RISKY PLAY (RED CARD #1) BY RACHEL VAN DYKEN Page 0,51

“Baby, if you want me on my hands and knees, all you gotta do is ask.”

I left her with that parting thought.

And me with a raging hard-on.

Which I needed to get rid of immediately so I didn’t get arrested on my last day of soccer camp.

I grinned as I made my way to the car.

All in all, not the worst Saturday I’d ever had.

Chapter Thirty-Four

SLADE

Worst. Saturday. Ever.

Jagger wouldn’t stop staring at his phone with a shit-eating grin on his face, and I couldn’t stop trying to peer over his shoulder to see what put it there.

“Slade,” he said without looking up. “Look over my shoulder one more time and I’m punching you in the dick.”

I jerked back. “Can’t a guy be curious?”

He put his phone away and crossed his arms. “Curious is asking if I have a cold. Creepy is when you keep trying to read my texts and breathe down my neck in the process.”

I scowled. “I was just . . . bored.”

“Bored.” His eyebrows shot up. “Have to admit, that’s a new one.”

Idiot. Table for one.

I was waiting for a smart retort to pop up in my brain. Instead, I stared at him slack-jawed like I’d just been hit by a ball.

Our kids started arriving then.

Danny was finally smiling.

All was right with the world.

Except it wasn’t.

Because my world, however cash filled it was, didn’t include the one thing that Jagger apparently had.

Her.

Fuck, I’d been an idiot for blaming her.

For letting her go.

For thinking I could last without tasting her again.

I would do things differently.

But that was the shit part about life—you didn’t get do-overs. You got one chance, and then maybe if you were lucky and you screwed up—you got another.

I was out of chances.

“You look sad,” Danny said, coming to stand next to me. The kid had his arms crossed and was wearing one of my jerseys. “Mom says low blood sugar makes me moody. Here.” He handed me a warm, half-melted protein bar. “This should do the trick.”

“Sure will.” I laughed. “Are you sure you weren’t supposed to eat that, though?”

“Gross, like I would ever eat the cookies-and-cream flavor. I already tossed a peanut butter one in my bag. That one was in my pocket!”

Sure. Was.

“Thanks, man.” I opened it and took a bite to show my appreciation while he beamed to the rest of the kids running up.

I choked it down.

No choice since he kept looking at me to make sure I was chewing.

“Alright, Team Striker, gather around.”

It was Jags against Strikers for our final day. If we won, Jagger had to shave his head. If Jagger won, well, my famous locks were on the chopping block.

I took a deep breath. “Men, we have one goal today. Keep me from being the laughingstock of my team. I gotta be honest, guys, I don’t have a round head. It’s shaped like an ugly football, and I’ll probably never get a girlfriend if I have to shave my hair.” They started snickering. “Lads, I could not be more serious if my life depended on it. Do you want me to die alone?”

“No!” they cheered.

“Guys! We’re a team! Leave no man behind. I’m counting on you! My future self is counting on you! Now, go out there and have fun! Team Striker on three. One, two, three, Striker!”

They ran out screaming.

Jagger sent his out in similar fashion.

We stood side by side watching our handiwork as they warmed up.

“They grow up so damn fast.” I shook my head. “I swear Mitchell grew a hair on his chin this week.”

“Brady told me he found a hair on his balls, I guess they both win.”

We both burst into laughter as the guys ran around us emitting their own happy noises.

“If you ever lose the love of the game . . . just watch it through their eyes, huh?”

“Yeah.” He nodded and, without looking at me, coughed out, “You did good.”

I cupped my ear. “I’m sorry, lots of horns honking and people yelling, what was that?”

He gave me a shove. “You did good, jackass.”

“No cursing!” came Matt’s admonishment from behind us.

We turned, and Jagger shot Matt a death glare.

“You killed our moment, man!” I roared at him.

Matt held up his hands, eyes wide.

“Here we are ready to hug it out.” Jagger shook his head in disappointment.

“Start fresh,” I offered.

“And you”—Jagger spat the word you—“just had to lecture us about our language.”

Matt pinched the bridge of his nose. “I quit.”

I burst out laughing. “You like the smell of money too much. Besides, where