On His Turf

By Jennifer Watts

Carmelina Dahl is used to taking care of herself. Growing up below the poverty line with an addict for a mother, she hardly had another choice. At twenty-six years old, she still guards her heart like a penalty box, but her journalism career is well on its way and she wants a white-picket-fence life of her own. On a sweltering Friday afternoon, she tags along to a Major League Soccer game with her friend from the sports-desk, but she doesn’t expect to strike the attention of “golden boy” Shane Mitchell, the goalkeeper for Austin United, infamous for his hard-partying ways and love of playing the field (in more ways than one).

Carmelina is no fan of soccer, jocks, nor this particular Texan soccer-jock. She refuses to be another notch on his bedpost, despite the fireworks of desire exploding between them both. Nonetheless, the tournament for Carmelina’s heart has hardly begun, and Shane is used to getting what he wants. With eyes for her alone, he's not about to back down. Possessive and domineering, this man lives to save and plays to win. The walls around Carmelina’s heart were fortified long ago, but this cocky and confident soccer goalie is just the man to tear them down. Shane might be hell-bent on proving that some people are worth trusting, but little does he know that Carmelina guards a “red-card” worthy secret of her own. When it comes to the woman he loves, will Carmelina’s truth even the score, or prove too offside for Shane to handle?

Standalone novel with HEA - no cliffhanger ending. Recommended for 18+ due to language and sexual situations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Watts
• Release date: Feb 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311794161

Jennifer Watts

Jennifer Watts was born in Vancouver and attended the University of British Columbia, graduating with a degree in English and Creative Writing in 2002. Jennifer has been working in finance for over 10 years and by day makes her living as a Bank Manager.Jennifer currently lives in Surrey, BC with her husband, two children and two dogs.

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On His Turf

Jennifer Watts

Copyright © 2015 Jennifer Watts

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval systems without prior written permission of the author except where permitted by law.

Distributed by Smashwords

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

Editing by www.creativestraight.com

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

For the keeper of my heart, Thorsten.

Contents

Dedication

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

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

It’s a perfect June day in the Texas Memorial Stadium and the sunlight cascades across the bleachers like honey, sweetening everything but my ever-dampening mood. I shoot my colleague a sideways glare and wonder how I ended up at a soccer stadium after work on a Friday afternoon anyways.

Why did I let you talk me into this again?

Let’s see, a cloudless blue sky, vibrant green grass, and hot guys running around without an ounce of fat on their bodies—yeah, I’m a terrible person. Leigh’s voice is flatter than Texas, but I tune her out and study the field.

My feet are killing me! I huff out like a baby dragon, hiking my purse strap over my shoulder. Why don’t we have any chairs?

Leigh shakes out her dark red curls. You’re a reporter—surely you recognize the press area?

"No, I’m the lowly Assistant to the Features Editor. The same lowly assistant who’s been schlepping memos around the office all day and could really use a chair right now," I whine.

"Tom needs a couple of good shots for the sports page, and I have to interview golden boy over there afterwards, so keep your panties on, girl."

Leigh points to the opposite side of the field, where Austin’s goalkeeper surveys the gameplay, squatting down low with both hands on his grass-stained knees. The home team is killing their opponents, so he’s had little to do besides stand around looking pretty, at which he happens to be master. I’ve heard of him before—obviously—every woman in this town with a pulse has heard of Shane Mitchell. The Texas-born-and-bred hometown boy has a golden touch and the looks to go with it. I thumb through the program to his player page and scan though his stats, which are flawless, before my eyes travel back to him like lasers. At six-foot-one and two-hundred pounds, he’s sturdier than most players on the field, with calves that could cut through glass.

I fall into fascination with his close-cropped sandy-blond hair, spiked at the front like jagged crystal, feeling a little tingle low down in my belly. Even from the sidelines, I can see what the fuss is all about. He shoots a glance at the press area and catches me shooting one back—I bet he catches everything headed his way, both looks and shots on net. His eyes hold mine with such intensity that I cannot help but imagine his gloved hands running all over my body. Suddenly I understand how it feels to be every other woman in Texas. Refusing to break from his gaze, I wet my lips and Shane winks back in response—just like that, I remember why I don’t date athletes, or jerks, or athletes with reputations for being complete jerks.

Meanwhile, Leigh mutters sentence fragments about the game into her handheld recorder, and Tom-the-photographer snaps at the action like paparazzi. He looks bored out of his mind so I offer him a smile. A short man with thinning hair and a weathered face, Tom has been with the paper for over twenty years. It’s no wonder that this game isn’t holding his interest. Leigh, on the other hand, watches the play with rapt attention. She’s been on the sports desk for seven years; I’ve been one floor down in the Features Department for three years while trying to climb the corporate ladder. My journalism degree from the University of Texas, Austin didn’t come cheap and by twenty-six years old, I thought I’d be closer to my dream of becoming a reporter.

If I have to watch soccer in the hot sun, I’m going to need a drink. I pluck one of the clear plastic cups from the passing vendor’s tray.

Hey! The vendor protests as I raise the beer to my lips, shutting his mouth when I wave a twenty-dollar bill in front of his face.

Sorry. I mumble a half-assed apology and hand him the money.

Leigh clicks her tongue. You’re not supposed to be drinking that down here.

"Then why is he down here? I nod to the vendor. Besides, I’m thirsty."

Ugh, I don’t know how you can drink that stuff anyways.

She turns up her delicate nose, but I know that she’s missing out.

I love beer. I sigh like I’m enjoying the tropical vacation that I never actually had. It’s my ass that wishes I didn’t. I take a huge sip from my cup, but I don’t drink to get drunk—god knows that I saw enough of that growing up—I just genuinely love the taste of good beer. The ice-cold liquid is the perfect relief from the late afternoon heat and my lingering memory of Shane Mitchell’s scorching gaze.

"Oh please! You look like that Victoria’s Secret model, Adriana Lima, but with lighter hair, Caramel." Leigh interrupts my thoughts by using the nickname that she coined and blessed me with when I first started at the paper. Apparently my hair is the exact same color as caramel chew.

Not even close, but thanks for the ego boost, I snort.

You’re right, she concedes. I actually think your cup size is bigger, Caramel. Her eyes twinkle mischievously. I elbow her in the ribs, but I secretly love that nickname, since my hair is my favorite feature. It’s long and wavy and somewhere in between blond and brown, but it can be hard to tame—one blind date described it as hair that you could really grab a hold of—suffice it to say, there was no second date. I’ll take the name Caramel over my Christian name Carmelina any day, the one my father gave me the same day I was born, before he high-tailed it back to Mexico for good. I’ve never met him face to face, but he sends me a birthday card filled with pictures of his new family every year.

I suppose my father is to thank for my permanent tan, since my mother is of Scandinavian-descent with pale hair and timeless eyes. I’m the product of their little experiment, but despite my olive skin tone, my baby blue eyes appear almost clear. I’ve also been blessed (or cursed, depending how you think about it) with a full chest, round hips, and more junk in the trunk than I’d hoped at five-foot-four. My waist is small though, and the rest of me stays lean provided that I turn up the treadmill twice a week and go easy on the beer sometimes, which is a tricky feat when you love the stuff as much as me. I take another frothy sip from the plastic cup, letting out a sigh. The play is still concentrated in the away team’s end, and I catch Shane Mitchell staring at me again with a cocky smile playing across his lips.

"Seriously, from the way you keep sighing, you’d think I was torturing you or something. Look, I got you out of the office early—on a Friday—under the guise of your shadowing me. Now you’re drinking beer and watching hot men run around, so just say thank you already! Besides, don’t your people love soccer?" Leigh raises her eyebrow at me, but I just shake my head.

"If by my people you mean poor white trash from East Riverside, then no, we don’t love soccer." I spit out the words as if they taste bad.

You are anything but trash, girl. Now turn that frown upside down! An exaggerated cheer lets loose from her lips and I roll my eyes, turning back to the field in time to catch Shane diving for the ball. His every movement is braced by a set of thick, powerful thighs, blocking the shot and punting the ball back up the field, like a rocket propelled by the hooting and hollering of the crowd. The stands appear almost full, meaning there must be close to fifty thousand people in attendance. I hear a few girls shouting I love you! in Shane’s direction, and he flashes a smile so dazzling that Leigh literally swoons beside me. His cocky smile reveals an all-white set of teeth against his supremely tanned skin. I snort and shake my head like a human pom-pom; guys like him know exactly how hot they are and exploit it every chance they get.

Just look at him… Leigh has the dreamy voice of a thirty-five-year-old self-professed cougar behaving like a teenager. Always on the prowl, she makes no secret of her fondness for younger men. Apparently she hit the mother lode upon moving from Seattle to Texas, between all the cute accents and tight young cowboy asses. Despite her barbed tongue, I wouldn’t call Leigh crude—more like funny and direct, qualities enhanced by the contrast with her long willowy frame, flawless face, and strawberry hair.

You know the majority of these guys make less than one-hundred-thousand bucks a year? Leigh asks. "Golden boy over there is the highest paid member on the team, but he only makes like a quarter-of-a-million."

I quirk one eyebrow in her direction. That’s a hell of a lot more than I make.

I should set my sights on a higher-yield sport, like football or hockey….as much as I love soccer, she muses.

What about golf? I tease. Or baseball, the real money is in baseball.

I guess I could get into a Pitcher or a Catcher. She misses my sarcasm by several baseball diamonds. Maybe we should take a road trip to Houston!

I ignore her last comment, focusing my attention on the game instead. Our team loses possession of the ball and the away team takes a shot on net. The ball arcs higher than a rainbow and Shane jumps up to catch it, only to watch it sail over the top of the net. Feeling possessed, I heckle out a loud booOOOOOoo from my spot on the sidelines. Shane’s gaze cuts my way and his eyes narrow into slits.

I’m not usually a heckler, but I chalk it up to the beer and my aching feet. Shane retrieves the ball and takes his stance, preparing for a goal kick. I giggle and finally start enjoying the game, just as the ball comes spinning towards me like a golden snitch, knocking my half-empty beer all over my white button-down blouse.

Cheers, Shane Mitchell, friggin’ cheers.

Chapter 2

I drop my plastic cup with a shriek and tend to my drenched shirt. My white lace bra is clearly visible beneath my blouse, but of course there’s no way to dry myself off in the standing press area.

Leigh shrugs. Serves you right, she says, and I shoot her the death stare that she deserves. Everyone in the press area is rolling with laughter, including the now-traitor-photographer, Tom. When my eyes cut back to the field, I’m mortified to see Shane Mitchell wearing a smirk of his own.

I’m getting out of here. I wring out the bottom of my shirt until it sobs with fermented hops.

No way, José. Leigh grabs my arm, foiling my escape. "You’re my ride and I need a few words with golden boy after the game."

But it’s not even half-time yet!

Oh, you’ll live. She half-rolls her eyes and giggles, because clearly empathy is no longer a thing.

I stomp away and find a free seat in the upper stands, taking a moment to rest my feet before suffering through another forty-five minutes of mindless torture. Despite the hot sun, my thick cotton blouse doesn’t dry all that quickly. I’m forced to wrap my arms around my body or risk flashing my boobs at the crowd. Meanwhile, the Neanderthal beside me, with his red-painted face and Austin United jersey, stares me down like he’d rather watch me than the game.

The more I follow the action, the more it becomes clear that I know zilch about Major League Soccer. I also have zero interest in learning. The way I see it, professional soccer should be left to the professionals, i.e. the European and Latin teams, while we Americans pursue touchdowns and tailgate parties here in the flyover states. That said, I still manage to make it to the end of the final half, making a beeline for Leigh the moment that the whistle blows.

• • •

Leigh drags me through the bustling locker room with sweaty players in various stages of undress. Apart from one camera crew from the local news station, there are no other reporters around, not to mention women in general. We walk past a wall of lockers and I recognize the guy who scored two goals tonight. He finds my eyes and gives me a wink, zipping up his jeans as if he thinks I’m checking him out. He’s definitely cute though, with his black faux-hawk, green eyes, and that lean muscular frame.

Is there anything I can help you with, ladies? His smooth voice glides over both of us, but I shake my head and let Leigh answer.

"I bet there’s a few things you could help me with, gorgeous, but I’m actually looking for Shane Mitchell."

He smiles, sticking his thumb over his shoulder towards a closed door. He’s hiding back there, as usual.

I head for the back, tugging on Leigh’s arm to draw her attention away from the team’s top-scorer, who watches our retreat with a dopey smirk and rock-solid abs.

That’s the striker, Marco Hurtado, she says, grinning over her shoulder. Yum, I should go back and get a statement from him, or a phone number.

Focus, please! I shout, perhaps a tad too loudly, but I’m wet and cold and more than a little irritated. My shirt is soaked and I need to get home.

Leigh begrudgingly turns to knock on the door, but there’s no answer. We try one more time before she gives up and cranks the handle, following the swinging door into the room. Immediately I feel the hot steam from the shower and hear one solitary tap running in the distance.

Shit! I mutter, at precisely the same moment that Leigh breathes a giant YES.

We’re so not supposed to be in here! I whirl around to flee the scene, but instead I come face-to-face with Shane Mitchell standing statuesque in all his naked glory. My eyes drift like currents over his tanned chest and chiseled abdomen. His skin is still damp from the shower, and I notice a large black tattoo on his left pectoral, reaching over his shoulder and extending halfway down his left arm. I spot some words scribbled along the inside of his bicep, but I cannot quite make out the secret message. Shane doesn’t strike me as the tattoo-type, between his boy-next-door looks and all-American soccer skills. My eyes travel down his waist, following the line of his treasure trail, but I cannot help but yelp at his impressive girth. He chuckles and my eyes snap up to meet his.

You’re wet, he says.

I flush beet red, deeply aware of the dampness growing between my legs. W-What?

Your shirt is wet.

Oh, yeah, I spilt some beer on it.

"Yeah, I saw." His lips curve into a crooked smile.

No shit, Sherlock.

He cocks one eyebrow. Sorry?

"You should be sorry," I hiss, but golden boy just chuckles.

Sorry we barged in on you, Leigh interrupts, but she doesn’t sound sorry at all. I’m here for an interview and just need a few minutes of your time, if you’ll have me?

"I figured you’d wait outside—you know, women and locker rooms—but let’s go ahead, now that you’re here." He addresses Leigh but never takes his eyes off me, so I shift my gaze to the ground, careful not to admire his tanned figure in the process.

I guess I should put on a towel…? He says it like a question, and I clear my throat as if he’s talking to me.

If you must, Leigh says, sighing.

He saunters over to the wall and plucks a fluffy white towel from the bottom peg, proceeding to wrap the fabric around his waist. It’s slung so low around his hips that it seems in serious danger of falling off altogether. Again, I cannot help but stare at the deep V pointing a path towards what lies beneath the white fabric. I mean, Christ, the guy has an eight-pack. An involuntary tremor passes through me as I shut my eyes, working to focus my attention on something, anything else.

Leigh holds the handheld recorder up to his lips and poses her first question. So, what can you tell us about today’s shutout?

Just doing my job. He flashes his trademark grin, and Leigh’s pupils visibly dilate. His smile reveals a perfect set of white teeth, with dimples in both cheeks, and not the cutesy Mario Lopez kind but manly dimples reaching right into his chin. Up close, I notice a faint white scar across his upper lip, which only makes him sexier.

"You’re like a soccer-rock-star these days. Does all that attention bother you?"

Not in the least. I’d rather have too much attention than none at all.

So, you were born and raised in Austin but attended Florida State on scholarship, before spending seven years with Real Salt Lake and finally returning to Austin. Sounds like you finally got that home-field advantage.

I’m a Texas boy at heart, and I’m so grateful to play for the same fans who’ve supported me my whole life. They say to never ask a man if he’s from Texas, because if he is from Texas, he’ll tell you on his own. If he ain’t, well, no need to embarrass him. He finishes with a wink.

Austin United saw plenty of changes this year. How do you feel about the team that Coach O’Brien put together?

It’s a close-knit group with a great bunch of guys. I couldn’t have found a better club.

You recently celebrated your thirtieth birthday—congratulations. How long do you plan on protecting the net?

I’ll have the game for as long as it has me. I love playing.

I don’t miss the flash of passion in his eyes.

If you weren’t a footballer, what would you do?

Man, that’s a tough question. I’ve always played soccer. I think about it when I wake up in the morning and climb into bed every night.

"Speaking of beds, is there someone special in your life right now?"

His mouth twitches like there’s a fish hook caught in his lip. I don’t really do girlfriends.

I silently gloat, because I was right—definite asshole right here—but Leigh doesn’t miss a beat.

That’s an impressive tattoo. Can you tell me what it means? His body knots up and he answers the questions as if he’s talking to a wall.

I think we’ve talked enough for now. His abrupt response sends a clear signal that Leigh has touched the wrong nerve.

Oh, okay, she stammers, obviously flustered. She switches off the recorder and tosses the thing in her bag before taking a few steps back. Shane seems to catch his blunder though, recovering with another skirt-raising grin.

It was a pleasure meeting you, doll. His low voice bounces off her like notes from a baritone, and I watch her hand tremble as she grips his fingers.

You, too, she adds, breathlessly.

My cheeks heat up as his eyes shift in my direction, where I’m still working to wipe the naked image of Shane from my mind.

You… His words come out like a growl.

Me? I squeak.

"You were booing me."

His face is blanker than my living room walls growing up, which is saying a lot. I never would’ve entered the dressing room with Leigh if I’d known he’d call me out for heckling.

"It wasn’t you specifically…it was more at soccer in general," I explain.

A beat passes before he throws back his head and laughs. You have a problem with soccer?

I shrug. It’s just not my thing.

Then what is your thing, beautiful, other than lacy white bras? His eyes travel down the front of my button-up shirt, but I’m far more stunned that he’s referring to me as beautiful. I kick myself for being so weak. I know exactly how guys like him operate, but desire still trickles through my body at his words.

Investigative Journalism—that’s my thing.

So you’re a reporter?

Hardly, I’m an Assistant at the Observer, which means that most of my time is spent making coffee and occasionally proofreading articles.

Sounds like you love it, he says, totally deadpan, but I hand the words right back to him and tug on Leigh’s arm to leave.

"It’s a very glamorous job. Can we go now?" I whisper to my friend, but his rough voice stops me in my tracks.

Wait, what are you ladies doing tomorrow night?

Before I can speak, Leigh answers for us both. Nothing, we’re free. She stresses the word free and it sounds so dirty that I wonder if I need to push him out of the way and jump into the shower myself.

I’m having a party at my place downtown. I’m in the lofts on Third down by the lake. You two should come.

No, thank you, I say, at the same time that Leigh answers, Definitely.

Give me your phone and I’ll program in my number. You can text me for the address. He stares directly at me as he speaks, but I’m saved by Leigh who thrusts her own phone in his face. He grits his teeth in blatant displeasure but grabs the phone nonetheless and plugs in his number. As he hands it back, his eyes come up to meet mine.

I expect to see you both there.

His tone is so dominant that I find myself nodding my head, despite knowing in the back of my mind that there’s no way in hell I’ll be darkening the door of a party thrown by the all-star playboy soccer player, Shane Mitchell.

• • •

It turns out that hell has other plans for me. After much begging, pleading, and cajoling on Leigh’s part, I agreed to attend Shane’s party on one condition: that we brought Matty with us. Matty was quick-witted, funny, fabulous and always obliging whenever I needed him to play the part of my date for the night; in other words, Matty was my best friend.

I survey the entire contents of my closet, splayed like confetti across my mattress, but it’s been awhile since I’ve attended a party and finding an outfit is like shopping for my high school prom. Between my part-time job working in a nightclub and my full-time job at the paper, I’ve hardly been living it up these days. My Saturday nights usually consist of takeout pizza, craft beer, and HBO—I don’t mean to brag but I lead a very exciting life.

I gaze out my second-story window, where the sky has darkened to deep hues of indigo. Matty will be here any minute, but arranging my wardrobe for a star athlete’s downtown loft-party is a new task for me. A dress might be too over-the-top, plus I don’t want to send the wrong message, so I pull out a pair of white skinny jeans and a sleeveless black blouse, which dips low like a crescent moon in the back. It ranks among my favorite tops, because it keeps the girls mostly covered and for me this has always been a challenge. Not to mention, it beautifully highlights the progress I’ve made toning up my back in the gym. I pair the outfit with some strappy black high heels and simple silver jewelry, piling my long hair atop my head in a high ponytail.

Just then, I hear Matty let himself in the front door, whistling when he sees my reflection in the mirror. I should take you out more often. He does a little twirl before wrapping his arms around my waist. You’re beautiful, Carm.

You don’t look so bad yourself. Matty wears his usual hipster uniform—fitted jeans, a gray V-neck, and high-top Converse—but he’s been pulling off that look since long before it went mainstream. His straight black hair is gelled into a pompadour and his matching, thick-framed