Andres Abbott 1.
“Good luck, Crue, with the rest of your season, and wooing Miss Kerr.” I wink at the young man, patting his shoulder on my way out of this fucking office. I keep my anger on lockdown, not wanting to show Crue Pribula my famous Hispanic and Scottish temper. Looking at my old friend, I grin at Beiler as I open the door. “Brandon, I’ll be in touch about Gill, Hall, and Staunton.”
Fred Heacock emits a choked sound before he yells, “I’m the head coach! You’ll talk to me—” I pull the door shut behind me and close my eyes once I’m in the hall, cutting him off. That motherfucker keeps digging and digging and he’s gonna find himself more than 6 feet deep without a ladder. I move down the hall, typing on my phone as I go.
HotHaggis:Heacock pulled every muscle in his body crossing the line. Anyone interested in his players, deal with Brandon Beiler. Heacock is to be iced out.
ThePax:Hot Haggis has spoken. Do we want to know what he did?
I start typing an answer out to Paxton Marsales but stop when Ray Boler’s message pops up in the group chat.
CumScamp:Did he almost shit himself on the sidelines again?
I lean against the wall, a few turns down the hallway from Heacock’s office, laughing as I remember when Heacockwaddled quickly off field while holding his ass. That man was gonna shit himself on national television. Sadly, he disappeared into the tunnel before it happened. I swear, I collectively heard the country sigh in disappointment.
HotHaggis:No, anal diarrhea, just verbal.
Pinkie:Oh? Was he low-key racist again?
HotHaggis:Nothing low-key about what was coming out of that fucker’s mouth.
CumScamp:Not talking to that man won’t be a hardship. Beiler’s usually who I deal with anyway.
ThePax:Beiler knows what’s what. Good man.
Pinkie:We’ll spread the word. You heading back to Pittsburgh after today’s game?
HotHaggis:No, I’m supposed to be in Nebraska by Wednesday, so I’m gonna hang out here for a couple days, hopefully get some grub with Beiler.
CumScamp:Bitch, stay away from Pearlman!
My laughter fills the empty corridor. Paxton, Jonathan, Ray, and I have been friends since our playing days. We retired within a few years of each other, and since none of us wanted to turn announcer, we became scouts instead. I retired my Pittsburgh jersey 5 years ago, and that summer started scouting potential prospects to fill, not only my shoes, but the rest of the team as well. Scouting has been more fun than I could have imagined. I love to travel, see the country, and meet new people. Some of these kids…their stories, their passion and drive are inspiring. Having played for Pittsburgh my entire career, I know what the team needs; skills and personalities. I’ve relished finding players to complete the Pittsburgh team puzzle over the years.
And I’ve made life-long friends along the way. I could do without the ridiculous nickname, but that’s football. You haven’t made it until someone has bestowed a heinous nickname upon you. And given my Hispanic and Scottish heritage, Hot Haggis stuck. Unfortunately.
HotHaggis:You snooze, you lose!
With a smile, I pocket my phone and step away from the wall…directly into someone significantly smaller than me. My hands come up and curl around slim but strong arms as my surprised gaze clashes with wide dark brown eyes. Fathomless. Rich chocolate pools I want to drown in. My grip loosens and I slide up and down her arms as I take in the rest of her. Fuller bottom lip, sculpted brows, long honey brown hair pulled up in a ponytail, a distracting set of tits encased in the school’s white polo with the logo emblazoned on the upper left chest and tanned toned legs in bright white sneakers extending from just shy of indecent blue athletic shorts. I lick my lips as the image in front of me burns into my retinas.
“I’m sorry.” I offer an apology, my voice deep and husky even to my own ears. The woman grins up at me but doesn’t respond. I realize with a start that I recognize her. I’ve only seen her from a distance, and it was probably close to two years ago, but I remember her. I think she’s the cheering coach. Beiler must have mentioned her name, but it escapes me now.
She reaches up and pats my shoulder, then turns to continue down the corridor. I grab her delicate hand and tug her around. She glances up at me expectantly.
“What’s your name?” Her head drops down to look at her phone and I see a pink earbud. She can’t hear me because she’s listening to music.
“Sorry, what did you say?” Her voice isn’t high pitched, but it’s not deep either. And it’s…textured? Is that a thing? I don’t know, but I like it. I like it a lot.
“I apologized for bumping into you.” She grins up at me, her short stature hard to miss as she cranes her neck to look me in the eye. I’m 6’5” and she has to be more than a foot shorter than me. My cock twitches, pleased at our size difference. Before my imagination can conjure up anything X-rated, I extend my hand for a handshake. “Andres Abbott.”
She chuckles, slipping her tiny hand into mine. When I curl my fingers, her hand disappears. I stare at our joined hands for a beat too long. “Yeah, I know who you are. I think everyone knows who you are, Mr. Abbott.”
“Then you have me at a disadvantage, as I do not know your name, yet.”
“Jenna Nemac.”
“And Jenna Nemac, what are you doing in the halls of the athletic complex at such an early hour?” I lean against the wall casually, a smirk tipping my lips, my right brow cocked.
“I’m the cheering coach.” She looks down the hall in both directions, both of her eyebrows dipping, creating a crease between them. “The question is, what areyoudoing here?” I scowl, remembering what brought me here today. She tosses her head back before I can answer, her laughter echoing in the hall and my balls. “Heacock?”
