by Kata Čuić
Contents
Prologue. Lean on Me
1. Over My Head
2. Thanks for the Memories
3. Bite My Tongue
4. Natural
5. Tightrope
6. Crush
7. I Knew You Were Trouble
8. Wicked Game
9. Don’t Hurt Like It Used To
10. Bad Day
11. Lie to Me
12. Beautiful Distraction
13. In the End
14. Whatever It Takes
15. Faking It
16. Smile Like You Mean It
17. Close
18. Only the Lonely Survive
19. Pressure
20. Not a Bad Thing
21. Fix You
22. All These Things That I’ve Done
23. Truth or Dare
24. Crash Into Me
25. We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together
26. Honest
27. If I Lose Myself
28. Glimmer
29. You and I
30. I Knew You When
31. Love Me Now
32. Marry You
33. Friends
34. The Great Escape
35. Secrets
36. Mess Is Mine
37. Open
38. By Now
39. The One That Got Away
40. It’s Time
41. Little Do You Know
42. Let Her Go
43. I Run to You
44. Believer
Epilogue. Thinking Out Loud
Also by Kata
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Holding Playlist
Holding
Book 5 in the Moving the Chains Series
Copyright ©2021 by Kata Čuić
Published in the United States of America by
Kata Čuić Books, LLC
All Rights Reserved.
This novel may not be reproduced in whole or in part without express written permission by the author. This includes, but is not limited to, the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. And yes, that includes the internet and social media. Especially those. The only exception is by a reviewer who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Art in any form is created from the blood, sweat, and tears of the artist. In this case, the writer. Please do not engage in piracy or plagiarism. Purchase from valid vendors. Create your own art!
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and goings on are the product of the author’s ridiculous imagination and/or life experiences and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead or otherwise, is coincidental. Kind of. Mostly.
Cover artwork by Sarah Kil at Sarah Kil Creative Studio
Editing by Lisa Salvucci
Proofreading by Alison Evans-Maxwell at Red Leaf Proofing
Mike Mitchell is a knight in tarnished armor.
Turf stains his gray and crimson jersey. Green splotches are all over his bare arms and his legs, too. His brown hair is wild—matted in some places from his helmet, sticking up in others, and all of it is soaked with sweat. None of that matters.
Mike’s smile is tentative as fans chant his name from where they refuse to clear out the stands after one of the best games the Wolves have played in years.
Albany has a new hero to worship.
This big teddy bear of a man has no idea what to do with all their adoration.
I stifle a laugh as the first reporter approaches him.
His eyes widen like he can’t believe this is his real life, and he gets to live it. In all fairness, statistics say he shouldn’t have made it this far. He’s come a long way from the twelve-year-old boy who first took me under his wing in our group therapy sessions for abused kids.
He cuts a quick glance at me. I gesture for him to focus. Sadly, I’ve had way more experience in the football limelight than he has.
Their conversation can barely be heard over the din of the stadium even though I’m only a few feet away, standing on the home team’s sideline.
“Mike Mitchell, you rushed for a hundred and fifty-three yards tonight. If that’s not an amazing debut, I don’t know what is.” The blonde with painted pink lips places a hand on his arm in a way that suggests she’s interested in more than just an interview.
Ever the gentleman, he shrugs out of her grasp. Gently. “Thank you. It’s easy to play my best when I’ve got a great team around me…”
The Bluetooth earbuds hidden beneath my mop of curls crackle with another update. “Falls is sacked at the forty for a loss of twenty yards. That’s the game for Sacramento. After that disappointing display, Rushers fans have to be asking themselves if blowing the salary cap on a single player in the first round of the draft is going to have any return on investment this season. It seems football royalty won’t be making an appearance any time soon.”
Fuck that stupid nickname. And fuck the stupid announcer, too.
Being the masochist that I am though, I don’t rip the earbuds out. Nope. I torture myself further by listening to people I don’t know tear down a man they don’t know at all.
Mike’s mom and sisters are waiting for him. I’m here. Who will be on the sideline waiting to comfort Sacramento’s new quarterback? I pray, beg, plead that someone—anyone—is waiting for Rob Falls. Even if that someone isn’t me.
“What’s the score?”
I startle and blink into reality to find Mike staring down at me with a grimace.
“Twenty-eight to three,” I blurt, still not quite free of my mental trip to a different sideline a lifetime away.
He arches a single eyebrow and conveys a load of disappointment. “I just asked that last reporter for an update on the Orlando game. She said the final score was thirty-five to fourteen.”
Shit. Busted.
He reaches beneath my hair to pull one of the earbuds from its hiding place. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”
The jig’s up, so I stuff both the earbuds into my jeans pocket then wrap my arms around Mike’s waist and squeeze for all I’m worth. This man—who is more a real brother to me than if he was my own blood—deserves nothing but praise and me being present in this triumphant moment with him. “You played such an amazing game. I’m so freaking proud of you. You’re everything I always knew you could be.”
He hugs me back and mumbles into the top of my hair, “I know what you’re doing. I’m not going to let you.”
I pull away but keep my smile firmly fixed in place. “I called the town car for your mom and sisters just like you asked. They’ll be waiting for you at home. Faith and Hope were kind of upset about not getting to stay longer, but your mom put her foot down.” My laugh sounds almost like the real thing. “I think she wants them hooking up with your teammates about as much as you do.”
Mike’s face puckers in an obvious show of disgust. “That is never going to happen. Not on my watch. Look what football did to you.”
“Me?” I plaster a hand against my chest. My heart thumps wildly beneath my fingers. “I’m fine! I’m happy to be here! Did I mention how freaking proud I am of you? Of all you’ve overcome to get here? I can’t believe I get to tell people I’m friends with the Mike Mitchell, starting rookie running back for the Albany Wolves!”
He narrows his eyes and sticks his tongue in his cheek. “While I’m flattered, I call bullshit. You’re not fine, and you’re not happy to be here.”
“Yes, I am!” It’s not a total lie. I am happy to be here. I’m also devastated that I can’t be somewhere else.
A wolf whistle diverts our attention to one of Mike’s t
eammates standing beside us. His leer makes my skin crawl. “Shit, Mitchell! You tore up the field tonight, and you stole the girlfriend of a top draft pick quarterback? Goddamn, man. I’m glad you’re on my team.”
That same disgust reappears in Mike’s expression. “What? No! She’s like a sister to me, Templeman! We’ve known each other since we were kids! We’re not together.”
Templeman puckers his lips like he’s kissing the air and leans against the bench. “Wanna come home with me tonight then, baby? You obviously have good taste. One of the finest WAGs in the league should never have been with a loser like Falls anyway. Did you even hear how bad he tanked at his debut game?”
“I am going to rip your eyeballs out of your skull.” I lunge at him only to be caught by the waist and hauled back.
“He’s not wrong,” Mike whispers in my ear as he physically squashes my desire for violence. “Rob Falls is a loser. You need to serve him divorce papers and move on with your life.”
“I’ll move on with my life when you move on with yours,” I hiss as I watch Templeman saunter away laughing. “Have you been on a single date since you moved to Albany?”
Mike waits a few heartbeats more before releasing me from the cage of his much stronger arms. “No, but I’ve been busy. A guy doesn’t play a game like I just did by screwing around all the time.”
I roll my eyes. “Excuses, excuses. Just admit you’re a hypocrite, and I’ll drop it.”
“I—”
He doesn’t even get out his denial when another teammate approaches us with another sickening leer directed at my chest. “Damn, woman. You’re finer in person than in that nude spread I beat off to for a whole month.”
“I am going to rip your eyeballs out of your skull,” Mike grits out before diving at him.
Thankfully, Templeman is still close enough to help me pull them apart.
“So, as I was saying,” I pant. “Just admit you’re a hypocrite. That you haven’t dated since Chelsie because you’re afraid of taking risks, and that’s because you’re still clinging to the way distant past that has no place in your future.”
Mike shakes off Templeman’s grasp with a muttered, “I’m good. I’m cool.”
“You sure, man?” The lanky guy reminds me of Alex, another friend on another football field miles and miles and heartbreaks away. Templeman wears his charm on his sleeve, but there’s an intelligence in his nearly black eyes that can’t be hidden by his bright white smile. He glances between us. “I can have security escort her out. Just say the word.”
Mike looks absolutely shocked. Whether from a new teammate stepping up to have his back or that said teammate thinks I’m the problem doesn’t matter. He wraps his big, beefy arm around my shoulders. “Like I said, we’re practically siblings. She’s just looking out for me. Same as I do for her.” He squeezes my shoulders for emphasis.
Yeah, yeah. Whatever. The big, overprotective brother thing has worn thin, especially when he won’t take his own advice.
I point at Templeman. “Take care of this big guy for me, will you? Drag him out of his house when he’s being all mopey and find him a decent woman to date. He only pretends to enjoy his solitude.”
Templeman grins and salutes. “Yes, ma’am. I got some prospects lined up. I’ll find him a unicorn by the end of the season. You have my word.”
“What the fuck?” Mike blurts at his teammate before regaining his composure. “I’ll see you later. I’m just gonna finish up here.”
Templeman shrugs, winks at me, then walks away, whistling and waving to the fans still in the stands.
Mike turns to me. “I want no part of that guy. He reminds me too much of Alex.”
“I know. That’s why I like him.” I squish Mike’s cheeks in my hands, making his face pucker up like the scared little boy who’s still hiding under all the grown man’s muscular armor. “That’s also why I trust him with you.”
Mike mumbles around my grasp. “I don’t need any help!”
I let go and pat his cheek. “We all need help sometimes, big brother.”
“And you say I’m the hypocrite?”
I’ve died and gone to man-candy heaven. Emphasis on the dying part.
The clank of metal on metal and the grunts of men working assault my ears as I take in this side of the Albany Wolves that I usually have very limited interaction with. No woman alive would be unaffected. As far as the eye can see, male forms in various stages of undress glisten with sweat while their muscles shift beneath the sheaths of their taut skin. Some are blank canvases. Others are works of art in their own right, more ink than anything else. They all have one thing in common—elite athletes at the peak of human physical performance.
I glance down at my skirt, where a hint of a muffin top bulges above my belt. Thankfully, it’s mostly hidden by my suit jacket. This isn’t a competition anyway. Or at least, not one that I’m part of. Unless I count the whole being a distraction thing. Which I don’t. Because it’s frankly insulting.
With more than a little effort, I shake off my anxiety and make sure my chin isn’t on the floor. There might be more nearly nude, ripped men than I’ve ever seen in one place at one time, but professionalism is key.
I scan the area for the particular player I seek, but honestly, with so much controlled chaos, it’s impossible to tell which mountain of muscle he is. I open my mouth and step toward the first body that approaches me, but he pushes through the door I’m still standing in front of before I can question him, nearly bowling me over as he makes his escape. I gaze over my shoulder longingly. If only I could bail, too.
Squaring my shoulders, I remind myself that the rest of my career might hinge on this assignment. The whole point of invading this sanctum of maleness is to make sure I have the upper hand right out of the gate. Actually, it’s so I won’t have enough time to talk myself out of it and just start looking for another internship. But he doesn’t need to know that.
I clear my throat. “Mike Mitchell?”
All the cacophony present when I first entered silences as every set of eyes studies me with obvious suspicion. I’m clearly an intruder here, and no one is close enough to read the employee pass hanging around my neck.
“Journalists aren’t allowed back here,” a beefcake announces from his position on some sort of machine that looks like a medieval torture device. “You need to wait in the press room until he’s done with his circuit.”
“You can wait for me in the locker room,” someone from the back calls, resulting in laughter raining down over me.
My cheeks heat. Darn my fair complexion because they’re probably the same color as my red hair right now. If blushing head to toe was an actual profession, I’d never have to worry about employment again. “I’m, um…I’m not a journalist?”
Great, Tori. Way to nail that whole professionalism thing. You’re obviously going to ace this assignment. Not.
The same man who tried to throw me out rises from his perch and swipes a towel from the ground beside his machine-thingy. He approaches me with measured steps and an equally measured gaze while wiping sweat from his hard chest. When he’s close enough for me to feel his warm breath on my face, I can’t help but stare at the intricate detail of the dragon tattoo on his right pec. It’s a great distraction from all the sweaty, half-naked maleness invading my personal space.
I’ve never been into the whole-body art thing, but I can’t deny the artistry is beautiful.
With all the willpower I can muster, I resist the urge to shudder when his fingers graze my breasts as he lifts my employee identification badge to read.
“Mitchell!”
There’s no way to prevent jumping with his loud shout.
Another round of snickers follows, which does nothing to cool my hot cheeks or ease the slight trembling of my body. I’m in way over my head—and judging by this guy’s once-over—he knows it.
He turns around then mutters, “Aw, hell. He’s got his earbuds in. He can’t hear a damn th
ing. Go on back. Third hack squat machine on the left.”
Third what machine?
When I peer up, he’s smirking at me. This is a test. If I fail, I’ll be shown the door.
Vittoria Russo, you can do this.
The mantra I’ve been repeating in my head ever since this mission was dumped in my lap propels my feet forward. A smirk of my own creeps across my lips. This isn’t so hard.
Mitchell is obviously the only guy continuing his workout rather than staring at me as I cross the room.
He doesn’t stop his almost violent leg movements even when I stand in front of him. As Dragon Man pointed out, he’s wearing earbuds, obviously not paying attention to anything except his grueling workout. After several moments of a silent staring match, his chest heaves with an irritated grunt.
He pulls the earbuds out of his ears and only now seems to notice everyone watching us. “Is this another one of your stunts, Templeman?”
The guy beside him practically vibrates with laughter. His words come out panted. “I have nothing to do with this. I swear.”
Even with his face twisting in a weird mixture of what I’m guessing is contempt, fury, then finally resignation, Mike Mitchell is a darn fine specimen of the male species. He’s apple pie, bonfires on a cool fall night, and the epitome of what most women imagine when they hear the words “football player.” In short, he’s an all-American stud whose good looks almost overshadow his annoyed expression. His full lips form an upside-down horseshoe. With that kind of expressive control, he’s probably a fantastic kisser.