by Ivy Hunt
Not a Perfect Save
A Fling to Forever Football Romance
Ivy Hunt
Copyright © 2021 by Ivy Hunt
www.ivyhunt.com
[email protected]
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, organizations, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Robert Jan de Vries
NAPS-V2-20210110
A Fling to Forever Sports Rom Com
What if I—Ella Dixon, wallflower extraordinaire—saved Connor Hall, football god, from a robbery at gunpoint?
Would the traumatic experience result in a temporary attraction between us?
Plausible.
Would Connor ask me to pretend that he's the big hero?
Possible.
Would I ask him for a huge favor in return?
Probable.
Would we end up in bed together?
Predictable.
And if our connection ends up being more than just temporary?
Perfect.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Excerpt from Not by the Playbook
Connect with Ivy
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Chapter One
ELLA
“Don’t come any closer!” I brandish a canister of pepper spray with bits of reindeer-printed wrapping paper still taped to it at the stocky man while clutching a bag of mini donuts to my chest with my other hand.
It was meant to be my good deed of the day, a quick detour to the CVS to grab a family-size bottle of Tylenol for my mother, who was in for round two with my sister’s wedding planner tomorrow. The donuts were late-night comfort food for me. Something sweet to take the edge off from the last four hours with Bridezilla.
Minutes after getting off the bus in Manhattan, the skies opened up. I ducked into the closest storefront. Lucky for me, it turned out to be a bodega with a small pharmacy in the back. A two for one special—shelter and sustenance, all in the same place.
Yeah. Real lucky.
Now, my eyes dart from the entrance to the gun that shifts back and forth between me and the terrified pharmacist across the counter—a young kid, barely old enough to grow a beard.
Thoughts of playing Rambo war with my inner Houdini. Both are silenced when cold metal presses against the back of my skull.
“Maybe you want to rethink that, girlie,” another rough voice sounds behind me. “Drop it.”
The reindeer crash to the ground, and the thwack reverberates through the space. Before I can raise my hands in surrender, a large, hairy arm snakes around my waist, pinning my arms to my sides. Cold metal drags from the back of my head to my temple.
“All your Vicodin and Percocet! Now, now, now!” the first guy yells. He heaves himself over the divider and holds his gun on the pharmacist. He yells something else, but all my focus is on the thug pressed against my back.
Ella Marie Dixon. Hold on to your shit.
“Stu?” Stale breath makes me gag.
“Stuff’s all locked up, but Junior here is taking me to get it,” the first man calls, shoving the kid behind the shelves.
“No rush.” The guy holding me tightens his grip. He thrusts his pelvis against my butt.
Bile rises in my throat, and I squeeze my lids shut.
He chuckles. “Don’t like that, girlie?”
I swallow and shake my head.
My heart pounds. Get out of this nightmare. I promise I’ll never send mom’s calls to voicemail ever again.
A 90’s pop song plays overhead. I try to make my brain follow along with the lyrics. The thug grinds against me even harder, and my eyes spring open. Mud streaks line the cracked tile floor. I follow the marks to where my bottle of Tylenol lies on its side.
A slight movement in the corner makes my gaze shoot up to the security mirror mounted against the ceiling.
I suck in a breath. A man is crouched down in the parallel aisle. Blue eyes connect with mine and he lifts a finger to his lips. I’m not alone.
I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.
My attention snaps back to the gun as it is dragged down the side of my face. I wince as the barrel snags on a bit of my hair, still in a ponytail.
I’m freaking not okay.
I make myself focus on the man in the mirror instead, taking in more of his face and angled features set off by damp blond hair. He mouths something, but I can’t make out what it is. I dip my head in the shallowest of responses, hoping to god we’re on the same page and that he’s not going to play the macho hero and get us both killed. Slowly, he gets to his feet.
Sweat breaks out between my breasts as the thug holding me leans over my shoulder. Chin stubble scrapes the side of my neck as he looks down the front of my gaping top.
“Hmm…not much there, is there?” he mutters.
That diffuses some of my terror. Let me go then.
He loosens his grip slightly. Guess I’m not the tasty morsel he was expecting. I wish I was in stilettos. I’d stab his foot with my heel.
I adjust my stance slightly and force my brain to recalibrate. Okay. I can do this. I took years of self-defense classes.
You took those classes in a controlled environment.
Still, I could try a groin kick…
He has a gun.
A head butt?
He has a gun.
But if I drop my weight and bend over—
But. He. Has. A. Gun.
The gun shifts away, and I let out my breath in a slow exhale. A pause. Breath monster releases a small grunt. And licks my neck.
I instinctively rear back and crack him on the chin with the back of my skull.
Head butt it is then. He yelps and his grip falters as he staggers. I spin around, ready to knee him, scratch his eyes out, when the blond man lunges. And fumbles. He crashes and I’m catapulted forward. My foot slips, my ankle twisting, and I cry out as my head slams against the corner of a shelf.
I register a groan and an oof. My cheek is cold and clammy against the wet muck on the floor. I rotate my head slowly and see the blond man wrestling the perv. The gun’s just out of their reach.
I slither across the floor on my bell
y and grab it. Lifting my head and arms, I train it on them.
“Stop!” I croak. They freeze. Before the thug can get his bearings, blondie knocks him out, redeeming himself slightly. There’s a shout from behind the counter and I swing the gun in that direction just as the first goon runs out. Wild eyes veer from his friend on the ground to me as his own gun shakes in his hands. He tenses but then stumbles a few steps before turning and darting outside just as I hear the welcome wail of approaching sirens.
I slowly, slowly set the gun down, close my eyes, and then roll onto my back, still huffing.
A few seconds later, someone prods at my shoulder. My heartbeat ratchets back up, terrified it’s one of the thugs again.
“Hey, hey there...you okay?” Blond hair swims into my vision.
“Yeah. Fine.”
The last few seconds rush back.
“You got in the way.”
Chapter Two
CONNOR
“What?” I blink, taken aback. I lean in closer, not sure if I heard her right. How hard did she hit her head?
“When I was taking the guy down. You got in the way.”
So I did hear right.
My mouth opens, ready to argue, but aggrieved green eyes glare up at me. She’s kind of right. My lip twitches. “I was trying to help.”
She crawls to her knees, muttering something about ‘wannabe Boy Scouts’. I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep a full grin off my face.
But then her eyes swing to mine. “There was a pharmacist.” She points at the back shelves, and I’m about to haul myself up when said pharmacist dashes out from behind it. His eyes go wide when they land on us, then he swings his gaze to the assailant on the ground a couple of feet away. “Get help,” I order. Mutely, he nods and runs out the front.
My attention shifts back to the woman. We stay still for several moments and catch our breaths. “Can you stand?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Give me a minute.” But her lids drop instead.
I huff out a laugh. “Take as long as you need.”
She touches her head and gasps sharply.
My fingers skim her temple. “May I?”
She eyes me suspiciously, but dips her chin in a kind of nod.
I probe the side of her head with care and find a goose egg. Loose strands of hair stick to her face. Brushing them behind her ear, my fingers tangle in the soft brown curls.
Her hand comes over mine, and we stay like that, not speaking. Up close, her oval face frames delicate features streaked with mud. It pisses me off all over again as I run through what just happened in my head.
Me, checking expiration dates on boxes of condoms at the back corner of the bodega, dreading the party I was heading to. There was a scream, followed by a man’s voice—not one with a helpful tone. The unmistakable echo of racking the slide of a gun.
That’s when the bottom dropped out of my stomach, and instinct and training kicked in.
I’m barely aware of setting down the box to retrieve my phone. I dial 9-1-1. It rings once. A female operator picks up. I turn the volume down and don’t say anything, hoping to hell she doesn’t think this a hoax as I slide it back into my jacket pocket, the line still open.
I creep forward. From the sound of things, at least two guys are in the bodega. At the end of the aisle, I stop, staying low. My eyes dart around for something that’ll work as a weapon. I check to see if there’s a security mirror in this hack of a pharmacy. There is, thank fuck.
A distorted image of a goon holding a woman with a gun to her head comes into view. His bulky frame is all gut. His limp hair is long and greasy.
The woman is petite, around five foot four. She’s in jeans and an unbuttoned tan jacket. Her face is bloodless. Even from ten feet away I can see her tremble.
Maybe she senses my presence because wide jade eyes find mine in the reflection. She opens her mouth, but I lift a finger to my lips and shake my head. Her expression goes from terrified to determined. Good girl.
I release a slow breath and my brain scrambles for a game plan that won’t get us killed.
The fucker tightens his grip around her, and she whimpers. My knee-jerk reaction is one of rage. It’s all I can do to stay down and not attack. Tense and alert, I prepare to tackle. Come on, asshole. Give me something. Anything.
And then the gun’s away from her head. He leers and brings his mouth to her neck.
I charge just as she knocks into the guy’s chin. I manage to shove her out of the way, but instead of slamming into beefy flesh like I expected, I’m falling, tripping on bottles and muck. My fingers grab the thug’s sleeve as we both crash to the ground. A grunt escapes me when I land on my bad ankle, but there’s no time to register anything more as we wrestle for the gun. I knock it away, a few feet in front of us.
He gets in a lucky blow to my side. Another punch flies, but I block it. My fist connects with his fleshy belly as I round on him and shove his face to the floor. I’m sweating hard from the adrenaline.
“Stop!”
The girl is on the ground on her stomach, holding the gun on us. The guy freezes, and I take the opportunity to knock him out. Just then, there’s another yell. My eyes widen and all my muscles go rigid. The first man and the girl have guns trained on each other—it’s a Mexican standoff. My mind flashes through a thousand ways to deflect his attention, but then he dashes outside.
I return to the present when flashing blue and red lights reflect into the bodega. Seconds later, the door bursts open. “NYPD!” Two cops race in, guns raised as they scan the premises. One trains his weapon on us and then points it on the thug on the ground. He calls an “All clear,” before turning his attention back to us. “Anyone else back there?”
“No.”
I see the moment he recognizes me when his eyebrows lift to his hairline. “You’re—“
Before he can go all fanboy on me, I motion to the woman. “She’s hurt, we need medical assistance.”
More police surround us, asking questions. Ignoring them, I help the woman up. My foot twinges at the movement, but I hold back a wince. Waiting EMTs escort us to an ambulance, and I give her a boost up to sit on the back ledge.
One of them checks her out, shines a light in her eyes. “You may have a concussion.”
“Oh, fucci,” she moans.
Both the EMT and I raise our brows. “Fucci? You mean fuck?”
She wrinkles her nose. “No. Well, I say it fucci. Like Gucci.” Once again, she dares me to argue.
“Ma’am, your name please?” An officer cuts in.
“Ella. Ella Marie Dixon.”
“Tell us what happened.”
She walks them through her encounter, much more alert now. Meanwhile, I’m still trying to make sense of her. Either she’s entirely daring or completely deranged. It’s too early to tell which. There’s no doubting she’s... interesting.
A couple of other cops come over to take my statement. “Sir?” one asks. “Your name?”
The other interrupts. “He’s Connor Hall. Linebacker for the New York Titans.” The air changes as everyone turns to me, but I keep my attention focused on Ella Dixon. She blinks at that pronouncement, and her eyes fix on mine. But she doesn’t say anything, just tips her head to the side, and frowns as she peers at me. None of the usual hero worship that usually accompanies my name is evident in her gaze.
I fill the police officer in on my side of the story.
“Sounds like things would have gone really badly if you hadn’t stepped in.”
Ella’s eyes go huge. “Him?”
“Actually—” My face goes red. It’s not that I’m embarrassed that she saved the day. More like I’m uncomfortable that they assume I did all the heavy lifting tonight.
“Mr. Hall, you need to come with us. We need to take a look at your foot,” a second EMT says before I set the record straight.
I’m reluctant to leave Ella. “Hey, I’ll be right back, okay?”
She nods, and I
let him lead me to a nearby bench.
I continue to watch her while he tapes my ankle. Fuck. I was recovering from a sprain. Probably why I tripped while rushing the guy in the first place.
“Mr. Hall? Mr. Hall?” EMT calls for my attention. He follows my gaze to Ella. “That your girl?”
I nod. “Is there anything else?”
“We’re going to have to get you to the hospital.” He frowns. “Get your foot X-rayed.”
I know it’s not broken. I’ve had fractures before. “Existing injury. Just tweaked it. I’m fine.”
I need to get out of here before the paps find us. My name was mentioned over the police scanner and it’s only a matter of time before we’ll be swarmed, and that’s the last thing I need.
“Sir, Mr. Hall. It would be better…”
Across from me, they’ve loaded Ella onto a gurney. Shit.
“Fine. I’ll come with you, but I need to make a call first.”
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose for a second, then rub my hand over my face when the call connects.
“Dan, there’s been an incident.”
Chapter Three
ELLA
Panicked tremors rack my body. I bite my lip and try to hold still so I don’t shatter entirely. I can’t believe everything that’s happened. All I want is to go home, lock myself in my room, and cry. Instead, I am in an ambulance zooming through Manhattan.