Draw Play - Jami Davenport
The Steelheads several years later:
7—Blindsided
8—Game Changer
9—Fumble Recovery
I’m a true-crime junkie. For this book, I finally decided to put all those hours of watching true-crime television to use. I’ve always been fascinated by the families who continue to search for their missing loved ones years after they’ve disappeared. I’ve been torn between applauding them and wanting them to move on and live their lives. I especially feel sorry for the brothers, sisters, and children of the missing family members, as it often seems they’re forgotten while the family strives to unearth the truth.
I wanted to know how it felt to be a sibling of a missing person, especially when your parent dedicates his entire life to finding your sibling and expects you to do the same. Such is Mac’s story in Draw Play.
Chapter 1—Pretty is as Pretty Does?
“Yeah, yeah, Bruiser, all you’ll ever be is just another pretty face.”
“Never criticize the face that feeds you,” Bruce Mackey, a.k.a. Bruiser, shot back as he gritted his teeth.
Nothing but a pretty face? Hell. That wasn’t the type of thing a person tells a 230-pound premier running back for the Seattle Steelheads. Not that Bruiser hadn’t worked his ass off to craft that very superficial image—then worked that much harder on the football field to show the world and the NFL that he was a football player first and pretty face second.
Football was his job and his passion. On a normal day, it took two linebackers and handful of defensive backs to bring him to his knees as he fought like a wild man for a few extra yards, hence the odd nickname Bruiser.
Playing the role of a pretty boy usually suited him just fine. Other than being one tough hombre on the football field, no one expected anything serious or profound from the league’s “Hottest Hunk,” which kept even the nosiest of reporters from diving deep enough to unearth the painful truth lurking behind his carefree mask. That was just fine. He let his play on the field speak for itself. The rest was no one’s business but his.
Harold, the photographer, winked at him. “Hey, I’m not criticizing. That pretty face is certifiable money in the bank.”
Bruiser didn’t wink back.
Click. Click. Click.
He didn’t move, just held his pose and stared over the head of the photographer at nothing.
“Look straight into the camera. Pretend I’m a beautiful woman across the room at a party. I’m beckoning you.”
“You? I don’t have that good of an imagination. No one does.” Bruiser resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He really hated this stuff, but money was money. He had a debt to pay and an even bigger promise to keep.
“Relax. You’re too stiff.”
Stiff? Hell, his dick had shriveled to nothing on this unseasonably chilly forty-five-degree morning. It wasn’t like he was acclimated to anything below sixty degrees after spending the last several months in Southern Cali, having traded the Seattle rainy season for warm sand, mega endorsement deals, movie cameos, and bikini-clad women. He’d only returned to the Emerald City a few short days ago.
“I’m freezing my ass off. Hurry up, will ya?”
“You’re in a snit today.” Harold sniffed as if Bruiser had hurt his feelings. Well, fuck, Harold wasn’t the one standing around in a frigid horse barn wearing nothing but SportsJock underwear, a Stetson, and a pair of Tony Lamas. Harold’s assistant flitted around like a pesky fly, messing with Bruiser’s perfectly styled blond hair. He fought like hell not to bite the poor little guy’s head off just for sport.
“Okay, tease us a little. Hook your thumb in the waistband and pull it down just so it stops short of your junk.”
Bruiser knew the drill. He almost made more from modeling than he did football. Plus, he didn’t have a modest bone in his body. If they’d asked him to strip, he’d have stripped and given them the full-meal deal. But the league frowned on all-out nudity, so Bruiser’s nude modeling had to be tastefully done with the goods disguised in dark shadows.
Bruiser changed his pose, propping one foot on the hay bale.
“Turn slightly. Put your back to me. Good. Good.”
Click. Click. Click.
“Now, strip off your shorts, hold them with a finger, and cover your package with your hat.”
“How does that sell underwear?” Despite Bruiser’s immodesty, the thought of getting nude fucking irritated him today.
“Do I look like a marketing person? Just another pose they asked for.”
Bruiser shrugged and shucked out of his briefs—not easy when wearing boots—and dangled them on one finger as