The Perfect Game: A Complete Sports Romance Series (3-Book Box Set)

by Samantha Christy

  “Rylee.”

  “Listen, you can pay for everything else tonight, deal? As long as it’s not over the top like we agreed.”

  “Right, the rules. What are they again?”

  “No touching. No kissing. No drinking. No frivolous spending.”

  “No fun,” I interject.

  She laughs. “I thought you said you had fun last Friday.”

  “I did.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  We spend the next few hours seeing over seventy exotic cats. Tigers, cougars, bobcats and more, all who have been abused, neglected or abandoned.

  “I love this place,” she declares, when we are finishing the tour. “Most people are afraid of these animals, but it makes you see that with TLC, even beasts can be tamed.”

  I look at her, wondering if she’s talking about the cats or about me.

  Before we leave, our tour guide asks for donations, stating this whole facility is run on them. I can see how much this place means to Rylee, so I get out my credit card. I show it to her and ask, “Do you consider a donation frivolous spending?”

  She gives me a genuine smile. “Absolutely not.”

  I see her jaw fall open when I tell the tour guide how much to put on the card.

  As we walk back to the car, she touches my arm. “A hundred bucks would have sufficed, you know.”

  “Go big or go home,” I say.

  “Why do I get the impression you always go big?”

  I shrug and then she tosses me the keys.

  “You trust me with your baby?” I ask.

  “It’ll be good therapy for your arm and fingers. Try to grip the wheel. Open and close the windows. That sort of thing.”

  My face breaks into a smile as I open the passenger door for her and then walk to the other side of the car. She laughs when I have to put the seat all the way down and back before I can get in.

  “Where to?” I ask.

  “Where else? The TECO line.”

  As we drive back through the city, Rylee gets a text, laughing at it as she taps out her reply. I wonder if it’s from Alex.

  “So, Alex seems to have a thing for you.”

  In my periphery I can see her head snap in my direction. “One: he doesn’t. He’s my boss and that would be against the rules, wouldn’t it? And two: that’s getting kind of personal, don’t you think?” She holds up her phone, shaking it at me before she puts it away. “It wasn’t Alex.”

  I don’t miss, however, that she doesn’t offer who it was. And when her phone pings again and she pulls it out to answer, I sure as hell don’t miss her devious smile.

  She likes this game. But damned if I’m going to let her know how much I don’t.

  I find a parking place and buy our passes for the streetcar. “Where to now?” I ask after we hop on.

  “Ybor City,” she says. “I’m assuming you’ve been?”

  “Of course. They have some good bars there.”

  “We’re not going bar-hopping, Brady.”

  “Then why bother?”

  “You wanted Tampa culture, I’m giving it to you. Tonight you get to see it through my eyes.”

  I cock my head to the side and stare at her, looking into those green eyes that are gazing intently into mine. I swear there is something behind them. Something that says she wants me.

  She lowers her eyes to the floor as she tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear after a gust of wind flows through the streetcar. She’s fighting it. I just can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. I can’t say how many times over the past month I’ve jacked off to thoughts of her intense green eyes. Her gorgeous hair. Her stimulating touch. But she’s not like the others. She’s different. Smart. Refined. Sophisticated. Fun.

  She’s also a woman you don’t have a one-night-stand with. And anything else is off the table.

  “Okay then, why do they call it Ybor City?” I ask, trying to change the subject in my head.

  “It was founded as an independent town in the late 1800’s by a group of cigar manufacturers led by some guy named Ybor.”

  “Hmm. Now that you mention it, I do recall seeing a lot of cigar shops there. My dad is a huge fan, maybe we could stop in a few places. His birthday is next month. Or, would that be throwing around my money?”

  She laughs. “No, buying a gift for your dad is nice. We should do it. I’ve never been in a cigar shop before.”

  “You’re missing out then.”

  “Ewww. I don’t smoke, Brady. And as an athlete, surely you know it’s horrible for you.”

  “I don’t smoke, either, Ry. Doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy an occasional stogie.”

  She wrinkles her nose in disgust, making me chuckle.

  “Brady Taylor?” someone asks from across the streetcar.

  All eyes turn my way and I look at Rylee as she digs around in her purse, fishing out a pen.

  I talk to several guys in the man’s group, and when one asks for an autograph, I stupidly try to do it with my left hand. As I scribble out my name, the pen falls out of my grip and onto the floor of the car, then it rolls backwards and tumbles down the stairs. As I watch it fall onto the street and get crushed by a passing car, I wonder if it’s some kind of twisted symbolism.

  Some of the guys look at me as if they know I’m damaged goods. A nearby lady offers me a new pen and I finish the autograph with my right hand before signing a few more.

  We get to our stop and the group of guys leaves the car. Rylee pulls me down next to her. “We’ll stay on until the next one.”

  I’m relieved that she gets it. She gets that I don’t need to be fawned over and prodded with questions. Not until I make it back. If I make it back.

  “Hey.” She rubs my shoulder with hers. “It was good that you tried. Maybe next time you’ll be able to do it.”

  “Next time could be in ten minutes,” I say.

  She giggles. “Oh, right. Maybe next Friday you’ll be able to do it.”

  My eyes snap to hers. “Are you saying you’ll do this again?”

  She shrugs.

  “You don’t think you’ll run out of animal places to take me?” I ask with a wink.

  “Have you ever been to Dinosaur World?”

  I laugh out loud. “You really are just a big kid, aren’t you?”

  “Come on, let’s get off here.”

  She stands up and offers me her hand. I take it, realizing it’s the second time she’s touched me tonight.

  So much for the no touching rule.

  Rylee leads me on a walk through Ybor Square, being the perfect tour guide. I get stopped by another fan and Rylee takes our picture. Then we make our way down the main strip, window shopping and people-watching as we decide which place to go.

  The street is bustling at this hour as more and more people get out of streetcars, crowding the sidewalks of this popular Friday-night destination.

  “That one looks good,” she says, pointing to a cigar shop across the street that looks less crowded than most.

  The bell above the door jingles as we enter, and the proprietor greets us in both Spanish and English. “Come. I have place for you,” he says, leading us to the counter as a few people scoot over to make room.

  Then he grabs two small glasses, much smaller than shot glasses, and proceeds to fill them with a splash of brown liquor. I glance at the bottle and then look at the makeshift sign behind the counter that reads ‘Bourbon tasting’ with today’s date below it.

  I look at Rylee and then at the tiny glass. I push it back to him. “No, I’m sorry.”

  The man looks saddened.

  Rylee picks up the glass and hands it to me. “When in Rome,” she says. Then she picks up her own and taps it to mine before downing the small gulp of liquor.

  I throw my head back, laughing, before I do the same.

  So much for no drinking.

  We spend the next thirty minutes sampling bourbon and smelling cigars and by the time we leave, I’ve gotten a
combination of the two that will definitely put a smile on my old man’s face.

  As we descend the steps back onto the street, my stomach growls, reminding me of the time. “Know of any decent restaurants here?”

  “Sure, there are a few. What are you in the mood for?”

  “Let’s go for something fancier than sandwiches this time.”

  She stares me down.

  “I didn’t say Shula’s Steakhouse, Rylee. Any old place I can get a steak will do.”

  We walk a few blocks over and stroll into a restaurant to find there is an hour wait. We check three more places only to find the same. Rylee throws up her hands in defeat when we exit the last one. I reach for my wallet. “There are ways to get seated, you know.”

  She rolls her eyes. “What? As in you either throw your name around or glad-hand the hostess?”

  “Are you hungry or not? Because I’m starving.”

  “I’m not hungry enough to have you buy our way to a table or showboat your celebrity.”

  “Then what do you suggest?” I ask.

  “I’ll just eat at home,” she says, walking back towards the main strip and the streetcars.

  I grab her elbow and stop her progress. “You have to be kidding me, Ry. If you think I’m letting you go home hungry, you’re crazy.”

  I get out my phone and send a text.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “There is a good restaurant in the lobby of my hotel.”

  “Your hotel?”

  My phone pings with a reply. “Yes, and Lenny will pick us up in fifteen minutes in front of Ybor Square.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because the streetcars take too long and we’ve been drinking. You should be sober enough to drive after dinner and then you can Uber back to your car.”

  She thinks about it as my stomach makes a loud noise. She laughs. “Fine. That’s very thoughtful of you, Brady. Thank you.” Then she gets on her tip toes and plants a quick kiss on my cheek.

  My cheek burns where her hot breath flowed over it. Her soft lips have branded me like cattle and my pants get tight thinking of what else those lips could do to me.

  So much for no kissing.

  I tuck the cigars and bourbon under my arm and lead the way back to Ybor Square wondering how long I’ll last before my assholery has me putting the moves on Rylee Kennedy.

  Chapter Ten

  “Table for two?” Natasha asks when we walk up to the hostess stand.

  “Somewhere out of the way, please, if you don’t mind, Natasha.”

  She smiles shyly. “I told you it’s just Nat.”

  I don’t think so.

  I raise my chin at her, but I won’t say it. I’ll never say it.

  “Right this way,” she says.

  Rylee eyes Natasha from head to toe as she guides us to our table in the corner of the room.

  I hold out a chair for Rylee before taking my own. Then I thank Natasha as she bats her eyelashes at me.

  “So, you and Nat,” Rylee declares. Then she holds up a hand to keep me from speaking. “Sorry – don’t say anything, I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “It’s fine. And I’m not sleeping with Natasha. I’m not sleeping with anyone.”

  She looks at me sideways. “But you’ve been here for almost a month.”

  I laugh. But before I can say another word, our server, Miguel, comes over and puts a bottle of wine on the table.

  “Your usual, Mr. Taylor,” he says. “Shall I pour you a glass?”

  “Not today. Thanks.”

  “Mind if I have one?” Rylee asks.

  I look back at Miguel and motion to her glass. “I guess we’ll both have one then.”

  He pours our drinks and then hands us the menus. “I’ll give you a minute,” he says before retreating.

  Rylee takes a sip of her wine and looks at me from over the rim of her glass. “Your usual?” she asks, when she sets it down. “As in you drink a bottle of wine at dinner every night?”

  “Wow. If I could only be inside your head right now,” I say. “You think I’m sleeping and drinking my way through Tampa, don’t you?”

  She shrugs an accusing shoulder.

  “I ordered the same glass of wine every night I ate here the first week, so now they just bring me a bottle. They save what I don’t drink and bring it out the next time I dine. I guess it’s more economical that way or something. Whatever.”

  “At least someone is trying to be responsible with your money.”

  “I’m responsible,” I say.

  “How many cars do you have?” she asks.

  “Three.”

  “You have three cars in New York City?” She shakes her head in disapproval. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you pay more for parking than I pay for my monthly rent. I bet you don’t even drive them much, do you?”

  I shake my head. “I usually ride my bike. Easier to get around.”

  “You ride a bicycle?” she asks.

  “I ride a motorcycle.”

  “Of course you do.” She rolls her eyes. “And what floor is your apartment on?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “And how many floors are in your building?”

  I sigh. “Twenty-four.”

  “The penthouse,” she says. “Yeah, you are totally responsible with your money.”

  “What would you have me do, live in a fourth-floor walk-up in Harlem?”

  “First off, I hear Harlem’s not that bad these days. And second, I would expect a twenty-seven-year-old athlete who may be at the peak of his career to think about the future.”

  I call her out. “You mean a twenty-seven-year-old athlete who may never play again. That’s what you really meant to say, isn’t it? You think I need to save every penny I have in case I lose my job.”

  “I think we all need to be practical. Because you never know what can happen. And no, that is not what I meant, Brady. I’m still confident your nerve will regenerate.”

  I laugh disingenuously. “Tell me that again when you have to cut my steak for me.”

  She looks at me like she feels sorry for me. “I’ll be happy to cut your steak, but not because I think you’re helpless, Brady.”

  Miguel comes back and asks for our order. I nod to Rylee.

  “I’ll have the French Dip,” she says.

  “Would you like fries or onion rings with that?” Miguel asks.

  “Fries, please.”

  Miguel looks at me. “I’ll have the same, but rings for me. And a beer. I can’t drink red wine with a sandwich.”

  “As you wish, Mr. Taylor. Ma’am?”

  “What the heck,” Rylee says. “Bud Light if you have it.”

  Miguel gathers our menus and leaves.

  Rylee stares me down.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I had to badger you into going to the sandwich shop with me last week. You said you hate sandwiches.”

  “And look how that turned out, it was the best one I’d ever had. Plus, the French Dip is the cheapest thing on the menu. I’m sure that’s why you ordered it. I’m just showing you that I’m not as irresponsible with my money as you think.”

  She fingers the bottle of wine on the table. “Mmmhmm, and how much is this bottle of wine?”

  “I honestly have no idea, but it was probably the best one on the menu.”

  “You mean the most expensive.”

  I shrug. “Is there a difference?”

  She laughs. “Just because it’s the most expensive, doesn’t mean it’s always the best. But I’m proud of you. I guess baby steps are better than nothing. Just think of all the money you saved tonight. Your dinner bill will be half of what it normally is. And if you order a sandwich instead of a steak some of the time, and maybe house wine instead of that expensive wine cellar stuff, you’d save thousands of dollars every year. That’s either good padding for your savings account or a lot of food for Simba and his friends at the Big Cat Rescue.”

  Our beers
get placed on the table in frosty glasses. Rylee takes a drink and savors the taste. “Give me a three-dollar beer over a fifteen-dollar glass of wine any day.”

  “So, yeah. About this no drinking rule,” I say.

  She bites her lip. “I felt like we had to drink the bourbon. Did you see that guy’s face when you said you didn’t want any? After that, I figured the damage was done. So, what the heck?”

  “Damage?”

  “Yeah, you know, like if you were going to hit on me because I’d been drinking, you would have done it already.”

  “I don’t hit on women, Rylee.”

  “No?” She studies me. “Then what is it? What do girls find so attractive about you that has them lining up to be invited into your bed?” Her eyes trace a path from my face down my arms. “I mean other than your muscles and your bank account.”

  “And the fact that I’m – what was it you called me – not bad looking?”

  “Yeah, other than that,” she says, trying not to laugh.

  “It must be my natural charm.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “If you’re so charming, how come I’m not falling at your feet?”

  “Because you’re smarter than most of the girls I hang around. Except for Murphy, but she doesn’t count.”

  “Are you saying a woman has to be stupid to sleep with you?”

  “It’s not a requirement,” I tell her. “But it helps.”

  She looks at me with serious eyes. “Brady, do you think you’re somehow not worthy of a strong, intelligent woman? Surely your self-esteem isn’t anything less than gargantuan.”

  I chuckle at her comment. “My self-esteem is fine, Ry. And smart women wouldn’t put up with my rules.”

  “Rules?” She chews her lip as she looks at me. “Oh, you mean don’t call me, I’ll call you and stuff like that?”

  “Pretty much. I know that makes me sound like a dick, but in my defense, they all know the score. I tell them all before we, uh … you know, that I’m not looking for a girlfriend.”

  Her look scolds me. “Surely you must know that some of them think they will be the one to change your mind.”

  I shrug an innocent shoulder. “I suppose some do, but it’s not like they hadn’t been warned. They’re all adults and they make their own choices.”