Balls: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (A Cruz Boys Novel Book 1) (4 page)

“Sorry, sir,” I replied. “It’s just that I left my purse in the coach’s office from an interview before the game.”

His eyes widened a little. Getting that interview clearly implied I was a hot-shit reporter.
 

And he was right. It would’ve meant exactly that, had it been true.

I gave him my sweetest, most helpless look.

“I really need it.”

“Sorry, ma’am. I can’t let anyone into the secured area without clearance.”

“I know, I know. I would never normally ask.”

I dialed on some waterworks.

Only a few tears. Nothing outrageous!

“But I have a flight back to the United States tonight, and my passport is in my purse.”

The janitor’s gaze dropped to the floor.

I notched up the waterworks. Closer to outrageous, but not there yet!

“Oh God, I’ll lose my job if I’m not back in New York City by tomorrow morning.” I said it to myself, but he was my only audience. Well, Ed was there too, but he wisely didn’t call my bullshit.

The janitor bit his lip and frowned.

“Okay, a quick trip. I’ll walk you—“

I turned on the sparkles and megawatt smile.

“Oh Lord, thank you,” I said. “You have no idea how you’ve saved me.”

I kicked Ed in the shin and whispered under my breath.

“Let’s go.”

Ed scrambled up and gathered his gear.

I strolled through the open door and the janitor turned to follow.

“No, please,” I touched his shoulder. “You must be so busy, and I don’t want to take any of your time.”

He considered.

“Well, I
was
trying to get home for dinner for once.”

It was easy to convince people when they wanted to be convinced.

“I know the way,” I said. “We’ll run back and retrieve my purse and be back before you know it.”

He gave me a suspicious look. “Straight there and back?”

I gave him my widest-eyed, innocent-doe look.

“Absolutely.”

“Okay,” he said as he stepped aside and let Ed slide through.

The door swung shut and clicked into place.

We were in!

Ed eyeballed me, clearly not sharing my sense of victory.

“What now?” he asked.

“What now? What now? Can you give me half a second to enjoy that we’ve gotten this far?”

“Do you have any idea where to go?”

No, he clearly couldn’t give me that little thing.

“Not exactly, no.”

I looked around. A concrete labyrinth extended before us. The underbelly of a stadium that could hold more people than populated most towns in Spain.

We could’ve gotten lost for days.

Were it not for the signs.

Handy, those.
 

Home Team Locker Room,
one said, with an arrow pointing straight ahead.

I took off at a trot, daring Ed to get left behind. The scrambling of feet and gear behind assured me he either didn’t want to miss this opportunity, or he didn’t want to get caught alone back here.

Either way, we were off.

After an almost endless series of concrete corridors and countless turns, we arrived at our destination. A placard next to the door read
Home Team Locker Room
.

Perfect.

“We should go back,” Ed said from behind.

“Don’t get weak-in-the-knees on me now.”

“We shouldn’t be here. I like filming hot appetizers. It pays the bills, mostly.”

“Exactly.
Mostly
,” I said. “My life’s plan isn’t to
mostly
succeed.”

“You realize our employer is The Royal Spanish Football Federation?”

It still confused my American brain that the rest of the world called soccer
football
. It totally made sense as soccer was the sport where you kicked the ball everywhere. But still, I hadn’t gotten over doing a mental double take every time I heard it that way.

I turned and faced him.

“Of course, I do. I’m not an idiot.”

“You’re not? Because while most news outlets might condone all this sneaking around, ours most emphatically will not.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying our job is to create little, digestible bites of media that make people think Spain is an awesome place to see a soccer game and spend some tourist Dollars, Euros, or Yen.”

“Are you getting to a point?”

He itched his nose. He was always itching his nose.

“My point is that getting this interview isn’t our job. And breaking the Federation’s own rules to get said interview feels a whole lot like pre-signing our termination papers.”

I smacked his shoulder.

“Don’t be so gloomy! Besides, if we get caught, I’ll say it was all my fault.”

He dropped his head and slowly shook it.

“Somehow, that doesn’t feel reassuring.”

“Ed, pull it together. This could be the defining moment in both of our careers.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

I straightened my hair and looked up through my lashes to verify they were generally combed out.

“How do I look?”

I made a silly face.
 

He glanced up and grinned. “Like an idiot.”

“Good. Now, let’s roll the camera. I want this live-streamed to the website.”

Broadcast technology these days was amazing. A camera that with the push of a button could stream a video signal straight to the league website as a live stream for viewers all of the world to watch in real-time. It was a ten-thousand dollar camera and there was a team of computer nerds making sure everything worked as advertised. But still, it was amazing.

“Why?”

“Because when we score the interview of a lifetime, I don’t want any bureaucratic bullshit shutting us down.”

“You don’t even know he’s in there.”

A muffled sound came through the closed door.
 

“Someone’s in there. Roll it, Ed.”

He raised the camera and balanced it on his shoulder. His fingers flew over a bewildering array of buttons and he finally snugged the eyepiece up to his eye.

I checked my outfit. Black turtleneck with sleek, black pants. Conservative, professional, stylish, with a hint of sexy.

“Give me the count,” I said.

Ed raised his free hand and counted down from five.

“Five, four, …”

The last three numbers dropped with his fingers.

The red light on the front of the camera started flashing.

I put on my best reporter’s act.

“This is Alexis Young with The Royal Spanish Football Federation doing a live streamcast in the after hours of the huge win for the Spanish national team. As you all know, the game secured Spain a spot in the upcoming World Cup. One man more than any other made that happen. El Leon, Leonardo Cruz, scored a penalty kick in the final seconds of the game and brought the capacity crowd to its feet.”

I turned toward the door.

“We’re going behind the scenes to capture an exclusive one-on-one interview with The Lion.”

I looked back to the camera, and gave a slightly conspiratorial look.

“Come with me.”

I gave a quick, cursory knock and then opened the door. The muffled sounds that were seconds ago an unidentifiable assemblage of vowels became crystal clear.

I walked in and my stomach jumped up my throat, and then out my mouth and flopped around on the ground.

Leonardo Cruz sat naked on a bench with his legs spread wide. His broad chest and unbelievably chiseled abs raised my pulse. His black hair glistened with moisture. His devastating blue-grey eyes made my earlobes tingle.

My eyes dropped to the one thing that drew attention to itself more than any other—the monster hanging between his legs.

Good Lord!

Why were my insides squirming?

“Kind of late for an interview, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Sorry,” I stammered as managed to yank my eyes back to a more appropriate level. “I, I…”

My brain was so not working!

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “For you, I’ll hang out awhile.”

I followed his eyes as they looked down between his legs.

There it was again!

Lord! Really?

I was still looking at it!

Look away!

I shook my head. “Sorry, no…”

I stepped back to escape and tripped on my altogether too ambitious high heels. I pitched forward in an all-out sprawl.

My face smacked into the floor. Bright pain shot through my head. Warm wetness oozed down my lower lip.

“Ouch! Damn!” Leonardo said as he ran over. “Take my hand. Let me help you up.”

Oh God, the pain was blinding. I cradled my face with one hand and reached up to accept his assistance with the other.

The faster I got off the ground, the faster I could try to regain some semblance of not being a total idiot.

I found his hand and grabbed tight.

Only…

It didn’t feel like a…

OH.

MY.

GOD.

I jerked my hand away. I froze, not knowing what the hell to do next.

I mean, I just yanked on his
thang
. His very thick and, let’s be honest, amazing
thang
.

He grabbed my hand and squeezed.

“I like where you were going,” he said. “But maybe we should get some ice on that first. Then again, I’m a gentleman, so lady’s choice.”

Alex, do not look at it again.
 

Do not!

I pushed up to my knees and looked up.

It
was there, off to the side.

But I managed not to look.

It was easy, actually, because the most hypnotizing pair of blue-gray eyes in the world had me under their spell. My insides squirmed under his hot gaze.
 

Pull it together, Alex!

Now!

I snapped out of it with a blink.

“I could use the ice,” I said.

Less than a foot away from mouth, I noticed him starting to perk up, like a drawbridge raising.
 

I
so
wanted to watch.

The warmth between my legs
so
wanted to watch.

Not a chance!

It took every ounce of will power, more than I realized I had, but I managed to keep my eyes on his.

“And it looks like you could use a cold shower,” I said.

He pulled me to my feet and, though we were a foot apart, his now horizontal member was nearly poking my belly.
 

Fire ignited deep inside me. It clenched so hard I almost fainted.

Involuntarily, my eyes fluttered over his body.

If he had an ounce of fat on him, I couldn’t see where. The muscles in his stomach rippled with every exhale. His broad chest and shoulders looked like they could tear a tree out of the ground with ease. His long legs had the grace and power of a racehorse.
 

In the center of his ripped chest was a large tattoo. A roaring lion. His every deep breath clenched his chest muscles and seemed to make the lion’s mouth roar. It called to me.

Truly, here was a king among men.

And it scared the crap out of me that something deep inside me longed be taken for his queen.

“Oh shit,” a voice from behind said.

I turned and saw Ed, his mouth hanging open, a blank stare in his eyes. There was a pained mixture of shock and horror on his face. The camera hung limply from his shoulder.

Still mostly pointing at us.

With the little red light flashing.

The camera filming it all.

The camera streamcasting it all.

* * *

It was no surprise ending up in a conference room with Pablo Garcia, President of the Royal Spanish Football Federation and my ultimate boss, despite the fact that I’d never met him and, before the streamcast went out, he’d had no idea who I was.

He knew my name now.

Ed sat next to me with his head in his hands.

Leonardo Cruz sat across the table wearing a sleek black suit. He leaned way back in his chair with his hands locked behind his head, like he didn’t have a care in the world. At one end stood Mr. Garcia and at the other end sat the head coach of the Spanish national soccer team.

Both of the big boys were present.

“What the hell were you thinking, Ms. Young? Are you so eager to lose your job?” Mr. Garcia said.

I stared at the smooth, lacquered wood table. No way was I going to meet his fiery gaze.

“No, sir. I was going for an interview.”

“Marketing tells me your job was to film
Chorizo al Carbon
, not
Chorizo al Leonardo
. His pecker is now the biggest story in soccer news!”

Leonardo chuckled. “To be fair, Pablo, it’s always been a pretty big deal.”

Mr. Garcia turned to Leonardo. The nuclear chill of his focus shifted away and gave me space to breathe.

“Don’t you start! If you’re the best this nation has to offer, then we are a sorry bunch of assholes indeed!”

“You said it, not me.”

Leonardo arched a brow at me, like we were in on the joke together.

I wasn’t in on any such thing. I was in on saving my job, if that was even possible at this point.

What a stupid, terrible, idiot mistake. What was I thinking?

Coach rubbed his temples. “Please, Leo. You’re not helping.” He looked to the other end of the table. “What are we looking at here, Pablo?”

“You’re asking me? If it was my decision, he’d be kicked off the team and banned from any European league.”

Mr. Garcia turned to Leonardo. “Your bullshit antics have cast a shadow over my legacy for too many years. I don’t care if you are El Leon, the hero of the people. You’re a disgrace and a blemish on my reputation and on all of Spain.”

“Hold on a Goddamn—” Leonardo started.

Coach swiped a flat hand in his direction. “Stop! Don’t end your career just to get in the last word.”

He turned back to the only the man in the room who had the power to do that. “Level with me, Pablo. Leo’s the best striker in the world. We need him to bring home the Cup.”

Mr. Garcia ground his teeth together so hard they squeaked like a fork on a chalkboard.

“I want the World Cup as much as any other loyal Spaniard. But I will not win it at the cost of my reputation or the reputation of this nation.”