Draft Pick: Wolverine Players Series, #1

By Alexx Andria

Let's cut to the chase—I'm a prick. Top collegiate quarterback, the so-called Golden Boy on campus, and a sure bet for the NFL. Sounds great, right? But fame comes with its own playbook, and I've been playing by the rules... until Starlie.

She's the kind of woman who changes the game. We were fire together, but I fumbled. I ghosted her, no excuses, no goodbyes. Typical move for a guy like me, and yet, I can't shake her off. She's more than just another scorching one night stand, and I realized it way too late.

But here's the twist: Starlie's pregnant. My baby. And that's a wake-up call even I can't ignore.

This time, I'm playing for keeps. I've got one shot to show Starlie I'm more than my mistakes, more than the headlines. But in the ultimate game of love, can I score a replay for a second chance with the only woman who ever made me want to be a better man?

Or did I blow my chance at a real future worth playing for?

Draft Pick is a spicy romcom with the following tropes: curvy girl/popular guy, unplanned pregnancy, cinnamon-roll hero, he falls first, sports romance. Enjoy!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexx Andria
• Release date: Nov 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223293873

Alexx Andria

Alexx Andria is a USA TODAY best-selling author who writes hot, contemporary stories about strong women and their difficult men. She loves bringing an Alpha man to his knees through the cunning and wit of a woman who knows her worth. Happily-ever-afters are a must but it's a rocky journey to that sweet spot, which is part of the fun. Discover your newest obsession with an Alexx Andria read!

Book preview

Chapter 1

I can’t believe you talked me into this, I said to my best friend, Darby, the loud warbling from the drunken patron instantly pulling my attention and curving my lips in a reluctant smile.

Even if my dress was squeezing my will to live and shoving my boobs nearly under my chin, karaoke bars were my weakness, and Darby knew it.

Damn her for knowing me too well.

For six months, I’d spent too much time locked away from society, parked on my sofa in the forgiving stretch of yoga pants while power munching bowls of butter-soaked popcorn.

And Darby had decided enough was enough.

You need this, Darby insisted, setting down two tequila shots and gesturing for me to follow her lead as she licked the salt, sucked the lemon, and then downed the liquor. She squinted and gasped, Your turn, I knew there was no getting out of Operation Drag Starlie Back To The Living, so I might as well bootstrap it up.

The burn of tequila screwed my face into a grimace as I flapped my hands like a bird trying to take flight, but I got it all down in one fell swoop, successfully maintaining my party cred.

Girls’ night out was Darby’s idea — and participation was mandatory — because it was criminal for a 21-year-old college student to live like an 80-year-old woman just because she let a medium-ugly guy break her heart. Her words, not mine. Derek might not have been a ’10,’ but he hadn’t been a ‘2’ either.

See? Troubles are already drifting away, Darby said with an airy smile, motioning for another round. Tequila understands, tequila listens — and best of all, tequila doesn’t judge.

I laughed ruefully, my throat still burning from the booze. Darby was a force of nature — like a tornado or a hurricane — but she always had my back, and I loved her for it, even if the last thing I’d wanted to do was party tonight.

A few more of these and you’ll be like, ‘Derek who?’ and that’s exactly what needs to happen, Darby said, adding with a sudden grimace, Remind me again what you saw in him?

Um, well, he was sweet—

No.

Funny—

Not even a little bit, she deadpanned.

Okay, I know you didn’t like him but I thought he was—

Shh, shhh, the man was a loser and he didn’t deserve a single taste of the juicy peach that you are. He cheated on you multiple times, talked you into putting that ridiculous gaming station on your credit card and never paid you back, and then left you on the lease knowing full well you couldn’t afford the rent on your own. What we aren’t doing tonight is rewriting history, got it?

Got it. I winced. All true. However, something good came out of it all. Danielle is the best roommate I’ve ever had and that includes Derek.

Yeah, because she pays her half of the rent, she’s never around, and she doesn’t cheat on you every time your back is turned, Darby quipped.

Double ouch, but I couldn’t argue. Nothing like having my self-esteem splayed out on the slab for everyone to see.

I know you think I’m not over Derek and that’s why I’ve been keeping to myself but that’s not it. Now that the fog’s cleared, I’m embarrassed to see how much I let him get away with. I mean, it’s mortifying.

Darby’s expression softened. Look honey, we’ve all made questionable dating choices but when the Universe cleans house, we say thank you and count the experience on our karmic journey as lessons paid. And good God, was he a lesson. She sighed with regretful distaste. I really wished you would’ve listened to me when I said, ‘hell no’ the minute he started sniffing around.

Eww. We’re not dogs.

"Correction — he is absolutely a dog and it’s a miracle he didn’t give you fleas."

Narrowly dodged a bullet there, I said, thinking of all the times I went to the free campus clinic for an STD test because my boyfriend couldn’t keep his dick in his pants.

Damn right about that, Darby agreed.

I guess if I was being honest, Derek hadn’t been all that cute. Not my usual type, for sure, but that’d been part of the allure. He’d been the nerdy guy — and he’d swept me off my feet with big promises and eyes full of stardust when he looked at me.

Until I realized it’d all been an act. Thanks to Derek, I learned a new term: love-bombing, a favorite manipulation tactic narcissists use. Thanks for the education — and the emotional damage – bro.

Well, as my grandmother would say, ‘Good riddance to bad bullshit, or something like that. You get the point.

Your grandma seems like a badass.

Cussed like a sailor and smoked like a felon with nothing to lose. God, I miss that woman.

RIP, I murmured in solidarity. 

Darby shook off the brief heartbeat of nostalgia, saying, Tonight is all about shaking off the past like a bad dream and embracing the future. You’re the shit, girl, and it’s time you start realizing it. You’re blond, beautiful, with banging curves. There’s no way we’re starting our senior year in college anchored by stupid men. In fact, I think we ought to swear off men entirely and find ourselves girlfriends. Let’s embrace the stereotype and explore our sexuality before life leaches the adventure out of us.

My face screwed into a skeptical frown. Become a lesbian? I don’t think that’s for me. I was all for shaking off the shackles of Derek’s hold on me but switching teams wasn’t on the agenda. You go for it, though. I’ll cheer you on from the sidelines.

Darby laughed. Eh, I’m not sure it’s for me either but I guess you don’t know unless you try.

I have a vagina. I don’t need to play with someone else’s.

Yeah, fair point, she conceded, squealing and motioning toward our friends to join us. 

Evie, Lark, and Sloane crossed the crowded floor, joining our table. Even though I hadn’t been excited about spending my evening in a local bar away from the usual San Jose State campus haunts, I was happy to see the girls.

There she is! Evie exclaimed, wrapping me in a tight hug like the spicy Latina she was. You’ve practically disappeared from life! I was starting to worry that you’d transferred schools or something.

Yeah, we were about to require proof of life from your roommate if we didn’t hear from you soon, Lark said, pausing to tie up her long red hair in a messy bun. What are we drinking tonight?

Me and Darby started off with tequila shots, but we’ve both ordered beer, I answered, returning to the subject of my roommate, And good luck with that, she’s never home these days. I think she might be an escort or something, I admitted, the tequila shot loosening my tongue. My roommate, Danielle, rarely appeared around the apartment, but she had designer clothes and drove a sports car. Also, as far as I could tell, she didn’t have a job either. I didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but unless she’d fallen into a trust fund situation, all signs pointed to something involving paid time with wealthy men. No judgment from me, get that bag, sis, I said, shrugging.

That’s the gig I want, Sloane decided. Tell her to help a sister out. How do I get started? I mean, safely, of course. I definitely don’t want to end up locked in a basement somewhere.

"Sloane, you’re loco. You want to be a hooker? Evie said with an incredulous peal of laughter. What would Bob say?"

Sloane waved away Evie’s question. Bob-Shmob. I’m too young to be tied down. Besides, I think I might be polyamorous.

Oh, that’s fun. Although, last week, you were a sapiophile because you listened to one lecture by a guest professor who just happened to be hot, I reminded her. Sloane was notorious for flitting from one idea to another. None of us took her seriously, and it was easier to nod and accept whatever she was latched onto.

That’s different. I’m serious this time, Sloane protested in between, motioning for the waitress for another round of drinks. I resonate with the whole concept of loving multiple people. I mean, from an anthropological standpoint, we’re not meant to be monogamous.

I can totally see that working for you, I said, tipping the waitress for my beer. But you might want to let Bob off the hook before you do. He’s crazy about you and doesn’t seem the type to share.

Sloane and Bob — the most mismatched duo if I’d ever seen one — but at least they were together. Bob adored her even though she fed him a steady diet of anxiety with her constant indecision and mood swings.

No matter what Sloane did, Bob would be there to cuddle her at night.

Ugh. No, I wasn’t going to do that. Darby was right; I’d spent long enough buried in my grief over my break up with Derek, and maybe it was the tequila starting to take hold, but I was ready to have a good time.

Derek hadn’t been the best of boyfriends. Why was I so bent about his leaving? Rejection sucked, no matter how you sliced it. And now…I had issues. Before Derek, I hadn’t been insecure about myself, but now, I felt like damaged fruit. 

Suddenly, my imperfections loomed large in my head, and the thought of getting naked with someone new filled me with dread.

Of course, I couldn’t admit this to Darby, or she’d bop me on the head for being dumb, but it was true. I guess I had to find a way to get over it, or else my senior year would be very dull, and I couldn’t let Derek think he’d won by breaking me into small pieces.

‘I will survive…’ someone was singing the Gloria Gaynor classic, and it was going straight to my soul. Yeah, that’s right, I would survive and toss the memory of Derek and me in a box marked shit-to-be-forgotten.

Enough of the pity party.

The music was popping, my toes were tapping, and my friends were the absolute best, so what the hell, let’s tear this place down.

It’d been a while since I’d taken the stage. The second shot of liquid courage burned away my introverted nature, and I was humming under my breath. What are we singing tonight? I asked, breaking into the low-key squabbling between Sloane and Evie. Old-school Britney? Or a tried-and-true classic, Love Shack by the B-52s?

I’m not drunk enough for that, Darby said but gestured to me, you don’t need us, you can actually sing. Go, take the stage while we take some more shots.

A tremulous smile curved my lips as I eyed the stage. A karaoke bar was the only place I felt able to let loose. I’d never dare sing without the protection of a dimly lit bar, insulated by the diminished expectations of drunk patrons, but I missed belting out a few songs. Another casualty of Derek’s influence — he thought karaoke bars were cliche and played out. 

Starlie, it’s not like anyone’s going to get discovered in a karaoke bar, Derek had said derisively one night when I’d begged him to go out with me so I could sing. Karaoke is sad, babe.

It’s fun, I’d said in a small voice, feeling stupid for even suggesting it. But we don’t have to go if you have something else in mind.

There’s that new comic book place on Vine we could check out, he suggested as if he didn’t know that was the only option he’d accept for the evening. We could get ice cream after.

There’d been no point in reminding him that I was lactose-intolerant and a scoop of ice cream would create a digestive terrorist attack in my insides because he would’ve just pouted and made me feel worse, so I pasted a bright smile on my face with an enthusiastic, Sure! Sounds fun! but in hindsight, it’d been a terrible night.

One that’d ended with me sleeping on the sofa while he’d commandeered my bed as punishment for my bad attitude.

I can’t believe how long I enabled his bullshit, catering to his wants and needs. All that was missing was the Official Doormat t-shirt to commemorate my time in service.

I bit my lip as anticipation followed. You think so? Are you sure? I don’t mind waiting… but I was already standing and straightening my dress, so my ass cheeks didn’t make an unscheduled appearance.

God no, get up there and warm up the crowd for us, Lark said, agreeing with Darby. Besides, you know Evie can’t hold a tune in a bucket. The longer we can put off that experience the better.

Hey! Evie exclaimed with a scowl. Says the woman who was born with two left feet.

Guilty, Lark said with good humor. My Irish roots have failed me when it comes to dancing but you’re tone-deaf.

Ha ha, Evie said sourly with a flash of that sharp wit we loved her for. I know what to do with my mouth and it has nothing to do with singing.

God, I loved my salty bitches.

I shot Darby a look and mouthed, "Thank you," before rising and hustling to the stage with perfect timing to slide into the next slot.

You’re up, the manager said, gesturing to the machine for me to select my music.

I knew exactly what I wanted to sing. It was my anthem, something that always made me feel like the kind of woman who had the power to break men with a look instead of the woman who ended up invisible. Punching in Lady Marmalade, the remix, I grabbed the microphone, gloriously blinded by the stage lights, which was exactly how I liked it. I could pretend I was singing in the privacy of my shower with only my cat appreciating the show instead of standing in front of strangers about to bare my soul through song.

Okay, maybe that was a little dramatic, but cut me some slack, it’d been a rough couple of months, and I needed this.

Tequila, don’t fail me now.

Ahh, hell, this was a karaoke bar? Fuck me. 

But I’d just ordered my beer, and I wasn’t about to leave until I’d finished, which meant I was stuck listening to some poor schmuck murder an old classic because someone told them they could sing.

Newsflash: they never can.

I grimaced as the last part of I will survive warbled from the stage. My bleeding ears. The only saving grace was that no one I knew would ever be caught dead in a place like this, and I needed the space.

Sometimes it felt like I was surrounded, crushed by everyone who wanted my attention — my parents, my coach, the fans, and even friends — because I was the star quarterback of a D1 football team with a promising season ahead of me. Yeah, there was an expectation I’ll get picked up in the draft, but hell, my season hadn’t even started yet of my senior year, and for once, I’d like to not talk about football.

Not that my dad could understand that.

His words were stuck in my head on a loop, and I’d need a goddamn keg to drown out the sound of his voice, which was why I wasn’t going to waste a damn drop tonight, even if that meant listening to whatever noise was coming from the stage.

Stop messing around, focus, Cason, my dad had barked at me earlier that evening. A seemingly benign dinner invitation had turned into an interrogation. Two minutes in, and I was already itching to bail. The draft is around the corner. Every spare minute you got, you need to be training, chasing that dream, son.

Whose dream exactly was it? I couldn’t remember anymore. I used to actually like football. Now, it was a job.

Honey, daddy just wants the best for you, my mom reminded me, wine glass in hand, dinner untouched. My mother was a perfect beauty — perfectly preserved through the miracle of chemistry and the deft hand of her surgeon, but sometimes I worried she’d lost brain cells from too much anesthesia. 

Thanks mom, I murmured, hiding my irritation. To my dad, I said, Can we just drop it and enjoy dinner for once. Let me worry about my football career, you worry about your own. I motioned to my younger twin brothers, Cade and Carson, hoping to steer the conversation to safer waters. Got any big plans for the summer?

Cade, the more exuberant twin, was excited to jump into the conversation, but before he could get a word out, our dad didn’t give anyone else the floor and barreled on as if I’d asked for more of his bullshit advice.

Now’s not the time to get senior-itis, he continued, stabbing his pointer finger in my direction. I’ve got a consultation scheduled for you to meet with one of the top strength and conditioning coaches in the nation. He’s going to evaluate your current training schedule and determine if we need to make adjustments.

Fuck that. I’m not about to make waves with the team’s strength coach. You’ll have me making enemies when I need their support.

Rear view mirror, son, my dad waved off my statement, there are two kinds of people in the world: those worth your time and those who’ve used up their usefulness in your life. You gotta be forward-thinking from this point. Grab opportunity with both hands or you’ll get left behind.

I didn’t care, but I couldn’t say that. I didn’t know what I wanted, honestly. Don’t get me wrong, I still loved the game deep down, but it’d become more about my dad’s dream than mine, and I was tired of dancing to his tune. The prime rib tasted like sawdust, and I wanted to leave. If I stayed another minute, I’d say something I’d regret. I made a show to check my smartwatch. Fuck, I forgot about a study group I signed up for tonight. I gotta cut this short.

Language, honey, my mom said reproachfully as if I were still ten. 

Study group? My dad was confused. What the hell you wasting time with a study group? The semester’s barely started.

I rose and tossed my linen napkin to the table. Still gotta maintain my grade point average to be eligible to play, Dad, and I don’t want to get behind. Trying to stay on top of it.

My dad grumbled, acquiescing to my logic though I could tell it was a tenuous win. Even though my dad was an attorney representing plenty of wealthy clients — and he clearly understood the value of an education — once he realized I had a higher athletic talent, it was like my education didn’t matter anymore.

Made me feel like a piece of meat.

Well, you’re still meeting with the strength and conditioning coach. I went to a lot of trouble to make this meeting happen.

And how am I supposed to do that? I said, holding my temper in check by the thinnest thread. I just told you why it’s a bad idea.

And I’m telling you why those in the rear view mirror don’t matter.

I don’t think of people like that, I growled. 

Time to start. You’re about to run with the big dogs, son. Time to stop pissing like a puppy.

I hated when my dad used analogies like he was some badass when his only claim to sports fame had been as the equipment manager for his high school team. Yeah, sure, I said, needing to get out of there. Text me the details, I said to shut him up. I didn’t intend to meet up with whoever my dad was dragging into my life, but I wouldn’t waste time arguing with him either. God, I needed to get fucking drunk and/or laid, and I didn’t care about the order.

That’s how I ended up at the Spotlight bar, wincing through a terrible rendition of a wedding DJ mix-tape classic, already on my second beer and about to order a third.

And then I heard a voice that didn’t belong in a dumpy old bar with scuffed floors and an aging sound system.

I swiveled on my barstool, transfixed by the powerful vocals ripping through the crowd, firing up the dance floor, and sending people whooping and grinding with enthusiasm for the remix of Lady Marmalade.

A tall, curvy blond with the most fantastic tits I’d ever seen was singing into that microphone as if she were opening for Beyonce, and I was transfixed. 

The black dress clung to her generous curves in a way that made my jeans tight, and I forgot what the fuck I was doing before setting eyes on her. 

Everything I’d been chewing on abruptly disappeared from my head, replaced with