The Game Plan (Game On #3)

by Kristen Callihan

  “Excellent come back,” I tell him.

  “Anyway,” Drew says, “Dex can’t go on that show. He’s already got a girl.”

  “No shit?” Johnson looks at me like I’ve grown two heads.

  “Yep,” Drew answers for me. “Fiona Mackenzie. Ivy’s little sister.”

  “The cute blonde who took her dress of at the wedding?” Johnson’s expression borders on a leer.

  “Hey,” I warn. “Just wipe that right the fuck out of your memory.”

  Drew shakes his head. “See? Gone on her already.”

  I drink my water and endure a round of kissing noises. “You kids done?”

  Johnson wags his tongue in a lewd manner. “Now I’m done.”

  “Bunch of juveniles,” I mutter. But I’m not mad. I’ve missed this. I missed my guys.

  Rolondo frowns. “If you’re with Fiona now, this whole virgin-hunt thing goes out the door.”

  “No,” I say with force. “I don’t want Fi anywhere near this. The press does not get a piece of her.”

  “I respect that,” Rolondo says. “But you gotta know that what you want and what the public takes are two different things, my friend.”

  Unfortunately, he’s right. I hate the fear creeping over my shoulders. There are things I can’t protect Fiona from, and it frustrates the hell out of me.

  We eat dinner and gossip. I’m not afraid to admit it’s pure gossip: who’s done what knuckle-headed thing, which coaches suck, which don’t.

  And of course, war stories. How we’ve manned up in the face of pain and adversity and made spectacular plays, which are always ten times more impressive in the retelling, as if we don’t all watch Sports Center highlights and know when one of us is lying out of his ass.

  By the time the waiter slides a dessert that consists of chocolate in five different forms in front of me, I’m almost normal again.

  Johnson scowls at his plate. “It’s so tiny. Everything here is tiny.”

  “It’s gourmet,” Rolondo says, picking up his spoon.

  “Who picked this place, anyway?” Johnson complains.

  “I did.” I slide a spoonful of dark chocolate mousse into my mouth and almost groan. Damn. Fi needs to come here with me. And like that, I’m missing her again. I ignore the emotion and glare at my guys. “It’s delicious. Just order another one if you’re still hungry.”

  Rolondo just laughs and eats while Johnson mutters about me being some sort of metrosexual.

  “Lumbersexual,” I counter, getting a look of horror from Johnson. I shrug. “That’s what Fi says, anyway.”

  “Why would she say you like having sex with lumberjacks?” Johnson asks with a confused frown.

  Rolondo throws a napkin at his head. “Man, you don’t know jack about jack.”

  “Lumberjacks?”

  We all groan.

  Except Drew, who doesn’t say a word. He hasn’t even noticed his dessert. He’s way too fidgety and practically glued to his phone screen, which isn’t like him.

  “Why do you keep looking at your phone?” I ask him. “Shit, is there more bad press? Am I now up for grabs for both sexes?”

  “I’d do you,” Rolondo puts in with a grin.

  “You’re too high-maintenance for me.”

  “This is true.” ‘Londo nods and looks me over. “I’d most definitely make you shave that beard. I’m not into bears.”

  I shrug. “We were never meant to be.”

  Johnson rolls his eyes. “I don’t care if I sound like a dick. This whole exchange is bizarre.”

  “You always sound like a dick,” Rolondo says. “So we’re used to it.”

  He ducks a chunk of bread Johnson pings at him. An older couple across the way turns to stare.

  “Ladies,” I say mildly, “mind your manners. This isn’t the college bar.”

  “Yes, Mom.” Johnson sits back and looks around. “Why is it that we aren’t in a bar? I mean, yeah, we got money now. But this place is making my shoulders itch.”

  “I’m checking the place out,” I tell them. “It’s for sale, and Gray, Drew, and I are thinking about investing in restaurants.”

  “Seriously?” Johnson looks surprised.

  “We need something to fall back on. We aren’t going to play forever.”

  Since the three of us love to eat, we thought about the restaurant business. Gray and Drew have been looking at places on the west and east coasts, respectively.

  I glance at Drew. “If a certain QB would get his face out of his phone and taste the food, it would be much easier to do.”

  Drew lifts his head. “The atmosphere is a little staid, but the food is good, and the place is packed.”

  “Agreed,” I say. “It always is, but I’d make changes.”

  Drew nods, then drifts back to his phone.

  Rolondo shrugs. “As long as we don’t go to one of Johnson’s strip bars, I’m cool with anything.”

  “You’d rather we go to one of your strip bars?” Johnson asks.

  “Naw, wouldn’t want you to develop a complex about your shortcomings, man.”

  “There ain’t nothing short on me. And when I make a lady come, it takes all night.”

  “Takes all night to make her come? Yeah, I’d buy that.”

  As Rolondo and Johnson bait each other, I glance back at Drew, who is still eyeing his phone and being awfully quiet. “Seriously, Baylor, I’m about to confiscate that thing.”

  He raises a brow at me, and gives me his old, innocent grin—which I am not falling for. “You really are a mom, aren’t you?”

  “As I recall, you played the role of Mom. I was Dad.”

  “Doesn’t that mean we’re on a date now? And all I get is this lousy dinner?” Drew leans his arms on the table. “Where are my flowers?”

  “I’ll make it up to you with sweet talk later. Now answer the question, Battle. What the hell is up with the phone?”

  As if I’ve activated it, the damn thing lights up, and Drew glances down. He fights to hide his smile. “What can I say? I’m totally pussy whipped by my wife to be. That’s right, I’m replacing you with Anna.” With that, he presses his palms to the tabletop. “Gentlemen, time to wrap this up. I have a phone date to get to.”

  Oddly, the guys don’t go the obvious route and give Drew shit. They glance at me and then at each other—not exactly subtle, though I know they think they are.

  “What now?” I ask, glaring around.

  “Nothing, man,” Rolondo assures. “Stop being so uptight. It isn’t all about you, D.”

  His expression says different, but I let it slide.

  Johnson pulls out some bills. “My treat this time, yeah?”

  “Excuse me while I take in this moment,” Rolondo says expansively, his arms open wide. “Johnson—punk ass, cheap motherfucker Johnson—is paying.”

  “Man, shut the fuck up,” Johnson says with a laugh. “We meeting up for coffee in the morning?”

  “Yeah, man,” Rolondo says. “I’ll pay that.”

  “Talk about cheap.”

  “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, boy.”

  “And the cheapest.”

  “I’ll pay every meal for the season’s meet-ups if you two will shut up now,” Drew says.

  Since graduation, we’ve made it a point to meet up a few times a year. Sometimes there are more of us, sometimes less. Mostly we meet when we’re playing a game against each other. But the Red Dog team will always be brothers.

  Drew is hurrying us along, all but pushing Johnson toward the door.

  I’ve always envied what Drew has with Anna. Not the sex, but the knowledge that there was someone he belonged to. Even when he was suffering when they first got together, I envied him. Because his emotions with her were real. Honest.

  My whole life feels like one long fog of numbness, punctuated by manufactured pain. The tats, the piercing, hard hits on the field—all of them ways to make me feel something other than bland indifference.


  But with Fi, I’m alive. I anticipate every single breath because it’s another moment closer to getting back to her.

  I follow the guys out, but my mind is on Fi, and the ache around my heart grows. I miss her so much that at first I think I’m imagining her leaning against the side of a black town car.

  A balmy southern breeze drifts over the road, lifting the ends of her golden hair and making the skirt of her dress sway. She’s wearing a white sundress dotted with brilliant red cherries. That dress with the little teasing red bow just below her breasts. That dress has haunted me for what seems like an eternity. I’ve dreamed of sinking to my knees and lifting its skirt to find the prize beneath. She’s wearing that dress for me.

  I’m frozen in place, surely gaping at her as the guys walk past. Out of the corner of my eye, I see their smug faces. Drew gives Fi a nod.

  “Thank you, Drew Bee,” she says to him, drawing out the initial in his last name with affection.

  “Any time, Fi-Fi.” His smile is wide and satisfied.

  I remember that they know each other and live in the same town and hang out. I’m instantly jealous of Drew for that. But he clearly helped set up this meeting with my girl, so I can’t hold it against him.

  My attention is on Fi anyway. On her hesitant smile, the shine of happiness in her eyes. She lifts her arm, holding up a plastic produce bag full of something lumpy.

  Her slightly husky voice drifts over the space between us. “I know guys bring girls flowers, but I figured you’d be more into food. So I brought you some cherries—”

  Her words cut off with a squeak as I wrap my arms around her slim frame and lift her high. I kiss her without hesitation, opening her mouth with mine, my tongue sliding along hers. She tastes of cherries and Fi, and smells of joy.

  My joy. My Fi.

  Like that, I’m overwhelmed. Fuck, I’m almost weepy. And I’m all but mauling her on the street.

  My voice is rough when I pull back and smile down at her. “Did you eat some of my cherries?”

  Her nose wrinkles. “I had to see if they were okay. I’m not going to give you subpar cherries.”

  “You’ve got a whole theme going here.”

  “I’m not very subtle, Ethan,” she says with a goofy grin. “Better get used to it now.”

  “Don’t ever change.”

  She’s still in my arms, her feet dangling around my shins, those sweet tits of hers pressed against my chest. I can’t help kissing her again, on the warm spot just below her ear, the corner of her mouth, which always makes her shiver.

  Hell, I can’t stop kissing her period.

  And she’s running her fingers across my nape, massaging the tight muscles there as if she knows how badly I need it.

  “Fi…” I can’t even talk.

  “Show me your home, Big Guy.”

  Problem is, I don’t think I’ll be able to let her go once she gets there.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Fiona

  Ethan insists on walking. It’s a nice night; the air almost balmy. And though it’s November, it’s in the 70s—warm enough to wear this silly cherry sundress and a cardigan. But it was worth it to see Dex’s wide smile unfurl when his gaze slid over me. Yeah, he knew I wore the dress for him. And it lit him up with happiness. So. Totally. Worth. It.

  “Aren’t you afraid of being spotted?” I ask as we amble along, his arm around me, my head resting against the warmth of his chest.

  He stops and kisses me—soft, seeking, a smile on his lips as he pulls away. “Not really. No one’s around. I got my cap on.” He gives the brim of gray his newsboy cap a tug as he winks. “And I don’t exactly look like myself.”

  No. He’s not in his standard jeans and tee, but wearing soft black slacks and a light knit dress sweater that covers his trademark tats. He looks more dapper-New-Orleans gentleman than football player now.

  Drew and his friends have driven off, making a lot of noise that I suspect was designed to bring attention to them and away from Ethan. They’re good friends, loyal. I know they’ll do anything to protect him. And yet I sense there’s a wall between Ethan and, well, everyone but me.

  “Your friends never call you Ethan. Always Dex or Dexter. Why?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve always been Dex to them. I’m not even sure some of them know my first name. It’s who I am.”

  The casual way he accepts that bothers me. I want to shout, wave my fist in the air, something. As it is, my voice comes out fierce and angry. “You’re more than that. So much more.”

  “Only for you.” He touches my face, runs the blunt tips of his fingers along my temple, as he looks at me with such tenderness my heart hurts. “No one else gets all of me, Cherry.”

  This man. I know he isn’t trying to do it, but he always says the one thing guaranteed to turn my world on its head. My ire on his behalf dissipates, leaving behind the soft warmth of contentment.

  Smiling, I rest my cheek in the palm of his hand. “Just so you know, no one else gets to call me silly fruit names.”

  The white of his teeth flashes in the shadow of his beard. “I know.” His thumb caresses my cheek. “I’ve missed your face.”

  “I missed your…everything.” It has been two weeks. An eternity when it comes to my need for him.

  He kisses me again as we walk, and I grow lightheaded, giggling against his lips—drunk off Ethan.

  And he seems that way too, the both of us laughing at nothing but the joy of being together, stopping every few feet to kiss, touch each other’s faces, because we can.

  It starts to rain, a gentle fall that brings out the scents of the city, the baking brick walkways, the warm scents of cooking, and underneath it all, a faint, murky odor of mildew and rot that gives the city a sense of age that New York refuses to acquire.

  Around us drift lilting strains of jazz, hard beats of rock, the twang of country, disjointed notes of pop. It all melds together to make its own song. The rain feels soft, sluicing over our skin, warm and wet.

  We pass Bourbon Street and move deeper into the French Quarter, away from the river. On a quiet street, Ethan backs me against a pair of glossy black French doors, protected from the rain by a stucco archway.

  He cups my cheeks and kisses me like he aches for it. Slow, fevered, deep. Soft licks of my upper lip, hard nips of my lower lip. It feels so good, I shiver against him, my hands fisting his sweater.

  He’s so big, he blots out the light of the street entirely, and I know I’m hidden behind him in this damp little nook. His hands span the sides of my neck, his thumbs on my jaw, holding me where he wants me.

  I can only whimper, cling to him, kiss him back for all I’m worth.

  One big hand slides down my chest, covering my breast and giving it a possessive squeeze before gliding lower, past my ribs, my hip. He leans further into me, his chest against mine as he reaches down and gathers my skirt.

  “Did you know,” he murmurs almost conversationally against my lips, “that when you get all breathless and make those little whimpers…” His fingers brush the crease of my hip, tracing the edge of my panties. “I always find you…” He slips under my panties. “Wet.” His body shudders as the rough pad of his finger rubs along my slick flesh. “Always so fucking wet for me.”

  “Yes.”

  “God, just feel you. You’re dripping onto my fingers.” A fine tremor works down his arm as his eyes flutter closed and he kisses me again. Again. Again.

  He’s spinning a spell over me, making my limbs heavy and hot. My sex pulses, loving the attention, wanting more of it.

  His fingers find my opening, and I whimper. He dips in just enough for me to feel it, to want more, then drifts away, strokes and circles, a lazy, languid exploration.

  “Ethan…” I wiggle my hips, desperate to get him deeper. “Stop playing with me.”

  He gives my upper lip a little lick, and still he gently fondles. “You love it.”

  I do. So much. But I’m incapable of speech right now. I
can only whine and rock my hips, wanting more. He holds me fast, not relenting.

  “Say it, Cherry. Tell me how much you love it, and I’ll give you what you need.”

  Licking my swollen lips, I look up at him, his face a collection of shadows in the dim light. “I love it, Ethan. Fuck me with those long fingers, and then shove your fat cock into me.”

  His breath leaves with a gust. “Well played, darlin’.” He plunges deep, hard, and there. That’s all it takes to set me off. The orgasm rushes over me so fast, I suck in breaths like I’m drowning.

  Ethan works his fingers slow and steady, his other hand cupping my neck, his lips coasting over mine as if he wants to drink up my pleasure.

  And when I finally relax against him, my body limp and spent, he pulls his fingers out and lifts them to his lips to suck them clean. “Sweetest thing I’ve had in my mouth all night.”

  A weak laugh escapes me. “I’ve created a monster.”

  Ethan just grins wider before turning his attention to the little control panel beside my head. “Watch carefully now.” He moves to punch in a number, but I stop him with a little cry.

  “This is your house? We were going at it right in front of your house?”

  He doesn’t stop smiling. “You sound annoyed.”

  “Well…” I’m flustered. “Why didn’t we go in? You know…” My cheeks heat. “Before.” I don’t even know why I’m being prudish. I certainly didn’t mind.

  A laugh rumbles in his chest, and he gives me a look as if he is thinking the same thing. “That was the plan. But then I felt your sweet body against mine, and it was all over.”

  Biting his lower lip as if to keep from smiling any longer, he punches in the code: 11-55-88. The door clicks open. “Did you get it?”

  “Yes.” I force myself to stand taller.

  “Good.” He nods toward the panel. “Remember it. Any time you want to come here, my house is open to you. Any time, Fi. For as long as you want.”

  The back of my throat tickles. I stare up at him, struck dumb and only able to squeeze his big hand with my much smaller one. It feels momentous, what he’s done. Huge. The kind of commitment that speaks of permanence.