Page 5 of Wrong Number, Right Grumpy Player

CAL

My head feels like someone’s using it as a tackling dummy.

I groan and cautiously open one eye. Vegas.

I close it again. I’m never drinking again.

Well... Probably not never. But I’m definitely never drinking that much again. I hadn’t meant to. God knows I don’t bounce back from a hangover the same way I did in college now that I’m almost thirty.

But the situation called for it. Bachelor party. Too many strangers. Way too many damn eyes and way too many people trying to talk to me.

With another moan, I roll onto my back and squint around the hotel suite.

The curtains are half-open. Sunlight pours through the windows in what feels like a personal attack.

I blindly reach for the bottle of water on the nightstand. Miss. I try again. Success.

Half the bottle disappears before I finally sit up. That’s when I notice my phone. It’s lying face down beside the lamp.

I vaguely remember... No. Actually, I don’t.

The bachelor party is mostly a blur after midnight. Which is strange for me. I don’t usually drink enough to forget anything.

Apparently that’s what happens when your best friend gets married. You make poor decisions in solidarity.

My phone buzzes. I frown. It’s a new message from someone called “Wrong Number.”

“What the fuck?”

I don’t remember saving anyone under that name. Curiosity gets the better of me. I unlock the screen.

“Oh, no.”

Please tell me I didn’t.

I did.

Someone accidentally texted me. I made a joke. And not a very good one. She apologized. I teased her again.

She laughed. And then... Somewhere around midnight, the conversation starts drifting.

Imagine my fingers slide up your smooth thigh. Are you wet for me?

Soaking. And are you hard?

Like a rock. Like I want to be inside you. Need to feel you around my?—

I scroll through and read every message. Each one—from me—gets more and more X-rated. So much, I can feel my dick throbbing on the re-read. And the memory of last night, and a sexy dream, turns out to be real.

I drag both hands down my face. “I’ve lost my damn mind.”

A knock sounds on the suite door.

“Come in,” I mumble through my fingers.

Beau—one of the best wide receivers in the game—walks inside carrying a cardboard tray loaded with coffees, greasy breakfast sandwiches and enough electrolyte drinks to hydrate an entire offensive line.

He takes one look at me and laughs. “You look terrible.”