The Hot Shot (Game On #4)

Chapter 1

One

Chess

When the promise of spending hours in the presence of hot, fit, and famous naked men fails to excite me, it’s time to concede

that I’ve hit a new level of apathy.

Last year, I’d been in a similar situation—all the naked men, so much hotness to immortalize in pictures—and I practically

jumped out of my skin with anticipation. Much like my friend James is right now.

“I think you’re going to have to give me a ‘bitch, be cool’ lecture,” James says as he slowly blows a tendril of smoke into

the air.

Curled up on a rattan love seat on the opposite side of my balcony so I don’t get a face full of his cigarette smoke, I can’t

help but laugh. “Why is that?”

James, resplendent in a lime-green suit, complete with acid yellow bow tie, rolls his eyes. “Don’t be coy, Chess. It isn’t

a good look on you.”

I’m mildly interested in knowing what “coy” looks like on me, but I don’t bite; I know perfectly well why James is freaking

out. It’s cute, though he’d hate it if I told him so.

Instead, I shrug and flick a dead fern leaf off the seat cushion.

“You’re seriously this excited because we’re going to photograph a bunch of naked football players?

” I shake my head, as if I’m completely clueless.

“We work with some of the most beautiful people in the world. The body is nothing more than shapes and shadows to me at this point.”

Not that this will matter to James. The moment I’d told him we were doing a calendar shoot for New Orleans’s NFL team, that

all the top players would be participating not only in a photoshoot but a nude one, James had gone into fanboy hissy-fit mode.

For him, that usually means chain-smoking and talking nonstop.

At this point, James is so worked up, he doesn’t seem to notice that I’m leading him along. He snorts as he takes another

drag, squinting at me through the smoke.

“Naked I can handle. Shit, I kept it together quite nicely when I had to stick rhinestones on Gianna’s breasts, with her nipples

all but staring at me while I worked.”

“They were fantastic breasts,” I admit, remembering the stunning model and how James had turned beet red up to the roots of

his auburn hair.

James is in charge of makeup and styling for our models. He’s a consummate professional, but he’s not immune. Some of the

models, be they women or men, turn him on.

Unlike me; I’ve been so apathetic this past year, I’m fairly certain a guy could wave his dick in my face during a shoot and

I wouldn’t respond. Professionalism aside, it’s not exactly a good thing. In truth, it’s a little worrisome.

Years of shitty dating experiences and not one glimmer of commitment have left me feeling defective and brittle. On the bright

side, I have a job I love and a loft condo in New Orleans, my favorite city. My life is fulfilling and, frankly, just getting

warmed up. Still, I can’t seem to escape these bouts of lethargy.

James, unaware of my inner turmoil, nods as if remembering Gianna, but then sighs. “Tits are nothing compared to this torment,

Chess. We’re talking NFL players here. My home team.” He fans himself. “Jesus, I might actually blush, or fucking stammer,

or something equally mortifying.”

“Ah, right.” As if I’d forgotten what an extreme football fan James is.

During the season, he goes on about team records and playoff chances and who fucked up what play, or who is his complete hero because of one win, until I’m ready to tear my arm off just to hit him with it. “The struggle is real, eh?”

Something in my expression clearly gives me away because his mouth snaps shut and he gives me a long glare. “Bitch.”

I laugh then. “You’ll be fine, James. One week of naked football players parading in front of you and then it will all be

a faint memory.”

“Who says I want it to be a memory?” He wrinkles his nose. “I’m going to enjoy this. And so should you.”

I hadn’t wanted to do this shoot. James and I are overworked at the moment, and I’ve been feeling the telltale dull pressure

behind my eyes that signifies a cluster of migraines are headed my way.

I shouldn’t complain. Success has fallen into my lap these past few years. I’m a design major. Cyn, my college roommate, who

now lives in New York, is a fashion major. I started doing photos for her fledgling collection, and people liked both of our

work. Things took off from there, and I’m not looking back.

Were I not exhausted, I might be okay with reining in a bunch of overgrown, muscle-bound boys—because that’s how the male

athletes I’ve worked with before usually behave. But now I don’t want to deal with any of it. I want to crawl into bed and

sleep for a week.

Unfortunately, James, who also acts as my booking agent, insisted I take this job. It was for a good cause, rebuilding housing

for flood victims not only in the area, but also in the greater US. And, because it would feature our city’s football heroes

in the buff, it was guaranteed to be a big hit.

Besides, he had said over the phone last week, they want you. Your naked fisherman calendar impressed them.

I’m fairly certain the fact that the buff fishermen images went viral is what impressed them. But I found myself saying yes.

Damn it all.

“It’s just a job, James,” I tell him now.

Because, honestly, I don’t want to get excited over men I can’t have.

Famous football players definitely fall into that category.

I just want an honest working Joe with a clever mind and a talented tongue.

A cute smile wouldn’t hurt, either. Is that too much to ask?

“Right,” James drawls. “And gelato is just another word for ice cream.”

I gasp. “You hush your mouth, mister.”

A faint, pounding noise catches my attention. James lurches up as if he’s been pinched. “Shit biscuits, they’re here!”

He stands there, flapping his hands for a minute, before stomping on his cigarette and giving me a panicked look.

I smile, though I feel the strain on my cheeks. “Bitch, be cool.”

“Huh. That was depressingly unhelpful.” A small pout pulls at his full beard.

“If it will make you feel better, I can oil them up.”

Outraged horror has his eyes going wide. “Take that from me, and I’ll salt your coffee for a week.”

“That’s just cruel!”

“Fair warning,” he says with a sniff.

“All right, all right.” I snicker and then get up. “I’ll get the door. If you go, we might never get started with all of your

fawning.”

“Har.” He rolls his eyes, but then straightens his suit. “I’ll make some espresso. Do you think they drink espresso?”

James is addicted. The upside of this being that he makes killer coffee drinks. Every morning, I’m graced with a creamy café

au lait. Every evening, a bittersweet macchiato.

“I honestly have no idea.” My knowledge of football players’ likes and dislikes is nil. “Maybe stick with water for now.”

“Chess, we can do better than that.” He pulls a tray of charcuterie from the fridge.

“Jesus, it’s a photoshoot, not a party.”

“Those two are not necessarily mutually exclusive.”

“If you say so.” I leave him to fiddle with his tray. The stairwell to my loft is a vast echo chamber, and thus, before I’m halfway to the door, I can hear the guys clear as a bell.

“Maybe he’s on the can or something,” says a deep, snide voice.

“Great,” drawls another. “We’ve gotta wait for a shit? That could be half an hour at least.”

I slow my steps, fighting a laugh, and I hear a long-suffering sigh.

“Lord,” says a guy with a Southern drawl, “these boys keep leaving themselves wide-open for a smackdown. It’s almost too easy.”

I agree, but nearly jump out of my skin when someone starts pounding on the door hard enough that I fear it might fall from

the hinges. Really, that’s just going too far.

“Dude!” shouts an irate male. “Nip it off and open up!”

Someone mutters about having some class, but I’m annoyed now and stride to the door, ready to remind my impatient guests of

their manners.

I whip open the door and find four enormous guys staring back at me. Aside from their impressive size, they couldn’t be more

different in appearance. The man-mountain directly in front of me, with his full beard, man bun, and tattoo sleeves, looks

as if he’d be at home in the clubs I like to frequent. He also appears to be completely chagrined, which makes me think he

was the one who’d been begging for the others to have some class.

Next to him is a good-looking, lean guy with an amused smile. Short dreads spike up around his head like a crown of thorns.

He’s shaking that head and giving the golden boy at his side a dry look. Golden boy is unrepentant in his glee, his light

brown eyes shining with mischief.

They’re all handsome in their own way; excellent subjects for what we’re about to do.

But it is the guy behind them, looming in the background with a sour expression, who catches my eye and makes me pause.

This guy is the cover model, with his blazing blue eyes and tanned skin.

So gorgeous, he makes my teeth hurt. He’s looking down his perfect nose at me as if my presence offends him.

His face, I know well. From TV ads to billboards, I’ve seen him smiling back at me, trying to sell me athletic gear, health

drinks, and even home mortgages. He’s the quarterback, the designated king of the football team, Finn Mannus or “Manny,” as

the press dubs him. A strange nickname, since he’s so damn pretty.

He catches me looking and quirks a brow as if to say, Yes, I know. You want what I’m serving; everybody does.

Well, not me. I cut my gaze away and study my other clients. They all look back at me with various levels of expectation or

impatience. Dominance and testosterone radiate from them like sunlight. If I give them an inch, they’ll take over this shoot.

They probably wouldn’t even notice they were doing it; they’re clearly just that accustomed to taking charge.

I draw myself tight and try to remember what they’d been saying. Ah, yes, they were talking about shits. Lovely. It’s time