Girls say I’m a walking, talking sex god. Guys call me Hollywood because my life is golden.

It’s not.

But, ESPN did rank me as a four star recruit, calling me one of the best defensive players since Briarcrest Academy opened its esteemed doors. So yeah, with football and a stellar GPA, my future seemed good.

Then Dovey Beckham shows up in her short skirts and ballet shoes. Driving me insane. Making me want to beg for her attention.

But that wouldn’t happen, because Cuba Hudson didn’t beg for anything.

She walked around BA like she owned the place, and most days she looked right through me…the one girl I couldn’t have.

So, of course, I made it my mission to claim her, to put her notch on my bedpost.

Because no girl can resist the Heartbreaker of BA.

But I never planned on destroying her.

I never planned on wrecking the one thing that could save me.

Welcome to Briarcrest Academy, where wicked love begins…and ends.

“Two things about me: I play football—and girls.” –Cuba Hudson

I wanted the gorgeous girl in the window.

More specifically, I wanted the dark-haired girl dancing inside the Symthe Arts Building as I stood outside on the twenty yard line at football practice, fixated on her when I should have been focused on the line of scrimmage. I adjusted my helmet and squinted through the afternoon Dallas sun.

Did I know her?

Movement from other players on the field pulled me back. Good thing. As defensive end, it was my job to put the screws to or sack the quarterback as soon as the ball snapped. But I was off today. Probably because I knew I had a shit ton of homework waiting for me at home. With my dream of being a doctor and getting into a good school, being on top of my game in class was important as well. Briarcrest Academy was one of the top-rated private schools in the country, making expectations here high.

Just like every eighteen-year-old kid out there, I had stresses.

But I did have more than the average. I had a sick mom.

But those thoughts faded when I looked back at the window and watched the girl run and then leap in the air, her body doing some kind of crazy in-the-air-leg-split-thing. Damn. She’d gotten at least four feet off the ground.

Then, after landing on her feet light as a feather, she danced away from my view. I waited for her to come back, wanting to check out her toned muscles again, especially her tight ass. And then I randomly wondered if her tits were small. Weren’t all dancers? Yeah. But still, she looked—

“Pay attention, Hudson!” Coach Howe yelled at me.

Fuck. Caught.

I automatically stiffened and tightened my defensive stance, running my eyes across the offensive line, waiting for the play. But the quarterback was pussy-footing around still undecided if they were gonna run or pass. Whatever. Matt the Quarterback was a complete jack ass. I ate guys like him for lunch which wasn’t hard when you’re tall and fast like me.

I got bored.

Out of my peripheral vision, I caught a flash of pink dashing past the window.

She was back.

And like I was addicted to her, my eyes drifted to the building again, one part baffled by the fascination, the other part wanting to get another glimpse of her long legs. As I watched, she adjusted her ponytail as she laughed up at her ballet partner—who was a dude. Crazzzy. Yeah, you’d think he’d be all feminine and shit, but he wasn’t. Nope. Dude looked buff, like he could bench press a school bus.

Something about the girl called to me. Yeah, it was probably that short skirt she wore. I pictured slipping my hand underneath it to her panties. Her core would be hot, on fire for me, of course, and I’d ease my finger inside her wet—

Bam!  I took a hard hit from Tank Carson, an All District offensive guard I routinely ran circles around in practice. He might be big, but I was quick and smart and had more moves than a freaking octopus. So the chance to plant my distracted ass on the turf was an early Christmas present for him. That’s what I get for letting some piece of ass get in my game, even if it was practice.

And so. My unprepared body flew through the air with 290 pounds of Tank on top of it. My head followed my body and hit the turf, the contact reverberating inside my helmet and then everything went black…

Ilsa Madden-Mills writes about strong heroines and sexy alpha males that sometimes you just want to slap. She spends her days with two small kids, a neurotic cat, and her Viking husband. She collects magnets and rarely cooks except to bake her own pretzels. When she’s not typing away at a story, you can find her drinking too much Diet Coke, jamming out to Pink, or checking on her carefully maintained chocolate stash. She loves to hear from fans and fellow authors.

Ilsa’s website: http://ilsamaddenmills.com