Free One More Night with You by Lisa Marie Perry

media profiles to training regimens.
    Because the Slayers’ random drug testing historically was quite predictable for any weed-smoker who didn’t want to be found out—once a year, typically during training camp when the full roster was first gathered before the start of a season—she suspected all men would wait until midcamp to get high. It wasn’t unheard of, certainly wasn’t the only means to beat a drug test, and across the league there seemed to be an unspoken understanding that this was a common practice.
    Though she’d remain watchful, she didn’t expect to have names at the ready until after the Slayers’ testing commenced in August. That allowed her time—not much, a few weeks—to build a rapport , as Temperance Blue had said.
    If any players were to host a weed party to celebrate pissing clean, she needed to be on that guest list. In a manner of speaking her new employers had informed her of precisely this.
    Joey touched up her makeup before locking her room and hazarding a sly tour of the building. She made it a priority to memorize who bunked with whom and tried to isolate the earthy smell marijuana left lingering in the air and on fabrics. Sniffing cologne and that damn sandalwood that must be wafting out from every room in the building, she eventually sought the source of noise on the main floor.
    The floor plan she’d reviewed previously informed that there were separate recreation rooms designated to players and staff. The one that held over half a hundred males and a sprinkle of female staff members was the players’ lounge.
    This was the hot spot for the night. Noting the basic surroundings—luxurious leather seating, a spacious kitchen, computer stations and flat-screen TVs offering a range of showings from ESPN to a network-channel sitcom to pay-per-view porn—she joined the gathering in the kitchen.
    The men who’d let her through closed the space behind her and she felt as if she was lost in the woods. Most of the players she matched to roster photos were tall with intimidating muscular bulk, but the same could be said for many of Slayers’ coaching and training staff. Testosterone pinged off the walls and vibrated in the air.
    Catching the eye of another female, this one wearing an employee ID tag, she gave a friendly wave and received an impersonal once-over in return. Okay, so much for girl-to-girl friendship. It wasn’t a major loss, as Charlotte was the only friend she expected to encounter at camp, anyway. Charlotte had made an appearance here this morning and after reporting to the Clark County Library to be Joey’s pillar of support, she’d said she was going home to her fiancé. That meant Joey was essentially on her own with strangers, which was a better scenario for what she hoped to accomplish.
    She didn’t need Charlotte lingering and questioning her motives.
    To no one specifically, she mentioned, “I was torn between watching the threesome on TV and coming in here for whatever’s baking. Guess I made the right choice.”
    Grunts and laughter answered her, and someone said, “Coach’s making cookies.”
    That would be... Joey peered around wide backs and thick arms as the men jostled each other and turned up beverages. The chef had blond hair, a ruddy suntan and had hooked a pair of sunglasses onto his apron. Kip Claussen, the head coach. She knew the man had been brought on board when the Blues acquired the team and that he had a tendency to cuss and break sunglasses.
    Looking again at the pair dangling from his apron, she noticed they were missing an arm and one of the lenses was cracked.
    Giggling, she crossed her arms, poking the man in front of her. “Oh, sorry,” she said when he turned around. “Tight fit in here.”
    â€œNah, it’s cool. Hola, chica. ”
    Joey kept her eyes in the forward position, though they begged to roll to convey how unimpressed