Page 20 of Fashionista's Playbook

Vincent smirked, but his eyes went flat and hard. The gaze he aimed at me stopped me just short of threatening to call the police. “Go on, tell him I stole his car—see what happens.” He sneered at me over his shoulder. “And once you do, don’t forget your place next time. Stay in your lane,Mo, and stay out of mine.”

The other woman chased after them, teetering on her too-high heels, and pulled the door shut behind her.

Angry tears burning in my eyes, I stormed back to my room to fire off a text to Travis. Because of course I was going to tell him. Not just because it was my job—but because his brother most definitely didn’t have his best interest at heart.

Vincent came by with friends and took your Escalade. He’s drunk, some random woman is driving.

Thanks. I’ll handle it.

Boy oh boy Jersey Chasers, it’s silly season again and the professionals among us are out in full force. And of course, by professional, I mean money-hungry—because lets be real, it’s probably all they’re eating—runway types.

Our Outlaw Playboy, league leading wideout, has been seen with the newest Hollywood it girl, Harley James. You know, the one on the cover of the hottest swimsuit mags and purportedly gearing up for the big screen, seems to like her a bad boy. And she’s definitely coming in ‘Clutch’ with this one. Should we tell her about his playboy past or let her figure it out?

And then we have our bargain basement Harley James. Kari Tatum is the bedazzled and Botoxed gift that won’t keep giving. She was spotted with one bad-boy big brother, but word is she has her eyes on one seriously tight end.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Travis

My blood hummed, quick and vibrant. There was a jab of pain in my chest as my lungs constricted. Despite the fall breeze, my face was hot beneath my helmet and sweat dripped down my neck as I dug my knuckles into the sod.

Outlaws’ star outside linebacker took his spot across from me. Nolan Folkes was a seasoned veteran, someone who gave me a rush to line up against. Practicing like this, against a guy this good, is what made me better. I thrived on it.

For the next thirty seconds or so, Folkes didn’t play for the same team. When that whistle sounded, my goal was to beat him.

Jones made the call, Clutch Berkley—the receiver in motion—jogged down the line of scrimmage and took his place opposite me. I was hyper aware of every movement, my muscles loose and ready.

The plan—confuse the linebackers. And it might work, during a game. But not here. This play was designed to test what I would do when the man on me stayed there.

On the snap, I dropped my shoulder and put all two-hundred-forty pounds into Folkes with pad crushing intensity. The pain was momentary, ratcheting all the way up my arm, but my focus was unfailing. My body stayed in motion. I spun on a sharp pivot to my left and shook it off.

With light feet, I bolted up the sideline. Five yards, ten, fifteen, with my man hot on my heels.

I glanced back at Jones as he launched the ball.

I caught the pass at the numbers, just as the safety tackled me. I knew the hit was coming and tucked the ball in tight and dropped my chin to roll with the motion. Absorbing the hitand keeping the ball meant I got the first down. I wouldn’t be running it to the house against our defense, but in a gametime situation…I’d have scored.

And if I didn’t, first downs turn into scoring opportunities.

The offensive line roared their approval, a few of them talking shit to the defense. Nothing wrong with a little healthy competition between teammates. It kept us all on our toes.

I patted myself on the back for making it through the entire play without thinking about Moriah. Did that cute little blush that always spread lower down her neck, cover her breasts? And move even further south?

I shook off the dirty thoughts and lined up again. That’s the way practice went—make a play, then reward myself with a quick mental image of her.

The hardest part was not coming up with an excuse to call and hear her voice.

Get your shit together, Madera.

But there was something about her that made me want to know more. Hell, made me want to know everything.

In the locker room, I padded from the shower; muscles sore and body tired in a way that only came from two things—sex or a workout. I hadn’t been laid in so long, I’d almost forgotten what it felt like. I’d been thinking about it, though, and even the cold tub hadn’t kicked that fantasy out of my system.

We had most evenings off without curfews except the rookies. But partying and clubs weren’t my thing. I’d rather stretch out on my bed with game tape or a movie. Or hang out with Dozer and DT, play some video games, and drink a few beers.

But the bigger of those two, all six foot-eight-inches and three hundred pounds of him—had a date.

“Travis, help a brother out.” Dozer fought with a striped, purple tie.

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