Page 30 of Fashionista's Playbook

“Maybe a shopping spree each year for coaches in certain districts? Make it an event, partner with a sporting goods store.” I added to the mix, since we were throwing out ideas.

“Typical white girl, wants to go shopping.” Vincent’s tone was jovial, teasing even. But there was something hard in his eyes.

I shrank into myself, focusing on being as small and invisible as possible.

Know your role, Moriah.

Travis didn’t miss any of what passed between his brother and me. When he knocked Vincent’s foot off the desk this time, he did so with enough force to roll the chair back too. “I’m not creating an entire charity just for you to get laid. Do that shit yourself.”

“You think that’s what I’m doing—using your fame to pick up women?”

Travis’ only response was a snort.

The way he shook his head and turned away from Vincent, I could tell this was a conversation they’d had before.

And from what I knew of Travis’ older brother, it was true.

He glanced over to me. “That’s a good idea and something we could do quickly, before we have a foundation up and running. Find out what you need to make it happen, and we will do it.”

The tingle of pride was unexpected and disappeared as quickly as it had come when I caught Vincent’s hard glare.

Outlaw and shark fans, especially my Jersey Chasers, you’re going to need to sit down for this. Our favorite Puerto Rican, tatted up, tight end is suiting up in a different kind of uniform. One you’re not going to want to miss.

Sadly, it’ll be months from now before you get the blood-humming view from this ripped baddie. Alas, we can all drool and dream until then. Thank the Jersey Chasing Gods for formfitting football pants.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Travis

“You’re kidding, right?” I sat straight on the leather sofa and gaped at Moriah.

She was grinning, a big cheesing smile that would have turned me on had what she was telling me not been so ridiculous. “Indeed not.”

Damn it.She wasn’t supposed to find humor in my misery.

“I thought you were Team Madera.” I scowled. There was no way this was happening to me. A large chunk of my masculine pride rebelled, and I recoiled as she stepped closer.

Moriah’s giggle was vibrant, rich, and made my groin twitch.

“Iam, Travis. But the production company will pay more money if you wear the Speedo—plus, your female fans will be thoroughly impressed.” She pinched each end of a tiny, bright red men’s bikini, stretched it out, and wiggled from side to side with it.

She was taunting me. And despite my horror, I liked it.

Everything stopped, and I fixated on her face. Those flirty lips were plump, ripe. As were other parts of her, I was betting. Things I shouldn’t think about, especially not now and not about her.

She was better than that.

I shouldn’t have hired such a sexy assistant. I’d have been better off with a doting grandma type. A maternal old lady that folded clothes. Definitely not a woman I’d fantasize about wearing one of my jerseys and nothing else.

“Being objectified for cash feels wrong.”

The disdain that dripped from her sizzled all around us. “And yetmenhave been doing it to women for decades.”

“Fair point. But I’m an athlete, not a model. Hell, I’m covered in ink—not exactly Speedo material there.” I leaned back on the couch. Arguing with her was fun, even if I was going to lose. I’d film for Shark Week, if nothing more than to out-Speedo Gronkowski.

Moriah snorted. “I think the ink is part of the appeal. Women love it—nothing screamsbad boylike tattoos.”

She turned away, but not before something like to embarrassment flashed in her eyes and darkened her cheeks.

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