Touchdown Read online

  Touchdown

  Alexa Summers

  Copyright © 2017 by Alexa Summers

  All rights reserved.

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

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Freebie for Readers

  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

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  50. Epilogue

  Mailing List…and more!

  Also by Alexa Summers

  Also By AJ Phoenix

  About the Author

  Freebie for Readers

  https://www.maidformajesty.com/free-novella

  To the baller – player– thanks for the material.

  Chapter 1

  LEXI

  “Mike! Jax! Let’s MOVE!” I bolt to the locker room, in heels. “Steve wants to get the first interview with Dion, live to air.”

  “I’m going as fast as I can, Lexi!” Mike mutters, gripping his camera. “Carrying this heavy thing on my shoulder and running is impo—”

  “MOVE IT!”

  We are running at a frantic pace and I can’t imagine how ridiculous I look. My top has untucked itself from my skirt and I’m readjusting it as we speed through the corridors. If my boss saw me now, he’d sack me. He doesn’t like me looking untidy onscreen and hates when cameras come back with a scratch. But being worth thousands of dollars, I think our camera can withstand a jog to the athletes’ locker room.

  And that’s one of the reasons I became a sports reporter—so I could run into the men’s locker rooms and see them walk around in the buff. I’m not kidding. I accidentally walked into the boys’ locker room in my freshman year in high school to see all the seniors naked. It was a defining moment in my life. It was then I decided what I’d do for a living. My calling. Am I a pervert? Sure. But I don’t care what anyone else thinks. “We have to be the first to see Dion!” I huff, nearly out of breath as we reach the doors. I hear other sports journalists and their crews behind me, and I bolt in through the threshold, not bothering to flash my badge to the security—they know me. Once I step in, I halt and devour the room with my eyes.

  Men everywhere. Gorgeous, sculpted, beautiful boys with a kind of sheen on their muscles from the damp air of the nearby showers. Most of them with towels about their waists, some not. I’m so close to heaven, it’s almost torture. Twenty feet away steam is billowing from the shower room. I want to drop my mic and head in. But I need to find Dion. It was a hell of a win for the Blazers and a well-played game by their star quarterback. I need to get the interview if I’m going to stay at the top of my game. I spot him by his locker, his towel about his waist and make a beeline for him. Jax and Mike follow me, and we quickly surround Dion with the camera and boom. Dion looks annoyed, but it’s all part of his contract. He rolls his eyes and I give him a timid smile.

  “Make this quick, Lexi. I’m barely motherfuckin’ dressed.” He gives me an irritated expression.

  “Sorry, Dion.” I shrug. “The fans love live interviews after the games. You know the nature of my job.”

  “Yes, I do. And I’ve been answering interviews all damn week after practice.”

  I cringe. He’s right; but while Steve liked the questions I asked Dion, he felt Dion’s answers were ‘boring.’ “You give the best interviews after a game,” I say in encouragement.

  “Whatever.” He groans. “A brother needs to be getting dressed. Could you wait? We could do an interview on the couches.” He points to several sets of couches and coffee tables across the room.

  “If I don’t interview you now, another reporter will.” I gesture to the swarm of reporters filing into the room. “I’ll be quick. I promise.”

  I put on my earpiece. “Steve, I’m in the locker room. I’ve got Dion.”

  “Make sure he gives something compelling this time.” Steve’s voice crackles through my earpiece.

  I nod, looking into the camera. Though I’m there to interview Dion, the big attraction for me on this team is Brett Brock. He’s the replacement quarterback, but a damn fine piece of work. As I wait for my manager Steve to start feeding me directions through my earpiece, my eyes dart around the room for Brett. I spot him as he emerges from the shower room. Steam surrounds him as he saunters in wearing a small white towel. He casually walks up to his locker, which is directly across the room twenty feet from Dion’s. I can’t help but to stare; he’s one of those gorgeous David Beckham types with hypnotizing hazel eyes. He’s got the amazing blonde hair, too—he could do his hair in any style and look damn sexy. His hair is slicked back with an undercut. What a lovely boy.

  I wish he’d remove his towel. I’ve wished this each time I’m in a locker room with Brett. He’s wary of the reporters and doesn’t seem to undress until we leave. My hope is that his towel will someday magically drop on its own.

  “We are live in five, four, three,” Mike says as he puts his hands up for the countdown mouthing the words two and one. I put a bright smile on my face.

  “Hello, Blazers fans! We are live with Dion Calloway to ask him his overall feelings about the highlights of today’s game!” I say enthusiastically, looking directly into the camera. I turn to Dion with the microphone, “Dion, did you feel confident before playing the Falcons that your team would win today? Or did you think the Falcons had a chance? The Blazers made a few trades since last season and have been experimenting in practice these past several weeks, I’ve noticed.”

  “Well, you know, you come in you play the game. Do your best …”

  My mouth drops in disappointment. I want to punch him in the stomach. Half the time I don’t know why EAN insists on interviewing Dion; he spits out the same speech every time, even after practices. I know he’s going to give a feel-good spiel about his teammates, and the talent God gave him. It’s annoying, because fans have been wanting more details about the plays during practice. So much for interesting questions.

  My eyes wander over to Brett who is leaning down in his white towel, looking for something in his locker. He rises and turns, and I can see every muscle of his sculpted abdomen. My eyes are glued as the towel shifts a little and he applies some deodorant.

  Dion continues to ramble on about how blessed he is. Hardly listening, I wait for him to stop speaking, and absentmindedly repeat a question Steve feeds me over my earpiece. I have no idea what I
asked Dion. I’m preoccupied watching Brett as he bends down again extending his arm, searching for something else at the bottom of his locker. Again, the towel shifts a little and I’m drooling. I imagine myself running over and yanking the towel off. Or sliding my hand up his thigh.

  Then it happens—as Brett rises, with what seems to be tighty-whities in his hand—the towel falls, revealing his glorious manhood.

  “DING DONG!” I say into the microphone with a grin, interrupting Dion.

  Following my gaze, Mike turns and focuses the camera on Brett’s nether regions.

  Cue standby.

  Chapter 2

  LEXI

  I head out of my Manhattan apartment with a green scarf wrapped about my face and sunglasses.

  It’s been several days since Brett’s cock shot, and I have been bombarded every day with paparazzi outside my apartment. I’ve kept a low profile and EAN has instructed me not to do any after-practice interviews this week. They want to wait until things have settled before putting me back onscreen.

  It’s bullshit. I’m sick of the questions being asked and photos being taken of me as I walk down the street. Some of the most ridiculous headlines have been written in the tabloids. Most claiming that I had planned the cock shot for months to boost my career. It’s lame. I’m already the top sportscaster in America and have been given several awards the past few years. I don’t need Brett Brock’s cock to make a name for myself. But day after day the headlines keep running, the Internet memes keep flying. This morning I found another on one of my social media newsfeeds. It was a picture of me with a mic in my hand—well almost. My mic was replaced with Brock’s dick and my mouth wide open inches away from it. The words, ‘Fight for every inch!’ were written beneath.

  Despite the heinous tabloid headlines, my publicist Anne seemed to think this whole fiasco will be a good thing for me.

  “Don’t bitch about it, Lexi,” she says to me over lunch a day after the cock shot. “You know as well as I do that all publicity is good publicity. Your face constantly in the papers only makes people more curious about you.”

  “My face is plastered everywhere … next to a huge cock,” I say, my eyes bulging. “Don’t think people are paying much attention to me as much as that cock.”

  “Yeah.” Anne’s cheeks go crimson. “He does have a gorgeous one. Thanks for capturing it.” She pauses a moment, “But, you know, everyone thinks you owe him an apology.”

  I put my hands on my hips, “I don’t owe Brett and apology.”

  She guffaws, “I knew you’d say that. That’s why I’ve set up an interview with you and Jimmy Schnell.”

  “What?! You got me an interview on Jimmy Schnell’s radio show? How? Why?” I ask, eating a fork full of salad.

  “Actually, Jimmy called me. He thought his listeners would want to hear the story from you. He wants to know why you haven’t apologized.”

  I crack up, nearly spitting my food out. “Jimmy is the most flamboyant gay guy in New York. I doubt he wants to talk about my side of the story. He wants to sit and talk about Brett’s dong and make fun of me.”

  “Yeah, I know,” she says, chuckling. “Your interview is live this Friday at one-thirty.”

  As I walk down the street headed for the radio station I hail a cab and hop inside. The driver looks curiously into his review mirror, noting my scarf and sunglasses. “Sun’s not out today, sweetie,” he says.

  “No, it’s not,” I say shortly.

  “Aw, how about a smile for me, sweetie. You look blue.”

  “Hey, pal, I don’t owe you a smile. You aren’t paying me. I’m paying you. Drive me to Radio Manhattan and put a smile on your face while you’re at it.”

  He rolls his eyes before pulling into the street. He drives several blocks making several turns before we arrive. I quickly pay him and step out onto the sidewalk. I look up at the tall building with its huge glass windows and doors.

  “HEY PREE!” a Jamaican fellow yells to me from his newsstand outside the radio station. “I got the biggest headlines right here!” He holds up a magazine with my face and Brett’s nether regions on the cover. His schlong is censored by a big black strip that takes up half the page. The other half is my face. I can tell that the man doesn’t recognize me as the woman on the cover. “I’m good, thanks.” I walk up the steps toward the door. But then I stop, my mind flooding with an idea. I turn back around, “On second thoughts, you know what, I’ll take one. How much?”

  “For you, pretty miss? I’ll drop it from five to two fif ‘dee.”

  You should. That’s my face on half that cover. I hand over the bills and change and shamelessly take the magazine with Brett’s censored wang and toss it into my shoulder bag. I walk into the building. Its foyer has a huge desk with several assistants behind it and security surrounding the room. I walk up to a tall gentleman standing behind the desk. “Excuse me, I’m here to do an interview with Jimmy Schnell.” I lower my sunglasses.

  “Ah, yes. You must be Miss Driver. Take the elevator to the tenth floor and go to suite ten twenty-two.”

  “Thanks.” I look down at his desk and notice a picture frame with two little children inside it. “Excuse me, could I buy that picture frame?” I ask, pointing to the kids.

  “Sure. Twenty-five dollars.”

  My eyes narrow, “Wait a second. Is it yours? Are those your kids?”

  “Nah. It’s a stock photo. My ex-fiancée bought it for me, hoping I’d want to put our engagement photos—”

  “Here you go,” I say, handing him the twenty-five dollars.

  He takes the bills and hands me the frame. I head to the nearby elevators and press the triangular button. As I wait, a crowd of people quickly surround the elevators and I pile in with several others. Once I’m inside, I begin to discreetly open the back of the frame.

  “Oh, darling is that your family?” asks a sweet old lady next to me.

  “Yes,” I say, lying. “I’m updating the photo.”

  “Your son is so cute!” she gushes.

  “Oh, yes. He’s a little doll.” I plaster on a smile.

  It’s better I tell her this lie than the truth. I doubt she wants to hear that I have no family and that my parents passed away when I was young. If I tell her I’m not married and have no kids she’ll think that’s devastating, too. But that’s been my choice; I’ve had a few proposals, all which I refused. There’s never been a man I could picture myself settling down with.

  The little old lady continues to go on about her children and grandchildren. I find myself staring up at the elevator numbers changing and I hope she or myself will get off soon. She gets off at the seventh floor, blathering on enthusiastically as she exits.

  When the doors shut, I’m alone. I toss the picture of the children to the floor and slip the frame in my bag. I pull out the magazine and slowly begin to tear out the picture of Brett’s heavenly censored dick. I step off the elevator and toss the rest of the newspaper into a nearby waste bin and head down to suite number 1022.

  * * *

  “Good afternoon, New York! You are now listening to Jimmy Schnell, and if you don’t like that you can go to hell!”

  I roll my eyes. If there were ever an annoying catchphrase, Jimmy just uttered it into the airwaves. Jimmy gazes at me, the corners of his mouth turned up. “Today, I have here with me the most sought-after woman in New York to finally weigh in her opinion of Brett Brock’s … cockgate.” He sniggers. Here it comes, Jimmy’s infamous sarcasm and disgusting mind. Can’t wait for the insults. I brace myself, shifting in my chair. “It’s all over the headlines, Lexi! Your face and his dong! Is it true? Was this an elaborate scheme to get yourself back into the game?”

  “Sorry? Get myself back into the game?” I ask, perplexed.

  “Lexi, it’s written all over your face. You are getting older; I’m sure EAN is already looking for a younger version of you. Jade Stolt comes to mind.”

  My fingers clench into a fist, but I snicker. “I may be
in my later twenties, but no one can do my job as well as I can. They can go ahead and hire some younger version of me, Jimmy. But to have this job you need thick skin. Few women could handle the bullshit I got this week. This cockgate or whatever you want to call it was not a publicity stunt to try to get my name in the papers.”

  “But didn’t you say, ‘ding dong?’”

  “Who wouldn’t? I didn’t see that thing coming.”

  “An answer I expected.” He scowls at me. “But it was clearly preplanned. I mean come on, Lexi, Brett could use more time on the field, and you need to keep your status as the best live sportscaster in the biz. This is too coincidental to not be a publicity stunt. Is it a desperate last attempt by both of you to keep yourselves in the limelight?”

  I can’t believe this asshole. I politely come down to do this interview and within the first minute he has insinuated that I’m too old for my job, and that I’m so desperate for the limelight I’m willing to pull some insane media stunt. “Jimmy,” I say drily, “if I actually did come up with some stunt to keep myself in the limelight, I wouldn’t have myself in the papers next to a giant cock for a week. I’d go out to some fabulous party with one of those cute athletes and stage a fake relationship for several months. That usually gets celebrities in the papers. Or better yet, I’d marry and divorce an athlete within a year.”