The Guy in the Middle (The Underdogs Book 3)
The Guy in the Middle
Copyright © 2020 by Kate Stewart
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
1st Line Editor: Donna Cooksley Sanderson
2nd Line Editor: Grey Ditto
Cover by Amy Queau of Qdesign
Formatting by Champagne Book Design
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Round 1
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Round 2
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Round 3
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Epilogue
About the Author
Thank you
For all the fighters out there, have faith in your swing.
Listen to The Guy in the Middle playlist on Spotify
Harper
Sweat skates down every muscle, every crevice, every solid indentation on the wall of his massive chest.
Blink.
Blink.
Blink.
His deep voice rumbles from above me and I look up, and up, until my eyes land on the face of dark, raw masculinity. “Did you hear a word I just said?”
No. I didn’t. I’m still gawking, mystified, while doing everything in my power to keep my mouth closed.
I’ve been privy to a lot of eye candy in my twenty years, but none had the jarring impact of the man standing in front of me. My first eyeful of him gives way to an electric shock. He’d been hitting the bag on the other side of the gym when I came in a few minutes ago, and I’d immersed myself in my dancing until he charged over and rudely shut off my speaker. Shaking my head, I peer into light grey eyes set under thick, dark, slashed brows and find myself caught in the tumultuous weather there. He snaps his fingers in front of my face. He’s pissed and I have no idea why. The man’s demeanor screams, “don’t fuck with me, this dog will bite.” Despite the dangerous air about him and his reputation, I’m not afraid of him. I’m more amped with him in my space than anything.
“You can’t run your drills or whatever you’re doing in here. I own this gym from six to nine on Wednesdays and Fridays.”
“Pleasure to meet you too. My name is Harper, it’s called dancing, and I was told—”
“Wrong,” he crosses bulging forearms along his expansive chest, “you were told wrong.”
“You don’t own this place,” I snap. “I have just as much of a right to be here as you.”
He doesn’t roll his eyes; he just looks up at the ceiling and leaves them fixed there as if trying to subdue his temper. As if I’m not intelligent enough to read the situation.
“You’re a jerk.” It sounds a little like a question coming out of my mouth, but I continue. “There’s a polite way of telling someone they’ve made a mistake.”
“Then whatever way that is, let’s pretend that’s how I said it. The gym is mine tonight.”
“There’s plenty of room, and it’s huge,” I point out. “There’s enough space for the two of us.”
“I’m not listening to that shit you call music,” he nods towards my Bluetooth speaker, “while I’m trying to concentrate.”
“Now my music is shit? You’re just dick out and ready for the pissing contest today, aren’t you, buddy? It’s a good thing you’ve got your looks and are decent with a ball or you wouldn’t get anywhere in life with that attitude.”
His lips tip up briefly, then the smile’s gone.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I huff at the amusement still gleaming in his eyes. “I have no room in my life for another asshole.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not my type.”
“I’m sure I’m not. Anyone with an IQ to rival that inflated ego of yours would be too much hassle.”
“You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
“Lance Prescott, aka ‘The Blanket.’ Cornerback for Texas Grand, number twenty-two. TGU should have been your last pick, but I’m guessing you settled because campaigning yourself to a worthier school, with your temperament, would have blown your chances all to hell. I assume you took the easy route, figuring you’d defend your way onto a winning team.”
His brows lift higher with my every word. “Am I supposed to be impressed that you follow football?”
“I follow Grand ball. It’s in my blood.”
“Is there a point to this rant?”
“It’ll be a miracle if you get drafted.”
Too far, Harper!
But I don’t stop because today’s been a shit sandwich and he’s just served me a cup of fresh piss to wash it down with. My best friend, René, just got an audition to dance in an off-Broadway show. And while I’m truly happy for him—to work off the sting of jealousy—I came to this rinky-dink gym, only to be greeted by an entitled asshole.
Accusing eyes blaze a trail down my form. It’s always the legs they check out first. I was ble
ssed with a decent set of legs, an ass, killer metabolism, and good hair. That’s where the blessings end from my perspective. We’re all our own worst critics, but I have no grandiose illusions about my appearance. My nose—gifted from my mother—is too sharp in contrast with my father’s chin. I have dull brown eyes and lips on the thin side. It’s not low self-esteem talking; it’s acceptance. I work with what I’ve got, and as far as I’m concerned, it’s enough. I wasn’t born perfect, very few are, with the exception of the man in front of me.
Lance Prescott is a triple threat; face, body, and infuriating confidence. Three attributes every athlete needs to feel superior. It’s a formula that’s had panties dropping since the days of yore. I’m not into guys who hide behind any of it.
“Rumor had it last year that New England had their eye on you, but you have to stop letting your frustration best you if you’re hoping for any more draft talk.”
“Who in the hell are you to pass out advice?”
“Someone who knows enough about ball to see when a player is pissing away his shot. And it’s for this very reason, right here. But don’t worry, knowing the NFL and their dangerously low standards, you might just slither in.” I cock my hip and face him head-on, well, as much as I can with our difference in height.
“Are you done?”
“Not quite. You’re good, Lance, really good. Undoubtedly one of the best in the conference, but you need a new personality. Especially if this is the way you introduce yourself to a stranger.”
He opens his mouth in rebuttal, but I lift my hand to cut him off.
“Spare yourself the breath you’d waste trying to convince me you aren’t anything more than the conclusions I’ve drawn within a minute of meeting you.”
“Sweetheart, I couldn’t give two shits about your opinion of me. But I do find it a bit ironic you know so much about me and are conveniently here at the exact time that I use this gym.”
He thinks I’m one of those—a helmet hoochie. The type of girl who sees a ballplayer as a ticket to a swanky life, a future paycheck. I’ll let him assume away because it will send the right signal, not that guys like Lance give me a second look. And I don’t miss his assessment of me. He dwarfs me by height and weight. I’m in the skimpiest shorts I own—which fit more like underwear—along with my sports bra and see-through tank.
“Do you really believe that I schemed my way into using this gym, in hopes of gunning for you? Please, believe me, if I was desperate enough to use those bullshit antics to get a ballplayer, yours isn’t the number I’d go to any lengths for.”
“Whatever,” he lifts his chin to cue my send-off, “you can go.”
“Actually, I think I’ll stay until I talk to someone of authority. I’m not bothering you. It’s the opposite.”
“Look,” he reasons as I shift my weight from one foot to the other, “it’s only three hours. You can come back another day.”
“So could you,” I challenge.
“My friend’s dad owns this gym.”
“Congratulations, Jake’s my friend too. He also gave me permission, hence the key.”
“Fuck it,” he sighs, stuffing in his earbuds. “Just turn that shit down, all right?”
“Whatever,” I huff as he walks off. I can see his reflection more clearly in the mirror when I try to resume my practice. I’ve never been self-conscious about my dancing before, but after watching his retreat, I notice that the bag is facing me. Now that I have the asshole’s attention, any misstep on my part gives me the potential to embarrass myself. There’s a newly renovated multi-million-dollar gym he’s privileged to abuse, so why isn’t he lifting on campus with his friends, pounding beers or looking for fresh flowers to pollinate?
Dismissing my wandering thoughts, I turn my music back on and take my position as the sound of glove to bag resumes. It takes only a few minutes, but I find bliss when I finally lose myself.
Lance
What the fuck?
Who in the hell does this chick think she is?
I just had my nuts snipped off and handed to me in a matter of seconds and by none other than a ball busting little witch with a superiority complex.
And she had the nerve to call me entitled?
I can’t see this girl being a friend of Jake’s in any scenario. And I’ll make it my mission to get rid of her.
Feeling the singe of her words, I smash the bag to release the pressure, baffled by how a complete stranger managed to press so many of my buttons in a matter of minutes.
There’s nothing I hate more than someone who assumes they know me because of ball.
I don’t want to be one thing. I want to be many things. And the split-second assessment she just made of me is enough to drive home my point. I’m not just a ballplayer, or a student, or a rancher’s son. Those are the things that matter most to me, but they aren’t all that I am. I don’t want to look back—like so many other ballplayers do—and think this was the best it’s ever going to get for me, my high point or peak because it feels like anything but. I’ve seen what that can do to a man, namely my father. I grew up listening to his “glory days” stories. At first, it was fascinating, and now it’s just sad.
Dad and I don’t agree on much these days, except when it comes to the ranch. Our love for that land a common bond, our need to preserve the legacy and protect my mother and brother the same. The ranch might be my future, but first I have to save it, and that’s where the strain in our relationship lies.
Dad’s been writing checks that my ass may not be able to cash for the last eighteen months; his faith in me unwavering, the pressure a constant. That’s why I find solace alone, unleashing my frustrations on my own body, strengthening the tool needed to eradicate the look of terror I constantly see on my mother’s face.
I don’t have to play poster boy to play ball. I’m not going to campaign myself because I’m not a man who minces words. I don’t tap dance for attention I don’t want. I don’t need to be anyone’s favorite anything; I just need to play ball, keep my head down, and get through this season.
That means working longer and harder than I ever have in my ball career. It all comes down to this year. It means a strict schedule, a whole lot of self-deprivation where the extra-curricular is concerned and cutting all distractions. I’m so damn close. With my stats what they are and the promise of a decent upcoming season, I may just pull it off. I’ve already put in my mandatory field time to enter the draft but didn’t pursue it last year because of my obligations at the ranch. That hesitation may have cost me, especially with the way the season ended. Now it might be too late. Only a small percentage of college players are picked to join the league. Regardless of what Miss Priss decided about me, I refuse to let arrogance guide my quest or my temper destroy my chances. This year, no mistakes. I’m a changed man and my ability to withstand that character breakdown without blowing a fuse proved as much.
When they aren’t hosting geriatric jazzercise in the dank gym, this is my place to unwind. It’s the only time I get to nail the bag, to let my anger rule so I can exorcise it to the point it’s beneath me, not a weakness I can’t manage. The rest of the week I’m stuck in practice, lifting or training to milk out the rest of the summer before school and regular-season starts.
Every single day I remind myself why I’m here, and it’s to save that ranch. To save my parents the embarrassment of losing everything and to protect three generations of blood, sweat, and tears. It’s all up to me.
Twinkle toes had been on the receiving end of my latest blow, which was the shit news that my father had gotten a fair price for my Silverado. A truck I don’t have a replacement for. I’m now a man without a horse, but it bought the one thing my family seems to have very little of lately, time. Not only that, it will cover the room I’ve rented for my last two semesters. As far as getting around, I’m on my own, but my family has what they need, so it’s worth the sacrifice. Selfishly, I’m still pissed at the fact that I just lost the truck I’d work
ed five summers for. All that effort gone in a blink. So yeah, I’m pissed, constantly stressed, and always frustrated. The future swings over my head like a bladed pendulum.
As many truths as she nailed, I could fill a book with the shit she doesn’t know.
Movement draws me from my thoughts as I glance over at the tiny girl and watch her choreographed steps.
The way she moves shows she’s comfortable in her own skin and the way she told me to fuck off says she’s got a backbone; but when I’d approached, her shaky demeanor alluded that she may be on the inexperienced side.
Jake told me the room was mine. If he thought this chick would be a welcome surprise, he’s wrong. I do my best thinking isolated, and this girl is buzzing in circles around me. I can’t adjust the bag to get a different view, and even if I did, I can see her in my peripheral, in the reflection of the long-ass eyesore mirror that takes up one wall of the gym.
This is jacked.
I pound away, doing my best to ignore her…until she catches fire. She’s dancing like a pro, her body made for movement.
It’s fascinating…and distracting.
Heavy bass no longer thrums out of her impressive little speaker, but you wouldn’t know it with the way she’s stepping into every beat while manipulating her form in ways that have me dizzy.
Motherfucker!
I thrash at the bag, my nerves fraying as she slides, glides, sashays, and then cuts the song off abruptly. It’s on the edge of my lips to protest with “why did you stop?” before she restarts the music.
Irritated, I watch.
I can’t help myself.
I watch.
Lance
I take advantage of my position both on and off the field, which at times makes me a hypocrite, falling into the one and done stereotype. Callie slides on her panties and eyes me over her shoulder, a bright smile on her face. I grin back at her.
“Well, someone had some issues he needed to work out tonight.”
Feeling the pull of sleep, I punch my pillow and position it behind me.
“You can stay.”