Read Hard Tackle (A Stepbrother Warriors Novel) Online
Authors: Celia Loren
Eight months later
"I can't believe you guys are wearing those," I
groan, shaking my head at Andrè as he walks out from the kitchen. They both
have on red and black Buccaneers jerseys with Stratton emblazoned in capital
letters above his number 41 on their backs. "And I'll tell you when he
gets here. You don't have to keep checking."
"I needed a…salt shaker," he replies, sticking his
hand out to grab the nearest item as an excuse.
"Yeah, I'm sure the kitchen doesn't have salt," I
mutter under my breath. My mom's with Ray now as they head over to the diner
with his football star son Jack in tow. She tried to get me excited to meet
him, but I'm just not. From everything I've seen and read, he's just some
hard-partying jock. I guess I'll have to see him around Ray's mansion every now
and then when we move in next week, but thank god he's not actually living
there himself.
The front door jingles and I glance up to see my mom and Ray
walk in, my mom's arm laced through Ray's. And behind them, the infamous Jack
Stratton. My stomach involuntarily tightens and I turn around to hide my face.
He's even better-looking in person, with closely-cropped light brown hair, sea
blue eyes, and a strong nosed balanced by sensuous lips. And at 6'5'', he's
slightly taller than his father, with muscle packed onto every inch.
I hear the entire diner go quiet for a moment. You can't
help but notice the younger Stratton's hulking figure, plus he's one of Tampa's
heroes, the Buccaneers' star tight end after only two years in the NFL. I take
a deep breath and turn around. My mom's looking around for me as they head to
Ray's now regular corner booth. People are staring at Jack, but he's either
oblivious or used to it, because his expression remains nonplussed.
I hear frantic whispering through the window to the kitchen
and can't help but smile at Silvio and Andrè's excitement. "You wanna come
over with me?" I ask, sticking my head through.
"No, no, I'm too nervous," Silvio responds in
hushed tones.
"He's just a regular guy," I tell them.
"Except, you know, bigger." They both shake their heads so I shrug
and turn around. The patrons' conversations have resumed around the restaurant,
though many sets of eyes are still glancing over at the football player. My
mom's watching me expectantly as I walk over. She's sitting next to Ray, his
hand resting on her thigh under the table, and Jack's sitting across from them.
His thick, jean-covered legs are sticking out onto the tile floor next to the
booth, unable to fit under the table.
"Hey, honey," she greets me with a wide smile.
"How's business today?" Ray asks, ever the CEO.
"Not bad," I murmur, feeling my cheeks beginning
to burn. I can sense Jack's gaze on me, and I feel reluctant to look at him for
some reason. Is it obvious? Am I being awkward?
"I'm Jack," I hear a low voice say next to me. I
finally turn to see Jack flashing a megawatt smile at me. Something about the
way he's looking at me is too confident, too sure of himself, and I narrow my
eyes at him as we shake hands. He lets his rough fingers linger on mine for a
second too long, and I know what's bothering me.
He thinks I'm going to fall at his feet, like so many girls
in Florida and across the country would.
Don’t think so, buddy. Football
players just don't do it for me, even ones that look like you.
"Nice to meet you, Jack," I say, slapping his
shoulder like we've been pals forever. He looks slightly taken aback and I
smile inwardly. I grab a chair from the table behind us, pull it up to the end
of the table and sit.
"Jack's in the middle of the off-season right
now," my mom says, trying to start conversation between us. I know she and
Ray want Jack and me to be friends.
"Oh, right," I reply, nodding politely. Jack leans
back in the booth and surveys me, a slight tension creeping into the edges of
his lips.
"He's training and everything…and relaxing…" she
continues, raising her eyebrows slightly at him.
"A little heavy on the relaxing side, actually,"
Ray says sternly, though not unkindly.
"Dad, it's fine," Jack assures him.
"What are we talking about here?" I ask, still
trying to keep my voice light. Whatever it is, I want him to know I don't care.
"Well, Jack's coaches have suggested that maybe a
change in his lifestyle could be helpful," my mom says.
"Why do you sound like a politician?" I ask her
suspiciously. Jack leans in, spreading his forearms on the table, a slight
smirk on his face.
"She's worried we're not going to like living in the
same house," he informs me.
"Same house?" I repeat, alarmed.
Shit, I wasn't
supposed to care.
"Jack's been partying too much in his penthouse and his
coaches think it's better if he spends the off-season training in a quieter
atmosphere," Ray sums up concisely.
"You're moving back home?" I ask Jack, unable to
keep a hint of derision out of my voice.
"It's not like that," he responds, his jaw muscle
twitching. I hear the front door jingle and glance to my right to see a large
group walk in. I flush as I recognize all of them: the popular group from high
school. Including Jenni, my least favorite person who knew just how to push my
buttons, and my most favorite person, Miles, my crush since the second week of
ninth grade. We all graduated a couple weeks ago, and I was fervently hoping
I'd never see Jenni again. Whether it was my height, my lack of makeup, my
baggy clothes…she never let an opportunity pass by to tease me.
Jenni's eyes lock onto mine and I see her grin. Not a nice
grin, more like the grin of a shark that just spotted its lunch. I stare down
at the laminated tabletop, wishing she would just go away, but knowing she
won't.
"Bree! I forgot you work here!" she crows, walking
over with the rest of the group in tow. "Oh, and you must be Mrs.
Driscoll!" she says sweetly to my mom. She always knew how to make adults
happy.
"Yes…you and Bree went to high school together, is that
right?" she asks, trying to place her. "Oh, this is my boyfriend, Ray
Stratton, and his son—"
"Holy shit. Holy shit!" Jenni exclaims as her eyes
land on Jack. "I cannot believe I'm meeting Jack Stratton right now! I'm
like, your biggest fan." The rest of the girls around her begin to squeal,
and the guys try to hide their excitement. Only Miles seems uninterested,
glancing at the specials written above the counter. Jack gives her that
mega-watt grin, and I roll my eyes. Jenni's attention snaps back toward me.
"Wait. How do
you
know Jack Stratton?"
"Like my mom said," I say through gritted teeth,
"she's dating his father."
"Oh, that makes more sense. Wasn't your dad a football
player too, though?" I wince. She knows damn well he was. "That's
sort of weird."
"Not really," I reply, shrugging my shoulders. But
she knows she's hit a nerve.
"Yeah, that's right! He used to be a big deal, but then
he—"
"Yup, that's him," I cut her off.
"Jack would you mind—" Jenni begins, turning to
him. But my mom's caught a whiff of her attitude and interrupts her.
"Nice to meet you Jenni. Feel free to grab that table
over there," my mom says, pointing to an eight-top on the other side of
the diner.
"I just wanted—" Jenni protests.
"But it was
so
nice to meet you," my mom
repeats with an icy smile. Man, I wish I could handle a mean girl like she can.
Jenni stares at her for a moment, then gives Jack a sweet
shrug. "Bye, Jack," she purrs, and the group follows her to the other
side of the diner. Jack nods in response, and I stiffen as I see Miles
approaching the table from the counter.
"Hey, Bree."
"Hi," I breathe as I look up at his dark brown
eyes and long hair pushed carelessly back from his forehead.
"I didn't get a chance to see you after graduation, but
I wanted to tell you I liked that piece you wrote for the paper."
"Thank you," I whisper, shocked that he even knows
my name, much less admires the short story I wrote for the final issue of the
student newspaper. Someone from his group calls him over to their table, and he
heads away without another word. Thank goodness – I've forgotten how to breathe
and I can feel Jack's eyes on me.
"So, how's your sister doing, Jack?" my mom asks,
thankfully changing the subject.
"Good, I guess. Last I heard she was in Monaco, or
maybe it was Milan," Jack answers, and his father snorts. In that one
short sound, I can hear a wealth of disapproval. Silvio and Andrè shyly
approach the table, their posture almost deferential. I stand up to give them
room to talk to Jack, and fade back toward the rear wall.
I'm still reeling from my encounters with Jenni and Miles,
and now I have to live in the same house as Jack Stratton? His blue eyes glance
up from signing the brothers' jerseys and catch me looking at him. The light
from the window plays over his irises and I shiver at the expression in them.
He's looking at me like he knows me. I don't like it.
I hold my beat-up laptop and slowly spin it around my new
bedroom so that Carter can see it.
"Fuck," he swears as the screen captures images of
the palatial Mediterranean-inspired space. "I mean you told me the guy was
rich, but…"
"I know, right?" I say, putting the computer back
down on the mahogany wood desk and peering at my older brother. Whenever we
have the chance to talk via Skype, I can't help but scan him for signs of new
injuries or stress. He's in Afghanistan on another deployment with his SEAL
team. As always, he sits on a cot in front of a burlap backdrop, revealing
nothing of his location.
"What do you think of him, really?" he asks. I
pause, wanting to give him a truthful answer. Carter and I never bullshit each
other.
"I think he loves her…" I start. "He's hard
to read. It's like he's always got a poker face on, like he's always in a
business negotiation."
"Huh," Carter replies, ever a man of few words.
"But I didn't tell you the worst part. His son Jack is
living—" I stop as Carter's face jerks toward the right of the screen. His
jaw sets in a familiar way and I know he's being called away. "It's
OK," I say as he turns back toward the screen. "Talk to you
later."
"Talk to you later," he repeats, his expression
stony as he shuts his computer and my screen goes black. There is so much more
to say, but we both know not to say it. I can't ask him where he's going, or if
it's dangerous, or when he might be able to call again. He won't tell me
goodbye, in case it really is goodbye. So it's "talk later" every
time.
"Did I miss him?" my mom asks, not bothering to
knock as she hurries into my bedroom.
"Sorry, he just left," I tell her. She nods, a
look of grief passing quickly over her face before she swallows it. She clears
her throat. "Not bad, huh?" she says, indicating the room's sumptuous
furnishings.
"Yeah, I never knew there was so much money in
shipping," I admit, looking around.
"Well, Burke Shipping is one of the biggest, and oldest,
shipping companies in the United States. It was started by Clara's
great-grandfather."
"Who?"
"Clara. Ray's wife, who passed. Alexa and Jack's
mother."
"How come Alexa's not here?"
"Ray says she's 'gallivanting around Europe,' but I'm
not sure that's the whole story," she says with a smile. "Wouldn't it
be nice to have a…you know, sister?" she asks shyly, sitting on the bed
and holding onto one of the intricately carved posts.
"Sister?" I ask, my eyes bulging out of my head.
"Well, yeah. I thought you realized how serious Ray and
I are about each other."
"I…I mean, I did…. I guess my mind just hadn't gotten
that far," I stammer.
"And that would make you…happy?"
"Um, I don’t know," I reply honestly. "He's
better than Louie," I decide, naming one of her exes. "And definitely
better than Drew, or Max, for that matter—"
"OK, I get it!" she says, rolling her eyes.
"I'm glad I raised such an honest daughter. Most of the time," she
adds jokingly as she walks to the door. She turns in the doorway, her hand on
the knob. "And you'd have another brother, too."
"I already have one of those!" I call back as she
shuts the door. Ugh, my step-brother could be Jack Stratton. I haven't seen yet
since we moved in this morning, so I'm not sure how well his supposed break
from partying is working out.
I lift my head unconsciously as the breeze changes. The AC's
on in the rest of the house, but I have my windows wide open. What's the point
of having this mansion right on the water if you can't smell the sea?
I stand up and walk to the French doors leading out to the
balcony. Yup, that's right, a private balcony off my very own bedroom. I swing
the doors open and step out onto the tile, my eyes fixed on the twinkling
lights of south Tampa across Hillsborough Bay. A crack of thunder peals across
the water, sending a shiver of excitement running through me. I love the
thunderstorms during the summer here.
A woman's giggle drifts up from below me, and my attention
snaps down to the deck next to the pool. The only lights on are the ones
underneath the pool's surface, casting a ghoulish blue light into the dark
night, and barely illuminating the two figures intertwined in a lounge chair
next to it.
"Shit, that scared me!" the woman's voice
exclaims.
"Shh, I'm not supposed to be partying so much."
Even in a whisper, Jack's voice floats up to my second story bedroom in the
still air between thunderclaps.
"Let's go in, it's about to pour," she whines.
"Wait, the view of the lightning over the water is
amazing out here. I love watching it," he replies. A half-second later, a
white bolt splits the night sky in two, piercing from out of nowhere to the
dark expanse of the bay. Jack was right. It's spectacular.
"Jack," the woman protests. I hear him sigh, but
then she laughs. "Put me down!" I can't see them now, but I assume
he's carrying her off into the bowels of the house.
Another peal of thunder fills the air, followed more quickly
by a bolt of lightning. The storm's getting closer. I dart back inside to grab
my computer, then shut the doors as I hear the rain begin to pelt down. I draw
my desk chair up to the glass and watch the storm close in.
I've been drawing a blank when I try to think of what I want
to write. But all of a sudden, an image just popped into my head: a young girl,
running toward a thundercloud. I begin to type. She's pursued by a man…maybe
her father. Behind them lies a revival tent where the man is the preacher. A
bolt of lightning hits a tree, throwing up sparks, but she keeps running.
There was no creative writing class at my high school, so
anything I've learned how to do has been from books. During school, I wrote
mostly on weekends, but now my goal is to write a novel. My concentration is
broken by a laugh from somewhere inside the house – my mom or Jack's mystery
woman? Too far away to tell. I tap my pencil on the pad. Everyone else is
paired off but me. Loneliness wraps itself me for a moment, but I resolutely
shrug it off.
Maybe I could make an effort to be less of a loner, but most
of the time I'm happy by myself. It's only every now and then that it
overwhelms me, and I start to imagine what Miles is doing…what it would be like
to lie curled in bed next to him, talking about our next projects together
while soft music plays in the background.
I drift off to sleep with my laptop sitting on my legs. At
some point in the night, I stir and manage to make my way over to the bed,
flopping down into its soft sheets.
The morning sun wakes me, shining without a hint of the
thunderstorm the night before. I yawn and stretch, pushing my mess of hair back
off my forehead. I look down at my stained t-shirt and consider changing it,
but most of my shirts look like this one anyway.
The massive foyer of the mansion has two staircases that
wrap around either side of it, leading to the north and south wings. I take the
one closest to my door and yawn as I traipse down. Through bleary eyes, I
manage to remember the location of the kitchen toward the rear. Coffee. Must
have coffee.
I stop in shock at the scene in front of me as I turn the
corner to the kitchen. Jack's standing shirtless over the sizzling stove, sweat
dripping down his bare chest, clearly post-workout. He's wearing only red
athletic shorts and headphones over his ears, attached to his iPhone on a band
around his thick bicep. His head bops to a beat I can't hear, and I cover my
mouth to keep from laughing as he begins to mouth the words.
The movement catches his eye, and he glances up, yanking the
headphones off his ears as he sees me. From their spot dangling on his neck I
can now hear the music.
"Is that Taylor Swift?" I ask gleefully. His hand
flies to his iPhone and the tune cuts out.
"What? No, I—" he clears his throat, looking
caught. "There's coffee," he finally says.
"Oh, thank god," I say, heading over to the fresh
pot sitting under the complicated-looking chrome coffee maker on the counter
behind him.
"Late night?" he asks, and I can see him glancing
over my rat's nest of hair, my baggy, stain-covered t-shirt, and my cotton
pajama pants. I realize I'm not wearing a bra…not that I've got enough going on
for him to notice. I hope.
"Not as late as yours," I retort, grabbing the
half and half from the fridge.
"Meaning?"
"You'd be surprised how much I can hear from my
balcony."
"Oh, so you were eavesdropping," he says, flipping
a giant omelet over in the pan in front of him.
"No, I…" I shake my head, tossing off the very
idea. "Do I get to meet her?" I ask, glancing toward the deck,
wondering if she's taking some early morning sun.
"I don't like for them to stay the night," he
replies with a smirk, and my jaw drops.
"Wow. Wow. There's so much to unpack there," I
gasp. "You make the women sound like a harem or something."
"Hey, there's as happy to be there as I am, and they
know not to expect anything from me."
"Yeah, they're just honored to be able to spend a
couple hours in the company of
the
Jack Stratton."
"Well, it's
how
we're spending the time that's
important. Believe me, they leave satisfied," he says, looking up at me
and holding my gaze, a promise inside his eyes that makes me shiver.
"Ugh, gross," I say, pulling myself away.
"Besides, I thought you were supposed to be taking it easy on that stuff.
Your coaches would be pretty upset if they found out, huh?"
He pauses. "You won't say anything. Will you?"
"Probably not.
Probably
," I say with a
careless shrug as I head outside with my coffee.
"Bree!" I hear him call after me as I shut the
patio door behind me.
He sounds worried. Good. I like having something to hold
over his head.