Illegal Formation (Red Zone Rivals #6)

Chapter One

Emily

There was nothing worse than underboob sweat.

It took everything in me not to pick at the band of my sports bra to relieve some of the dampness there, or to take the towel draped around my neck and shove it down between my breasts. Just the thought had me twitching to do so, knowing I’d feel instant relief.

Instead, I was focusing on all the sweat pooling in the worst possible place knowing damn well I couldn’t do anything about it.

If I were at the gym, it’d be a different story. If I were at the little studio downtown where I’d been dancing since I moved to Seattle, that would have been fine, too. I could have wiped myself down and I wouldn’t have given two shits who saw me or passed judgment.

But this was the final auditions for the Seattle Seahawks Dancers.

And I had to act like a fucking lady.

Act being the keyword there. I had spent hours on my hair and makeup this morning to pull off the look of a well-behaved and amiable young woman — although to this group, I was far from young.

At twenty-nine, I was the oldest to audition.

If I made it, I’d be like a grandma to these youngins.

My smile twitched a little as another bead of sweat slid down the crevice between my tits to join its friends.

They were having a little sauna party down there.

The band of my bra was completely saturated, even now, well after my audition was done.

God, I didn’t even have large boobs. What did the girls with double Ds do when heat struck?

I shifted in my seat, hoping my smile was still sweet and demure and not the uncomfortable, impossible-to-fake-much-longer version that it felt like. To be fair, I wasn’t only sweating under my boobs. Sweat was also running down my spine and prickling at the back of my neck.

I was nervous.

It was hard not to be when — for the first time since I could remember — I actually wanted something bad enough to care.

I wasn’t sure I really wanted to be on the squad when I submitted my virtual audition back in March.

Maybe it was that my life was stalling out in Austin.

The trio of jobs I’d tried while living there hadn’t panned out, and I kept finding myself drawn back to dance — except there was no way to make a decent salary dancing in Austin.

The best I could find was as a go-go dancer at one of the bars on the weekend and frankly, I was too old for that shit.

I preferred to be asleep by midnight, at the latest, and even that was pushing it.

So, I submitted my virtual audition to the Seattle Seahawks Dancers, just to see what happened.

I’d only been to Seattle once before, when I’d booked a solo hiking trip after I graduated high school. I wanted to experience something new before I was locked down for another four years of school.

I found I loved the city, the fog and the drizzle and the cool, crispness of it all. I loved the mountains and hiking within driving distance, the culture of the people, the way everyone seemed to actually give a fuck about the planet.

Seattle was calling me back in a way. I wasn’t sure why, and I was fairly certain — given my track record — that I wouldn’t stay long. But it was where my heart was drawn to, at the moment at least.

When I got through to the interview round for the dance team, my interest picked up. Could I actually do this? I wondered.

And by the time I attended the first round of auditions at the stadium, battling it out with almost two-hundred other dancers?

Yeah. I wanted it.

I wanted it bad.

Maybe it was because I’d been wandering the world like a lost kitten for so long now that the idea of belonging somewhere, of having a job I cared about and was good at and wanted to do lit me up in a way I hadn’t felt since I danced for my college team.

To my friends — and especially to my family — it seemed like I loved the life of a nomad, that I thrived in not being tied down to any place or job or life plan.

But anyone who’s ever lived inside that reality knows better.

We’re all looking for something.

I just wasn’t sure what that something was.

Now, weeks after the first round of auditions, and hours after the finals, the final forty of us were gathered in the stands at Lumen Field, the lights shining down on the green turf.

And I couldn’t help but feel like it was all a bit ridiculous.

They could have just told us right after auditions ended this afternoon who made the team. Instead, they’d made us stick around for most of the day other than a quick break for dinner, and now, we were back to hear the names of the dancers who made the squad.

I’d made friends with some of them through the audition process. It was impossible not to, given the close quarters of it all. We all shared nervous looks and hand squeezes of encouragement as we waited for our fate.

And it wasn’t just a poster on a wall, either. Nope — there was the team drum line, a video crew to capture content, and confetti loaded and ready to blast from a cannon.

Also, we had an audience.

As if it wasn’t nerve-wracking enough to be stacked in rows of other cheerleader hopefuls, to know that only twenty-eight out of the forty of us left sitting here would make it, we also had to have our fate announced to a whole slew of people on the field.

There were the judges who’d helped decide our destiny, the director and coaches who taught us the choreography and ran the entire program, and, most unexpectedly…

A line of five very tall, very buff, very attractive football players.

I knew them all by name and knew most of their stats, too. I’d studied up on them, wanting to make sure I didn’t embarrass myself if I were to pass by them in the stadium. Besides, I loved football – and getting to know the players I might possibly be rooting for was more fun than it was homework.

In a way, it was sweet that they were here. After all, we’d be cheering them on all season long — the least they could do is cheer us on this once.

On the other hand, there was a very strict no fraternizing rule — one outlined in black ink in a contract we’d have to sign if we made the team. It didn’t matter how hot they were, or how hot we were, or how hot we all might be for each other.

There would be no dating, no kissing, and no hooking up.

So, having these delicious hunks of man candy all suited up and ready to hand us roses like it was the fucking Bachelor up in here?

Well, it felt a little unfair — like flaunting the world’s best cheesecake in front of someone who’s lactose intolerant.

And this was so classically me. Of course, I’d be focused on the sweat in my bra and the row of off-limits football players on the field instead of the names being called one by one. My brain loved to spiral when I had something to lose. Any kind of distraction was welcome.

“Jamie Monroe!”

I blinked out of my haze, widening my smile a bit and numbly clapping as a girl two rows down from me jumped up with her hands covering her mouth and tears streaming down her face already.

She was a veteran, one of the sweeter ones I’d encountered through auditions, and she skipped down to the field before hugging everyone and accepting a rose from one of the players.

She then joined the small but building group of cheerleaders on the field — those who had made the team.

There were nine of them standing there.

Only nineteen more would join them.

“Marcus Rodriguez!”

That name had our group erupting with louder cheers. I screamed loudest of all, reaching down to pat Marcus’s ass as he trotted by in the row below me.

Marcus was a rookie, just like me, and he was the first one of us to make this year’s squad.

We’d hit it off the first day of auditions, instantly bonding through our mutual love of Bad Bunny and football.

A lot of the dancers trying out couldn’t have cared less about the sport and simply wanted to be a dancer.

Marcus and I, however, grew up in households where football was on the television every weekend, where we saw the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders doing their famous dance to “Thunderstruck.”

Of course, once we realized our experiences were mirrored, we immediately broke into the choreography, landing in our split jump with laughs that I knew would cement us in each other’s hearts forever, regardless of if we both made the team or not.

He was gorgeous, too — lean and athletic with golden brown skin and a head of dark hair that was always styled in perfect swoops and lines. He had dimples on each of his cheeks, framing his magnetic smile, one lined with brilliant white teeth.

He blew me a kiss, grabbing the hands of some of the other rookies who reached for him as he shimmied past, and then jogged down the steps with all the swagger of a man who could do more flips than a dolphin at SeaWorld.

I wanted to make the team even more now — if just to hang out with Marcus.

He was the kind of guy who had infectious energy, who could make you laugh until you cried.

Even my black, dead heart surged a little when he walked into the room and lit it up so effortlessly.

That detached haze fell over me once more as the next name was called — another veteran.

I clapped and crossed my legs the other way, doing my best to smile and not cringe as the girl next to me grabbed my hand and held it tight.

I knew it was a sign of solidarity, of sisterhood, but I was fucking sweaty and nervous and didn’t feel like being touched at the moment.

I squeezed her hand back, anyway.

Name after name was called, and each time it wasn’t mine, I tried not to panic. I tried not to overanalyze that the person called was younger than me, or that they didn’t have tattoos and piercings the way I did, that they looked the part and I did not. I tried to calm my racing heart.

In an effort to do so, I let my eyes wander the field — from the faded white lines that would be painted bright before kickoff to the mega screens flashing the face of the last girl called down to the field.

I scanned the benches and the banners, the judges and the staff, the row of pony tails and necks just as sweaty as mine.

And then, my gaze landed on Braden Lock.

I knew it was Braden Lock because I knew every player on the team.

It was one of my favorite ways to distract myself when I needed to unwind after practicing for auditions.

I’d pull up the roster and shuffle through them, memorizing names and faces even though I knew many of those guys wouldn’t even make it past preseason.

It’d been one thing that had impressed the director during my interview, that I already had a standard knowledge of the coaches, staff, and players, as well as our opponent lineup for the season.

I prayed that would be enough to get me through tonight.

Some of the players from my study session were fuzzy in my mind, names and faces blurring together.

But there were a few who stood out, who I could point out in a crowded bar if needed.

Braden Lock was one of them.

I told myself it was his impressive rookie season that made him easy to remember, but I knew the truth.

That man was the kind of beautiful that made him impossible to forget.

I’d done a double take when I’d first seen him on the roster, and when I spotted him shirtless in a candid shot from last year’s training camp, I’d literally spit out my water.

The man was a tank.

He was lean, yes, but stacked with muscles that made me wonder if he’d had even a gram of sugar in the past four years. He wasn’t gargantuan like some of his teammates, but he was a solid six-foot — just tall enough for me to wear heels and fit comfortably under the crook of his arm.

Not that I was thinking about that.

But it was more than his body, his stats, and his quiet, reserved nature that intrigued me.

It was his jaw, square and strong the way I imagined a Spartan warrior’s would have been.

It was his rich brown hair, the golden strands that lined it, how it was thick and just long enough to make me want to run my hands through it, to make me wonder if it felt as silky as it looked.

It was his eyes, honey brown and blazing against his tan skin.

Those eyes were wholly focused on me right now, and I startled at the intense stare for only a second before the corner of my mouth curled.

Like what you see, big guy?

He frowned a bit, almost like he was studying me.

I was ready to start using body language to communicate across the field when suddenly, all the noise in the stadium rushed back to me at once, the lights blinding, the cheers around me deafening, the sweat running down my chest so vivid I felt like I was on ecstasy.

Because the director had called my name.

“Emily Huxley!”