Mister Baller: A Small Town Enemies-to-Lovers Sports Romance (Bad Boys in Love Book 2) Read online

  Both heads snap toward me in unison.

  “It’s my brother.” Cannon cringes as he says it.

  “Y-your brother?”

  Cannon has three brothers. Walker lives in a rustic cabin on the edge of his huge farm so I doubt he's the one looking for last minute accommodations. The federal penitentiary system is currently overseeing Eli's living arrangements, given that he's in jail for the foreseeable future. That leaves one remaining Kingston brother…

  “Jude. The football player for the Iowa Paragons. Just had knee surgery a few weeks ago. He’s a tight end, but he's on injury reserve at the moment and—”

  "I know who Jude is..." I must be wearing an epic oh, shit! expression because the two of them look a little bit afraid.

  My lips flap open and closed but no coherent sound comes out.

  Jude Kingston. Cocky footballer. My college nemesis. My ex-husband's best friend.

  My new roommate?

  Oh, shit!

  "Right. You went to school together."

  My cheeks burn like I just slathered on hot sauce in the place of sunscreen. "Um, Jude and I, we, uh, didn't exactly get along in college..."

  Cannon pleads his brother's case. "Lexi told me you two had your differences but that was years ago. He's not an asshole anymore. Mostly."

  Lexi chimes in, “And he's injured so it's not like he'll be throwing ragers every night of the week.”

  Cannon winces. “Plus, the money is being transferred to your account as we speak." He waves his phone in the air. “And he already has the address and access code to your place. He’s on his way there now.”

  This is a disaster.

  A tide of panic is quickly rising up my chest. “Why can’t he stay with you guys? Your place is enormous.” I’m grasping here. But seriously, they have at least six extra bedrooms. Jude can definitely bunk with them.

  Lexi gives me this ludicrous puppy dog expression as she tucks into her husband's side. “Y'see, we have this naked rule in our house," she recounts. "From eight to eight, no clothes allowed...I don’t think Jude would want to witness that.” She hides a smirk behind her water glass.

  Oh, God. I groan, dropping my head into my hands. How am I friends with these people?

  "But your parents own a freaking guesthouse." I tell Cannon. "He could stay there and be far more comfortable. He wouldn't even have to pay for his room." The Kingston Family Inn is well-loved by the tourists who visit Crescent Harbor.

  Cannon lifts a brow. "No grown man wants to move back in with his parents."

  "The man's knee is injured," Lexi reminds me. "He's harmless."

  Jude Kingston? Harmless? He's a professional athlete. Six feet, three inches. Wide shoulders. Eight pack. A smile that’s a snap trap for females of the groupie variety. For females of any variety, if I’m being perfectly honest.

  He is the very antithesis of the word ‘harmless’.

  And I can't stand him.

  I feel my insides fusing into a sticky pool of anxiety. I'm verging on a panic attack. I hate to be petty but I just can't be the bigger person on this.

  I look at my best friend. My words are a whisper. "Sorry, Lex. He can't stay with me...I have way too much going on in my life right now."

  I hate to disappoint her. The girl is the most epic friend ever. She has had my back in a million ways over the past few months. She supplied the wine and Kleenex on the night Kirk suddenly announced he was leaving me. She loaned me money after I got crazy-drunk and went on a dildo shopping spree that left me with a maxed out credit card. She was with me into the wee hours of the morning, helping me pack up after my sandwich shop got evicted. I owe her so much because she has come through for me every time I've needed her.

  Letting her down is a really shitty feeling.

  Lexi's eyes soften. "I'm the one who should be apologizing." She squeezes my hand and offers a tiny smile. "I know how you feel about Jude. I shouldn't have sprung this on you."

  Cannon's shoulders slump. He leans back in his chair, physically relenting. “We didn't mean to corner you into anything.” He has the decency to look contrite. "It was a misunderstanding. Communication error between me and wifey. I guess we're still working out the bugs in our communication code." He kisses her face then flashes me a rueful, charming smile. "I can just cancel the reservation and get a refund."

  I release the tense breath I've been holding. "Thank you," I say. I'm grateful that my friends are being understanding. Still, the cloak of guilt weighs me down.

  My gaze drops to the rental app on my phone screen. There's money in my account. More money than I've seen in a long, long time. A pile of cold, hard cash with my name on it.

  I think back to my near-empty wallet, the debt collectors calling all hours of the day, the failing business attempts showing no signs of being able to cover this month's bills.

  Fuck!

  Jude and I might get along like oil and water but am I really in a position to turn him away?

  This rental arrangement would definitely buy me some time to figure out my next move.

  Ugh! being a grown-up sucks.

  I close my eyes against the wave of resignation that crashes into me.

  I can't let Cannon cancel the reservation. Not when I need the money so badly.

  Shit...

  "Wait!" My screech draws the attention of diners at the neighboring table. I flinch at my desperate tone.

  My friends stare at me hopefully.

  It's time to tighten my ponytail, put on my big girl panties and push the grudge aside. In this new phase of my life, I'm going to have to make some uncomfortable decisions—sacrifices—to get me to the other side of the abyss.

  "Don't...don't cancel the reservation," I say. "I-I can make it work."

  And that’s how I end up stuck living with Jude Kingston. This particular sacrifice better be worth the money.

  2

  Jude

  Wai-wai-wait! I need one more for my Instagram!”

  The blue-haired gas station attendant tightens her one-armed death grip around my waist and raises her phone for another round of selfies. She and her co-workers press close, sandwiching me between them and thwarting my attempts to make a quick escape.

  My knee is killing me and I feel about as fresh as the lettuce in a week-old Quiznos sub, but I grin big for the cameras and throw up a peace sign, playing the role of the returning hometown football hero.

  That’s what my fans have come to expect.

  I’m Jude Kingston. Paragons tight end. Cool guy. Lady’s man. Huge personality. Confident, outgoing, a good time on and off the field. And in the weeks since my injury, I’ve done my best to uphold that image. At least in the public eye.

  I bet if the fans could hear my internal monologue, they wouldn't be so eager to be all up on me, though.

  In the frenzied circus energy of the gas station, a display of beef jerky gets knocked over. There’s someone's shoulder jammed into my armpit. And um, is that an erection I feel pressed up against my thigh?

  Even grown-ass, heterosexual men have been known to get excited enough to sprout a woody at a spontaneous Jude Kingston sighting. What can I say? That’s just the effect I have on people.

  When somebody's nipple piercing stabs me in the bicep, I know it's time to get the hell out of here. Quick. I don’t want any of these overeager kids tripping over my bum leg.

  One of the excited teenagers is shrieking into her phone, putting out an SOS call to alert god-knows-who-else of my presence in the gas station.

  And to think, I just stopped by here to fill my tank and buy a pack of gum.

  I unknot myself from the web of fans and head for the door, trying my best to hide the limp. The last thing my precarious career needs is footage of me, dragging ass out of a gas station, to hit the gossip sites.

  The heady stench of gasoline feels like a personal assault as I hobble out toward the pump where my luxury convertible is stationed. My glance drops to my phone. Still waiting for tha
t confirmation message from Cannon.

  When I'd called and told him I was on my way into town, I'd been hoping to stay at his place. He has a whole, entire mansion that he and his new wife, Lexi, keep all to themselves. I'd expected to be able to bunk in one of their eleventy dozen bedrooms. No such luck.

  Apparently, there's a nudity rule in effect in their house and I don't want any part of that. Anyway, Cannon said he had a lead on a comfortable place for me to stay and that he just has to iron out the details. I'm waiting anxiously for him to get back to me with a text.

  Someone shouts my name, and I look around. Two gas stalls away, some guy is waving. I squint. I can’t tell whether it’s a fan who recognizes me or an old acquaintance from town.

  Please don’t come over here, I beg internally. Please don't come over here.

  Whenever I come home, the locals all want to chat about ‘how they knew me when…’ Usually, it's cool and I don't mind the attention, but I’m not in any shape for any more cheesing and selfies and autographs today.

  “Get better soon, man!” the guy shouts.

  I put on my trademark cocky grin, trying to act like I've got this under control. "Already on the mend. I'll be back on the field in no time." I give a salute and turn away.

  I hustle the car door open and fall into the drivers’ seat, massaging my aching knee and thigh muscles.

  From behind the wheel, my gaze sweeps the cluster of mom and pop storefronts nestled around the waterfront and the small houses dotting the familiar lush green terrain in the distance.

  Crescent Harbor, Illinois. Population: 5 000.

  Ending up back here indefinitely—especially at the beginning of the football season—hadn't been part of my plan.

  This was supposed to be my year. We were going to bring the championship home again and this time, I'd be the team's first-string tight end. At least, that was what I was working toward. I was hungry for it. So damn hungry I got overeager and fucked it all up, in a pre-season game, no less. Now, all I have is the soul-singeing burn of my dashed dreams and the memory of that one wretched moment when I made the fatal error.

  One game. One fucking play. Just five seconds off the play clock, and my life changed in an instant, eradicating my all-star dreams and leaving my future in limbo.

  But Crescent Harbor is home. Being back here is for the best. That's what I keep telling myself. I just need to lay low for a while. Get out of the limelight. Focus all my attention on my healing. And what better place to do that than my quiet, secluded hometown?

  When I pick up my phone, I see that my brother has finally messaged me with the details for the rental.

  I tear out of the gas station just as an old, duct taped Volkswagen Quantum swings into the lot with a load of teenagers hanging out the windows, yelling my name. I breathe a sigh of relief that I dodged the incoming bullet.

  Plugging the address into my phone’s GPS, I make the short drive across town with a sports talk radio station playing last night’s game highlights in the background. Those assholes talk so much shit. I’m arguing at the radio the whole time.

  Fine. I’ll admit it—I’m a little salty that my brother didn’t offer to let me stay with him. Cannon and I were always the closest out of the four of us. I really could use some of my brother’s moral support right now. But he and Lexi are newly-weds and I can understand their need for a bit of privacy.

  Sure, I could stay at my family's bed and breakfast but moving in with my parents is out of the question. I’m here to focus on my healing and as much as I adore my mother, Ma’s attention can be a bit smothering at times. I know she has the best intentions but I don't have the heart to tell her that she'd be a distraction.

  As for Walker, his one-bedroom hunting cabin isn’t conducive for guests and frankly, neither is his grumpy attitude.

  And Eli? Well, I love my brother but let’s just say I have no interest in being his cellmate in jail.

  Besides, hiding away in some stranger’s place might be exactly what I need right now. I won’t have to worry about faking conversation or hurting anyone’s delicate feelings when the pain in my knee pushes me into one of those less-than-pleasant moods.

  I can focus on healing in peace, take care of myself, and figure out a plan to get me back on my feet.

  The driveway is empty, but I’m unsure of whether the owner has his own car, so I park on the street. I sit behind the wheel a few minutes, rubbing my knee, checking out the area and making sure this is the correct address. I can’t imagine anything more awkward than trying to move into the wrong house. I’m not in the mood for getting shot at, and some of the older folks around town have been known to settle conflicts with their shotguns.

  The place is well-kept. It’s an older home, maybe close to a hundred years old. Probably just a couple bedrooms. A stark contrast to my modern penthouse back home. But for a short-term rental in Crescent Harbor, it’s actually pretty decent.

  Still, I feel a tiny pang of apprehension. Maybe I should call Walker and ask to crash on his couch. I'm not sure how I feel about having a roommate at this stage in my life.

  What if this guy is a clinger? Or a serial killer? Or worst yet, a stage-five football enthusiast who'll fan-boy his ass off all day and annoy the hell out of me.

  Deciding to take my chances, I grab my phone, charger, and my duffel bag, then trek up a flagstone walkway that winds through a heavily landscaped front yard. Vivid flowers encase the path.

  I step onto a recently redone wrap-around porch, eyeing the natural wood planks and Adirondack chairs. It gives me a strong urge to kick back on this picturesque porch with a warm cup of tea.

  Turning my attention away, I pull out my phone and enter the passcode in Cannon's text message. The door clicks open on the first try.

  When I step across the threshold, the first thing I notice is that someone has done some serious renovations. The house's character is all intact, with sleek hardwoods and white crown moldings. The colors and furnishings I can see from the entry are all pretty modern.

  It really smells like broccoli, though.

  Still, I can admit the place feels cozy in a strange way. Inviting. Cannon did well.

  Broccoli stench aside.

  I hear gravel crunching and the unmistakable sound of brake pads squeaking. I crane my neck to peer out the large front window, but the tall, lush garden hedges block my view. I know a vehicle just pulled into the drive, but I can’t see more than a back tire from here.

  I’m not really sure how this whole rental thing works, and I feel like a moron standing aimlessly in some stranger’s entryway. But considering I don’t know where my new room is, it’s probably best to hang tight and meet my new landlord for further instructions.

  Waiting for them to join me, I step further into the living room. My knee is killing me, and I need to elevate it before it swells even more.

  There’s a potted palm tree in the corner and some kind of decorative vine draped over the top of a jam-packed bookcase. A hauty-looking orange tabby cat gives me a bored glance from its fluffy cushion on the large picture window before resuming its nap.

  My eyes catch one of the photos resting on the mantle above the stone fireplace.

  No. Way.

  Icy disbelief floods my veins. There’s no possible way…it can’t be. Yeah—I know, I know—it's a small world. But no way is it that small.

  I take another step, leaning in closer to inspect the photo that caught my attention. My hand reaches out and picks up the picture frame. But before I can examine it further, the front door swings open behind me.

  Suddenly, my body is sluggish, like I’m running through ice water. I turn around to face a ghost. A ghost with long, blonde hair, diamond blue eyes and familiar curves that have always made my fingers tingle with curiosity. At the sight of her, it feels like my mouth is packed with toilet paper. Her gaze locks on mine, and for several long moments, we stare in silence at each other.

  Then, I feel my mouth slowly curling u
p at the corners. “Iris…” I drift off. My voice is alarmingly hoarse and low.

  Nervously, she flicks her tongue across her supple bottom lip. “Hello, Jude.”

  3

  Iris

  Jude Kingston is standing in my living room. Clutching my picture frame in his big hand.

  For a second, he seems shaken at the sight of me. That makes me feel marginally better about my own discombobulated state.

  But Jude has always been smooth, confident. He quickly snaps out of it. Setting back the photo above the fireplace, he turns to face me and flashes an annoyingly perfect smile. “Iris…”

  I lick my bottom lip. It’s a nervous tic that I hope he doesn’t interpret to mean something else. “Hello, Jude.”

  As much as I hate to admit it, the man looks good—really, really good—standing in the shadowy room. For some reason, he seems even taller than I remember. His sandy, dark blond hair is darker and longer. His legs are thick logs of muscle encased in gray sweats. His arms are defined and, through his thin white sweater, his chest looks like a damn rock-climbing wall.

  And all I can think is how much I don't want him to be standing here. But while children can afford to hold grudges, grown-ass, empty-pocketed, debt-riddled divorcées cannot.

  I'm a landlord. And now, he's my tenant.

  So, I swallow back my long-held dislike for the guy and approach him, my arm extended ahead of me for a handshake. Because personal feelings aside, this is a business transaction.

  Jude takes one look at my outstretched hand and raises a thick eyebrow. And now, he's coming at me, full lips smirking, muscle-bound biceps spread wide to receive me.

  In a hug.

  Panic sets in when I realize what's happening. Because I don't want to hug this man. For me, even the handshake is pushing it, so chest-to-chest contact is definitely off the table.

  Jude obviously didn’t get the memo.

  Right at the edge of the rug, I halt in my tracks. When his thick arms envelop me, my toes get tucked beneath the rug. The power of his grip causes my body to heave forward.