Superstar Read online

  OTHER NOVELS BY J. SANTIAGO

  Lex and Lu

  Bliss

  Five-Star

  Copyright © 2017 J. Santiago

  Published by Angela St. James, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.santiagonovels.com

  Cover Designer: Pink Ink Designs, www.pinkinkdesigns.com

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  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 persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-9969558-6-7

  To MMM

  Team Tank!

  To My Crew—

  Gwen, Brandi, Patti, Jen, and Ronnique.

  To Tauara, Xander, Nico, and Lucas.

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Epilogue

  Author's Note

  Huddle Up

  About the Author

  February

  Amber Johnson had traded her jeans and T-shirts for slacks and blouses three years ago when she first entered the Ayers Brown Field House as the Director of Operations for Coach Mickey Whitehurst.

  As she crossed the parking lot in the few minutes before dawn, she reveled in the sense of anticipation coiling low in the pit of her stomach. Signing Day—the make-or-break culmination of years’ worth of recruiting and plotting spread out over the course of a day.

  She placed her thumb on the keypad, waiting for the sound of the releasing lock, before she pulled open the door to her office building. She rented a small house, miles from the hubbub of campus, an escape when she needed it. While the cozy bungalow offered comfort and solitude, she often found herself feeling more at home while wandering the halls of Ayers.

  Amber made her way through the empty corridor, relishing the quiet, knowing it wouldn’t last too much longer. Soon, the building would be a beehive of activity with coaches holed up in the war room, waiting for the National Letters of Intent to come through via fax and email; reporters clamoring for Whitey to share his thoughts about his recruiting class; compliance people milling about to verify future Mustangs; general hangers-on hoping to get an inside track on the Signing Day shenanigans. And she would be right in the middle of the action.

  Dumping her bag on the chair in front of her desk, Amber ventured to the staff kitchen. Following Whitey’s first national championship, his whole office space had been redesigned. The field house hardly resembled the place Amber remembered from her father’s time on the staff. The kitchen alone boasted granite countertops, a dual stainless steel refrigerator that belonged in a five-star restaurant rather than a college football administrative building, and a complicated espresso machine that took up a large portion of the counter—an homage to Whitey’s addiction to coffee drinks. She hadn’t even liked coffee when she came to work here. Now, she couldn’t begin her day without the strong brew. After starting the first pot, she scurried back to her office to gather her supplies for the day.

  While Whitey stuck to legal pads and Sharpies, Amber had made use of her budget to get herself and her staff tablets. She did everything electronically, which drove her boss crazy. Although he teased her mercilessly about her technology obsession, she could access stats for him quicker than anyone else. She’d tried to convert him on numerous occasions, but he refused to give in. It was one of their many differences.

  After she grabbed her coffee, she headed to the war room. Aside from her office, Amber spent the majority of her time in the communal room shared by all the coaches. Just like the kitchen, it represented the success of the Whitey Era. Last year, they’d replaced their magnetic dry-erase board with a remote-access screen. Amber could pull everything up on her tablet and project it onto the massive white surface. Whitey had joked about it looking like a New York Stock Exchange board, but Amber had countered with a response about how it should, as they were merely trading a different type of commodity. Her retort had garnered chuckles throughout the room, but no one had bothered to correct her. They knew she was right.

  With her hands full, she transferred her paraphernalia to one hand and turned the knob. Whitey’s presence didn’t necessarily surprise her, but it did disappoint her.

  “Good morning,” she said as she sat on his right side, a metaphor for her position on his staff.

  He glanced at his watch, taunting her, before he responded, “Good morning.”

  She didn’t even try to fight the grin on her face. She nodded at the paper cup she still held in her hand. “Just the way you like it.”

  Whitey laughed then.

  “Thanks for the coffee.”

  She inclined her head.

  Reaching down, she unzipped her backpack and pulled out her tablet. Everything was up and running before Whitey took his second sip. He winced a little, and Amber wondered if it was because of the scalding coffee or the illumination of the screen in the otherwise lowly lit room.

  She studied the recruiting board with the same level of knowledge and insight possessed by the other nine coaches on Whitey’s staff. She was familiar with the strengths and weaknesses on their current team, the missing pieces they’d need to add to stay on top, and the X factor of each of the players.

  “Any thoughts?”

  She didn’t have to be facing him to know he smiled.

  “How many do you want?” he quipped.

  The hinge on his chair squeaked right before she heard the familiar clunk of his heels hitting the table. Whitey’s favorite pose had him shifted back, away from the table, with the soles of his shoes facing out.

  “The important ones.”

  Amber had in her mind what was required to secure a top-five class. Whitey’s public philosophy tended to veer toward filling his openings rather than having the press give his class a high rank. She argued that the perception was too important to the kids they were recruiting to not be worried about it. She also knew how competitive Whitey was, and while he liked to espouse his opinion on letting the press say what they wanted, his nature told her that he liked to be number one. She played an internal game, pitting her instincts against Whitey’s knowledge. Lately, she’d found she was winning.

  “Hmm…Deandre Pitts and Michael Walsh.”

  Bummer. “Really?” She heard the surprise in her voice and knew Whitey could identify it, too.

  He chuckled.

  At the sound, she turned to face him
, her eyes narrowed. “You’re messing with me? At five o’clock in the morning? After I brought you coffee?”

  “Anytime is a good time.”

  “Seriously?” she mumbled.

  His answer was another low laugh. “Dentarious Mitchell.”

  Amber nodded. Exactly.

  “He’s the one this year. We’re deep at corner, but he’s the unofficial leader. If we get him at noon, the rest will follow.”

  “Rest,” she scoffed. “We have seventeen solid commitments. Nine of those kids will sign the papers at their first opportunity. I bet we’ll have each NLI before Coach Hill walks in the door.” She cut her eyes to him, and they shared a grin. Coach Hill was notoriously late. “The other eight of those commitments will get here soon after.”

  “That’s true.”

  Something about the slow, drawn-out way he’d commented made her uneasy.

  “So, who are you worried about?”

  The door swung open behind them, diverting her attention. The coaching staff began to appear, and the noise level in the room increased dramatically as they all arrived and spoke at once. The anticipation she’d experienced earlier returned as people began to take their seats and provide their last-minute commentary on the recruiting class.

  Lamarcus Steele and Nicky Stone sat across from her, like usual, as it afforded them the opportunity to share snarky looks. Steele winked at her, and Nicky delivered his trademark nod.

  “Were you getting the worst Signing Day ever story from Whitey?” Coach Davenport inquired.

  Amber turned in his direction. “No. No stories this morning. Just predictions.”

  “Ah. This is normally the time he likes to take us back a couple of years before he delivers his patented speech. ‘It ain’t over till the fat lady sings,’” Davenport said.

  Snickers sounded from around the table.

  “Well, it ain’t,” Whitey reiterated, as if they had forgotten one of his truisms.

  “We know,” chorused throughout the room, making Amber smirk.

  But the good-natured teasing propelled Whitey right up onto his soapbox.

  “Let’s not forget that our livelihoods rest on the shoulders of seventeen- to twenty-two-year-old kids who are more interested in posting their every thought than actually taking the time to come up with one.” His feet hit the floor, and he rolled forward to the table, signaling his business stance. “We might all think we know what’s going to go down today, but these kids think pretty highly of themselves. I wouldn’t put it past any of them to try to be today’s big story with a surprise announcement.”

  Almost against her will, Amber’s muscles tensed up, a sense of useless defensiveness making her cringe. She hoped Whitey wouldn’t go there, wouldn’t mention his name. Even though she attempted to keep her gaze from meeting Steele’s across the table, there was little she could do when their eyes met. She read the sympathy there and responded with blank defiance, an attempt to appear unaffected.

  “We don’t need a Tank Howard moment,” Whitey said, “so let’s not take anything for granted today.”

  Ah, fuck. He had to go there.

  Amber leaned back in her chair, the excitement for the dealings dissipating. Whitey continued to enlighten the room with his many signing-day lessons, but the mention of Tank’s name was all it took for her to remember the last time she’d seen him at her father, Mike Franco’s, wedding.

  Even with a warning, Amber had been shocked when Tank Howard walked into the church. She hadn’t seen Tank in over a year, but every emotion he’d ever invoked rushed through her, turning her inside out. It had been easy to elude him during the ceremony and for the beginning of the reception while all the traditional dances were happening and dinner was being served.

  She avoided him, but there was no way to keep her from finding him in the crowd. Her first glimpse stole her breath—literally. She blamed it on her No Tank mantra. Following the NFL draft, she’d refused to watch a game, Google him, or moon over the Sports Illustrated cover featuring him after his NFL debut. So, this first time, it made her remember his beauty. On her second look, she noted the differences time had made in turning a man-child into a man. She wouldn’t have believed his face could look more chiseled, but the leftover blurred edges from his childhood had given way to the finer angles of an adult. He’d also gained the mass she’d expected. Her third and final pass had her focusing on his date rather than him. The fact that he’d brought a woman to her father’s wedding supplied her with a reason to own up to being pathetic and to start drinking heavily.

  As she stood up to make her way to the restroom, she noted the unsteadiness of her walk. The leftover limp from her accident, coupled with a lot of beer, made her weave through the tables like a Weeble. The jingle running through her head brought a drunken smile to her face until she opened the door and came face-to-face with Tank’s date. A flash of recognition in the beauty’s eyes angered Amber.

  “Hey.” Without waiting for a response or inviting one, Amber hurried to the stall.

  She took her time, hoping the girl would leave. When she heard the door to the restroom open, she hastily flushed the toilet and moved to the mirror, which had, only moments before, reflected the image of the beautiful woman with Tank. Amber studied her made-up face, her scar reflecting starkly in the fluorescent lighting. It hadn’t occurred to her that she hardly considered it anymore. It was who she was, much like her deep brown eyes and ebony hair. She’d stopped being self-conscious about it long ago, mostly because of Tank Howard.

  Rolling her eyes at her own sentimental foolishness, she fled from the restroom.

  And stepped directly into the arms of Tank.

  “Hey, Johnson, stop daydreaming,” Whitey said at the exact moment Steele kicked her under the table.

  Snapping back to the present, she caught Steele’s knowing look before she turned her attention back to the proceedings around her.

  She grabbed the remote from the center of the table and turned up the volume on ESPNU’s Signing Day coverage, just in time for the retelling of the Tank Howard story. It was brief coverage now, merely a footnote in college football history. Most of the kids signing today had been ten or eleven when it happened. But, because of Tank’s notoriety, it still got a mention. For a player who had received the Rookie of the Year award his first year and had made every pro bowl since entering the NFL, his story was still relevant. She turned away from the screen, tuning out the drama.

  She should have prepared herself better. She had known to take precautions, build up tolerances. But she hoped that, one day, none of this would mean anything to her, that Tank Howard would only be an annotation in Amber Johnson’s history.

  Unconsciously, she raised her fingers to stroke the lines of her scar, the shriveled skin on her jaw and neck. The area was anesthetized.

  If only her heart were numb to Tank.

  Tank Howard struggled to open his eyes, even as the sun streamed through the plantation shutter slats he’d forgotten to shut the night before. Rolling onto his back, he tugged on the pillow next to him in an attempt to cover his face. When the pillow refused to budge, he glanced over to see the waves of hair draped across the expanse of the object he’d been seeking. He stifled a groan. Some sound must have escaped because Madison’s brown eyes snapped open, meeting his.

  “Forgot I was here, huh?” she teased with a knowing smile.

  Her chipper morning persona was one of the many reasons he didn’t often wake up next to her.

  “Maybe,” he conceded.

  “I must have had more to drink than I thought.”

  “I figured when you Ubered here.”

  But he didn’t need her explanation.

  As the haze of sleep burned off, the events of the night before came back to him with a startling clarity. The huskiness of his voice and his sleep-crusted eyes were as much of a bitter reminder as the pounding of his head and the woman sprawled next to him.

  He refrained from flinching when Mad
ison’s hand landed on his chest, and she slid closer to him. The tips of her nails raked lightly across his pecs as she nestled into the nook created by his wide-flung arm. Stopping on the outskirts of his nipple, the pad of her finger teased the center of the flat disk until it puckered for her. Tank felt himself stir, and while the thought of sinking between her legs was pleasant, his heavy head indicated it would be a bad idea.

  He brought his hand up and gently patted her on the shoulder before he rolled away. Dropping a kiss on her head to soothe his rejection, he walked naked to his bathroom.

  Madison was familiar with his rhythms. More like friends with benefits than any other moniker, they typically had an easy relationship.

  He turned on the shower and stood beneath the punishing stream, eager to wash away the remnants of his descent into the bottom of a tequila bottle. Feeling a little more like himself, Tank left the shower and returned to his room to dress. Pulling on his boxer briefs, a faded pair of jeans, and a worn blue T-shirt, he sat on the side of the bed, better equipped to have a conversation.

  Madison hadn’t moved much since he left her. She smiled up at him with her guileless chocolate eyes. “Drowning your sorrows last night?”

  He managed a smile. “Yes.”

  “It’s been ten days. I thought you would have gotten over losing by this time.”

  “You would think that, right?” He was perfectly happy with allowing her to believe his binge drinking last night had been about his loss in the AFC Championship Game. It got him off the hook.

  “So, is it really true?”

  “I’m assuming I told you about Tilly last night?”

  “You did.” Her face lit up with her excitement over the news he’d shared with her. She clapped her hands with obvious glee. “I absolutely love weddings.”

  “This, I know,” he agreed, smiling indulgently.

  Madison Shepard was quite possibly one of the most cunning sideline reporters in the business. After facing her in the trenches, one would never know how much of a lighthearted, whimsical personality she had. Tank would relentlessly tease her about the crazy duality of her personality, but he’d find himself oddly proud of her when he watched her in action.