Scoring the Billionaire (Billionaire Bad Boys 3)

I was five minutes early on purpose, knowing that Lex watched the clock like a hawk, and the strike of six would mean she was ready to pack it in—and I wanted to sneak a few peeks at the action before that.

The team was finishing up for the night, on the opposite end of the field, huddled together and deep in game plan conversation, leaving Lexi and Wes in a huddle of their very own.

I moved closer, carefully, so I could hear their conversation without either of them realizing I was there.

With the skill of a man used to children, he gently held her ankle as he showed her the correct way to kick the football. From the look on his face, I didn’t think either of us expected it to come so naturally.

“You’re going to come at the ball in a three-quarters type of position, Lex. And then keep your ankle locked and drive your foot all the way through the ball. Locked knee. Locked ankle.”

He demonstrated the motion with her leg, rather than showing her with his own, and my chest squeezed. The fact that he’d so quickly figured out how to best help her learn proved how closely he paid attention, and having failed to master my poker face, I wasn’t sure I was ready for him to pay that close attention to me.

“Why?”

He grinned up at her. “Because your body will generate a little skip, and that’s where the power is going to come from. And just remember, the ball always needs to be lined up with the laces pointed toward the field goal,” he explained as he ran his fingers down the white laces of the football.

“Why?”

“Because it will make the ball go farther.”

“Why?”

He paused for a brief moment, and then his grin grew wider. “When you kick the ball from the back seams, that’s the spot that creates maximum compression.”

She nodded in understanding. “Compression makes the football travel farther and higher.”

“That’s right.”

“Where do I stand? I’m predominantly right-footed. But sometimes, ambidextrous.”

Geez. If Wes smiles any harder, his lips are going to tear right off his face.

“Since you’re right-footed, for most people they need to stand about three large paces back and two paces to the left of the ball. But it will take a little practice before you find what’s comfortable for you.”

“I’m going to practice every single day for exactly sixty minutes.”

Wes chuckled softly. “Well, then I think it’s safe to say, in about fifteen years, I’ll be offering you a spot on the Mavericks.”

Lexi’s smile was brighter than the sun. My eyes stung. All kinds of emotions were bubbling somewhere deep inside me, and I wasn’t ready. Not to face it, not to question it, and not to fucking find out it wasn’t real. I pictured a fist and mentally tamped it down so hard I almost choked.

“Now, when you make contact with the ball, aim for the ‘sweet spot,’ which is about four inches above the bottom tip of the football. Where you make contact with the ball is very important because it allows you to manipulate the distance and height that the football will travel.”

“Ten point two centimeters from the bottom tip of the football.”

“Exactly.” Wes smirked. “Do you want to give it a try?”

Lexi nodded enthusiastically and did exactly what he’d instructed, taking three steps back and then two steps to the left of the ball. Her little legs moved quickly toward the ball as she tried her first attempt at kicking a field goal.

I watched on with amusement and pride as the football flew through the air higher and faster than I honestly thought my pint-sized daughter would’ve been capable of.

She immediately started jumping up and down in excitement.

Wes stood up and grinned down at her in a way a proud father would, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he even knew that was the look he was giving my daughter. “Holy sh—hel—heck!” he cheered. “You nailed it!” He picked her up, spun her around, and then set her back down on her little feet.

Her eyebrows pulled together at the impossibilities. “I don’t have a hammer.”

Wes laughed and shook his head at himself, putting a hand to her shoulder and giving it a very brief squeeze. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Figuring it was time to make my presence known, I cupped two hands around my mouth and shouted, “Way to go, Lexi!”

She turned around and, at the sight of me, immediately started sprinting in my direction. It didn’t take her long to make it to me.

“I was so accurate!” she yelled as she threw herself into my arms.

I hugged her tightly to my chest, breathed in her shampoo and soap and everything that was my daughter, and laughed. “You were! You did amazing!”

“I want to play football again!”

Wes’s soft laugh filled my ears as he came to a slow stop in front of us. “I think you should get her on a team, Win. She has a natural talent for it.”

“How many minutes until I play football again?”

“Honey—”

“How many hours?” she adjusted.

“Lex—”

She breathed a deep sigh, her face sinking desperately. “Days?”

I looked down at her and then back at Wes. “Can she do that? I mean…I don’t know of any football teams with little girls on them, and the season already started.” I gestured around the field as if to say, “Obviously.”

“You let me handle it. I’ve got some contacts. I’ll find her a good team with nice boys, and I’ll even help her practice.”

Lexi’s little hands covered both of my cheeks and forced my eyes to hers. “I can play in one day?”

I shrugged. “I might have to wrap bubble wrap around you like a mummy, but sure, why not.”

“Ayeeee!” she screeched. “Football in one day, one day, one day,” she sang.

Wes smiled down at my daughter. “Don’t worry, Win. I’ll make sure she has all of the right equipment. I’ll even take her to practice if you’re too busy.”

It took a lot of willpower to keep my face in an easy smile versus the what-in-the-hell-is-happening look that I really wanted to give.

Because, seriously? What was happening?

Wes teaching my daughter football. Wes saying he would take care of everything—team, equipment, even driving her to and from practice…

Who was this man?

And the real question…was he planning on sticking around?

The halls were quiet, the hustle and bustle of players and coaches fading into the night just like the last splinters of sunlight.

I’d been getting lost in Winnie and her daughter when Coach Bennett came over and pulled me away for a last-minute briefing—something I’d specifically requested he do in the past—and I had immediately gotten annoyed. I’d been trying to make sense of why ever since.

Why would a guy who’d all but tattooed the fact that he wasn’t into women with kids or kids in general on himself suddenly feel bereft after being taken away from…a kid?

It was a serious mental conundrum, and I hadn’t come up with much, but there were two things I’d managed to walk away sure of.

One: I owned a goddamn football team, but the time I’d spent on the field with Lexi Winslow a couple of hours ago had been the most fun I’d had with the sport in years. Maybe it was because I was stressed, or maybe it was because Lexi had real, untainted, unmarred by years of disillusion passion for it, but either way, the result was the same.

The career you have because you love it can so easily turn into something you have to work to love. I wouldn’t have ever thought that would be me, but it was. I’d let it become a job—and I hated myself for it.

And two: Lexi Winslow might have been six years old, but in practice, she was more of an adult than Thatch. So, really, it was basic science that she’d annoy me less than him.

Right?

I’m still not sure, but it seems plausible.

I wanted more time to test the theory.

Which brought me to now.

The hours got long during the season for people like Winnie and me, people who had decisions to make and staff to organize past the point when the last player’s cleat left the field. I’d been doing this—putting in hours and hours after the sun went down—since I could remember, and I knew Winnie hadn’t exactly been relaxing in the tropics for weeks at a time.

So, tonight I hoped to find her before the hours bled into nothing and the time to do something other than work completely escaped. I wanted to change, and the first step toward that was to spend time with her—get to know her.

We hadn’t had time for much other than foreplay, fucking, and football, and my brain was finally starting to wonder what it was about her personality that kept me coming back for more. I knew why I craved her body, but I didn’t have the answers for the rest of my yearning. Prolonged attraction and downright affection for a specific woman and some newfound tolerance for kids? Honestly, I was really nothing more than a big ol’ bag of what the fuck these days.

As I neared the end of the hall, moments away from turning the corner into the one that led to her office, a buzzing started to build in my blood.

Anticipation or some form of psychosomatic indication that Winnie Winslow was near—it could really have been either one. Her back to me, she moved with grace, but not the kind that lacked a spark. She swayed and swooped like she had something hidden in each step. With the way I felt when I watched, I was starting to think it might be magic.