Competitive Advantage (Fourth Quarter Fever #2)

Prologue

DAYLEN

“Sir, would you like some headphones?” the friendly stewardess innocently asks me on our private jet to Las Vegas.

I smile at her and answer, “Absolutely, but how did you know my name was Phones?”

The guys all snort in laughter, but the stewardess and the rest of the women seem unamused. Frankly, I think I’m the funniest guy on the planet.

There’s one person who most definitely disagrees. Kennedy fucking Jeffries. Kennedy is the dark-haired, green-eyed, over-six-foot stunner who plays for the Beavers, the new women’s basketball team in Philadelphia. I met her about ten months ago, and it was…hate at first sight for both of us.

Kennedy is the exact opposite of what I want in a woman. I consider myself a happy man who looks for the good in life. I’m the glass-half-full guy. I enjoy being goofy and having fun. I prefer women who share the same sentiment. Those who don’t take everything and everyone so damn seriously.

Kennedy, on the other hand, is the poster child for a glass-half-empty woman. She sucks the joy out of everything and everyone. I despise her and everything she stands for with her snarky demeanor and snotty designer clothes.

The first words she ever spoke to me were along the lines of me checking off multiple items on her red flag list. It’s not a theoretical list. She actually maintains a stupid catalog of things she considers red flags on her phone.

Things she hates about men. Who does that?

Who searches for the negative in people all the time?

Kennedy Jeffries does.

Unfortunately, I can’t seem to avoid spending time with her. First, our friend and placekicker, Presley Ladrón, is married to Kennedy’s friend and teammate, Layla Ladrón. Second, my best friend, Vance McCaffrey, is in love with Kennedy’s teammate and close friend, Sulley O’Shea.

Vance and I were both drafted to the Philly Camels nearly a decade ago, and we just clicked right from the beginning. I’m the tight end, and he’s the quarterback. Our on-field chemistry is what players dream of. It’s like we’re in each other’s heads at times. It’s not any different off the field.

Vance is a country boy from Bumfuck, Montana.

He’s a little grumpy at times, but it’s a facade he uses to mask his pain.

He’s had a rough road over the past few years, but I know, more than most, that he’s one of the best men I’ve ever met.

Appreciating the burden he carries, I do my best to keep things light and make him smile.

To the world, we may look like a mismatch, but with the possible exception of my father and sister, I trust Vance more than anyone else.

Every March for the past several years, we’ve gone to Las Vegas for the NCAA basketball tournament.

It’s a huge sports weekend where we watch the games, gamble, drink, dance, and party until we pass out.

The wives and girlfriends (WAGs) of the Camels, specifically Layla, arrange it all.

We rent a few floors of suites at a nice hotel, enjoy beautiful meals, and party until the wee hours of the morning.

It’s a blast. This year, Layla invited her teammates to join us, and, unfortunately, that includes Kennedy.

Did I mention that Kennedy also happens to be my coach’s daughter? Yep, the princess is practically wrapped in layers of bright yellow caution tape.

Kennedy stares at me in disgust as she narrows her eyes at my off-handed comment to the stewardess. “You look like the last guy a lesbian sleeps with before deciding to come out.”

Everyone but me laughs at her joke while she smiles in satisfaction before turning to where Beavers’ player Shay Walker and her girlfriend, Alyssa Doyle, are sitting. “Am I right, ladies?”

Alyssa nods and sarcastically quips, “Yep, the last guy I slept with before coming out was a six-foot-six, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound white dude.” She runs her hands down her extremely petite body. “’Cause I could totally take a man that size,” she adds tongue-in-cheek.

“Two hundred sixty-five,” I correct. “And let’s just say I’m…proportionate.” I wiggle my eyebrows up and down suggestively.

Kennedy snorts in disgust. “Ugh. Proportionate men don’t have to talk about it.”

“Is that one of your red flags?” I snap.

“Men who feel the need to talk about how well-endowed they are? Yep,” she pops the P.

“You better believe it is. In fact, I noticed your tattoo of a girl’s name when you lifted your luggage earlier.

That’s one of my top red flags. What woman wants to see the name of another woman on a man?

” She makes a look of contempt. “You’re so basic. ”

Vance begins to interrupt on my behalf, but I hold up my hand and shake my head to silence him. Fuck Kennedy. I don’t owe her any explanations.

I stand, needing to get away from her vitriol. “I’m going to tap the kidney.”

She rolls her eyes as she often does when I mention going to the bathroom. I tend to find new and creative ways to tell people I need to relieve myself. I used to do it sporadically, but knowing how much it bothers Kennedy only drives me to do so more often.

She stares at me. “You know what happens when your bottom lip and top lip push together?”

“What?” I ask.

“You shut the fuck up. Stop announcing it every damn time you go to the bathroom. No one cares,” she snarls. “It’s disgusting, just like everything about you.”

Fuck. This is going to be a long trip.

FIFTEEN HOURS LATER

Kennedy and I crash into my room with our lips locked. It’s the middle of the night, and we’ve been partying for hours.

First, I had to watch this crazy bitch prance around all afternoon in a gold bikini that left nothing to the imagination.

A freakin’ gold bikini. Star Wars kick-started that fantasy for every man in America.

Any man is lying if he says he hasn’t dreamed about fucking a sexy woman in a gold bikini.

I hated myself for the fact that my dick was hard all day watching her walk around the pool like she owned the place.

When it came time for our evening activities, she strutted into the lobby in a teeny tiny red dress I couldn’t take my eyes off of. It looked like she was seconds away from having a lip slip. Yep, those lips.

We’ve all had a lot to drink. The last few hours are spotty for me. I’m not sure I remember everything that’s gone on, and I truly hate this woman, but the urge to fuck her is stronger than anything else right now. Judging by her hands roaming all over my body, she seems to be feeling the same.

I’m in the process of enjoying the taste of the pink vodka drink on her tongue when she bites my lip. Hard.

I think she drew blood, and my cock oozes in excitement. I rock my hips into her so she can feel what she’s doing to me.

“You’re a freak,” she spits out as she rubs her hand up and down my length.

“Takes one to know one,” I bite back as I pinch her nipple through her flimsy dress.

“Ow, you dick.” She squeezes my cock harder, to a near-painful level. “Do it again.”

I look into her eyes. We’ve both had a lot to drink, but she appears to be aware of what’s going on.

I have a brief moment of thinking maybe this isn’t right, but, as if reading my mind, she grabs me by the shirt with both hands and says, “I know what I’m doing,” before she rips it open, causing the buttons to scatter all over the room.

“I’m not too drunk to fuck, so fuck me, you big gorilla. ”

“Maybe I can fuck the raging bitch out of you.”

She smiles as her teeth scrape along my jawline until her lips suction on my neck like she’s hoping to draw blood again. I know I’ll hate myself in the morning, but I’m too worked up and too drunk to care right now.

I push her shoulders away, giving me room to roughly lift her dress over her head, leaving her in a red lace bra and matching thong. She does a little twirl for me. “You like what you see? All men do,” she announces with complete and total confidence.

I might hate this woman, but there’s no denying she’s beautiful. Long, muscular legs, shapely hips, and huge tits. What’s not to like? Besides the personality.

Refusing to let her know what’s going through my head, I shrug, acting unaffected. “Meh. You’re okay. Good enough to fuck while I’m drunk. Not sober.”

She narrows her eyes at me before nodding her head to the obvious tent in my shorts. “Your body says otherwise. I bet your cock is leaking for me right now. Your tip is dripping with the need to slip into my overly wet and extremely tight pussy.”

She’s not wrong. Resisting the urge to squeeze myself in relief, I suggest, “Why don’t you find out for yourself, sugar lips?”

Without hesitation, she unbuckles my belt, unfastens the button on my shorts, and pulls down my zipper. My shorts fall to the floor on their own. I think I smoothly kick them away along with my shoes, but it might be a little clumsy given my state.

Her soft fingertips trace the muscles of my stomach, causing shivers to run down my body, before they enter the waistband of my boxer briefs.

She slowly pulls them down, staring unashamedly at my cock.

She mumbles, “I guess you weren’t wrong today.

You’re very…proportionate.” She swipes her thumb across my tip.

“And leaking for me, just like I knew you would be.”

I can’t help but reach for her. With a simple twist of my fingers, her bra falls away, and I take in her tits for the first time.

Oh hell, they’re even better than I imagined, and I’ve imagined them a lot in the past ten months.

They’re full, with rosy nipples begging for my mouth. I’m going to mark those suckers up.

She circles her thumb all over my pre-ejaculate and then brings the evidence to her mouth and sucks on it. “Hmm, it sure tastes like you like what you see.”