Forgetting the Rules: A Second-Chance-Romance Sports Standalone

by Mariah Dietz

  “You’re such a pain in the ass.”

  I laugh again. “I struggle with not having control over things too, sometimes,” I admit. “I think after feeling so powerless, and out of control with everything mom went through, it’s really difficult to not want to control things.”

  “Is that why you don’t date?”

  “It was a contributing factor.”

  Anna turns so she’s fully facing me. “Was?”

  “I might be kind of, sort of dating Ian.”

  “Ian Forrest?”

  “The one and only.”

  Anna does a slow blink. “What does kind of mean?”

  “Are you objecting?”

  She blinks in long slow draws. “No. I just … I’m a little surprised. What made you change your mind?”

  “The fact I haven’t wanted to kiss another guy in about eight months.”

  Anna’s jaw falls. “It took eight months for you to decide?”

  “He was in Italy for two of them.”

  “Still. I can’t believe you waited. I can’t believe he waited. eight months is a long time”

  “First off, neither can I. Secondly, I didn’t ask him to wait around for me. It wasn’t like I planned this out. In fact, I tried to avoid him.”

  She grins and takes a sip of her coffee. “I like to think when something like that happens, that’s Mom putting her own touch on things.”

  “Let’s hope that wasn’t Mom’s touch I was feeling.”

  “Rose!” she objects, but rather than looking angry, she laughs. “You know what I mean. She was helping the timeline, breaking down all of your stubbornness.”

  “Stubbornness?”

  She laughs again. “Need me to say it again?”

  “Dating is still kind of terrifying. It fits right into that category of things I can’t control. I can’t control his feelings for me or if he gets drafted or where he moves…”

  Anna sets her coffee down and wraps her arm around my shoulders. “He’s not Christopher.”

  I scoff as I pull away from her, annoyed that she would bring him up again, especially now. “I know that. He’s nothing like Christopher.”

  Anna’s fingers dig into my arm, holding me in place. “I retract my statement. Back to neutral ground. I like Ian, and I think it’s great you’re going to date him. He seems like a nice guy, a little on the muscley side … if you’re into that sort of thing, which it seems like you are.”

  I lean into her, a silent laugh tugging at my lips.

  “This seems like a place Mom would have loved,” Anna says, looking at the doors behind us.

  “She did.”

  “I know I got more time with her, but sometimes I’m a little jealous because you guys were always so close.”

  Her admission shocks me. “You guys talked about law school and politics constantly.”

  “Yeah, but she opened up to you. She told you about growing up in Peru and what it was like moving here. With me, it was all about showing a brave face.”

  “I’m sure it’s because she didn’t want to hold you back. I feel that way a little with Ian, already. I don’t want to influence his decisions as much as I want to be selfish and hold on to him.”

  Anna leans her head against mine. “We’re really late. We should probably go inside.”

  “I know this job isn’t as exciting, but I’m glad you’re back.”

  She pulls away, planting a kiss on my head. “Me too.” She smooths her hand over the same spot she kissed and then climbs to her feet and brushes off her pants.

  Ian

  Lincoln stares at the ceiling while he paces their living room. Arlo is seated on the couch, elbows on his knees, while I sit across from him in the chair. My friendship with Pax wasn’t my invitation here this morning. The fact I’m the captain of the defense was my key, while theirs lies in a brotherhood.

  “The site didn’t post anything about it,” Lincoln says. “For all we know, they don’t even know about the party last night. We need Pax,” Lincoln says.

  Arlo nods. “I agree.”

  “To win, we might, but if we continue allowing him to act like this, he’s going to take more than just our chances at an undefeated year, he’s going to take his own fucking life,” I point out.

  Arlo leans back. “He’s not that bad. I mean, he’s overdoing it, yes, but it’s not like he’s had to go to the hospital or anything.”

  My gaze flicks from Arlo to Lincoln, waiting to catch his reaction. He shakes his head. “I don’t know, man. I hear your concern, but if we take football away from him, I think that’s only going to shove him farther down this path of destruction. It’s the only thing keeping him sober a few nights a week.”

  “We’re enabling him,” I point out.

  “He had one hell of a year, and he’s still carrying some of the debris,” Lincoln says. “Between Rae almost dying, and his dad, and fucking Candace—he’s had a lot going on.”

  “I hear you, and that’s why he had a free pass for the better part of last season. And the spring. And the summer. When does that end? When do we tell him he’s no longer struggling but has a problem?”

  Lincoln rubs a hand over his head and then lifts the hood of his sweatshirt and resumes pacing.

  “We can’t turn our backs on him,” Arlo says. “He’s my brother.”

  “You’re not turning your back on him. You’re telling him that he means more to us than this game,” I tell him. “That his future means more than this game.”

  Lincoln tugs off his hood, agitation flashing in his eyes. “Rae suggested the same course of action.” He pulls in a long breath. “Honestly, we’re fucked either way, but as much as I respect your reasoning, I still don’t think it’s the right course of action. I think if we bench him, he’s going to feel betrayed, and that will only lead to more bad choices. We need to lay out this shit, but we can’t take away his lifeline. The NFL is his future, and we’d be taking that away if we don’t let him play.”

  I turn my attention to Arlo, already knowing his vote is against me.

  “I respect you, man. You know I do. But I think Lincoln’s right. We let him play, but we give him a tougher curfew and a shorter leash. If there’s anyone who can overcome this, it’s him,” Arlo says.

  I nod. “I hope you’re right.”

  Lincoln grabs the football lying on the coffee table and palms it. “I hope we are, too.”

  “How’s he doing?” I ask.

  Lincoln clasps the ball with both hands, the action causing a large clap. “Caleb has a buddy who’s in medical school who brought over an IV and some fluids this morning, so he’s feeling better than he should.”

  “Is that allowed?” Arlo asks.

  Lincoln turns a piercing gaze on him. “No. And Rae’s pissed. She hightailed it out of here and turned off her damn phone.”

  Arlo winces and moves his attention to me. “This is why we can’t fuck up. If you piss Rose off, Olivia will hate you and vice versa. Trust me. Been there, done that.”

  Lincoln slaps the ball again. “We need to get to the field. Lock this shit up and shove it into a box until after we beat Oregon.”

  “You’re right,” I say. I stand from my seat and flip my baseball hat around so the bill faces behind me, my thoughts split between the past and the present.

  “This was your version of an intervention?” Pax asks from the doorway. His eyes are on me, hard and accusing. “Just toss me out to dry, huh?”

  I scoff. “No. That would have involved leaving your sorry ass on someone’s front lawn in your own vomit. You’re welcome, by the way.”

  Paxton sneers. “What happened to protecting your teammates?” he asks. “Unity?” He takes another step. “Or does that only happen when your ass is the one on the line? I broke curfew. I had a couple of drinks, so what? That means I lose my position on the team? I worked my ass off for this. I worked ass off every single day.”

  “This isn’t about you breaking the rules,” I tell hi
m. “What would have happened to you last night if Rose didn’t get you out of there?”

  He throws a hand into the air. “I would have slept it off on someone’s couch.”

  “There are consequences when you act this reckless,” I tell him.

  “You don’t get to decide that, Ian! Don’t act all saintly on me because you were too busy jacking off for some girl who won’t give you the time of day.”

  Lincoln plants a hand on my chest. He’s strong and faster than shit, but as a defensive linebacker, I have no doubt I could move past him—or over him. His gaze meets mine, and he shakes his head. “He’s speaking out of anger. You know that.”

  I do, but it does little to abate the resentment and anger that’s coursing through me. When I look past him at Paxton, Arlo is there, a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be an asshole,” Arlo tells him.

  “He saved your ass last night,” Lincoln says. “And if he were trying to bench you, he’d have gone to Harris, not us.”

  Paxton remains rigid, jaw flexed. “Fuck you, Forrest.”

  Arlo shoves him. “In Jersey, we call that a missed first shot. Take a walk and cool down.”

  Paxton doesn’t move. I’m sure he’s trying to remain strong and show them and me and hell, maybe even himself, that he’s still in control.

  I stare at him for several seconds, not wanting to back down because I know he’ll take it as submission, and the last thing I’m doing is submitting. But I also realize he needs to cool off before discussing the idiocy involved in his decisions last night to be any sort of headspace as our quarterback.

  “I need to go. I have to meet with my team.” I take a step back toward the front door.

  Lincoln nods, his appreciation for not challenging Paxton apparent. “We’ll be right behind you.”

  I clear the front door and feel the weight of the discussion follow me. It follows me into my truck and into the locker room, where I’m greeted by several members of the team who have already arrived to prepare for tonight’s game. Some choose to stay home until the last minute, but many spend much of the day here, stretching, going over tape, listening to music, meditating—you see it all. This is also when our trainer will visit with players and check on injuries and concerns. Most of the team is quiet and focused, visualizing themselves making a power play.

  “Hey! Hey!” Luis says, pulling out one of his earbuds. He stretches his shoulders, a grin spread across his features. “You ready to go Duck hunting?” Luis is rarely quiet before games. Instead, he likes to make jokes and light conversation to help get him in the zone. He tosses a bag of pistachios at me.

  “When are you going to tell Alexis you don’t like pistachios?”

  He scoffs. “Um, never.”

  I drop my bag and take a seat on the bench, tearing the bag open. “Why?”

  “Because we’ve been together for four years. How am I supposed to bring it up now? Hey, babe, you know how you get me a good luck gift before every game, and you always include those rancid little green nuts? I pawn them off to Ian every week.”

  I crack open a shell and drop the pistachio into my mouth. “That sounds like a decent start. Let me know how it goes.”

  He throws a sports drink at me that I catch with a grin. “Some things you can’t admit after a certain point. You know what I mean?”

  I think about how many things I don’t know about Rose—how many things she doesn’t know about me. As much as I want to contest his words, I feel the same timer ticking between Rose and me. Like all the important things should have been aired by this point because we went through the friend phase first, or at least something resembling the friend phase.

  “Am I talking to myself?” Luis waves a hand in front of my face.

  I sit back, cracking open another nut.

  “Long night?” he asks.

  Images of Rose naked and splayed across her bed immediately come to mind. My mouth devouring her pussy. My hands on her breasts, her waist, her thighs. The way her lips parted with pleasure and how her gaze went from uncertainty and nerves to trust and confidence. My shoulders straighten. All the energy and thoughts I’ve allotted to Paxton focus on Rose, igniting my confidence for tonight’s game. After all, if I was able to finally get Rose to admit that her feelings for me span beyond a single hookup, I’m pretty sure I can do anything.

  “Why are you smiling?” Luis asks. “This is the worst one-sided conversation.”

  I shake my head, working to dilute my thoughts of Rose by focusing on the game. “I met up with Rose last night.”

  “And…”

  “We’re going to test out the dating thing.”

  “Together, right?” he asks. “You’re testing dating each other?”

  I chuckle. “Yeah.”

  “That’s my boy!” he says, sticking out his fist for me to bump. “I’m going to say it was my hit yesterday during practice that knocked some sense into you.”

  I throw my head back. “Might as well.”

  His laughter floods mine, causing several of our teammates to glance in our direction with mixed expressions of interest and annoyance. “No better way to celebrate than a win,” he says, ignoring the others.

  I wrap up the rest of the pistachios and store them in my bag and open my locker to start changing into my uniform.

  My mood shifts—I become louder, more animated, more energized. My concerns about Paxton are placed in the back of my thoughts, left there even when I note his arrival.

  “Let’s go,” I clap my hands, signaling for the defensive team to follow me out onto the field. The night air is cold and damp. Everyone has already stretched, but many stop and stretch again before we line up to jog a few lines to get warmed up.

  Walker is sucking air as we come to a stop. He’s the only senior lineman this year, and he will undoubtedly be playing a lot of minutes tonight as Oregon tends to be a running team, which has their offensive linemen constantly on the move. “This is your night, Walker,” I tell him. “You’re going to have four sacks tonight.”

  “Fuck yes,” he says, placing both hands on his head to open his lungs. “It’s Duck season tonight.”

  I grin, slapping a hand to his shoulder before I scan the stands, wondering if Rose might be here already.

  Once our warm-up ends, we head back into the locker room where Coach Harris starts clapping as he chews his gum and paces in front of a giant whiteboard that he never uses. “All right. We know they’re a running team, so we’re going to need our offense to buy some time tonight for our defense, make sure they’re getting rested, and some fresh legs. And Coach Danielson and our defense are going to be working hard tonight, trying to stop them from advancing and making sure we’re looking for the holes and collapse on their pocket, forcing them to take the hot routes.” He claps again, working to build on the energy.

  The defense and offense, two main cogs that play our separate roles on the field with minimal flaws. We’re prepared, and Coach Harris uses this time to try and inspire the team, his voice and excitement rising. This is where the energy is born, and then we get to go out onto the field where the fans raise us even higher. We start to move, and I see Paxton turn back toward the bathroom for his routine throw-up session that takes place before each game.

  Arlo catches me. “Oh, baby. I hope you set your DVR to record me. I’m going to be tearing up the field tonight.”

  I laugh, appreciating that he doesn’t bring up things with Paxton. I’m in no mood to sort through that shit right now.

  The coin toss has our defense taking the field first, and my attention is crisp, focused, and clear, foreshadowing our win.

  21

  Rose

  Angry Ian kisses like a king. Victorious Ian kisses like a god.

  I close my bedroom door with my foot, and he locks it as he kicks off his shoes, his lips still possessing mine. My body feels warm and cold as excitement rains across my nerves. I wonder if it will be like this every time? Will I always be nervous and excit
ed, hoping it’s as good as the last time? I slip out of my shoes and kick them toward the wall, where one of them hits with a soft thump.

  Ian grips my waist, his long fingers stretching across my backside, anchoring me in place while he runs his other hand under my shirt, brushing his fingers against my flesh and making me sigh into his mouth. I grab the hem of his dark Henley, tugging it free over his still-damp hair and dropping it to the floor. Ian’s hand climbs higher, gliding across my covered breast before making a direct line to the clasp that he releases with a quick flick of his fingers. My breasts are heavy with want, my nipples hard and overly sensitive. Ian kisses me long and hard and pulls free, leaving me gasping for breath as he frees my bra.

  “I love your nipples,” he says, running his thumbs across each peak. “The sight of your breasts makes me feel like I’m going to explode.” He takes my hand and places it against his jeans, so I feel his erection pressing against my palm. “You do this to me,” he says.

  Desire pools between my legs. I want to feel him everywhere. Ian reaches for my pants and releases the button before lowering the zipper. His fingers skate down my bare back and slip under the waist of my jeans and underwear, inching them both down so they’re low on my hips as he nips at my lips, creating another overwhelming sensation as I find myself debating where I want to feel his attention. I love the feeling of his hands on me. I love the feeling of his mouth on me. My breasts ache for his attention, my core aches for his attention, and yet, his kisses are so damn addictive and intoxicating I don’t want to stop kissing him.

  He sucks on my tongue and then kisses me, his large body lowering slowly, going down to his knees as he pulls my pants and underwear fully down to pool at my ankles, where he helps me step out of each leg. He places his hands low on my pubic bone, his thumbs at my slit. He opens my lower lips, exposing me, and pulls in a deep breath.

  Holy mother of Mary, it’s hot.

  Before I can find my own footing, he runs his tongue over my crease from entrance to clit. Pleasure shoots through me, making my knees tremble. He does it again, this time using the flat of his tongue and hitting every aching inch of my clit. A deeper ache starts as he flicks his tongue over me, threatening to beat his last record for getting me to orgasm. I tip my head forward and open my eyes, discovering his steel gaze already locked on me. He never breaks eye contact as he tilts his head and grazes over my sensitive clit with his teeth. I mewl, my hands dropping to his shoulders where I clutch onto him, feeling every muscle weakening as my desire builds.