Free Hearts in Overtime: A Bad Boy Sports Romance by Daphne Swan Page A

already tell it’s going to be a scorcher of a day. No doubt we’ll be heading inside soon. Right now, though, we’re out in the field, and Coach is having us practice the fumble-recovery drill.
    I’m stretching out my left hamstring when Alex Harmon, one of the team’s wide receivers, gives me a nudge in the ribcage.
    “Hey, I saw that writer chick come into the building yesterday evening. The tits on her… Lord have mercy.” He shakes his head with a laugh.
    Oh, fuck. I really do not want to be having this conversation.
    “Yeah, I saw her too,” says offensive tackle, Derek Adams. “Spectacular tits, but no way are they real.”
    Oh, they’re real, all right. Shit, Charlotte’s tits… spectacular doesn’t even begin to describe how amazing they are. They’re so big that not even my hands can fully contain them—and considering that my stats are 6’4/215—my hands are pretty fucking big compared to most guys.
    It’s on the tip of my tongue to inform the Alex and Derek that Charlotte’s tits are most definitely real, but something keeps me from speaking up. Normally I don’t shy away from sharing details of my sexual conquests with the guys, but for whatever reason, I’m not in the mood today.
    “You don’t have the first idea what you’re talking about, dude,” Alex says to Derek. “I guarantee the chick’s tits are real. You’re just used to being with skinny ass bitches with silicone tits. This writer chick is no skinny bitch and she has the booty to match. Her tits are obviously real.”
    “Maybe.” Derek shrugs.
    I feel a pang of guilt as I join the guys in their laughter.
    “Well, there’s one sure way to find out,” Derek says, turning to me. “Are you going to tap that or what?”
    Oh, fuck. I should have seen this coming. No way will I cop to what happened in the meeting room yesterday. I don’t want them talking shit about Charlotte. I’m not entirely sure why I feel the need to protect her rep. Maybe it’s because she seems like such a wholesome kind of girl with her wide, gleaming smile and that cute little hint of a Wisconsin accent in her speech. Oh, and the fact that she asked if my foster family was “nice.”
    On the other hand, I don’t want to deny wanting to tap that because I can’t stand the idea that this would bring on a debate about how fuckable Charlotte is.
    Shit. I have to say something, though.
    “Bitch, please. Like I have the energy. You try sitting there in a stale old meeting room, talking about your fucking childhood for three or four hours after a strenuous day of training and see if you feel like tapping that.”
    Both Derek and Alex throw their heads back in laughter at my expense, which is exactly the reaction I was going for. As long as I got the focus off Charlotte, I’m happy. They can give me as much shit as they want for being a lame, old, a loser. Whatever.
    “Jesus, Blake. You must have one foot in the grave,” Alex manages to say through his laughter.
    “If I ever get to the point where I’m too tired for sex, promise you’ll take me out into the field and shoot me,” Derek says.
    “Fuck off, Junior.” I give twenty-four year old Derek a swift punch in the arm, aiming my fist just below his shoulder padding. All in good fun.
    “Anderson!” Coach O’Neil blows his whistle and signals for his assistant to come join him on the field. “Williams and McAllister both need a lot more practice with fumble-recovery. Keep throwing it until they get it right.”
    Coach tosses Anderson the ball and then strolls over to join Derek, Alex and me. “What the hell are you three hens cackling about?”
    “Blake was just telling us how he’s too tired to tap that luscious honey who’s been coming by to interview him for his book,” Alex says. “I think you’d better check his pulse, make sure he’s still breathing.”
    “For real,” Derek says, holding up a hand to Alex.
    Alex slaps him five and the two of them start laughing again.