PLAYERS: The Complete Series (Springville Rockets (Sports Romance Books 1-3)

by Daphne Loveling

  “Okay. When’s your birthday?” Anna asks me.

  “June ninth. You?”

  “February nineteenth,” she responds. I commit it to memory. “Where did you go to school?”

  “University of Miami,” I tell her. “I majored in sports medicine.”

  “Is that a real major?” Anna teases.

  I frown. “Fuck yes, it’s a major. What, do you think sports doctors and P.T.s just get their degrees out of a Cracker Jack box?”

  “A Cracker Jack box?” She wrinkles her nose. “What are you, ninety?”

  I let out a bark of laughter. “No, but my granddad is. I guess I picked up that expression from him.”

  “Your grandpa,” she muses. “On your mom’s side or your dad’s side?”

  “My dad. Whose name is…?” I prompt, quizzing her.

  “Oh, God…” She closes her eyes tight in concentration. “Did you say Robert?” She opens her eyes and grins when I nod. “And your mom’s… Patty?”

  “Patsy,” I correct.

  “Robert and Patsy,” she repeats. “And brother Derek.” An apologetic flash crosses her features as she remembers our earlier conversation about Derek. I don’t want to talk about that anymore, so I decide to change the subject.

  “How did we meet?” I ask her next.

  “Well actually, I’ve already sort of talked about that, with a colleague at work. Mackenzie.” She adjusts herself on the couch and takes another sip of wine. “So I suppose we should use that story, to keep things consistent. I met you shortly after you got out of… rehab.” Anna hesitates, a look of apology on her face, but I’m already nodding.

  “Yeah. That’s actually pretty good. Fits in with the narrative of me getting clean and getting a new lease on life.”

  “That’s what I thought! I didn’t tell Mackenzie where we met, though.” Anna’s eyes sparkle with amusement. “I suppose we can’t be telling people we met outside a bar, given the circumstances.”

  “No, probably not,” I agree. “How about just keeping it simple, though? We met when you locked your keys inside your car, and I was passing by and helped you out.”

  “Makes me sound like an idiot,” she mutters, sulking a little.

  “You’re not an idiot,” I correct her. “But it is the truth. And I suppose we should try to stick close to the truth whenever possible. We’ll have less to remember that way.”

  I ask her a few more questions that I figure a boyfriend — fiancé — should know. I find out her favorite color is blue. Her favorite movie is some French flick called Amélie. Her favorite food is pizza.

  She asks me what my hobbies are. I tell her football, training for football, and sex, which earns me a blush. She asks me how long I think I’d survive in a zombie apocalypse. I tell her I’ll be the last one standing. I think she’s kidding about that question, but she there’s such an expression of seriousness in her voice that I answer the same way.

  After a while, the wine is mostly gone, and it’s starting to get late. I’m afraid she’s gonna say she needs to go soon, and there’s still one more thing I want to do. I stand up, and Anna must think I’m getting up to do the dishes or something because she stands up with me.

  “Sit down,” I tell her.

  “I can help —”

  “I said, sit,” I interrupt. “And don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

  She flashes me a little pout, but does as she’s told. I go into my bedroom and take the box with the ring in it off my dresser. Sliding it into my pocket, I go back out into the living room.

  Even though Anna knew I was gonna get her a ring, I guess she didn’t expect me to actually propose to her. When I get down on one knee, her face turns pale and her eyes go wide as saucers. Pulling the box from my pocket, I open it and hold it out to her.

  When I start to say the words, my throat hitches for a second and I have to clear it a couple of times. Smooth, Mason.

  “Anna,” I finally manage to croak out. I take a deep breath, pausing, because for some reason this is feeling a hell of a lot more real than I thought it would. Must be the wine.

  “Anna,” I say again, forcing myself not to sound too serious. “Will you fake marry me?”

  Anna’s frozen in place, mouth half-open, like she’s holding her breath. At my words, she lets it out with a shaky laugh.

  “Mason,” she says, looking into my eyes with a smirk. “I will fake marry you.”

  I take her hand and slip the ring on her finger. Amazingly, it fits perfectly.

  “Mason,” she breathes. “It’s… wow, it’s so beautiful.” She gazes at it for a moment, one corner of her mouth quirking up. “You remembered.”

  “What? Oh, yeah. I looked online and saw the ring you meant, so I went to the store looking for something kind of like it.”

  I don’t tell her about printing the picture out. This ring isn’t exactly like the one Kate what’s-her-name has, but it is similar. The sapphire’s cut more square. Anna seems to really like it, so I guess I didn’t screw up too badly.

  For a few seconds, we’re kind of frozen like that. Then I realize I’m still holding her hand. Anna must finally realize it, too, because she eventually pulls it away and blinks, like she’s just waking up from something.

  “We should probably save this for posterity,” she half-jokes, and pulls her phone out of her back pocket. “And for social media.”

  “Oh, yeah, good point.” It’s a smart move, and I should be glad Anna thought about it. But somehow, I’m disappointed. I kind of liked tonight, with it just the two of us getting to know each other, with no bullshit. I don’t like having to switch into performance mode right now.

  “Come on,” she says with a grim smile. “Let’s do this.”

  Anna takes a few pictures of her hand with the ring, and then a couple pictures of her hand placed over mine. And then finally, a pic of the two of us together, beaming like newly engaged people. She opens her Instagram app, and moves on to Snapchat to upload the photos.

  Then suddenly, she lets out a little squeak of surprise.

  “Where did all these followers come from?” she blurts.

  I move to sit beside her on the couch and look over her shoulder. “Looks like word’s gotten out about us,” I say mildly.

  “Already?” She looks goggle-eyed at me, and then back at her phone. “How?”

  “I dunno. Maybe someone at the flower shop recognized my name and put it out on Facebook that I was sending flowers to you.” I point to the phone. “ Get ready. The next few days are gonna be a roller coaster. This is only the beginning.”

  Anna lowers it in a daze, her face pale. “I don’t think I want to do this,” she murmurs.

  She means she doesn’t want to upload the photos right now. At least, I hope that’s what she means. The expression on her face is just short of panic. Suddenly, I’m regretting what I just said. I mean, it’s true — the next few days are gonna be nuts. But Anna is looking like she seriously regrets agreeing to be my fiancée right now. I guess maybe I should have prepared her better for what life is like in the spotlight. If I had, though, she might not have agreed to any of this in the first place.

  I don’t want her to regret this.

  I’ve had a good time with her tonight. And I think she has, too.

  I don’t want that to end.

  So, before I even really realize what I’m doing, I’m moving closer, until we’re almost touching. I take her phone and set it down on the coffee table, then raise my hand to lift her chin toward mine.

  “Anna. It’s gonna be okay,” I soothe. “We just have to get through the next week or so. That’ll be the hardest part. After that, we’ll be old news. People will move on to the next breaking story. Then we can just be an ‘old engaged couple’ for a while. Okay?”

  She takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Okay,” she whispers, locking eyes with me.

  The look she gives me is so vulnerable, so trusting. I’m hit by a sudden, fierce need to protec
t her. From anything and everything that’s making her afraid right now.

  I haven’t kissed Anna since that first night, when I helped her get her car open. I’ve been trying to keep a respectful distance, so she’d agree to the whole fake fiancée thing. Even though I’ve had to rub one out more times than I can count just to keep my head on straight when she’s around.

  But now that the contract’s signed — now that we’re officially a couple and she’s wearing my engagement ring — I have no idea what I’m waiting for.

  So, I don’t wait.

  The hand that was under her chin moves to the back of her head. My fingers twine in her hair. I pull her toward me.

  My mouth lands on hers. My cock springs to life.

  Her lips open under mine.

  Holy fuck.

  There’s a feeling almost like a rush of air coming out of my lungs as I kiss her. Every coherent thought flies out of my head except the ones telling me to pick Anna up, carry her to my bed, and get her naked so I can plunge myself inside her. The hand that’s not in her hair reaches for her hips, pulling her body toward me and angling myself so that I’m pressing against her, soft to hard. I groan out loud. Jesus Christ, it feels so fucking good.

  Anna moans into my mouth, her hips moving against me. I know she’s feeling it, too. The kiss deepens, growing hungrier. Her breasts are pressed against my chest, her breathing shallow and rapid. I move my hand out of her hair, getting ready to pull her onto my lap, then to stand up and do what every cell in my body is screaming at me to do.

  Suddenly, Anna’s body goes rigid, and she pulls back, breaking the kiss. I almost yell in frustration, but manage to keep it in.

  “Mason,” she gasps. “This… this is only a business relationship. We can’t…”

  “I know it is, Anna,” I growl, my voice tight with need. “But there’s no reason we can’t mix a little pleasure in. Hell, we’re gonna be spending a lot of time together. Let’s make it good for both of us.”

  I told myself I’d at least try to keep this professional between us, but right now I can’t think of anything but getting Anna Wilder in my bed. There’s no fucking way the two of us are going to be able to be this close to each other for months without anything happening. And besides, why the fuck should we?

  “Why don’t you spent the night?” I rasp. I’m trying not to fucking beg. “We can do more of that getting to know each other thing.”

  I hope my voice sounds light, casual, instead of goddamn desperate to keep her here, which is what I feel. Before Anna can answer, I kiss her again. She moans, her body molding to mine. I twine my tongue around hers, deepening the kiss, and her arms wrap around my neck. My hands slide to her waist, pushing under the fabric to find her soft skin.

  Then, just as I think she’s letting go, she pulls away again, breathless.

  “Mason,” she pants. “I can’t.”

  17

  Anna

  For the second time in a row, I run out of Mason’s place as fast as I can without looking like a freaking psycho.

  Thank God I haven’t had so much wine that I can’t drive.

  I feel like even more of a psycho because of why I left.

  Not because Mason kissed me. Not because he wanted more.

  Because I wanted more. So badly.

  How am I supposed to have a business relationship with him, when I can’t even control myself around him?

  I thought I was doing well at first. I never should have had that wine. I never should have let my guard down.

  This next year is gonna be absolute hell.

  It better end up being worth it.

  When I get home, Harriet is sitting on the couch, strumming her guitar and singing softly to herself. There’s a notepad in front of her, with some scratched-out lines of text on it. I’ve seen this often enough to know she’s in the middle of writing a song.

  “Hey, you’re back,” she says when I come in.

  “Hey, you’re here,” I shoot back. Harriet’s been gone a lot lately, playing shows around town and also a few gigs the next state over. We’ve barely seen each other in the last two weeks.

  “Ha, yeah. Surprise, surprise.” She sets the guitar on the floor, leaning it against the arm of the couch, and stretches. “Where’ve you been this evening?”

  I know her question is just friendly curiosity, but it freezes me in my tracks just the same. “Uh…” I stammer, trying to think up a convincing lie to buy myself some time. But one of Harriet’s weird talents is the ability to read people.

  “Whoa, what’s up?” she asks, sitting up on the couch and looking at me intently. “You look… off.”

  I meet her gaze for a moment, then look away, pressing my lips together. But it’s no use. I know I signed a non-disclosure agreement, but Harriet’s my roommate, and my best friend. There’s no way I can keep something like this from her for a whole year. It’s inconceivable. Besides, she doesn’t care at all about sports, and she barely follows any celebrity gossip stuff at all. The indie music scene is her life. And Harriet is the one person I know who I’d trust with a secret and know she’d never say a word if I asked her not to. She’ll keep it under wraps.

  I flop down on the couch, heaving an exhausted sigh.

  “Harriet,” I say. “I may have just made the biggest mistake of my life.”

  In the end, I tell her basically everything. From how I met Mason, to how he asked me to be his fake fiancée once and I refused, to how I ended up deciding to take him up on it. The whole time, she just sits there, arms crossed and mouth shut.

  I even tell Harriet that Mason isn’t really an alcoholic. Which I know she doesn’t care about, because she barely knew his name or who he even was in the first place.

  “Holy fucking shit, Anna,” she marvels when I’m done talking. “Jesus, I turn my back for a couple of weeks and this is what you get yourself into?”

  “I know.” It all sounds insane when I lay it out to someone else like this.

  “Is there any way to back out of it?” she asks with a frown.

  “I don’t think so,” I admit. “The contract is pretty iron-clad. I have a copy of it if you want to see it.”

  “You should have a lawyer take a look at it,” she tells me.

  “But wouldn’t that be breaking the non-disclosure agreement?”

  “You’re breaking it right now,” she points out.

  “I know.” God, this is such a mess. “But you won’t tell anyone, will you?”

  “Of course I won’t tell anyone,” she scoffs. “Who would I tell? No one I know gives a shit about sports, or Mason Robertson, or anything like that.”

  “Robichaud,” I correct her.

  “Robichaud. Whatever.” She shrugs and picks up the can of soda she’s been drinking from. “So, you’re worried you won’t be able to keep your distance. Can’t you just make sure only to be with him when there are other people around? I mean, there’s nothing in your contract about having to spend time with him alone, is there?”

  “Not exactly,” I admit.

  “Well there you go,” she replies triumphantly. “Just don’t be alone with him.”

  Like it’s going to be that easy.

  “I’m going to have to tell my dad about this,” I continue. “And he’s going to freak out.”

  I’m still on the couch with Harriet. She’s brought out a pint of ice cream, which we’re passing back and forth.

  “Are you going to tell your dad it’s all for show?”

  “I don’t know.” I take a spoonful of the ice cream. “At first, I was going to tell him Mason really was my boyfriend. But the more I think about calling him and just lying to him, the more terrible I feel about it. Plus, any day now the news is going to break that we’re engaged. And I know it’s going to feel even worse how hurt Dad will be that I didn’t think to tell him I was in a serious relationship.”

  “I can’t believe none of this occurred to you before you agreed to the contract, Anna,” Harriet sc
olds me. I open my mouth to respond, but she’s absolutely right. So I stuff another spoonful of ice cream in my mouth instead, to shut my stupid self up.

  “What do you think I should do?” I ask desperately after I’ve swallowed.

  “Well, technically, you aren’t supposed to tell anyone, right?” she muses. “Do you think your dad can keep the secret?”

  “It’s not keeping the secret I’m worried about,” I reply. “It’s that he’ll be so disappointed in me if I tell him why I’m doing this.”

  “So your choices are to lie to him or to disappoint him,” Harriet sums up. “Which one is worse?”

  “I don’t know,” I sigh.

  In the end, I choose to lie.

  “Daddy,” I say when he answers. “How are you?”

  “Princess!” he crows. His voice sounds relatively strong today, which makes my heart leap. He’s still at the stage with his ALS that he’s not having too much difficulty speaking, yet. He just sounds kind of nasally, and sometimes a little slurred. “It’s good to hear your voice!”

  “I know, it’s been way too long,” I apologize. “I’m so sorry, Daddy. Things have been really crazy right now. How are you?”

  “Not bad, not bad,” he says noncommittally. One of the hardest things about living far away from him is that I’m afraid he hides things from me about the progression of his disease. I know he doesn’t want me to worry. He lives alone, and wants to keep his independence for as long as possible. But neither of us knows how long that will be.

  We chit-chat for a few minutes. He tells me about the next door neighbor’s son he’s hired to cut the grass. I’m amazed that he would relinquish control of his precious Craftsman mower to anyone, but I’m glad he’s done it before he can’t mow safely anymore and ends up hurting himself. He asks me about how work is, and what I’ve been up to lately. Finally, I know I can’t put off telling him my news any longer.

  “Daddy, I have some news,” I begin, squeezing my eyes closed.