Breaking the Rules
The Dating Playbook, Book: 2
Mariah Dietz
Contents
1. Raegan
2. Lincoln
3. Raegan
4. Raegan
5. Lincoln
6. Raegan
7. Lincoln
8. Raegan
9. Lincoln
10. Raegan
11. Raegan
12. Lincoln
13. Raegan
14. Lincoln
15. Raegan
16. Lincoln
17. Raegan
18. Lincoln
19. Raegan
20. Lincoln
21. Lincoln
22. Raegan
23. Lincoln
24. Raegan
25. Lincoln
26. Raegan
27. Lincoln
28. Raegan
29. Lincoln
30. Raegan
31. Lincoln
32. Raegan
33. Raegan
34. Lincoln
35. Raegan
36. Lincoln
37. Raegan
38. Lincoln
39. Raegan
40. Lincoln
41. Raegan
Epilogue
Untitled
A Glimpse of Becoming His
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2020 by Mariah Dietz
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.
Cover Design © Hang Le
Created with Vellum
Learn More About Mariah
Website: www.mariahdietz.com
Also sign up for news, updates, and first glimpses with Mariah’s newsletter:
Sign Up Now
Also follow Mariah on:
Amazon
Bookbub
Facebook
Goodreads
And join Mariah’s readers group on Facebook: The Bossy Babes
For my Readers
1
Raegan
I expected peace.
After all, I’d just been forced to say a silent and rapid good-bye to those I loved, the chances I had and those I hadn’t, and some that I’d just never taken. It seemed that if I were going to die, peace was a small return to never see the sunrise again over the Puget Sound, or taste freshly brewed coffee, or indulge in a great novel that keeps you up all night, or never to kiss Lincoln Beckett again.
My lungs burn as does the rest of my body. And everything aches like I’ve come down with an acute case of the flu. I’m painfully cold, and my head feels too light.
Nausea hits me like an eighteen-wheeler, and the swarm of panic and fear returns with a surge of adrenaline dictated by my body or maybe my mind—demanding I fight.
“Shhhh,” a soft voice summons me, calming me, and then a gentle caress brushes my arm, a complete contradiction to the pain I feel everywhere. It’s warm and soft, and for a moment, I wonder if this will be my last memory—my last everything.
I ball my hands into fists as I struggle to open my eyelids. Warm sunlight surrounds me, bathing me in a glow I feared I’d never see again, and though it burns my eyes, I can’t force myself to look away.
There’s a loud shudder, and then another sound that is similar to crying. I can’t focus on it for very long, though, because the world has begun to spin, and my nausea is becoming stronger. I close my eyes to ward off everything—the pain, the fear, the discomfort. Going through this twice doesn’t seem fair.
“Rae. Raegan. Rae, we’re here, baby.” Mom’s voice is too muffled and bleary, but I know it’s her just like I know I’m meant to be a cetologist, studying dolphins and whales, providing a voice for them. Like I know Poppy will always be my ride or die to the ends of the earth, and that my older brother, Paxton, is going to be in the NFL one day, and my older sister, Maggie, will win the Nobel Peace Prize for her determination to help others. Just like I know that Lincoln Beckett and his pirate smile stole my heart three years ago and just recently was willing to admit he harbors the muscle that beats for him.
Or did.
Or is?
A gentle rhythm plays against the back of my hand. It’s soothing and warm and calls for me to open my eyes once more. Mom’s dark hair is brushed back into a clip, and her face is red and blotchy, her lips dry.
“What were you thinking?” she asks, her lips trembling more with each word.
I try to talk, but my throat feels raw, and my jaw aches.
Tears spill from Mom’s eyes, but she doesn’t look away or even try to wipe them, likely because more quickly follow like tiny soldiers marching off to battle. “You can’t talk,” she says,” her voice hoarse. “They had to put a ventilator in.” Rounder tears slide down her cheeks, their pace increasing.
“Raegan?” The voice is a stranger’s. I turn my attention to an older man with wiry white hair that’s too long and unkempt. He’s wearing green scrubs and a pair of glasses that are halfway down his nose, and he smells like tacos. “Nice to see you’re awake. This is a great sign.” He looks at Mom, and then behind him, I see Dad. Apart from when Maggie left for Nepal two years ago, I can’t recall having ever seen my dad cry. Not even when Grams died did he cry in front of us. But, tears streak his face now, making the pain in my chest even greater.
“Your vitals are improving as well,” the man with the white hair says, reviewing a set of screens I can barely make out over my shoulder. “All good news. The new doctor on shift is Dr. Grayson, and he should be in shortly. For now, it’s just more rest. If you start to feel any pain, you can press this button,” he says, lassoing a short cord around the hospital bed and sliding a piece of cold plastic against my palm.
I press it instantly, without hesitation, waiting for the medicine to seep in and numb me.
My eyes grow heavier, and the sounds become muted along with my emotions and fears, everything grows warmer, lulling me into a comfort I quickly succumb to.
Hours pass or maybe days. Maybe it’s only minutes until I open my eyes again and focus on the blue balloon tied to the post of my bed. It’s one of those giant Mylar balloons that remain inflated for long periods and written on it in rainbow script are the words ‘Get Well.’ It bobs against the air vent overhead, reminding me of watching something in the waves. Coldness has me trying to move my legs, wishing I could dig my feet under a blanket or between the cushions on the couch—anything that would offer some warmth. But, moving my feet is nearly impossible, my entire body sluggish and stiff. I close my eyes for several seconds in an attempt to appease the throbbing in my head, then open them again to get another look at my surroundings. Tubes and cords are everywhere, hooked to me and winding into a labyrinth that goes over my shoulder, beyond where I can see. Machines beep and echo; one reminds me of the sounds Grandpa makes when he snores. The doors are large, collapsible glass panels, covered with a curtain. In the chair beside my bed is Mom, her neck at an unnatural and painful angle that I’m sure she’ll be regretting tomorrow. I mentally make a note to tell her to sleep at home tomorrow. Then, I focus my attention back on the balloon, watching it bob and weave as it transports me back into the ocean, slowly feeling the coldness fade as I hit the button to escape the aching again.
Pain returns with a hard threat and with it lots of noise. Voices and machines, the sound of wheels and metal. “Raegan!” Someone’s calling my name again, and I debate answeri
ng. I don’t want to endure more discomfort. I don’t want to see the agony I brought to my parents.
“Raegan!” A new voice says my name, and though they’re not technically yelling, the tone is assertive and too bossy for my liking.
“We need you to fight, girlfriend.” Another foreign voice joins the chorus, bringing forth memories of the ocean: the utter blackness and the frigid temperatures that had felt like a thousand tiny needles stabbing into my flesh, puncturing my lungs and hope. I taste the bile in my throat, the burning sensation in my chest, the fear and frustrating certainty that I was trapped in the same manner I’d been trying to fight against since before I even knew how.
“Dammit,” a terse voice calls out, defeat and peril hanging in the air like a thick fog. It forces a memory to bloom: the cold slice from each stroke as I swam through the dark water, the determination in my chest as I fought my desire to go back to be with him. Lincoln. His anger was evident as he’d yelled the same word. He’d likely felt the same defeat I had when I’d realized the fishing net—the one I dove into the Puget Sound for to free a dolphin named Blue—was wrapped and tangled around me, holding me prisoner several inches beneath the surface and stealing my tiny allotment of air.
Thoughts of Lincoln spread and multiply until every memory of the ocean is replaced by his startling brown eyes, sharp jaw, straight nose, and the short mane of hair I ran my fingers through when he explored my body for the first time. His laughter tickles my ears, and his fierce exterior tests my patience. With each thought, a new pain hits my chest and spreads until all I can think about is Lincoln, and all I can feel is torment.
“There we go, girlfriend. That’s right. You stay here. All these people are here for you, baby. You don’t get to leave that easily.” It’s the voice from earlier, velvet on my ears as she calls me girlfriend. I like the term of endearment. Like we’re friends, though she doesn’t know a thing about me.
I slowly crack my eyes open, regretting the decision instantly as a team of doctors and nurses hover over me.
“Hey, it’s nice to meet you finally.” It’s the brusque voice this time, and though his words sound kind, his tone is still angry and rushed. His face is covered by a hospital mask, sparking an irrational fear I’ve had since I was a child—a fear consisting of waking up during surgery. I’d watched an episode of Dateline or Twenty-Twenty with my parents eons ago, during which they interviewed people who were traumatized by the very nightmare. That fear camouflaged itself and has remained in my memory, popping out at the most random and inopportune times, like now.
“Let’s make sure we don’t do that again, okay?” The emphasis on the word okay, the way he punctuated it brings out an accent that reveals he’s far from home. I’m guessing New York, maybe Jersey?
The doctor brushes his fingers along the line of his brow, then lowers his surgical mask and rolls his shoulders. “Looks like we’re not gonna need you guys,” he says, turning his attention to a blonde woman standing next to a pushcart filled with supplies.
“You want me to leave the ones I’ve got on her there, just in case?” the blonde asks.
The doctor pulls in a deep breath through his nose. “Yeah. Probably should.” He turns his blue-green eyes to me. “They’re only a precaution because I like to have my bases covered. You keep your heart beating this time, yeah?”
My heart beating?
My vision is clumsy and clouded, the same heavy and constant cover of exhaustion urging me back to sleep, whispering promises of the discomfort fading if I just hit the little button encapsulated in my fist.
I slowly stretch my fingers, each of them sore and protesting the loss of the morphine drip. But I don’t want it. Not anymore. I’d rather feel the pain that reminds me I’m somehow still alive.
I spend four days in the hospital.
Twenty-four hours after my heart stopped, they took out that awful tracheal tube that was down my throat. My throat had never been so sore, not even after my tonsils were removed when I was twelve. Ice chips and water were my saving grace. My first words were the request to remove the morphine. I was tired of its constant haze and still fearful of sleep. The doctor on call encouraged me to keep it, but that night, the Northeastern doctor was on shift again. I learned his name was Dr. Grayson. He had straight black hair, a slightly bulbous nose, and olive skin. I asked him to remove the morphine, and surprisingly, he listened. My fourth and final night was spent on the general floor of the hospital, away from the constant checks and lights that consume the ICU. And this morning, they finally signed the discharge papers, stating I was free to go home despite my parents’ concerns.
“What if she stops breathing again?” Mom asks.
“What if she starts going into cardiac arrest again?” Dad demands.
We’re outside the doors of the ICU, visiting Dr. Grayson, the only doctor my parents seemingly trust, and who will likely be receiving handsome Christmas gifts from them this year for saving my life for the second time in a matter of days. They’ve decided his words are gospel, trusting him above the doctor who signed my discharge papers. I’m seated in a wheelchair—hospital policy they told me as they ordered I take a seat, dressed in the yoga pants and Brighton sweatshirt Mom had brought for me to wear.
Dr. Grayson flashes a gentle smile—one he never gave me while I was his patient. “She’s doing great. Near drowning patients have a window of time where there are risks, and once you’re past that, you’re in the clear. Reagan’s in the clear.”
Mom places a tissue to her eyes. “You’re positive?”
Dr. Grayson nods. “You know the signs if anything arises, but her vitals all look great, and she passed her tests with flying colors. Now, it’s just a matter of gaining back some strength and healing.”
I’m fairly positive I’m being wheeled out of the hospital with more injuries than I arrived with, namely due to the chest tube they pushed through my ribs and punctured my right lung with to drain the remains of the Pacific Ocean, I’d brought in here with me.
“I know it’s been a rough week for you guys. But, I promise, we wouldn’t let her go if there were any foreseen risks,” Dr. Grayson concludes.
Maggie places her hand on my shoulder. It’s an assurance to herself rather than me, though. Everyone keeps touching me. Mom slept in the hospital room with me last night with one hand on my stomach. She startled awake a half dozen times with a loud gasp, tearing her eyes to the monitors that were measuring my heart and lungs to ensure neither had taken a vacation. They hadn’t. Instead, she was making them both work overtime. “Mom is so glad you lived because she’s going to kill you now herself,” Maggie says.
Laughter tickles my throat, but in its place comes an ugly and hoarse cough that makes me sound like I’ve been chain-smoking for the past fifty years.
“She sounds like she’s still choking,” Mom points out.
My cheeks redden with embarrassment and the labor of breathing as the coughing subsides, and I use another folded tissue I’ve replaced and kept in my palm as a constant for the past few days to wipe the small flecks of blood from my arm after covering my cough. It turns out, the tracheal tube scratched my throat, and coughing up blood is part of the healing process.
Gross, I know.
“It’s perfectly normal. Her lungs endured a lot,” Dr. Grayson assures her. “It’s like a cold or the flu; the side-effects will take a little time to go away.”
“I feel good, Mom. I want to go home.” My voice still burns a little, but I don’t admit that just like I refuse to admit the nightmares I’ve been having since the morphine stopped providing me the peaceful nothingness.
Mom turns to me. “You also wanted to dive into the ocean and look where that got us.” She’s a little mad—that might be the understatement of the century. I can’t recall Mom ever being upset with me for this long. Poppy assures me it’s normal, but it still comes with a truckload of guilt.
Dr. Grayson smiles. “I know this was really hard on you guys,
but everything’s going to be okay. Get home, get some rest, and some real food. In a week or two, she’ll be as good as new.”
My only reluctance with leaving is that it signifies the end of my time here, waiting for Lincoln to stop by. To show up with a cheesy balloon or nothing at all, I don’t care. I just want to see him—need to see him. But, like nearly drowning, that isn’t my choice to make.
2
Lincoln
I live for game days.
The anticipation.
The adrenaline.
The focus.
The scent of leather when opening a fresh pair of cleats.
I’ve been playing football since I was seven and chills still race over my arms before a game.
Paxton, on the other hand, is a jittery fool who often sucks my enthusiasm away until he loses the contents of his stomach and then instantly calms the fuck down. He hasn’t reached that point yet. We all have our routines—the same events and structures that lead us to prepare for a game. For me, game days start early with reps and transitions to sprints. After sprints, I run for two miles and then hit the showers and eat like a king. It’s a double order of eggs benedict every single time, and then I study film until it’s time to ice my shoulder and get my ankles taped. I don’t hang out with others. I don’t answer my phone. On game days, I become a solitary motherfucker.
Breaking the Rules: The Dating Playbook, Book: 2 Page 1