The Relationship Pact: Kings of Football Read online

  The Relationship Pact

  Kings of Football

  Adriana Locke

  The Relationship Pact

  Copyright 2020 by Adriana Locke

  Cover Designer: Letitia Hasser, RBA Designs

  Content Editor: Marion Making Manuscripts

  Copy Editor: Editing 4 Indies, Jenny Sims

  Proofreader: Michele Ficht

  Umbrella Publishing

  Copyright Law:

  If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, this book has been pirated and you are stealing. Please delete it from your device and support the author by purchasing a legal copy. All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above copyright owner of this book or publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked statue and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This book is dedicated to Aunt Judy. I’m working on the firetrucks.

  Contents

  Synopsis

  Prologue

  1. Hollis

  2. Larissa

  3. Hollis

  4. Larissa

  5. Hollis

  6. Larissa

  7. Hollis

  8. Larissa

  9. Hollis

  10. Larissa

  11. Hollis

  12. Larissa

  13. Hollis

  14. Larissa

  15. Hollis

  16. Larissa

  17. Larissa

  18. Hollis

  19. Hollis

  20. Hollis

  21. Larissa

  22. Hollis

  23. Larissa

  24. Hollis

  25. Larissa

  26. Hollis

  27. Hollis

  Epilogue #1

  Epilogue #2

  A Note From The Author

  The Revenge Pact

  The Romantic Pact

  Chapter One: Reputation

  Books by Adriana Locke

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Synopsis

  How hard can it be?

  That was the question rolling around Larissa Mason’s mind just before she asked Hollis Hudson to be her fake boyfriend.

  It was only supposed to be for five minutes, after all.

  Granted, that was also before she felt his hand on the small of her back as he charmed the heck out of her family.

  And it was definitely before she saw the football god shirtless. Otherwise, she would’ve had an idea of just how hard some things could be.

  It turns out that pretending to be in love with a crazily handsome, somewhat enigmatic, and absolutely unforgettable tight end (who has an amazing tight end) is easy.

  Reminding herself that just because opposites attract doesn’t mean they’re forever is much harder.

  What they have isn’t love—it’s a relationship pact. Right?

  Prologue

  See those three boys over there?

  Yeah, the kings of football?

  The ones with their heads in their hands, drinking their beers and trying to figure out what the hell happened to their season?

  They choked.

  That’s right. These all-Americans became the biggest upset in college football and a complete embarrassment to their town.

  Can it really be that bad?

  Yes.

  Former national champions, Braxton College was annihilated this year.

  No, not just annihilated—completely and utterly destroyed.

  Three games.

  That’s it.

  They won three games all season.

  Interceptions. Dropped balls. Missed blocks. Fumbles. You name it, they did it.

  First, there’s Hollis Hudson, the mysterious tight end who keeps everything locked down. He couldn’t run a route to save his life this year.

  Next is Crew Smith, the protective one. Once an NFL hopeful, he now holds the record for the most interceptions in a season for a quarterback.

  And rounding out the trifecta of crap is River Tate, the popular frat boy. He’s supposed to be a superstar wide receiver but dropped more passes than he caught.

  Guys wanted to be them.

  Girls wanted their hearts.

  But at this point, not sure anyone would touch them with a ten-foot pole.

  The truth is, they’ve screwed up their prospective NFL careers.

  Maybe their entire lives.

  There are three stories to be told…

  This is Hollis’s.

  One

  Hollis

  Me: My abs are still impressive.

  I hit send on the text message and drop my phone to the bed.

  The sky is dark outside my hotel room window. I yank the curtains closed before resuming getting dressed. The black sweater I borrowed from River’s closet before I left campus sits snugly over my aforementioned abdominal muscles. I slip on a pair of sneakers—also borrowed from River because he has a better wardrobe than I do—and take a quick look in the mirror.

  “Not too shabby,” I say to my reflection.

  I’m reaching for my wallet next to the mini-fridge when my phone dings, so I grab it instead.

  River: Oh, thank God. I was getting worried.

  Crew: What kind of status update is this, Hollis? Your abs? Really?

  I grin as I type out my response.

  Me: Would you rather I had given you the weather?

  As soon as I type that out, I know what’s coming. My eyes shoot to the ceiling, and I brace for the flurry of incoming texts undoubtedly on their way.

  Crew: The weatherman Hollis Hudson!

  River: Only if you jump up and down for two minutes while you recite it.

  Crew: You should bring that back.

  River: Totally.

  Flashbacks of my freshman year pledge for Kappa—the weather pledge—come floating back.

  The fraternity officers were trying to embarrass me with that whole thing. I had to wake up at the ass crack of dawn and post myself reading the weather report on social media.

  For a year.

  On top of that, if anyone asked me the weather—which, naturally, everyone did—I had to recite it on the spot while jumping up and down.

  For two minutes.

  It was a hassle and a pain in the ass, as designed. The joke was on them, though. I got so much freaking attention from the female body of Braxton College without even having to try that I should’ve sent the officers a thank-you note.

  Because the weather report my freshman year? It was raining women.

  Crew: We’re just screwing with you. Did you make it to Savannah?

  Me: I just got here a little bit ago. Hotel is fucking niiiiiiice.

  River: It better be. Lincoln Landry is a baseball legend. He can afford to put you up in nice digs.

  My whole body tenses. I sit on the edge of one of the two queen-sized beds with the softest blankets I’ve ever felt and let my elbows rest on my knees.

  It’s been three months since I received the letter requesting my presence at the Catching-A-Care awards banquet, a nonprofit ran by future Hall of Fame baseball pla
yer for the Tennessee Arrows, Lincoln Landry. I’m as shocked now as the day I opened the envelope.

  How the charity found out about the time I quietly spend with a foster group home on the weekends is beyond me. It’s not something I advertise or talk about during interviews. It’s a talking point I hide from the media.

  It’s not for them. I don’t want it exploited as some mindless chatter while camera operators zoom in on a play.

  It’s my thing. It’s the one thing I have all to myself. It’s the only thing not jaded by my position on campus or the fact that I’m an athlete or that my abs are awesome.

  But, somehow, the board of directors got my name, and here I am.

  A part of me was a little pissed off about the whole thing. I went back and forth with the directors for a long time—me saying, “Thanks but no thanks” and them saying, “But we’d really like to do this.” Eventually, they promised not to name the city I volunteer in or the organization, and I agreed to attend. I think they labeled me as being “difficult,” but whatever. I don’t want the kids feeling like I was spending time there for any other reason than I care.

  The Board put me up in this kick-ass hotel—even covering it for an extra week because I mentioned I was coming in early. As much as I hate to admit it, it’s a pretty good distraction from life at the moment.

  River: What are you doing tonight?

  Crew: Don’t you mean WHO he’s doing tonight?

  River: Excellent point.

  I roll my eyes.

  Me: Oh, come on.

  Crew: Dude. Don’t try to lie to us. We know you.

  River: The real you.

  Crew: And we like you anyway. Go figure.

  River: Most of the time. Easy with your generalizations there, Hollywood.

  Crew: I stand corrected. However, do you have a name yet?

  My laughter fills the room.

  Me: While I’m honored you think I can work that fast, I haven’t.

  River: We don’t think. We know. We’ve seen you in action.

  I scoff.

  Me: Like you’re any better, asshole.

  Crew: Hey, I’m really feeling the love, but I gotta go. I’m in the middle of something. Thanks for checking in, Hollis, even if it was super random and slightly weird.

  Me: You asked for check-ins. I’m giving them to you. Be careful what you wish for.

  Crew: Noted.

  River: A redhead.

  Me: ?

  Crew: He’s totally going with a blonde.

  Me: I thought you were gone.

  Crew: Bye.

  River: I’m gone too.

  Me: Later.

  Tossing my phone on the bed, I look up. My reflection is smiling back at me.

  I sit and stare at myself for a while, taking in the strangeness of seeing something other than a grimace on my face. Between royally fucking up our football season, ruining any chance I had at the pros—however small that chance might’ve been—and now the holidays, life has been more piss than posies.

  But when is it not, really?

  Get your shit together. Crazy Carl’s words filter through my mind. The late-sixties alien hunter from our favorite bar, The Truth is Out There, gave River, Crew, and me that wise piece of advice after we lost our last game … and ended the season with an interception.

  Somehow, it seemed fitting.

  I grab my wallet, shove it in my pocket, and head for the door.

  “You know you’re screwed when Crazy Carl makes sense,” I grumble, getting to my feet. “But he’s right. I gotta get my shit together.”

  Time is running out.

  Two

  Larissa

  “I’m done.” I finish drying my hands and then toss the brown paper in the trash. “I mean it this time. Don’t try to talk me out of it.”

  Bellamy bites the corner of her lip as she finishes rinsing her hands. While her voice may not betray her, her eyes certainly do.

  “Don’t laugh at me,” I warn her.

  “I’m not.”

  But she is. Suppressed humor at my expense splashes across her pretty face. I can’t blame her for being amused by my slightly random and altogether unrealistic statement because I’ve said this before.

  More than once, actually.

  And even though I’ve always meant it, I really mean it this time.

  “May I ask with what, exactly, you’re done with?” Bellamy asks, flipping a long, blond lock of hair over her shoulder. “Because there are a couple of different options here, and I just want to clarify.”

  “Men.”

  “That’s a very, very broad term, Riss.”

  I stand beside the settee in the ladies’ room of Paddy’s, my favorite restaurant in Savannah, and watch my best friend apply another coat of fabulous red lipstick. It screams confidence and badassery—two things that Bellamy Davenport certainly is. I’d like to think I am those things too, except, unlike Bells, I keep getting played.

  This has been an unfortunate consistency throughout the past last few years. I think a relationship has long-standing potential, and my lover thinks I’m nothing more than a glorified booty call. I’m all for a good one-night stand if the conditions are right. I’m not even totally opposed to a friends-with-benefits package.

  What I am against, vehemently, are men who lure me in, sweep me off my feet, and then turn out to be egotistical, narcissistic, and completely selfish maniacs.

  “Maybe I wanted it to be a broad term,” I tell her. “Maybe I’m done with men altogether.”

  “But are you? Are you really?” She slips her lipstick back into her purse. “Because I know you and the men you so sadly choose to date—”

  “Hey!”

  “And I don’t think men as a gender are your problem. And I think you know that.”

  I gasp in mock horror. “What are you saying? Are you saying I’m the problem?”

  “I’d never even consider such a thing,” she teases.

  “Liar.”

  She spins on her heel and faces me. When our eyes meet, we start to laugh.

  Bellamy has been my best friend my entire life. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know her. She’s always lived next door to my aunt Siggy—the best aunt in the entire world—and she’s always been the wild to my calm.

  More or less.

  “You know what your problem is,” she says pointedly when her laughter subsides. “It’s not fair to yourself to pretend it’s every man in the universe when, in reality, it’s—”

  “Athletes,” we say in unison.

  I sigh as dramatically as I can.

  My weakness for the fit and delicious specimen who runs, jumps, and throws balls or hits pucks started in junior high school. It’s not a revelation.

  I had the biggest, most annoying crush on a boy who played centerfield on my cousin’s all-star baseball team. I was twelve. He was older than me and had a swagger about him that appealed to me on a level I didn’t know existed. He was a little headstrong and a whole lot cocky—just enough to seem forbidden. My thing with athletes—and probably bad boys, if I’m honest—started that summer.

  My brain shuffles through the memories of my last few boyfriends.

  There was Charlie—the hockey goalie with sweet eyes and it’s-not-cheating-if-it’s-not-penetration code of conduct.

  Benny was next. He was a minor league baseball player who firmly believed my place was in the kitchen. But not barefoot. He liked me in expensive heels.

  There was Christopher—a sports manager who was career-driven and egotistical and couldn’t shut up about his day long enough to ask me about mine.

  And, as if I had to prove to myself that I could do worse, I chose Sebastian Townsend. The golfer-turned-sports agent from Atlanta decided my take on monogamy—that cheaters should have their reproductive organs removed—was harsh, and I should cushion my expectations. Apparently, men are bees, and it’s their job to pollinate the flowers of the world.

  It’s safe to say he didn
’t support the idea of one bee plus one flower equals happiness. He also didn’t love—i.e., became enraged—at his theory working in reverse. Was one flower supposed to hope the one bee pollinating her had decent skills? Maybe she should be as free as the bee?

  He took offense.

  I’m not sure who ended it with who that night, but it went down rather spitefully … about as petty as Sebastian is tonight.

  When I look back up at Bellamy, she’s shaking her head. “Don’t.”

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t let him get in your head.” She gets to her feet and towers over me in her nude-colored heels that are entirely unnecessary for a friend’s birthday party. “Sebastian is a twerp. I know all of his little smug grins and bullshit waves, with his new girl shrink-wrapped to his side, are getting to you tonight.”

  “They are not.”

  “So, you’re swearing off all men out of the blue? Riss, you like dick. You’re not going to go all cold turkey like that. It’s because he got to you tonight.”

  I get to my feet in a rush. “He did not get to me tonight. He pissed me off. That little line about how … shameful, or whatever word he used, it must be to show up to our friend’s birthday party alone pissed me off.”