The Game Plan (Game On #3)
Page 1
The Game Plan
A Game On Novel
Kristen Callihan
Contents
Copyright
The Game On Series
The Game Plan
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
Thank You!
The Hook Up, Book 1 of the Game On series excerpt
The Friend Zone, Book 2 Game On series excerpt
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2015 by Kristen Callihan
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.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Digital Edition 1.0
All rights reserved. Where such permission is sufficient, the author grants the right to strip any DRM which may be applied to this work.
Those who upload this work up on any site without the author’s express permission are pirates and have stolen from the author. As such, those persons will likely end up in the level of hell where little devils shove stolen books into said persons’ unmentionable places for all eternity. Ye’ve been warned.
The Game On Series
The Hook Up
The Friend Zone
The Game Plan
The Game Plan
A beard-related dare and one hot-as-hell kiss changes everything.
NFL center Ethan Dexter’s focus has always been on playing football and little else. Except when it comes to one particular woman. The lovely Fiona Mackenzie might not care about his fame, but she’s also never looked at him as anything more than one of her brother-in-law’s best friends. That ends now.
Fi doesn’t know what to make of Dex. The bearded, tattooed, mountain of man-muscle looks more like a biker than a football player. Rumor has it he’s a virgin, but she finds that hard to believe. Because from the moment he decides to turn his quiet intensity on her she’s left weak at the knees and aching to see his famous control fully unleashed.
Fi ought to guard her heart and walk away; they live vastly different lives in separate cities. And Dex is looking for a forever girl. But Dex has upped his game and is using all his considerable charm to convince Fi he's her forever man.
Game On
To the readers who demanded “The Wise One’s” story. I thank you, Dex thanks you, and I know Fi certainly thanks you.
Prologue
“And when do you think it will all become clear?” —Lily Allen
Dex
Sweat trickles down my spine. My bones ache, and my legs are wobbly jelly as I slowly walk over the bright green turf, now marred by long gashes and deep divots.
Around me other guys amble, their uniforms streaked with sweat, blood, and chalk. Thousands of cheering spectators create a dull rumble that I feel in the pit of my belly.
Welcome to Monday Night Football. Prime time sports at its finest. And my team has just won. I’ve done my job, and now that the adrenaline is wearing off, my high is crashing down. I want a shower, a hot meal, and devote a few hours to painting in the small studio I’ve made in my townhouse. But I have a dinner date and houseguest to meet.
Teammates slap my pads, tell me “good game” as I make my way across the field. A few of the guys from the other team seek me out, shaking my hand. But I’m looking for one guy in particular.
I see him, his head above most others. He catches my eye and grins. But his face is wan, deep circles marring his eyes. I know it’s not because his team lost. We weave through the crowd to come together.
“Dex!” Gray Grayson, my former college teammate and one of my best friends on Earth, catches me up in a bear hug. It’s awkward with both of us in pads, helmets in hand. “Good game, man. But we’re totally gonna kick your ass next time.”
“Better tell your D to get their heads out of their asses, then,” I say, giving his head a light tap. “Good to see you, Gray-Gray.”
God, I miss playing with him. He’s the best tight end I’ve seen in years. And our college team had been a well-oiled machine.
The NFL isn’t the same as college. Ego, money, high stakes, all of it is just more. It’s a job now. I love it, but the carefree joy is gone.
We walk toward the sideline together.
“How’s Ivy and the baby?” I ask. They had a baby about a month ago and named him Leo, after Leonhard Euler, one of Gray’s favorite mathematicians.
“Man,” Gray says with a slow shake of his head as he grins wide. “I must have done something really right in another life.”
“That good, huh?” I’m happy for him. Even if his exuberant happiness reminds me I have no one.
“Best family a man could ask for.” Gray runs a hand over the back of his neck and squeezes. Despite his declaration, he sounds worn out.
“Not that I don’t believe you, Gray, but you kind of look like shit. What’s going on?”
His smile is tight. “Only you would notice that.”
We’re almost at the sideline, and he’ll be going to the guest locker rooms. So we slow down.
“Leo hasn’t learned to sleep through the night. Ivy and I are feeling it.” He grimaces. “Mostly Ivy, unfortunately, because I’m on the road a lot.”
If Gray is admitting he’s losing sleep, it must be bad.
I brace his shoulder with my hand. “You got a bye week after this, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too. Mind me coming over for a visit?”
Gray lives in San Francisco, and though I’ve been meaning to go out there, I haven’t yet done it. While I’m happy to actually visit Gray, I also know I can help him out. Not that I can tell him as much or he’d insist he has everything covered.
Gray’s smile is wide. “I’d love to have you. I know Ivy would too.”
“You sure about that? Ivy might not want visitors when she has a new baby.” It has to be said, because Gray also tends to react before he thinks.
“Naw, she’s been kind of lonely.” His brows gather. “Neither of us likes solitude very much.”
Tell me something I don’t know. I give his shoulder another squeeze. “Great. Let’s get s
omething to eat.”
Gray gives a long groan. “Oh, man, I’ve been looking forward to this. We’re hitting up Cochon, right?” His eyes gleam at the prospect of eating at one of New Orleans’ best restaurants. And, frankly, my stomach growls too.
“Yep. I told them we’re coming, and they’re planning something good for us. I believe I heard mention of the whole hog.”
Gray groans again. “I might cry.”
He often gets weepy over food, so I don’t blink an eye. “Meet me outside the locker rooms in thirty?”
Gray is staying at my place tonight before he heads back home with his team.
He gives a nod and starts to trot off, but then turns back. “Oh, hey, Fi’s also gonna be staying the week with us. That cool with you?”
Everything inside of me stops—my heart, my breath. Then it all kicks up again, hard and insistent.
Fiona Mackenzie. Ivy’s little sister. And I do mean little. Five foot three if she’s an inch, her frame is petite but curvy. She caught my attention and kept it from the first time I laid eyes on her two years ago.
Bright green eyes, wild blond hair, smiling full lips, and a lilting laugh that, whenever I hear it, makes my dick hard. This is how I picture Fi—when I allow myself to picture her in the lonely hours of the night.
I haven’t allowed myself in quite some time. Dreaming of Fi is a special type of torture. Sure, she’s beautiful, but more than that, she’s one of the most direct people I’ve ever met.
As someone whose career depends on analyzing false plays and misdirection, being around her is like stepping out of the stifling darkness and into a fresh, sunny day. Every time I’m in her presence I can breathe easier, see clearer. And I crave that more than I’d like to admit.
I’d say she was the girl who got away, but we were never that close. Fi has failed to notice me past the casual friendliness of an acquaintance.
Fiona Mackenzie. In the same house. For a week.
Gray is waiting for me to respond. I give him a nod. “Looking forward to it.”
And suddenly I am. More than I’ve ever anticipated anything in my life.
Chapter One
Fiona
Truth? I like men. Scratch that. I love men. I love their strength, their deeper voices, the simple way they come at a problem. I love their loyalty. I love the way their wrist bones are wide and solid, and that their hips are straight and narrow. Hell, I even love watching their Adam’s apple bob when they swallow.
And, yeah, I’m talking in generalities. Because I’ve met my share of shitty men. But, on the whole, I am a big fan of the male gender.
Which is why I’m slightly bummed to be man-free at the moment. I had a great boyfriend during college. Jake. He was hot and easygoing. Maybe too easy. He basically loved everyone. Sure, I was his girlfriend, but if I wasn’t around? No problem. Plenty of other people to hang with.
He didn’t cheat. He just didn’t really care enough. And after seeing what my sister, Ivy, has with her guy? That kind of all-encompassing, I-have-to-be-with-you devotion? I want more than casual dating. I want to be someone’s necessity, and for them to be mine.
Of course, I’m not going to find that at this tiny little club on a Tuesday night. But I’m not here for the men—most of whom are clearly on the prowl for a quick hookup. I’m here for the music. The band has a funky trip-hop sound that I love, and the atmosphere is mellow.
Since busting my ass to finish college and starting a job now plagued by a sneaky, idea-stealing co-worker, who I want to kill, I need mellow.
I slouch down in the bench seat—nestled at a far corner table, drink my Manhattan, and enjoy the moment.
I’ve decided I also love San Francisco, which is where I am now, using my vacation time to visit my sister and her husband. Unfortunately, Ivy and Gray had no desire to come out with me tonight because they have a new baby who wakes up every two hours. Yeah, not going to say I love the sleeping habits of babies, no matter how cute and awesome said baby is.
I suppress a shudder. My life might be frustrating at the moment, and I might be a tinge lonely, but at least I’m not walking around sleep-deprived. Instead I’m listening to a singer crooning about stars, her voice smooth as poured syrup. The cocktail is smoky-sweet on my tongue and warm in my veins. I’m so relaxed at this point that I almost miss the man sitting to my right.
I really don’t know what prompts me to turn and look his way. Maybe it’s because the set ends and my attention diverts from the stage. Or maybe I feel his gaze, because it’s on me, steady and unblinking.
Not one to shy away, I stare back and take him in.
He’s not my type.
First off, he’s huge, as in built like a brick house, with shoulders so wide I’m fairly certain I could perch on one of them and have room to spare. He’s slouched in his chair, so I don’t know how tall he is, but I’m thinking he’s at least six foot four or more, which would make him over a foot taller than me. I hate feeling tiny; I get that enough already without standing next to a super-tall man.
And he has a beard. Not a wild, bushy one, but thick and full, framing the square edge of his jaw. It’s kind of hot. Even so, I am not into beards. I like smooth skin, dimples—a boyish look.
Nothing is boyish about this dude. He’s a strange mix of lumbersexual and pure, broody male. His hair is pulled into a knot at the back of his head, samurai style, which highlights the sharp crests of his cheeks and the blade of his nose.
He might not be my type, but his eyes are gorgeous. I have no idea what color they are, but they’re deep-set beneath strong, dark brows. And even from here, his thick lashes are visible, almost feminine in their length. God, those eyes are beautiful. And powerful. I feel his stare between my legs like a slow, hot stroke.
He stares at me like he knows me. Like I should know him too. Weirdly, he is familiar. But my mind is muzzy with one too many cocktails to figure out why.
Apparently, he gets this because the corner of his wide, lush mouth twitches as if I amuse him. Or maybe it’s because I’m sitting here staring back at him.
He’s a cheeky one, isn’t he? Just as blatant in his appraisal.
So I decide to glare, raising one brow in the same way my dad does when he’s displeased. Having been on the receiving end of that look, I know it’s effective. On most people. This guy? His amusement grows. Though he really only smiles with his eyes and lifts a brow as if to mock me.
And then it hits me: That quietly amused, slightly contemplative expression, I’ve seen it before. I’ve seen him before. I do know him. He’s Gray’s friend and old college teammate.
As if he reads my thoughts, he gives me a slow nod of hello.
I find myself laughing. At myself. He wasn’t checking me out at all. He was waiting for me to recognize him. My fuzzy brain searches for a name.
Dex. He’s Dex.
I give him a nod, inclining my chin. And he rises. Up. Up. Up.
Yep. Tall as a tree.
I remember that he now plays center in the NFL. And though a lot of centers sport a big barrel belly, Dex doesn’t. No, he’s just pure, hard muscle. All of it visible beneath the black tee and faded jeans he’s wearing. All of it moving with the natural grace of a professional athlete as he strides toward me.
“Fiona Mackenzie.” His voice is low, steady, and kind.
I don’t know why I think kind but it sticks in my head and relaxes me in a way I ordinarily wouldn’t if some guy I barely knew approached me when I was on my own in a club.
“Hi, Dex. Sorry it took me a minute. I’m usually quicker than that.” I nod at the chair in front of me. “Care to join me?”
He glances at my nearly empty glass. “Want another drink first?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” If only to have something to do with my hands. Because, while he doesn’t threaten me, he has a presence that’s potent.
My stomach tightens when he leans close as if he might embrace me, his massive frame shadowing the small table. But
he merely sticks his nose to my glass and takes a sniff. With a nod, he straightens and turns toward the bar.
I do not admire his ass as he walks away. Okay, maybe a little. Because damn.
He returns soon enough, another Manhattan in one hand, a bottled water in the other. A memory hits me—of how he usually drinks water, almost never any liquor.
Before he can sit, a girl comes up to our table, her eyes pleading.
“Are you using this chair?” She puts a hand on the only chair at the table. The other side is pulled up against the bench seat I’m using that runs along the wall. Technically, Dex could sit next to me.
We all are clearly aware of this. The girl looks between us as if to drive this point home. It would be petulant for me to say no. So I nod. And she whisks it away before I can change my mind.
That amused look doesn’t leave Dex as he settles next to me, his thigh close enough to mine that I feel his body heat. Not that I think he’s doing this on purpose—he’s just that big, and the space is just that small.
Smiling a bit, I take a sip of my drink. “You knew I was drinking a Manhattan based on smell alone?”
Dex sets his water on the table, calling attention to the tattoo sleeves he has on both arms. “My uncle owns a bar. I’ve helped out over the years.” He glances at my glass. “That and the cherry gave it away.”
And it’s like my brain turns off, because I pull that cherry out of my drink and put it between my lips to suck it. Like some damn porn star. His gaze snaps to my mouth, and his eyes narrow.
Damn, but I feel it again. That slow, hot stroke between my legs. This guy makes me wet with just one look.
Flushed, and cursing myself an idiot for putting on a display, I yank the stem from the cherry and eat the fruit with brisk efficiency before taking a hasty sip of my cocktail. “So, Dex,” I say quickly—as if I didn’t just try to call attention to my mouth. “It’s been a while.”