big mouth right where business didn’t concern him.

  “Yeah, haven’t seen you give any chick the time of day since you joined the team,” Bunyan asked, smacking Brooks’ hands aside to fix his tie.

  “And fuck knows, Raquel’s practically jumping on your johnson,” Brooks added.

  “It’s not like that. Not with Raquel. Not with . . .” Reggie.

  She deserved so much better than me. She’d already had so much better than me.

  I closed off. Shut down. I only turned the grin and swagger back on to field questions out in the corridor, to sign photos and pose for pictures.

  Being back where it’d all ended dug way deeper into me than I’d thought it would.

  But I’d fought for my career. I’d made it through the worst. I wasn’t gonna fuck it up now.

  The next day brought the hurt just like Coach D had threatened. Mid-December. The season almost over. We still had a shot at the Super Bowl. And he sure as hell wasn’t letting up on the drill sergeant routine.

  Sweat.

  Blood.

  Tears.

  Buckets of more sweat

  Physical exertion delivered me to a higher level where I didn’t live inside my brain. Didn’t hide from every single impulse. Wouldn’t want what I could never have.

  Dressed to the nines and groomed once again, we shuttled to Las Vegas for Coach D’s surprise night off. The evil man probably set us up for Gladiator-type competitions or some such shit.

  As soon as the luxury bus pulled up outside The luxurious Venetian on the Vegas strip where massive lit-up signs pimped out the Rouge chorus line—the site of the city’s highest-ranking show, which Reggie just happened to perform in—I gripped the seat’s armrests in my hands.

  Oh shit.

  Fuck my luck.

  Chapter Three

  Showgirl

  Reggie

  Email. December 18, 2014. Afghanistan.

  Hi Regina baby.

  You send me any more videos of you in action at The Venetian, my palm’s gonna be severely cramped by the time I get home, and not from handling the controls of the Falcon or gripping my gun if you know what I mean.

  I know things were rough during my last leave. My fault. My head wasn’t in the right place. It’s hard to separate civvy life from the shit that goes down here. Not sure I’ll ever fit again back home.

  Don’t wanna bring you down, baby. Just know I’ve got my lid locked down tight over here. I’m on mission. And even if I can’t show you, I miss you so damn much. Give that bitch Jillian hell, ’cause you’re the best dancer in the line.

  I love you.

  Chris

  PS. My rackmates want signed photos. Don’t you even dare. Saving all your sweetness for myself.

  Present day

  CALDER MALONE. AS SOON as I’d seen Carolina Crush slated to play the Reno Ravens I
knew I had to be at the game. I’d tried calling that man repeatedly, but he’d ignored me, blocked me, flat out refused to talk to me.

  Stubborn as always.

  Watching him take the field after he’d practically tanked his NFL career had put a smile on my face, so wide I couldn’t wipe it off. He’d been through dark times. Me, too. I understood that compulsion inside him, the reason why addiction almost ate him alive.

  Throwing my bag down in the fabulous Rouge dressing room at The Venetian, I inspected my makeup station. One of my Lancôme lipsticks was missing—the color Jillian called Slut Red.

  I walked up to the tallest woman in the chorus line, blonde curls framing a seraphic face that hid her ferocity to kneecap anyone in her way of being the best in Rouge.

  It was just too bad Jillian had to contend with me. And since I’d known men like Calder all my life—guys who taught me being tiny didn’t mean I was bully bait—I smeared a fingertip across her Slut Red lips.

  “I think that belongs to me.”

  Jill’s eyebrows arched—angelic wings on a demon soul. “Going to fight me for the lippy?”

  “I wouldn’t want to hurt you before a show.” I merely smirked, sauntering around the woman, reclaiming my Lancôme from her dressing table.

  I was head dancer. The headliner. That meant I had to stay on my toes and in top form all the time.

  I knew Calder felt the same way. Proving himself every day. He thought he didn’t rate his family’s love anymore, and that idea tore a huge chunk from my heart every time my calls went to voicemail, my emails unanswered.

  “Nice one,” Helena murmured, puffing powder over her face.

  Most women in this business were piranhas, going through life with teeth bared, tearing at flesh to get to the top billing. Helena was different. I wasn’t sure she had the hard edge needed to compete all the way as a showgirl, but she was blessed with mile-long legs and bright red hair and a stunning smile to match her pretty figure.

  I tried not to keep the hard edge completely wrapped around me anymore, either. Losing the tough shell had happened overnight, an armor I now wore only when needed.

  I shed my street clothes, donned a robe, and applied makeup under the bulbs of light, my face framed in the long mirror. A mask meant to beguile. Hypnotize. Sit asses in seats and sell out the house.

  Everything about me was perfect, flawless—from my skin to my curves to my hair—but none of it felt real anymore, not the way I’d always been real with Calder, the man I’d known since he was a boy and me a girl in braces.

  Every sweep of eyeshadow applied, every touch of mascara swept over lashes, each layer on my face another level down the rabbit hole between who I was and what I wanted.

  I dressed in the skimpy sparkling outfit. I hurried to the rehearsal hall. I stretched from the tips of my toes to my calves to my spine.

  I heard the gossip filtering around me.

  Endless months of this shit.

  The barrier building higher and higher when I just wanted to break it all down. Break down completely, though I never had.

  “I heard she was going to leave him,” someone whispered behind me.

  “She didn’t like him being overseas so much.”

  “She’s a talentless hack,” Jillian interjected, her gang of bitch dancers cackling like witches. “Regina should quit while she’s ahead.”

  I held my reaction inside, pretending I didn’t hear the put-downs and slurs meant to tear my confidence apart.

  I swallowed the last remnants of grief that had begun to fade over time.

  The he the harpies mentioned had been my husband. My husband who had died. Killed nearly two years ago, serving our country. Chris had been stationed in Afghanistan, last thing I knew, although I’d never been privy to the full truth. Layers of Air Force bureaucracy and secrecy had started to tear Chris and me apart long before his death.

  Soon after his funeral, I’d left our house at Nellis Air Force base, the house I’d largely lived in alone. Chris hadn’t fit with civilian life, and I couldn’t conform with the military life. Not without him anymore.

  Yet not a single day went by when I didn’t think about him, surrender to the soul-tearing guilt, put on the brave face, and show it to the Vegas strip.

  At least I still had dancing.

  I warmed up, pointing my toes, pressing my face against my lower leg, the cool air-conditioned flow from the overhead vents slowing the heat of my respiration, the fire of my anger.

  Dancing remained my one escape. Dancing on stage for an audience the only release I had, as I imagined football was the same damn saving grace for Calder now that he was off drugs.

  He better be off drugs.

  He seemed healthier. His power and dedication evident yesterday. His resurgence . . . his appearance.

  The man was so ruggedly handsome, it hurt to look at him. He’d shocked me to my core when I’d watched him play, bringing home the winning score against the Ravens. A part of me had melted when he’d held me in his arms.

  Calder. Chris. Reggie. The connection we’d all had was still there.

  My heart still clenched when I thought about everything that’d gone down.

  And what was with that woman who’d been all handsy all over Calder yesterday?

  We’d just finished running through our routines when the bell rang, the MC’s announcements piped through the tunnel of plush halls as we hurried to our places. Hidden at the back of the audience, I listened, the MC standing stage-front speaking into the mic.

  “We want to welcome NFL’s Carolina Crush to our show tonight!”

  My heart slammed against my chest.

  “They tore through our own Ravens last night, but we’re big enough to give them a good old sexy Vegas revue, right?” He held his hands aloft. “Lemme hear you give it up for Rouge!”

  Applause and screams, whistles and shouts, spread like brushfire, spread all along my body. The lights immediately dimmed, the stage left a black shadow with us scattered among the nearly darkened audience.

  “That’s the team? Right? The one—” Helena whispered next to me.

  “Yes,” I hissed, counting down before the hard beats started.

  Music blasted from the multimillion-dollar sound system. The crowd was packed in. Spotlights swiveled from center stage to hot dots falling on and following us. A red bolt of pure light saturated me head to toe.

  My heels clicked, my legs twirled. My breasts nearly burst the low cups of my costume.

  I caressed a face here, touched a thigh there, pumped down then up with my cleavage almost toppling out.

  We slinked down the aisles converging from all sides. We brushed against seated patrons who’d paid a damn pretty penny to watch every move we performed. And I knew Calder was there, too, watching.

  I crawled onto the stage as the hot pump of music turned even grittier. On my knees, I prowled to the center, the other dancers rolling toward me from all sides as glittering lights dazzled my vision. With a sleek motion, I coiled up to my feet. Fingers poised, hips swinging, I dragged my hands up my body, my head thrust back.

  Bright lights. Barely dressed. Sex Sex Sex. The dances meant to titillate sexually while still this side of tasteful.

  For forty minutes, I performed. My lips wet and shiny, my expression teasing, knowing. Breasts, ass, legs—the full bounty of feminine wile on stage, purring, beguiling. Performing choreographic feats with erotic athleticism. Dancing was a fine art we took to the next limit, inciting a celebration of female flesh.

  Orchestrating lust.

  The bump and grind. The crowd on their feet. I wasn’t just a dancer, a showgirl. I was a singer. A temptress. I stimulated every sense, could bring any man to his knees except the one I finally figured out I wanted most.

  Spotlights blinded me, but like a compass, some sort of magnetism drew my gaze to Calder.

  Heat crawled up my spine during the last song. We’d changed quickly, the iconic showgirl-feathered-headdresses sec
urely covering our hair, the nude bodysuit shimmered against our skin, cleverly placed sparkles in starlight bursts concealed that which should be left to the imagination, until attention was drawn to our legs, our arms, the rhythmic courtship of our performance.

  I stomped across the stage on plinth-like heels. Fire in my veins. Eyes drawn low, I bit my slick red lips and undulated.

  My voice poured over the words of the sexy song, pulling the audience to me, with me. There was a reason I was the showstopper. Everyone knew it. It was in my body, my need, my greed for it.

  The heat amped up, power—all mine. The feathers of the headdress shivered over my shoulders as I lifted one leg to the piano bench. I pushed my ass out, the beat of the song setting a primal rhythm just like fucking. Savage energy fired me, and I bent forward, my lips next to Johnny’s as he kept playing the tune, a slight hitch to his breath.

  His breath I inhaled before blending my voice with his and then taking the mic in hand to sing the very last chords. I sauntered to the middle of the stage, glowing, sparkling . . . alive.

  I picked a random man from the crowd, laughed haughtily as I pointed my finger at him.

  The final notes vibrated from my throat, and I’d never felt more vital.

  Applause lit up the theater, but I was supposed to be the Rouge diva. I swayed to Jeremy, handed him the mic. I sauntered offstage without so much as a backward glance.

  The delicious thrill echoed through me, claps and shouts following me as the curtain sank down.

  In the hall, I fanned myself, accepted a bottle of water. Noise rushed at me at once, but I heard nothing except my heartbeat pounding.

  Alive.

  Inside the dressing room, I pressed a towel against my chest. Perspiration sparkled my skin as much as the diamond-light glitter.

  Jillian came up to me, probably said something denigrating. Didn’t hear her.

  Helena grasped my hand. Probably said something proud. Hugged on her.

  A knock on the door shook me back to my senses. I pulled it open.

  “Reggie?” Calder peeked at me, glancing briefly down to my barely concealed breasts before his supernova eyes searched mine. “Sorry. The guys asked if I could bring them back here.”