“Girls…” I grinned as their fingers roamed over my chest. “It’s gonna be a damn good night.”

Bryon Washington sloshed his beer at me. The half-hearted toast was as much a congratulations as I’d get from my best friend and teammate. He smacked the waitress’s ass as she delivered another round of desserts. We hadn’t ordered them. She shifted from Bryon’s roaming touch.

“Compliments of the owner,” she said. “He’s a diehard Rivets fan.”

“Thanks, babe.” I remembered my manners even with three girls hanging over me. Wouldn’t my PR team be proud? “I’ll send him an autograph.”

She glanced over the table—covered in empty glasses, spilled beer, chicken bones, and a general mess. I doubt she wanted an autograph, probably just needed a night off after we trashed the place. At least she was cute. She could have gotten a ride all the way home if she played her cards right.

Bryon mourned her departure as she collected a tray of empty plates and escaped from the shouting and riotous laughter. He got over her rejection quick enough.

“You should share the wealth, Jack,” Bryon said, surveying my blondes. “A pretty boy like you don’t need three girls. It’ll look better if the team captain bangs only one lucky lady at a time.”

I didn’t care how it’d look, only how it’d feel. So far, the brunette stroking my hard-on through the denim promised a night to remember.

“Hoping I shuffle one off to you?” I asked.

Bryon winked at the brunette in her skin-tight, black dress and patted his lap. “You gotta maintain that gentlemanly image, Jack. Coach’s orders.”

“What gentlemanly image?” Like anyone had ever called me a gentleman. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I plan to show these lovely ladies a night on the town. They should be lucky to have Jack Carson as their tour-guide.”

“They won’t see much of the city from their knees.” He grinned at the brunette. “Come here, honey. He won’t miss ya.”

That wasn’t how this worked.

I was the leader. I was in charge.

And, like any alpha in a pride, I ate first. The others could have their scraps after I took my fill.

I didn’t let Brunette slip from my lap.

The last time the guys and I went out for a night, Bryon came to dinner with rainbow stripes around his dick—three different colors of lipstick ringing his cock. He bragged about it for a week, thinking he was hot shit.

I wasn’t a man who got out-classed or out-done, especially with women.

The blonde giggled and teased her fingers around my shoulders. Her nails poked when they should have stroked, but she’d have a good grip on my cock later.

“Yeah, go on, Honey,” Blondie said. “I’ll take good care of Mr. Carson.”

The brunette arched an eyebrow that might have screamed a dozen obscenities if it weren’t plucked to death, drawn in, and botox’ed stiff. She licked her lip and turned her attention to me.

“I can entertain him all by myself.” She breathed in my ear. “Right, baby?”

She smelled like cigarettes and one too many martinis. Blondie scowled. The other blonde adjusted her halter-top and let her tits do the talking.

Three under-sexed, intentionally-starved, loose-moraled women vying for the opportunity to get fucked by the Rivets’ quarterback? Yeah, I’d take those odds.

I waved to another waitress, frantically mopping up a spill. She leapt at the chance to serve someone other than my offensive line as they chugged another pitcher of beer and gnawed on the bones of their third order of barbeque wings.

She was just some chubby little college girl, pushing up glasses and huffing as the pitcher spilled. Beer soaked into the carpet. She was cute, but too flustered. I liked a girl with confidence.

“Another round for these ladies.” I waved over my newest fan club. “Whatever they want.”

“I know what I want…” The blonde bit her lip, her eyes skipping the flirting and darting to my groin.

The waitress sighed and grabbed her pad and pencil, though halter-top blonde scoffed as she had to repeat her order over the noise. My offensive line roared in laughter and stole the remote, turning the television to a show replaying one of our critical games last season.

One of my best passes was highlighted in full glory for us to admire. The table bumbled, and glasses went flying. The girls laughed. Blondie ran a hand over my throwing arm.

She squeezed the muscle.

Giggled.

She’d learn soon enough that wasn’t the hardest part of me.

The waitress bolted to the kitchen and returned, red-faced and brushing the sweaty hair from her cheeks. She looped the room, depositing drinks and collecting dishes. This time she left the door open, and our private party was no longer separated from the restaurant. It wasn’t a great place, just some trendy little burger bar that seemed a good investment for when I got my contract renegotiated. The burgers were greasy, the women attractive, and it offered a night of endless fun.

Except Rivets’ management said we weren’t technically supposed to be partying in public anymore. They said we were likely to cause a scene and our behavior was hard to spin to the fans.

I didn’t understand that. We acted like any other red-blooded man who had a couple million to blow and the attention of short-skirted women. Apparently, that was a problem. The team and league were as big a pain in the ass as my publicist.

What was the point of being rich, famous, and sporting a nine-inch cock if you didn’t get to celebrate with it once in a while?

Or two or three times a week?

I only lived once. I owed it to myself to make the most of it.

The brunette freaked before anyone could enjoy their drinks. “Waitress, I ordered olives not onions.” She punctuated her displeasure by eating the onion anyway.

“Sorry!” The waitress gritted her teeth as the brunette tossed the martini glass at her tray. It splashed on her apron. “I’ll get you a new one.”

“With two olives. Or should we write it out for you?” She giggled at me. “Honestly, is it that hard?”

The waitress blushed and looked at me. “Anything else for you, M—Mr. Carson?”

“Call me Jack.”

“O—okay.” The waitress teetered between star-struck and terrified, like she stared down the entire defensive line of the Ashenville Hawks. “Anything for you, Jack?”

“Nah.” I watched Bryon grab another girl. He cornered her in the shadows, and that meant it was time to go. The guys were a little too rowdy, and my women were antsy. “Just whatever the girls want, honey.”

“Aw, come on.” Blonde halter-top tapped my beer bottle. “I thought Jack Carson liked to party.”

“Baby, the party hasn’t started yet.” I rubbed her thigh. She wore too much perfume and no panties. Too easy.

“Don’t you want to play?”

Yeah, but there was a fine line between fun and forgetting the condom. “You ain’t seen nothing yet, baby.”

I left half of my beer and gulped the rest of my water. If I wasn’t blacking out, no sense wasting calories. I planned to bulk, but we were doing it right. Chicken breasts. Eggs. Almonds.

Besides, my publicist had a shitfit the last time a story passed on the internet about me being drunk. I wasn’t even driving and, somehow, I became the bad guy for having fun.

Of course, the story also included the picture of the girl with her hand down my pants. And, if I remembered that incident right, we might have had an issue with some slight public exposure too. Nothing that embarrassed me, but, then again, what I packed deserved to be admired.

Still, we were supposed to be partying. If my publicist couldn’t understand that, then Leah needed to get laid instead of bitching about my image and bad publicity. My chosen friends were more impressed by the story of me bouncing three girls in my lap, but the league and media wanted ribbon cuttings and donations to charity. I did that too, but where was the fun in it?