Red Zone: A Steamy Instalove Football Romance

What kind of woman says 'no' to football's tattooed bad boy?

Star defensive end Bowen Sullivan is used to getting what he wants. Whether it's crushing the quarterback or a night with the latest skinny blonde movie star, it's always been his.

Or so he thought until he kissed his surgeon's cute as a button plucky medical assistant. Since then he's thought of NOTHING except a chick named - ROY?

She wants nothing to do with him until he gets hurt, and then she's gonna have to give him some tender loving care... on her knees and in his bed...

Obsession isn’t pretty.

Neither is craving.

With an endless daily drive in his gut to win a Super Bowl, Premier NFL defensive end, Bowen Sullivan, was used to the burn. 

Yet even more powerful was the unyielding desire to grab his orthopedic surgeon’s medical assistant by the hair and drag her into his cave to kiss her until she promised to have his babies.

Okay, he’d do more than kiss her. 

He’d f*cking get on his knees, spread her legs, and...
His train of thought was interrupted by the question from the object of his affection/obsession.

“Are you getting too hot?”

“I’m fine.” He gritted his teeth, trying not to imagine what her body looked like under those light-blue scrubs, trying to will his cock to stay quiet, since he was wearing nothing but a pair of shorts.

One would think he couldn’t be hot in this state of undress, but those people had never had an unholy combination of heating pads, TENS units, kinesiology tape, and acupuncture needles stuck in them at the same time.

“Glazier doesn’t require you get all your alternative therapies at the same time,” she commented, marking his usual body diagram on her clipboard.  

“It’s faster this way, Roy,” he answered. The pads were for his shoulders post icing, the tape on his knees, the TENs on his ribs, and the needles in his ankle.

Another part of him wanted to ask why they called her Roy. No last name. No first name. 

Who named their daughter Roy?

Worse, she acted like she didn’t even notice him. How could she ignore a shirtless, six-foot five defensive end composed of two hundred and eighty pounds of solid muscle with black tattoos covering his arms, legs, chest, and back?

Her boss, the towering, bald Dr. Joel Glazier, came around. “How’s he doing? Any loss of muscle mass?”

Roy consulted the clipboard. “Nope, he might have lost a tenth of a percentage of body fat based on his calipers and the displacement tub.”

Glazier, who stood a good six foot five inches, almost as tall as Bowen, screwed up his face. “Are you eating the omega-3s like I told you to? Cartilage and ligaments do not grow back. We can only strengthen what we have.”

“Yes, I eat so much f*cking salmon I’m almost a bear. Sorry about that, Roy.” This humiliation was unending. A notoriously hard swearing football player to the point Coach Stefengold had officially cancelled all media inquiries to Bowen. Yet he apologized for the word ‘f*ck’?

“You hear that, Roy? Write it down. He’s a bear. My surgery on his shoulder was a success.”

“Yes, sir. Patient experiences delusions of carnivora.”

This was one reason why Bowen couldn’t get enough of Roy. She was funny, sarcastic, and unfazed by the male posturing around her.

“Have you looked over the surgical schedule for tomorrow? Make sure the radiographs, MRIs, and old fluoroscopy studies are at their assigned room beforehand. Tech Lincoln had better be on my team. I’ll take it out on you if she isn’t,” Glazier added.

Bowen bristled at the last part. Roy twirled her clipboard in her hand. “I’ll be ready, hepe, as requested.” 

Glazier didn’t miss Bowen’s reaction and pulled out a few acupuncture needles from his ankle. “Seriously, this shit isn’t necessary. Motrin and ice probably help more. Remember, preseason is over. We’re in the hunt. You got to treat your body like a fine-tuned machine. Write that down. He’s a machine.”  

“Yes, sir. Machine. Do you want it in phonics? Mash-een?” Roy’s eyes were twinkling.

“I should staple you to my next patient,” Glazier growled.

She laughed and said, “Good luck. I’ll check on our third-string quarterback. We never know when we’ll need him.”

“Tell him he needs to jerk off less. Write him a script. ‘Throw more, jerk off less.’” Glazier said.

“Why do you talk to her that way?” Bowen said after Roy moved to the other side of the trainers’ room.

“Talk to her like what?”

“Like a dick.” Bowen could out menace the center across from him, but trussed up turkey style wasn’t cutting it with Glazier.

Glazier pinned him with a stare. “Time you understood the score, Sullivan. If she wants to work here, I’m going to treat her the same way I treat any of the f*cking guys. Gentleness or sweetness does her no favors in this world.”

“But... she’s still a lady. Shouldn’t we be better than that?”

“Ah, because you forgot how you treated your old slam-pieces? I don’t recall your discerning taste. Roy can walk away any damn time she wants, without punishment. She chose to be here and can choose to leave at any time.”

“She wants to be here?” Bowen’s gaze went right back to her. She was charming Mr. Third-String, so new that Bowen hadn’t bothered to learn his name.

The burning was back.

Jealousy.

For a woman he wasn’t dating.

Mr. Third-String sensed Bowen’s attention and flinched. Bowen gave him the glower he used before sacking the opposing teams quarterback.

Bowen had already had choice words to the newbie.

Stay the f*ck away from her or spend the rest of the season in the hospital, might have been his exact words.

His shifting attention wasn’t lost on Glazier who stepped between Bowen and his line of sight to Roy.

“Listen to me. She’s under my protection, so none of you assholes are going to be dumb enough to touch her.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, doc?”

“Think I’m blind? Keep your damn eyeballs in your head and your slobbery paws off of her. Don’t touch her. Don’t breathe on her.”

“You have nothing to worry about. Trust me.” Bowen shifted into the heating pad.

“Fat chance of that. Still, you’ve got a tough game tomorrow against the Seahawks. You’d better be thinking with your brains instead of your balls.”

“I only have one brain,” Bowen said.

“At least we can agree on that. Remember, keep your fucking hands off, boy. Don’t touch her.”

“I won’t.”

Bowen didn’t have the guts to admit that he had already touched Roy.

And she’d made it clear he was never going to touch her again.