Rough & Ready Read online

  Rough & Ready is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2018 by Tracy Deebs-Elkenaney

  Excerpt from Big Stick by Kelly Jamieson copyright © 2018 by Kelly Jamieson

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Big Stick by Kelly Jamieson. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Ebook ISBN 9781101884904

  Cover design: Lynn Andreozzi

  Cover photograph: CURAphotography/Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

  v5.3.2

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1: Tanner

  Chapter 2: Elara

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4: Tanner

  Chapter 5: Elara

  Chapter 6: Tanner

  Chapter 7: Elara

  Chapter 8: Tanner

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10: Elara

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13: Tanner

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15: Elara

  Chapter 16: Tanner

  Chapter 17: Elara

  Chapter 18: Tanner

  Chapter 19: Elara

  Chapter 20: Tanner

  Chapter 21: Elara

  Chapter 22: Tanner

  Chapter 23: Elara

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25: Tanner

  Chapter 26: Elara

  Epilogue: Tanner

  Dedication

  By Tracy Wolff

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Big Stick

  Chapter 1

  Tanner

  “Hey, Green! You planning on protecting my ass out there today or are you just gonna stand around looking pretty?” Hunter Browning, star quarterback of the San Diego Lightning—and one of my closest friends for the last decade—asks as we make our way to the field for the start of the second week of training camp.

  “Don’t be a hater,” I answer after casually flipping him off. “It’s hard to be this beautiful.”

  “I can just imagine how much you suffer.” He’s all mock gravity even as he slaps me on the back. “Seriously, though. Have you seen that new trick play we’re supposed to try out today—how the hell are you going to be able to keep me from getting blitzed and get your ass where Coach wants it by halfway through the sequence?”

  “That’s why they pay me the big bucks, baby,” I tell him as we walk out of the tunnel onto the field. “These feet got wings.”

  “Yeah, of cement, maybe,” Shawn Wilson, says with a snort as he jogs by.

  “Why are we friends again?” I call after him.

  He grins. “Because I make you and Hunter look good. Obviously.”

  “And here I thought it was because we’re big on charity work.” Hunter ribs him.

  “Yeah, if charity work is riding my coattails—I mean cleats—to the Super Bowl.” He kicks his knees up high as he runs in an extra little fuck you.

  “Hey now, just cuz you’re the fastest wide receiver in the league doesn’t mean you need to be a dick about it,” I tell him as I pick up the pace. “Especially since I beat your ass twice this summer.”

  “I was feeling generous both times.” He slows to a walk so we can catch up. “Decided to throw you a bone, make you feel better about always coming in last.”

  “Oh, right. Guess I should have done that for you in the weight room, huh? My bad.”

  It’s his turn to flip me off as Hunter laughs his ass off.

  “No, really. What is it those scrawny arms of yours can bench again? Twenty-two reps of two twenty-five?”

  “Dude, just because you’re some kind of genetic freak doesn’t mean the rest of us need to be,” he answers with a roll of his eyes. “No one short of the Hulk can bench what you do.”

  “Don’t be bitter. What you do is important, too.”

  Shawn snorts. “What’s there to be bitter about? You literally just stand there.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “We could trade places. You know, I could run the ball and you could block the entire defensive line.”

  He flips me off again.

  “Jeez. And here I thought all that yoga you’ve been doing lately was supposed to make you Zen.” Hunter taunts him as we make it out of the tunnel and onto the field.

  “Are you kidding me?” I ask him. “Sage may be a miracle worker, but even she can do only so much with our boy.”

  “I’m about a hundred times more Zen than Sage, thank you very much.”

  “Now that’s a scary thought,” Hunter deadpans.

  “I mean, how exactly does that even work?” I ask. “I thought one of the main reasons for marrying a yoga instructor was the whole calm thing. You know…”—I hold my arms up, index and thumb together in the classic pose as I make an “ommm” noise—“so she could chill you out.”

  “No, dude.” He shoots me a look. “One of the main reasons for marrying a yoga instructor is because she’s very, very, very bendy.” He’s grinning now, whether at the mention of his soon-to-be wife or because he’s thinking about just how bendy she can be.

  “Fuck you. Now you’re just being mean.”

  His smile turns absolutely shit-eating proud. “Truth is truth, boys. Truth is truth.”

  I can’t help grinning back. It’s good to see him happy after being ridden by demons for so long. At the rate he was going for a while there, I think Hunter and I were both afraid we’d end up losing him. Since Sage came along, though…he’s steadier than I’ve ever seen him. Less adrenaline junkie, more centered.

  Because just thinking about this shit makes me feel a little too in touch with my emotions, I reach out and punch Shawn lightly in the shoulder. “No one likes a braggart.”

  “Awwwww. Now who’s bitter?” he asks. “Besides, if you’ve got it, flaunt it, baby. That’s what I always say.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?” Hunter mutters just loud enough for the two of us to hear.

  I crack up, but Shawn just shakes his head. “Haters gonna hate and losers gonna lose.”

  “And wimpy little white boys are gonna get pancaked on the field if they’re not careful,” I answer.

  “Gotta catch me first.” With a laugh, he takes off running toward the field.

  It’s an obvious challenge, and both Hunter and I know it. We exchange a quick glance before racing after him, full out. Just to keep him humble…and because neither of us can stand to lose.

  * * *

  —

  Six hours later, we’re heading back to the locker room, ripe as fuck. It’s only June, but for some reason it’s like ninety degrees out today. Which sure as shit didn’t make running my ass off for most of the day any easier.

  I can all but taste the shower waiting for me when I glance up
at the stands, where a group of dedicated fans have suffered through the heat to watch us work out. Most of them are leaving now—either heading home to try to get ahead of traffic or walking around to the players’ exit to wait for autographs.

  I’m really hoping it’s the former this afternoon, because I. Am. Beat. After running the two new plays about fifty times each today—after an hour-and-a-half workout in the weight room—I can totally see Hunter’s concern about the first one. I have no idea how I’m supposed to block his ass and haul my ass halfway down the field, all within twenty seconds.

  Coach swears it can be done, though, says we need it in our pocket for when we play Dallas and San Francisco. Since I’m not planning on losing to either of them, I need to resign myself to doing sprints with the wide receivers and running backs for the next two weeks. Which, no matter what I front to Shawn when he’s messing with me, is a total lesson in humility.

  Just thinking about it puts me in a pissy mood.

  Another glance at the stands shows that there’s only one person left in her seat—a tall blonde with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass—or anything else they come into contact with. She’s wearing oversized sunglasses and a San Diego Phantoms cap, so those cheekbones are about all I can see of her. And yet there’s something about her that captures my attention, that has me looking her way again and again.

  So much so that I’m thinking about changing course and heading her way, maybe introducing myself and seeing if she wants an autograph…or anything else. The only thing stopping me is that I smell way too disgusting for that right now. Plus, it’s not like she’s given me any indication that that’s what she wants. She’s looking back at me, or at least I think she is, but she’s not smiling, not waving, not doing any of the things fans do when they try to get our attention.

  Which only intrigues me more—and keeps me looking as one of our trainers heads into the stands to talk to her. Not a fan, then, I realize as the blonde stands up and gives Lacey an enthusiastic hug. Just a friend of Lacey’s.

  The knowledge makes me grin, because it means I don’t have to head over there now—I can wait and pump Lacey for info about her friend later. Or hell, if I’m really lucky, maybe she’ll bring her back to the training facilities and introduce her around. I’d like to meet her, despite the fact that picking a woman out of the stands isn’t really my style.

  There’s just something about this one, though, that keeps me looking. Something about the way she holds herself, about how strong she seems, her body bursting with a powerful energy I don’t see very often in the women I meet.

  Yeah, she’s definitely worth asking Lacey about.

  I finally reach the tunnel, and the blessed air-conditioning that comes with it. By the time I get to the locker room, I’m feeling close to human and by the time I take my shower, I almost feel like myself again. Exhausted, worn out, ready to sleep for twelve hours straight, but still, almost myself.

  “Hey, we’re heading over to McGregor’s to grab some food,” Darnell says as I make it to my locker. “Want to join?”

  I don’t actually. Even before training kicked my ass, I was up half the night trying to help my younger sister figure out organic chemistry for her quiz today—which—was an absolute barrel of laughs.

  But saying no’s not really an option right now, no matter how much I want to. I’m left tackle and head of the O line, so it’s pretty much my responsibility to make sure everyone’s solid—both on and off the field—so we can work together well enough to bring home another Super Bowl ring. Not that working together is normally a problem, but with three rookies added to the roster this year, we definitely need to build some ties. Which means…

  “Absolutely. I could use a good burger.”

  Darnell snorts. “I could use about three. It was fucking brutal out there today.”

  “Right?” Jerome joins in. “If I wanted to work out in heat like this, I would have signed with Dallas two years ago.” He shudders as he says the city’s name, like playing for Dallas is a fate worse than death. Which, if you’re a member of the Lightning, it pretty much is…we don’t have one of the biggest rivalries in the league for nothing.

  “Make sure you invite the rookies,” I tell Darnell as I stow my toiletry bag in my locker station.

  “Already done.” The look he shoots me says he knows the rules. Then again, it was only a year ago that he was a rookie. It’s just that he fit in so well from day one that I forget that sometimes.

  I’m reaching for my jeans, planning out the rest of my day in my head, when—from directly behind me—a female voice demands, “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

  Next to me, Darnell’s eyes bug out of his head and everyone around me freezes—not because there’s a woman in the locker room, because sports reporters and trainers are in and out of here all the time. But there’s a difference between women who belong in here and women who come in sounding like that.

  Like pretty much every guy in the immediate vicinity, I turn my head—deer-in-the-headlights-style—trying to figure out who she is, how she got in here, and who the fuck she’s talking to. I’m really hoping it’s not one of the rookies because the last thing we need is to have picked up some kid who treats his woman like shit.

  But the second I turn around, I end up coming face-to-face with Lacey’s friend from the stands—and she looks pissed as fuck. She also appears to be leveling all that rage directly at me. Which is a problem considering I would swear that I’ve never seen her before in my life. And considering the fact that for one crazy second all I can think is that she’s fucking gorgeous without those sunglasses on—even if her cheeks are flushed dark red and there’s fire shooting out of her bright violet blue eyes.

  But then the reality of the situation kind of sinks in, and I say the first thing that pops into my head. “I’m sorry?”

  I don’t have a clue what I’m apologizing for, but I’ve lived with four women long enough to know that when they look like that, you always start with an apology, even if they’re the ones who are wrong. Especially if they’re the ones who are wrong.

  “You’re sorry?” she sneers back.

  “I am, absolutely.” I hold up a cautious hand. “I really hate to see a lady upset. But I’ve got to admit, I’m a little confused here. Is there something I can help you with?”

  My towel starts to slip before she can answer and I grab it with one hand, just to make sure this bizarre showdown doesn’t get any worse. The other hand I keep free to block an attack because, from the way she’s tensed up, it suddenly doesn’t seem out of the realm of possibility that she’ll go for my eyes—or my balls—with those long, slender fingers of hers.

  “Help me? Help me?” The look she gives me makes me sweat—and not in a good way. “I’m pretty sure you’ve done enough already. And I know, I should just let it go because expecting someone like you to understand why I’m upset is asking way too much. But you’re a really shitty person, you know that?”

  “Me?” I ask, and this time I know I sound as shocked as I feel. But, come on. I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but ‘shitty person’ is not one of them—at least not by anyone outside a rival team’s defensive line. In fact, I work damn hard to make sure that description can’t be applied to me, because I get how important it is for kids to have role models they can actually look up to. “I think you might have the wrong person?”

  “I bet you do. But you’re Tanner Green, aren’t you.” It’s not actually a question the way she says it.

  “I am,” I reply cautiously, visions of fake baby daddy accusations now buzzing in my head. I’m suddenly worried that she’s the shitty person here, and judging from the way the rest of the O line is looking anywhere but at me, I’m not the only one thinking that.

  “Then I definitely have the right person.” She narrows her eyes at me until they’re littl
e more than slits. “Look around, Green. I mean, seriously. You’ve got thousand-dollar chairs and five-thousand-dollar TVs every ten feet in here. You have more money than anybody needs, access to more fundraising dollars than practically any other nonprofit organization in the city, and that’s still not enough for you, right? You still have to go and steal other people’s funding. Why?”

  The breath I didn’t even know I was holding whooshes out. Okay, so not a false paternity accusation, then. Thank God. But that just means I’m even more confused now, because I have no damn idea what she’s talking about.

  “Are you sure you’ve got the right person, sweetheart? Because I haven’t stolen anybody’s funding that I’m aware of. I haven’t even gone after any funding for my foundation lately.” Largely because we’re solid, the five-million-dollar annuity I set up my third year as a pro player does its job nicely, especially with the regular donations I get from different players and fans around the country who believe in what I’m doing. Add to that all the unsolicited donations football-loving business leaders give us and we’re pretty much golden right now.

  “Really? Why is it, then, that Jack Reilly just announced a fifteen-million-dollar donation to the Tanner Green Foundation? Fifteen million dollars. I’ve been standing on my head to get just a little bit of that money for months—and so have a lot of other really important organizations in this city—and you just come in and waltz away with the whole damn prize. Which would be fine, because who doesn’t like a foundation for underprivileged youth, right? Except yours isn’t the only one in town. Plus, just by dint of its existence, you leave out more than fifty percent of the population and that’s total bullshit. Especially if you’re going to take such a big percentage of the money. Underprivileged girls need help, too, you know, and it’s really crappy to take all the funding for some football charity that totally excludes them.”