Dating the Defensive Back (The Nash Brothers Book 1)

Right On Cue

“Are you sure?” my brother presses.

“Fuck,” I murmur in wonder. I’ve been sure for the last year. I can’t believe it’s finally happening. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“Then we’ll have the contract to your agent today, and I’ll expect you here in Vegas tomorrow for a press conference. I’ve got other calls to make.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, and I practically salute my phone. We’ve been in talks for the last two days, plus the entire year before that, but we couldn’t make anything official until four o’clock today. And now…it’ll be official.

Is this the right decision? Time will tell.

It’s time for me to pack my shit and get the fuck out of Los Angeles. I’ve loved playing for the Chargers. I’ve been here most of my career, in fact, except for my first two seasons when I played for the Bills.

But I’m ready for a new challenge with a new team. I’ve been contemplating retirement since before last season got underway, and it’s still at the forefront of my mind. But this is a one-year contract that comes with a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to play on the team my older brother coaches and my youngest brother plays for.

I can’t pass that up.

I’m a free agent, and if it’s my last year…I want to play it on my own terms. And if I retire after the end of this year, I want the chance to join the coaching staff with a team I’ve played on.

And Vegas sounds pretty fucking attractive, too.

Two of my three brothers are in town. My dad is there, though we’re not as close as I am with my mom, who’s back in New York at her goat farm. And it’s fucking Vegas. The lights, the entertainment, the gambling, the sports…the women.

Hell motherfucking yeah, I’m sure.

I unwrap a Tootsie Roll and chew on it, and I debate opening another one while I wait. It takes almost a full two minutes before my phone rings again, and I see my agent’s name flash across the screen.

“Right on cue,” I answer, tossing my wrapper in the trash.

“I just sent you the document to sign,” Isaac says.

I open the email he sent, glance through it, and issue my signature online.

“Congratulations to the newest member of the Vegas Aces,” he says when he sees the document come through.

“Thanks, man,” I say, a strange sense of emotion washing over me. It’s somewhere between excitement and nervousness, I think. “And thanks for everything. You got me a bigger contract with the Chargers than I ever thought I’d have, and you’ve become more than just an agent to me over the years.”

“I think of you as a friend, too. We won’t be in the same city anymore, but that doesn’t mean I won’t come out to Vegas to hit up all the hot spots with you.”

“I look forward to it.” I cut the call, and I draw in a deep breath as I stare at the figure on the bottom line.

One year in Vegas with an eighteen-million-dollar price tag. The Pro Bowl appearances along with my proven record certainly helped, but my agent and my brother took care of me.

I can’t wait to get to Vegas and get started on the next chapter of my career. It might be the final chapter where playing is concerned, or maybe I’ll love the new team so much I won’t want to hang it up at the end of the season.

There’s a lot up in the air right now, and it all hinges on this fresh start.

I should call my current coach and let him know. I should call the front office. I should do about a million things, but instead, I twist the top off a new bottle of Hendricks and take a celebratory swig.

I scroll through my phone, looking for a number to call.

Someone to celebrate with.

My brother already knows, and I’ll call the rest of the family later.

Maybe I should call Daphne and let her know, but then I’d have to call her, and we’ll get into a whole thing, and I’m not really interested in any of that right now.

So instead, I call the guy who has been my best friend since high school.

He picks up right away. “Grayson Nash. To what do I owe the pleasure of an actual phone call?”

“Beckett Maxwell,” I say even though nobody calls Beck Beckett except for his mother…and me. “I’ve been a bit remiss in my correspondence. Fucking sue me. I’ve been a little busy playing football.”

He laughs. “Didn’t you choke in the playoffs like two months ago?”

I sigh as I think back to the game that ended our season too soon. “I wouldn’t call it choking, exactly, but I suppose the season has been over somewhere in the neighborhood of two months.”

“Two months and this is the first call,” he mutters. “You must have big news.”

“I’m moving to Vegas,” I say.

“You decided to hang it up?” he guesses.

“Nope. I decided to sign with the Aces for a year and see how things play out.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. Congratulations, man. You mentioned you were leaning that way once Lincoln ended up there. You’ll be playing with Asher, too?”

“His suspension will be over by the start of next season, so yeah. A Nash will be on one side or the other when the ball is snapped every play.” I take another swig from my bottle.

“Now you just have to get Spencer over to the Aces, and the Nash brothers will be running that city.”

“Ah, Spence is soft, Linc’s married, and Asher doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. I’ll be the one running it.” My voice is firm, though I can’t argue that it would be fun having all three Nash brothers playing for the team the eldest brother is coaching.

“Do me a favor out there since you’ll be the King of Vegas, okay?” he asks.

“Anything for my oldest friend.”

He chuckles. “By oldest, I know you mean the length of friendship as opposed to my age.”

“Well, you are nearly an entire year older than me,” I point out. “Now come out with it. What’s the favor?”

“My little sister is in Vegas. Keep an eye out for her, would you?”

“Your little sister is in Vegas?” I ask. The last time I saw little Ava Maxwell, she was probably fifteen years old and she wore braces, blue eye shadow, and cat sweaters. “Isn’t she like fifteen?”

“She graduated from UNLV three years ago, Gray. She’s twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five?” I practically spit. I didn’t realize she was only seven years younger than us. When I was twenty-two, fifteen felt a hell of a lot further away than twenty-five to thirty-two sounds. “Jesus. When’d we get so goddamn old?”

“Speak for yourself, man.”

I laugh, though the truth is I feel older and older every time I step out onto the field. Wednesdays are getting tougher and tougher since they’re sort of like Mondays for players. The aches and pains are more intense than they used to be. I’m partaking in more massages and more ice baths than ever.

At first I pretended like it wasn’t because of my age. As I look ahead to the next season, I see myself getting more excited about being on a new team, being in Vegas, and playing with my brothers than I am about actually getting into my gear and guarding wide receivers all season.

I shake off the thought. “You got it. I’ll check in on her.”

“No funny business. You know I’ll kick your ass.”

I laugh as I think back to braces, blue eye shadow, and cat sweaters—and the threat from a guy with a dad bod versus a guy who plays in the NFL. But he’s right. I do know how protective he is of his younger sister, especially since he had to step in and take responsibility for her once they lost their father back when we were sophomores in high school.

“No worries,” I finally say, cringing at the mere thought of hooking up with my best friend’s baby sister.