Matters of the Hart (The Hart Series Book 3)

by M. E. Carter

  Matters of the Hart

  The Hart Series

  Book Three

  M.E. Carter

  Matters of the Hart

  The Hart Series

  Book Three

  Copyright © 2018 by M.E. Carter

  ISBN-13: 978-1-948852-00-5

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  #metoo

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Jaxon

  “Blue 52! Blue 52!” the QB shouts.

  My ears perk up. That’s me. The play has changed. I move my foot slightly to the left, shifting my weight, knowing I have to run wide this time. That’s not what we set up for, but apparently the defense has figured out our play.

  “Hut, hut, hut, HUT!”

  I push off from the line, trucking it down the field as fast as my legs will carry me. Making a wide turn to the left, I’m barely out of the reach of their defender, who grasps at a piece of my jersey, but not enough to take me down. Just as I cross the forty-yard line, I look over my shoulder and see the ball flying through the air, arching toward me. I reach out my arms, and it lands in my fingertips, then I secure it up against my chest, cradling it like a baby, and keep running.

  “Oof!”

  I don’t get far before my ass is knocked to the ground. That’s going to hurt like a bitch.

  When we finally come to a stop, Heath Germaine—my teammate, roommate, and best friend—pops up off me, reaching his hand down to help hoist me off the grass.

  “Nice play, Hart,” he says as he smacks the top of my helmet, his mouthguard dangling down by his chin. “Too bad you’re not as quick as me. You were this close to making it into the end zone,” he jabs, holding his forefinger and thumb centimeters apart.

  “That’s only because I’m tired from the extra workout I got with your mom last night,” I shoot back. He pushes me while calling me a highly inappropriate name, which makes me laugh. Getting back to business, I grab him by the facemask and pull him toward me. “You may be faster than me, but you’ve got bigger problems than Troy Hunter gunning for you. Don’t get cocky.”

  He scoffs. “Hunter is a fucking puss. He may think he’s faster, but he hasn’t gone up against me yet this season. I’m not worried.”

  The rivalry between those two runs long and deep. For three years, they’ve chased each other down on the field, while chasing either other’s stats on the leader board. Why they hate each other is still a mystery to me, but I know how bad Germaine wants to one-up him. What he doesn’t understand is he’s got bigger problems this year.

  “You misunderstand me, my man. They have a new cornerback. Abel Anders. Just transferred in from some small school in Minnesota and is running circles around Hunter.”

  His grin immediately falls. “Shit. How’d I miss that?”

  “Transfer just happened last week. He isn’t just gunning for Top Ten Cornerbacks this year. From what I hear, he’s got a shot at being number one.”

  Germaine goes straight into work mode as he realizes the seriousness of the situation. He has to decide if he’s doing the draft this year or next, which is already a huge amount of pressure. But if he gets knocked out of the Top Ten, there won’t even be a decision to make. In his mind, that’s not an option.

  “Get back on the line and let’s go again,” he finally says. I nod and head across the field to get ready for another play.

  For most people, being on the practice team of Southwest San Antonio University’s football team would bother them, but not me. I kind of like it. I get all the fun of playing the game I love, but I don’t have the pressure of having to be the best. Yes, my dad is the great Jason Hart. Yes, he will probably be inducted into the Football Hall of Fame as the best defensive lineman in the history of the game. But I haven’t had that dream since I was nine years old, so it’s not a disappointment to me that college will be the end of my football career.

  That, and without having all the travel, I have time to focus on my other loves—math and science. I love all that shit. Math is like doing puzzles. The rules never change, there is only one right answer. Science, on the other hand, changes all the time and the puzzles are never ending. Add on my weird ability to remember all kinds of statistical data, and it makes me really valuable to the team. I can make predictions most people don’t see coming, which comes in handy for people like Germaine.

  Plus, I always win a shit ton of money in fantasy football.

  As Germaine and I jog back into our respective positions on the line, ready to go over the play again, I shake my hands out and put my toe on the white paint. Crouching down, ensuring I’ll shoot off the line quickly, I listen for my cues.

  “Blue 71,” the QB yells and my mind zones out. It’s the same play as before, only this time, someone else has to adjust at the last second. My only goal is to do it better.

  “Blue 71,” he yells again. “Hut, hut, HUT!”

  Using my full power, I explode off the line, this time running straight through the pack of bodies that are too busy trying to sack the quarterback than to notice me. It works, but just for a split second. As soon as I twist to see the ball coming my direction, something catches my peripheral vision. I’m only going to have enough time to snag it out of the air and haul it in before I’m mowed over again.

  “Ooof!”

  As we slide across the turf and come to a stop, all I can say is “Now that’s what I mean by some s
peed!”

  Germaine laughs as he pulls me to my feet. “Hell yeah. No way I’m letting that new kid catch me this year. He’s probably a dick.”

  I smack him on the ass in support, and we jog back to get into position again.

  This is what we do for the next hour…run play after play after play. Perfecting our techniques, our speed, and our moves. I probably won’t ever get a chance to use these skills on the field during an actual game, but I don’t care. I’m here for the exercise, the comradery, and the fun. Besides, I was bumped up to third string this year. That means I have an actual shot of suiting up during a game. If Rudy could bring a crowd to its feet in just one game, who’s to say I can’t either? And if not, I still get to see the game from the best seats in the house.

  Finally, after dozens of hits and even more yards, practice ends and we’re headed back into the locker rooms. By the time I make it back and strip off my sweaty pads, half my teammates are already talking about the plans for a night out.

  Grabbing my phone, I check to see if my boss has texted with any changes to tonight’s schedule. Nothing from him, but there is a text from my dad.

  Dinner at 7 at DeLuca’s. You in?

  With a groan, I toss my phone back in my locker and rub my hand down my face.

  “What’s up, Hart?” Germaine saunters over with a towel wrapped around his waist. I swear he showers faster than anyone I’ve ever met in my life. “You coming out with us tonight or is your baby ass gonna go have a happy nappy?”

  My teammates used to invite me to go out with them all the time. But, after blowing them off time and time again, they finally accepted it wasn’t going to happen. It’s not that I don’t want the bonding time or whatever. I just physically can’t. One of the long-term side effects of chemo as a kid is I tire a lot easier than other people. It doesn’t keep me from functioning through everyday life, but football practices aren’t normal exertion levels. They’re extreme, so I always have to rest afterward, before I can do anything else.

  I peel off my socks and throw them at him, making him squeal like a little bitch. “Neither. I gotta go to dinner with my old man.”

  He lets out a hearty laugh before grabbing me by the arms. “Here, I’ll give you a warm-up on the inquisition.” Looking me over, he says, “You’re getting too skinny. Are you eating enough? Your skin tone is looking a bit pale. Let me see your pupils. Are they dilated?”

  “Get the fuck away from me.” I bat his hand away when he tries to peel open my eyelid. “That’s fucking annoying.”

  Germaine is still chuckling as he swipes on some deodorant. “Don’t get me wrong, your dad is a cool guy, but he is so far up your ass, it’s a wonder he doesn’t smell like shit.”

  “Tell me about it,” I say with a shake of my head. “There’s a reason I went to school six hours away from home.”

  My parents really are awesome, but Germaine isn’t wrong when he says my dad is too overprotective. Especially when it comes to my health. I never noticed it when I lived at home, I guess because he saw me every day. But now that I only see them every few months, he’s much more intrusive.

  I get it. He was in that hospital room when I almost died all those years ago. I’m sure he still has some weird form of PTSD. But for the love of all that is holy, if he doesn’t get his shit together, I may have to move to Europe.

  “What brings the senior Hart into town today anyway? Any special reason or just to get all up in your business?” he jokes.

  I shrug and run my fingers through my sweaty hair, moving it out of my face. “I think he had some meeting for the foundation or maybe a speaking engagement at a corporation. He’s hard to keep up with. I was really hoping he’d be too busy to meet up. I’m running out of undergrad classes to talk about.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Wait. You haven’t told him you changed your major yet?”

  I avoid making eye contact, which confirms my guilt.

  Germaine lets out another hearty laugh. I shoot him a glare, not thrilled that my family life is entertaining to him. “You are in so much troubllllllllllllle,” he singsongs.

  He’s not wrong. “At least I’ll get something better than cafeteria food out of it,” I grumble.

  Germaine chuckles. “You better bring me a doggie bag. I know you only eat the best when you’re with him.”

  “And let you have the benefit of a good meal without having to suffer through wearing a tie at some hoity-toity restaurant? Fuck you. No way.”

  “Your dad and those fancy meals.” He shakes his head in amusement, knowing it’s the same thing every time Dad’s in town. The once-over. A suit and tie. Questions about my grades. I’m already exhausted just thinking about it.

  “Wanna go out with us after you’re done? Some beer and pussy will do you some good.”

  I chuckle at his cure-all to anything that ails you.

  Feeling stressed? Get some beer and pussy.

  Parents making you crazy? Gets some beer and pussy.

  Got the flu? Beer and pussy.

  “Maybe next time,” I say, even though we both know it’s not going to happen. “I have to work tonight anyway.”

  He puts his fist to his lips. “A double whammy night! Daddy Dearest and work until all hours. You’re going to be fucking useless tomorrow in practice.”

  I wish I could say he was wrong. Unfortunately, the statistics are on his side this time.

  Chapter Two

  Annika

  “When are you coming home for the weekend? Haven’t you run out of clean clothes yet?”

  I laugh lightly into the phone. “It’s the weirdest thing, Dad. There are these things called washing machines in the basement of my building, and they washed all my clothes for me last week.”

  He sighs heavily, ignoring my sarcasm. “I know. It just gets lonely without you guys here.”

  My poor dad. Ever since my brother and I went off to college, he’s an empty nester with too much time on his hands. Never mind how much he used to bitch about the cost of feeding two teenagers when we were in high school. As soon as we were gone, his tune changed.

  I’m a sophomore at Southwest San Antonio University. It’s only a couple of hours away from home, but it has everything I need: a great football team, a pre-physical therapy program, and a training course where I can actually get on the field and hone my skills with the players. It also has my best friend, Lauren, who is pretty much the exact opposite of me, but is also the best roommate I could ask for. I lucked out when I got her in the roommate lottery.

  “Well maybe you should put yourself out there a little more.” I’m picking the last of the pink nail polish off my fingernails. I hate it when there’s color on my nails. I should have known better than to let Lauren talk me into that manicure last week. What a waste of money. “Maybe you’ll finally meet a lucky lady.”

  He scoffs. “You know there will never be another lady as lucky as your mother.”

  I laugh again, louder this time. “You’re right, Dad. You’re such a catch, I don’t think any woman could handle you.”

  He’s been alone since my mother died when I was a baby. Not that he’s worried about dating, per se. I’m sure he’s been out a few times over the years, but more out of boredom than anything else. He always said he found love as a young man, and he has memories of the best years of his life to tide him over.

  Personally, I think he’s more afraid of pissing off me or my brother, Damien, than anything. But after nineteen years, you’d think he’d finally realize we’ll get over it.

  “I’ll be coming back for Thanksgiving, Dad. You can wait a couple more months to see me. It’ll give you some time to really home in on your fantasy football skills.”

  He grumbles. “I’m going to beat you this year.”

  I just laugh. “Dad, I don’t think you could beat me any year at fantasy football. You’d have to get used to that fancy computer thingy.”

  “Har. Har,” he deadpans. “What are you up to tonight? Ge
tting that laundry done?”

  “Kiersten’s visiting, and Lauren wants to go out. I’m sitting on my bed right now, waiting for Lauren to come badger me about getting into whatever trouble they’re working on.”

  I can practically hear my dad go on alert. “You be careful when you go out.”

  “Yes, Dad.” It’s the same song and dance I’ve heard for years. As his only daughter, he is a bit hypervigilant about my safety. He used to make me practice “being attacked” by Damien. I have no idea if I can replicate the moves in the real world, but it was fun learning how to kick my brother’s ass.

  “What do you do if a guy gets handsy?”

  “Lean in, knee to the groin,” I respond absentmindedly, flicking away the final bit of polish.

  “Good girl. What if he grabs you from behind and puts you in a choke hold?”

  “Step to the side, fist to the groin, elbow to the face.”

  “Excellent,” he praises. “What about if he grabs your neck from the front?”

  “Tuck my chin, grab his elbows, pull him to me, knee to the face.”

  “Good. I think you’re protected.”

  I chuckle and flop back on my bed. “We’ve only been going over this since I was like twelve. I think I’ll be okay.”

  “You were then. And I know you will,” he says gently. “I just worry about you.”

  “I know you do, Dad. I promise I’ll be okay. Anyway, how is Damien doing? Finally getting some direction?”

  My dad starts chattering about my older brother’s new girlfriend and how he still hasn’t declared a major even though he’s a year ahead of me. The door to my room opens and Lauren walks in, tossing her backpack on her bed.

  Hands on her hips, I know what’s coming, but before she can lay into me I point to my phone and mouth “my dad.”

  Her eyes light up, and she yells, “Hi Mr. Leander!”

  Lauren and my Dad have only met a handful of times during parent weekends and moving days. But they click. Like really click. He thinks of her almost like a second daughter, and just hearing her voice makes him stop his babbling and say, “Is that Lauren in the background? You give her a big hug for me. And teach her how to get out of a choke hold!”