Touchdown and Dirty Read online

  Second in the

  Game Time Series

  TouchDOWN

  and Dirty

  by Sidda Lee Rain

  Cover design by Sidda Lee Rain and Janet Edwards

  Editor Rebecca Cartee

  Copyright 2015 Sidda Lee Rain

  This book may not be reproduced or used in parts or as a

  whole without permission from the authors with the

  exception of quotes used for reviews.

  This book is a complete work of fiction any resemblance

  to people or events is purely coincidental. These

  characters and story lines are works of the author’s

  imagination and should be viewed as the fiction it is.

  This book is to be viewed by persons of age 18+

  It is an erotic romance and does include strong sexual

  scenarios and strong language.

  Authors have taken artistic license in using products

  and brands in this book. They are not associated with the

  publication of this book outside of the Authors imagination.

  Damn Women Publishing electronic publication Jan 2015

  Damn Women Publishing print publication Jan 2015

  For all those girls that LOVE football for the love of

  the game—not the men in tight pants.

  Although…

  Repeat after me, “I am WOMAN and HELL YES,

  I speak football fluently. If you can’t take that…snap

  your strap and hand me my beer on your way out.”

  Chapter 1

  Another day of pure hell. The state of his life was really pathetic. Just three months earlier he had found himself on the fast track to stardom. Knowing he had been born to become a football God—okay, so maybe that was a little much but at the time? Clayton believed it, hell, he was living it.

  The thing was? He wasn’t some naïve little punk fresh outta high school. No, he wasn’t even some rookie college kid looking for some coin and some ass. He’d been there, done that, and bought the T-shirt. Truth was there was nothing fast about Clayton’s rising popularity on the field. The man had put in plenty of time, more than enough blood, sweat and, hell if he’d ever admit it, but a few tears.

  Where had that all gotten me?

  Well, it had gotten him inside a steel tub with enough jets shooting water at him from every direction that he felt as if his flesh was about to come off. Glancing over his shoulder at the annoying ticking of the timer he saw that he only had three minutes remaining left before he could get outta the stewpot. He tried closing his eyes and relaxing as his personal physical therapist had suggested but all he could hear was that damn ticking. Like an atomic bomb. Except the damn thing never blew anything up….pity.

  It had been three months of physical therapy and still, he was nowhere nearer to suiting up than he had been two months ago. Obviously this shit wasn’t working. According to Clayton, that meant it was time to move the hell on. There had to be other options. Maybe he needed another surgery? A different kind of therapy? All he knew was he needed something and it sure as shit wasn’t here, marinating in a metal tub for 45 minutes.

  No, at this rate he’d never be back on the field. Dammit, at 34 years old he was already an old man compared to most he butted helmets with. Clayton was just lucky that he was coming off of the best two years of his football career or there’d be no way they would be planning on his return.

  They won’t wait long.

  He wasn’t a dumbass; he knew how the game went—not only the game on the field but with the boys upstairs. Football on a national level was only about so much football, but you can bet your ass it’s about a helluva lot of money. Time was definitely not on his side. That made him laugh. When was time ever on anybody’s side, really?

  Concussions, jacked up knees, broken bones, all of those things wouldn’t have surprised Clayton. Heck, he had a couple concussions himself. Broken his wrist, a few fingers, a couple of ribs, he’d even fractured his femur a couple times. What he hadn’t planned on was needing back surgery at the age of 33. However, that’s exactly where he found himself when he’d been placed on injured reserves and was done for the season just before the playoffs. The freaking playoffs. The real kicker? There was no way his team would’ve made it without him. They proved that rather quickly after taking the field without their starting quarterback.

  Not that he had been able to watch the game—which was probably a good thing but Clayton found himself in a cold sterile room under the knife getting his herniated disc—L4/5 to be more specific, repaired.

  He’d been playing for quite some time with a lot of pain and truth be told, the pain he could handle. Honestly. If it started to get a little too distracting, it wasn’t out of the norm to get an epidural injection. He had painkillers that he tried to avoid as much as possible.

  He’d seen many big men get taken down by a lot of tiny little pills and no way did he want to be another one of them. Trainers were certain that stretching and traction would handle it all. He could laugh at it now, because it was all bullshit. Nobody wants to lose their workhorse. Especially, when that workhorse is doing a damn good job.

  The final straw had been when he no longer had the strength, or the control, the two things for which he was well known. Gone. Clayton tried to make it through the season the best he could.

  Just a few more games, just a few more games, just a few more games, had become his mantra, even if only in his head. Shit, he couldn’t even recall how many games he played in excruciating pain and now he wondered if that’s why his healing was taking so damn long.

  Numerous doctors, including the team doctor, had told him that Micro Discectomies usually have a recovery time of only a few weeks. Of course, for a quarterback at his level and the kind of shape his body was in, they figured it would be closer to two even three months. Three months? Well, looky, looky, he’d hit the three month mark and here he was. Still doing the same therapy, the same weak ass training, and not one yard closer to the field.

  Getting out of the metal tub, he wrapped the terry cloth towel around himself as his trunks dripped what seemed like a gallon of water all over the floor. Nothing new there either. Everything just pissed him off today. He knew he’d only have moments to change before his sour faced therapist was knocking on the door, ready to tenderize him to the point that the pain he felt prior to surgery would have felt like the sweetest massage ever. Sherry definitely had it out for him. Why? He wasn’t quite sure, but he’d put money on it that she was out for blood.

  Although, Sherry was female and Lord knew he didn’t have the best track record with those born with indoor plumbing. He had mastered the game, calling plays on the field “686 zap f-stop on three” he snorted recalling the last call he had made in the last game he had played. Yeah, he had the sport down. Clayton even had sports cars down pat; motorcycles, he’d understood those before he made it outta high school.

  Women? Pffft. Admittedly, he was lost. They confused him like no other. Yet, he sure did like ‘em.

  Clayton liked women—no, Clayton loved women. Short, tall, skinny, thick, it didn’t matter to him. Most guys he knew had a preference, blonde, brunette or redheads, but he could care less. The simple truth was he loved women, all women. There was always something in each one of them to adore.

  Besides Sherry.

  Maybe she could cook or something. He even shook his head at himself; what a way to be chauvinistic jerk there—that’s not how he meant it but that’s how it came across. That was a good example of part of his problem with the female gender. He’d speak and they’d be repulsed. So maybe he wasn’t the most eloquent but it didn’t mean he was incapable of being a decent man. But, t
ry telling that to his last three girlfriends….just for a start.

  Jesus, he started to wonder if he was growing a pair of ovaries himself with all of this swimming around in his head. One-night stands had become a regular occurrence for him over the past few years and why the hell not? He was single; he was only in his early thirties—not dead. Maybe it wasn’t as exciting and as reconfirming as it was in his college days back in Ohio but sometimes a man just needed it. One thing about playing football on a national level was there were always plenty of willing women. That thought had the muscles in his jaw tightening. Even though it was the truth, it was still somewhat embarrassing. After all, those females didn’t care who he was, just as long as he wore a number on his back and the team logo on the front…. that was it, the only requirement.

  A knock on the door stole him from his thoughts.

  “I am waiting on you, Sherry.” Clayton opened the door ready to see the usual unamused face of the aging bottle dyed short little redhead. Instead, looking at him almost eye to eye, was a woman with hair so dark it was nearly black except for the electric blue chunk draping the right side of her face.

  Chapter 2

  “Hey there, I’m not Sherry, as you can see.” The creature in front of him gave a little wave as if he hadn’t seen her two feet in front of him or something. There was something oddly fascinating about her—other than the blue bit of hair.

  “Helloooooooo?” This time she snapped her fingers within centimeters maybe even millimeters of his face.

  “Hello,” he replied.

  “Ahh, so it speaks. What the fuck do you know?” All those words certainly took him aback and Little Miss Cussmouth must have seen his reaction.

  “Shit! Sorry, I’m trying not to swear so much but I’m not doing so great with it, obviously—“

  “Who are you?” Clayton asked when he realized he had no clue who she was, where Sherry was, or what the heck was going on.

  “Oh shit—I mean, shoot! My name is Roxy and I’m going to be your new therapist for the next three weeks.”

  “What?”

  Three more weeks of this crap and a new therapist?

  “Hard of hearing, Mr. Karz?”

  “No, I am not hard of hearing, Miss Roxy—, “ Clayton raised an eyebrow questioning her.

  “Roxy is just fine.” She wasn’t the kind of woman who would bring a man to his knees the moment she walked into a room, but Roxy wouldn’t be a chore to look at either.

  Interesting, so she didn’t want to share her last name, hmmm….not that he was surprised, because he highly doubted that Roxy was even her first name. Why the secrecy? This could be an interesting few weeks.

  “Okay, I was pretty certain that Friday was my last day here and that my trainers would be taking over from here on out.”

  “Well, you thought wrong. Gary called me Saturday, I agreed to come out on Sunday, your precious team paid to fly me out here in a souped up version of a tin can and they’re having my shit shipped out here in the next couple days.” He instinctively followed her as she started to walk down the hall and that’s when it hit him.

  “Gary? As in Coach Gresser?” He wasn’t sure why she found that amusing but she did.

  “Yeah,” she put her fingers up in quotations, ”Coach Gresser. I know him as Gary.”

  “How do you know the Coach?” They certainly didn’t look like they would run in the same social circles after all.

  “Let’s just say Gary and I go….way back.”

  That’s it? Seriously, that’s all she was going to give him?

  “Okay, Mr. Karz, hop up here and let me have a look at you. I want to see exactly what your range of motion is and I’d like to have a look see at the surgical site and we’ll go from there.” Roxy patted the table then turned away and started rummaging through the cupboards. She retrieved a couple towels, a gallon jug of something with a pump nozzle on the top of it and shut off the soothing acoustic c.d. that was playing and hooked up her iPod to the stereo.

  She was interesting to watch. Every movement served a purpose. No time was spent in slow-motion. Roxy seemed to have her own speed and it was always at full throttle. When she turned to face him, Clayton immediately bowed his head to hide his amusement. That’s all he needed, another ticked off therapist to deal with and all in one day. If he would even be staying, he planned to call Doug Charter, one of the teams’ trainers as soon as he got outta here today and see about bailing.

  “I don’t have all day—actually, I do but, hell if I wanna spend it waiting on you to decide if you’re gonna do as I ask or if you’re gonna try to get out of more therapy with me—“

  She was good.

  “I-I wasn’t—“

  “Yeah, you were and I don’t really give a shit, but for now? You’re mine, Karz, so that means get your ass on the table and let’s do this.” He thought about hesitating for moment, maybe arguing, but the hand on her hip and the way her other foot was kicked out with her engineer boot tapping, he decided against it.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Okay, so maybe the salute was over the top, but he could feel her glare down to his bones.

  “Shirt off.”

  Clayton reached for the hem of his T-shirt without a second thought, pulled it up and over his head, and tossed it onto his gym bag on the floor.

  “Well, there you go, sweetheart. There’s not much left to see and I doubt you’re going to see anything that Sherry didn’t see.” Clayton wasn’t quite sure why he was antagonizing her but seeing a spark in her eyes, he could tell that it was working.

  The woman had spunk.

  The truth was he wasn’t happy being handed off to a new therapist. In addition, nobody had bothered to talk to him about any of this. He’d thought this was his last week of therapy. Time served. He was ready to be a free man again. A free man meant Clayton back on the field where he belonged.

  Instead, he found himself with a new therapist, and another female therapist at that, who was spitting out enough attitude to make it very clear he was nowhere near field time. So maybe it wasn’t Roxy who was ticking him off but the idea of her and the roadblock she represented.

  “Okay Karz, you’re right, I don’t see a whole helluva lot back here, but I saw a lot when you took off your shirt.” He could tell by her tone that he had definitely hit a nerve.

  Great, piss her off from the starting gate, jackass.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” she replied.

  “Well, would you care to share?” Clayton asked.

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “Are you going to listen and be willing to work your ass off? This, by the way, means doing what I tell you to do and not questioning every little thing. I know you don’t want to be here and I know you plan on running to Gary or Doug or whoever the second you walk out this door. But I will tell you, you’re not going anywhere until I give them the thumbs up.”

  “You’re pretty sure of yourself—“

  “I am pretty sure of myself and so are Gary and your trainers, including the head of the department, Doug Charter. I’ve met with all of them and they back me up fully. You’re the only one who has a problem. Which is kind of funny if you think about it, because I’m here to help you deal with your shit. So, I say quit being a little bitch and let’s get you where you need to be physically so you can get suited up all pretty like in time for Monday night football.” She stood there with her arms crossed over her chest watching him, waiting for his response. Dealing with headstrong athletes was nothing new to her. In fact, it was one of her favorite parts of the job. Call her twisted, but the arguing and the constant fighting she rather enjoyed—especially, when she won. And more often than not….she won.

  The woman had actually called him a little bitch. Wow. He was pretty confident that was not only very unprofessional but also something that wouldn’t be allowed in the clinic.

  What was he going to do? Tattle? And really be a little bitch?

  His thoughts
caused him to chuckle.

  “You find this funny, Karz?”

  “Kinda.” When her furrowed brows rose and the tension in her jaw faded, Clayton watched as her annoyance turned to amusement. It was a beautiful thing to witness.

  Whoa! Where the hell had that thought come from?

  Definitely not going there, definitely.

  “Tell me what you saw, Roxy.”

  “I saw you baby your back. You used all lower arm strength to pull your shirt off.”

  “Really?” He was surprised to hear that because he hadn’t thought he was doing that at all.

  “Yeah. First, you slowly raised your arms as if you were waiting for pain or something. Then, you used your fingers to start pulling your shirt up then used basically from your elbows down to take it the rest of the way off. Forearms only.”

  “You saw all that from the five seconds it took me to take off my damn shirt?”

  “Ahh…yeah, it’s kinda my job and I told you I’m good at it.” No hesitation in her answer. The woman was absolutely sure of herself and that stood tall with him. After all, he’d never questioned himself or his strengths as a starting quarterback.

  “So, you said.” She rolled her eyes but bit her tongue at that. Working in a field with mostly men, Roxy was used to dealing with them and their doubts about her-whether because she was female or just because they were stubborn. Either way, she’d proven them wrong in the end and that was always the sweetest revenge.

  “Why are you babying your back? Does it hurt or are you worried it’s going to hurt? That’s the million dollar question. Lay down.” Without arguing, Clayton did as she asked and she mentally added a tally mark on the side of the board just under her name. Immature? Maybe. Would she keep track? Absolutely.

  “I didn’t think I was babying it. I guess I’m just used to it hurting, maybe? I dunno.”