Chapter 1: Red Cards and Red Flags
There are three kinds of hell in Isla Maddox’s life: humidity-induced frizz, athletes who think Instagram captions are personality traits, and assignment editors who hate her.
Unfortunately, today, she was dealing with all three.
The heat was brutal, the players were shirtless and smug, and her editor had just emailed her the words: “Cover Theo King. Daily updates. No exceptions.”
Her iced coffee dripped condensation down her wrist as she stared at the training field. A dozen men were running drills in tight shorts, but only one made her insides clench—and not in a good way.
Theo bloody King.
He was shirtless, as expected. Cocky, as always. The sun kissed every inch of his tanned, tattooed torso as he jogged past her position on the sidelines like he didn’t have a care in the world. His smirk was a weapon, and he knew exactly how to use it. Every muscle in his body seemed sculpted to offend her feminist sensibilities.
She hated how stupidly good-looking he was.
Even worse? She’d slept with him once. Three years ago. Vegas. Too many tequila shots. And one absolutely devastating orgasm that still showed up in her dreams like an unsolicited dick pic.
“Isla?” A voice beside her snapped her out of her scowl. Her cameraman, Dan, looked amused. “You good?”
“Peachy.” She forced a smile. “Just fantasizing about pushing someone into a goal post.”
Dan snorted. “Guessing that someone is the guy currently winking at you?”
She didn’t need to look to know it was Theo.
Because, of course, he was winking.
The bastard jogged over, stopping right in front of her, sweat glistening down his abs like he’d been photoshopped by the gods.
“Isla Maddox.” His voice was a rich, low purr with just enough of that British accent to make panties combust. “Still holding that grudge, love?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Still holding that ego, King?”
He grinned like she was his favorite joke. “Missed you, too.”
“Please.” She shifted her weight and crossed her arms, holding the mic with practiced control. “I was assigned to cover your season. Trust me, I wouldn’t voluntarily breathe the same air as your overinflated sense of importance.”
Theo’s eyes flicked down her body—slow, deliberate, filthy. “Pity. I was hoping we’d pick up where we left off. You know…” His voice dropped a note, sultry and smooth. “Naked. Panting. You screaming my name.”
Dan coughed behind the camera.
Isla didn’t blink. “Ah, yes. I remember. Thirty minutes of you calling yourself the King while I faked a nap.”
His bark of laughter was too damn charming. “Now that’s just cruel. You were screaming so loud the hotel nearly comped the room for noise complaints.”
Her cheeks flushed despite herself.
She hated him. She really did. But her body hadn’t gotten the memo. Because it remembered the way his tongue could drive her wild, the way he’d pinned her wrists to the bed and whispered filth in that sinful voice.
Unfortunately, he also ghosted her the next morning and gave an interview about his “off-the-pitch conquests” being “good cardio.”
Prick.
“I’m not here to relive mistakes,” she said, lifting her chin. “I’m here to do a job. Stay in line, give me your soundbites, and I won’t have to mention your lingerie drawer full of trophies.”
His eyes darkened. “Oh, love, you know I don’t play by the rules.”
“And that,” she muttered, “is why you get red cards and restraining orders.”
Theo chuckled and leaned in a little too close. “You’ve got fire, Maddox. Always did.”
“And you’ve got an STD waiting to happen. Back up.”
But he didn’t. If anything, he leaned in further, dropping his voice to a husky whisper.
“Let’s make a deal. You stop pretending you don’t want to ride me like a victory parade float, and I’ll behave on camera.”
She blinked, stunned.
Then shoved her iced coffee into his chest.
“I’d rather choke on a whistle.”
He caught the drink with an infuriatingly amused expression, took a sip, and winked again. “Suit yourself.”
And with that, Theo King jogged back to practice like he hadn’t just dropped-kicked her sanity and lit it on fire.
Isla turned to Dan and growled, “Tell me I can punch him just once.”
Dan smirked. “You could. But then I’d have to blur it out for the viewers.”
She sighed and muttered, “Red cards and red flags. Every bloody time.”
Isla should’ve gone home. She meant to go home. But nooo, she just had to wait until after practice for a one-on-one interview with Theo King. The man who treated a locker room like his personal strip club and her patience like a contact sport.
She adjusted the strap of her tank top, trying not to look too flustered as the camera crew packed up and left her alone by the tunnel. The stadium was nearly empty, the sun starting to dip, shadows casting long and golden across the pitch.
Then he strolled in—freshly showered, hair wet, towel slung dangerously low around his hips.
She cursed. Softly. Viciously.
Theo King was a menace. A menace wrapped in muscle, tattoos, and soap that probably cost more than her rent.
He stopped a few feet away and smirked. “Like what you see, Maddox?”
“Nope.” Her eyes betrayed her and flicked down, immediately regretting it. “Just mentally preparing myself to interview a man who thinks foreplay is flexing in a mirror.”
Theo stepped closer. “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Again.”
She rolled her eyes. “Can we just get this over with?”
“I thought you hated quickies.”
She definitely hated him.
Still, she reached for the mic and her notepad, ignoring the twitch in her core when he sat back on the bench, towel parting slightly over his thigh like some kind of cruel Greek statue come to life.
“So,” she said, trying to focus. “This is your first full season since the injury. Everyone wants to know—are you ready to reclaim your crown?”
He shrugged, muscles shifting under his skin. “I never lost it.”
“You lost a lot, actually. Sponsors. Endorsements. Half your fanbase.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, towel riding even lower. “But not you. You’re still here.”
“I’m here because my job requires it. Not because I want to listen to your inflated… ego.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
Oh, for the love of— “Theo.”
“Yes, love?”
She ignored the shiver that ran down her spine at the word. “This is a professional interview. Try acting like a grown man.”
He tilted his head. “You want the full King Experience or the PR-approved version?”
“I want the truth,” she snapped. “Is this comeback about football or fame?”
His gaze sharpened. Just a flash of something real beneath the cocky exterior.
“Both,” he said quietly. “But mostly football. I love this game. Always have. Fame? That’s just a byproduct.”
She blinked. That… almost sounded genuine.
“And the headlines?” she asked, voice a touch softer. “The women, the drama?”
“Deflection,” he said with a shrug. “If people are talking about my sex life, they’re not asking how I let my team down.”
The vulnerability was quick—fleeting—but it hit her in the chest like a well-aimed penalty shot. Damn him.
“You didn’t let anyone down,” she said before she could stop herself.
He looked at her, quiet for a beat. “You’re the only one who ever said that.”
They stared at each other. The tension was thick, heavier than it had any right to be. Her breath caught, and his eyes dropped to her lips.
“This is a bad idea,” she whispered, voice low and tight.
“The worst,” he agreed.
And then, because apparently self-sabotage was her kink, Isla stepped between his legs, grabbed his chin, and kissed him.
Hard.
Hot.
Hungry.
His hands slid around her waist like they belonged there, the towel shifting dangerously as he deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing hers in a way that made her knees buckle.
She broke the kiss with a gasp, heart pounding, lips swollen.
“That—” she said, panting, “—was a mistake.”
He looked up at her with pure sin in his smirk. “Sure, didn’t feel like one.”
“Don’t read into it.”
“Too late.”
She turned on her heel, grabbing her mic and pretending her legs weren’t shaking. “Same time tomorrow,” she muttered.
“Should I bring the towel or lose it next time?”
She flipped him off over her shoulder.
He laughed. Low, wicked, satisfied.
And damn it, her panties were soaked.
Isla slammed her apartment door shut behind her and pressed her back to it like she was trying to exorcise lust from her soul.
No luck.
Theo King was under her skin. Deep. Like a sexy, irritating splinter she couldn’t dig out without moaning.
She peeled off her clothes in a daze, tossing her bra across the couch and muttering, “You’re not thinking about him. You’re thinking about wine. Netflix. Maybe batteries.”
Lies. All lies.
Her phone buzzed.
Theo King: Still thinking about that kiss?
She stared at the screen like it had betrayed her.
Isla: Still full of yourself, I see.
Theo King: Only when you’re not full of me instead.
She choked. On air. On pride. On every smart-ass comeback she’d rehearsed in her life.
Theo King: You wanna talk about it? Or should I come over and help you think it through?
She threw her phone on the couch like it was radioactive. Then picked it up again. Then threw it again.
It was unfair. How good he looked. How cocky he was. How much her body wanted his, despite all the red flags waving like a damn parade.
Twenty minutes later, Isla was curled up on the couch in nothing but an oversized hoodie—not his, thank you very much—when there was a knock at her door.
Her heart did a little somersault.
She shouldn’t answer.
She absolutely shouldn’t open it.
She opened it.
And there he was.
Theo King. Hoodie pulled up, gray sweats slung low, and that same goddamn smirk that made her nipples tighten before he even said a word.
“I shouldn’t let you in,” she said.
“You’re going to anyway.”
She hated that he was right. She hated that she stepped aside. She really hated that he smelled like sin and sandalwood.
“You’re trouble,” she whispered.
He leaned in, lips grazing her ear. “I’m exactly the kind of trouble your thighs are begging for.”
And that was it.
Her body made the decision for her—hands in his hair, his mouth crashing onto hers, and suddenly they were stumbling back toward her couch like gravity didn’t matter anymore.
Clothes? Gone. Fast and reckless.
She dropped to her knees before she could second-guess it, tugging down those gray sweats, and fuck, he was already hard—thick, heavy, and pulsing like he’d been waiting for this since their last argument.
“Not gonna stop me this time?” she teased, glancing up with a wicked smile.
Theo’s jaw clenched. “Not unless you want me to beg.”
Her lips wrapped around the tip, tongue flicking playfully before taking him deeper, inch by inch, loving the way his muscles twitched, how his head dropped back against the couch.
“Fuck, Isla…”
His voice was gravel and lust, hands tangling in her hair but not pushing, just holding, like he needed something to anchor him.
She sucked harder, sliding him deep into her throat until his thighs tensed and he hissed through clenched teeth.
“Jesus—you keep doing that, and I’m not gonna last.”
She pulled off with a sinful pop and a smirk. “Good. I’m not finished with you yet.”
In seconds, he had her flipped, pinned beneath him on the couch, his mouth trailing fire along her collarbone, his cock teasing her soaked entrance.
“No teasing,” she warned.
“Oh, love,” he murmured against her breast, “I’m not teasing. I’m tormenting.”
And then he thrust inside—deep, slow, deliberate.
She gasped, her back arching. “Shit—”
Theo grunted, holding her hips still as he sank fully into her. “You feel like heaven wrapped in sin.”
He moved with purpose, rolling hips, grinding into her just right. She clung to his back, nails digging into muscle, legs wrapped tight around him.
“You’re mine tonight,” he growled.
“Just for tonight,” she panted.
He pulled back, eyes dark. “Only tonight?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Then nodded.
“Good,” he said, driving into her harder. “Because I’m going to fucking wreck you.”
