Play Crush

Chapter One

"Good Lord, Haylee! You’re still not packed?"

Grimacing at Maura, her best friend in the world, Haylee Kirk motioned to three groups of clothing scattered around the room: the conservative business suits hanging on nearby hooks; the stacks of tees, shorts and jeans on the bed; and the newly purchased blue-and-white running outfit with the tags still affixed.

Then she wailed, I don’t know how to dress for this job!

Throw everything in the back of the Bouncer and start driving. Otherwise you’ll be late. I mean . . . Maura gave her a sympathetic smile. The Internet says Portland is eleven hours from here. And the job starts tomorrow morning—

"What was I thinking?"

Good question.

When Haylee covered her eyes with her hands, Maura came through for her, insisting, "If you actually manage to meet Carlos Rorsch. And if he realizes how talented you are. Then hires you. Then marries you. Then—well, it’s a great plan. Right?"

Haylee had to laugh at her friend’s foolproof logic. What could go wrong? So let’s do what you said—load all this stuff in the Bouncer and hope for the best. After giving Maura an exuberant hug, she stuffed an armload of bras and panties from her dresser drawer into a duffel bag while admitting, I feel better already.

Maura arched a pointed eyebrow. What about shoes?

"Oh sheesh! It’s the same problem. Classy heels? Since I’m supposed to be a professional, even though they’re paying me minimum wage for thirty hours a week to measure men’s heads? Or tennies, since my assignment takes place on a freaking football field?"

The image still jarred her. Had she honestly worked her ass off on a double major in math and computer science—from Cal Tech, no less—and an advanced degree in applied mathematics/robotics for this?

Same problem, same solution, Maura assured her, grabbing a laundry basket from the closet and filling it with every shoe in sight, sexy or otherwise. Those football hunks will love you no matter what you wear. You’re crazy adorable, especially to a geek.

Haylee wanted to remind her she didn’t care about the football players, even though their team—the Lancers—had won the Super Bowl two years in a row. She just wanted to meet Carlos Rorsch—the visionary genius who was financing this project and who, God willing, would fall in love with her at first sight the same way she had fallen for him when he gave the commencement speech at her Cal Tech graduation and won her heart, not to mention her body, forever.

But meanwhile, she had a long drive ahead of her. Then a week to develop software for the experiment. Only then could she actually start measuring men’s heads for a really, really good cause.

• • •

Wish Bennett—second-year tight end for the Portland Lancers—hurried toward the film room to meet with head coach Daniel Riga, trying to imagine why he had been summoned, since Riga wasn’t the type to shoot the breeze. Even after Wish’s semi-decent performance as a rookie in the Super Bowl, the coach had barely grunted to indicate he hadn’t sucked.

Not that Wish minded. Riga had stood by him when it mattered by letting him play in high-stakes games. What more could he ask? As long as the coach didn’t cut him this year, and let him prove himself again, he’d be the happiest guy in the world.

Unfortunately, a new crop of rookies, including an obnoxious tight end from Ohio State named Troy Howser, had descended on Portland, determined to win a coveted spot by outplaying second-year guys like Wish. Not that Wish was worried.

Or at least, not seriously.

Or at least, not until he noticed Howser walking toward the film room from the other direction. As usual, the rookie had a swagger to him. Like he owned the place. Still, as they approached each other, Howser gave him a friendly smile. Hey, Wish. You’re in this meeting too? Any idea what it’s about?

Annoyed, Wish muttered, Only one way to find out, right? Then he blew past the guy, pulling rank even though it wasn’t his natural style.

Get it together, he chastised himself. Remember what John Spurling told you: if you play like you did last year, you’re golden.

The famous quarterback had noted how Riga drafted Troy Howser in the first round. Almost as though the Lancers were desperate for a better tight end. So he had taken the time to seek Wish out and assure him his job was secure. It had meant a lot at the time, and meant even more now. Especially heading into a mystery meeting so early in training camp.

The film room had four rows of seats facing a podium, behind which was the big screen. Each seat had a pull-up desk for taking notes or viewing the display on tablets. In addition, there was a table off to the side where coordinators and position coaches could watch film from game day.

Since there hadn’t been any game days yet this season, not even exhibitions, Wish imagined they would be reviewing film from the Super Bowl.

Fine by him.

As he entered the room he noted four guys already in attendance—Coach Riga, looking sharp and intimidating as he talked with Bam Bannerman, a powerfully built veteran who was probably the most talented, and definitely the most fun, guy on the team.

The other two guys were Wish’s friends Jordy and Sammy. The three of them had given blood together as rookies and now hoped to excel in their second year. Or at least not get cut.

When Jordy waved for Wish to join them in the front row, he did so, adding over his shoulder to Howser, Come on, buddy, sit with us.

The rookie, who had lost all his bravado, murmured, Thanks.

No problem.

Once they were all seated at attention in the front row, Riga gave them a piercing look. "You know how I feel about distractions. Especially during training camp. But here we are, so let’s make the best of it. He cleared his throat. The league is conducting tests on a new helmet. Safety first, right? And for some unknown reason, our ownership volunteered us to be the guinea pigs."

He shot Bannerman a look as though daring him to make a joke, then continued. They asked for a list of the players most likely to get knocked around during the next two weeks. Obviously, Howser’s gonna get the worst of it. And I’m sure the three of you—he paused to eyeball Wish and his friends—"want to keep up with the rookie. So the question is: Why Bannerman? And the answer is: he actually likes getting hit."

They all laughed, and apparently Riga thought it was funny too because he almost cracked a smile before explaining, For the next two weeks, the five of you will be wearing test helmets, which are basically last year’s model with some sort of magical gel lining on one side. He grimaced to reiterate his disdain. The point is, there will be sensors on both sides of the helmet. If the inventor is correct, we’ll see a significant reduction in injury-causing impact on the magic-gel side. If he can prove that, we’ll adopt them for game use.

So what’s the catch, Coach? Bam asked.

No catch, Riga assured him. "You’ll be working directly with Dr. Samson and his assistant. They’ll measure you, fit you, help you put your helmet on and off so the sensors are correctly situated, and assorted other nonsense. Do not engage with them. Just pretend it’s not happening and you’ll be fine."

What’s this Samson guy like? Bam asked.

Riga hesitated, then admitted, "A typical egghead. Whiny and full of himself. But supposedly he’s an expert, so do not mock him. Understood?"

Bam roared. His name is Samson? Like the tough guy in the Bible? But he’s a whiner?

You didn’t hear that from me, Riga drawled. Which brings us to his assistant. She’s a smart young professional with multiple degrees in complicated subjects. So treat her accordingly.

"Sounds kinda hot, Coach. Is she really gonna measure us?"

Don’t test me, Bannerman, the coach growled. Then he glared at Wish and Jordy, who were struggling not to laugh out loud.

Sorry, Coach, Jordy said apologetically.

Riga grimaced and admitted, She’s attractive. So here’s the deal. If you flirt with her or make her uncomfortable, you’re off the team. Got it?

Got it, the four younger players assured him. The superstar halfback didn’t need to respond, since everyone knew Bam wouldn’t be tossed for some minor infraction, not to mention, everyone knew he would definitely flirt with the assistant. He was Bam, wasn’t he?

Okay, they should be here soon, the coach was saying. Or actually . . . His gaze shifted to the door in response to a brisk knock. Then he strode over, swung the door wide, and said in a neutral tone, Hey, Doc. Hi again, Miss Kirk. Welcome aboard.

Intrigued by the idea of a wimp named Samson, Wish turned toward the newcomers. But it was the assistant who caught his eye.

The coach had called her attractive, but that hardly covered it. She might possibly be the prettiest girl Wish had ever seen. Light brown hair—long and straight and streaked with sunlight. Her body tall and slender and tanned. And her expression?

The perfect blend of innocence and hotness.

Making Bam’s question ring again in Wish’s ears.

Is she really gonna measure us?

Chapter Two

Trailing the two new men in her life, Haylee tried not to notice what opposites they were. As in: polar opposites. Coach Daniel Riga was a hunky dark-haired man with a steely demeanor and a body to match, accentuated by the dark gray polo shirt that fit him to a tee. Dr. Jonas Samson, on the other hand, had already proven himself to be a grade-A douche during his nonstop lectures to Haylee over the last few days about the insignificance of her role in the project and the swift wrath she would feel if she dared violate any of his zillion-trillion rules.

Samson was supremely unattractive, not because he had been born that way but because of the vicious sneer that permanently dominated his otherwise so-so face. It didn’t help matters that he was slender in all the wrong places and had the world’s worst haircut.

Still, he was her boss, and since his cardinal rule was no socializing with the subjects, she pasted a neutral expression on her face before turning to greet the players, then had to smile despite Samson’s orders.

They’re freaking adorable, she marveled happily. Finally, this job has a perk!

She couldn’t wait to meet them, and thanks to Maura’s research, she knew a little something about each of the five subjects.

First up, Bam Bannerman, who was famous enough that even a casual fan like Haylee had gotten an eyeful on TV many times. Like an ancient Nordic warrior, he had dramatic, gold-streaked hair almost to his shoulders, startling blue eyes, and a body that could—and did—make grown women weep. He also had the sexiest grin she had ever seen in real life, and to her delight, he was directing that grin at her.

The younger guys were amazing too. Not as huge or hot as Bam, but Jordy Jordan was a big guy with a cute face and a rowdy smile. Then there was Sammy Benavidez, the wiry cornerback who had made some acrobatic plays in the Super Bowl. Sweet face, killer body—although weren’t they all killer?—and a respectful smile.

The only rookie in the group, a guy named Troy Howser, was good-looking, too, in a bad-boy sort of way. Haylee knew the type and generally avoided them. Not that it mattered, since these days, her only type was visionary tech genius Carlos Rorsch.

Last but not least was tight end Wish Bennett. Sea-green eyes, wavy brown hair, the requisite hot bod—long and lean—and a charming, self-deprecating smile.

What a doll.

Dr. Samson was droning on and on, and since she couldn’t afford to miss any new rules, she pulled her thoughts back to the lecture in time to hear him say, "As I’m sure Coach Riga has informed you, this revolutionary new substance could save your lives one day. Or at least save your brain integrity. I trust you appreciate that. So let’s get started. Ms. Kirk is going to measure you for your helmets. Starting tomorrow morning, we’ll take readings of every hit you take. As mentioned, Ms. Kirk’s role in this project is purely menial, so if you have any questions, please direct them to me. Do you have any questions?"

I have one, Jordy, the pass rusher, said eagerly. It’s for Ms. Kirk. Are you related to Captain James T. Kirk?

Startled, Haylee was about to murmur a simple no when Benavidez, the cornerback, saved her the trouble by observing drolly, "James T. Kirk hasn’t even been born yet, Jordo. So how would she know? Sheesh."

Oh, right, Jordy said sheepishly.

Amused and struggling for something to say, she was pleased when Wish Bennett jumped in to help his friend, saying, "That doesn’t mean they’re not related in the future, right? She’s got the same hair color and the same smarts. So that’s a clue. And he was born in Iowa, right? So the real question is—he flashed Haylee a playful smile—do you have family there?"

She couldn’t help beaming at him. "Not at the moment. But if my husband were ever blown to bits in deep space, I’d definitely move as far from Star Fleet Academy as possible to raise my sons. So I can’t rule it out."

The second-year players seemed charmed by her analysis, but rookie Howser rose to his feet and protested, "Captain Kirk isn’t real. He’s fictional!"

Except he’s not even born yet, Jordy said triumphantly. "Like Sammy said. So how do you know he’s fictional?"

Bam Bannerman sent Haylee a teasing look. It may be too late to save these dudes. Even with gelmets.

She dissolved into laughter. "Gel-mets? That’s so funny."

Ms. Kirk is being a good sport, Coach Riga interrupted gruffly. But I’m sure she’s anxious to get this over with. Now more than ever.

I agree, Samson muttered. "And just to be clear, this is a groundbreaking experiment to be treated with respect. I’ve warned Ms. Kirk she will be summarily dismissed if I catch her fraternizing with any player. And thanks to this juvenile display, she already has strike one."

Geezus, dude, have some class, Bam growled. She was just being cool.

Haylee shot him a grateful look, then assured her boss in a humble tone, Sorry, Dr. Samson. I’ll just set up the measuring station on that table if that’s okay.

Do that, he agreed. Then I’d like a word with you before you start the actual measurements. So meet me outside ASAP.

• • •

I’m sorry, Dr. Samson. It just seemed like a good way to establish a rapport with the subjects.

His eyes narrowed. "You don’t need a rapport. In fact, it’s counterproductive. We need to be objective about this."

While I’m fondling their heads? she wanted to retort.

Instead she murmured, It won’t happen again, sir. I guess I was nervous about meeting them.

Why? You’re nobody in this scenario. So just do your job.

His choice of words wasn’t just insulting, it was inaccurate, since her role in his enterprise was more complicated than that. Not only was it crucial that she make precise measurements, she needed to position the sensors correctly over and over again during training camp for the results to be valid. She was also responsible for recording the data that would be uploaded to Samson’s computer every evening to be crunched via a software program which, coincidentally, had been developed over the last few days by none other than Haylee Kirk, a fact Samson conveniently and repeatedly failed to remember.

He was right about one thing, though. Her contribution paled in comparison to his, because if this revolutionary gel actually succeeded, players could minimize concussions and other brain trauma. If that happened, she’d be the first to sing Samson’s praises.

And meanwhile, she needed to keep him happy. She had invested time in this project already; had put hundreds of miles on the Bouncer—a beat-up old relic that didn’t have much life left in it; had spent four days in Samson’s makeshift office developing the software; and was counting on this project to catch Carlos Rorsch’s eye when she added it to her résumé.

So she told Samson sincerely, I made a mistake and I regret it. I’ll do better, I promise.

He studied her as if deciding whether to take another shot. Then he just shrugged and said, I knew your looks would be a problem. Can you put your hair up at least?

"Absolutely. But some guys like it that way, you know. So what about a simple braid?"

Yes, that sounds better. I appreciate the cooperation, Haylee. So get on with the measuring, then you can have the rest of the day off.

• • •

Haylee was still fuming when she returned to the measuring station.

You can have the rest of the day off.

Translation: Samson was telling her she would only be paid for three or four hours today. He had made a huge point of explaining that her wages were hourly and didn’t cover travel time or lunch or basically anything other than time spent at the practice facility—for helmet duty—or at Samson’s office.

Twenty-five to thirty hours per week, he had estimated, adding dismissively, Hopefully even less.

Once again, her annoyance at her boss faded when she saw the hunky guys standing around the measuring station, joking and laughing.

Sorry to keep you waiting, she told them in a friendly but hopefully not flirty tone.

Your boss is a douche, Jordy observed with a scowl.

Don’t put her on the spot, Wish protested. But yeah, what a dick.

She bit her lip. You guys are so sweet. But I need to do my job. So? Who’s first?

Bannerman stepped up to her, a huge grin on his face. Who else?

For a moment she could barely think. He was literally a wall of muscle! And when she glanced up at his face the effect was even stronger, because the man had superhuman cheekbones and lightning bolts in his eyes.

Gulping for a breath, she managed to instruct him, You’d better sit down. Okay?

Sure, babe. It’s Haylee, right? Like the comet? Awesome name.

She smiled as he settled into a chair. Then she whispered, Thanks for defending me. It meant a lot.

I took an oath to protect hot babes from all dangers, foreign and domestic.

Lucky me.