The Game Plan (Game On #3)

by Kristen Callihan

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  * * *

  Fiona

  We sleep wrapped up in each other, my smaller legs clinging to Dex’s like vines. Dead to the world until sunlight slants across the bed and shines in our eyes. Dex tries to shield us by turning on his side and tucking me into the crook of his shoulder, but it’s too late. I’m awake, and real life is upon us once more.

  Grumbling about buying darker drapes, I crawl over him, earning a light slap on my butt as I go to get us some coffee.

  When I return, Dex is on his back, his head propped up by pillows. The sight makes me pause at the threshold of my room. Sun-kissed, golden brown hair spilled over white linen; lush, dark beard and pouty mouth; colorful tattoos on swelling, rolling muscles. Good God, it’s like a burly pirate landed in my bed and is waiting for another round of debauchery.

  Ridiculous fantasies of me pillaging his willing flesh dance in my head, and I fight a snicker. The sound catches his attention, and his mouth slowly curls.

  “Look your fill yet, darlin’?”

  The silver barbell in his nipple winks in the light as he moves to take his cup.

  “I don’t think it’s possible to get my fill.” I slide in beside him, where it’s warm and wonderful. “I’m thinking we get you a couple of chunky rings, maybe a do-rag and a cutlass, and we can play capture-the-pirate later.”

  Dex grunts, his hazel eyes gleaming in obvious pleasure. “Tell you what, you put on one of your sweet little lacy getups, I’ll let you tie me to the bed, and you can work over my mast all you want.”

  He gives me an exaggerated leer, and we both burst out laughing.

  I press my nose against his shoulder. “God, that was terrible.”

  “You started it.” He chuckles, the sound deep and yet light with ease.

  We drink coffee under the covers, then he puts the cups aside so I can snuggle in close once more.

  Despite our goofiness, or maybe because of it, a heavy weight settles under my ribs and a lump lodges in my throat.

  I run my hand over his chest, the dusting of hair between his pecs tickling my palm. “When is your flight?” We didn’t get to the particulars last night. But I know he isn’t here for long. And, as much as I hate it, I have to go to work soon.

  His chest lifts on a sigh. “In a few hours.”

  “Oh.” I’d hoped for more. At least one more night.

  Dex swallows hard and glances toward the window. Sunlight lines the curve of his cheek and glints gold on the tips of his lashes. “I should have waited until I had more time freed up.” He turns back to me. “But you were upset. I could hear it in your voice when we talked. So I jumped on a plane.”

  My fingers spread wide over the center of his chest. He came for me. I’m always being left behind, and Dex will do that too, but he also dropped everything and came here for me. No one has ever done that.

  The lump within my throat grows. “Thank you,” I whisper. “I…you…” I take a ragged breath and press my lips to the hard plane of his chest. “It means a lot, Ethan.”

  He doesn’t answer, but I can feel him nod. The room goes silent, awkward and heavy with the weight of his eventual departure.

  Dex takes a deep breath and rolls away from me, sitting up at the edge of the bed, his shoulders hunched and his head bent low. He doesn’t say anything, just stays quiet, his profile drawn tight with a frown.

  “What is it?” I ask, sitting up as well.

  He doesn’t stir, and for a second, I think he hasn’t heard me. Then his frown deepens. “I don’t want to tell you.”

  “What?” I squeak, shocked and offended. “So the whole, ‘you can tell me anything’ speech only applies to me baring my soul? Great. Lovely.”

  He winces. The thick muscles along his back bunch and flex as he runs his hands through his loose hair. “I don’t feel like I have a right to, Fi.” His voice lowers to a rumble. “I hate this.”

  The words send my heart thudding against my ribs. “Hate this?”

  “Leaving you,” he says, waving an arm toward the door. A sigh gusts from his lips. “I know I’m the one who pushed for a long-distance relationship. I asked you to trust me to make it work. But the thought of constantly leaving you eats at me. I don’t want to.”

  The bed creaks as he half turns and his eyes find mine. His expression is sad, troubled. “I hate how I found you in pain. The idea that you have to face this shit alone just…” He bites his lower lip and shakes his head. “Fucking sucks, Fi.”

  A small smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as I crawl toward him. His skin is hot and smooth, and I press my breasts against his back, wrapping my arms around his waist to soak up all that wonderful heat.

  Dex immediately puts his hand over mine, his touch almost needy.

  “I know,” I say, my lips gliding over his skin. “I don’t want you to go either.”

  He shivers, as if his entire body is protesting the thought, and his grip on my hand tightens. But he doesn’t say anything, simply holds on.

  Sadness sinks into my bones, weighing me down. “This…” I clear my throat. “This is why I tried to stay away.”

  Dex stills, his body going rigid. I hear him swallow, feel the ripple of his muscles. “You want to call it quits?”

  I can’t breathe. My ribs actually hurt, as if they’ve clamped down over my heart. “Is that what you want?” I ask in a small voice.

  I forget how quick Dex can be. I barely see him turn before I’m lifted up and hauled onto his lap. Thick arms band around me, crushing me against a solid, wide chest. A soft whisper of chest hairs tickles my nose.

  “No,” he nearly shouts, then calms. “No, Cherry.” Gently he kisses the top of my head. “This is why I didn’t want to say anything. I’m just feeling selfish and petulant.”

  I smile against his chest and snuggle in closer. “I’m feeling a little that way myself. It’s okay, baby.”

  Dex grunts, but his hold turns softer, petting me now instead of clutching. His big, calloused hand runs down my back. “From the first moment I picked up a football, I’ve been dreaming about playing in the NFL. God, I wanted it so badly. The promise that one day I’d go pro kept me going through every dark hour.” His hand slows, climbing back up to my nape to rest. “Now that I’m here…” He shakes his head. “It’s a lonely life, Fi. They never tell you that.”

  “What?” I quip, my voice thick. “It isn’t all fast cars and willing women?”

  Women I will punt if I catch them touching my man.

  I can almost feel him smile and wonder if he knows the direction of my thoughts.

  “If you want only one woman, the rest is just noise.”

  He gets a kiss on his big pec for that, and his little nipple draws tight in response. I’m tempted to play with it, torture him a bit. But his words give me pause.

  “I just…I thought I’d be happier at this point,” he says. “Content, maybe.”

  Lifting my head, I meet his troubled gaze. It would be so easy to encourage him to quit. I can feel it in my skin. Part of him wants that prompt, for me to give him a reason.

  The power I have over him hurts my heart. It might unnerve me except that I suspect he has a similar power over me.

  I could do it, tell him to quit, to try something that doesn’t put him at risk of concussions and spinal injuries, that doesn’t send him away from me every week. I could have all of him without having to compete with football.

  “Do you love the game?” I ask him.

  “Always,” he says without hesitation.

  “Then, as you said, it’s worth it.” I kiss the crook of his neck, where his skin is smooth as fine satin. He loves that spot, and shivers now, pressing his cheek to the top of my head.

  “Fi, I promised you honesty. Truth is, my desire to have you blinded me to the hard fact that these short moments are all we can have during the season. When I’m not playing, I’m practicing, reviewing footage, working out, eating, sleeping. Free time is a my
th.”

  He looks down at me, and there’s pain in his eyes. “I wanted to give you more. But I can’t. And I don’t know what to do about that.”

  I’ve always known this. It was what I expected when I let him into my life. I kiss him again, putting all my faith in him, in us, behind it. “Live your dream, Ethan. We’ll find a way to make it less lonely.”

  But even as I make the promise, the fear that we’re both lying to ourselves remains. Because it’s clear this relationship isn’t working the way we need it to, and something will have to give before it breaks.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Fiona

  Some people hate New York. I get it—the place is loud, busy, dirty, swarming with activity. But I love it. The very second I step out onto its streets on Saturday morning, I feel energized, my pace picking up and my back getting straighter. Walking down Park to catch the subway downtown, I can almost pretend my time with Dex was a dream.

  Except my nipples and thighs are sore. Every step I take sends a pleasurable little twinge through my sex, which aches as though I’ve been battered from the inside out with a large, blunt object.

  I smile, remembering the thick length of Dex’s cock pounding into me. And I almost want to stop walking and squeeze my thighs together, as if it will keep the feeling with me for just a bit longer.

  I miss him. It’s been less than a week, and I miss the sound of his voice, the warmth of his skin, the sly way he teases me. I miss teasing him. And I really just want to be back in that bed with Dex, tracing the lines of his tattoos, getting him to suck in a sharp breath when I play with his nipple ring.

  None of this is good. He doesn’t live here. We’ll only see each other when he can fly into town. I need a distraction, and I aim to get it.

  My steps grow quicker as I leave the Subway on 9th and make my way to Horatio Street. By the time I make it to Jackson’s apartment, I’m in desperate need of a fix. Thankfully, he lets me in quickly and is waiting for me as soon as the industrial elevator rolls to a stop on his floor.

  Handsome and fit, he gives me a smug grin. “Not back in the city for a day and already you’re here. I told you you’d become addicted.”

  I give his sandy jaw a peck. “Yes, yes, you’re very smart. Now shut up.”

  Jackson slings an arm around my shoulder. “Did you just quote The Princess Bride to me?”

  “If you have to ask, you’re not worthy, Jax.”

  The apartment is part of a vast, renovated warehouse. Astrid Gilberto croons about a girl from Ipanema, and the fragrance of fresh coffee and baked bread mixes with the prevalent scents of wood chips and varnish.

  Jackson lets me go and calls out. “Would you stop playing that shit? You’re going to turn us into a cliché.”

  Hal walks out of the kitchen, holding a tray and wearing a glare. “You keep that up and I’m going to Chinatown to buy us matching silk robes, asshole.”

  Then Hal grins at me, his blue eyes twinkling. “Fi-da-lee,” he drawls as I give him a hug. “Jack’s right; you’re addicted.”

  “Maybe I just come here for the food.” I grab a croissant and take a large, obnoxious bite.

  Jackson leans against the steel kitchen countertop. “So then you don’t want to see your table?”

  “It’s ready?” I say around a mouth of food, though I’m pretty sure it really sounded like, “Pits meddy?”

  “Breakfast first,” Hal insists, pouring me some coffee.

  Which makes Jackson and me roll our eyes and head toward their workshop, Hal calling us barbarians as we go.

  I’ve known Hal and Jackson since my senior year in high school when my mother stopped in their studio to look at some dining tables. Known as Jackson Hal Designs to the rest of the world, the couple creates some of the most beautiful modern furniture I’ve seen.

  They work out of their apartment and have a studio on the ground floor, both of which Jackson inherited from his uncle, who bought the place in the ’80s when the Meat Packing District was, as Jackson puts it, “The domain of queers and steers.”

  Now, it’s a fashionable district, filled with couture, night clubs, and hot restaurants.

  And there is my baby. I give a little happy sigh as I run over to the dining table I made. Sixty-six inches long, it features a butcher-block top of reclaimed wood, organized in a pattern to take advantage of the natural colors and grains of each slab of wood.

  At the moment, it’s all held together with massive clamps that have been in place while the glue dried.

  “Want to do the honors?” Jackson asks.

  I’m already unscrewing everything, eager to see the table unbound.

  For the past five summers, I’ve been apprenticing with Jack and Hal, learning everything I can about furniture making. It’s helped me become a better designer, and I like that I get to work with my hands instead of simply drawing out sketches of rooms.

  We all stand back and check out the table. It’s rough and needs sanding. I don’t want to use a slick varnish but plan to rub on several coats of soft, subtle wax.

  “I don’t like that one dark piece,” I say, pointing to a length of wood that catches my eye. “It looks off.”

  “You need a bit of imbalance,” Hal argues. “Otherwise the thing becomes bland.”

  “Hal’s right.” Jackson walks around the table with a critical eye. “It works.”

  We discuss the merits of the table and what I can do to improve it for a while, but eventually, my friends drag my troubles out of me.

  Curled up in the corner of one of their massive couches, I palm my second cup of coffee and finish up my tale of professional woe.

  “So quit.” Hal waves a hand as if this piece of advice solves everything in one fell swoop.

  “And do what? I need to work. And I can’t just run away whenever things get hard.”

  “Felix is a talentless hag,” Hal says with a sneer. “And he knows how to manipulate. You want to stay in that toxic environment? For what? So you can lose your soul?”

  “Very dramatic,” Jackson deadpans before looking at me. “But he’s right. Felix isn’t going to teach you anything but how to succeed in business by being an ass. There are other ways. Do what you love, love who you do.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘love what you do’?” I ask with a laugh.

  Jackson leers. “That too.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, taking a sip of coffee. “I’ll have lots to do while he and the-thief-who-shall-not-be-named have fun on the Robertson project.”

  “Robertson as in Cecelia?” Hal asks.

  “Yep.” Cecelia Robertson and her thirty-million-dollar penthouse.

  “She bought a dining set from us last year.” Hal crosses one leg over the other. “That bitch better not be ditching it in her redesign.”

  “That bitch,” Jackson drawls, looking at me, “is in fierce competition with Janice Marks. I know because that’s all she could talk about during our consultation. How she had to have bigger and better than Janice. How her table could not look anything like something Janice would purchase.”

  A slow, evil grin spreads over my face. “You don’t say.”

  “Mmm…Janice is having a cocktail party at her house in two weeks. Want to be my date, sweet thing?”

  Hal glances between us and grins as well. “You two…”

  At that I stand. “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure as always. But I’m suddenly feeling the need to go in search of a cocktail dress.”

  I’ve got a revenge to plan.

  * * *

  It is a sad truth that, yes, I do kill time on social media during work hours. A little lookie-loo over a coffee break, a little web surf at lunch. It’s a bad habit. I’m trying to nix it. But I don’t feel too guilty since I’ve caught Felix doing the same many times now. Who are we kidding? Our world is one of online addicts.

  At lunch on the next Friday, I sit back with my chai tea and go to one of my favorite gossip sites, a total rag—my shame,
my addiction.

  My hand pauses over my tracking pad when Dex’s picture pops up in the headline. At first it doesn’t compute. Dex is in profile; his mouth—so nicely framed by his lush beard—is stern. Why the hell is he on a gossip site?

  Leaning closer to my laptop, my heart pounding, I peer at the story. And the spiced tea I just sipped nearly chokes me.

  “Mother fuck….”

  The headline is large and ugly:

  Pippa Bloom offers 1 Million Dollars for Proof of taking NFL Offensive Lineman Ethan Dexter’s Virginity

  Heat prickles my cheeks and tingles the tips of my fingers. I can’t believe it. I read the article, a brief piece discussing how this private club called Pippa Bloom doesn’t believe a prime bachelor such as Dex is still a virgin. They want to take him down.

  Why? There’s no explanation except for the fact that they’ve just gotten tons of free publicity by putting the public eye on my man.

  I’m so angry, I can’t move my eyes from the screen. My fingers shake as I hit link after link discussing the offer, discussing Dex as if he’s some sort of sad case.

  My first instinct is to call him. But no, I’ll be all screechy, and that won’t help the situation. I could call Ivy, but I’m guessing she’ll be all screechy, and I can’t handle that right now. So I call my friend Violet.

  Violet and I were roommates freshman year, and though I quickly moved out to live in my dad’s guesthouse from sophomore year on—because, despite being social, I loved my privacy—we remained close friends.

  “What up, Fi-Fi?” she answers in her best bro imitation.

  I roll my eyes but smile. “Ms. Day.” Yes, her parents actually named her Violet Day. Then again, her mother’s name is Sunny, so I’m thinking they were aiming for a theme.

  “What can I do you for, Fi?”

  “You know you really need to stop talking like your brother. It’s getting uncomfortable.” I laugh when she curses, but the ugly headline still on my screen sobers me. “So I met a guy.”