Southern Playboy (North Carolina Highlands 4)

“Say my name,” I bite out.

And she does. She says it over and over again, loud enough to blot out the ringing.

I come too, a wet explosion in my hand that has me shouting nonsense.

“Stay,” I yell. “Be with me. Be with us. You belong here, A.”

I must be shouting really loud because Liam starts to cry, the monitor making his wail sound tinny.

The ringing is still there.

“Shit,” I say. “I’m an animal, aren’t I?”

Amelia throws her head back, hands still on my neck, and laughs. Loud. Real. Happy.

“You are, and I love it.” She rises to her feet, then bends down to kiss me on the mouth. “I just finished my tea anyway, so the timing’s perfect. Almost like it’s meant to be, isn’t it?”

The moment would be perfect if it wasn’t for that damn ringing—

I wake with a start. Heart pounding, head spinning.

I’m covered in sweat and something sticky. My hand is on my dick. Lifting the covers, I groan.

Fuck me.

Blinking, I see that the light outside the windows is warm but pale.

Early. It’s early.

I immediately glance at the monitor beside the bed. Liam is snoozing peacefully on his belly, face turned away from the camera. I wait until I see his back rise and fall, rise and fall, to let out a breath.

He’s alive. And he only woke up once last night.

Maybe the fact that I got a good stretch of uninterrupted sleep is why I had a sex dream about Amelia. Because really, when was the last time that happened?

My phone is ringing. Wrinkling my brow, I grab it with my clean hand. The damn thing’s on silent, which means only my favorite contacts calling would make it ring. My stomach clenches as I run through the possibilities. Mom? Melissa? Miguel, my agent?

Looking at the screen, I see it’s Miguel.

“What the fuck, dude?” I grumble when I answer it. “It’s not even seven yet.”

“Good morning to you too, sunshine. Sorry for the early call, but I thought with your kid you might be a morning person now.”

I laugh. The throb in my head lessens, and it hits me that I actually feel . . . decent. Might have something to do with the fact that I didn’t drink my usual six-pack last night.

“Definitely not a morning person yet. Liam was up at two, so.”

“How is the little guy? How are you?”

Tugging my thumb and forefinger over my eyes, I flip onto my back. “Liam’s doing all right, all things considered. He’s cute as hell. I lucked out and hired an amazing nanny, Amelia, which has been huge. I’m . . .” Tired. Hopeful. Scared. Confused. “Hanging in there, I guess.”

“Glad you hit the nanny jackpot. I’ve been thinking about you guys. You get the baby gift I sent?”

I scoff. “The last thing my kid needs is a mini G Wagon, but yes, we got it. Thank you.”

“Just trying my best to turn him into an L.A. douchebag.”

“You would know how.”

“Indeed. So.” I can practically hear Miguel clapping his hands together. “I have news. Big news. That’s why I called so early.”

“What’s up?”

“It’s Nick.”

My heart trips to a stop. Last year, the team drafted stud wide receiver Nick Kapakos in the first round. He performed well in his first season, thanks in no small part to guidance from yours truly. It’s no secret he’s being groomed to take my place when I retire.

“What about him?”

“He joined Kanye’s cult.”

“Stop it.”

“I’m serious. God came to him in a dream and told him Yeezy’s the Messiah. Nick was on the next flight to Wyoming. He’s done with football.”

I pause for a second, waiting for Miguel to tell me he’s joking.

When he doesn’t, I say, “You’re serious.”

“I am. His poor agent is going to have one hell of a time getting the kid out of his contract, but that’s not our problem. Our problem—or, really, our opportunity—is this: the Sharks want to sign you for another two years. Yeah, yeah, you only wanna play one, but what if I told you they’re willing to pay you what Kim is probably paying Kanye in their divorce settlement?”

“I’m retiring at the end of this year,” I say, but my heart is pounding so hard, and so loud, I have to sit up. “Kim’s paying Kanye?”

“She’s the billionaire. They’re offering you a two-year extension for eighteen million. Six million signing bonus, which I’ll negotiate up to eight, and ten million guaranteed, which I’m confident I can make twelve.”

My eyes bulge. “Twelve million guaranteed?”

“Yes.”

“I’m retiring,” I repeat.

“Of course you are.”

Another pause. I honestly don’t know what to think. At this point in my career, it’s not about the money. I have plenty enough to keep me comfortable for the foreseeable future.

I’ve been smart. I’ve made some investments in real estate that have panned out pretty well, bits of land here and there, some commercial properties in booming Southern cities.