Hard to Score Read online

  TITLE PAGE

  PRAISE FOR K. BROMBERG

  ALSO BY K. BROMBERG

  COPYRIGHT

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  EPILOGUE 1

  EPILOGUE 2

  COMING SOON

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  “K. Bromberg always delivers intelligently written, emotionally intense, sensual romance . . .”

  —USA Today

  “K. Bromberg makes you believe in the power of true love.”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author Audrey Carlan

  “A poignant and hauntingly beautiful story of survival, second chances, and the healing power of love. An absolute must-read.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Helena Hunting

  “An irresistibly hot romance that stays with you long after you finish the book.”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author Jennifer L. Armentrout

  “Bromberg is a master at turning up the heat!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Katy Evans

  “Supercharged heat and full of heart. Bromberg aces it from the first page to the last.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Kylie Scott

  Driven

  Fueled

  Crashed

  Raced

  Aced

  Slow Burn

  Sweet Ache

  Hard Beat

  Down Shift

  UnRaveled

  Sweet Cheeks

  Sweet Rivalry

  The Player

  The Catch

  Cuffed

  Combust

  Cockpit

  Control

  Faking It

  Resist

  Reveal

  Then You Happened

  Flirting with 40

  Hard to Handle

  Hard to Hold

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Copyright © 2021 by K. Bromberg

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by JKB Publishing, LLC

  ISBN: 978-1-942832-24-9

  Cover design by Helen Williams

  Cover Image by Rafa G Catala

  Cover Model: Jorge Del Rio Romero

  Editing by Marion Making Manuscripts

  Formatting by Champagne Book Design

  Printed in the United States of America

  DREW

  I PULL MY HELMET OFF, lean my face up to the sky, and welcome the cool air against the sweat plastering my hair to my head.

  And really, I’m just buying time. Giving myself a minute to still my nerves that have been humming beneath the surface for the past few hours. Allowing myself a moment for this to sink in.

  That I’m here at the NFL Scouting Combine, and I just gave the performance I needed to give.

  “That was one incredible show.”

  I turn to face the man with the slightly southern accent who’s bearing down on me. He’s tall with broad shoulders and a double chin, but his eyes are the same as the younger version of him I saw in picture after picture from my youth. And he’s wearing a polo shirt with an emblem on the left breast that would make any football player salivate.

  The Tennessee Tigers.

  Super Bowl champions four out of the last eight years. One of the most loved, and therefore often hated, teams in the NFL.

  Of all the coaches in this damn Combine. Of course, he’s the first to seek me out.

  Goddamn fate.

  “Thank you.” I nod. “I got lucky today.”

  The man—Roger Molleman—barks out a laugh. “Seems to me someone might be lying through his teeth, because that’s a talent that’s hard to hide.”

  “Thank you,” I repeat as he stops a few feet from me and angles his head to the side as our eyes meet—hold.

  “Your name again?” he asks, despite knowing damn well it’s written on the sheets pinned to the clipboard he has sandwiched between his arm and torso.

  And everything I’ve worked for over my short lifetime comes down to this one moment. To selling this one lie.

  “Drew Hemmings.” The name still feels foreign on my tongue all these years later. “Or Drewski. I answer to just about anything.”

  “Where’d you go to school?” he asks. “It says something on the stat sheet but—”

  “Butler University.”

  “Can’t say that I’ve ever heard of anyone going pro who played at that college. Hell, I don’t even have the slightest idea of where it is. But by golly, son, why haven’t we heard about you? Why haven’t you been playing at a PAC-12? How do I know the numbers you gave today weren’t flukes?”

  “You don’t.” I shrug.

  “For a man trying to get drafted by the NFL, I don’t see you trying to sell yourself.”

  “I’m confident in my abilities. Someone will pick me up.”

  He laughs again and looks around at the five other coaches standing about ten feet away, arms crossed over their chests, and apparently waiting to talk to me.

  My pulse races at the sight, but all Roger sees is cool, calm, and unaffected.

  “You’re cocky.
I like cocky.”

  “Quarterbacks have to be.”

  He angles his head to the side and studies me with a quiet scrutiny. “The way you play . . . you remind me of someone, and I can’t seem to put my finger on it.”

  Do you know you held me when I was a baby?

  Do you remember the man you used to call a best friend was my father?

  But none of that matters.

  The only thing that does is that I’m here now and I’m going to capitalize on any opportunity I’m given.

  That’s my father’s past.

  This is my future.

  “Doesn’t every player remind someone of somebody?” I ask to divert his attention.

  “True.” He glances over his shoulder again to the other coaches waiting. “Do you have some kind of pitch you want to make to me? Something for me to take away so on draft night I say your name instead of one of the other quarterbacks out there?”

  My dad’s advice runs through my head. Roger doesn’t like kiss-asses. He likes aloof confidence. He likes to answer the questions himself. He has to be the one in control.

  “Nope. Nothing to say. Your team and its record speak for itself just as my stats and performance today does.” I set my helmet down on the bench. “Thank you for your time.”

  I reach a hand out to shake his and he stares at it for a beat before reaching out and shaking it. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “You’ve got nothing else to say?”

  My smile is slow and steady as I meet his eyes again. “Like I said, I like to leave it all on the field. That should be proof enough.”

  He stares at me with an incredulity I love. That means I’ll be memorable. That means I did my job.

  “We’ll be in touch,” he says, hands in his pockets as he rocks back on his heels.

  “I look forward to it.”

  And those five words are the only inkling I give him that I’m interested in playing for the Tigers.

  The only inkling at all.

  And when all is said and done—when I’ve spoken to coaches and chatted with other players I’ve previously admired from afar—I take a seat in the stands of Lucas Oil Stadium and look around.

  I take in the rise of the seats around me, the rows going up one after another until they become huge walls that form an oval around us. I can imagine what a packed crowd sounds like. I picture being on the middle of the field with cameras flashing and fans cheering so loud that I have to shout the cadence before the snap—and even then, I doubt my offensive line would hear me.

  There would be adrenaline. A rush that edges on what I’d assume getting high would feel like . . . and even then, it couldn’t rival the feeling of sixty thousand people cheering or booing you and your team.

  How could he have walked away from this without a fight?

  But as I sit down on the bench and breathe it all in, I know my secret must keep. I fear if all is found out, the one thing I want the most, might all come tumbling down.

  When it comes to athletes, fans and history remember two types: the undeniable stars and the ones who caused scandals.

  I could be the first one.

  But my fear is that the second one will rob me of that possibility.

  They say the sins of the fathers are to be laid upon the children.

  For my sake, let’s hope that’s not true.

  BREXTON

  “SO I’M THE REASON YOU’VE been hanging around,” Justin Hobbs says with a half-cocked smirk before readjusting the towel that covers his freshly showered lower half.

  “I have lots of reasons for hanging around, one of which was to watch the scrimmage this afternoon,” I say of the last preseason game the Raptors had before the season goes into full swing.

  I take him in. Typical quarterback’s body. Lean and tone with not too much excess, say like an offensive lineman, who has to throw his weight around. Handsome in a dime a dozen way. He looks like any Midwest boy raised on beef and beer, complete with the farmer’s tan evident because of his shirtless torso.

  The difference is he’s from California, has a cannon for an arm, and an ego to match.

  I’d been warned ahead of time.

  “And?” he asks.

  “And, the team played well. It was preseason but if it’s any indication of what the upcoming season’s going to look like, I’d say you’re in great shape.”

  “I know I am. Thanks.”

  This is the part where I want to turn around and walk out. This is the part where my job becomes so predictable and, just once, I want it not to be.

  “I meant the team in general.”

  “And I’m the heart of it, so . . .”

  There is no shame there. Not an ounce. But I smile anyway.

  “Then that does mean it includes you,” I acquiesce begrudgingly.

  “Of course it does. What would a team be without its quarterback?” He glances around and flashes an arrogant smile at one of his teammates before focusing back on me. “But I’ll be the first to admit, my precision was off. I plan on putting more time in to fix that.”

  An ounce of humility. I grab it and hold it tight, because that’s something I can definitely work with.

  “That’s good to hear.” I nod.

  “So what can I do for you, since you’re standing before me and definitely wanting something?” He licks his lips and takes his time glancing up and down the length of my body. He likes what he sees no doubt, but then again, as rumor has it, he’s not exactly indiscriminate when it comes to the company he keeps. When he’s done giving me the once-over, his eyes meet mine again. “Should we go out and have a drink or two to discuss whatever it is you want from me?”

  “I hear you’re unhappy with your agent.” I take a glance around. Only a few players are left in the locker room, which is why I chose to enter now. Fewer ears overhearing mean fewer rumors being spread.

  But they will be spread.

  I’m counting on it.

  “Isn’t everyone unhappy with their agent?” he asks.

  “Not my clients.” I flash a smile and extend a hand to him. “Brexton Kincade. Kincade Sports Management.”

  He takes his time shaking my hand in that way that screams of a man who thinks I’m charmed by him. My only response is to withdraw my hand when he releases it while holding his stare the entire time. “Well, Brexton Kincade, I do think that you owe me dinner and a conversation to discuss how exactly you can be of service to me.” He takes a step closer to me. “And make no mistake, I demand a lot of service.”

  Gag.

  He seriously just said that?

  My smile doesn’t waver as my gross-o-meter hits its maximum capacity. “Good to know. Maybe we can schedule something later in the week? I’ve been given access to the conference rooms for meetings this week, so that would be a great time and place to discuss things.”

  Where most guys’ expressions would fall after their innuendos were ignored, Justin’s towel “accidentally” falls instead. And in true asshole fashion, his amused eyes hold mine to see if I look.

  I don’t. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

  Instead, I hold a business card out to him, completely unfazed by his average-sized dick simply hanging there in my periphery. “Here’s how you can get in touch with me.”

  “I know how you can touch me.”

  I lift a lone eyebrow. “I’m flattered. Truly, I am.”

  “Come on.” He chuckles as he tries to figure another angle to entice me.

  “I look forward to hearing from you.” I take a step back. “Oh, and you seem to have mistaken me for someone who actually cares if you drop your towel.”

  I turn on my heel, catch a couple of coughed-out laughs from his teammates who overheard our conversation, and lift a hand in silent greeting. As the door closes behind me, I overhear one of the guys giving Justin shit for being a dick.

  At least someone’s calling him out on it.

  Normally it would be me. I
’m the Kincade sister with the loud mouth who’s known for voicing my opinions, but not this time. Not when my dad has given me the task of recruiting Justin Hobbs away from his agent, none other than the prick extraordinaire, Finn Sanderson—otherwise known as FuckFace in my phone contacts.

  Justin will be a pain in my ass. A player an agent tolerates simply because he’s a great commission despite being a cringeworthy human. But if he’s going to help Kincade Sports Management get some of its shine back after Finn tried to lessen it, then I’m game.

  Anything for my family.

  Or at least that’s what I said before meeting him.

  Now as I make my way through the maze of corridors in the underbelly of the stadium toward my next meeting of the evening, I cringe at the prospect of possibly working with him.

  But that cringe pales in comparison to the yawns of boredom I endure for the next few hours, as I negotiate and cajole and persuade the general manager of the New York Raptors that my free agent linebacker would be a great fit with the organization.

  I love my job, I truly do, but as of late, I’m getting a little sick of inflated egos with ridiculous demands. Especially while I try to save their asses from whatever they did that was caught on a phone and is now viral.

  I’m not burned out, but rather just totally sick of the bullshit.

  Where did all the nice guys go?

  It’s the question on repeat as I make my way from the confines of the now almost empty stadium, toward the far end of the parking lot.

  I grumble at how far I have to walk across the lot in my heels, but it’s my fault. There might come a time in my life when I’m actually not running ten minutes late.

  Maybe.

  But I’m not holding my breath.

  I startle at a noise to my left. It sounds like heavy breathing mixed with grunting combined with who knows what. It’s a sound most normal women would scurry away from. I head toward it and find myself on the outskirts of the parking lot, looking through a chain-link fence, down at the team’s pseudo practice field.

  Or at least it used to be until the team built a fancy one outside of the city a few years back.

  Nonetheless, in the moonlight, I see a figure down on the turf. He has what appears to be a headlamp attached to his helmet that bobs with each and every move he makes. He has about twenty footballs set up on kicking tees all around the scaled-down version of the field. I watch as he randomly picks a football up and then fires a throw into one of five target nets set up in various distances away from him.