I gave someone my heart once just to have it stomped on. Over the years, I built an impenetrable wall and made a vow to never let anyone else in.
Love isn’t something I need to feel fulfilled. What matters most to me is bringing a championship home for my team.
“So I was thinking about inviting Riley to come out with us,” Elijah says.
I stop in my tracks. “Wait—one of the cheerleaders?”
“Yeah. Is that a problem?” He lifts a brow.
“Bad idea, bro. Don’t shit where you eat.” I shake my head. “I learned that the hard way. Last year, when I was playing for Houston, I hooked up with two of the cheerleaders. They got into a huge fight during the halftime performance and slashed my tires after the game.”
He waves his hand, brushing me off. “Dude, I make millions. I’m not worried about that. If it happens, I’ll just buy new ones. She’s smoking hot, and I’d love to see what’s underneath that cheerleading uniform.”
I don’t even know why I bother giving this guy advice—he never listens.
“Always thinking with his dick,” Andrés mutters under his breath.
I step off the elevator and take a moment to admire the stunning design of Blackout. The space is tastefully decorated with sleek, modern furniture, glossy black epoxy floors, and a massive disco ball spinning above the dance floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame a breathtaking view of the Golden Gate Bridge glittering in the night.
I spot my teammates gathered in the back and weave through the crowd toward them.
“Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour!” Chandler shouts over the blaring music.
“What’s up, Chan Man!” I fist bump him then move around the table, dapping up the rest of my teammates.
Our server arrives with a bottle of their most expensive tequila and pours it into shot glasses.
“Let’s raise a glass to our MVP, Maddox Kamado!” Elijah cheers.
We clink our glasses together and down the shots in unison.
“I think we have a real shot at the playoffs this year,” Darius says, clapping me on the back.
Darius Booker is the veteran of the team. He played alongside Kyrie Lyons before the legend hung up his jersey. Since I joined the Dragons, he’s taken me under his wing, giving me advice I still rely on every time I step on the court.
The server brings my drink of choice—a Moscow mule—and I sink into the soft velvet couch.
Elijah spots Riley—the cheerleader he invited—and waves her over. She’s with another girl I don’t recognize—a curvy woman with deep bronze skin and long braids.
“Damn,” Elijah says, eyeing her up and down. “I thought you looked good in your cheer uniform, but this dress”—he whistles—“I’m speechless.”
Riley leans in and whispers something in his ear that makes him grin like an idiot.
“I hope you don’t mind that I brought a friend,” she says.
“Not at all. The more the merrier.” Elijah gives her a wink.
“This is my best friend, Alicia. She’s visiting from Louisiana.”
Alicia-from-Louisiana looks me up and down like she’s mentally undressing me. I flash my famous dimpled smile and she instantly gets flustered. Scooting over, I pat the open space beside me, and she wastes no time sliding in—getting as close as possible.
“I was at the game earlier,” she says. “Watching you play? You looked so hot.” Her hand slides up my thigh, and she brushes it against the tip of my cock.
She’s a bold one, that’s for sure.
“Oh, yeah?” I casually drape my arm over her shoulder. “What was your favorite part of the game?”
“When you made that winning shot,” she purrs.
