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  My Brother’s Teammates

  A Reverse Harem Sports Romance

  Cassandra Dee

  Copyright © 2019 by Cassandra Dee

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  The Claiming Her Series

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  About This Book

  Mia’s a feisty, curvy girl who loves sports. In fact, she’s always wanted to be a member of the men’s football team although Ridgewood High doesn’t allow women to play. But Mia’s got talent, and she’s determined to make her brother’s teammates acknowledge her athleticism even if Trace, Troy, Howard, Frank and George send thrills down her spine every time they call, “Hutt!”

  * * *

  Trace, Troy, Howard, Frank and George are powerful athletes with chiseled physiques and the athleticism of raw animals. The Ridgewood Razorbacks are headed to the State Championships this year, and the last thing they want is for their teammate’s little sister to be a distraction. But when the gorgeous, curvy Mia shows her true colors, suddenly these football players have met their match: both on the field and in the locker room as well.

  * * *

  Hey Readers – Get ready for the Five-Sided Feast! Yeah, you know what I mean. It’s a feast for the senses that will drive you absolutely INSANE with heat! As always, there’s an HEA with no cheating and no cliffhangers. You’ll love it, I promise! Xoxo, Cassie

  Contents

  1. Mia

  2. Trace

  3. Mia

  4. Troy

  5. Mia

  6. Howard

  7. Mia

  8. Frank

  9. Mia

  10. George

  11. Mia

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek: My Best Friend’s Husband

  Sneak Peek: My Neighbor’s Husband

  About the Author

  1

  Mia

  I’ve always wanted to play football, and the warnings people have thrown at me don’t make a whit of difference.

  “Mia, football’s for boys,” my friend Anne said, rolling her eyes. “You’re a girl, get it? Girls don’t play football.”

  “Mia, you’re five foot two,” admonished my mom as she rolled out some cookie dough. “Can’t you do something more ladylike? Maybe sewing or even journalism?”

  “Mia, get lost,” growled my brother, Mark. “Seriously, don’t bother us. Scram.”

  Those were the words that greeted me whenever I tried to get out on the field to make my point. But that’s not going to dissuade me. After all, I’m athletic. I may only be five two but I’m an ace gymnast and a tumbler at heart. I can do flips, somersaults, and cartwheels like none other. Heck, if half these guys had the balance and agility that I do, Ridgewood would have made it to the State Championships the past three years. Instead, they’re headed to State for the first time in ages, no thanks to Coach Moore.

  But in pursuit of my quest, I decide to talk to Coach once again as a last ditch effort to get on the team.

  “Coach,” I say as I knock on his office door. “It’s me, Mia Pierce. I wanted to talk to you about me trying out for the team.”

  There’s no sound despite the fact that I know he’s in there.

  “Coach!” I bang louder. “It’s me, Mia! I know you’re in there. Don’t try to hide.”

  There’s a shuffling noise and then finally the door opens to reveal the grizzled, wizened mien of Coach Moore. He’s a bear of a man. He must have been six five in his prime, but now at age sixty, he’s stooped with salt and pepper hair and a thicket of lines bracketing his eyes and mouth. Still, Coach can be intimidating. But he merely looks down at me and sighs.

  “Alright, Mia,” he says in a weary tone. “Come in. I have ten minutes.”

  I march into his office and plop myself down in the chair before his desk.

  “Well Coach, I wanted to talk about me trying out for the Razorbacks this year. I know that you guys have your hearts set on winning State, and I think I could help get you there.”

  His eyes narrow at me.

  “But doing what, Mia? What could you do f
or our team at this late stage? We’ve done well so far without you. Our offense is stellar and our defense has no holes, period. What do you have to offer?”

  My eyes grow sharp.

  “Well, you know Tommy Tidehouse is a ridiculous receiver. He’s as slow as molasses in June, and he runs like a man who’s sitting down. I could be a receiver. I could sprint way out into the end zone and catch the ball for the team. Call me Bolthouse Blue,” I joke.

  The coach snorts a little rudely.

  “Yeah, but Mia, can you catch? That’s a prerequisite for becoming a receiver.”

  At that, I shrug.

  “I’ll learn.”

  He harrumphs and closes his eyes tiredly while squeezing the bridge of his nose.

  “Mia, we’ve had this conversation many times before. The Razorbacks are doing well this year. We have a full complement of highly skilled athletes, and frankly, there are no holes to fill. We don’t have an opening for a girl.”

  I latch onto the word ‘girl’ immediately.

  “Well, I’m going to take this up with my Title IX officer then,” I say in chirpy voice. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to hear about my gripes, especially since you’re practically running a clubhouse with a sign that says “No Girls Allowed.””

  Coach Moore leans back while shaking his head.

  “Our district has no Title IX officer,” he says wearily. “You’d have to take it up with Margaret Morgan up in Sacramento.”

  I sit up straight.

  “Well, then I’ll be taking it up with Margaret Morgan then. I heard that she got Louella King instated as a member of the wrestling team over at Cloverfield High. And you know what? Louella helped them get all the way to State that year, and Louella’s wrestling for San Diego now. I bet Ms. Morgan would be happy to listen to my case, and to begin an action on my behalf if it comes to that.”

  I can tell that Coach wants to curse. He wants to say something about how Title IX has completely gotten out of hand because since when do women wrestle as a part of men’s wrestling teams? When do they play football, come to think of it?

  But I’m a sassy female, and I’m not going to be intimidated by this old boys’ club of alpha males. They think they can squeeze me out, but it’s going to be harder than that. I’m made of steel, albeit steel that’s hidden under layers of curves. I can make this happen.

  “Okay, let’s compromise,” says Coach Moore with resignation.

  I shake my head.

  “I’m not about compromises, Coach. It’s either I’m on the team, or I’m not and I’m going to talk with the Title IX rep. It’s that easy.”

  The old man squints his eyes while shaking his head.

  “See Mia? That’s why you’re trouble, and not fit for the football field. Football is a team sport. There is no “I” in the word team. Compromises are made all the time among team members, and we often have to agree as a group before we pursue any particular course of action. Does that make sense to you?”

  I nod pertly.

  “Of course it does. I’m just saying that in this particular instance, I want to make sure you know that I’m playing hardball.”

  “Believe me, I know,” the coach says dryly.

  “Oh good!” I chirp. “Then fire away. I’m all about teamwork and commitment.”

  Coach Moore sighs again and squeezes the stress ball lying on his desk with gnarled old fingers. In fact, it looks like he’s taking the life of the shapeless piece of rubber given how white his knuckles look. But he manages a wan smile.

  “Okay Mia. Since you recognize the importance of coordinated action and a team mentality, let’s put it to the team then. If you can get at least five members of the team to support you, then I’ll let you join. That’s not too hard to do, is it?”

  I stare at him.

  “Yeah, but you know my brother’s on the team too. You know, Mark Pierce. Can he be one of the five?”

  Coach Moore blows out air so hard that it sounds like a whistle.

  “No, because he’s your brother, Mia. No nepotism.”

  I look at him archly.

  “Who knows? Maybe Mark would say no because he doesn’t want his twin sister on the team.”

  Coach just shakes his head.

  “No, and that’s final. Five guys vote you in, and one of the five can’t be your brother. Once you get that, then I’m on board too. Take it or leave it, Mia.”

  I think for a moment. There’s got to be at least thirty men on the team, so five shouldn’t be too hard. In fact, I’m probably getting the better end of the deal. Coach could have said something like, “Get a majority or a super-majority to vote you in,” but he didn’t. He said five. Always one to recognize a good thing, I hold my hand out with a sparkling smile.

  “You got it Coach Moore. I’ll get five guys to sponsor me, and then I’ll see you at practice. You can count on it.”

  The old man reaches forward to shake my hand with his calloused one, but there’s a devilish gleam in the faded blue depths of his eyes.

  “Sure Mia,” he says casually. “Looking forward to it.”

  With that, I turn and march out of the office, my curly brown ponytail flowing behind me. The secretary at the front desk looks at me suspiciously.

  “All good, Mia?” she asks.

  “All good,” I say with a confident nod of my head. “By the way, Marjorie, do you know where the football team is right now?”

  She looks at her watch.

  “Well, practice ended about twenty minutes ago, so my guess is that they’re hitting the showers. Why?”

  A flush runs over my cheeks. The boys are in the locker room? What a great piece of news. I’m in luck.

  “Thank you,” I say with a bright smile. “Have a good night!”

  With that, I let myself out of the Athletics Office and step into the twilight. Ridgewood High is stately, with its white-columned buildings and acres of green grass. But I’m headed to somewhere specific because the Razorbacks are in the men’s locker room right now … and I can’t think of a better place to make my case.

  2

  Trace

  The hot water hits my shoulders and I let out a low growl of pleasure. Shit, it feels good. My buddies and I are seniors at Ridgewood High, and football is what we live for. We kill ourselves out on the field each day at practice, imagining that each scrimmage is the final game of the NFL championships. That’s how dedicated we are, and how much we want to win.

  After all, we’re seniors now and this is our last chance to get to State. Our previous three years were disappointing, to say the least. We didn’t even make the quarterfinals last year, but somehow over the summer it all came together. We’re playing like animals on the field now, and we’re just about to enter the regional round robin that leads to the Championship game.

  Thus, my tired muscles. In fact, all of me feels fatigued, and I’m not the only one either. As my teammates whip off their towels and step into the showers, I hear more than one of them whoop as their muscles are pounded by scalding water. It’s necessary. Cold water would make our muscles tense and freeze up, likely leading to injury. Hot water, on the other hand, is like a massage in and of itself, especially when delivered in the form of powerful jets.

  “Yo guys, I’m taking off!” calls out Mark, one of my teammates. I wave through the mist and see a couple guys give him some high fives. Mark isn’t bad. He’s a tad small to play football, but we let him scrimmage with us because of his good attitude. The guy is probably five six at most, with the build of a small but solid penguin. That’s not really ideal for football, but again, this is high school and not the NFL. A winning demeanor is needed, and Mark is a good guy.

  A couple dudes clap him on the back, and Mark leaves through the swinging double doors. I stay in the shower as more guys leave, luxuriating in the steam and heat. It’s practically a sauna now, to be frank. Bullets of sweat run over my broad chest, but I don’t care. I need to recuperate and a long, hot shower is how it all
starts.

  Suddenly, there’s a commotion by the door. What the fuck? What’s going on? This is the men’s locker room.

  “You let me in here!” comes a decidedly female voice. “I belong here!”

  Oh shit. I know who it is. With a decidedly harsh yank of the shower handle, I shut off the water and grab a towel to sling around my waist. The cotton is coarse and rough from being laundered one too many times, but that’s okay. It’s clean, smells good, and hides my assets, which is necessary in this particular instance.

  Because I know who it is at the door. It’s Mia Pierce, Mark’s twin sister. She’s a firecracker, that one. She and Mark are obviously fraternal twins, but there are definitely some similarities. For one, they’re both short. Mark’s five six, and Mia’s probably five two. Second, they’re both built solidly, although Mark has muscle whereas Mia is all curves. Third, they both have dark brown hair, although Mark’s is almost inky black, whereas Mia has curls of chestnut.

  But Mia also has a playful, sassy way about her that has half the guys at Ridgewood High panting over her like dogs. We’d all love to stroke those saucy curves, and to make her moan, but she’s so independent that as far as I know, she’s never had a boyfriend. Oh sure, there have been guys who’ve claimed to bed her, but I highly doubt it. She’d rip out their eyeballs and tie their sacks into bows before she let a man touch her prematurely.