IHATE LOSING WITH A PASSION.
True statement, although the expression seems counterintuitive to me. I associate passion with good things, like sex, french fries, and Luciana Aymar—a field hockey legend. I admire the crap out of that woman! But I digress, which I often do. It’s as if my mind is a road map. Some routes are direct and straightforward, while others are a series of loops and winding detours.
The point is, as much as I hate losing, I don’t whine or sulk about it. I take my loss on the chin and congratulate the winners with a firm handshake and genuine respect. That’s just good sportswomanship—technically, that isn’t a word, but it should be. Why do men get sportsmanship, manpower, mankind, and humanitarian? On the other hand, they’re not batting a thousand with words like manipulative, maniacal, and man-baby. Jeez, I sound anti-male, which I’m not. I like men. Some would say a little too much. But that’s another one of those loops and detours.
At five-two-and-a-half (every bit counts), I’m the shortest player on the team, but what I lack in height, I make up for in speed, agility, and vigor. I go balls-to-the-wall. It doesn’t matter if it’s recreational sports. My motto is—give anything you do, everything you’ve got. Half-assing is a travesty, a wounding blade to my competitive spirit.
But why add more suffering to defeat by going home to nuke a frozen dinner when I can grieve the two-to-nil blowout over a golden ale and a double stack—with fries, of course.
At the stop sign, I turn the corner and pull into the parking lot, where Royal’s Pub is sandwiched between a coin laundromat and a pawn shop. The neighborhood isn’t the classiest. Royal’s doesn’t have the pedigree of being one of Chicago’s famed historic pubs. It’s not even Irish. It was opened in 2017 by three brothers that look more like surfers than pub owners. They pooled their resources to buy an old, tired bar and spruced it up with gallons of paint and shiny new décor. But I come here whenever I get the chance, because the wooden sign out front is no word of a lie: “Our Burgers and Beers Rule.”
On weekends, they entertain the twenty and thirty-something crowd with karaoke, theme nights, and live music. But on a Tuesday evening, it’s quiet—only a few cars and one motorcycle are in the lot. It’s a behemoth, black and sleek—sexy. It makes me wonder about the driver, or is it the rider? I slide my hand along the massive handlebars and over the wide leather seat. It’s a beast of a machine. I imagine what it must feel like having all that power revving between your thighs. Great, I chide myself. Now I’m pissed, hungry, and horny—Horngry. I should hashtag it.
Withdrawing my hand, I slip my credit card inside my phone case, tuck it into the waistband of my shorts, and stick my key fob into the top of my knee-sock. Minutes later, I enter Royal’s. Behind me, the door closes against the summer humidity, and I’m greeted by the welcome draft of air conditioning and the pleasant smell of hops. Music and the murmur of conversation leach out from the dimly lit pub.
“Oh, hey, Jord.” The youngest of the three brothers waves me over. He’s behind the bar, pulling beer.
“Hey, Cam. How’s it going?”
“Good from where I’m standing.” A flirt just shy of thirty, he’s too pretty for his own good. He throws me a teasing wink and flips his sun-streaked hair out of his face. “You coming from a game?”
“Yep. But I’m too pissed to talk about it.”
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
“You should invite me to the next one,” he says through a grin that oozes playboy charm. “I’ll bring you luck.”
I don’t take him seriously. Men like Cam don’t go for short, flat-chested, athletic types. They go for softly curved, buxom women, and usually more than one at a time. But because he’s harmless and I enjoy flirting with him, I tease back, “There’s too much competition for your affection.”
“One day, you’ll stop doubting me, Jord.”
“Yeah, yeah. So you always say. But if we hooked up and it didn’t work out, I’d be forced to give up the burgers. And as cute as you are, I like the burgers better.”
“Ugh.” He feigns removing a knife from his chest.
I grin and look around the pub. A few tables are occupied, one by a couple of women, their laughter reminding me of nights out with my best friends, Dee and Lexie. At the opposite end of the long, polished mahogany bar, a blond in a suit and a darker figure catch my eye.
In the next moment, my heart seems to drop right along with my jaw. Holy sh… the expression, which is second nature, dies on my tongue. I squint hard. It can’t be.
But even before my eyes fully focus over the twenty-foot distance; even before my gaze follows the line of his jaw, the outline of his lips, and the width of his broad shoulders; even before my brain computes that he isn’t just a hopeful vision I’d conjured up, I know it’s him,J.D. Stiles.
There’s no mistaking his size…or effect. Or the unparalleled visceral reaction that makes my pulse sing and my breath dance. That brings to mind dark thrills, sweaty bodies, and tangled sheets. The kind of down-and-dirty that has consumed my waking thoughts, my dreams…my every fantasy…for months. This lingering burn is long, by my standards. I usually go in for the kill—wham, bam. But with Stiles, I’ve whet my appetite on a game of cat and mouse. Teasing and luring him like a piece of cheese in a trap.
So far, he hasn’t taken the bait—not a sniff or a nibble.
I chalk it up to circumstance. Until now, the only times I’d seen Stiles were while he was on duty and concentrating on the job. He operates a firm specializing in corporate security and the personal safety of the rich and famous. I’d met him when Dee reunited with former sports star Micah Peters, a client of his. My friend affectionately refers to their security advisor as Robocop, an apt description for Stiles—but only on the surface. Beneath his rigid, unyielding mask, he’s still a hot-blooded male.
It’s then that I remember what I’m wearing when I normally wouldn’t care. A royal blue sleeveless jersey, matching shorts, white knee socks over shin guards, and grass-stained cleats. On top of that, I probably smell pretty ripe after running up and down the pitch in eighty-four-degree weather that hasn’t cooled, even now that the sun’s gone down. Okay, so I’m not exactly dressed for a perfect seduction. But I’m not about to let this prime opportunity go to waste.
Cam notices I’ve stopped talking, which is unusual for me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, nothing at all. I just caught a glimpse of someone I know at the bar.”
“Who?” Cam peers over. “The big dude?”
“That’s the one.”
