Wildcat: A Steamy Opposites Attract Sports Romance

Defensive end Trevor Hampton is laser-focused on winning with his new team. Distractions like women have no place in his life during football season. He's never met anyone who understands the amount of dedication it takes to stay on top.

Until he bumps into the bold and brash firefighter Leslie McClunis, and they click in a way he's never imagined.

He's ready for more . . . and she ditched him with a note?

This firefighting wildcat is about to learn that the biggest, baddest man in football always plays to win and he will protect what's his.

Only jerks tell women they would get ahead if they acted more feminine.

This advice, given to her by her fire captain, Eric Cordova, was particularly galling. Leslie McClunis had not survived her probie year at Firehouse 13 to be told by her new captain that acting more feminine would solve her problems.

As if any of those mouth-breathers knew what ‘feminine’ meant. To the guys at Firehouse 15, it meant women cooked, cleaned, and were brainless. It meant the only woman brave enough to enter their sacred masculine space was subject to misogynistic tricks. Since assigned to Firehouse 15 in June, she’d had four flat tires and a broken windshield. When she started walking to work, they peed in her locker. They’d even tried to trap her in the bathroom.

But she didn’t quit, and they didn’t like it.

That was their problem, not hers.

Yet here she was, trying to prove to them that she had some other feminine skill by attending an eight o’clock Bob Ross art class on a July Friday night. Why they believed painting was a feminine skill was beyond her. It might have been Bob Ross, who appeared to have been a gentle, thoughtful guy, all characteristics Leslie lacked. The artist himself had recently died, but his legacy lived on.

She flicked a hand over her short red curls. Two years ago, she’d had long flowing locks. Not anymore. They didn’t fit in a fire helmet, and short hair was harder to pull.

Another person walked by and set up an easel next to her. This someone was huge. By Leslie’s estimation, he was about six foot five and a solid 260 pounds huge. The type that could bench press Leslie’s five foot one and 105 pounds with three fingers huge.

The man moved with a surprising amount of grace while removing his leather vest, which revealed a board expanse of muscle. He took skull cap out of his pocket and used it to tie back his dreadlocks.

Leslie was staring unashamedly. She could hear people tittering around her at this man. He looked vaguely familiar, but it most likely had more to do with his size than anything else.

And she liked big men. Despite her male teammates’ constant innuendos otherwise, Leslie was not a lesbian. Her men need to be huge, hung, and not associated with the firehouse. There were only two women in her class of twenty, and she had no intention of ruining her hard work by sleeping with someone in the department. Firefighters were gossipy little chickens worse than high school girls.

The man noticed her gaze and tried to stare her down.

She bared her teeth back at him.

His eyes flashed with a spark of interest. Unfortunately for Leslie, their connection was interrupted by their instructor coming out to begin the lesson. He showed whatever ‘wet on wet’ painting meant and droned on about the wonders of happy little trees and happy accidents.

Supposedly a monkey could paint beautiful landscapes with the Bob Ross method. However, Leslie spent a lot of the class imaging what ‘wet on wet’ would mean with that man next to her. Therefore, her non-beautiful landscape ended up being a landscape of a bunch of blobs.

Mr. Too-Attractive-Next-Canvas-Over seemed to be doing a much better job. He successfully painted an entire mountain scene.

The class ended, and people started carrying away their canvases. Leslie, never one to be shy, decided to be bold.

“Hey, you!” She got the attention the man who was putting his vest back on.

“Yeah?”

“Want to go get a drink?” She did her best not to leer. He had to be concealing some heft behind those jeans and beat-up white T-shirt.

“You want to have a drink with me?”

“Why not? I promise I have much better skills than my painting.” Most guys rarely asked questions when she wanted to invite one out for a drink. The reasons should have been obvious. He was hot, and she was horny.

“I need to put my picture away.”

“I’m putting mine in the circular file.” She dropped hers in the trash can. “There’s a dive bar two doors down. I’m gonna order two drinks. One for me, and one for you. If you don’t come by in fifteen minutes, it will be two drinks for me, and I’ll find my own fun without you.”

His mouth dropped open like a fish. “Do you even know my name?”

“Do I need to? See you at the bar, stud.”