The Game Plan (Game On #3)

by Kristen Callihan

  “Nip what off, do tell?” she asks, her voice so husky I wonder if she’s a smoker.

  We all kind of shuffle, then Finn steps forward. “Er…we’re here for the calendar shoot.”

  “Well, I certainly didn’t think you were here for the little league group shot I have scheduled later.”

  “You’re the photographer?” Finn’s eyes widen in obvious shock.

  “Let’s not be a cliché, eh, pretty boy?”

  Ryder snickers. “She’s got your number, sweet cheeks.”

  Finn is a pretty boy. We all love to tease him about it. But he doesn’t seem to like it now. “Hey now, we were told our photographer’s name was Chester Copper. Excuse me if I assumed it was a man.”

  Her lips pinch. “I go by Chess. I’ve no idea how your PR manager got my full name.”

  “Probably because they do background checks to weed out the freaks.” Finn’s dubious expression clearly states that PR failed in this case.

  Chess gives a bored roll of her eyes.

  “Chester Copper… That’s kind of like Chester Copperpot from The Goonies,” Ryder adds helpfully. “Remember that movie?”

  Our photographer utters a ripe curse.

  “Yeah, that’s a cool flick.” says Rolondo to Ryder. “Little dude who played the lead grew up and played Samwise Gamgee. Man, talk about a sad sap. As if I’m gonna toss myself into the fires of Mount Doom cuz I gotta boner for a hobbit.”

  “He was on a quest to save Middle-Earth from Sauron, chucklehead,” I tell him.

  “Naw, he wanted Frodo bad.”

  Ryder makes a noise of annoyance. “Hello? Can we please get back to The Goonies and Chester Copperpot? You know, that old dude they find all shriveled and crushed by a boulder?”

  Chess goes full-on red. “Yes, I know,” she grinds out. “My parents met at a draft house viewing of the movie. They expected a boy, and since my grandmama had already embroidered all my baby blankets…” She shrugs as if to say, what can you do?

  “And they actually named you after a Goonies character?” I ask, kind of horrified. It’s worse than Gray’s mom naming him after a John Grisham character.

  “Yes.” Her voice is tight, and none of us says a word, though I hear Rolondo murmur something about crazy white people under his breath.

  With that she turns and walks briskly into the studio. After exchanging looks, we follow. Lights are set up around a large canvas. To the side, a long table holds football equipment: pads, footballs, our team helmets, even some shin guards and tape.

  A slim guy wearing a fedora and a lime green skinny-pants suit straight out of the 1960s appears. Like me, he has a beard, though his is red and scraggly.

  “I’m James,” he tells us. “Chess’s assistant. Sorry about the delay. We were on the balcony having a smoke.” He grins, giving Ryder a onceover. That makes Ry shift his feet and frown in confusion. “Or I was. Chess was just keeping me company.”

  Chess goes to a table and picks up a large camera. “They don’t need a play-by-play excuse, James.” She doesn’t glance our way as she adjusts her equipment. “Changing room is to the left. Strip down, and James will get you oiled up.”

  She might as well have dropped a stink bomb in the center of the room. I swear we all take a step back, our faces twisting with various levels of shock.

  “Oiled up?” Finn sounds like he’s sucked a lemon through his teeth. “You fucking with us?”

  “When I fuck with someone, he knows it, Mr. Mannus.”

  Ryder laughs. “I love this chick.”

  “I am not a chick, Mr. Ryder. I am a woman.”

  Rolondo makes a faint, mock crowd-roar, and I elbow his side.

  “Let me guess,” Finn drawls. “You’re obsessed with finally finding One-Eyed Willie.”

  Ryder chokes on a smothered laugh, and I have to run my hand over my beard to hold in mine.

  “Man,” Rolondo mutters. “You’ve gone and done it now.”

  Chess has the stare of death. Like, scary fierce. I’m pretty sure her closet is full of the skeletons of other smart-mouthed ball players who dared to cross her path. It’s so bad we all stand there like recalcitrant boys who’ve been hauled up before the principal.

  But my lips are twitching. I know in about ten minutes we’re going to be bare, and Finn is going to hate every second of it. I itch to take out my phone and text Fi. My smile dies a swift death at the thought of her. Fi didn’t sound right. She was hurting, and damn if I know why. The distance between us is like a cold hand gripping my spine. I don’t like the feeling, or the fact that she didn’t tell me the truth.

  But I’m going to find out. The sooner I’m stripped and “oiled” the faster I can. I take a deep breath and step forward. “I’ll go first.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Fiona

  It is a universal truth that women like to talk their problems out. Unfortunately, all the talk in the world won’t make a problem go away. Mine is waiting for me like a looming black cloud as soon as I get into work and see that Elena has moved to her own office at the end of the hall.

  She waves, grinning broadly, as I walk past. I briefly wonder how a finger-wave back would go over but don’t bother. Instead she gets a chin nod as if I’m channeling a bad biker cliché. It feels stupid and ineffectual, and I’m in a piss-poor mood by the time I get to my desk and find that Felix’s to-do list includes ordering fabrics that I picked out but are now considered Elena’s design contribution.

  She comes to my desk just as I’m turning on my computer. “I thought you’d want to hear it from me. Felix just called me into his office this morning. He gave me the associate designer job.” She squeezes my hand. “I hope we can still be friends. I’ve really enjoyed bouncing ideas off each other.”

  God, she says it so sincerely. And what can I do? I’m pretty sure punching her in the face won’t help the situation. Though it might feel really fucking good.

  I glare down at my hand, my fingers slowly curling into a fist. But for some odd reason, I start to think of Ethan’s hand wrapping around mine, holding me down as he slides into me.

  “You feel so good, Cherry.” Brilliant eyes of green-gold and amber look at me with glazed wonder. “Nothing better on Earth than this.”

  “Fiona? You okay?”

  I suck in a breath and glance up at Elena, who hovers. “Yep. All good.” Not entirely true. But I’m calmer. Able to speak, anyway. “Anything else?”

  She frowns a little. “Ah…no.”

  “Okay. Well, I’m getting some coffee then.”

  I leave her standing there. For now I’m calm. But every step I take hammers it in: I hate this. I hate this.

  It occurs to me that I have to be a little more proactive. Take the bull by the horns. I am woman, hear me roar and all that.

  I wait until the end of the day to make my move. Yes, I’m that brave.

  “Felix? You have a moment?” I clutch my clammy hands behind the folds of my skirt.

  Felix looks up from his laptop. A tiny white espresso cup sits beside it, which means he’s probably reading up on celebrity gossip. “Sure, sweetie.”

  Sweetie? I want to gag. And now that I’ve worked up the nerve to approach him, I actually have to talk. Part of me really wants to laugh. I have absolutely no trouble talking to people. I don’t think I could go a day without saying something to someone, even if it’s just to tell a person they have on cute shoes.

  But now a golf-ball-sized lump of panic is lodged in my throat, and it’s all I can do just to get my ass in the chair opposite Felix.

  “Want an espresso?” He gives me an overly friendly smile, the one he uses on clients he fears might be difficult. So I know he isn’t exactly unaware of why I’m here.

  “No. I’m good.” I focus on his eyes. Always look them in the eye. Reminds you that you're talking to another human. Nothing more. “You…ah…made Elena associate designer?”

  Everything inside of me wants to scream, maybe throw Felix�
�s coffee onto his pristine white leather Corbusier lounge chair.

  With an expansive sigh, he sits back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Yes, I did, hon.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to make that decision until next month.”

  “Fiona, I understand that you’re disappointed.” His tone is so patronizing, I have to dig my nails into my palms to keep from twitching. “But you and I both know it was coming to this.” He takes a dainty sip of his macchiato. “I simply sped up the process.”

  “Is it…” I suck back a sobbing breath. “Is it because I went on vacation?”

  His cup clinks on the glass desktop. “God, no.” He regards me for a moment, his dark eyes almost sad. “Elena simply has an edge that you do not. Namely, contacts.”

  This time a sob does escape me, only it sounds kind of a like a laugh. “You promoted her because of her mother?”

  “No, because of her mother’s friends. She has lots and lots of friends with lots and lots of cash.” He smiles slyly. “Her designs aren’t bad either. Fresh and lovely without being too daring. Just what the bored, rich Manhattanite wants.”

  I swear to God, my entire body wants to dry heave. Somehow I manage not to. “Her designs are—”

  “Copies of yours?” he supplies. “Yes, I know.”

  I think I gape. I don’t know anymore because I’ve gone numb. “You know?”

  Felix shrugs, takes another sip of his drink. “You’d have to be blind not to notice, honey. Yours are a bit more risky, however. You push yourself where she plays it safe.”

  Okay, now I know I’m gaping. “I can’t believe this. Mine are more daring, and you’re rewarding her?”

  “Honey, safe sells more. And you’ve really got to applaud her ingenuity.” He sighs again, resting his elbows on the desk. “First client I scored was done using José, my lover’s, designs. I lost a good lay but gained a business.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “That’s business. Calculated risks, use what you know will work.” He gives me a reproachful look. “You should understand this.”

  “Don’t remember taking that course in college,” I snap.

  “I’m talking about your dad, sweetie. Sports agents aren’t exactly known for being above board. Frankly, I assumed you’d be more hardened. More cutthroat.”

  “My dad,” I grind out, “never stabbed his colleagues in the back.”

  Felix gives me a disbelieving look. I ignore it and stand. I want to quit, to tell him he can go fuck himself with one of his precious Ferragamo slippers. I want that so badly I can taste it. But just the mention of my dad has me holding my tongue. He thinks I quit at everything. Flighty Fi, always running at the first sign of trouble.

  And maybe Felix will fire me now. But I’m not going to stomp off in a dramatic rage first. Straightening my skirt, I manage to collect my temper.

  “I’ll be in late tomorrow. I’m picking up those fabric samples on my way,” I tell him.

  “All right.” He turns his attention back to his online gossip mag. “Take your time. Oh, that lovely little sandwich shop is next door to them. See if anyone wants sandwiches. Not me. I’m skipping lunch this week.”

  The faint hum of the city seeps in through the windows. Somewhere down the hall, a telephone rings. It’s nothing compared to the ringing in my ears.

  Sandwiches? I’m expected to go to Elena and ask if she wants a fucking sandwich for lunch tomorrow?

  “Yeah,” I croak. “Sure.”

  Except I’m not asking anyone a damn thing. My hands shake by the time I’ve pulled my purse from my desk drawer and grabbed my coat off the hook.

  It’s a struggle not to cry. With every step I take, the spike of my heel connects with the raw-wood floorboard and thuds in my heart. My throat is closing, a lump rising.

  Get it together, Mackenzie. Deep breaths.

  I want to scream so badly my stomach clenches. I swear to all that’s holy, if I see Elena’s fuckity-fuck face I will fucking lose my shit.

  Keeping my head down so I don’t accidentally make eye contact with anyone, I move toward the lobby.

  The elevator dings before I’m close enough. I lift my head, ready to run for it, because I need out. But my steps stutter to a halt, shock buzzing along my skin.

  Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

  Dex stands ten feet away, his big hands stuffed into his jeans’ pockets, his broad shoulders covered by a dark blue Henley. That steady, powerful gaze of his meets mine.

  My lip wobbles, emotion pushing up past the lump in my throat. He must see my distress—the smile that’d been blooming drops.

  My chest heaves as I struggle to keep my breathing normal. If I can just get to Dex, everything will be okay.

  I walk straight to him, not stopping until I wrap my arms around his waist and bury my face against his solid chest. The scent of cloves and oranges is stronger now that I haven’t been near him in a while. He’s warm, strong, safe. His arms surround me, hold me secure. I sag into his embrace.

  “Hey,” I say to his chest.

  Dex presses his lips to my crown. “Cherry. You all right?”

  No. Not at all. My eyes burn and prickle. I hug him tighter, breathe him in. “I’m just…really glad to see you, Ethan.”

  His chest lifts and falls on a breath, and his husky voice rumbles over me. “I missed you too, Fiona.”

  * * *

  Dex

  Despite the fact that I play professional football for a living, I’m not a violent man. I solve problems with my mind, not my fists. I tell myself this as I tuck Fi against my side while we take a cab to her apartment. She’s trembling, her delicate hand roaming over my torso as if she needs to pet me to keep herself grounded.

  And it slays me. The need to pound into someone, something, anything, surges through me in waves that I tap down by burrowing my nose in Fi’s fragrant hair and breathing in deep.

  Women have nice-smelling hair, that’s a given. But something about Fi’s scent just does it for me. Pheromones. A basic biological lure that hooks one person to another. One whiff of Fi, and I’m both hard and utterly content.

  “You’re here,” she whispers. “I can’t believe you’re really here.”

  I take another deep breath before I speak in a low voice, trying to coax her out. “What happened, Cherry?”

  She stiffens against me, and I have to grind my teeth. If someone hurt her… Yeah, I’ll be resorting to violence. But then she sighs and her fingers drift over my chest, finding my nipple and stroking it over the thin fabric of my shirt. I try to ignore that touch as she tells me the whole tale.

  The heartbreak in her voice tears at my own heart. She bleeds, I bleed. That’s just how it is now. Worse, I can’t fight this for her. I can’t go and pummel her shallow boss or her conniving co-worker. I can only hold her tight, press my lips against her head, and let her talk.

  “I just feel so…” She waves a hand as she struggles to find a word. “Angry. Hurt. Dejected. Yeah, that’s the prevalent emotion right now.”

  With a sign, she presses her nose against my chest. Her warm breath seeps through my shirt. Still she plays with my nipple, twisting the little barbell I wear just enough to make me feel it in my balls.

  My hips shift in reaction, but my mind is on trying to make this right. “Baby, I—”

  She silences me with a look, her big green eyes luminous with unshed tears. “Ethan, I know you want to fix this.” She gives me a watery smile. “Don’t look so shocked. I know you better than you think.”

  “I’m not shocked.” I kind of love how easily she reads me. “I admit it. I want to take your pain and make it better.”

  Stretching up, Fi kisses my jaw. My beard makes it impossible for me to feel more than the pressure of her lips. I want more. I want to imprint her on my skin. I turn toward her and lower my head.

  I kiss her softly, tenderly, wanting her to know how precious she is.

  Fi smiles against my lips. “
You want to make it better, Big Guy? When we get upstairs, make me forget the world for a little while.”

  The cab pulls up in front of her apartment. I thread my fingers through her hair, holding it secure. “Cherry, that was always part of the plan.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Fiona

  Born of the desperate need to keep our hands off each other, Dex and I stand on opposite sides of the elevator going up to my apartment. The main deterrent to any shenanigans is the fact that Mrs. Flannery, my sixty-something widowed neighbor, stands between us.

  She stares straight ahead, her crimson-painted lips twitching. It’s as if she knows exactly how much Dex and I are itching to touch each other, which wouldn’t surprise me since her sex life is far more active than mine has been until now. I’ve caught her in many an elevator embrace. Honestly, the woman is my sexcapade hero.

  Over her head, Dex’s eyes meet mine. The heated look he sends makes my breath quicken. But then he pushes it over the edge; he makes a total goofball—crossed eyes, pointed tongue—face at me.

  It’s gone in a flash, but so very un-Dex-like that I snort down a laugh. My eyes water as I try to contain it.

  Mrs. Flannery glances at me. “You coming down with a cold, dear?”

  Coughing over a snicker, I clear my throat and stand straight. “I might be.”

  Her smile is serene. “I’m sure your young man here will take good care of you.”

  Dex waggles his brows behind her back. Ass.

  Mrs. Flannery leans toward me, her voice dropping into a pseudo-whisper. “It’s always the big, quiet ones, isn’t it?”

  Ha. Solemnly, I nod. “Yes, ma’am, it is.”

  The elevator reaches her floor. As soon as the doors close behind her, I launch myself at Dex, poking his ribs as he laughs and tries to get away from my marauding finger.

  “She totally knows we’re going to have sex,” I tell him, laughing but trying to be outraged.

  His arms circle me, bands of steel that lean me onto his hard chest. “Of course she does.” He kisses my temple. “Considering that she groped my ass right before we got on the elevator, I’d say she approves of your choice.”