The Hot Shot
Kristen Callihan
The Hot Shot
Kristen Callihan
Plain Jane
Contents
THE HOT SHOT
Author Note Also by Kristen Callihan
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
About the Author
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © 2017 by Kristen Callihan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Digital Edition 1.0
All rights reserved. Where such permission is sufficient, the author grants the right to strip any DRM which may be applied to this work.
Those who upload this work up on any site without the author’s express permission are pirates and have stolen from the author. As such, those persons will likely end up in the level of hell where little devils shove stolen books into said persons’ unmentionable places for all eternity. Ye’ve been warned.
The hot Shot
First we were friends. Then we were roommates. Now I want more…
What can I say about Chess Copper? The woman is capable of bringing me to my knees. I know this about five minutes after getting naked for her.
No one is more surprised than me. The prickly photographer my team hired to shoot our annual charity calendar isn’t my usual type. She’s defense to my offense, a challenge at every turn. But when I’m with her, all the regrets and darkness goes away. She makes life fun.
I want to know Chess, be close to her. Which is a bad idea.
Chess is looking for a relationship. I’ve never given a woman more than one night. But when fate leaves Chess without a home, I step up and offer her mine. We’re roommates now. Friends without benefits. But it’s getting harder to keep our hands off each other. And the longer we live together the more I realize she’s becoming my everything.
Trick is… Now that I’ve made her believe I’m a bad bet, how do I convince her to give this player a true shot at forever?
Author Note
A few things…
* * *
The timeline for this story runs parallel to the one in The Game Plan. You don’t need to read The Game Plan to understand or enjoy The Hot Shot, but I want to point out that Dex and Fi’s story is playing out at the same time as Chess and Finn’s.
* * *
In this book, I reference several versions of the song Can’t Help Falling in Love. They are:
The original Elvis Presley
The cover by Ingrid Michaelson
The cover by Lick the Tins
* * *
You don’t have to listen to these songs to enjoy the book. But they definitely set the mood, if you are so inclined.
Also by Kristen Callihan
THE GAME ON SERIES
The Hook Up —Book 1
The Friend Zone —Book 2
The Game Plan —Book 3
VIP SERIES
Idol —Book 1
Managed —Book 2
Chapter 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 on film— and I’d been practically jumping 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. “And 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 a photoshoot, but a nude one, James had gone into fanboy hissy fit mode. For him, that usually means chain smoking and talking non-stop.
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, misting, and sometimes touching up our models. He’s a consummate professional, but he’s not immune. Some of our 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 my favorite city, New Orleans. 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 adds with emphasis, then 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 didn’t want to do this shoot. James and I are overworked at the moment, and I’m feeling the tell-tale 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 actually 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 it. 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, bittersweet macchiatos.
“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 smack down. 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, blazing blue eyes and tanned skin. So gorgeous, he makes my teeth hurt. And 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. I’m all that and a bag of chips, but don’t even think about taking a bite; I’ve better things to do.”
And so do I. 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’re 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 to assert some dominance to my own.
* * *
Finn
* * *
There’s a lesson I learned early on in life; sometimes you have to suffer thought shit. Best just buck up and get past it as quickly as possible. As a football player, there’s a lot of shit I suffer through: physical pain, mental exhaustion, mind numbing questions from the press, rigorous diets, lack of personal time. Looking at it from the outside, you’d wonder why the hell anyone would actually want to be a pro-football player. Answer: because it is the best fucking game on earth, and I kick ass at it.
But there are days like today, when I’m asked—ordered by my team’s marketing director—to pose for a calendar, that I really question my devotion to football.
I’ve been told this is for charity, which is the only reason I agreed. Even so, I give to charity. I use my face and my name to promote causes that protect children, the disadvantaged, the abused. It’s one of the best things about my fame. But striking a pose for a beefcake calendar makes me feel like a right fuckwit.
To top it off, I’m standing outside the photographer’s door with three of my teammates, and he isn’t answering. I pound on the metal door with the side of my fist, and the sound echoes in the wide stairwell. This is technically my day off. I could have been napping, soaking in the tub—don’t knock it ’til you try it—or playing Call of Duty on my PlayStation.
Then again, if he doesn’t show, we don’t do the shoot. No skin off my nose there. “We get the time wrong?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Nope,” says Dex, my center. “In fact, we’re a few minutes late.”
Perfect. We’re sitting out here with our dicks in our hands. “The photograph
er had better not be having some sort of artistic huff.”
Dex shrugs, looking bored. “Maybe he’s on the can or something.”
My starting wideout, Jake Ryder seems more interested in cracking jokes.
Jake shouts at the door again, banging on it with his fist. “Dude! Nip it off and open up!”
If I wasn’t so distracted, I’d be embarrassed. I pace and eye the stairs. It isn’t too late to get away.
Unfortunately, the door whips open. A woman stands there looking pissed and kind of scary. She’s thin and tall, maybe five foot ten, which still makes her six inches shorter than me. Her eyebrows are arrow straight, not something I’d normally notice on a woman, but it gives her such a fierce expression, as if she’s an Amazonian ready to do battle, that it’s hard to ignore. Or maybe it’s that she’s glaring like she’s deciding which one of us she wants dismember first.
As if she hears my thoughts, her dark gaze snaps to me. And I swear I feel it down to my balls. She’s not pretty. No, her narrow face and high-bridged nose are too severe for pretty. Long straight hair, inky black at the roots and magenta at the tips, give her a Goth girl vibe. As does her black tank-top and black jeans. A tattoo of dogwood flowers, done in black lines, run along her left upper arm.
In short, she’s the type of female who has stayed clear of me for my entire post-pubescent life. And I’ve stayed clear of her type as well. Call it cliché, I don’t care. It’s just a simple truth; women who look like her have never had any interest in guys like me, and I’ve never given her type a second glance.
