Quarterback's Surprise Baby

By: Imani King

(Bad Boy Ballers Book 2)


A Football Romance




1





Gryphon



Creaking open the door, I'm hit with the smell of perfume, alcohol and the sight of women. So many women. There's gotta be a fine girl in here that can make me forget my troubles. Just a few hours of semi-sentient pussy, that's enough for me. All I want is to feel her lips wrap around me—both sets.

And then oblivion will be mine.

At least until tomorrow morning, anyway. And that's all I need.

Maneuvering through this bar is reminding me of being on the field, getting through the sea of guys wanting to take me down.

Just like she wants to take me down.

There I go, thinking about it again.

Don't think. Drink.

“Yeah, I'll have a whiskey, neat. And a beer,” I say, sitting my ass down at the bar. From my perfect vantage point here, I can see the chicks as they walk in. I’m already drawing a few stares. If all goes as planned, I should have a full buffet of women to choose from before the evening is through.

The whiskey comes, in a heavy glass, just the way I like it. I down it, which settles my lawsuit nerves a bit, and I relax and can concentrate on the thing that will top the night off perfectly: finding the sexiest woman I can, to suck my dick.

Thank heaven there's a baseball game on the screen. It doesn't stress me out like football might. I glance at it and, during the commercials, evaluate the talent in tonight's bar.

There are the soccer moms in the center of the room with their short haircuts and overly brittle laughs—too high maintenance and not all that feminine, but you know they’d work hard in bed with a man like me. The barely-legals are in the corner trying to case the joint themselves, just in case someone figures out that maybe they should be showing some ID. Too young. And then there are the married couples having a date night—longing in their eyes, but not for the one they’re with. They've got nothing to say to each other—just looking around aimlessly, careful not to let their eyes settle on any one person for too long lest the accusations start.

Fuck me if I ever become one of those folks. It’d be too damn dreary to have nothing to say to someone because they’re in your face all the fucking time. “How was your day?” Who the fuck cares? Women are trouble anyhow. Not that men are much better. Who would want to marry anyone? It’s for suckers.

I pour the IPA down my throat to chase the whiskey. Sweet nectar. I just want to drink enough so I can obliterate the thought of that dumb bitch trying to take me down. I did absolutely nothing to her, and she's acting like she's the martyr of martyrs, painting me as the great big evil villain. But the real reason she's going after me is because of what makes the world go round.

No, not love.

Money.

She wants my money. Tons and tons of it. Money that I’ve bled, sweat and cried out of every pore.

Shit, I promised myself I wouldn't think about this tonight.

“Bartender, another IPA please,” I say. “And fuck it, bring another whiskey too.”

“Coming right up, Griff,” he says.

I guess I’ve met this bartender before. He should know my order then, shouldn't he? I shoot the next whiskey and chase it with the beer. One thing about being a solid wall of muscle is that it sure does cost a lot to get drunk, but luckily for me, money isn't an issue—as long as I get to keep what I have, that is. The muscle thing ensured that for me when I was 20—just a little older than the scantily clad girls in the corner—and got signed for the first time. Straight outta college ball at Brooks U. And now Sabrina’s trying to take it all away.

I thought things were going to be as smooth as silk, once my dreams came true, but you wouldn't believe the number of people who are willing to take everything you've got. Lie, cheat and steal.

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